I know you have this image of me in your head as a staggeringly handsome social butterfly/blue lobster capable of owning any and every room I flit into with the suave debonairness (debonair suaveness?) of... well, let's just think of me as a cross between Daniel Craig in Casino Royale and the bloodthirsty sea worm things that come up through the pipes and eat everyone on the cruise ship in Deep Rising. In other words, someone who should have no problem whatsoever walking into the 2400 women-attended social mediapocolypse that is BlogHer — despite the crippling differentiator of an XY chromosome.
Tragically - and I know this is going to come as a surprise, because I keep it well-hidden - I am somewhat skeptical by nature. I know, I know... it's hard to believe, but once you pick yourself up off the floor (which you fell onto) (because you were so surprised by this revelation) (back up now? y'ok? need a minute to recompose yourself?) and take a minute to think about me (and really: you should spend more time thinking about me, even when I don't ask you to) you may come to realize that despite my sweet indigo exoskeleton and awesome hair and incredibly hot wife and the acclaim respect tolerance of my peers... I am, in the end, a quiet and retiring creature, not necessarily given to the easy words and smooth gladhandling you might expect typical of a gathering of like-minded folk brought together from the far corners of the world to celebrate and share and market and brand all that is and will be the world of (deep breath) (gritting teeth) (trying not to say it like a dirty word) blogging.
In other words, an event like BlogHer is precisely the kind of thing that would normally cause me to swallow my tongue and die rather than attend and participate in. And I know, I know — I just finished a sentence with a preposition, which you're never supposed to do, and yet I just did, and know you're wondering: what the hell is going on, dude? Ending sentences in prepositions? Attending massive femalevolent gatherings of online personas? Publicly exposing the world to the horror that is you? Why, in the name of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, would you ever do something like that?
Fair enough. The answer, of course, is that I got talked into it. Fucking Darcy, man.
Anyhow. Despite my skepticism, misgivings, dread and general sense of misanthropy... I went. This is what happened.
• Wednesday night: I'm on the road as I head over to pick up my kids when my wife calls from the city. "Um... I just pulled out of the parking lot, and the car started bouncing up and down like it's on hydraulics." This is, of course, the car that I'm supposed to be driving down to NYC in the next afternoon so that I can attend BlogHer 2010 and have a miserable time. We agree that she should have it towed to the dealer near us, and hope that they can fix it up quick. Quick like a bunny.
• 90 minutes later, I bring the kids out to the dealer/mechanic to pick my wife up. She tells me that her initial conversation with the service manager didn't sound promising. Basically: it could be a lot of things, and they're all time-consuming and expensive. And thus, my plans for getting to New York go out the window.
• Instinctively, I react by bitching about it on Twitter. Ah, social networking. Now I understand why you were invented.
• Within minutes, Sweetney - unasked - extends an impossibly generous offer to help pay my way to NYC via Amtrak. This, people, is why she's so cool.
• I decline gratefully, take a deep breath, and book myself on the Acela.
• Thursday morning: my wife graciously hauls my handsome ass to the train station. "Stay away from strange women," she advises. "But they're all women," I respond. "And I'm pretty sure they're all strange." Surprisingly, so does not find this reassuring.
• Soon enough, my handsome ass is snuggled into a leather (all business class!) seat on the Acela as the train instantaneously goes from zero to approximately 35,000mph. Bliss.
• About halfway to Connecticut, I suddenly realize that I've forgotten to bring - among other things - the PoliteFictions totem of terrifying genius. Somewhere deep in the American south, Jett Superior swears vengeance.
• Mid-afternoon, I arrive in the bowels of Pen Station. Please note: bowels is less a metaphor than an accurate description. Both as a function of lighting and aroma.
• When I finally emerge from the depths, I blink in the early August sunshine — overwhelmed by the sensory onslaught of Manhattan: traffic seized in angry gridlock, a million people milling around me like ants, and the incredible oppression of a 90+ degree day saturated with humidity. Taking a quick look at my Google Maps printout and the gridlocked traffic, I think: it's probably just as quick to walk. So I haul my 40+ lb. suit bag and my computer bag up on my broad, masculine and profoundly sexy shoulders, and begin walking across New York City.
• Forty minutes and 1.5 miles later, I finally arrive at the Hilton New York. I stumble into the lobby, where 2400-odd stylishly dressed, profoundly beautiful and deeply cool women have filled the space like an aviary of brilliant macaws, graceful turtledoves and stunning birds of paradise. I am drenched in sweat from head to toe, gasping for breath, and desperately attempting to will myself invisible to the eyes of all those around me.
• See under: grand entrances.
• After checking in, I escape to the sanctuary of my room (room #2010! as dumb as I am, even I can remember that number!) and try to rinse the stench of New York, sweat, desperation and failure off me in the Hilton's patented SilkwoodShower(TM). I emerge infinitely cleaner and with my hair restored to its natural state of breathtaking awesomeness. My inner suck, however, remains.
• And then: a rapping! A tap-tap-tapping! Who could be tapping on this, my chamber door — as I sit and brood over my long-lost Lenore.
• Of course, it turns out to be neither Lenore nor a raven but rather - drum roll, please - my roommate for the event: the luminous Kevin from Always Home and Uncool. We fall into each others' arms in a passionate embrace shake hands, say "dude" a bunch of times (well, okay: that was mostly me.) (well, okay: that was entirely me.) and then bid a temporary adieu, as I head downstairs to check in to the conference.
