DJ Apocalypse


Three years ago, I bought myself some DJ equipment.  Three weeks ago, I learned how to use that equipment.  And last week, after that equipment started an electrical fire in the woodshed, I realized who I truly am.  It's time for me to pursue a career behind the turntables.  And now that I've finished rebuilding the woodshed, I'm going to do exactly that.  From now on, instead of calling me "Dad," I'd like you all to refer to me as "DJ Apocalypse." 


This doesn't mean I'm going to stop being Dad.  I'm still going to be around to help you with your homework, go to your soccer games, fire up the grill, and rock these awesome, all-white New Balances.  It just means that now I'm going to be doing all that stuff wearing these headphones and this robot mask. 


I'm sorry if this comes as a shock.  And, honey, I'm sorry for knocking over that lamp.  This robot mask has very limited visibility.  But whether or not I can see out of my peripherals doesn't mean I can't see the opportunity that's been laid out right in front of me - I'm talking, of course, about the road to DJ stardom, not the pieces of that shattered lamp. 


You guys should be happy for me.  I'm far too limited creatively as a mortgage loan consultant.  Sure the salary is ample and provides us with a comfortable life.  But it's just so buttoned-up there.  As soon as you crank up your laser-light show at the office, you find out Bill from accounts has epilepsy.   Was I responsible for his seizure?  I don't know.  We'll see what the judge decides.  But as far as I'm concerned, it's for the best that I got fired today. 


Yes, fired. 


Now, for the other reason I called this family meeting.  If I'm going to do this, I'm going to need your support.  While I'm steady churning out hypnotic-ass grooves, I need you guys working the groundswell.  Kids, do you guys have any upcoming parties you need me to play?  Rates are negotiable.  How about you, Carol?  Any work functions that might require a time-traveling robot programed solely to blow peoples' minds?  One thing that would really help me with my practice is if we could either soundproof the woodshed, or get the neighbors to quit calling the cops. 


I know, I know.  You guys think that because this is all on a computer that I'm not a "musician."  And perhaps it doesn't take a classical training to hit the spacebar over and over again.  But goddamnit if I don't feel alive when I'm behind my mixdeck proverbially dropping it like it is hot.  You think just anyone could have written the melody line to my new single, Apocalypse Wow?  Sure, it's only been downloaded on iTunes eleven times, but I can't give up.  Not now.  Not after all the work it took to rebuild that woodshed.  


I can see it already, you guys.  Crowds of people waiting in line.  "DJ Apocalypse" written in big lights on the marquee.  Apocalypse-themed groupies called "the Apoca-LIPS." 


No, Carol!  For the roadies and the sound crew!


I must say this feels good, leaving my boring old self behind for this new, sonic adventure.  It's going to be one hell of a ride.  And it starts just as soon as I finish helping you with your math homework.  What?  Sorry, DJ Apocalypse doesn't remember algebra. 


No thanks, Carol. I don't need dinner. I feed off the energy of the crowd. That, and these capsules of molly. 



Illustration by Amir Khan