Dj Night Quotes

Nights were the worst. I'd try to get some sleep, only to be thrown out of bed and dragged out into the compound for another game of "Let's whack Bobby in the dark!" - Bobby Pendragon, RoZ

The job of feets is walking, but their hobby is dancing.

Riggedy riggedy white Come and spend the night We'll play some games Some wild some tame Cause if you will, you might. By, Laberge

He flashed the warmest smile I'd ever seen, and my heart felt comforted. Maybe D.J. saw my insecurities, my fears. Maybe he knew God still had a lot of work to do in my life before I'd be good girlfriend material. Or maybe, just maybe, he saw beyond all that and simply wanted to flirt with the wedding coordinator instead of rehearse for the big night. I did my best to relax...and let him.

It always pisses me off when I’m calling in to some Morning Zoo radio show to promote God-only-knows what—probably this book, so get ready, I’m comin’—when the DJ actually tries to convince me that there are as many female comics as male ones. Cue hypermasculine Morning Zoo Hacky McGee voice: “So Kath, I don’t know what you chicks are always complaining about.” To which I respond: “Really? Why don’t you call your local comedy club and ask for the Saturday night lineup? I guarantee you the male to female ratio is going to be about nine to one. You dick-wad.

I switched into my Late-Night, FM DJ Voice: deep, soft, slow, and reassuring.

We still have people who are proud of hating others. Not knowing that their stress,depression, suffering and sleepless nights comes from that hate.

Choose to live, by Choosing to leave. If it disturbs your peace. It is not working out. If it ruins your happiness, character, behavior, reputation and drains your energy. If it gives your pain, wounds, sorrow, heartbreak, headache, stress, grief, sleepless night and discomfort.

You’re sure you want to do this,” Galen says, eyeing me like I’ve grown a tiara of snakes on my head. “Absolutely.” I unstrap the four-hundred-dollar silver heels and spike them into the sand. When he starts unraveling his tie, I throw out my hand. “No! Leave it. Leave everything on.” Galen frowns. “Rachel would kill us both. In our sleep. She would torture us first.” “This is our prom night. Rachel would want us to enjoy ourselves.” I pull the thousand-or-so bobby pins from my hair and toss them in the sand. Really, both of us are right. She would want us to be happy. But she would also want us to stay in our designer clothes. Leaning over, I shake my head like a wet dog, dispelling the magic of hairspray. Tossing my hair back, I look at Galen. His crooked smile almost melts me where I stand. I’m just glad to see a smile on his face at all. The last six months have been rough. “Your mother will want pictures,” he tells me. “And what will she do with pictures? There aren’t exactly picture frames in the Royal Caverns.” Mom’s decision to mate with Grom and live as his queen didn’t surprise me. After all, I am eighteen years old, an adult, and can take care of myself. Besides, she’s just a swim away. “She keeps picture frames at her house though. She could still enjoy them while she and Grom come to shore to-“ “Okay, ew. Don’t say it. That’s where I draw the line.” Galen laughs and takes off his shoes. I forget all about Mom and Grom. Galen, barefoot in the sand, wearing an Armani tux. What more could a girl ask for? “Don’t look at me like that, angelfish,” he says, his voice husky. “Disappointing your grandfather is the last thing I want to do.” My stomach cartwheels. Swallowing doesn’t help. “I can’t admire you, even from afar?” I can’t quite squeeze enough innocence in there to make it believable, to make it sound like I wasn’t thinking the same thing he was. Clearing his throat, he nods. “Let’s get on with this.” He closes the distance between us, making foot-size potholes with his stride. Grabbing my hand, he pulls me to the water. At the edge of the wet sand, just out of reach of the most ambitious wave, we stop. “You’re sure?” he says again. “More than sure,” I tell him, giddiness swimming through my veins like a sneaking eel. Images of the conference center downtown spring up in my mind. Red and white balloons, streamers, a loud, cheesy DJ yelling over the starting chorus of the next song. Kids grinding against one another on the dance floor to lure the chaperones’ attention away from a punch bowl just waiting to be spiked. Dresses spilling over with skin, matching corsages, awkward gaits due to six-inch heels. The prom Chloe and I dreamed of. But the memories I wanted to make at that prom died with Chloe. There could never be any joy in that prom without her. I couldn’t walk through those doors and not feel that something was missing. A big something. No, this is where I belong now. No balloons, no loud music, no loaded punch bowl. Just the quiet and the beach and Galen. This is my new prom. And for some reason, I think Chloe would approve.

Use the late-night FM DJ voice. 2.​Start with “I’m sorry . . .” 3.​Mirror. 4.​Silence. At least four seconds, to let the mirror work its magic on your counterpart. 5.​Repeat.

Music contains zero alcohol, yet it gets people high.

You just think we live in a free country, Everett. We are at the mercy of greed and the selfish pursuit of wealth.

Remember folks, always be careful when you're out at night! Lotsa crazee things go on out there!

the DJ plays the feelings of a roomful of people.

Last night I dreamed of the "happy hunting ground." I passed through a place of bones that looked human, but weren't--the skulls were wrong. Then I came to a place where the days were the best of every season, the sweetest air and water in spring, then the dry heat where deer make dust in the road, the fog of fall with good leaves. And you could shoot without a gun, never kill, but the rabbits would do a little dance, all as if it were a game, and they were playing it too. Then winter came with heavy powder-snow, and big deer, horses, goats and buffaloes--all white--snorted, tossed their heads, and I lay down with my Army blanket, made my bed in the snow, then dreamed within the dream. I dreamed I was at Fleety's, and she told me the bones were poor people killed by bandits, and she took me back to the place, and under a huge rock where no light should have shown, a cave almost, was a dogwood tree. It glowed the kind of red those trees get at sundown, the buds were purple in that weird light, and a madman came out with an axe and chopped at the skulls, trying to make them human-looking. Then I went back to the other side of both dreams. --from a letter to his mother, Helen Pancake, where he describes a dream that seems to encapsulate the play between violence and gentleness in his life.

