Saturday, April 27, 2013

A Love Letter to Flo the Progressive Insurance Gal

Dear Flo,

For the longest time I hated you.   

Whenever one of your stupid commercials came on my semi-big-screen TV I would hiss and throw whatever was close at hand at your ultra white face halo’d by that retro mop of dark hair and hideous headband.  I swore on a stack of insurance inspired Bibles I would never like you and I’d never ever buy Progressive Insurance. 

I would tell anyone - fellow treadmill runners at the gym, drivers of cars next to me at red lights, the cashier at the grocery store, my proctologist, the drug addict who lives across the hall -  how much I loathed you. 

But then you started to appear everywhere.  No matter where I was there was you.  Absolutely no escape.  Your face was in my constant visual landscape!

You even invaded my sleep.  At first they were sweat inducing near death nightmares, but then... 

Something began to happen. Something out of my control. 

I began to stop whatever I was doing to watch you more closely.  I began to smile, not hiss, and my arms refused to grab the nearest object and toss it at your face.  I would make any excuse possible to go to bed early hoping to see you in my dreams, where you and I would be running in a field of blue and white daisies singing the theme from The Sound of Music. So romantic. The hills of my dreams were alive! 

I began scheduling “Flo Time” where I’d sit in front of my semi-big-screen TV and await your loveliness.  

I even took picture of you on my television with my iPhone.  And whenever I’m away from my television you are just an iPhone photo away (and I don’t go anywhere without my iPhone). 

Oh Flo, dear Flo, there’s a thin line between love and hate, and you have won be over.    Heart over heels over heart for you. 

There have been other commercial stars - Jared the Subway guy, the Wendy’s “Where’s the Beef” lady, the Old Spice guy, Madge the manicurist, the stoned Dell Computer dude, and the Geico caveman to name a few - but no one compares to you.   

You are an American icon.

I think I love you.



P.S. - I’m dumping State Farm Insurance to be closer to you, my Progressive Insurance Gal. 

P.P.S. - Next Halloween I’m going as you. 

Wednesday, April 17, 2013

Need Advice? Ask Yourself What Would Ryan Lockte Do.

Life is full of hard questions and life changing personal choices. Making the wrong decision could possibly pave the way for a tragic personal consequence.   

My fragile existence cannot afford any more wrong turns down a dead end street.  

To alleviate the pressures of responsible decision making I have decided, after careful consideration and watching promos for world-class Olympic-medal-winning-swimmer Ryan Lockte’s new reality show, to only make decisions after asking myself “What would Ryan Lockte do?” 

Once I determine what Ryan Lockte would do I am going to do the COMPLETE  OPPOSITE.  It’s a sure fire formula for success. 

I can only assume Ryan Lockte’s apparent low IQ is a result of too much chlorine in his pool. Not his gene pool but his swimming pool. 

Sure the guy can swim better than some fish but beyond that he appears pretty much, well, dumb as a box of pubic hair.  
His phrase is “jeah”, and he spends too much ego-stroking time saying it over and over again.  According to Ryan to properly pronounce it you must put the emphasis on the “j” and “e”.  Not saying it the right way is considered boring, but saying it the right way makes you sound like a complete idiot. 

Try it and hear it for yourself.  Jeah. Jeah. Jeah.  Is that a hairball you’ve got stuck in your throat?

But without Ryan Lockte I would not have made a very important life decision.

When I pondered whether or not I should watch Ryan’s new reality show I thought “What would Ryan Lockte do?”  

For Ryan I’m sure that’s as much a difficult question as asking him to spell MGM backwards, but I do believe he would say to watch it.

So I’m choosing the opposite.  

Life crisis averted. 

I can feel my brain cells sighing relief. 

Tuesday, April 09, 2013

A Bicycle Bell to Die For

I love riding my bicycle around the streets of Hollywood, CA.  I plan on doing it well into my 80s and 90s as long as my legs continue to be able to move the pedals. 

