Sunday morning started like any other Sunday morning. The slightly delirious post-Guiness inspired dream… the shuffling down the spiral staircase toward the gigantic industrial-size coffee maker… the Dad-just-shot-my-pony, AHHHH! feeling of horror upon discovering a lack of CREAMER…
As I ritualistically — much like I’d imagine a Cherokee medicine woman, or Senior Starbucks lifer Barista would — poured my French Roast into a coffee cup… I eyeball observed my OCD perfect apartment.
The white couches were in place, perfectly L shape arranged, the happy fluff of the (white) shag carpet impeccably vaccumed. The (white leather) ottomans were arranged in a communal, come drink (white) wine upon us setting around the (mostly white) calfskin. The Riedel glasses (not white, but clear, thus passable) were configured on the bar a meticulous half-inch apart. I smiled into my annoyingly milk-less mocha, mostly content until –
The “SHIT BOOKCASE” reared up from behind the stairs, horrific and terrifying in all its not-completely white un-glory. I stared at it, hard, willing to set fire to it with my mind.
The shit bookcase was the result of one “I’m going to make this pretty!” statement of defiance and one very, very bad Craiglist pickup. A coat of paint later, it was now exiled to lurking behind the base of my metal spiral like… the Less Favored Child named… Earl in a… Quaker “Rhythm Method” family of twelve. YES. So while Earl still kinda looked like everybody else, he wasn’t as attractive, or as smart, or nearly as athletic… so while the family tolerated Earl, they secretly wanted him GONE.
Yep. Earl was our freakin’ bookcase. The ugly white shabby chic “shit” bookcase that we hid behind our staircase.
Sipping at my disgusting concoction of lack-of-milk Roast, and waving to our obnoxious “I STARE. AT YOU.” chain-smoking neighbor across the way, I opened up The List.
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*** Absolutely DELIGHTFUL white shabby chic bookcase, 7 feet tall !!! $20***
Is your life absolutely, utterly incomplete without an abundance of slightly imperfect, blissfully worn, hap-happyily shabby chic furniture? This is the post for you… we have a one-of-a-kind, hand painted bookcase that will add delight to any room!
Seven teetering feet tall, a foot and a half wide, and just adorable. Come by to Marina del Rey and pick it up for just $20 today!
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I assumed someone would want this piece of crap (hey, I had hand painted it… one coat counts, right?) for twenty bucks. A college kid. A person with vision who’d hack it apart and use it for a “modern art piece”. Someone who just needed a shitty bookcase.
Within twenty minutes my iPhone “binged” with an email. “I LOVE IT!!!! I can have a friend come by tonight to pick it up! Please tell me it’s mine!”
Raising my still sleep-deprived eyebrows, I called the chick back at the number she listed… three times… and told her that her “buddy” could come by before seven.
“But not a moment later,” I advised, “I’m throwing my significant other a surprise birthday party this evening, and I cannot tarry!”
“He’ll be there!” she chirped.
Eight hours roll around, and the clock is nearing 7.30. I prepare to escort The Boyfriend out to hide him while his friends came over.
Riiiiing! Riiiing!
The random “friend” the weird I Love Your Shit Bookcase chick was sending over had finally arrived.
“Hello?”
“Huuuurrr… ‘lo. I’m by your buildin’.”
“You’re… by it? Or, in it?”
“By it.”
“Okay… where are you?
“Not sure. By 4500 Bluewoods.”
“Er, we’re 4533 Bluewood*. The Live/Work Lofts”.
“Oh. I’m there then. Is it a little house?”
“Um… no…”
Twenty minutes later I finally somehow get this crackhead INTO the appropriate address (obnoxious leasing signs abound down the street, you can’t NOT find our infamous lofts), and he calls again.
“Where are you?”
“We’re on the fourth floor.”
“Oh,” (long pause), “where’s that?”
“… UP! ELEVATOR!”, I attempt to not-yell, forcing myself to hang up before I added, “GET INVOLVED WITH ONE!”