If you take a pit bull approach with another pit bull, you generally end up with a messy scene and lots of bruised feelings and resentment. Luckily, there’s another way without all the mess. It’s just four simple steps: 1.  Use the late-night FM DJ voice. 2.  Start with “I’m sorry . . .” 3.  Mirror. 4.  Silence. At least four seconds, to let the mirror work its magic on your counterpart. 5.  Repeat.

Freedom means we have to be free to be Stupid, and Banal, and Perverse, free to generate both Absalom, Absalom!, and Swapping Pets: The Alligator Edition. Freedom means that if some former radio DJ can wrestle his way to the top of the heap and provoke political upheavals by spouting his lame opinions and bullying his guests, he too has a right to have a breakfast cereal named after him. American creative energy has always teetered on the bring of insanity. "Rhapsody in Blue" and "The Night Chicago Died" have, alas, common DNA, the DNA for "joyfully reckless confidence.

Most people fail to be successful or to do good in life , because they put too much of their time and energy in other people business. They are so invested in other people lives, other people relationships and other people life choices. They spend day and night discussing, posting, gossiping, disputing, analyzing and criticizing other people. Where do they get time to sort out their own life, mistakes and problems. They fail in life, not because they can’t do well, but it is because they don’t have time and don’t want others to do well , so their time is wasted on others and not on themselves.

They stood up and the world was totally different. The wheat was an onyx sea, ever moving in shadow. Above it the heavens were illuminated with the wink of stars and planets, the Milky Way like a giant streak of glimmer slashing across the sky. She was standing right next to him, awed by the beauty of the night sky and their tiny, tiny place in it. It seemed perfectly natural that he leaned down to gently press his lips to her temple. It wasn’t a kiss really, it was a consolation. “Take my hand,” he said. D.J. could see nothing as he unerringly led her through the darkened grain to the edge of the field.

■​A good negotiator prepares, going in, to be ready for possible surprises; a great negotiator aims to use her skills to reveal the surprises she is certain to find. ■​Don’t commit to assumptions; instead, view them as hypotheses and use the negotiation to test them rigorously. ■​People who view negotiation as a battle of arguments become overwhelmed by the voices in their head. Negotiation is not an act of battle; it’s a process of discovery. The goal is to uncover as much information as possible. ■​To quiet the voices in your head, make your sole and all-encompassing focus the other person and what they have to say. ■​Slow. It. Down. Going too fast is one of the mistakes all negotiators are prone to making. If we’re too much in a hurry, people can feel as if they’re not being heard. You risk undermining the rapport and trust you’ve built. ■​Put a smile on your face. When people are in a positive frame of mind, they think more quickly, and are more likely to collaborate and problem-solve (instead of fight and resist). Positivity creates mental agility in both you and your counterpart. There are three voice tones available to negotiators: 1.​The late-night FM DJ voice: Use selectively to make a point. Inflect your voice downward, keeping it calm and slow. When done properly, you create an aura of authority and trustworthiness without triggering defensiveness. 2.​The positive/playful voice: Should be your default voice. It’s the voice of an easygoing, good-natured person. Your attitude is light and encouraging. The key here is to relax and smile while you’re talking. 3.​The direct or assertive voice: Used rarely. Will cause problems and create pushback. ■​Mirrors work magic. Repeat the last three words (or the critical one to three words) of what someone has just said. We fear what’s different and are drawn to what’s similar. Mirroring is the art of insinuating similarity, which facilitates bonding. Use mirrors to encourage the other side to empathize and bond with you, keep people talking, buy your side time to regroup, and encourage your counterparts to reveal their strategy.

Open All Night" (originally by Bruce Springsteen) I had the carburetor cleaned and checked With her line blown out, she's hummin' like a turbojet Propped her up in the backyard on concrete blocks For a new clutch plate and a new set of shocks Took her down to the carwash, check the plugs and points I'm goin' out tonight, I'm gonna rock that joint Early north Jersey industrial skyline I'm a all-set cobra jet creepin' through the nighttime Gotta find a gas station, gotta find a payphone This turnpike sure is spooky at night when you're all alone Gotta hit the gas, baby, I'm runnin' late This New Jersey in the mornin' like a lunar landscape The boss don't dig me, so he put me on the nightshift It takes me two hours to get back to where my baby lives In the wee wee hours, your mind gets hazy Radio relay towers, won't you lead me to my baby? Underneath the overpass, trooper hits his party light switch Goodnight, good luck, one two powershift I met Wanda when she was employed Behind the counter at the Route 60 Bob's Big Boy Fried chicken on the front seat, she's sittin' in my lap We're wipin' our fingers on a Texaco roadmap I remember Wanda up on scrap metal hill With them big brown eyes that make your heart stand still 5 A.M., oil pressure's sinkin' fast I make a pit stop, wipe the windshield, check the gas Gotta call my baby on the telephone Let her know that her daddy's comin' on home Sit tight, little mama, I'm comin' round I got three more hours, but I'm coverin' ground Your eyes get itchy in the wee wee hours Sun's just a red ball risin' over them refinery towers Radio's jammed up with gospel stations Lost souls callin' long distance salvation Hey Mr. DJ, won't you hear my last prayer? Hey ho rock 'n' roll, deliver me from nowhere Ryan Adams, Nebraska (2022)

