Just Call Him "Squinty"

By Rick Horowitz

Stash those rubber hoses. Get those bamboo sticks out from under my fingernails. Shine that naked lightbulb in someone else's eyes. I'll confess.

I like to convene.

That's not quite true: I love to convene. Conventions make me happy.

Some folks don't love to convene; the idea of spending several days in a downtown hotel in close and constant contact with hundreds (let alone thousands) of other people from all over the country fills them with:

a. cold sweats

b. hot yawns

c. gas

d. a sudden urge for tranquilizers.

That's some folks. That's not me. You throw a convention, I'll be there with bells on -- or at least a name tag and a smile. I figure it's the perfect way to catch up with old friends, make new ones, cut deals, scarf meals and network till the cows come home.

The almost perfect way, that is. Seems that lately, they've been making it harder to do some of those things -- all, of course, in the name of making it easier. And the major offender? Actually, it's those name tags.

LEONARD. DEBORAH. JAMAINE. HAROLD. MIKI.

You're looking at the latest trend in convention tagging: first names. Big first names. Bold first names. First names in capital letters you can read halfway across the room.

"We're all friends here," goes the unspoken message, "or we will be very soon." And how do we know that? Simple, Simon (or should that be SIMON?): We know that because we're on a first-name basis. We're breaking down all those artificial barriers to communication, see? Things like last names, or the name of your organization or where you live.

All of which are on the name tags, too -- but in the teeniest-tiniest letters you can possibly imagine. Letters which are virtually invisible to the naked eye. Letters which make those name tags...worthless.

You've arranged to keep an eye out for a guy named James Green. You've dealt with each other for months, but only over the phone; now you're eager to meet him in the flesh. Except that there are 50 different guys at this convention with JAMES on their shirt pockets; you haven't a clue which JAMES is your JAMES.

Or you're trying to find out if Gloria Jones, your favorite sales rep from Pocket Sprocket, has made it to this year's convention. If you could find a few people with "Pocket Sprocket" on their name tags -- legibly on their name tags, that is -- you could ask them. You don't have a prayer.

Call me crazy -- call me SQUINTY -- but when I try to make conversation with somebody I've never met before, it's a whole lot easier when I have something to work with. "You're from Podunk? I used to work in Podunk!" Or "I've always wanted to visit Podunk." Or "My mother did time in Podunk." Something. Do we have a friend in common? Did I just read something about your mayor? Do I absolutely swear by your widgets? What are you doing about that mud slide?

Something.

This isn't one of those Miss Manners harangues, understand, about how long you really ought to know somebody as "Mr. This" and "Ms. That" before you dare to switch to more familiar terms. That's just etiquette; I'm talking efficiency.

They say, these convention planners do, that they want everyone to be friends. Great, except that you've got almost no chance of ever getting to be friends, of ever getting that friendship clock running, if you can't find a way to start the conversation in the first place.

I just don't see how you advance the cause of instant intimacy by forcing a roomful of bashful conventioneers to plant their eyeballs six inches from a total stranger's chest and ---

Wait a minute. You don't think...?

8/12/97