SO I'M DJING AT 14 BELOW LAST NIGHT when this gargantuan white man walks up to me and Orthoe with a grin so wide it's pushing his ears back, and a tie so long I was worried he would step on it and kill himself before making it across the room. Early 50s, and again, large; not disproportionate or fat or overly muscly, just a regular guy, only 30% bigger. His suit jacket could be a U.N. tent. He asked me to play Led Zeppelin, Jimi Hendrix, some "shredders", so I obliged, and he and his boo, a fetching middle-aged dirty-blond in an airtight blue dress, caroused to the music in each other's arms for thirty good minutes like they were filming Dirty Dancing: Santa Monica Nights. He came back to thank me, shook my arm with his yeti hand, and asked my name like a man laying a trap. My name barely escaped my mouth when he said "I'M TIMOTHY LEARY. EVER SEEN A CHAMPIONSHIP RING?" We were still laughing at the idea of this manimal having the same name as the famed psychedelics guru when he wrenched a chunky ring off his finger bearing the Dodgers insignia and 'LEARY' on the side. Turns out he was pitcher when they won the 1988 World Series. He went back to dancing, and I continued churning out the shredders for Timmy, giddy with visions of a $500 tip at the end of the night and becoming official DJ of Daryl Strawberry's coke parties. Then they left, and some gangly chick with an annoying voice started whining about all the old music, and the world was back to normal. I just feel fortunate to have met what might well be the happiest person in the world. He's a tall, rich white guy with all his hair and a championship ring. And nobody's picking a fight with a seven-foot pitcher. I'd be smiling too.

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