this thing—his thing—still well and alive inside me. # I dreamed of clawed hooks and sexual abandon. Faces covered in leather masks and eyeliner so dark I could only see black. Here the monsters would come alive, but not the kind you have come to expect. I watched myself as if I were outside my own flesh, free from the imprisonment of bone and conscience. Swollen belly stretch-marked and ugly; my hair tethered and my skin vulnerable. Earthquake beats blared from the DJ booth as terrible looking bodies thrashed, moshed and convulsed. Alone, so alone. Peter definitely gone, no more tears left but the ones that were to come from agony. She was above me again, Dark Princess, raging beauty queen, and I was hers to control. The ultimate succession into human suspension. Like I’d already learned: the body is the final canvas. There is no difference between love and pain. They are the same hopeless obsession. The hooks dived, my legs opened and my back arched. Blood misted my face; pussy juice slicked my inner thigh as my water suddenly broke. # The next night I had to get to the club. 4 A.M. is a time that never lets me down; it knows why I have nightmares, and why I want to suspend myself above them. L train lunacies berated me once again, but this time I noticed the people as if under a different light. They were all rather sad, gaunt and bleary. Their faces were to be pitied and their hands kept shaking, their legs jittering for another quick fix. No matter how much the deranged governments of New York City have cleaned up the boroughs, they can’t rid us of our flavor. The Meatpacking District was scarily alive. Darkness laced with sizzling urban neon. Regret stitched up in the night like a black silk blanket. The High Line Park gloomed above me with trespassers and graffiti maestros. I was envious of their creative freedom, their passion, and their drive. They had to do what they were doing, had to create. There was just no other acceptable life than that. I was inside fast, my memories of Peter fleeting and the ache within me about to be cast off. Stage left, stage right, it didn’t matter. I passed the first check point with ease, as if they already knew the click of my heels, the way my protruding stomach curved through my lace cardigan. She found me, or I found her, and we didn’t exchange any words, any warnings. It was time. Face up, legs open, and this time I’d be flying like Superman, but upside down. There were many hands, many faces, but no

... but when Martha left, I stayed. I thought that because I was drunk, maybe everything would be different, that as the night waned, Cross would eventually come to me. But instead, when the DJ played "Stairway to Heaven" as the last song of the night, Cross slow-danced with Horton Kinnelly and then the song ended and they stood side by side, still close together, Cross rubbing his hand over Norton's back. It all felt both casual and random--in the last four minutes they seemed to have become a couple. And though they had not interacted for the entire night, I understood suddenly that just as I'd been eyeing Cross over the last several hours, he'd been eyeing Horton, or maybe it had been for much longer than that. He too had been saving something for the end, but the difference between Cross and me was that he made choices, he exerted control, his agenda succeeded. Mine didnt. I waited for him, and he didn't look at me. And that was what the rest of senior week was like, though it surprised me less each time, at each party, and by the end of the week, Cross and Horton weren't even waiting until it was late and they were drunk--you'd see them entwined in the hammock at John Brindley's house in the afternoon, or in the kitchen at Emily Phillip's house, Cross sitting on a bar stool and Horton perched on his lap.

Here are some of the key lessons from this chapter to remember: A good negotiator prepares, going in, to be ready for possible surprises; a great negotiator aims to use her skills to reveal the surprises she is certain to find. Don’t commit to assumptions; instead, view them as hypotheses and use the negotiation to test them rigorously. People who view negotiation as a battle of arguments become overwhelmed by the voices in their head. Negotiation is not an act of battle; it’s a process of discovery. The goal is to uncover as much information as possible. To quiet the voices in your head, make your sole and all-encompassing focus the other person and what they have to say. Slow. It. Down. Going too fast is one of the mistakes all negotiators are prone to making. If we’re too much in a hurry, people can feel as if they’re not being heard. You risk undermining the rapport and trust you’ve built. Put a smile on your face. When people are in a positive frame of mind, they think more quickly, and are more likely to collaborate and problem-solve (instead of fight and resist). Positivity creates mental agility in both you and your counterpart. There are three voice tones available to negotiators: The late-night FM DJ voice: Use selectively to make a point. Inflect your voice downward, keeping it calm and slow. When done properly, you create an aura of authority and trustworthiness without triggering defensiveness. The positive/playful voice: Should be your default voice. It’s the voice of an easygoing, good-natured person. Your attitude is light and encouraging. The key here is to relax and smile while you’re talking. The direct or assertive voice: Used rarely. Will cause problems and create pushback. Mirrors work magic. Repeat the last three words (or the critical one to three words) of what someone has just said. We fear what’s different and are drawn to what’s similar. Mirroring is the art of insinuating similarity, which facilitates bonding. Use mirrors to encourage the other side to empathize and bond with you, keep people talking, buy your side time to regroup, and encourage your counterparts to reveal their strategy.

I used my late-night FM DJ voice. I didn’t give orders in my DJ voice, or ask what the fugitives wanted. Instead, I imagined myself in their place. “It

abruptly, so my job was to find a way to keep him talking. I switched into my Late-Night FM DJ Voice: deep, soft, slow, and reassuring

like that with the right delivery. There are essentially three voice tones available to negotiators: the late-night FM DJ voice, the positive/playful voice, and the direct or assertive voice.

If you take a pit bull approach with another pit bull, you generally end up with a messy scene and lots of bruised feelings and resentment. Luckily, there’s another way without all the mess. It’s just four simple steps: 1.​Use the late-night FM DJ voice. 2.​Start with “I’m sorry . . .” 3.​Mirror. 4.​Silence. At least four seconds, to let the mirror work its magic on your counterpart. 5.​Repeat.

