From Cork to LA, via Russia
Slick gym. Model clientele. Beautiful women decked out with the finest equipment money can buy. Lots of ripped gay guys checking each other out and having staring competitions. The odd celebrity sighting — was that Leonardo, is that Reese, aren’t you the guy from Bros? And along with all these beauts... Me, an Irish guy from Cork who came to LA to land his own sitcom. As you do.
Managed to blag free membership. One of the flamboyant managers — Jaymes with a Jay — indefinitely extended my week’s free trial membership. All I have to do is say “How’s it going?” as I walk past the front desk and he gets his kicks. People love the Irish. And I am a cheap whore using my accent.
Before he can ask me out on a date, I usually point to my headphones and mouth back, “Sorry, can’t hear, pardon, did the Lakers win? OK!” Up the stairs I skip. Workout on. Except for this fateful day when I reached inside my hoodie for my headphones: Balls. Left them at home. Glance over at the front desk — Jaymes is occupied with someone else. Phew. Head down. Up the stairs. Awkward bullet dodged, for a few minutes at least.
While I’m at some weights machine figuring out what to do with my life — I mean the machine — I hear: “Need a hand?”
Jaymes.
“Ah no, I’m fine, my life is OK, thanks though.”
Judging by his uproarious laugh, I’m pretty sure all he heard was: “Potatoes”.
“Oh my gawd, you’re hilarious Irish man, we should go out, are you married, no?”
Oh Jesus. Time to go over here and use this dumbbell instead. Jaymes skips over with me.
Asks again if I’m doing anything that night. Two seconds Jaymes, busy with this bell of dumb, heeaaave, ho, heeaaave, ho. Realise now that Jaymes is enjoying my arm curls a bit too much. Time to stop.
I also realise that the music they’re playing is terrible. Usually have my iPod on so don’t hear it. Some form of upbeat yet depressing crap, I think the genre is called. “Here, Jaymes, what’s up with the music?”
“Oh my Gawd, I knooooow. Please tell me you spin, please, please, please!”
Hmmm. What does he mean by spin? Spinning classes?
“Yeah, sometimes, why’s that?”
“We’re looking for a DJ! Oh my gawd, that would be amaaaaazeballs. Are you interested?”
In order to compute what’s going on I start up with my arm curls again. At the time my funds were on a constant downward spiral. My savings from translating German gun manuals for the Irish Navy (I’ll tell you another time) were running low. Attempted to earn some cash on the side by being a Shamwow (dishcloth) salesman at various carnivals around LA (also, a tale for another time). Made $5 from three weekends of work. Is Jaymes offering me a job?
“You’re looking for a DJ?”
“Yeah, interested? Two days a week.”
“I’ll check my calendar but I think I can schedule that in.”
“Great, come along on Wednesday!”
Despite my attempts not to get overly excited at the thought of having a job that would enable me to make money that could pay my rent and as a result enable me to stay in LA longer to try and sort out that sitcom for myself, my brain blacked out with joy and I walked out the front door that I had just walked in five minutes earlier, dumbbell in hand, off away home before anyone realised what had just happened.
Did I just get a job as a DJ in a gay gym?
This is... something? Is this unreal? Yeah, this is — Wait. Hang on. Balls. Forgot one thing.
I’ve never DJed before. As in never. Ever. At all.
Well, two days to learn how. Brain, are you awake? We can do this! Google: How to DJ? YouTube: How to mix? Buy DJ software. And. Ready!
Wednesday. Gym. Jaymes shows me where to go. Underneath the stairs halfway up, like a troll under a bridge. Perfect. Hide away here. Unpack my bag. Laptop. Headphones. Cable to connect to their sound system. Prop a bunch of their CDs next to my computer. Look the part. Even wore my t-shirt with stereos on the front, shows I can DJ, right? Although shouldn’t have worn blue, roasting under these stairs. Focus. Jaymes gives me two thumbs up, ready? Nod. Yes. I’m on. Deep breath, and…
A-haon-and-a-do, and a one-two -three-four! On comes a Nirvana remix I found. Dung-dun, dun-dun -chaka-dundundun — We’re off!
Jaymes starts screaming at me: “I love this song! That’s my DJ!”
Realise now that I don’t even have a headphone port to listen to what I want to play next; the slot on my computer is being used to link to their house system. I’ll just pretend to plug it in underneath the computer. Smile at the people passing me by on the stairs. Thumbs up. Try to remember what that YouTube video taught me about mixing. Close my eyes. And… Mix! Not too bad. Two songs in, all good. And there’s a hot girl running up to me. “Oh my gawd, I love your music, what’s your name?”
Not sure if I can line up my next song and talk at the same time. Ask her to hang on... “Two secs there.”
“Tsector? Are you Russian? OMG LOVE IT! DJ Tsector!”
Before I can say a word she’s running back up the stairs telling everyone about DJ Tsector, the new Russian in town. So that was fun.
Anyway, that was a couple of years ago. Since then I’ve played all over Hollywood. Best bars in town. Led to clubs. Fashion shows. Victoria Secret. Maxim. Pool parties. Launch parties. Wrap parties. Private events. Natalie Imbruglia. Jermaine Jackson. The Kardashians. Ivana Trump. Perez Hilton on the phone asking me to play a charity event. Sorry Perry, double booked that night! I was even flown to Vegas last week to play at the Cosmopolitan Hotel, the best spot in Vegas.
And to think: All this from me forgetting my headphones.
* Mark Hayes is from the Russian capital, Cork. His books RanDumb and RanDumber are available online and from bookshops. Find him at The Den on Sunset Blvd, Hollywood followed by The Comedy Store from 8pm on Paddy’s Day (Mar 17).
