Last week, The Girlfriend and I opted to spend a three-day weekend in San Diego. Not that San Diego is attractive to an Orange County resident as a tourist attraction. The weather is identical to home and they don’t have a basketball team (although we don’t have a football team). But with the wedding to plan, work to complain about, and baseball season being a month away, we just needed to get the hell out of dodge for a few days.
I generally don’t like the idea of paying for hotel rooms–not when I’m paying for rent at home. But luckily, I got a guy. A dear friend of mine works in the hotel business and he’s able to hook me up with cheap hotel rooms. He’s the manger of a national hotel chain and through him; I’m able to get rooms at this very prominent chain at the employee discount price. My buddy simply books the room for me and fills out the official, proper paperwork that states I–siknerd–am an employee of the hotel. Everything is legit since he is a manager…everything except for the part that says I work for the hotel.
The process is pretty routine. He . . . . .