Choose to live, by Choosing to leave. If it disturbs your peace. It is not working out. If it ruins your happiness, character, behavior, reputation and drains your energy. If it gives you pain, wounds, sorrow, heartbreak, headache, stress, grief, sleepless night and discomfort.

Exercise, as it currently exists in most of our lives, sucks. Like most care tasks, when they function only to fulfill external standards of what we should be doing, it actually moves us further away from real care for self. But when I look back at my life and ask myself, “What memories of movement do I have that are joyful?” I well up with tears. I remember cheerleading in the eighth grade and feeling so happy as my body hit every beat on point and in sync with the rest of my team. I remember jumping higher than I think any human has as we won second place in a championship. I remember how strong I felt that I could throw a girl in the air. I remember youth soccer games and the absolute rush it gave me to feel my foot connect with power to the ball. I remember dancing stoned out of my mind at a Bob Marley festival, barefoot and uncaring that my body moved like a jellyfish, oblivious to the beat or how it should be moving. I remember, at ten years sober, when my wedding DJ dedicated “Rehab” by Amy Winehouse to all of us who had come through hell and survived and an entire dance floor of little sober assholes absolutely went nuts on the dance floor. I remember Josh splitting his pants. I remember my husband looking at me like no other woman existed. I remember being carried over the threshold of our hotel that night, not out of tradition, but because I had worn the bottoms of my feet raw dancing. When did movement lose its pleasure? When did my adult life stop including activities that made movement joyful? Can I get it back? Can you? Can we try together?

How can I be ? Proud of my struggle, but having nothing to show. Guns , petrol, tires , gas, everything blows Now I am standing on top of Museum building burned into ashes. It Is smoke in the mirrors. Look at our Repercussions. Our legacy, our reputation. Canvas and portraits of arrogance Lies, deception, fractions results of politicians Insurrection results of a failed mission Blood used to paint our image Poor quality in this fotos, because nothing changed. You might think it is the 80’s, because you can see tribalism and racism. A perfect black and white picture. Sound of freedom turned into sound of violence, Ambulance, Police siren , people crying and dying Hunger and poverty used as tourists attraction They say look more poorer, so we can get more donation. I am getting global media coverage, Because I am queuing and walking long distance for food, Not because we are getting killed , abused and treated unfairly. They look at me and say Africa is starving Took my pics , post them on social media. Now they are laughing. Being born with a price tag, that says you not worth it, because your black. Government looted everything from the poor Now the poor are looting the government. It is like a stolen movie. Those who started it all and who are behind it, are not getting their credit and spotlight . If we change looting to colonization , then they would be heroes. Not sure whether to say goodbye or good night Because when you're in Phoenix , this might be your last night. 

There are essentially three voice tones available to negotiators: the late-night FM DJ voice, the positive/playful voice, and the direct or assertive voice.

I’d also gone to escape the feeling that if I didn’t, I’d spend my life watching Ly fall in love, get married, raise a family. And where would that leave me? The best friend that got to work manual labor beside him? The best friend who got to share a few beers on a weekend? The best friend who watched his kids so he and the wifey could have a date night? I hadn’t known who I was without Ly. But I’d known I had to figure it out if I wanted a life that didn’t turn me into nothing more than a bystander to happiness.

I showed her the Mobb Deep song “Shook Ones Part II” in the first days or weeks when we got together. Now, all of a sudden, she was excited, showing me a video of some pool party where the crowd was puzzled when the DJ played a little childlike tune with very few notes and sounds. Until they recognized the sampled song being played with the original piano tune of Herbie Hancock underneath, called “Jessica”, she was acting like she was teaching me something or something I didn't know beforehand. She was acting like she was smarter than me, or as if I didn't know anything about music, hip hop, or rap. It was very odd. Who could have shown her that track, that video, and Herbie Hancock? I wondered. So, I played the next song myself - Bob Marley's “Forever Loving Jah”. Then, she played Jonathan Richmann's “Something about Mary”. So, I played the song “Jah is One” from Mosh Ben Ari and certain members of Shotei Hanevua to see her reaction to Israeli reggae music. So she played Notorious BIG and the Junior Mafia’s song: “Get money.” She was singing the chorus shaking her boot. Then I played Tupac Shakur's “Hit 'Em Up.” She played Notorious BIG’s song “Juicy.” So I played his song called “Somebody Gotta Die.” She then played the Moldy Peaches, „We are not those kids, sitting on the couch” So I played Mad Child's “Night Vision” to see if she knew it.

There are essentially three voice tones available to negotiators: the late-night FM DJ voice, the positive/playful voice, and the direct or assertive voice. Forget the assertive voice for now; except in very rare circumstances, using it is like slapping yourself in the face while you’re trying to make progress. You’re signaling dominance onto your counterpart, who will either aggressively, or passive-aggressively, push back against attempts to be controlled.

I switched into my Late-Night FM DJ Voice: deep, soft, slow, and reassuring.

for six straight hours, relieved periodically by two FBI agents who were learning crisis negotiation, I spoke through the apartment door. I used my late-night FM DJ voice. I didn’t give orders in my DJ voice, or ask what the fugitives wanted. Instead, I imagined myself in their place. “It looks like you don’t want to come out,” I said repeatedly. “It seems like you worry that if you open the door, we’ll come in with guns blazing. It looks like you don’t want to go back to jail.” For six hours, we got no response. The FBI coaches loved my DJ voice. But was it working? And then, when we were almost completely convinced that no one was inside, a sniper on an adjacent building radioed that he saw one of the curtains in the apartment move. The front door of the apartment slowly opened. A woman emerged with her hands in front of her. I continued talking. All three fugitives came out. None of them said a word until we had them in handcuffs. Then I asked them the question that was most nagging me: Why did they come out after six hours of radio silence? Why did they finally give in? All three gave me the same answer. “We didn’t want to get caught or get shot, but you calmed us down,” they said. “We finally believed you wouldn’t go away, so we just came out.