Unfortunately the drivers in Hollywood aren’t accustomed to bicyclists.  In their pursuit of fifteen minutes of celebrity they’re too busy texting, holding their cell phone to their ear (blue tooth? what’s that?), fiddling with their GPS, playing with themselves (don’t gasp, it happens and I’ve seen it), or looking in the mirror admiring their mediocre attractiveness to pay attention to the road.  

As a bicyclist I’m sometimes forced off the road and onto the sidewalk.  But the sidewalk pedestrians suffer the same ego driven ailments as drivers: walking and texting, walking and talking on the phone, walking with an iPod obliterating surrounding sounds, and not paying attention to anyone but themselves. 

After scaring friends with too many near death bicycle experiences two lovely friends of mine (Kim and Denise) gifted me a bicycle bell. It’s a beautiful sunflower bicycle bell.  Something my idol Pee Wee Herman would certainly envy. 

As a mature seemingly sane man I couldn’t help but yelp with glee when I opened the gift.  Yipeeee!  It’s a bicycle bell to die for. 

I’ve always wanted a bell but a very good friend threatened to disown me if I were to buy and attach a bell to my bike. Of course I think that was because in the same conversation I verbally fantasized about handlebar tassels and a front basket too.  

I sensed my friend was serious so I promised not to buy a bell, but I never promised to not accept a bicycle bell gift.  Same with handlebar tassels and front basket. 

My bell, which I’ve named Sunflower Sally, has a melodic ring with a tinge of aggressiveness which will certainly let pedestrians and drivers know to get the fuck out of my way.  I am Bicycle Michael hear me roar.

I’ve already got a somewhat too tight grey suit (a sad unfortunate result of too many visits to the donut shop) and a starched white shirt and red bow tie ready to make their bicycle debut. 

Soon you’ll be seeing me Pee Wee’d and riding the streets of Hollywood.  
Maybe then I’ll finally get those fifteen minutes of fame I’ve been chasing all these goddam years.  

Monday, April 01, 2013

The Mystery Door to the Past

Everyone’s aflutter over a mystery door discovered in the base of an elm tree in San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park.

What’s the fuss about?  Isn’t it clear it’s the door to our past lives?  

I’ve been through that door and the experience was both exciting and enlightening. 

One night when I was curious about who I was in a previous lifetime my curiosity led me to a meditation studio where I ended up lying comfortably on a pillow on the floor participating in a guided past life meditation. 

The meditation began with having me search for a tree with a door.  I flew everywhere from Hollywood to Central Park to Boston Gardens to Tokyo to Amsterdam to Sri Lanka to Myanmar.  No tree with a door was found.  

My exhausted body was ready to give up when it was lifted by a force greater than myself and flown faster than the speed of light landing face first against an elm tree in San Fran’s Golden Gate Park.  

After a few moments of unconsciousness I awoke to find myself facing a wooden door at the bottom of an elm tree. It was a rather small door but my instincts told me if I sucked in my belly I could squeeze through, and squeeze through I did. 

Inside the tree I followed wooden steps through the roots of the tree.  What seemed like miles of stairs ended when I saw another door with “Exit” glowing in neon red.  It was clearly beckoning me.  

So where did I end up?  I was in a European village in the 1400s.  I was a pretty little girl with beautiful long raven hair.  Everything looked happy and wonderful, but then I saw a man watching me and I was overcome with sadness.  My guides were there to explain that in that life I was a deaf mute and abused both mentally and physically by the man I saw watching me.  

I ran as fast as I could back to the tree.   My spirit guides followed and as I entered the tree they handed me writing tablets telling me it’s because I was unable to speak or write in that lifetime that I am a communicator and writer. 

That’s why I’m a blogger, writer, lyricist, and big mouth in this lifetime. 

True story.  

So what are you waiting for?  Get yourself to Golden Gate Park and wiggle yourself through the door and see where you’ve been so you can understand why you’re who you are today.