If you’ve read my profile or previous blogs you’ll know that I am an ersatz entrepreneur. As previous co-founder of an internet software company, my official title was CBO or Chief Begging Officer. Therefore I had the inglorious task of beseeching potential investors to drop serious coin into our company coffers so we could eventually pay our engineers.
So the other night with that basic premise in mind I attended one of those mandatory meetings for entrepreneurs grubbing for money in the Silicon Valley. Excuse me while I digress. I think I read in a paper recently that every third person in the South Bay area either is in the process of starting a company or dreams of doing so one day. Hell, the other day my Taco Bell cashier was pitching me up for investment in his IC (Integrated Circuit) company idea while I waited for my Burrito Supreme. We couldn’t agree on valuation so I changed my order to ‘to go’ and skedaddled out of there.
Anyway, the meeting took place in what we affectionately call the ‘Death Star’, (Black Hole might be more appropriate as many an entrepreneur goes in but nary a few come out with their shirts on their backs), the most famous Valley law firm at their sprawling Palo Alto campus. After giving my name and confirming my registration I headed upstairs to join the pre-meeting festivities.
Being a veteran of many campaigns, I knew the secret to effective networking was to be strategically seated and well fed and lubricated – and since this event sponsor was particularly cheap – get to the food and alcohol quickly before it disappeared. I dodged a mine field of glad-handers and smile-effers and put my jacket on the first seat in the front row and then made a bee line to the food.
Trouble. Silver trays arrayed on tables piled high with deep fried gunk that they tried to pass off as ‘Chinese food’. Unfortunately I had not eaten lunch and was thus famished so against my better judgment I ate a heapin helping of some gelid dumplings of congealed fat. This was California, dammit. Land of bean sprouts and healthy food.
What, were they trying to kill us? Harden our arteries on the spot? Cull the entrepreneur herd? I half expected to open the last tray and find triple nicotine cigarettes and heroin needles.
So I settled into a birds nest corner with a glass of wine in one hand and another two placed at arms length. Up walked a thin wiry man with intelligent eyes and a wispy mustache. He introduced himself as Yuri in a thick Russian accent. As he worked his way through his pitch I felt the warm embrace of the wine come over me. I said “Yuri.”
“Vhat?”
“I once had a girlfriend in Japan named Yuri but you look nothing like her.”
“Ves, people are always mistaking me for Japanese or Brazilian bikini models as Yuri is also popuuular name in Brazil.”
I shuttered as I imagined him in a bikini needing more wine.
So I almost imperceptibly and deftly switched my empty glass for the full one in mid sentence.
He resumed his pitch and droned on about algorithms and saving the world when I became aware of a young Chinese-looking girl standing in front of us obviously intent on joining our conversation. Slightly impaired by the wine, I strained to determine whether it was more impolite to break into Yuri’s pitch yet again or leave the poor girl standing there in the cold.
It’s the Southern in me, I guess. Thinking ’she’s darn cute,’ I extended my hand in introduction. She said her name was Christine and while she tried to hide it, it became apparent to me she was the main squeeze of one of the mega-zillionaire speakers.
Thereupon we were all called into the meeting room to begin. The subject was ‘can you successfully fund your start-up on less than one million dollars’. The panel consisted of two VCs and two entrepreneurs. I won’t bore you with the details of the meeting. In short, the entrepreneurs said the VCs were greedy bastards and the VCs, ever slick, said they were not. The VCs then said “We love you entrepreneurs and want to have your children.” They meant it like ‘lets get it on’ but in reality what they meant was ‘we’ll take your first born as collateral on you company’.
In the middle of the debate my stomach began to growl. Not a polite, little, rumbly-in-my-tumbly growl but a real live cross-between-a-bear-and-a-lion growl. I shushed it like I would a wanton child but much like the child, my stomach would not stop. As queasy as I felt I was equally determined to make it to the end and the ritual exchanging of the cards and the perfunctory ’send me your business plan and we’ll do lunch’ comment.
Now besides queasy, I had become somewhat disoriented. When it ended, being in the front row, I stumbled up and took my rightful place at the head of the line, the room spinning and my stomach yelling at me to run.
“No,” I yelled back in my mind, I have to complete my mission. As I reached out to exchange cards with the alpha VC a wretch in my stomach brought out all of its contents as I projectile vomited congealed fat and red wine on the floor splattering his shoes and pants. The room stopped spinning for an instance of stunned silence.
After feeble attempts to apologize and clean up the fetid mess, I slinked out of the room a mixture of embarrassment and misery. Come to think of it, I did, however, in the end, get his splattered business card.
Have you ever encountered a more embarrassing situation?
Should I email him and request a lunch meeting or not?