It’s sad that most of our real life problems that affect us daily, don't make it as breaking news on facebook. They are not trending on twitter or not glamorous enough for instagram and those problems are the ones that take away our happiness. The problems that other people don't know about. The ones we fight alone everyday and every night.

This has been the freakin’ longest night of my life,” I said with dismay. “Yeah,” he replied. “And it’s not over yet.

Opium? No! Cocaine? No! The Great American Brain Killer Is Dance Music!’ – Portland Oregonian, 1932 T

Ms. Wu pressed on. “Elise, I wanted to talk to you because lately you’ve seemed a little … off. Less engaged than you used to be. Maybe even exhausted. Is there anything you want to talk about? Any problems at home?” This woman. This horrifying woman. With her muted sweaters and her sensible heels. All those times I had eaten lunch in her classroom, watching videos of Mandelbrot sets on her computer, she was secretly, insidiously, monitoring me. Any problems at home? Please. Sally has parents who won’t let her read any books with sex in them, and everybody knows that Emily Wallace’s mother made her get a boob job when she was a freshman; meanwhile, my dad buys me DJ equipment, and my mom wants only for me to be an educated member of a working democracy—yet I get asked if I have any problems at home? I bet I do seem exhausted, Ms. Wu. I bet I do seem less engaged. I was up all night, doing something that I really love, and I’m sorry, but I just didn’t reserve enough energy to fully participate in this miserable, mandatory little exercise in public education. Since discovering Start, I had felt, for the first time in years, like good things could happen to me. I felt happy. Yet somehow, for the first time in years, someone was bothering to ask me what was wrong. Where were you in September, Ms. Wu? Where were you last spring? Where were you when I needed you?

SpottieOttieDopaliscious [Hook] Damn damn damn James [Verse 1: Sleepy Brown] Dickie shorts and Lincoln's clean Leanin', checking out the scene Gangsta boys, blizzes lit Ridin' out, talkin' shit Nigga where you wanna go? You know the club don't close 'til four Let's party 'til we can't no more Watch out here come the folks (Damn - oh lord) [Verse 2: André 3000] As the plot thickens it gives me the dickens Reminiscent of Charles a lil' discotheque Nestled in the ghettos of Niggaville, USA Via Atlanta, Georgia a lil' spot where Young men and young women go to experience They first li'l taste of the night life Me? Well I've never been there; well perhaps once But I was so engulfed in the Olde E I never made it to the door you speak of, hardcore While the DJ sweatin' out all the problems And the troubles of the day While this fine bow-legged girl fine as all outdoors Lulls lukewarm lullabies in your left ear Competing with "Set it Off," in the right But it all blends perfectly let the liquor tell it "Hey hey look baby they playin' our song" And the crowd goes wild as if Holyfield has just won the fight But in actuality it's only about 3 A.M And three niggas just don' got hauled Off in the ambulance (sliced up) Two niggas don' start bustin' (wham wham) And one nigga don' took his shirt off talkin' 'bout "Now who else wanna fuck with Hollywood Courts?" It's just my interpretation of the situation [Hook] [Verse 3: Big Boi] Yes, when I first met my SpottieOttieDopalicious Angel I can remember that damn thing like yesterday The way she moved reminded me of a Brown Stallion Horse with skates on, ya know Smooth like a hot comb on nappy ass hair I walked up on her and was almost paralyzed Her neck was smelling sweeter Than a plate of yams with extra syrup Eyes beaming like four karats apiece just blindin' a nigga Felt like I chiefed a whole O of that Presidential My heart was beating so damn fast Never knowing this moment would bring another Life into this world Funny how shit come together sometimes (ya dig) One moment you frequent the booty clubs and The next four years you & somebody's daughter Raisin' y'all own young'n now that's a beautiful thang That's if you're on top of your game And man enough to handle real life situations (that is) Can't gamble feeding baby on that dope money Might not always be sufficient but the United Parcel Service & the people at the Post Office Didn't call you back because you had cloudy piss So now you back in the trap just that, trapped Go on and marinate on that for a minute

I am the girl who prefers to send her Friday night curled up with her pillow, reading a good novel, and I am also the girl who likes to go out on a Saturday night and dance until the DJ plays his last song. I am the girl who wants to wear beat up converses and an over-sized sweatshirt, and I am also the girl who owns over sixty dresses and too many shoes to count. Why did it become okay to say one is better than the other? Because I am all of that.

It’s just four simple steps: 1.​Use the late-night FM DJ voice. 2.​Start with “I’m sorry . . .” 3.​Mirror. 4.​Silence. At least four seconds, to let the mirror work its magic on your counterpart.

It’s just four simple steps: 1.​Use the late-night FM DJ voice. 2.​Start with “I’m sorry . . .” 3.​Mirror. 4.​Silence. At least four seconds, to let the mirror work its magic on your counterpart. 5.​Repeat. One

There are three voice tones available to negotiators: 1.​The late-night FM DJ voice: Use selectively to make a point. Inflect your voice downward, keeping it calm and slow. When done properly, you create an aura of authority and trustworthiness without triggering defensiveness.

