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5:59 a.m. - 2004-03-29


I hate going on job interviews.

I really wish I could just walk in there and say "Let's cut the horseshit. Hire me right now and I promise I'll suck your payroll dry until you catch on that I'm a talentless scam artist and subsequently can my ass. Capiche?"

Alas, I have found in the past that method rarely works.

So I go on this job interview on Friday. I'm thinking I really need this job because they told me at my DJ job that they were either going to have to cut my pay or cut me off the schedule completely.

Apparently I'm making twice what they normally pay DJs. I have no idea why this is the case. When the owner asked me what I charged, I told him and he said "That's what I pay my DJs."

So then I find out that's NOT what he pays his DJs and maybe that's the reason there's so much resentment towards me from the actual employees of the bar.


So anyway, I go on this job interview.

And it actually goes fairly smoothly. The guy interviewing me liked me and wanted a list of my references. He wants to bring me in for a second interview. He offered to hook me up with some of the finer bitches that work there on the side, thinkin' a lil' strange will keep me motivated and happy.

It even pays $10,000 more per year than my last job.

Sooooooo ... I turned down the job.

Well, not yet. Not officially.

But I'm about to type an email to the guy telling him to take my name out of the running for the job.

I have a small problem with the hours.

3 p.m. until 1 a.m. five days a week.

Those five days would include Saturdays and Sundays. I'd probably have Mondays and Tuesdays off.

But working those hours, I would literally only see my wife and child a few hours each week.

I'd leave for work while they were out of the house.

I'd return when they were asleep.

They'd leave for work and daycare while I was asleep.

And after trying to have a child for 12 years and finally having one this late in life, I really don't want to walk away from watching him grow up at this point.

Susie agrees with me 100%.

She doesn't want to be a "single parent" at this stage of her life.

So I've got to pull out of the running for the job.

Which sucks.

Considering I've worked eight hours in the last two weeks.

Because when I showed up for work Friday night at the club, the other DJ greeted me at the door.

"Awwwww snap, G," he said in his effort to sound like a rapper. "Didn't anybody call you?"

"Uhhhhh ... no," I said, fearing the worst.

"Man, we've flipped the schedules around and hired another DJ," he says.

Great. .... FUCKING great.

If business is "so bad" as the manager put it to me the other night, why in the hell do we now have three DJs for two clubs? We don't even have enough work for two DJs.


Because the new DJ is a slim, attractive 25 year-old female with fake boobs and teeth.

And apparently my DJ partner who is also the head DJ has been trying to get in this woman's pants for a while and figured he might score some brownie points if he gave her a job.

Nevermind that she's a singer in a third-rate band and has no experience as a DJ.

He can teach her how to DJ.

Oh ... and let's just give her Friday and Saturday nights. Uncle Bob won't mind.

So now, I work two nights a week at half the pay I was making a week ago.

I work Tuesday and Wednesday nights.

The two slowest nights of the week.

Suddenly, that other job where I'd never see my family doesn't sound as bad.

It's time to now move to Plan T.

You know ... since I've already wasted Plans B-S.

Today ... after a three and a half hour procedure at a local laboratory where they suck blood out of me all morning long after I've fasted for the last 12 hours to determine if I'm "really" diabetic, I'm hitting the local temp agencies.

I'm at my wits end and have no idea what I want to do as far as a career.

I'm doing some freelance writing and freelance DJ'ing but that's obviously not paying the bills.

And the life of a temp may not be glamorous, but it would give me a sense of other jobs and companies that I could possibly work for.

Then, after bleeding me dry and going to the temp agencies, I'm going to every bar, pub, club and restaurant with a bar in town and giving them my DJ business cards, letting them know that if they EVER need a DJ, don't hesitate to call me.

It might work.

It might not.

But Plan U revolves around salting the fries at McDonalds.

I guess I could sign copies of my books for customers between saltings.

Speaking of my books, remind me to tell you something tomorrow.


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