BOULDER, CO- 

I need money. 

I’m not talking about myself personally (although, as a writer, I’m not exactly turning checks away), but my company.  I’m a partner in a small tech start-up. A couple of months ago, we took a long, sober look at the writing on the wall and determined that it’s now or never.  If we are going to make a real go of this company, we need to seek a serious round of funding – and soon.

Thus, a couple of weeks ago, I attended one of those events to which one goes when one is trying to find money.  There were techies, there were investors: there was money.  The idea was that I would make the rounds, network – see if I could connect with somebody who could help me attain my goal of corporate gold digging.

“Hi,” I would say in a sultry voice, which would simultaneously suggest intelligence and a hard work ethic.  ”I’m looking for a Series A.  I couldn’t help but notice you have an impressive bulge in your pocket there.  Your back pocket, that is.”

Then we would chuckle delightfully at my unavailable availability as the investor fumbles out his wallet and counts out a cool mill in subzero degree, block-hard cash into my open hands.

If only it were that easy.

The problem is, I don’t talk to people that easily.  It’s not that I’m shy – I’m not – but in order to approach someone about money, a girl has got to do her research to make sure that the approach is appropriate in the first place.  It’s not just networking, it’s targeted networking – a concept which, by its sheer superficiality and neediness factors, makes my skin crawl. 

And still, I need money. 

In the Boulder community, the venture capitalists are quite well-known and are local celebrities in their own right.  A bad impression with these guys can make or break you.  It’s nerve wracking.  It’s easy to know who to target…the question is more of how to target.  How does one nonchalantly approach someone who is known across the nation for being a wealthy, shrewd investor and not come off as a ridiculous groupie type?

I don’t do well with fame.  I’ve had limited exposure to famous people, and usually with less than stellar results. 

I met Robin Leach once.  I was working at an independent bookstore when he came through for a signing.  Thinking I could hobnob with someone who had hobnobbed with the Rich and Famous, I sat down next to him, and attempted to chat him up.  Without even acknowledging my presence for a full minute, he finally turned to me and barked an order for a glass of sparkling water.  

And then there was the Patrick Swayze incident. 

It was June of 1989 and I was in London at the time of the premiere of License to Kill, the latest James Bond flick.  I had gone with my sisters to watch the people coming in on the red carpet. The rumor was that Prince Charles and Lady Di were going to be there.  We joined in with a throng of other stargazers, like us, near the front of the crowd by the door, hardly able to believe our good fortune of getting such a good position. 

Sure enough, after several stars had padded their way in through the entrance, a black limousine pulled up.  The crowd went wild.  Before I knew what had happened, I was on the ground being trampled by a British mob.  Above me, flashing camera bulbs, all around me squeals of delight.  I sort of curled into fetal position in order to protect my face and chest, peeking out only once to chance a glimpse through the legs at the limo, where a royal purple hemline was being escorted away by a pair of black trouser cuffs. 

Of course, my sisters saw it all.  Lady Di had been spectacular and the Prince was very dashing and princely looking.  I think they felt sort of guilty that I had been nearly crushed to death by a British land mob, so we returned to the scene a couple of hours later to watch the procession in reverse.  Having arrived a little late, we missed most of the excitement, but my older sister felt that something was not quite right and insisted we stick around after the rest of the crowd had gone home.  

Sure enough, after awhile the side door opened and a couple of people emerged.

“It’s Patrick Swayze!” yelled someone from down the street. 

All heads turned to look.  It was him all right, all 5’10” of him.  People started running.  My sisters and I grabbed hands and we ran.  Suddenly, there were a couple hundred people or more running with us.  We were all just running toward Patrick Swayze.  I don’t know why we were running.  It was completely illogical.  What were we going to do upon reaching him? 

Little did I know, that I would be the first one to find out.

I don’t know how it happened, but before I knew it, I was once again caught up in the sea of people and swept along like driftwood on a wave. But this time, I would not crash on the hard, cold beach that was the London sidewalk, oh no.  This time, I would crash right square on Patrick Swayze’s chest.

I am not exactly sure what I said to Patrick, being pressed against his chest and staring straight at his chin and objecting mouth, but I’m sure it was appropriately apologetic.  I had not intended to land on his person, but having arrived there with a hundred people in all directions behind me, I had nowhere to go.  Somehow, a police bobby had managed to wedge his arm between us.  Between our chests.  I looked up at him.  He looked down at me. 

