Around 1989, I lived In Revere, MO.  Not far north was the small town of Keokuk, IA.

There was a bar in Keokuk named Mad Hatters that the now-ex-wife and I used to frequent.  They’d have DJs a few nights a week, and I asked if I could bring in some records and DJ one night (I knew the owner fairly well).

I ended up DJing a couple of times (for no pay, just drinks) and enjoyed it, though my slot was Tuesdays, and hardly anybody was ever there.

One night the owner asked me a favor.  The bar had male stripper shows once in awhile, and he needed me to DJ the show that weekend.  I think it paid $20.

“What do I have to do?”

“Just play whatever they want you to play.”

The night of the show, I went in with a few of my records.  They were scant in number because I didn’t own much music I’d consider stripper-friendly.  The bar also had some records.

I met with the guys beforehand; there were eight or so.  They were quite self-absorbed and pretty arrogant.  I asked about the music they wanted.  A couple of them gave me tapes and were snottily specific about what should be played and when.  The others had a “whatever” attitude.  Clearly, sound guys weren’t at the top of their “buddies” list.

The show started.  I was standing in a cramped booth, looking out a cut-out window, as scantily-clad six-pack-abs “hunks” gyrated in front of about 60 horny women (SIDE NOTE: small-town Iowa doesn’t produce a whole lot of cuties).

The ladies were eating it up.  I was trying to go off the guys’ signals to see if the music was okay.  That was tough when they have their crotches shoved in housewives’ faces and all you can see is their sweaty silhouetted backsides.

One long-haired guy came onstage, came up to me, and said “play something good.”  I put on Bon Jovi’s “You Give Love a Bad Name” (great stripper song, right?).  He hated it and turned and glared at me a couple of times, mouthing something like. “too slow.”  I faded out and put on something else that seemed to sate him.

Afterwards, I said goodbye to the fellas.  They were completely indifferent.  And wiping off body glitter.  Okay, I made that part up.

THE PEEVE: I get that you’re “hunks” and you’ve chosen to travel around to Bumfuck Everywhere to gyrate in front of frustrated women.  That’s cool, do what ya gotta do.  But do you have to be assholes to someone who’s just trying to help you with your job?

Yeesh.  Get over yourselves.  At least half that time you spend obsessing over your bodies could be spent actually helping people other than by shoving your schwanschtuckers in poor Mary Lou’s drunken face.

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