God Bless America, but I'm Cursed.

Three Fourths (of July).

ONE:

My head is a helium balloon floating gently above the swampy body I’ve detached from. A sticky pooling of thick liquid squishes mysteriously in my shoes. The room is black, lit only by multicolored strings of Christmas lights along the perimeter, and the screen of my laptop. Writhing bodies are so jam packed they’ve become one impenetrable, energetic entity. I’m trapped behind the DJ booth.

“Love You Inside and Out” by the BeeGees is nearing its inevitable end and I’ve yet to queue up my next song. I shine my iPhone flashlight down to see what’s up. A crimson river gushes from my insides, out from a slash in my knee. I fall to the industrial carpeted floor and squeeze my eyes shut. I cannot stand the sight of blood.

This is Good Times at Davey Waynes, a club in Hollywood. It’s the Fourth of July. I’m the DJ. I think I’m better known for my wild dance antics behind the booth, than my actual DJ skills, the former likely resulting in this injury.

The dude I’m with notices my predicamen…