Once Was Here

It's funny how things look different when you are saying goodbye. I had walked into that club a thousand times without so much as a spark of emotion or recognition. But as I walked out on Sunday evening after saying an official goodbye to anybody that was working that day, I was struck with a need to take pause. I turned and looked at the building, the huge Fox Pub logo, the large wooden doors, the cigarette butts littering the ground. It was a sunny day, a perspective I rarely got on the club, and the sublime feeling of a strong, dry wind melodramatically blew over me as I whispered to myself, "goodbye, old friend". I was really saying goodbye to a personality known as DJ Dave, a.k.a. Friday!. He was cool, savvy, sexy, sharp, witty, and untouchable, but it was time for him to go. A tear came to my eye, and I turned and walked away. I had been DJ Dave for twenty years, . . . and I was gooooooooood! I had been a mainstay of the Fox Pub (the premiere exotic dance location on Vancouver Island) for ten of those years, almost to the day. On Saturday, January 9th, 2010, I told my boss, Loran Werrun, that I was taking an indefinite leave of absence. The first time I had set foot in that club was in January 2000. I didn't start working there until March of that year, but close enough.

I heard a piece of wisdom in the movie Hoffa once. It suggested that every conflict has casualties but what must be considered is what has been lost and what has been gained. I extend that to my decision to leave. My reasons for doing so had become far more in number than those for staying. Nevertheless, I find myself filled with melancholy. It had become part of my identity, my ego, my security blanket. As I write this I can hear my infant daughter cooing in her mother's arms behind me and understand that although all change is invasive and painful, and so I have every right to my melancholy, my reasons for change are far more important than my efforts to avoid it.

I was never famous. I was never internationally renowned. But when I switched on the microphone, the world came alive. Like no-one else, I was spectacular. I made people laugh. I was entertainment. I could escape the prison of being just Dave with a mic and a drink and a room full of listeners. But I never really socialized much after hours. After all, I had delusions of being an academic, a family man, something better, something superior. And if no-one ever remembers me, or my persona on the mic, for anybody bothering to read this, please know that once I was here.

See you in hell,
Shakes.