Standing there, waiting for this dude to navigate my building, mentally crossing off doing my hair… or makeup… or anything remotely feminine for the party I was throwing in order to have time to obtain, you know, a CAKE… I waited for Crackhead to find my unit number.
A limp-writsted knock finally alights on my door. I sprint to it, opening.
“Hullo.”
“Um… hi…”
An extra from Deliverance wanders into my apartment. I silently observe his pockets, looking for knives, a gun, mustard gas. He looks clean. I show him in.
“Nahce plaaaa-y-ce,” he scoffs, obviously annoyed at its maniacal perfection.
“… thank you.”
I drag the shit bookcase out from behind the spiral stairs. Crackhead bobs his head.
“Huh! Didn’t see it thur.”
“Nope… it… uh, doesn’t really “go” with the rest of our furniture, so…”
“Right. Merryl’ll take it, I guess.”
He fishes around in his pocket for something… finally extracting a crumpled twenty. I’d have almost felt bad taking it from him, had he been less of an silently seething asshole. He could get… like… a haircut with that, you know? Trim up that mullet a little?
He stands there, looking at shit bookcase, then looking at me.
“Uh… do you need… help with it?”
“We-helll… you could offer to get the DOOR for meh,” he states, irked that I’ve just actually accepted the proffered money… for the item that I’m SELLING. Picking up the bookcase, he stomps off down the hallway.
As requested, I open the door for Crackhead. He glares at me as he exits. “Fuckin’ maze in this place!”
Smiling, I close the door, his weird psycho man-killer energy wafting out with him. I lock it. 8:15… guests were arriving in less than an hour.
As I began hustling The Boyfriend to get his shoes on, my cell phone rings. It’s the Strange Woman who sent Crackhead.
“Hello?”
“Um… hi,” she began, “um… so, the bookcase, I just bought… I hear it’s not all that, um… it’s not what I thought it was going to be.”
“… yeah. Usually a good idea to actually LOOK at the stuff you, you know, buy.”
“… right. So, I don’t really… um, want it? So… can he just… like, bring it back?”
Boyfriend at this point is halfway through the sock process.
“You know what, Mildred, or whatever your name is? You can totally just HAVE your twenty bucks back. We’re headed out to “dinner” right now… so feel free to stop by tomorrow…. and just KEEP the bookcase. Or throw it on the side of the road. Frankly, I don’t care, but I have to go–”
“Well… I need the twenty dollars back now.”
“Well, you just purchased something from NOT a store, had a very strange individual show up an hour LATE, and we’re on our way out to dinner. So feel free to swing by tomorrow –”
“That’s not going to work for me –”
I hang up on Mildred or Minnie or whatever the hell this woman’s name is — Boyfriend has his SHOES on, and I’m not risking any more random delays over Shit Bookcase… my god, I mean, seriously, it’s a (completed) twenty dollar CRAIGSLIST purchase!!!
Boyfriend begins putting on a dinner jacket. My cell phone rings again.
“I told you, tomorrow –”
“I-yum waitin’ outside your DOOR until you come OUT with the MUN-HEE.”
Crackhead. Startled, I wander over to my peephole, looking outside. I don’t see anyone. Unnerved, I steadied my voice…
“Dude, we’re already on our way out the door to dinner, so you can come by tomorrow –”
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Jumping, I creep up to the door again. Crackhead and his weird Crackhead eyes are STARING right back at me. He’s holding the shit bookcase like it’s freakin’ ransom.
One thing I don’t like, besides Hitler — besides eggplant — is an individual I HAVEN’T INVITED trying to SURPRISE stalk me at my HOUSE. I suddenly began channeling an African American mama –
“Oh no you DIDN’T–”
I put a hand on the door, about to swing it open to face Crackhead –and out of nowhere, Boyfriend pushes me back, a crisp twenty in hand.
“Ash, just let me handle this –”
“OH NO HE DIDN’T –”
“ASH.”
He literally picks me up and puts me in the living room. Opening the door to Crackhead, he hands him the twenty, then goes to close it.
“I told yooo I’d wait!!!” Crackhead spits, trying to push Shit Bookcase through the opening. Boyfriend pushes back, closing the door on the guy. Crackhead begins POUNDING on it.
