That's My DJ

I know, terrible photo, I know, sue me. But sometimes you gotta shoot with with what you got. And if alls you got is the telephone, then you gotta shoot with the telephone, okay?

I took the offspring to a classmate's 7th birthday party. The invitation noted that there would be a DJ. Hells yeah, I thought, a DJ.... It's a real par-tay! Then I thought again.

"I'm a DJ" doesn't count if you've ever done a 7 year-old birthday party on a Sunday afternoon in a suburban county rec center where the only diversity was the half-black father of the quarter-black girl who gets a pass for passin'. Take any of those elements out of the equation and I'll give "the DJ" the benefit. But, combined, you're not a DJ. You're the party radio playing "Cotton-Eyed Joe."

Not to hate or anything, but somebody has to take back the night when it comes to bastardized terms. Terms like "artist," "baller," and "DJ" have been so watered-down that I can't even tell people that I'm an artist without them thinking I make beaded oven mitts or some crafty, retarded-ass shit like that. You're not a DJ, you're the guy helping kids to do the Chicken Dance between pizza slices and cake chunks (someone forgot a cake knife).

But. There was redemption this past Sunday. Apparently with all the organizational minutia, none of the organizing moms and dads had remembered to bring FIRE to light the CANDLES. You cannot sing "Happy Birthday To You, You Live In A Zoo" to a seven year-old without FIRE on the CANDLES. You may as well send her directly to therapy after the goody bags have been distributed, don't even stop by the house.

Guess who had a lighter? The embarrassing newly-menopausal grandmother with the terribly short 1985 Annie Lennox hair who insisted on "dancing" with everyone didn't even have a lighter. But...that's right! My DJ did, the savior! Amen.

Don't forget to tip the help.