I went on my very first press trip last week to San Diego. I was flown in for a brand launch of something I probably shouldn't talk about here, but let's just say it was a brand suited to my lifestyle- getting treated like a rock star and staying drunk the whole time.
I was met in San Diego by a driver holding a sign with my name on it, like the celebrity that I am. Actually, if I am going to be a true celebrity I have to start using fake names like "Dirk Dynamite" or "Jack Eough." Next time.
I was shuttled to the W Hotel, where not only did I not have to open any doors for myself, the door guy was all up in my new green Lacoste sneakers. (It was their debut and I'm so glad he noticed.) Upstairs, I thought I'd walked into someone else's room. The lights were on, radio was playing, the television was on, and there was a robe hanging in the bathroom. It turns out that's on purpose.
Prettymuch everything in the room is for sale, and they give you the hard sell on everything. The CD in the boombox can be purchased downstairs, as can Moby's "Hotel" CD. The snacks are not kept in the mini bar, but are set right out in a box on the desk. Also in the goody box for sale were a logo baseball hat, log teddy bear, logo flip-flops, logo swimsuit ($50), logo t-shirt ($20), an "intimacy kit" ($10), a disposable camera, and a logo book of short stories ($15).
The hotel is totally designed for party people. Not only are there two bars- one in the lobby and the other on a lower level rooftop called The Beach where there is a fire pit and the ground is sand, but up in the room the thing you see first is a giant container of Pringles (for stoners) and artisan water ($9) placed both in the mini bar and by the bedside (for drunks). So really, it was just like home.
They treated the writers to a beach barbecue one night and a "beach" party at the W's outdoor bar the next day. As the only pain-in-the-ass vegetarian of the bunch, I had my own special meals prepared just for me. It's about fucking time I had a personal chef.
The other writers in attendance were more accomplished than I- they have regular columns with a large number of readers. They also are used to press trips. Talking amongst themselves I'd hear, "It's so crazy. I just got back from Spain touring the so-and-so region, and before that I was Vegas for two conferences. I've only been home three days this month. Wait, didn't I see you at the Denver party in May?" It's like being a jet-setting socialite, except that you're not really popular and it's on someone else's dime and you're being used to generate publicity for a product or service. I, for one, don't feel bad about that at all.
On return I realized that it cost me less to spend two days in San Diego than it would have being home. I only paid for round-trip BART fare ($8) and one beer ($7) after everyone else had gone to bed. Had I been home the whole time I would probably have gone out drinking and had a couple meals in restaurants in that period.
The company that flew me out should get their money's worth, though. I came up with two or three good ideas that I think I can sell. I'll get paid for those stories, of course, so everybody wins. Especially me.