After a mighty night on Friday, I woke up early-ish Saturday to play a DJ gig with my buddy. Slowly opening my eyes expecting to see the gin monkey lurking. However, oddly, nowhere to be seen. As in nowhere whatsoever. In fact, I was dancing. Normal hangover. Tired. Flash points of incidents coming back throughout the day. A lot of ‘Oh yeah!’ And rambling. Our drive down to the Porsche store where we were playing was full to the brim with endless and non-stop rambling on to each other. Coherent rambles. Just non-stop. Each of us taking the baton for every ten minute change. Good old hoot. Not such a great hoot when I realised I forgot my headphones for the four hour gig, but I survived. Daytime DJ gigs on! Continue Reading »
Yes. No. Maybe so. These simple answers cover a lot of everyday questions. Nice and simple. If only. Every now and again, I like to respond with a Yeti style answer. Not really falling into any category. Sometimes it comes down to the fact that I might just be too tired to actually form the words properly. Or I might not have the energy to fully engage in the conversation. I have tendencies to just yawn out an inconclusive word or answer. If it is a few words in a row, I will probably just mash them together, giving out a “Mmmyaaawwhhh”. Or something to that effect. Noise, I suppose is the best way to describe it. An acknowledgement that I have been asked a question, and am trying my best to answer. Just not doing a good job of it.
Other times, my Chewbacca statement comes about from the fact that I am not that good at Continue Reading »
Some call it a meteoric rise. Others call it idiotic. Most know nothing about it. I am referring, obviously, to my DJ career of late. Here is where I insert a laugh, to show I obviously don’t mean the part about the meteoric rise. So, em, ha, joking. I must admit, there are many pluses to DJ’ing. No one really wants to hear about pluses, or the upside, though. Just seems to annoy people. Particularly Irish people. It is all about what is not so great, or the downside, that tends to entertain.
Off the top of my head, there is only one major negative to DJ’ing. One quick minor aspect is that even though I have over 10, 000 songs at my disposable, for some reason with about half an hour to go in a gig, I always think I will run out of songs to play. Intelligent thinking by me really.
The major downside is far worse in Ireland, than any place I have played in Emerica. Except maybe the one Irish bar in San Francisco. In a word, it is… Continue Reading »
Not too sure exactly how, particularly after Friday night, but the weekend somehow got more nuts and hectic by the night. It was mental! Which was highly surprising seeing as I presumed that Friday night would easily be the pinnacle. How can you beat a night of hoovering the house?! It was tough to see how that would be topped. Saturday and Sunday somehow pulled a few gems out of the bag though. On a side note, anyone not in Ireland probably won’t have a clue what hoovering is. Not actually a drug related term as someone in America mistakenly thought before, her eyes lighting up when I said I must buy a hoover. It is another term for vacuuming. However, unlike the drugs she thought I was on about, hoovering is cool no matter what term you apply to it!
Saturday was a highly productive day. I got some savage new songs and mixes under my belt. Pretty exciting. After the excitement of that, and the night before, I decided my best bet for a quiet, uneventful, innocuous night, free of all the annoying, good music I had to listen to that day, would be to go out in Cork. Hardy har. Main incident of note from the night out, was trying to figure out which girl it was that left such a lasting impression on me. I have it narrowed it down to two. Two apes, of equal measure. Too many reasons to go into for them to be painted with the ape brush. The big impression one of them left on me was a hand print from her fake tan on my top. Funking lovely. Worryingly large sized hand as well. Similar size to a bear’s claw, to give you some sort of an idea.
Which leads me on to Sunday. And, all sarcastic tones aside, it was actually a good night. Got a call late on to D.J, happy days. Particularly seeing as I had a basket of new music to try out. Without doubt it has been my most enjoyable gig in Ireland. There was no selling of the soul, play what I wanted, wuu to the huu. Sounds obvious as funk, but once you get girls dancing, the rest will follow. Easy enough really. Its not like a group of guys will lead the way and start gyrating together on the dance floor. That is never going to happen. Unless you happen to have DJ’ed in a gay gym. Apologies to the guys who requested good songs last night that I ended up dodging. I’m sure they are reading. Again, might sound obvious, but sometimes savage songs, are not really savage for a club, if you get what I mean!
