What’s the craziest thing you’ve done for money?
March 3rd, 2009 2:13 pm
by Rick Albano
As I watched the inaugural address a few weeks ago, I was stoked, but equally freaked-out by the constant warning of tougher economic times ahead. I was inspired by Obama’s words, but when he paraphrased the bible, saying we must “do away with childish things,” I got a little fidgety. No doubt, he was referring to the last eight years of shenanigans by the cartoon character sitting sheepishly to his left, but the quote hit home for a guy who makes a living doing “childish things.” I mean, the artist in me says that children draw pretty pictures, and the writer in me knows that kids love flowery prose. As a creative looking for work, it made me think of worst-case-scenarios and reflect on other times in my life when I had to cinch my belt up a few notches, dial back my artistic integrity and swallow my pride.
At the beginning of this exciting path I’ve chosen as a creative professional, when I was just out of university, it took me a while to get my bearings. Was I a fine artist? A budding music director? A copywriter? Fresh-faced and willing to do anything for a paycheck, I explored my options. Along the way, I worked the swing-shift at a factory painting Harley Davidson belt buckles (artiste), moved crowds with the “Crazy Chicken” as a wedding turntablist (music impresario), attempted to execute an illustrated novel of David and Goliath for a religious organization for a few hundred dollars and some drawing supplies (indie comic illustrator), and penned a series of “wacky” scripts for a fake disc jockey in a nationwide department store (music journalist/advertising whiz). During the same year, one job I took that helped me fine-tune my goals and set some boundaries as to what I could live with every day-I was a deejay for one night at a nudie bar in Medford, Oregon called “Le Dolls.”
I half-heartedly interviewed for the gig on my way to pick up an application for seasonal work at a fruit basket company (art director/merchandiser). Inside the club, the work environment-from the dark, carcinogenic ambience to the surreal stage shows to the bald, seven-foot-tall owner-was one that appealed to the Charles Bukowski-lover in me. I looked at it as an opportunity to add to the “life experiences” I’d draw from later in my writing and considered it a chance to finally finish a series of paintings I’d started on the subject. Plus, I’d be spinning records for pretty girls (vibe selecta!). But I never thought I’d actually get the job, so I was shocked when I got a call later the same afternoon asking if I was free to work that night. The Boss called it a “baptism by fire” and told me to show up in a few hours.
From the moment I walked in the door I realized that the baptismal waters would at a boiling point all night. I stepped behind the elevated podium that served as the DJ booth and assessed the situation: There were the shaded eyes of the clientele, peering up at this fantasy-crashing stranger, the old computer filled with MP3’s like “Pour Some Sugar on Me” and “Don’t Want No Short Dick Man,” the microphone aimed at my face like a gun (if you think your voice sounds funny on an answering machine, try saying “Get out your money and give it to Bunny” over a hissing PA), and of course there were the dancers. With names like Savannah, Cheyenne, Crystal and Amber I was having a hard time keeping my precious metals/southern cities straight. The culmination of my stress came when I couldn’t find the dancer who was “on deck” and had to run into the dressing room to search for her (The first notes of “Cherry Pie” were already playing!). A girl who was changing inside shrieked and told me to get out, then went to find The Big Man. I guess she didn’t want me to see her naked.
I didn’t get in trouble, but at the end of my shift I knew I was done. I couldn’t sleep that night and the next day, when The Boss called me in for my second night in a row, telling me I did great, I declined, explaining that I was considering taking a high school tutoring job and that there were obvious conflicts of interest.
A few weeks later, I decided to move to San Francisco and within a year I was surfing the dotcom wave, writing about music. In another two years, I’d be unemployed again-then Bush would happen and 9/11 would happen-but I’d find another job, with renewed focus and a healthy respect for the impermanence of “the good life,” and most importantly a willingness to try anything in the name of “art,” even if only for one night.
What’s the wildest thing you done for a buck? Join the dialogue at the 52 LTD blog…