“Wayyyy-ting!!!!”
Boyfriend rolls his eyes, moving to the other room to re-collect his jacket. Not one to be idle when there’s confrontation, I grab my purse, rushing the door.
Swinging it open, Crackhead nearly falls over the bookcase as the pounding surface is removed — I grab a handful of dollar bills (don’t ask me why I had these readily available, but I did), and fling them into the air.
“You want more money? Here’s more! Here’s twenty FIVE dollars, shithead, now take Earl and leave us alone!”
I don’t know if it was the sudden shower of crumpled cash or the humanizing of the shit bookcase — but Crackhead went still, widened his eyes at me, grabbed the money, and literally RAN.
I watched him sprint down the hallway for a few moments before sighing, and looking down upon the now broken and additionally ugly shit bootcase, which lay — finally ready for death — at my feet.
“I’m so sorry, Earl.”
And with a final eyeball recon gaze to make sure Crackhead was absolutely out of our lives forever, I strapped on my three inch heels, grabbed my evening bag, and dragged shit bookcase down the hall and into the elevator… my silent tuxedoed Boyfriend standing next to me, not telling me so… and flung it into the basement garage cubicle from whence it (probably) came.
From now on, I stick to reconstructing NOT shit furniture when I’m bored.
At least until this experience dulls a little.
Or I mix Whiskey with my coffee again.
Goodbye Earl.
Ah, the unfathomably intelligent things you’ll say when being interviewed directly after David Koechner, like “Fruit Rollup Sushi”.
Well, that’s what they were serving. And yes, it WAS my favorite part of the fest. Besides seeing our delightful little comedy on the big screen… also directly after a $400,000 BBC post-Apocalyptic production with six thousand freakin’ extras. ”BFF”, starring Raymond McAnally, Matt Unger, and myself. Directed by Ryan Gould, produced by Daily Fiber Films. Interviewed by the lovely Dana Honeywell for RealTV.
Charlotte, North Carolina, 1:56pm. Finally sinking my front lip into a much deserved MASSIVE “brown beer” ale after a hell-flight on U.S. Airways 1437 from Laguardia. I was seated in the forever-loathed Middle Seat. Next to a smelly bum and — far considerably worse — a Chewer.
I hate Chewers. Chewers are that strange class of de-evolved people that find it socially acceptable to CHEW SHIT in your earlobes at close proximity. For instance, the $*@!-ing coach section of an evil leg-mangling domestic carrier while I am attempting to regain much-needed hours of anxiety-ridden SLEEP.
I knew this would all become a problem the minute I attempted to vault my six hundred pound purple carry-on into the wedge of space that somehow classifies as an “overhead”. As if my personal space was not pre-invaded enough by seeing a B row on my fuck-you-customer-of-Travelocity ‘over-purchased’ airline ticket, as I’m destroying the muscles in my forearms some — person — decides to touch me. And I really don’t like to be touched.
Tap-tap-tap!
What, the fuck. I mentally simmer, giving the obese mini-suitcase a final heave and slamming the cover closed. Just as I’m about to take my seat –
Tap-tap-TAP!
I whirl around, attempting not to belt “I HAVE HAD THREE HOURS OF SLEEP AND WILL MURDER YOU IF YOU TOUCH ME AGAIN,” and eye-glaringly confront my assailant. A small, 90 pound redhead heavily channeling the 60s gazes back at me. She smells like a tree.
“They make these things smaller and smaller every day now, don’t they?”
She giggles, gesturing around the airplane. Excuse me, little tiny freakish person dressed in seventeen shades of GREEN — are you our environmentally conscious stewardess offering up shot glasses of wheatgrass? NO. No you AREN’T, because we aren’t on VIRGIN AMERICA, we’re on U.S. AIR where everything SUCKS.
Not as bad as Delta, though, I mentally remind myself. Nothing save riding on the coals of hell is worse than Delta.
“Right,” I reply with stiffened lips, attempting to smile as I realize this… little, baby vomit green… thing… has my coveted Aisle Seat. I suddenly catch my breath with envy.