“I’m sorry,” I remember saying.  He looked away.  I don’t think he heard me.  How could he over the screaming mob?  What was happening was beyond words.  The crowd continued to press and scream while I attempted to avoid eye contact.  And yet, there was literally nothing I could do to avoid him.  We were practically fused together, jostling against the maddened crowd: heartbeat to heartbeat, thigh to thigh, face to face.  We were, quite literally, dirty dancing. 

So, I suppose I get a little nervous when I am in close proximity to fame.  I can’t shake this feeling that I am going to be thrown into a position quite suddenly in which I am going to invade the famous person’s space and humiliation will be imminent. 

The networking event turned out to be no exception to the fueling of my fears.  The event itself was a presentation from all of the groups who had gone through the TechStars mentoring program that year.  In the audience sat a couple hundred investors, all greedily calculating in the wide open the revenue potential of the presenters.

Thanks to my friend, Jeff, who happens to have a hot, new start-up called Dizgo that allows people to get coupons for things like restaurants and drinks on their cell phones, I got seats on the floor amidst the VCs, themselves.  From my seat, I eyed the crowd and recognized a few of the more well-known in the VC world.  Having just written an article about an upcoming event in the Denver area tech world, I knew that I could use it as a way to soften the conversation with a couple of them.  But what about the others?  There were one or two that I really wanted to meet, but how was I going to start those conversations?  What was our common ground?  Should I make an amusing comment about the presentations?  Traipse over to the cheese tray during the break and start up a discussion debating the aesthetic value of manchego vs. drunken goat?  Aack!

I watched the presenters with fascination, all the while wondering how I could get in their shoes so I didn’t have to approach investors the hard way, potentially spinning out of control into their chests.  

The presenters were all well-rehearsed and had practiced to perfection.  Each group had 15 minutes to demo their new company, before opening the floor up to questions.  It was a diverse group.  There were a couple of geeks working on cloud computing technologies.  One group was focused on group communication.  Still another had come up with a site for group dating. 

And then, there was the Highway Girl.

I could see as she approached the stage that she was going to be different.  For one thing, she was adorable.  For another, she had a guitar strapped across her chest. 

The Highway Girl, AKA Samantha Murphy, approached the mic, gave her guitar a strum and then belted out something to the effect of the following:

“Money!  I need money!  I need your cold hard cash.”

I was riveted.  Looking around at the VCs I could see that they were a little uncomfortable with this highly unorthodox approach.  Here we were, in the Boulder Theater – venue for well-known bands too numerous to count – but not today, not today.  Today, people were supposed to be demo-ing their companies.  It was all very high-tech professional and Powerpointish.  Nobody had expected this. 

Onstage, the Highway Girl continued:

“Money!  Don’t need your love, I need your money.  Give it to me now.”

The VCs exchanged looks.  A few of them giggled. 

When she was done, she showed a demo of her Web site and her program, geared to promote the indie musician.  Did a whole segment on a chef she had doing a weekly demo on the site of how musicians can eat healthy on the road – a totally campy segment called “Cooking with James,” in which James’ smiling face peered out amidst swirling colors and his own theme song.  Sitting amongst the money hungry VCs, we watched James turn a rotisserie chicken into a delectable salad.  When the video was done, the Highway Girl took the mic again.

“I need your money – give it to me give it to me now!  Uh!”

She was awesome.  At the break, James the chef worked the crowd with a tray of meatballs.  I could see that a small crowd had gathered around her.  I eyed the cheese tray, realizing that nobody was biting.  With meatballs around, who needed cheese?  I considered beelining across the auditorium to talk to one of the investors I had come to talk to.  Suddenly my throat was dry.  I had nothing.  How could I top the Highway Girl?  It was an impossible proposition.  And suddenly, I longed for that mob.  I needed something to propel me forward, and I had nothing. I grabbed a box lunch and headed out the door. 

Where is a British land mob when you need one? 

Tags: Erika Rae, James Bond, Lady Di, License to Kill, London, London mobs, meatballs, patrick swayze, Prince Charles, Series A, start-ups, The Highway Girl, venture capitalists

This entry was posted on Monday, September 8th, 2008 at 12:38 pm and is filed under Accidents, Food & Wine, Gravity, Humor, Movies, Music, Nightmares, Travel. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.