Wyndham? Damn near killed ‘em

Last week I piled the wife, daughter and the son-in-law into my fourteen-year old Lexus ES350—really just a Camry dressed up for Saturday night—and took them down the coast to San Diego, where we were meeting up with my son and his fiancé to go see Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band.

I know, I’m as shocked as you are.

They were playing at Pechanga Arena, a venue I was unfamiliar with and had never been to, even though it’s been there over sixty years under various names.

Since it was just an overnight trip, and arena shows are notorious for hellish parking and hours-long traffic jams leaving afterwards, I used my big brain and thought the best thing to do would be to book us three rooms at a nearby hotel, where we’d be able to leave the car and just walk to the show.

The hotel I found, the Wyndham Garden San Diego Sea World (the arena is right behind the orca prison) was literally across the street from the arena.

Being the hotel snob I am, after perusing their website and seeing that the rooms and the hotel in general—while not up to the usual Hotel Del Coronado/Fairmont San Francisco/Essex House New York/Four Seasons Seattle accommodations I’ve grown accustomed to—looked decent enough for an inexpensive overnight stay.

But as we all know, when it comes to looks, as in used cars and the opposite sex at closing time, they can be deceiving.

Most arenas are not located in the better part of town, and Pechanga is no exception.

When we pulled into the hotel, which come to find out was more of a motel, it looked decent enough. The woman at the front desk who checked us in was pleasant, and directed us to the building our rooms were in. On the way over, we noticed several extremely sketchy characters not just around the property, but staying there.

It reminded me of the Crystal Palace on Breaking Bad, except without the charm. Although if they had room service, like the Crystal Palace, I was pretty sure meth was on the menu.

We went into the room and, as they say, it was nothing like the brochure. Dingy, dirty and with a prison bathroom, there was only one window with a transparent shade out to the upstairs walkway. I imagine that was to make it easier for the addicts to decide what to steal.

All I could think was Gitmo must’ve been booked for the weekend.

If I’d been a little more thorough in my research, and the only reason I wasn't was because I was pretty danged pleased I'd found a place within walking distance, I would’ve seen the pictures of cockroaches in the rooms and Wyndham’s less than stellar ratings on Yelp.

That would’ve been the first clue.

I told everyone not to put anything on the beds, we were getting out of there.

Speaking with the woman who’d checked us in not fifteen minutes earlier, I let her know the rooms weren’t what we expected and we weren’t going to stay. Without skipping a beat, she said no problem and gave us a full refund. Which told me this probably was a daily request.

Fortunately, the Hyatt Regency Mission Bay Spa & Marina had rooms available and we wound up staying there. Instead of across the street, it was a six-minute Uber ride to the arena, and a million miles away from the Wyndham.

In a word, the Hyatt was heaven. I can’t say enough good things about it. And I believe in my heart that their staff is as great and the accommodations as comfortable, clean and pleasant as they were all the time—not just because we’d made our escape from the bowels of hell.

I wasn't trapped in the Wyndham cell long enough to notice if they had movie channels on the TV. If they do, I'd recommend watching Escape From Alcatraz.

Not for the movie. For the plan.

Torture device in disguise

The bane of agency existence is meeting after meeting after meeting. They always drag on forever.

Fortunately the agency I'm working at now has found a unique solution to the problem.

Torture chairs.

I always used to make fun of the black, cushy, faux-leather, Mad Men looking chairs around agency conference tables. That was until I planted myself in one of these hard, cold, badly designed little torture devices.

Cushy faux leather chairs, I take it all back.

These are bar none the world's most uncomfortable chairs. It's like some junior high kid taking metal shop saw an empty tin can and thought, "You know what, I could make a chair out of this."

Every time I have to sit in one for a meeting, all I think about is how much money the government could save on water, plywood and Guns 'N Roses cd's at Gitmo if they just shipped a few of these bad boys down there.

One good thing can be said for them: once a meeting starts, there's none of the usual chit-chat or preamble. Everyone gets right down to business. No one wants to be sitting in them a second longer than they have to.

It is entertaining to watch everyone constantly shifting position to try and get - not comfortable, because that's the impossible dream - but to a place that won't require a chiropractor or orthopedic surgery afterwards.

In spite of the chairs, almost every one who calls a meeting here thinks it's been a successful and productive one.

Maybe that's because they're all standing room only.