The Aisle Seat is where anything is possible. In the Aisle Seat, you can write mean things about the festering people around you and successfully avoid their voyeuristic eyeballs. In the Aisle Seat, you get served by the human beings who push the Drink Cart first, but have the most time to rummage about in your pocketbook to extract a crisp five in exchange for a bottle of Something. Finally, in the Aisle Seat you can escape to the bathroom at your own will.
I hated this little ball of annoying in that moment. And as the minutes ticked on as she (obviously not a versed frequent flyer like myself, who can shove-and-sit in less than 15 seconds) proceeded to arrange her little “space” like she’d be in it for A YEAR… fluffing her pillow while the growing line of impatient commuters mentally (or in my case, actually) tapped their feet… carefully arranging her food…
Oh. No. I mumbled, horrified as I saw the items she began removing from her Hippie Love travel sack. And I knew then… she was that dreaded class of inhuman folk… she was a Chewer.
Minute 10. Middle Seat. Electronic items now permitted, I hastily fumble to plug my earbuds into my (it was already on, $*@!-ers!) iPhone. Ensue scrambling for mind-drowning rock playlist.
Minute 11.5: Chewer pulls out a GIGANTIC APPLE. Turns it, contemplating.
Minute 12: Chewer begins polishing GIGANTIC APPLE. Consumption is nearing.
Minute 13.5: The first horrifying sounds of Apple Death ring through the cabin. Chewer has begun chewing on GIGANTIC APPLE.
Minute 14: Decide going deaf is worth not hearing disgusting Chewing sounds, use forefingers to shove earbuds as deep as feasibly possible into eardrums.
Minute 15.5: Endure Ray Lamontague’s “Trouble” louder than anyone ever should.
Minute 16: Chewer finally extracts remnants of GIGANTIC APPLE from her incisors, and proceeds to PLUNGE the mangled carcass into her seat pocket.
I am so horrified at this point I’m not sure if I’m even going to make it through the rest of the flight. I practically croak as I TAP-TAP-TAP the offending human being who has created a holocaust in row 19, and without warning scramble over her to go regain my sanity in the lavatory.
The remaining forty-three minutes passed by in pure hell. My fear that she would eat something else, paired with the fact that my right earbud now wasn’t working — made my heart race Panic Attack fast until touchdown.
When we were finally given the clear to unlatch our death-trap seatbelts (WHY airplanes don’t provide PARACHUTES instead of the shitty ‘floating device’ cushions is beyond me), I sat absolutely rigid until the line of human salmon moved downstream with their obese carry-ons and/or offspring.
When my turn finally came, I took one last look at Chewer. She glanced back at me, sheer Chewing evil in her eyes, and began tugging at an Extra Large pack of Double Bubble. I think I audibly squealed in horror as I ripped my suitcase from the overhead and sprinted out of the airplane like a Jewish bat out of Hitler hell.
I am now holed up in the only pub in the North Carolina airport that serves alcohol, with a large beer at my quaking fingertips and four hours to go.
The odds are not in my favor.
Back to the liquor menu.
Ashley
Oh. My. Goodness.
I’m presently experiencing the next best thing to driving around South Africa, oogling up-close rhinos on an experimental “do it yourself” safari tour.
I’m in a Starbucks. In central Hollywood. Four feet away from me… there are actors rehearsing.
Now, I’m not talking Broadway “star” types, that would be far less exciting – and you wouldn’t find second-string Simba or The Phantom running lines in a commercial chain California coffee house anyway. These are Brand NEW Actor-Types (BNATs), obviously going to the Super Method Acting School around the corner from here (I know, because I went there for a spell before getting kicked out for non-conformity), where you pay $600 a month to essentially join a cult and cry once a week in front of your balding, over-the-hill classmates.
These BNAT’s are only table away from me — dressed in every piece of black they could find in their wardrobes, have matching little “artist hats”, and are theatrically flailing around brand new (uncreased, unread) Drama Book copies of whatever basic play they’ll be attempting scenes from. I’m trying not to stare.
…
Aw, to hell with it, let’s name them!
