I think there were only four people in Las Vegas who weren't DJs. Seriously.
The girl who sold me my morning coffee at Starbucks? "You should check out my set sometime." I was already checking out her set every morning, but she was talking about something else.
The guy at the stereo store showing me receivers? "I spin at this local place on Thursdays. I'm old school, though. Nothing but vinyl." And an audience of nothing but jaded gambling addicts playing video poker around the bar, trying to ignore Mr. Old School and his Fischer-Price record player.
I'm trying to superficially infiltrate the DJ culture my own damn self. I often tell strange women that I spin at an obscure bar on the weekends. I'm usually drunk when I do this, so it amuses me to no end; even though no one in Louisville gives a Shriner's shit about DJs. No one, and I mean no one, cares. DJs who are treated like celebs in Vegas couldn't hail a cab in this town. I'd get a lot more play pretending to be the bass player of a shitty Led Zeppelin cover band.
However, I always get a response when I say "Stop by next Saturday and I'll put you on the list." Man, people LOVE to be on the list. Cover in Louisville is five bucks, max, but nothing makes people happier than the idea of not having to pay it.
So, for those of you keeping score at home:
A "celebrity" DJ in Vegas spends his weekends dining at fine restaurants, spinning at swank clubs, and bedding a bevy of hot club chicks.
I, on the other hand, down my inexpensive bourbon drinks and laugh to myself at the thought of a woman who won't sleep with me wandering drunk through the Highlands neighborhood looking for a bar that doesn't exist.
Hey, I play the cards I'm dealt, damn it.