LA Story

UPDATE 12/11/2006: I added pictures at the bottom

I don’t like to talk about work on this website for two reasons; 1) it’s not very exciting and 2) I am unemployed.

Well, I guess technically I am employed, but the extent of my employment is debatable. For the last year, I have spent most of my time sitting in my bedroom, chatting on MySpace, and collecting paychecks under the guise of being a computer consultant. It’s freaking awesome.

Awesome as it is, there is a major pitfall to being self (un) employed; no corporate perks. It’s great being self employed because I earn 100% of the profits made by the my company, but at the same time, I incur 100% of the expenses. Naturally, I try to spend as little as possible in order to take home as much profit as possible.

This means that I don’t really get many opportunities to do things in excess. No frills, no conferences, no strippers, no filet mignon, no 18 year old scotch and no staying in the presidential suite at hotels.

I didn’t realize how much I was missing out until my recent trip to Los Angeles.

Even though I do not work for a corporation, I still maintain corporate ties. Two of my clients are among the biggest companies in the entire world. One is McDonalds, which has over 13,000 stores in the US alone, and owns more real estate than any other person or company in the world. The other is Nestle, which is the largest food company in the world.

I am starting to take on a more detailed role in my ties to Nestle, and as part of the process, I had to go to their US corporate headquarters for training.

This particular training was put on by the software company SPSS and it was an introduction on how to use their Clementine data mining software (this is far more glamorous than it sounds, and you should be jealous of me at this point).

But I didn’t write this just to tell you about a training session I attended; I wrote this story to gloat about what happened to me in between sessions.

I wrote this story to brag about fine Italian dining, Filet Mignon, $100 bottles of wine, 18 year old Scotch, and my night in the presidential suite.

It all started on a Tuesday. After finishing the second day of class, I headed back to room 1525 at the Hilton Glendale. When I arrived at the room, my door was wide open, there was an industrial fan blowing on the carpet, and the room was spotlessly clean.

Now I enjoy spotlessly clean rooms as much as the next guy, but the spotlessness of my room left one thing to be desired; NONE OF MY STUFF WAS THERE! My room was completely vacant.

Immediately, I wondered where my stuff was. Was it stolen? Did I get evicted? Did the room not get booked for enough days? I had no idea what was going on, so I went to the front desk to investigate. I told them that I had been staying in room 1525 and that my stuff wasn’t in there anymore. They said you’re no longer in room 1525; we’ve moved you to room 1604. You’re now in the presidential suite.

Jackpot.

001_25A.JPGApparently while I was in training, a pipe burst in my hotel room and covered much of the room in water, including some of my clothes. Not wanting to upset a distinguished guest like myself, the hotel made an executive decision to move my lodging arrangements to the executive suite.

Room 1604 encompassed nearly that many square feet. It was bigger than both my 2 and 3 bedroom college apartments. It had a bar/kitchen, a dining room, a family room, a bedroom and 500 square feet of bathroom. It was well decorated, and had a fantastic view of the mountains through a vast network of picture windows.

Better yet, it was filled with my personal belongings, laid out perfectly throughout the suite. My toiletries were perfectly displayed in the bathroom, my clothes were freshly washed and on hangers, and everything else was carefully assigned to its designated space.

It was my home for the night, and I was suddenly prepared to make the best of it. But what can I do in the room to make it a success? I was in LA on business, and I didn’t have my usual social network of friends to help me throw an all out presidential suite party. I didn’t have any reliable “ladyfriend” prospects in the LA area, so I wouldn’t be able to have them come up to enjoy a party either.

I had a limited set of options, and a limited amount of time to enjoy my surroundings, so I decided to call for help. My first call went to Harlan, who has had more experience in LA, presidential suites, and wild parties than anyone I know. I got his voicemail, and left him a two minute voicemail describing my good fortunes.

Next I called Tyler. I already knew what he’d tell me to do with the room before I mentioned my hook up, but I wanted to brag about my accommodations as much as possible. Sure enough, his advice to me was to use the presidential suite as a way to pick up chicks. A bullet proof plan indeed.

The execution of this plan is not so cut and dry. After all, I was in Glendale, CA, and not Hollywood. Although the two towns share an extremely close proximity, the area where I was staying wasn’t exactly nightlife central. It was more of a bustling town between the 8-5 workday, followed by a mass exodus shortly thereafter. Limited options for nightlife leaves me with limited options for introductions to women, which then leaves me with limited opportunities to unveil my newest pickup line: “I’m staying in the presidential suite”.