Success comes at a cost. Some it cost them their time, energy, hard work, family, friends, marriage, happiness, sleepless night, morals, character, trust, their body, their soul. If your success hasn’t cost you anything. It is going to cost you , your life, because there is nothing for free. If you get it for free it means someone else paid for it.

DJ, as ever, was wearing a pair of sunglasses on top of his black hood, and he, Mike, Oof and Darkest Night were taking on two huge smiles together;

Use the late-night FM DJ voice. Start with “I’m sorry …” Mirror. Silence. At least four seconds, to let the mirror work its magic on your counterpart. Repeat.

There are essentially three voice tones available to negotiators: the late-night FM DJ voice, the positive/playful voice, and the direct or assertive voice. Forget the assertive voice for now; except

late-night FM DJ voice

Mary Ellen called dibs on sending off the DJ, but by her expression when she met back up with us near the pool, we could tell something bad had happened. "Well, the DJ isn't going anywhere, but we certainly are," she said. "What do you mean? He isn't leaving?" "While we were dealing with this train wreck of a wedding, Alfie's daughters convinced the DJ to stick around and play for a party they've arranged inside the mansion." "You've got to be kidding me," I said. "Nope. He told me that he doesn't work for me and that we should just go. I'd almost say screw them and let's just leave, but we've got to pack up, so we might as well see what those little she-devils are up to." We stepped into the foyer to find the entire men's soccer team for the nearby university toting bottles of liquor up the giant circular staircase. Right behind them were the evil daughters, who informed us the party was just beginning for them. Not only did they pay the DJ to stay, but they also took all the remaining liquor from the caterers. Apparently, the girls were resetting the house for a party of their own while Alfie and Camila were gone for the night. "We are so not getting paid enough to deal with this," said Mary Ellen. "Agreed." I watched five frat stars stumble out of the kitchen with more half-eaten cake in their hands. After all, these girls were of age, they technically "lived there," and it wasn't our gig anymore. "Let's make sure everything from the wedding is accounted for and then get the hell out of this house of horrors," she said. As we left we could hear the bombastic strains of the DJ blasting "Gold Digger" again. This time, no one cried.

Build yourself a life or a career where you can afford to sleep peaceful at night.

had a local FM station on, cranking out some Billy Joel and Harry Chapin, who the manic DJ kept informing his listening audience were Long Island boys. So were Joey Buttafuoco and the serial killer Joel Rifkin, but the DJ didn’t mention this.

We are all materialistic. There are different levels of materialism! Some aspire to a fancy car, others only wish to go to bed at night with a full stomach.

As negotiators we use empathy because it works. Empathy is why the three fugitives came out after six hours of my late-night DJ voice. It’s what helped me succeed at what Sun Tzu called “the supreme art of war”: to subdue the enemy without fighting.

This idea of communion is what drives the best musical happenings. It’s about breaking the audience/artist boundary, about being an event, not just watching one.

A DJ’s job is to channel the vast ocean of recorded sound into a single unforgettable evening.

The night DJ was conceived, he had used Lola to relieve his aggravation. He ran into their bedroom like a Category Five Hurricane and fucked her like a whore in the street.

A person who harbors a lot of hate needs a bigger audience. They are rotten inside, poisonous and nothing good comes out of their mouth. Only the lies they tell give them comfort to sleep at night. They don't have peace within them. Their souls and hearts are dark. They are miserable people who want others to be miserable too. They are dishonest individuals who conspire, collude, sabotage, frame, plot, tamper, fabricate, escalate, and exaggerate. They lack a moral compass or humanity. The evil within them makes them think they are gods of this earth.

sessions of pre-techno soul music that lasted from the late afternoon until the break of dawn. “You have to understand, in the Black community, you had to mix disco and funk,” Howard states. “You couldn't just put on Gloria Gaynor's ‘I Will Survive’ and not do ‘Brick House’ by Commodores.” 34 Delano Smith, a DJ who turned to producing in the mid-’90s, was at the heart of Detroit's progressive scene as part of the Soundwave crew, with Carl Martin and Avon McDaniel of the social club Next Phase. “I think we were all inspired by disco music. A lot of the radio stations completely changed their format and played disco music day and night,” Smith said, observing the music industry's transition from professional

If you are playing music in any situation and not connecting with people's emotions, what are you actually doing?

Whatever you want. Whatever you are sacrificing and fighting for. Whatever life or lifestyle you are creating for yourself. Whatever you do to get whatever you want. Whatever profession or qualification you want. Whatever money or luxury you want. If when you get it. You can’t afford to sleep peacefully at night. Then it is not worth it or worth having it.

after going the first time, I couldn't wait to go back the second and third times, pretty much any time I had the opportunity. It was an enlightening experience. I mean, the place was all gay, or 90 percent gay, and before then, I didn't know anything about that kind of sexuality. But seeing the way that people danced at the Garage, and experiencing that love of the music they had… that was something. Me and my cousin, we'd just be in our own worlds, in our own little areas, dancing away.’ That world was created by Levan, and Saunderson sees his nights at the Garage as early lessons in the control a DJ can have over a crowd. ‘At that point, just hearing mixing was something new to me,’ he admits, ‘but even then I could tell that Larry was very good at those transitions. He might play one record for 30 minutes, 40 minutes, maybe an hour, and he would make it exciting. Like

No matter the stress , anxiety or your situation. I hope you can afford to sleep peacefully at night. Sleep or resting is very Important. Make sure you get enough rest, In order for you to be able to be productive in whatever you are doing.

