EVERY MOVE YOU MAKE I'LL BE WATCHING YOU: So here's the DJ story...

A bunch of pals of mine go out to the bars in Los Angeles one night several years ago. (Shit. I think it was L.A. Eric, was it L.A.? Seems right. He was a coach there.)

Doesn't matter.

They're in a pretty hot place, it's jumpin', they're hanging out near the bar, when up walks former Celtic great Dennis Johnson. DJ! He of the retired number and the championships. A legend as a player, nad now an NBA coach. Anyhoo...

They're pretty excited. "Hey, DJ!"

And it turns out DJ is a nice guy. A really nice guy. He buys 'em a few drinks, hangs out and swaps stories, treats 'em like they're somebody. After a bit he says, "Hey, let's go down the street to [name of other superhot club]!"

"Awww," my pals say, "the line's a mile long there."

"Not for DJ," says DJ.

DJ! What a guy. My pals rally behind him.

And so DJ leads 'em down the street to the superhot club where there is indeed a HUGE line. And, as promised, DJ marches himself and my pals to the front of the line and tells the bouncer, "They're with me." The velvet rope lifts, and in they waltz. "I'm a part owner," explains DJ to my pals. Aha! DJ!

More free drinks. Introductions to other semi-celebs. Dancing. A big time. And all the while DJ sticks with my pals, sticks very close to my pals, starts introducing 'em around as "my boys."

Over time, one of my pals grows uneasy. He pulls the others aside and says, "Hey, you know what, this has been great, but I'm gettin' a little tired of DJ."

The others sheepishly agree. Enough is enough. They begin talking about the next day when they plan to assemble for a giant game of RISK, just like back in college. They'll order in food, drink some beers, talk about old times...

"RISK? I *love* RISK!"

It's DJ. He's snuck over and eavesdropped on the tail end of their conversation. It's as if his freckled face has popped into the middle of their circle of friends. How'd he do that?

"Where y'all playing? I'm in!"

My friends glance at each other. It's unspoken, but it's there: DJ is out.

"Let me go get something to write the address down for you," says my pal. "Don't worry, I'll give you the address."

When DJ is distracted by the pounding club action around him, my friends make a beeline for the door, ditching DJ for good.

They're still a touch spooked when they tell this story, even years later.