My daughter, the DJ

Finally. Destiny has lifted her skirt and permitted me a peek into her shadowy secrets. For now I realize what karmic impulsion, way back in 1972, led my ex-wife and me to name our one and only daughter Celeste Jeanne Hines.

At the age of 34 she has become a DJ. And, naturally, she is known as “DJ CJ.”

Friday was her coming out, after several weeks of DJ school in the back room of a Hollywood-area record store. With her husband off on a business trip, and her birthday the day before, this was the perfect time for her girlfriends to party on to DJCJ’s tunes.

I have little idea of what DJs do these days. My clubbing days are not only finished; they never started. My ignorance was evident when, in a recent phone conversation with Celeste, I asked her what she said while DJing.

“You don’t talk, Dad! That’s what DJs did in the old days.” OK, I stand corrected. But DJ Madman Mike Your Musical Slave says that some DJs talk and some don’t.

Of course, DJ Madman probably doesn’t live in Hollywood, as DJ CJ does, so I’ve got to believe that my daughter is higher up on the “what’s hip and happening” food chain (question: do hip people say “hip” anymore? probably not).

My daughter, the DJ. She’s so cool. Since I supplied half of her genetic heritage, I must be at least half-cool too.

But the evidence, I readily admit, is lacking.