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A Party of One
Goombahs get the 'party' started
By Margo Oxendine, Staff Writer
Well, here we are again. Are you ready to party?
From time to time, you'll find "A Party of One" in this esteemed newspaper. The Recorder and I are no strangers, as old-time readers know. But this time around, the accent will be on fun. I'm hoping not to have to grab any politicians by their collars and shake the truth out of them. I'm hoping not to have to go poking through anyone's bank account. I'm hoping my bulletproof briefcase can stay permanently retired. I'm too old for that stuff.
I decided on the catchphrase "A Party of One" more than 20 years ago in California. Actually, it all began in the forsaken state of Nevada. The entire state, except Las Vegas, was my territory when I worked for ASCAP, the mega-music licensing agency. Now one may think, as I did when I started the job, that it would entail partying with rock stars. And from time to time, it did. But rarely.
Basically, it entailed driving through the state, twisting the arms of nightclub, casino and restaurant owners, convincing them they had to pay ASCAP for the music they used. Somebody's got to pay the piper so musicians can accustom themselves to the high life. Royalties don't grow on trees, you know.
So, I drove about 1,500 miles a week, by myself, through Northern California and Nevada, visiting bars, casinos, nightclubs and restaurants. Sounds like the good life, eh?
Not at all. I was one of just two women in the country with this job. The other agents were hulking, testosterone-laden goombahs - the type of goodfellas nobody dared mess with.
And then there was me - petite (at the time), hair in a bun, gray flannel suit, sensible little heels, and my very first bulletproof briefcase.
It came in handy.
I will never forget the angry redneck in Red Bluff, Calif., who threw me out of his bar by repeatedly poking a large, scary shotgun in my chest. He backed me outside and across the parking lot in this unmannerly fashion, spitting invective. As I slammed the car door I called out a warning: "I'm the nicest person you're going to have to deal with!"
Next came the goombahs. And quickly thereafter, our royalties.
My new boss, who didn't like the idea of women working this job, decided to put me to the test. He decreed I should visit every bordello in Nevada and license them against copyright infringement.
My first foray was to the infamous Mustang Ranch, just outside Reno. I got there on a busy Friday night. I guess every Friday night was busy at the Ranch. I strolled in with my bun and my briefcase and surveyed the scene. I was the only woman clad in gray flannel. I will refrain from further description.
Not 10 minutes passed before I found myself hoisted up between two huge cowboys, carried outside, and unceremoniously shoved into my car. My feet never touched the ground.
This fun-filled trip also involved my discovery of Tonopah, Nev. Single girls, listen up: If you're looking for a handsome, hunky guy, Tonopah is where you'll find him. And hundreds of his ilk. It is a veritable Candyland.
It was at Tonopah's Mizpah Hotel that a Party of One was born. I went down to the restaurant and waited in line to be seated. The hostess asked, "How many in your party?"
"I'm a party of one."
A group of four handsome gentlemen men behind me heard this, and murmured among themselves. One tipped his cowboy hat. "That's about the saddest thing I ever heard, little lady. Please, join us for dinner."
Well, who wouldn't?
Since then, that phrase seeped into my psyche. I adore being a party of one. I've practiced partying across America and the Caribbean, into Greece, Cuba, London, and France.
I've become adept at eavesdropping. And discrete notetaking.
This is where I'll share some, but not all, of my adventures. Get ready to party.
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