The one man party

My first internship was in high school.  I drove 40 minutes, twice a week to a radio station in Rochester, NY in my 1989 Dodge Daytona.  It was my first car.  I worked my butt off as a waitress serving wheat toast and egg whites to ornery senior citizens to save enough money.  It had over 100,000 miles when I bought it.  My father told me it was a bad investment, but I refused to listen. I was a teenager who knew everything.  That damn car broke down every other week.  The doors froze in the winter and I would have to crawl through the hatchback to get inside.  It even caught fire.  I was driving down the New York State Thruway rocking out to Ace of Base when I noticed a truck driver waving at me.   Get in line, buddy.  I thought.  I know I am looking fine in this automobile, but to quote the great MC Hammer, you can’t touch this.  My car had a rear spoiler and a front end bra.  Jealous?  The gentleman in the semi began honking his horn and flashing his lights.  It turns out he didn’t want me.  He was trying to tell me flames were shooting out of my car.   I escaped uninjured, but the Daytona didn’t live much longer.  It got me back and forth to the radio station.  I worked with a  DJ who called himself  “Artie the One Man Party.”  I was too naive at the time to realize what that meant.  He regularly picked his nose and ate his boogers.   “Artie” was a chain smoker who had a reputation for being a man whore.  He was a bit of a prick off the air.   Artie wasn’t nearly as cool as Conan O’Brien:




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