It would actually not have been the slightest bit ironic to have titled this post Don't Shit Where Taint Eats Pt. 2: Electric Boogaloo.
My buddy and I have been doing a Sunday weekly at teh cluh since May. Pretty much the current default low-maintenance supposed hip-hop club in town. It looks like the quintessential place to play boom-bap and classic gangsta rap. But naturally as the current default supposed hip-hop club, they're pretty much straight Top 40 on Friday and Saturday nights. I got my foot in the door there filling in for somebody at the last minute on a couple Wednesdays, one of which jumped off huge to the point that the bartender still wistfully reminisces about it every other weekend as if I wasn't there. It's not even amusing anymore.
So since May we've been trying to fight the good fight and bring the non-shit rap music back to the club. The Wed. I blew up the spot there was with an all Dilla set. That's where those 90's mixes I've posted have been coming from. We have had various degrees of success. Memorial Day Sunday happened to be our second week, we killed that shit and split more money than I'd ever made playing records. June was promising. A fair number of grown people showing up around ten and drinking for hours, and then a wave of younger folks coming through around midnight to dance. July kinda sucked, with a large number of qualifiers. Word I got was they were even slow on some Friday and Saturday nights, which is not normal. Seemed like everybody was out of town, the 4th falling on a Friday, and the World Cup Final hosed us.
Last night we were all fired up, optimistic for a big night. The place starts filling up nicely. Maybe twenty minutes into my set, the dance floor pops off for the first time in a month. A few minutes later I take a much needed, therefore not brief, pee break. While I'm peeing, somebody begins scratching records. And not scratching along to the record that was playing, as if they had half a clue. Just scratching the record. A handful of times over the course of a minute or so. Somebody wasn't just reaching over the booth, they were camped out up there fucking around with my shit. While it's going off in the club. I was three pints in, which has historically been just the perfect amount of alcohol for me to not give any of the fucks. Any more, and it's "Taint, you're drunk. Don't be an idiot." Three beers, and I am not inclined to take shit.
The water closet is right next to the decks, so I burst out of there already halfway squared up. Nobody there. Three chicks who were part of a larger group were standing closest, one of whom looks over her shoulder at me real quick. So I got her attention and declared "I will punch a motherfucker in the face for fucking with my shit." And repeated it for good measure. Got back up on the decks, and one of my boys came over and pointed out the chick that he saw up there fucking around. The same dumb broad who came up and requested fucking Avicii. Thankfully she was part of the crew that I had previously expressed my displeasure towards. So, in a moment of uncouth brilliance, I spat on her.
Pretty sure I got her on the back of the arm. There was no immediate visible reaction by anybody, but shortly thereafter their whole 10-15 deep crew marched off the dance floor with their heads down. It was half dudes, too. Apparently they were all in agreement that their homegirl deserved to get spit on for being a dumb bitch.
I am not gonna lie- I have no regrets, and I think I just lived a lot of my comrades-in-arms dream, to be able to spit on somebody for requesting Avicii after hearing Kool Keith > Large Pro > Alkaholiks > Casual, and be totally in the right. You may disagree with my assessment of the morality at play in the situation. But I am a small man, and if I were in the wrong, I'm pretty sure somebodies in a group of 10-15 would bring that to my attention. In retrospect the other choice of action would have been to get security involved. Some of that group I'd seen in the club before, and the ones who weren't being idiots probably wouldn't have wanted to get caught up in that bullshit. And especially knowing how it went down in hindsight, I'd much rather handle something myself even in a less than optimal fashion than pass it on to the next man.
The best thing for everybody involved though was that my wife stayed home last night. Because there is no doubt whatsoever her tiny ass would have regulated that bullshit hard, before I ever got there. And if I popped out of the loo to be greeted by somebody who had just nominated themselves DJ Hero giving my wife attitude... that would have likely been a bad scene.
My takeaway from all this is that it is probably time to just say motherfuuuuuuuck teh cluh. Two weeks ago, the bartender was showing us a capsule of something or another that they had found cleaning up. Both our money was on it being some date rape drug shit. By no means has it been a great sacrifice to only work a part-time day job and be a broke ass DJ the past few years, but I turn 40 in the immediate future and I think I'm about done having my life revolve around getting paid peanuts to entertain dipshits in a place you wouldn't catch me dead on a weekend night. Barring a significant change of heart, cashing in off Labor Day Sunday and then riding off into the sunset to enjoy the first NFL Sunday of 2014 and my old age sounds like as tidy a bow as I could put on the part of my life that consisted of playing records for people I otherwise couldn't stand to be in the same room with.