• Checking in, I'm presented with a lanyard and a bag o'swag. I'm indifferent to the swag, but suddenly confronted with the unavoidable reality that I'm about to spend an entire weekend with a sign around my neck bearing the incredibly stupid name "TwoBusy."
• I suck. Did I mention that I suck?
• I race back upstairs, dump my bag o'swag, and then head back to the lobby area for my first full-on social encounter: with the MamaPop crew.
• I'm intimidated. Did I mention that I'm intimidated?
• These people know each other. They've been to dozens of these things before, and have been hanging out for years, and I'm just some jackass from Boston who pretends to be a lobster. Amount of business I have bothering these people with a hello, never mind actually hanging out with them: None.
• So, of course, I clear my throat and show my lanyard - because, you know, it's far too stupid and embarrassing to actually say this stupid pseudonym name out loud - and they all turn out to be... entirely awesome. All of them. Just: funny, warm, smart, and improbably given to tolerating my presence. There are handshakes and hugs. I'm stunned into silence, but then remember: it must be my hair. Once again, I've been saved by the awesomeness of my hair. Bless you, hair.
• Eventually, we leave the hotel lounge (as opposed to the hotel bar) (and I should know the difference, because god knows I spent enough time hanging out in both over the course of the weekend) and meander out into the thick Manhattan air, so as to slowly make our way over to some club... place... thing... for the SocialLuxe party. I have no idea what that is, but the tide is flowing and I'm flowing with it.
• I spend much of the walk over talking to Charlie — whom I've communicated with at great length over the course of more than a year, but whom I've never actually met or spoken to before live. He is all lanky arms and obliquely angled intellect and Kentucky accent, effortlessly leaping high into the air to pull a tiny feather from the breeze like a spider monkey pulling fruit from a tree, then returning to the strange tangents of our conversation without breaking stride or train of thought.
• We arrive, and find ourselves on the back end of a long line, populated in its entirety by women dressed in varying forms of finery. I blend effortlessly, of course. We stand there for several long minutes, biding our time, waiting to see if we'll all get in, when Black Hockey Jesus begins making an impassioned plea for pasta. Because, you know, he needs to carbo load in prep for his incredible Tutus for Tanner run the next morning.
• Which is how I find myself eating dinner with Black Hockey Jesus and Jason from OutnumberedIsMe on my first night at BlogHer. Go figure.
• Dinner is pretty good, and is enlivened by the possibility of Jason's lactose intolerance kicking in and the sight of BHJ drinking something like 35 glasses of water.
• I'm pretty sure my hair continues to look good throughout. They don't mention it, but I presume that's because they're at a loss for words to describe its majesty.
• Afterwards, as we begin the long, sweaty trek back to the hotel, Jason suddenly leaps out into the street and grabs one of those bicycle/rickshaw dudes. The rickshaw is only supposed to hold 2 people; we solve this by having Jason sit on our laps.
• Jason: "Are those your keys?" Us: (uncomfortable silence)
• Which is how it comes to pass that dozens of attendees at BlogHer 2010 are treated to the vision of OutnumberedIsMe crouching on the laps of The BHJ and me as we pull up to the front entrance in a tiny rickshaw.
• Which is pretty much what I had in mind when I first signed up for the conference back in February.
• Eventually, we head up to The People's Party in the Grand Ballroom, which leads to the following exchange:
Table full of women we don't know: So why are you guys here?
Jason: MILFs. We're here to meet MILFs.
BHJ: (laughing)
Me: (face/palm)
Jason: (beaming) MILFs!
• Following that triumph, I proceed to wander around the hotel for a couple of hours. I'm kind of rough on the details, which is mildly surprising considering that I hadn't actually had much to drink at all, but my clearest recollection is that of running into Jonniker a couple of times - who is always in the company of a bunch of women, including what turns out to be her supercool roommate She Likes Purple - and each and every time having her introduction of me be followed (WITHOUT FAIL) by the women in question saying, "Oh! We hear your wife is lovely!" Which means that (apparently) Jonniker is preemptively ensuring the protection of my virtue by spreading the gospel of my wife's awesomeness.
• The single exception to this is a moment when I'm going down the escalator with Jonniker and one of her friends repeatedly yells up at us, "Are you all right, Jonna? Is he bothering you?" Because she thinks that I am a predatory male with malevolent intent towards the Jonniker. This, of course, turns out to be Sundry. Score one for me: the one time I meet Sundry... and I manage to convince her that I'm macking on her friend. Awesome.
• At some point, Thursday turns into Friday, and at about 1am I'm walking by the hotel bar one last time before I head upstairs... and I see the unmistakable faces of Palinode and Schmutzie, who have apparently just arrived. Of course, they don't know me - because, you know... blue lobster - but as soon as I flap my lanyard at them they are friendly and awesome and possibly even happy to see me. I proceed to plunk my hot ass down next to Aidan and spend well over an hour basking in his presence much as a lizard does beneath the sun: gratefully, happily, suffused with bone-deep warmth and joy. At some point during the late evening, he greets Kevin by referring to him as a "dirty motherfucker." He later expresses regret for the "motherfucker," although I can only presume he sticks by the assertion of "dirty."
• At about 2:30 am, I finally return to the hotel room (2010!) and sleep with Kevin.
• Oh. My. God. All of this, and I haven't even gotten to the point where the conference has started yet.
• See: I suck.
• (to be continued)
• (eventually)