We’ll call the guy… Trundle… and the chick… Gertrude. YES. TRUNDLE and GERTRUDE. Now, I’m going to directly transcribe a few of the idiot dribblings that are being flung from the mouths of these creatures. No editing. Here we go:
______
Gertrude: So we’re in the car in this scene. We’re driving. Should we, like, move around like a car?
Trundle: Maybe. If we want to establish truth. This is Method.
Gertrude: Right. Method.
______
Are you listening to this? These two are seriously discussing — and I mean, “like, for-seriously!” — discussing whether to mimic the movement of a VEHICLE during an acting class.
No offense to the mentally challenged — because I’ve volunteered for the mentally challenged — but ARE THESE TWO PEOPLE RETARDED?!
_____
Gertrude: So… like, there’s a kiss in between these words, here. Do we have to do the kiss in front of, you know — like, the class? Like in front of the teacher?
Trundle: Well… not many girls are going to go that far. Not many girls have that much invested in this character — I think we should show them, like in the room, that you’re really invested in Blanche’s character.
Gertrude: Really? You think?
Trundle: Yes. I do. I mean, this was one of the greatest novels of all time, so we need to do it justice. For the the guy, you know, the poet who spent half his life writing it and other things… for our careers, you know, for your character…
Gertrude: Blanche? I’m playing Blanche, right?
_____
Oh… my… goodness. I’m about to throw up into my triple shot Macchiato… did Trundle just refer to A Streetcar Named Desire as a NOVEL, and Tennessee Williams as a poet?!
_____
Trundle: The way I’m sitting right now… you know, the way I look right now… do you think this is a good look for the scene? You know, the black and stuff?
Gertrude: Yeah!
Trundle: You know, because I grew up in like, Connecticut, but the bad part of the Connecticut… like, I have a lot to give. I’ve seen alot. That’s why I became an actor. I want to show the world my pain. Like Pucino.
Gertrude: Wow… you have so much to show an audience, like, experience…
Trundle: Yeah, I don’t even really need to be in this class. I met an agent from ICM on Facebook the other day. He really thinks I should be out there just working, you know?
____
THIS is where I accidentally let out a snort that’s so explosively loud, the two of them turn around and stare at me. They’re both so collectively offended I can’t hold it in anymore. I begin laughing. Uncontrollably.
Trundle’s eyes are like fire.
____
Trundle: Let’s go rehearse at my place, Chrissy, this obviously isn’t a good WORK ENVIRONMENT anymore.
____
At this point I’ve put my Starbucks cup over my mouth, and I am laughing INTO it. Good work environment, Trundle? IT’S A @#$%-ing STARBUCKS!
Trundle and “Chrissy” (I’m still of the opinion that Gertrude is more fitting), huff and glare as they loudly gather their things, slamming and crushing scripts into Actors Connection branded messenger bags, and scraping the chairs against the floor as they roughly push them in.
And finally… glowy, exfoliated chins vaulted higher than the Nora Jones blasting ceiling stereo system, the two young Almost Method actors march out of the Starbucks, simmering and visibly attempting to kill me with their bad energy.
I smile into my mocha.
Sorry, guys. Even with three Basic Meisner classes under your belts — you still can’t even pronounce Stanislavski properly, much less successfully mind slaughter me for laughing at your idiocy. Good effort, though.
I love actors.
Happy Sunday.
– Ashley Avis
Today, I discovered the avocado.
The avocado, I have established, is a delicious capsule of other-wordly-goodness. The disturbing… yet titillating… yellow-green be-mushed innards of this fantastical thing both horrify me — and captivate me all in the same… irreversibly faklempt moment of MUST. EAT. THIS. desire.
I have officially consumed twelve avocados in the past three hours.
I do not regret this decision.
My sudden predilection to be overwhelmed by the avocado… this… thing… this FRUIT-object that resembles an ALIEN POD, spawned by some kind of Saturn-inspired gremlin and yet TASTES like Zephelogeretes himself crafted it out of a warped, oversized pea and sheer Walt Disney-inspired-Fantasia-pegasus magic…
My!
