It’s one of those Airbnbs that’s designed for debauchery: there’s a dartboard, foosball table, ample patio nooks, block letters spelling B-A-R over the stove. But the vibe is all wrong. The overhead lights shine bright, and none of the drinks are open: not the Angry Orchard, nor the White Claw, nor the bottles of Fireball and wine. The background music is relaxing and slightly Christmassy. Most people keep their conference name tags on, which they unsubtly glance at before engaging in conversation. As circe wrote, “A conference is probably one of the few places in the world where a man will experience the “hey, eyes up here” phenomenon.” The whole setup and its amateurishness piss Jordan off. He starts flipping off light switches and taking over the Sonos. He then grabs one of the grad student hosts for a stern talking-to: “Hey, do you live here? Text everyone now and tell them to BYOB. There’s not nearly enough for 500 people.”