The Con
Another year, another Comic-Con, and John and I were there again to show off our in-the-works comic, 60 Minute Broadway, get some feedback, meet people and have a good time.Yeah, I always seem to wait until the last minute, and this year was no exception (much to John's frustration, I'm sure) as I stayed up almost 72 hours straight to get some new pages done for us to show. So, in that respect, our trip started off pretty much as a repeat of last year (read about that here). But eventually, after what seemed an eternity, I got the pages pencilled, inked and colored, and after a short detour to eat and print said pages, we were out of L.A. and on our date with destiny in San Diego.
In order to not repeat last year's madness-inducing marathon drive - where we absolutely could not find a hotel anywhere near San Diego, and in fact, the closest place to take shelter happened to be back in our L.A. apartments - I had made reservations at a hotel some 5-10 minutes away from the convention center itself, months in advance. I even extended our stay a night with no problems, when it became apparent that we were going to stay through Sunday, although there was this one, small, misunderstanding:
hotel: So will your “partner” be spending the extra night with you?
me: Excuse me? My what?
hotel: Your partner, sir.
me: Oh! Yeah, yeah. No. Yes, my friend will be staying in the same room, with me. Separately. That is to say, not together. I mean, same room. Two beds. Yes.
him: Whatever you say, sir.
Anyway, secure in the knowledge that we had a hotel, and after a couple of calls placed en route to make sure our reservation still stood, it was with a certain amount of smugness and security that we walked into the crowded lobby of the Town & Country Resort at 10:30 that night. These feelings soon evaporated however, when the following conversation between the receptionist and myself occurred after I moseyed up to the desk:
her: "Unfortunately, all our rooms have sold out, sir."
me (prepared, I pulled out my printed receipt): "Actually, no. You misunderstand: You see, I have a reservation. Here's my confirmation number - 48921..."
her (interrupting): "Yes, I know. But a reservation doesn't guarantee a room."
me (trying to keep cool): "But, isn't that the point of a reservation!?"
In order to escape the Seinfeld episode I had now found myself in, I asked what our options were. Well, they could stash us in an under-construction area of the hotel with a sofa bed and a roll-away, if we wanted...
me: Do we have any other choice?
her: No.
me (thoughts of us repeating last year's futile, multi-hour hunt for a hotel flooded my mind): We'll take it.
She eventually sweetened the deal with a free breakfast buffet, free parking and 50% off our bill, but it was with great foreboding that I took the key cards.
her: One for you, and one for your partner.
me (leaving): Whatever.
Following a map she had given us, John and I drove around the block to the other side of the “resort” and pulled into the parking lot. From the outside things looked okay. Nice lobby. Elevator’s functional. Ding! Stepping out onto our floor. Holy…! The thing looks like a prison, with gray, unpainted walls and concrete floors, I'm fearing the worst. Visions of the crack den my mom and I had to stay in during our Hawaii trip came to mind. Opening door to our room slowly – wow! Actually, this place is alright! Yeah, it was kind of like camping out in the living room of a hotel room since there weren't any real beds, but it had a huge balcony overlooking a couple of pools and it was clean and well-lit. Since we weren’t going to be spending that much time there anyway, we were happy.
Later, after we had both unpacked a bit and were sitting on the sofa bed (me playing PSP, John watching the World Tournament of Poker on television), one of the hotel staffers came by with the roll-away which she parked next to the bed.
us: Oh, good. We’ll need that.
she (looking at us slyly): Sure. I’ll just leave it here.
So it became kind of the running gag of the trip that the hotel staff totally thought John and I were “together” – the next morning the cleaning lady opened the door, waking us from our slumber (we forgot to put out the "Do Not Disturb" sign) and I jumped off the cot as she came in, startling her.me (pointing to John, still in bed, and my disheveled cot): See!? Both the cot and bed have been used!
her: uh-huh.
me: The cot! I slept on it. He’s on the bed!
her: Okay, sir. We don’t judge, here.
Wow. I thought this was going to be a brief post, but I haven't even gotten to Comic-Con yet. Looks like I'll have to continue this tomorrow. Stay tuned for Kevin Smith's (dis)appearance, a hero from my past, trouble with pancakes and more!
4 Comments:
But notice how the clothes are laid out so neatly on the bed. Anyone can rumple sheets in matter of seconds...
We don't judge here at the Town and Country, sir. Here are extra towels.
me thinks thou protests too much...
i dost protest that comment. separate beds, i tell you!!!
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