I love the avocado. I love it for all of it’s imperfections, it’s strange — dimply skin that would be grotesque if homogenized to the face of an adolescent — but on the avocado it’s… wonderfully, disagreeably perfect, an absurd husk of occasionally peeled bewilderment.
Possibility of Non-Homelessness Arises – That, or Become a Slave on Craiglist (Literally)
Being theoretically homeless absolutely sucks. In the past month of being in (albeit) lovely vacation rentals, staying with family in CT, and the bouncing around Manhattan with meeting-after-meeting… I think I’m either going to force myself into consensual Guinnuss-inspired alcoholism, or just take something sight-unseen in Los Angeles in about 48 hours.
Physically, I also look like I’ve been fermenting in a vat of skim milk for a good month. My someone-slept-with-a-Cherokee-at-some-point, hereditary “olive/tan” thing has vacated my skin. I moved to LA to escape the winter. What am I doing BACK in it?!
However… I may have just found something perfect. A gorgeous (or so it sounds via Craigslist description) penthouse in Marina Del Ray. Overlooking the harbor. Has a gym (I can finally have an activity to temper the OCD… running on a treadmill!). Really affordable price.
Damn needing to move the weekend you have to pay a #*!@-load of money to a bunch of dudes in India. However, my next (and biggest) webdesign project is just about done… which, if I promote the thing right, should let me finally get rid of the perpetually blowing up Saab in a month or so.
It’s either that, or taking this classy, obviously business-minded Ivy-grad up on her offer.
… joke, by the way.
God, I love Craiglist.
__________
$1250 BBW GODDESS looking for Live IN slave for Room Immediately (Marina del rey)
I am a BBW DOMINA and need a live in slave for my 2 bedroom apartment on the West Side. The place is very nice, has pool, jucuzzi, fitness center and has alot to offer. I want a TRUE SUBMISSIVE who will serve me and put me first in every way. I want someone who will cover at least their portion of the rent which is 1250 and you will have your own room and bahthroom or if you prefer you can live in the Little Den Area Like a little Doggie. LOL
I have very strong energy and I need someone who will offer me positive energy and is one hundred percent Aligned with me so i am going to be picky and have interviews for this. The apartment is very nice and has laundry machine and dryer and has a nice view from balcony.
If seriously interested let me know why you want this type of situation. I would expect you to do my cook, clean, serve me, do my nails and basically do everything to make me happy including taking as many of the expenses as you are able.
I have very strong energy and the slave that gets to live with me will truly apprecaite the experience. I am spiritual by the way so if you are spiritual slave please contact me as that is what I am looking for. I AM A TRUE SPIRITUAL GODDESSS and want the most perfect slave to join me here.
BY the way I do dominate other men on phone and in person so if you were living with me you would have to be accepting of that and very out of the way when I needed you to be which means you can be in the house but not interfere with my session work. This position is not for everyone but if you feel inclined send me a message if you are serious about this and I will get back to you. YOU MUST TRULY LOVE AND WORSHIP GODDESS ENERGY FOR THIS TO WORK AND BE TOTALLY DEVOTED TO ME MIND BODY SOUL AND SPIRIT. ID YOU FEEL YOU ARE THE ONE GET BACK TO ME NOW…….
I just stumbled across a blog I wrote at age… oh dear god, 18? If you read this, keep in mind this took place during my early days of hating Delta, and! (I believe) the very same day I discovered coffee.
Enjoy “Sir Vladimir”, unedited.
__________________
January 5th, 2006
7:10pm, Flight 104 Air Portugal, Somewhere over Boston
Insight into my addled little head would prove disastrous. I have determined this (for the umpteenth time) roughly thirty four seconds ago. I made a massive discovery just then.
There is someone living in my head. No, I don’t mean this in a completely literary way… though at the same time I might be fibbing on this point so that my strangely interested reader doesn’t turn me over to the psychiatric authorities for being stricken with madness. I am, in fact, stricken with madness, just to assure you. Anyway. Returning to my massive discovery.
