I just now saw this and apologize. Believe me, my intent was NOT to drive traffic to my FB page! I just assumed since there were photos involved it would be easier for everyone to view them without having to click on multiple links. Again, sorry, sorry, sorry. That never occurred to me.
That having been said, for the two people who might actually be interested I’ll make two posts to fit it all in.
Part one:
Thursday afternoon I was sitting at work farting around on the interwebs. I don’t know how I happened to stumble upon it, but it somehow came to my attention that Justin would be appearing in a benefit concert with Stevie Wonder in LA. I checked the date then jumped up to check the work schedule – I was off! I flew back to the computer to see if there were still tickets left (highly unlikely – anything Bieber-related usually sells out in less than thirty minutes). I clicked the “get tickets” button and was directed to a page that I did not have access to for some reason. I told Jairus “aaaah! They’re blocking the site!” He looks over and says: “That’s not the hospital’s message when they block you…lemme see if I can get on on my computer.” No dice. I try ticketmaster – blocked. Now I’m freaking out. I randomly google “Stevie Wonder Benefit” and come up with a list of ticket places I’ve never heard of. I click on the first one and lo! They have maybe 20 tickets left. I run to my wallet and start typing my info in furiously. “C’mon, c’moooon!” The order goes through – I jump up and do a touchdown dance. Everyone laughs at me. I dive into Hotels.com and book the first thing (in my price range-I think it had one and a half stars, lol) within walking distance of the venue. Jairus is stunned. “You decided to buy concert tickets, a hotel room, and go way the hell to LA in two days in like 3 three minutes!” My excitement is contagious…within minutes everyone is checking every site they know of to try and find me the best price on airfare (because we’re productive like that – screw work…BIEBER!) I decide to drive and spend the rest of the day downloading maps and whatnot (with the occasional bit of actual work, for the hell of it.)
Friday I’m awakened by a call from the ticket company. “We can’t verify your credit card because the phone number you gave us doesn’t match.” I assume the one affiliated with it is the one from when I used to live with Bruce, so I give her that. Now I’m panicky. I get up and try to log onto my credit card’s site and it says “wrong name or password.” I try all different configurations of the names and passwords I use and nothing. I click the “change password” button and jump through all the hoops to do that and it keeps telling me the password is unacceptable. Now I’m really ticked off. I call their service number (I HATE USING THE PHONE!) and speak to a VERY PLEASANT gentleman who tries to help me with my problem. Nothing is working. He offers me one more thing I might try and if that doesn’t work it’s some kind of trouble with the site. I say I’ll try it, thank him for his effort and hang up. It doesn’t work.. I check my email; no mail from the ticket company with the code to print my tickets. I take a shower and get dressed. No mail. Grumble grumble.
Well at any rate I have to go back to Bruce’s house and use his printer because I don’t have one (and find his binoculars because our seats are in the back row. I picked the medium priced ones from what was available. How much crappier then the back row must the cheaper tickets have been!) I would eat lunch on the way to kill time. About an hour later I’m at the house. I spend the 15 minutes the pre-historic computer takes to boot up searching for the binoculars. Whoo-wee was that a challenge. Finally found them in the bag Bruce takes to baseball games.
So the email is there with the ticket codes and I’m able to print them - hooray! I bought two, so now I just have to find someone to go with me. I email Bruce. He can’t go. Email my friend Jim. He can’t go. I mention it to a Facebook friend. She can’t go either. Two days is awfully short notice and I’m guessing no one was really psyched to take a 5 1/2 to 7 hour drive all the way to LA. (I decided to drive - I couldn’t really justify the cost after spending that much on the tickets.) I remember Chris recently moved to San Diego and asked him “So do you want to go to this Stevie Wonder thing?” He said “Where is it again?” When I told him “LA” he said “Oh, ok then.” Whoo-hoo! We went to the website (I forget why - I think to see who else was playing) and I said “Oh no.” “What?” “Steve Harvey is hosting it.” “Oh dear God.” Anyways, I give him the address of the hotel and tell him what time I’d probabley get in, then said “If it’s ok with you I’d like to go kind of early - Justin’s manager and crew sometime wander around outside and give people good tickets.” He said, “I kinda figured you would.”
So Saturday rolls around and I leave around 10. (Mapquest estimates the driving time to be 5 1/2 hours, but I don’t trust it.) I’m driving along, making decent time, highway five is not too crowded. I get about halfway there and realize I can’t hardly feel my legs. (My car has no cruise control so I have to actually hold the pedal down, like some kind of cave-man, heh.) I get out to stretch and get some gas and my legs are all wobbly. I’m thinking “oh GREAAAT. The drive home is going to be DELIGHTFUL!” I give myself about 15 minutes to walk around some and stretch out then hit the road again. I get to the outskirts of LA and traffic grinds to a complete halt. Then we’d all move up a few feet, then stop. For MILES. Finally I see my exit and am able to get out of it onto (I think) highway 210. Well, what followed was the most confusing series of instructions ever: veer to the right to get on, blah blah blah. Merge onto blah blah heading towards such and such. Oh man what a twisted web. I finally get down to the surface streets and can’t find the hotel - it says it’s right here on the left! Oh except for it’s on the right, lol. Funny that all the directions were right except the very last one.
So ANYWAY. Once I figure out what side of the street the hotel is on I park in the garage next door, which seems to have an exorbitant pricing structure. While I’m checking in I ask the (super cute, btw) desk guy “Is that where I’m supposed to park?” and he says “Yes, and it’s a flat rate: $11 for parking overnight.” That’s more like it!
So I have my wallet out because I have to show my credit card and ID and all that, then am awarded the keys to my room. I ride up in the to the 7th floor in what must be the most claustrophobic, rickety elevator in the history of time. (More so even than the ancient flophouse I lived in in San Francisco where you actually had to close a GATE to get the 'vator to move.) I’m walking along with my wallet/keys in one hand and my baggage in the other. I get to the door and the keys don’t work. I travel back down, say “Sorry, these keys don’t work.” He says “Sorry!” and gives me new keys. I try the new keys. They also don’t work. I travel back down with my luggage. It dawns on me “I’ve been holding the cards in the same hand as my wallet, which has a magnetic clasp, that’s probably it.” I 'splain that to him while I pointedly put my wallet away and he gives me yet another set of keys. He actually asks if I’d like him to accompany me to my room. (Yes, but I’m married. LOLOLOL!) I say “well, whatever, it’s up to you.” (He opts out, lol.) He give me a third card saying “If those don’t work, try this.”
First key doesn’t work. Second key doesn’t work, Desperately try THIRD key. Doesn’t work. Stand there staring at the door. I mean I’ve tried the fast in-n-out. The slow pull. The jiggling it around, etc. Then it occurs to me to turn the card around. Oh good gosh.
So I’m backing into the room with my carry-on and the first thing I do is bump into a dresser. I reposition myself and end up backing into a bed. I look around and this is seriously, seriously the smallest hotel room I’ve ever seen. Hell, it might be the smallest ROOM I’ve ever seen ever! It’s like the stateroom bit from the Marx Bros. “Night at the Opera.”. The sink was at the foot of the bed and the shower was in the closet where the toilet was and was honest-to-god maybe 1 1/2 ft by 2 foot. I almost took a picture of it with a quarter so you could judge it by scale. Any normal-sized, fat-ass American could never take a shower in there. Hey, you get what you pay for for reals. That having been said, after I texted Chris “I JUST NOW F-ing got here!” around 5 o’clock he showed up shortly later saying “I’m downstairs.” Which was serendipitous because I was on my way down.