Sitting in airport of Generic Mid-South City, where I’ve been attending a conference. Did I mention I hate conferences? I mean, maybe I’d like a conference tailored to my particular tastes (with sessions like, “Snark: Bitchiness or Cultural Criticism,” “Vodkas Around the World,” and “How Best to Ameliorate Urban Soil”). But this was a conference I was sent to cover, and one with precious little news.
Anthropologically, I suppose there’s something interesting about conference-goers’ behavior: The get-togethers and the late nights and the annual-meeting-hook-ups (or so I hear). The closest relationship I built, however, was with the bartender at last night’s reception who, impressed with my ability to drink vodka straight, offered to let me reuse my drink tickets. I declined his kind offer, due to the largely liquid (and not liquor) nature of my diet since a recent bout of food poisoning.
Actually, I suppose that’s not strictly true. I did manage to attract a gentleman, who, with little prompting on my part, proceeded to tell me about his sailing skills and and love for Hawaii and desire to live like Jimmy Buffet! in short pants! and Crocs! upon his ret——- (he actually refused to utter the word) several years from now. Sigh. Can I pick ‘em?