M. snagged a table with a view of the exhibit floor, just about eye-level with the ginormous man/woman sign hanging from the ceiling to helpfully indicate the presence of gender normativity in the conference hall. Over my ten dollar sandwich and M.’s shocking twelve buck hot dog platter (the dog was cold; we figured heat required some kind of special licensing agreement, negotiated on a per-user basis) we shared an utterly satisfying hour complaining about shoddy shuttle service, terrible food, weak programming, and unsatisfying work situations. I can’t wait to do it all over again.