smacky and bucky

My wife attended a Washington Networking event last night, and dragged me along with the promise of dinner after. Cash bar, free hors d'oeuvres, and all the shmoozing you can handle for up the three hours! We only stayed an hour, thankfully. This took place in a private room in the new Clyde's in Gallery Place, next to the MCI Center. Over 75 high-powered wheeler dealers talking up a storm and exchanging business cards. I'm an editor at a nonprofit, so while I could chat, I didn't have a lot to offer folks in the way of future business deals. Sorry.

I could actually see the moment when the person who approached me realized I wasn't worthy of the five minutes of chatting. It was usually two seconds after I told them what I did, and for which company. I tired to spare people and stand away from everyone, not making eye contact and pretending to study a painting of a horse. But I think that made me seem aloof, like I was so successful I didn't even need to be there, so people found me a challenge. I discussed IT and overseas markets in the face of intellectual property rights, financial investment, FAA regulations, and the controversy of teaching evolution (only the last one was a topic I brought up). My wife was able to saddle up to me when I was speaking to someone and make her move. The person speaking to me was always relieved to meet someone that might actually be worthy of their time. Yes, I was used, but it helped my wife, which directly helps me. So don't call me a whore! To quote Gob from Arrested Development: "An illusion, Michael. A trick is something a whore does for money. Or drugs."

I think my wife got about 30 business cards, so the evening was a success. Unfortuanately, dinner entailed possibly, no definitely the worst crabcake sandwich I've ever tried to eat. It tasted like it had been found washed up dead on the beach, stored next to a catfish at room temperature for an hour, then frozen, then thawed on a warm countertop, then frozen again, then cooked. Ugh. It actually gave me a headache, which was probably the mercury that had killed that poor crab in the first place.