“Bartender, more receipt paper!” Yelling that four times while situated in the DJ booth can be a difficult task, but the writing never stopped until the time I left the event in the wee hours of that morning. I sit here deciphering five pages of notes covered in Jagermeister, originally written with the help of Jagermeister. I believe as a rule one cannot turn drunken thoughts into sober writing. So in order to relay what information I have available to you from that evening, I’ll have to crush a pot of coffee, down a couple servings of Don Julio Tequila, and watch J.J. Abrams ‘Cloverfield’ backwards. 

Do take note that the whole time I’m writing this information down, Chris B. in charge of the lights is on my left controlling the entire dance floor hitting buttons that make the lights change frequency/color, fire strobes off, and shoot off a snow machine that resembles exploding chickens.

On my right is DJ Danjah. His job consists of mixing the music, filtering requests, scratching records , informing me whenever something gets “f$&ked up” and landing planes at Logan Airport all at the same time, he also had the duty of screaming into microphone every 10 minutes, “Put your f%#in hands up!” As drunk as the whole bar was, everyone seemed to obey this simple request, even the girl on the dance podium who struggled to keep her erupting Z-Cups in check. I had a rooting interest in this as my JagerNotes clearly say “Tits Suspenders, Stop Staring”. Seriously, why is this busty broad destroying 16 ounce canned PBR’s? Isn’t there a law against this on New Years Eve? As she puts the drink back between her bing-bongs, I quickly notice that besides the dancing 4ft tall lesbian, filing into the club is enough USDA Prime Cut Ass to stop a Japanese Bullet Train.

          Hang on, DJ Danjah just grabbed the mic again, “PUT YOUR F#%$IN HANDS UP!” Heavy bass quickly follows this announcement as another chicken has clearly exploded over the dance floor, or was it that girl’s colossal cleavage? Obviously she crushed enough PBR to induce that pyroclastic flow.

          Let’s take a look at more of my Jagernotes. All the usual suspects are in play right on queue. We have the visually angry girl standing in the middle of the dance floor staring someone down, there’s the middle-aged Indian gentlemen who creeps at the club every Saturday night since 2007 and still has his retro flip phone attached to this belt loop as most cool people do. There’s the women who requests ‘Dancing Queen”, but wont get to hear until after the bar closes and everybody’s left except for her. There’s Billie Jean, who surprisingly, isn’t his lover. Well MJ if it’s not her then who? You never made a sequel to that song! There’s the random crotch grab that I never identified and probably won’t want to. There’s the two bored girls sitting in the corner with martini glasses not designed for a dance floor. And then of course there’s this; “PUT YOUR F%&#IN HANDS UP!”

          I’ve already ignored the fact that while being in the DJ booth, my ear plugs have disintegrated and so I will be hearing crystalware tuning for the next two weeks as my hearing recovers from the bass bullying my eardrums. It’s amazing the amount of stress the human body can absorb on one single evening, from the thumping bass of death, to the uncountable amount of voltage in the lightshow which was enough to black out the Superbowl.

          Here comes the ball drop, Countdown, 5. 4. 3. 2. 1. KABOOM! Dead Chickens everywhere! Her Tits explode! Some chick Hyper-belches in my direction, another successful wallet purging has taken place on December 31st.

As the New Year parades into our lives, I find myself noticing a lot of people as depressed as those suicidal balloons leaping to their deaths as they hit the dance floor.

I know 2014 may be a tough year coming for some folks, but I do reserve a generous amount of hope for myself and for others as well. I was fortunate enough to have seen every minute of it from the cockpit of the whole operation that evening. The lights, the music, the bartenders, it was a full blitz to end 2013 and as for the rest of the evening after leaving the club that night… well that’s none of your damn business J Just remember folks, it’s a new day, a new year, a chance to start something that could forever change your life.

One final thought to close this out…






DJ Danjah

Chris B. “Lights”

World War Z-Cup

Indian Flip-Phone Guy

Tiny Dancer

Stiff Angry Chick

Phantom Crotch Grabber

Dancing Queen

Two Bored Girls



Special Thanks to:


Arena Night Club & Sports Bar (Nashua, NH)

Charlie (Owner)

Matt (Manager)

Tanya, the bartender who kept giving me paper.