The Disc Jockey

 

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Introduction

The stack of records, some of them still in their dust jackets, most wearing a jacket of dust, sits atop the desk.

At some point, you will pull one out. Perhaps you’ll be daring enough to dig out one of those “lost tracks” all the hip, inventive guys play. Or you’ll go the usual route and stick with the formulaic, generic list the suits at Radio Conglomera scribbled, illegible, on a napkin moments before you went on last week. You were nervous.

But then, when you get tired of hearing little girls whine about parties, you’ll take a trip to the past. “Anyone remember when so-and-so hippie psychedelic circus blared this nugget of wisdom for thirty-nine minutes at the Fillmore every encore of their twelve-month residency at the venue?” you’ll say, panting, catching your breath after you rattle that one off your pneumonic chest in between drags of Virginia and North Carolina.

The song will end, as most songs do if they’re kind enough. Then you’ll return to appeasing the masses. Most of the few who listen to you will understand and appreciate that you’re just expressing your natural eccentricities in a safe and controlled environment.

Some will not be this accepting, and so twenty minutes will go by before you decide to take a call or two. The voice on the other end will be the worst roar you will ever have to endure, like every sound in the deepest lair of hell, like demons getting caught in the epicenter of an atomic bomb.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, you bastard!” she’ll screech, but you’ll have to rush to cover up those two words, despite knowing that it’s Miracle-Gro for those ratings. “My Jimmy could’ve been listening! Defending dr- dr- dr-,” she’ll pause, stuttering. “Drugs! And, and, and immaturity!”

“You said ‘could have,’” you will ask.

“Yeah!” this caller will sneer.

“Well, where is your Jimmy?”

“At school, of course! I suppose when you were young your parents didn’t explain to you fully the benefits and necessities of a good education?” She will cackle. “Well, I suppose that explains your focus on Fillmores and circuses and residencies one doesn’t deserve!”

“Well, keep him there,” is all you will say, sitting the phone back in its cradle. “Anyway, that’s enough for that caller today. Sheesh!”

And you’ll return to this same routine time and time again. And as the fadeout to the latest flavor-of-the-week hitmaker’s latest single envelopes you in its candy-coated cloud of sheen, you’ll sit back, yawn and collect your thoughts before conducting an impromptu rant favoring a particular brand of soap. And you’ll think: “But why would I change a damn thing?”

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