Chap. I: Old Habits – You want them die fast
2008 marked the ninth year of my relentless scratching, turning the knobs and consistently puffy, sleepless eyes. Being hired for at least three nights a week is no joke; now it seems my headphones are about to get replaced with hearing aids. And how I used to envy The Grateful Dead touring and wished a similar life!
My teen-hood woolgathering started taking form since my early tween-years; for a twenty-one year old guy, nothing exists beyond a freaky, all-night-long party centered on babes, blaring speakers and John Barleycorn; it’s since then Tequila and I grew into compadres, helping each other to pump the crowd up and leave them that way till the break of dawn. But as mentioned before, DJ-ing for nine long years has torn the fabric of fascination to reveal the dirty ground underneath; the nightmare of shifting to something new now makes me shudder in a pool of cold sweat.
I was discussing my beer belly and related symptoms with the person who hands me over the contracts; he suggested me joining a newly opened recording label that approached his agency in search of a full time disc jockey. “You must be crazy, Joe” – I told counting – “do you remember the last time? We’re lucky they didn’t sue us; you cannot get away every time.”
Working full time under an employer – I consider – is slightly better than slavery; besides, creativity is the last thing that you can expect amidst restrictions more brutal than getting mummified alive in barbed wire. Joseph Jay Fuller understands me (I can’t help but admit his efforts that saved my skin several times), but at the same time, couldn’t come up with anything better than a weeklong vacation. “Perhaps you shall return a better-composed man, Vinny; and try to keep safe from the vinos for the time being.”
I switched my cell phone off as I lowered myself behind the driving wheel.