Speaking of requests, that fun area is one which is there for life I think. I think it’s the minority have me scarred. The majority were grand last night, as long as you just say yes to every request, people are happy. Playing them barely matters. It was just those 3 or 4 special people that would make you wonder at times. Two girls at the end telling me they loved the music, now could I play either Galway Girl, or any Tiesto, as the last song. I like neither. More importantly, I don’t have either of them. So, I split the difference, and played them Rick Astley. Which lead to a 3rd buddy coming up to tell me I was a prick, and had ruined their friend’s birthday. By not playing Galway Girl. Or a Tiesto song. The success of the friend’s birthday must have been on a fine line if that was the difference between a good and bad night.
There was one in girl in particular, who was very bizarre. A gem really. I think she was the first into the club with her buddies. Initially, I thought she was Polish. I couldn’t understand what she was saying to me, plus a few guys that she was there with were Polish. She didn’t have the same accent though. So, obviously, I thought that she must have been twisted drunk. Apparently, there’s a song out at the moment called One? Or Number One? I thought she was asking for that one, that song, you know that one? No, what song? One, that one? That lost me completely. When I copped on it was me being dumb, I decided to give in to one of her other many, many requests.
When I asked her what other song she wanted, she kept on asking me for the same song over and over. Coming up, asking me was I playing it next. About 5 times. When I played it, she had a little dance for herself, then came back up and asked for it again. Apparently her buddy was in the bathroom, and didn’t get to hear it. When I tried to fob her off by saying I couldn’t understand her fully (which I couldn’t), she started to write me notes, asking for that song to be played one more time, please, I will love you for it, please! The club was still quiet, so I played a snippet again for her and her buddy to dance along to. But she didn’t dance with her buddy. She just stood at the DJ booth and stared at me while the song looped over. I gave her a few thumbs up, but they didn’t scare her off. Standing there, staring at me, Boris style. Around this time, it slowly dawned on me that she must be mentally challenged.
When I turned back to my laptop, she slipped into the DJ booth, right behind me. Standing there, with a blank expression. Asking me if she could just flick through my songs on the laptop, to see what I could play for her next. This is when a barrage of bad breath almost made me puke. I don’t know why more people don’t carry mints, chewing gum, or tic-tacs with them. Or why their friends don’t tell them how bad their breath might be. If it was me, I’d prefer to know. Anyways, I tried to explain to her that I needed my laptop, she couldn’t flick through it, sorry. Could she just stay here in the booth, she asked? No, sorry. She got disgruntled, pushed me to try and get to my laptop, and then asked why I would not just play that song one more time! I kicked her out of the booth, she stood there with the same weird blank expression, but finally went off in a huff. A bouncer came over but I told him it was cool, not too sure but I think she’s mentally challenged, it was fine.
Night was over, equipment packed up, lights were on, good to go. I was making my way out of the club, when she came up to me one final time. “Will you play me one more song, Halo by Beyonce.” This was as people were leaving, with the bouncers herding people out the door. She asked again, for a different Beyonce song, giving me grief on top. Trying to be nice, I gave her my pack of tic-tacs instead of playing her the song. When she threw them away, and asked if I was going to play the song, I told her I would so. Just have to go outside to my car, and get my Beyonce CD from it. Best part was, she believed me. Told me she’d wait there for me. I just looked at her, in complete wonder, slowly realizing something. Now that the music was off, I could finally hear her properly. Turns out, she was not, in fact, mentally challenged. She was, simply, it seemed, a pikey. A traveller. Who spoke in whispers. And liked to stare. Probably mentally disturbed, not challenged. Kind of gutted now that I didn’t hold onto her number that she had written earlier on one of those notes. Would’ve made it a great weekend!