There was a brief backlash against rigid formatting, in the shape of the hippie-driven dream of freeform radio. In the US, FM technology, which allowed hi-fi stereo broadcasts, was first licensed for use in 1961. It was the preserve of ‘serious’ radio – often broadcast from universities – with academic programmes, jazz and classical music to the fore. But given the rise of sophisticated (or pretentious) rock music, this too found its way onto the FM band, complete with a new intimate style of presentation, and disc jockeys who chose all their own music and who ignored time restrictions and rotation schedules.

And in fact, Peel had proposed a format very similar to Donahue’s at least six months before freeform was born in San Francisco, though this had been rejected by the station management.

By helping the various splinters of race music reach a much wider audience the DJ had a profound effect on the music’s development.

In simple terms, spellworking for banishing, decreasing, or removing problems takes place from after the Full Moon until the New Moon, with the day or night of the New Moon being strongest. Spellworking for increase, growth, and gain takes place from after the New Moon until the Full Moon, with the day or night of the Full Moon being the most powerful.

boy”—heir to a British subculture that emerged after World War II, born when American Forces Network and Radio Luxembourg introduced British ears to jazz, blues, and R&B. In the sixties, while the BBC droned on with stuffy in-house orchestras, my dad and his generation tuned into the Radio Caroline “pirate” radio station broadcasting illegally from ships in international waters. He’d hear Booker T. & the M.G.’s and race to the record store Friday with a hundred other teens, all desperate for a copy. Twenty years younger, Jules carried that torch as part of the “rare groove” generation. Instead of hunting Otis Redding, he searched for forgotten seventies gems by underappreciated American artists like Donald Byrd, Roy Ayers, and Lonnie Liston Smith, masters of deep grooves, jazzy

MeMaw was trying to convince the DJ to let her perform a dramatic reading of ’Twas the Night Before Christmas over a trap beat.

remember we were airing the agricultural report, which was on tape, when I got a phone call from my boss’s daughter, Nita Louise Kellam, who was also a high school classmate of mine. She was calling to tell me that her father had given me the night off and that they were going to let somebody take my place as the DJ that night so I could be her escort to go hear President Kennedy speak. We weren’t dating; it was simply a chance to go hear President Kennedy speak. As I was on the phone with Nita Louise talking about our plans that night, Hal Nelson, who was one of our newsmen, came barging into the control room. It was shortly after 12:30 P.M. “Put me on the air immediately—the president has been shot!” shouted Hal. I did as I was told. I was twenty-three years old. The rest of the day became one of the most memorable events of my life.

Proud enough to play in the club even, so I went up to Sterling Sound to have it pressed onto my own acetate. The studio engineer hunched over a lathe—a bulky device resembling an industrial sewing machine, with a twelve-inch platter at its base. After listening once and tweaking some dials, he placed a pristine, smooth piece of vinyl on the platter and pressed play on my digital audio tape, and the machine’s head descended onto the blank vinyl. Slowly, it began carving into the surface, writing our song into the wax. Technically, the stylus was etching grooves by drawing amplitudes and frequencies. But from where I stood, this machine was sculpting music. The purpose of an acetate is to create a sonically perfect master copy, which is then electroplated and turned into a “stamp” to press the audio onto more vinyl, which gets slipped into sleeves and shipped to stores. Watching the lathe do its thing, my mind drifted to the engineer who performed this task for “Le Freak,” producing a master disc that would go on to birth millions of replicas.

Proud enough to play in the club even, so I went up to Sterling Sound to have it pressed onto my own acetate. The studio engineer hunched over a lathe—a bulky device resembling an industrial sewing machine, with a twelve-inch platter at its base. After listening once and tweaking some dials, he placed a pristine, smooth piece of vinyl on the platter and pressed play on my digital audio tape, and the machine’s head descended onto the blank vinyl. Slowly, it began carving into the surface, writing our song into the wax. Technically, the stylus was etching grooves by drawing amplitudes and frequencies. But from where I stood, this machine was sculpting music. The purpose of an acetate is to create a sonically perfect master copy, which is then electroplated and turned into a “stamp” to press the audio onto more vinyl, which gets slipped into sleeves and shipped to stores. Watching the lathe do its thing, my mind drifted to the engineer who performed this task for “Le Freak,” producing a master disc that would go on to birth millions of replicas. And how, one day in 1978, a DJ like Black Passions Inc. walked into Sounds, bought his copy, and spread its magic across nightclubs, block parties, cookouts, and roller rinks throughout the city. Then, in 1994, I bought his old copy off a street vendor on West Fourth Street and spun this disco classic across New York City a thousand more times. The sacred magic of “Le Freak” belonged to Chic, but its gospel was spread by DJs like us. The lathe was a mint, printing joy and ecstasy. The engineer printed up a label, slapped it on the disc, and sent me on my way.

Before long, I was spending hours at his apartment—a lesson in organized confusion. A queen-size mattress was jammed into one corner, crates of records spilled over the floor, and a banquet table buckled under the weight of turntables, a mixer, an Akai MPC, and a sixteen-channel Mackie mixing desk. A studio apartment in every sense of the word.

There are three voice tones available to negotiators: 1.​The late-night FM DJ voice: Use selectively to make a point. Inflect your voice downward, keeping it calm and slow. When done properly, you create an aura of authority and trustworthiness without triggering defensiveness. 2.​The positive/playful voice: Should be your default voice. It’s the voice of an easygoing, good-natured person. Your attitude is light and encouraging. The key here is to relax and smile while you’re talking. 3.​The direct or assertive voice: Used rarely. Will cause problems and create pushback.

I didn’t put it like a question. I made a downward-inflecting statement, in a downward-inflecting tone of voice. The best way to describe the late-night FM DJ’s voice is as the voice of calm and reason.

