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4:47 a.m. - 2004-01-09


Hey ... I have a reason for not updating yesterday which I would be more than happy to share with you now.

Y'see ... when we last checked in with Das Bobber, he was preparing to deejay at a local club Wednesday night.

Which I did.

It's been a long time since I had been in this club.

I had no idea that the demographics of this nightclub is the audience that Medicaid would have been salivating over.

The youngest person in the club was maybe 60.


No sooner did I start playing the first song ("Fuck and Run" by Liz Phair) then I had people flocking to the booth.

"Can you play something we can cha-cha to?" they asked.

Okay ... I'll be honest ... the first thing I did was look around for Ashton Kutcher and a hidden camera.

Apparently, there's an epedemic out there worse than the flu.

Cha-Cha Fever.

Once you catch it, you can't stop cha-chaing. You must cha-cha night and day.

The only other explanation I can have for this is that since my city is so behind the times when it comes to anything fashionable or riding the crest of a current fad, that maybe we had finally caught up to the 1940s and the next thing they were all going to be nuts about was the Charleston.

BUT...this time I was prepared thanks to this page.

"Sure," I smiled. "I've got something you can cha-cha to."

Before you knew it, I had several couples on the dance floor, sweating it out during a cha-cha marathon.

Old people were fainting from exhaustion as they spun each other around the floor.

At one point, I turned the mirror ball on and one lady about had seizures. She immediately sat down and her partner bounded up to me.

"Could you please turn the mirror ball off?" he asked. "It messes with my wife's equilibrium."

I looked over at his wife who was sitting in a chair looking like she was going to puke.

I wondered to myself if I'd rather sit back and watch a cha-cha dancer vomit all over herself in public or do the right thing and turn the mirror ball off.

I turned the mirror ball off for the sake of cha-cha.

She sat up and waved weakly at me as a thank you gesture.

I smiled and waved back.

All in all ... it was a decent night.

Keep in mind, it was below freezing outside and a lot of people that may have came out to party didn't. And I can't say I blame them.

The people that were there were all very nice, nobody got really drunk and broke a hip or anything.

And they were all very complimentary about my selection of music.

Especially one guy.

A guy by the name of Lonnie. I knew this because it was stitched into his shirt.

Lonnie was a truck driver and was off for the rest of the week.

He came up at 10:50 ... ten minutes before I was supposed to stop playing.

"Have you got any Nickelback?" he asked.

"Just that 'How You Remind Me' song," I replied.

"Play that!" he said, pointing at me as if to say "You're the man!" or "Good job!" or "Uhhhh...There you are!"

So I played it. All the cha cha dancers were long gone at this point.

The song played and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lonnie get off his bar stool and head back over to me.

"Have you got that new Simple Plan song?" he asked. "I think it's called 'Promises' or something."

"Nope," I said. "I don't have any Simple Plan."

"Ahhhh. Got any Creed?" he asked.

"Just that 'With Arms Wide Open' song," I replied.

"Play that," he said, pointing at me once again.

So I played it. It was now time for me to leave.

Lonnie gets back up.

"I bet you don't have that 'Strokin' song, do you?" he asked.


I had made it through the night without having to play that godforsaken song. And now ... at the end of the night, I had a drunk trucker wanting to hear it.

Because I wanted to leave everyone in the place with a good impression of myself, I decided to go ahead and stay past my required time and play the song.

As soon as it starts, the 30 or so people left in the bar all go "AHHHHHHH!!!"

At that point I realized that the song "Strokin" is the Horny Drunk Person's National Anthem. It's talking about sex which is something they all think they're capable of performing quite well in a drunken state. It's pretty undanceable which is okay because drunks can't dance anyway. And it's an interactive song ... the singer asks questions ("Have you ever made love in the back seat of a car?") which gives the drunk a chance to jar his memory and then shout out his or her individual answers while checking out the other patrons of the bar and see their answers as well.

It's a perfect song for the horny drunk.

So it's playing and Lonnie's back at the bar, hollering out all the answers to the song's questions. You know ... like there was a single woman left in the bar who hadn't been picked up yet and was dying to know if the drunken trucker at the end of the bar had ever made love on a couch.

After the song, Lonnie came up and thanked me for playing his songs which was cool. He wanted to know if I did parties and I said I did and that was my specialty.

He wanted a business card and I handed him one. He said he'd love to hire me for a party sometime.

We didn't discuss rates because when you tell a drunk that you expect $100/hour with a four hour minimum, they tend to balk a bit and vomit all over themselves.

So I pack up my stuff, get my money and leave.

Everything's cool.

Go home, watch some TV and go to bed.

Where I toss and turn for about another 90 minutes.

I get up and take a Melatonin.

I get back in bed and watch my new DVD copy of "The Ben Stiller Show" which isn't nearly as funny as I was hoping it'd be.

At 2 a.m. I start getting sleepy.

I fell asleep.

At 2:12 a.m. the phone rings.

I bolt upright and automatically think one of my parents has died.

I grab the phone and say "Hello??".

"Hey Uncle Bob," the voice says. "It's me. Lonnie. From the bar."

Waiter ... I'd like the large portion of Holy Shit medium rare with a side order of What the Fuck please.

"Uhhhh...yeah?" I say.

"I remembered the name of that Simple Plan song," he drunkenly belches. "It's 'Perfect'. Not 'Promises'."

How the ... what the ....shit. I gave this guy my home phone number on my business card.

"Thanks," I mumbled. "I've got to be up in three hours Lonnie. I'll be sure to bring that song next time I play at the club."


It's my own fault. I never explained to Lonnie that I'm not a night owl and that I have a day job that requires me to get up early, take my son to daycare and then concentrate fully on tasks put before me for eight hours a day.

As it turns out ... I didn't get back to sleep until about 2:30 or 2:45.

Woke up at 5:30 and laid there in bed knowing that if I went back to sleep I'd sleep until noon.

Got up at 6, showered, woke up and dressed Andrew, took him to daycare, went to work and worked on the company website all day in a half-awake haze.

And never got around to updating this page.


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