Titty Ditties
The secret life of the gentlemen's DJ
I'm not totally deterred, so I keep my spot in the DJ booth for the next round (where I'm told, again, that no one in the club can understand me), but I'm having trouble catching Phlava's song transitions, and Rob has to take the reins and make up for my (probably alcohol-induced) insufficient attention to detail.
At this point, I'm feeling pretty disappointed about my strip-club DJ adventure. While Rob has it finely tuned into a methodical science, I'm completely out of my element trying to smooth-talk horny dudes out of their money, and I've not had the chance to play one single song that I'd thought apropos to the mission.
Abandoning the mic and returning to the bar for a final drink, I bullshit with a gorgeous petite brunette named Eve, who's wearing a flowered lei over her mammarian assets. I pull a $20 bill out of my pocket, and she leads me away from the bar and down to the sunken floor, to the tables with their swiveling chairs, and I let her ease my bruised ego.
Next time, I think I'll skip the mic and go straight to the lap.
E-mail brendan.kelley@newtimes.com
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