I’ll try to keep this short. I am getting a burst of writing, so I need to channel it towards a script, the blogaruu might have to take a backseat tonight it seems! Like a jilted lover, I hope it wont feel too neglected. Speaking of which, I think I may know what it feels like to be in a one of those relationships where the blonde, bimbo stripper marries a rich old man, hoping he will croak quickly so that she can enjoy his money. Kind of. In the worst comparative way ever. Anyways, it is good to try out what that must be like I suppose. To help me with my decision, in case any old rich woman ever offers me like wise.
For a girl in that situation, call her either Anna or Nicole, this is how I would imagine our current situations being a tad similar. Lets say her original plan did not go as she might initially have hoped and the old man hangs around for longer than expected. I imagine when she realizes this, time must stop in front of her and gloat. Ha, time will say, looks like you’ve to stick with him longer than expected. Not so clever now, huh. Taunting her that she will just have to live with her situation, and wait until he croaks. Make the most of it, keep fit in the gym, do bits here and there to stay busy. Can’t have it all her own way, but when she is living it up and blowing his money, she can look back and smile at those boring times. Eh, which is similar, if not identical to me killing time and trying to be productive while I wait to hear back about my visa. World’s worst comparison? Quite possibly. Although I do have faith that I could easily do worse.
Today I tried to be proactive, and start lining up DJ gigs in Dublin for myself before I go back up for a bit of stand-up. Practice and an influx of money are always handy. However, knowing where to start when you don’t really know the scene in a city is a hurdle. Similar to the acting side of things here I suppose. If I knew promoters or bar/club owners in Dublin I could work some DJ charm there. Seeing as I don’t really know any, I decided to do what at the time seemed like a very productive idea. I emailed a few different venues, along with a demo sample, seeing if they needed anyone for a night or two. Similar, I imagine, to what a few dumb, bimbos might have done if they were to get proactive in their hunt for a rich old man to marry.
Never, ever, ever, have I ever heard of someone getting a DJ job, from their credentials in an email, ha. “Hi, I DJ, I think I’m great, you will too, any chance of a night or two? Here’s a link to a demo. Cheers.” Pretty appealing offer, I think you will agree. Honestly, a dumb bimbo would have a better chance of getting herself a rich husband, by sending out an email “Hi, I’m me, here’s a photo, hope you’re rich, any chance of marriage? Thanks” than I would with mine. Unfortunately, at the time, I was imagining people working in bars and clubs all over Dublin, would stop whatever it was they were doing, throw down their work tools, and just start to dance to my demo when it started to play. Screaming at whoever it was that read my email that I had to be hired for a few nights!!! Seemed like a logic reaction to me at the time. That was until about a minute after I sent the batch of emails. Then I quickly realized I wasted too much time on that fruitless activity.
Although, one place did reply saying that they were booked out, but would be in touch if anything came up. Maybe not so dumb after all. Which doesn’t really make any sense, as I still didn’t get any joy. It has just occurred where I got the idea perhaps. Thinking back, I remember talking to a DJ from San Francisco, who is a really good DJ (like myself, I hear you think, thanks) who was asking me if I knew any venues in Dublin that might be interested in having him play, as he was doing a tour of Europe, and Ireland was not on the list for some reason. Seeing as he really wanted to check Ireland out, being 1/17th Irish himself, he emailed a few bars & clubs, but didn’t get any replies. What a chump. Wait until I tell him I at least got one reply.
I did well with keeping it short. I couldn’t jilt the blog. At least it kept me busy for a while longer than I anticipated. I’ll mark that time off on the calendar, every minute counts.
Hypothetically speaking, if people kept coming up to you, trying to give you letters, thinking you were a postman, would you at some point, question if you were actually a postman? No. How about if when you were out during the day, and people kept giving you their change, as they thought you were homeless. Would you think, am I homeless, do I look like I am, or what? Maybe. Ok, if people kept coming up to you, speaking Polish, thinking you were from Poland, would you ask yourself, do I look Polish or what is it? You would. Perhaps a better example might be if different girls kept saying to you, how they really must set you up with their friend, and then that friend turns out to be a guy. And you’re not gay. Would you question what was going on then? I think so.
