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Posted by on Feb 10, 2017 in Current Events, Local, Marketing, Real Life |

Guess that Coworking space

Guess that Coworking space

Names and locations redacted to protect the innocent. I was in another city yesterday, scouting a place to hold a meetup.

Coworking space number 1: Delightfully pretentious little coffee shop with coworking space adjacent. Craft beer is also served. Seems to have a little Reformed Christian vibe going, because those Christians can drink beer with the window shades up, but unfortunately doesn’t seem to have a single room/meeting space that could hold 10 people without some of them having to sit in a hammock or something.

I walked upstairs to what I hoped was a better meeting space, only to find myself more or less awkwardly in the middle of someone else’s stand-up, in a room barely large enough to shoot a self-conscious CCM music video in.

Coworking space number 2: After walking in the front door of the building only to find myself in something that might have been a women’s clothing boutique or a used bookstore, or both, I asked where the coworking space was and was directed by the attractive young woman in the bodysuit to go to the side entrance.

My overwhelming thought on meeting her was to resist taking her hand and running, not because she was an attractive young woman in a bodysuit, but because the neighborhood is roughly that of the Bronx in the 1980s. I mean, I literally had to think hard about exiting my car when I got in the parking lot.

After finding the correct entrance, I met up with a receptionist whose overwhelming thought seemed to be to resist coming right out and asking if I voted for Trump (I didn’t). She reluctantly showed me a meeting room, which would actually work fine for our purposes, if any of our attendees survived getting mugged in the parking lot. She informed me, however, that they generally close at 6 pm.

For extra effect, a police SUV came up behind me while I was stopped at an intersection and lit off their sirens and lights because they needed to get around me. Not, as I initially assumed, to get to a shooting, but to a fender-bender a block over.