By Jeff Girod
Look. I get it. You’re just doing your job. And I admire your persistence. And though we’ve never met, I feel like we’ve developed a bond over the past month and a half, like that movie with Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock where Sandra mails letters from the future to Keanu in the past at a lake house. I think it’s actually called The Lake House, and don’t judge me for watching a chick movie. (It was a slow TV weekend and it was also a vulnerable time for me, OK?)
The point is every day while I’m at work you, Postcard Guy, sneak up to my truck and stuff a brightly colored two-by-three-inch laminated advertisement into my driver-side window. And every night when I exit the office and return to my parking space, it’s there that I huck your glossy little postcard onto the pavement like a Frisbee. (For all I know, you’re just picking up and recycling the same card over and over again. And if so, kudos to you for combining laziness with saving the environment!)
And I’ll admit it. On some level I’m flattered that you’ve tried so hard to invite me to a new “lounge” that apparently just opened at Riverside Plaza. From the photo on the postcard, Lounge Thirty-Three seems like a swanky, happenin‘ place with its light-up countertops, tattooed patrons and martini glasses—which is exactly why you shouldn’t want me anywhere near your nightclub. (Do the kids still call them “nightclubs”? Seems to me that’s what Ricky Ricardo used to called the Tropicana and I have to think times have changed since I Love Lucy.)
Speaking of I Love Lucy, I have about as much fashion sense as Ricky Ricardo’s cantankerous pal Fred Mertz. Most of my clothes are sold in machine-washable five-packs inside superstores next to the Dr. Scholl’s insoles and off-road tires. I doubt the doorman would even let me inside Lounge Thirty-Three. That is, if I could stay awake long enough. Says here your club doesn’t open for business until 8 p.m. By that time I’ve already stripped down to my underpants and dug into my nightly ceremonial bowl of Oreo ice cream. (And trust me, nobody wants that near a light-up countertop.)
According to your postcards, your DJs spin “the latest in Top 40, New Age & Old Skool Music.” I’ll be honest: I don’t know the difference between “New Age” and “Old Skool.” Are Huey Lewis & the News considered “Old Skool”? Because I’m a huge fan of Huey, particularly his album Sports and specifically the song “I Want a New Drug.” Speaking of drugs, I take a lot of them, but nothing too experimental. I have to swallow a drug called Prilosec every day to curb indigestion. And it’s not the kind of indigestion I get if I eat something unusually spicy such as enchiladas or kung pao chicken. I have to take Prilosec even if I want to eat normal things such as toast and grapes.
See, Postcard Guy, you don’t want a guy coming to your club who can’t handle toast and grapes. That’s not going to go over well with the ladies: “Get a load of the weirdo in his underpants bent over with stomach cramps. And why does he keep humming Huey Lewis’ ‘The Power of Love’?”
I realize that one of the tenets of successful marketing is to saturate your target demographic, but after 27 postcards in a row, consider my truck sufficiently covered. Lounge Thirty-Three seems like a ridiculously bitchin‘ club. And if I ever invent a time machine like Keanu Reeves in The Lake House (that may not have been the plot, I wasn’t paying attention) and I’m able to go back to a simpler era when I could stay up all night and easily digest grains and fruit, I will most definitely check out Lounge Thirty-Three.
But in the meantime, Postcard Guy, let’s agree to go our separate ways. Just keep me in mind if you ever get coupons for Prilosec, underpants or ice cream.
Contact Jeff Girod at firstname.lastname@example.org.