On a similar note, one which is more applicable to me, is the way I manage to end up getting chatted up in gyms, of various types, in various places, by various dudes. The gym I am going to at the moment is a basic, no frills, grand, does what you want it to do, kind of gym. I don’t think the gym has anything to do with me being chatted up. Perhaps it could be related to me wearing bicycle shorts, tight pink t-shirt, and walking around in a little tea-cup hand sticking out type manner. I don’t know, perhaps.
On appearances alone, I would not have thought this dude was gay. In fact, he might not be at all. However, if a guy comes up to you in the gym, unknown, starts asking you weird questions, then for your number, I have realized this means he probably, definitely, actually, is gay. I had seen him a few times in the gym, and did notice that he nodded and saluted me every time. I just presumed he was being friendly. By my logic, when I nodded, saluted, and sheepishly smiled back, he probably presumed I was gay.
Started off, by coming over and asking if he could listen to the song that was playing on my iPod. Completely random, bizarre, had to get him to repeat his question just to make sure. Pretty strange, good opening line I suppose. Ok, here’s an ear, this is weird, what’s going on. Next, would I mind if he hooked it up to the sound system, so he could listen to it as well while he worked out. Ok, bit strange but at least you like the music, work away. Then, he asked if I was a DJ. I suppose, why so? “You’re just the perfect man for me, the guy I’ve been looking for” was he response, then left it at that, as he did something on a machine next to me.
At this stage, I got back to yelping on a different apparatus, hoping that that was the end of the weirdness. However, he came back to tell me why I was the perfect man for him. He wanted me to write a song for him, as I was a DJ? Not too sure you know what a DJ is, I don’t actually write songs or sing them myself. Ok, no problem, I could just write him lyrics instead, to a song he has in his head. What the funk, emm, pardon? Not to be deterred by my inability to grasp any of what he was saying, he decided it would be best, if I instead actually tried to write or find music, that would accompany his lyrics. Happily, he then sang me a few lines of a song, in Polish, I think. I scanned the room for any cameras as part of a wind-up show, but it seemed to be legit.
At this stage, I told him I was not, in fact, the perfect man for him, so I better get back to whatever I was trying to work-out on. Unfortunately, this was a squat machine. Seeing as we were now buddies, to him it seemed, he stood next to me while I was doing a few reps. Which was just weird, him standing next to me, looking at me in the mirror, as I went up and down, freaked out looking back at him. Although, not as weird as his offer to help me, he could support me at the waist, so I could go down even lower with the squat, get a real burn. Thankfully, he didn’t react too badly to me turning down his kind offer, and actually went to leave.
Not before he asked me for my number though, to talk to me more about the song he had in mind. Or just to meet up. Not sure how really, but my number eluded me at this stage. So, instead, obviously, I gave him an email he could contact me at… JimGym@hotmail.com. Or was it GymJim@gmail.com? Either way, I told him to try them both, and I’d be in touch. Super, gave me a wink, and he left. The whole thing was bizarre. Maybe he’s not gay at all. Maybe just a complete nut. Or, maybe, it’s just me? Who knows.
When I got home, I was half worried that he might have slipped me something in my water. For whatever reason, inside my stomach felt like two wild, deranged roosters were having a fight to the bitter end. The pain was immense, and out of nowhere. Bloated, cramps, nausea, irritable, annoying even myself, I took tablets from my medicine cabinet which had those exact symptoms on them. Turns out, that they were period pain tablets. Maybe, the question should be, am I a woman? Especially seeing as they worked. A treat in fact. My body rejected the tablets, made me puke them and the roosters up, and I was feeling better in no time. And now, I must wrap up, so I can go off and write the music to accompany his Polish lyrics. Never know, it could be my big break!
Enough Talk, More Writing! 