Confessions of a Delirious Dj

By Gene M. Corrado

"The hysterical confessions of two drunken DJs who performed over 600 jobs in the New York/ New Jersey area between 1982 and 2009. Exploits include Brides behaving badly, drunken police and fireman, catering halls struck by lightning, family members fighting and breaking things. Halloween parties that caught fire, horse drawn carriages drawn by horses with diarrhea, stripping bridesmaids, angry Maitre Ds, sinking boats, dancing relatives who had heart attacks, people singing who definitely could not sing, and electrical and personal failures of all descriptions. Not for the socially squeamish, this book is an object lesson for anyone who tried to make a party happen with the best intentions and was rewarded with a never-ending series of disasters."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 30, 2010
• ISBN: 9781453597088

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Copyright © 2010 by Gene M. Corrado.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 08/10/2016

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CONTENTS

Dedication

Introduction

About The Author’s Childhood

Disclaimer

How I Became A Dj … By Accident.

You Can Only Be A Virgin Once

Jobs That Suck

Calling This Guy Stupid Would Be An Insult To Stupid

(Brides) And Others Behaving Badly

Jobs Where I Suck

Three Pieces Of Advice My Father Gave Me

My Daughter Jessica

Jobs That Are Great

Why Would You Want To Arrest The Dj?

Luck Is God’s Way Of Remaining Annonymous

Stupid Conversation #235

Men Are Pigs

The Easiest Job I Ever Did

Stupid Phone Conversation No. 12

Family Parties

Stupid Phone Conversation No. 2

New Year’s Eve

Stupid Phone Conversation No. 3

The Equipment

Working With Agents

The Christmas Party Tow Job

The Gilligan’s Island Theory

Five Things I Hate About Djs

More All-Time Best Moments

Even A Broken Clock Is Right Twice A Day

But I Don’t Want To Fight

The Vision Thing

Stupid Phone Conversation No. 5

The Snake And The Mongoose

Ten Greatest Blues And Country Song Titles Ever

Poetic Interlude

More All-Time Worst Moments

Stupid Conversation No. 29

Further Proof That Everything Happens To Me

Advice To Young Djs

Other Than That Mrs. Lincoln, How’d You Like The Play?

Knee Deep In Weirdness

Shooting Pool With A Rope: The Jobs A Dj Should Never Take

How To Speak To A Dj And Have A Great Party

Here Are Some General Rules On How To Speak To A Dj

My Last Rodeo

My All-Time Best Dj Sets

Ten Things You Didn’t Know About Djs

Conclusion

The End

Glossary

Wedding Questionnaire For The Bride And Groom

DEDICATION

I want to dedicate this book to Tom Bowers, who over the years has stood by me behind the DJ booth as well as a great friend. From the first time we worked together, we never once banged heads—figuratively or literally. Thanks Tom, with you it was always a party. Without you, it was just a job.

I also want to thank my brother Robert, my sister Diane, and my mother Irene Corrado and my father Reynold Corrado. Without growing up in a stable, loving home, I would be even more screwed up than I already am.

I also want to dedicate this book to my lovely children, Justin, Jonathan, and Jessica Rose, who are the light of my life. I also hope my Grandson, Dylan Patrick, reads this when he is old enough and comes to the conclusion that a long, long time ago his Grandpa was pretty hip. Most of all—my wife of thirty-four years, Aimee Sue, who has seen or heard everything you are about to read, without once threatening to kill me.

INTRODUCTION

O R: IF YOU’RE a pathological liar, how can I believe a single word you say?

Well, I am a pathological liar, and I always have been. I guess it’s a combination of heredity (my father was a pathological liar and his father before him), my job (I’m in sales—where lying is rewarded with a three-fourth of a million dollar home in Princeton), and an innate desire to take the path of least resistance because I hate confrontation (or so says my therapist). I tell people what they want to hear, so I can get what I want (A sale… a woman… a car, etc.) In an odd component of all this, I never lie about big things. But small, minute details are just too boring to me, so I make up fanciful alternatives for my amusement as well as others.

For the purposes of this book, you should believe what I say here. Now, I realize this is like trusting a cannibal to give you a blow job, but hear me out. First: I have no reason to lie to you, dear reader, as I have a great respect for the written word. Number two: I go way out on a limb here, telling you very personal stories that will jeopardize my job, my marriage, and several personal relationships. The least you can do after I make such a huge commitment is to believe me. Writing has always been the only road for me. Unfortunately, that only road is usually the one out of town. Besides, who could make all this crazy shit up?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR’S CHILDHOOD

I HATE BOOKS WHERE the author spends twenty pages telling you about their childhood, how they grew up, and why they are the way they are today. Who cares?

