lobsterchick's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- It's All Over But the Shunning I was going to come here and link you to all the people who were assholes at SnobbyWhoreCon, but the fact of the matter is that they'd probably see all the hits and cream their jeans. So just rest assured that if I don't name them here, I either didn't meet them, or they were assholes. Most likely they were assholes who I didn't meet, but I'ma say that there had to be at least one person there who didn't talk to me out of circumstance and not because I wasn't part of her super awesome lunch table clique. At least one, right? Right? Or maybe not. Anyway, Danielle and I apparently made the unforgivable mistake of not having attended previous SnobbyWhoreCons, so we weren't allowed in the various and sundry cliques. Never mind that during the other SnobbyWhoreCons, WE DIDN'T HAVE ONLINE DIARIES. So sorry, clearly it was our bad. What on earth were we thinking? The lesson learned here has led me to start attending The American Society of Ophthalmic Plastic and Reconstructive Surgery's Fall Symposiums, ya know, just in case. My feeling on any situation like this is, and has been since high school, that the group must absorb the individual; the individual should not be expected to fight its way into the group like a determined sperm cell performing a breaking and entering operation on an egg. Example: Group of girls at their table in the cafeteria sees a new girl wandering around with her tray. Clearly she's desperately looking for someone to sit with. It is the responsibility of the group to invite her in; there is strength in numbers, and they hold the upper hand by virtue of the fact that they have backup. If they ask and she declines, or gets snotty, then they can turn back to their tuna melts and gossip and make up nicknames. If she asks to sit with them and they deride her, all she can do is cry into her mashed potatoes, all alone. Therefore, I don't think it's out of order to hope to be invited into a group. In fact, the organizers of SnobbyWhoreCon seemed to have this scenario in mind when they posted blank lists with the title "Come Out with Us!" at the top (hand to God, I thought they were symposiums for gay journallers, but that's just me being dense). They were just a nice way of saying "Hey, we're coming out to dinner after tonight's sign in, wanna join?" or "Tomorrow we're going to the Vietnam Memorial, you in?" No one forced them to invite others; there was every opportunity to make private plans and go with just your super duper BFF's, whom you, of course, LYLAS. When Danielle and I, and a couple we had met, Jim and his wife Nancy, saw that, we were like, groovy. All about some mingling. Except the very exclusive dinner group didn't give a shit. We had to introduce ourselves to them, because they stood in a tight circle ignoring us. We had to initiate boring small talk, because they just wanted to cackle uninvitingly at super cool and funny inside jokes the whole way to the restaurant. When Danielle asked the guy (the only guy in our group besides Jim; it seems that online journaling is a segment of the nerd population that women have cornered the market on) who was with us what his name was, he answered with his diary name. My name is Sandy. I know it's Sandy. I would never, in 35 million years, answer the question "What's your name?" with "Lobsterchick." Not even if you asked me here in my comments. Because online is online and walking down the street is walking down the street, and if you can't distinguish the two then being a dick at a convention is the least of your problems. Anyway, as you have probably surmised by now, we got ditched at the restaurant by the cool kids in a way that is just too long and involved (I realize I'm rambling at this point, but this experience doesn't deserve the four-entry treatment that Chicago got last year). We decided to be sports and give the convention another whirl, the next morning at the crap-ass "Getting to Know You" thingie, and the first presentation, about making the leap from online writing to making a living in print. For the most part the panelists were interesting; that wasn't the problem. We ran into trouble when they opened up the floor for questions, and the majority of the audience, many of whom spend upwards of three hours of their days going on and on and on about themselves (myself included, but I refer you to above, stating again, "online is online, walking down the street is walking down the street"), proceeded to give their life stories. Mad props go to the panelists who never once gave into the indulgence to say "and your question was...?" Because I most certainly would have. Anyway, these rejects can have the clique they missed out on having in high school precisely because they were, and are, rejects. I'm glad I came, because Danielle appears to be one of the few people who is exactly as she appears online. She is awesome, and getting to spend time with her (especially at the suck-ass convention) was worth more than one hundred times the price of my plane ticket. Don't get a big head, Danielle. The round trip only cost me $218. 9:01 PM - 22 August 2004 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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