Playful wasn’t the move with Chris Watts. The way the late-night FM DJ voice works is that, when you inflect your voice in a downward way, you put it out there that you’ve got it covered. Talking slowly and clearly you convey one idea: I’m in control. When you inflect in an upward way, you invite a response. Why? Because you’ve brought in a measure of uncertainty. You’ve made a statement sound like a question. You’ve left the door open for the other guy to take the lead, so I was careful here to be quiet, self-assured.

It also taught me an invaluable New York lesson: the chicer the spot, the more bullshit the DJ setup. And Café Tabac was the chicest of all.

Mark has three crates of vinyl records, each weighing around sixty pounds, that need to be moved from his apartment to the elevator. He can only carry one crate at a time, and the journey involves keeping both the apartment door and the elevator door open. If the apartment door closes, it will lock him out, leaving the remaining crates stranded. If the elevator door closes, the elevator will leave, and Mark will have to summon it again—hoping that his prized possessions aren’t swiped by another tenant. Solution: Mark hoists the first crate and carries it to the apartment door, wedging it in the doorway to keep it ajar. He returns to the apartment, lifts the second crate—which oddly feels heavier, though he knows it isn’t—and carries it to the elevator, using it to prop the elevator door open. Back in the apartment, Mark braces himself for the third crate, lifts, grunts, and shuffles it to the elevator, setting it down inside. He returns to the apartment door, retrieves the first crate, and carries it to the elevator. Now, for the final act: a precise kick to the crate propping the elevator door open. If his aim is true, it will slide inside the elevator. If not, his lumbar will pay the price. With all three crates secured in the elevator, Mark presses “Lobby,” catching his breath and trying not to think about the fact that he’s about to have to repeat this process in reverse. And into a taxi.

The drip from the bathroom faucet thundered through my skull. I turned on the radio, desperately hoping to break the spell. But the announcer’s voice—usually a harmless, chipper drone—now seethed with spite as he read the weather. Every sound around me twisted into a horrific fun house mirror version of itself. And I was trapped inside. Terrified, I got up and stumbled to my mother’s door. “Mummy,” I said, barely holding it together, “I think I’m having some sort of panic attack.” She appeared, half-asleep in her nightshirt. We weren’t a family for hugs, but her voice came soft: “It’s going to be okay.” Those five words of mother’s love made the terror start to drain. I stood for a moment in her gentle presence, and I headed back to bed. I had a few more of those episodes that spring, always in the quiet dark. Since childhood, the night meant good times, so long as it was full of loud music and people. Emptied of that, it showed another side—paranoia, anxiety, and a darkness that could swallow you whole. Something I never wanted to face again. That’s easy enough, I thought: Never be alone at night.

In 1939, keeping jukeboxes stocked with tunes accounted for about sixty per cent of total US record sales.

By registering the number of times each record had been played, its popularity could be accurately gauged. This fact was what inspired the idea of charts; the Top 40 was such because forty records was the standard jukebox capacity.

By the 1990s, bottle service made its way to New York City. High-end lounges like Moomba, Spy Bar, and Life realized they could make a killing by charging patrons hundreds or even thousands of dollars for wildly marked-up bottles of champagne and vodka. Dance floors, once the focal point of a club, became less important than seating arrangements, and the culture shifted toward a static, hierarchical environment where social status and ostentation dictated the mood of the night.

like Tunnel, Club USA, Webster Hall, and Limelight were still the beating heart of the city’s nightlife, and you saw all of New York. Their huge dance floors mixed rappers, plumbers, pop stars, suits, designers, artists, and registered nurses. It was a continuation of the downtown energy of the eighties—punk meeting rap, fashion colliding with breakdancing, everyone genuinely curious about each other’s worlds. By the late nineties, when the exclusivity of Moomba, Lot 61, and Life’s VIP room reigned supreme, this spirit was disappearing. Different scenes still mingled, but instead of wanting to understand each other’s art and fashion, people were more interested in figuring out how the other was getting money—and how to tap in. The SKE crew were good kids, true downtowners, obsessed with hip-hop and trying to get paid. They were building on Bill Spector’s blueprint: skaters, hustlers, designers, models, rappers mingling in the club. But in this money-

centric evolution of where music and nightlife were headed, a lot of the normal people and the eccentrics and artists got squeezed out. No Supreme employee or Tommy Boy A&R was dropping two hundred dollars on a bottle of Grey Goose to get into a party. Still, outsiders were riveted by this new scene, where Jay-Z, Damon Dash, Puffy, Leo, and the SKE kids reshaped New York nightlife, with me as their DJ. I knew I’d really made my way into the larger culture when I saw myself in a Ben Stiller script. At the 1996 VH-1 Fashion Awards, Stiller and Drake Sather played male models in a popular sketch satirizing the pretensions of the downtown fashion world. When Stiller set out to expand the sketch into a feature film, I got a call to play myself in the opening scene, DJing at Life. The script went like this: I spin “Relax,” by Frankie Goes to Hollywood, triggering several

Jazz, already the music of rebellious youth, became nothing less than the soundtrack of resistance.

It’s just four simple steps: 1.​Use the late-night FM DJ voice. 2.​Start with “I’m sorry . . .” 3.​Mirror. 4.​Silence. At least four seconds

If there were moments in which I was despised for who I was born as

He handed me Jaydee’s “Plastic Dreams,” the Good Men’s “Give It Up,” Robin S.’s “Show Me Love,” Crystal Waters’s “Gypsy Woman,” and Masters at Work featuring India’s “I Can’t Get No Sleep.

It’s hard to stay present when your mind is constantly pairing tempos and keys instead of focusing on the person in front of you.