Back in the 1950s, I started a record company, which proved to be quite successful. We scoured Canada and the USA for the best unsigned talent we could find, and then moved on to be a player in the burgeoning world music scene.
We met with moderate success, but when Jimmy Poon and I perfected the new multi-channel recording process of Super Hi-Fonic Stereolation, we were on our way. Other technical improvements such as our various advancements in unirotary sound dispersement underpinned a series of wins in the back channel LP distribution circuit of gas stations, thrift stores, and metal spinner racks in some 9 Steinberg's department stores. And that was just the beginning. Or so it seemed.
Things turned bad when I made the blunder of listening to Kenny Blankenship, who insisted that we would make more money and put out records faster, if we eliminated the process and the machinery that made the little holes in the center of the records.
The advent of the CD would have sealed our fate as a small player in the vinyl Long Playing 33 1/3 RPM record business anyway, and by the mid-eighties, I'd turned to making size 7 grommets at the local Royal Canadian Veeblefetzer grommet plant to pay the bills.
Still, I don't regret a thing, and with vinyl LPs making a comeback with the ironic beard crowd, our releases are highly sought after and extremely rare.
I decided to bring along some of the great LP music we'd recorded and distributed in those incredible, rotational years, and use it as mood music on the trip as needed.
And, with my first full day ahead of me, I awoke at the Tropicana after a fairly short sleep. That first night is usually a bad one, but I slept fairly well. The best part of that first night is waking up and realizing, "I'M HERE!" I suppose that when I'm stuffed away in the far reaches of a care home some day, I'll have the same sense of excitement each morning, except minus Vegas.
I did a quick brush and flush, and headed straight for the Marquee Player's Club booth - the one whose staff had abandoned their posts some minutes after their purported closing at midnight - causing me my promised $10 in free play. I planned to raise bloody hell until I got my rightful ten bucks! It was owed me, and I had photographic evidence that I'd met the conditions of the ten dollarses.
The booth was open, and stormed straight at it, handed over players card and ID to the boothling, and steeled myself for fiduciary and contractual battle. Shitheels!!!!
"Good morning. I had $10 free play coming yesterday and Chico Enchilda! Even though rental, VW Asshat got all the lights, ran with luggage, and I was here before midnight, I can prove it, even though my watch shows 3 hours after that, it's fatbit wrong synco whoozis GODDAMMIT," I said. Calmly. In my memory.
The boothling replied. "You have $10 free play for today and I see the $10 free play from yesterday."
"That's my point, rushed, wolfed disk foods, Asshat, Chico, I was ON. TIME!"
"It's been loaded onto your card."
"I am NOT loaded, but I will be if I don't get my $10 free play from yesterday..."
"Yes, sir, Tuesday's it's already on your card."
"OK, so today's is but what about Tuesday's? ASSHAT!!! LIGHTS!!!"
"Tuesday's is loaded on your card. So is today's. $10 each day. Total of $20?..."
I stared at her, blowing foam out of one corner of my mouth, chest heaving.
"Well, nobody told ME that..." I snatched my ID and players card back, muttered thanks, and looked for someone to yell at that deserved it.
I caught my reflection in the mirror, and walked it off, into the casino.
The casino yielded a cup of coffee, and I played the freeplay on Beeefffallooo, but of course, just lost it. What a let down. I played a few rounds of this and that, but nothing note-worthy or otherwise life-changing happened. I decided to get back on track, and headed back to the room, stopping off for a better cup on the way.
In the line, I got talking to a guy. Flushiepants is a great judge of people, and has a keen sense of the obvious. As I talked to this guy, I formed a mental picture, created a complex hypothesis, ran through my mental memory banks, and hit paydirt.
I interrupted him to say, "Hey - you're a referee of some sort, aren't you. Don't worry... your secret is safe with me - Agent Flushiepants." I gave him a little wink.
It seemed that there was a 'cue sports' competition in the Tropicana, featuring guys with long, felt-tipped rods. I wondered if there would be a sort of 'clash of the Titans' if the cue sports people wandered into the Ms. Senior USA pageant.
Back in the room, I prepared for the day. I had the perfect music for the Tropicana - some Taco Bueno. Taco Bueno put out a couple of incredible fusion albums with us. Exactly what styles Taco's record was a fusion of, I never quite figured out, but it sounded pretty gear to me.
Hot Groovy Jalapeno Pants came on and I cranked it up!
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| If you see a copy of this LP in the bins, grab it. It's priceless. |
Life was good.
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