"A strange thing is memory. . . Memory is history recorded in our brain, memory is a painter, it paints pictures of the past and of the day." – Grandma Moses

Around these parts it's not unusual to get a sneak peek at spring. This week has been sun filled with mild temps. Perfect for poking around the yard a bit. A few years ago I told you about my new composter. The Aerobin 4000. It holds over 100 gallons of material and gets up to 150 degrees F, making lots of lovely compost for the garden. It also collects gallons of liquid at the bottom. This leachate/compost tea is great fertilizer, but to collect it I need to sit and fill up bottle after bottle from the bottom of the unit, which I transfer into a 4 gallon container kept in the garage.
Naturally, the mind wanders during tasks like these. Thanks to a reminder about my days running an apparel company, mine wandered to thinking about trade shows. Specifically, the Las Vegas show called MAGIC. In 2007, it was huge. As glitzy and glamorous as you can imagine. Loud music, celebrities wandering around with entourages, parties, beautiful women wearing nothing but paint. It was all there.
On that first show, I had a few run-ins with B-list celebs as I wooed buyers. Wandering through a party, Flavor Flav's crew bumped into me, and the man himself spilled some of whatever was in his chalice on me. Later, at Margaritaville a server did the same. It wasn't a problem since I was wearing a Mad Gringo tropical shirt. While not spill resistant, it masked stains like magic.
In the wee hours, heading back to my hotel room, I ended up in an elevator with rapper Vanilla Ice, his bodyguard, an Austin Powers impersonator, and a leggy dancer that stood easily 6'2". The details are fuzzy, but I remember her inviting the group to watch her dance at her strip club the next night. She said something like, I promise I'll have more energy. (It was late. Everyone was spent.)
As it was my first big apparel trade show, I thought, "I could get used to this." Unfortunately, the recession hit soon after and the following shows were half the size and 1/3 of the glitz. It didn't take long before lugging boxes of shirts around and pretending to be the Mad Gringo got old. Hanging with painted ladies and rap stars gave way to sneaking back to the hotel room before the clock hit double digits and scheming reasons to leave the trade shows a day early.
Ahh, the glory days. Or day. I can't remember.
|