Thursday night I went to the mediabistro party at District with my friend, Danimal.  It's great that mediabistro is in Boston, organizing events where new media types can meet.  And even better that there's alcohol and free grub.  And while District is kind of a funky venue, it was a pretty good crowd.

The thing about this kind of event is that, at a minimum, you need to come with an idea of what you can do for others in your field, and what they can do for you.  It's not a gay bar, where this is obvious (although color-coded hankies can work in any number of settings).  If there's one thing I've learned over the last couple of years, as I've struggled to establish myself in Boston, it's that networking is a lot harder with your pants on.  And the older you get, the more you have to network with them on.  Or at least let's just say: it's advisable. 

That's why I brought my secret weapon Danimal along!  Aside from being a total hottie of the tall, dark and handsome variety, he's with the nation's newspaper of record.  Nothing like a little Old Media cachet to humble the new media hordes. (Of course, I also thought he might be interested in the event for his own reasons.) 

The Danimal smelled desperation in the air right off.  I mean, these are tough times for media types, old and new.  Old media is bleeding out, and new media is standing there with the hatchet not knowing whether to laugh, cry, call an ambulance, or grab the wallet and run like hell.  Truth is, nobody in the media really knows how to make money off of old or new media right now, except by trying to make it off of others who don't know how to make money off of it. 

When I tell people at media things that I blog, most say, "oh."  And then ask me about "monetizing."  And I tell them, yeah, I made about a buck-forty last year with my amazon ads (thank you to whoever bought a copy of Skinny Bitch: The Ann Coulter Cookbook, by the way).  I do it for the love of the rant, not for money.  But even if you can't make a killing you still gotta make a living somehow.  And people figure anyone who's actually employed might hold the key. Just before we left, a woman threw herself at my friend's feet and begged him for a job.  That's where the color-coded hankies come in, I guess. 

Just a friendly reminder:  throwing yourself at some stranger's feet is not networking, it's groveling.  And yes, there's a difference.  Sure, people can just come right up to you at an event like this, introduce themselves, and start chatting you up, and that can lead to something on down the line, if you're good in bed.  But it's better to have an in of some sort.  Someone should always present you to someone else, rather than you just presenting yourself, prostrate, begging and sobbing. 

Because, honestly, what kind of people just come right up to you and start talking to you in real life?  People who don't know anyone.  People who no one else will talk to.  People who mistake you for someone else (I get Doctor House a lot).  People who are lost and need directions.  People who need medical assistance.  After a mugging, say.  Or people who want money, favors, or signatures to "save the children".  Hookers.  Not to mention the drifters, grifters, conmen and schemers, hitchers, mass-rapists and murderers. 

I mean, think about it.  Why would anyone want to put in a good word for someone willing to throw themselves at a total stranger's feet and beg them for a job?  They're asking themselves, what's in it for me?  Warm fuzzies?  Why should anyone want to risk their reputation putting in a good word for you when all you risked, after downing a couple vodka tonics, was your dignity?  That's not something anyone but you can use anyway, is it?  I mean, what can you do for me:  Humiliate yourself?  No thanks, I'm all set. 

I guess I admire her moxie, but I have to agree with my friend: her public display of desperation was off-putting.  Yes, these are hard times, and don't we all know it?  We wouldn't be here if we didn't.  But what makes you think you're especially desperate?  Don't make a spectacle of yourself.  I don't care how hard-up you are, you're not Madonna.

In the end, neither of us partook in the free grub, either.  You want a short course in desperation, hang out at the hors d'oeuvre table.  That's where the dispossessed are, loading up on free mini kabobs and canapes, and glaring at those who've found their tribe with the contempt those shunned by society use to disguise their crippling envy.  Later they may go home and blog about it.  But at least they've got their pride.  And with pride you have a 50% chance of escaping with your dignity.  But — careful! — it can as easily be a vice as a virtue, as easily your downfall as your salvation.

Nobody said this networking business was gonna be easy, bitches.

And, just to be clear: there's no shame in eating hors d'oeuvres, only in eating them because you're hungry.  If you're hungry, go out and grab a burger and fries around the corner, and then come back and eat all the hors d'oeuvres you want.

By the time we left, all the cliques that were going to form had done, and all those who were unable to click with any existing clique had eaten all the hors d'oeuvres.  This is what Marie Antoinette meant by "let them eat cake."  You've got to have free grub at an event like this to placate the dispossessed.  People who can't click complain about it, of course, but we're hardwired to be more selective about who we associate with in public, and there's probably good reason for it.  Reputations are at stake. And reputations are social currency. 

So ingrained is our impulse to build a bulwark of Us against Them, that people do it gratuitously, even when it could be to their detriment.  And I'm not just talking about Hamas and the GOP here.  Anywhere two or more are gathered, you will find the flip-side of group affiliation and intratribal cooperation, which can manifest as ethnic or racial hatred, nationalism or homophobia.  When a group feels marginalized or isolated, it seeks out a common enemy, ensuring its further isolation.

Take a couple of meatheads outside Sorriso, a restaurant/bar around the corner from District, which Danimal and I passed on our way to Les Zygomates, where we went for a bite to eat after the mediabistro thing.  It's right across the street from Calamus, a gay bookstore, and a sort of high-end sex shop called Marquis Leathers.  As we passed these two beefy blokes loitering outside Sorriso, I happened to look up at the awning and say to Danimal, "this isn't the place."  Les Zygomates is a couple doors down.

One of the guys (the witty one, I gathered) drawled, “yeah, this ain’t the place.” His friend muttered, "keep movin'."  And the two sniggered conspiratorially.  There was some discussion between my friend and me about the subtext, but, because we had been looking over at and talking about Marquis just before the incident, and because we were so much better looking and better dressed than they were, and were obviously looking for the French place, we figured they were assuming we were French, and that French people weren't welcomed at Sorriso, obviously an Italian restaurant which just happens to be owned and run by Les Zygomates' s Ecole Superieure de Cuisine Francaise-educated Ian Just.

The food-chain's a funny thing.