All you need to know about how I grew up and why I am the way I am today can be seen in this picture:

author%20childhood.jpg

That’s right. My parents dressed me funny.

DISCLAIMER

I F THE LION doesn’t tell his story, the hunter will.

Writing about music is like dancing about the ocean: It has an ethereal quality to it that is difficult to capture in prose. You can read one hundred books over twenty-five years about the ocean and not understand what you can in ten minutes of sailing. Likewise, I can review a concert or a wedding in minute detail, and you still won’t really get it unless you were there.

But I’ll try…

HOW I BECAME A DJ … BY ACCIDENT.

I N 1982, I was living in Sparta, New Jersey. I had one child and one on the way, so I was looking for alternate methods of income—legal and otherwise. In the past I had sold insurance on the side (without a license), meat and food plans to the home, storm windows, and even cemetery plots (hey, everybody needs one eventually). Having graduated college in 1974 with a bachelor’s degree in Elizabethan literature (thus perfectly trained to get a job in the sixteenth century), I have always been in some kind of sales. When I was little, I used to take my father’s clothes and sell them from my little red wagon. He then had to go to the neighbors and get them back! I also got a book of receipts from the dime store and collected money for the Red Cross children’s fund, and then, after giving them a receipt, pocketed the money. This worked well until someone squealed and called the cops. I did get to ride in a police car though, so it wasn’t all bad.

One night, I was brought by my wife to a meeting of the Young Woman’s Club of Sparta. They were discussing throwing a 1950s dance and were going over the budget. The biggest item—more that the food and the decorations—was the disc jockey. They had gotten three quotes—$600, $700, and $750. When I stated that I would do it for $300, they asked, Are you a disc jockey?

My answer was Of course. Now, this amazed my wife, but since she was probably used to this by now, she said nothing. After all, I am the same guy who, when asked, Do you know how to drive a thirty-foot catamaran? on my honeymoon said, Of Course, and proceeded to rent one and got us so lost at sea that it took three boats and the U.S. Navy almost a full day to find us. I did always want to see Cuba.

Anyhow, wanting to support my wife and kidney’s in a fashion I hoped they would be accustomed, I looked forward to the now rapidly approaching evening.

I had two small problems:

1. I had no equipment.

2. I had no clue how to do this.

What this is leading to is…

My Friend Tom

They say fate is everywhere, and it certainly was. I soon met a guy who would turn out to be my friend for twenty-five years and who shared most of the adventures you are about to read. A partner in grime, as it was. My friend Tom was in a band and thus had speakers, a mixing board, and a microphone. Between the two of us, we had two turntables, so we were ready to go. We also had something else… massive drug and alcohol habits. Now, when I say alcohol, everyone smiles and says, "Yea, so do I." But when I say drugs, everyone looks around nervously. Without boring you with silly political rhetoric (don’t you hate that?), let me say that I strongly believe that marijuana is a harmless, recreational drug, and should be legal. So, for the next two hundred pages or so, when I say drugs, smoke, or anything even remotely similar, I am referring to marijuana. Now, my friend Tom has more cannabis in his system than a Rastafarian with glaucoma, so I have to keep an eye on him. This is like hiring John Dillinger to be a guard at your bank.

I have the same attitude about this that George Burns had. We went to see him in concert in Atlantic City when he was ninety-seven years old. The first thing he did when he walked onstage was light a cigar. After a few puffs, he looked at the audience and said, I still smoke cigars for one reason—every doctor who told me to stop smoking is dead.

Anyway, Tom also has the greatest sense of humor in the world—wildly obscene, inappropriate and hysterically funny. We were rude dudes with attitude.

Like the time he was introduced to a dentist who said he loved rock and roll, and Tom said, A dentist who likes Rock and Roll… I guess that makes you the Leader of the Plaque.

Another time, he was moaning of his lack of a sex life after fifteen years of marriage and then started pouring beer on his right hand. When I asked him what the hell he was doing, he said, I’m getting my date drunk.

Anyway, Tom seemed a willing, agreeable sort who knew a lot about music and had a lot of records. This being before the advent of CDs and the dawn of tapes—records was what you had to work with. Of course, this meant something else as well… records suck. They stick, they skip, you can play them at the wrong speed, and best of all, if you even slightly bump into them, the needle will skate across the record and end up on an entirely different song! This brings an amazed and sometimes angry reaction from the crowd.

To make a long story short… , Tom and I had many adventures—some good, some bad, and some unbelievable.

• As you read about these adventures, I want you to keep these numbers in mind:

•  Between 1982 and 2009, I did approximately six hundred DJ jobs, about half alone and half with Tom.

•  I just about broke even making anywhere between $11,000 and