Next, I called Brandon to hear his take on the matter. Of all of the people I know, Brandon is a phenomenal repository of all fine things. He’s like a walking encyclopedia of lavishness, and is practically an historian for MTV’s cribs. If anyone would know what I should do with my 12 hours in the presidential suite, it would be Brandon.

He offered me some good advice (none of which I can print on this “family” website), all of which was hilarious, none of which helped me through the decision making process. After I hung up with Brandon, I received a return call from Harlan, who gave me suggestions similar to those of Tyler and Brandon.

Kraig came next, and he gave me the best insight of all. First, he offered to fly to LA to come join the party. Then he told me that nobody would believe me if I didn’t get pictures. I mentioned that since I was only in LA for business, I left the digicam at home; not thinking I would need it for such a short trip. He countered with a great suggestion: buy a disposable camera from the hotel gift shop and use it to document the suite. Kraig is a genius.

026_0A.JPGSo, with a plan in place, I went out to dinner with my fellow SPSS trainees. I told them of my good fortunes, and that if I played my cards right I may be able to lure the future ex Mrs. Sauer into the presidential suite.

We went to dinner at a place called Jax where I had two Stella Artois, Cajun crab cakes, spinach and artichoke dip, a Caesar salad, filet mignon with béarnaise sauce and garlic mashed potatoes, a highly rated pinot noir and a Chivas on the rocks (of which I paid a total of $0.00). While feasting, I feasted my eyes on any possible potential pretty presidential suite babes in the restaurant bar. No potentials to be found.

I ended up going back to the hotel with the dinner group, and showing them how things are done in the presidential suite. Unfortunately, the demographics of the room were not what I had hoped; 4 married white males and myself.

We watched the Victoria’s Secret fashion show on a 27 inch tube television (somehow when they furnished the presidential suite, they skimped on the television sets), broke into the mini-bar, and relaxed for an hour. I told the guys about my celebrity fashion show experience earlier in the year, and they smiled when I told them that my job was to guard the dressing room for the runway models (I smile when I recollect those times as well).

After a while, we got sick of the room 1604 sausage fest and went up to the rooftop bar at the hotel. There we sampled some of the finest scotch (Maclellan 18 year, Oban) and eventually called it a night.

I went back to the presidential suite and decided to test out the hot tub. The jets didn’t work very well, but I still managed to come out smelling of hotel brand potpourri soap. Then I strutted around my 1604 square foot abode yelling “king in the castle” before going to sleep the happiest person in the world.

The next morning I went down to the gift shop, bought a disposable camera, took pictures of my room, packed my bags, shed a tear, and left my presidential suite.

My total cost for the trip (out of pocket): $17.86 for a disposable camera.

Total cost of the trip (inferred): $1500-$2000.

Maybe going corporate isn’t so bad after all! Sauce – Fine Cooking

About Jeff Sauer

I started blogging in the year 2000, and go in spurts of inspiration followed by long dormancy. I love writing, and your comments keep me going, so comment!

Check out my Google Profile.

Comments

  1. Jeff that’s a great story, you should start up a new website called True Jeff Stories.com:grin:

  2. For those that care I was actually a witness to all these events.

    Jeff left out one very choice detail.

    There was indeed a presidential suite babe in the Jax restaurant.

    Mediteranean (sp?) skin, green eyes, well tailored suite, white blouse open to the naval with a black tank top exposing her well endowed assets.

    I personally pointed this out to Mr. Sauer who was beaten to the punch by the harmonica player in a funkly little band called Deep. In my state I actually bought their CD and found out why it was a good thing that I couldn’t hear thee singer’s vocals (THEY SUCKED).

    Hail to the chief!

  3. Jeff,

    I noticed you left out the part about going to the Sunset Strip and picking up Julia Roberts. I guess that would make the story rated NC-17.

  4. Wow, can’t wait to see the pictures!! Too bad you didn’t find any babes to show that Presidential Suite off to!

  5. ….shut up….and you didn’t call ME…..i could have had huck and a few brothers on the next plane out….i guess that s what happens when one gets old…..we aren’t considered an asset anymore.l…

  6. Here via Kristi’s blog. ROFL about the “future ex Mrs. Sauer.” I’m totally jealous about the pinot.