There is a resounding echo in my head. An echo of some sort of turbulent and galavanting brain wave that for some reason wishes to reverberate with sound. As in, I hear my own thoughts. I know we all hear our own thoughts… but I have just come to the astounding and breath-stealing conclusion that they literally… dear god, how to put this properly into near-scientific terms… they speak. Aloud. These galavanting brain waves speak aloud with SOUND in my HEAD, as if there is a little crazy person sitting up there with a miniaturized version of Psychology Today screaming his head off when he comes across interesting topics. Now, regardless of Miranda Rights, I fear I’m now inexorably committed to a mental institution. Seriously. I’m thinking of checking myself in.
Regardless. This little man, upon command and/or involuntary shall scream, laugh maniacally, sing off-key ditties by Cher, ponder so hard that his mini-brain beings to melt into mini-brain-mush… anything. I can command him. He is under my command. By God, I wish I could find a man that I could control in a similar fashion.
So I’m sitting here in seat 15H, next to a guy that thankfully doesn’t smell like old cheese (though unfortunately half of the other people on this plane do, and it’s like a collective cloud that refuses to be shut out by my nostrils). Limburger… Swiss…
Well anyway. I made a second massive discovery today, as well. Well, it’s not technically my second, due to the fact that it preceded the little-crazy-person-in-my-head theory. LCPIMH. I was eating some cashews roughly seven minutes ago now, and before I knew it, one of them was knocked to the floor. NO! That is not so! It willfully FLUNG itself off my questionably sturdy tray table ONTO the floor due to it’s propensity for ADVENTURE. What’s that? Yes. YES. I do, with my entire being, believe that this cashew embodies an ASTOUNDING propensity for adventure. That is not to say that ALL cashews, even those flung onto the floor by other external elements, embody any propensity for adventure whatsoever. I dare-say that such a gift is few and far between in the nut kingdom. Or is it the legume kingdom? And what the hell is a legume, anyway? It sounds like some kind of exotic boil one develops in an unsavory area that cannot be treated due to it’s connection to some vital blood vessel or something. Gross. I hope I never get that.
Anyway. So my adventurous cashew FLINGS itself to the floor, and lays there a moment, catching it’s breath from the sheer adrenaline coursing through it’s cashew-veins. It is jubilant beyond belief, and has done a thing very few of it’s family members have before. It could be likened to an impoverished child being the first of it’s clan to go to college, or to the moon. Or, on that note, find a cure for the unfortunately located legume I’m sure half the nation is plagued with. Dear god, I bet it’s something ridiculous like the statistic of how many people have a deathly fear of tray-tables, like I do. One out of four. Or at least that’s what Mom told me. And believe me, it’s taking my entire bodily will not to leap out of my seat at this very moment and scream my bloody head off. It just seems like the thing is getting closer… closer and closer and HOLLLLYYY SHIT!!!! Don’t put your seat back, you’re putting your seat back, don’t do it don’t do it don’t do it don’t AHHHHHHHHHH!!!
…
It’s okay, they’ve restrained me. So nice of them to let me have my laptop back, and the jubilantly adventurous cashew, though I’m sure he would have liked it better laying there on the floor. I convinced him he’d eventually be mashed by the churning wheels of inevitability. The drink cart.
Anyway, so eventually they let me go after several hundred promises not to let out another explosive scream about the dangerous proximity of my tray-table, and I returned to 15H with Fred. Fred, the cashew. I figured it was only right to name him.
On that note, would it be unfair to deny the little insane man living in my head a name? A title? Something for which the title “Sir” can eventually be added before. Unless he’s already been knighted, which would really complicate things. Are you? What? By god. He is. What shall I call him? Fred. No no no… Fred is the cashew…
Bob, John, Barry, Dinklestrump, Vladimir… VLADIMIR. SIR VLADIMIR. That’s it! And that totally makes sense with his British accent.
The wheels of inevitability eventually careened by, carrying in their midst a lingering sense of woe and inescapable despair… why there was such a feeling as they past, I have no idea, but Vladimir certainly had much to say about it. Though strangely, he found it funny. We began arguing, and I was making so many varied facial expressions that the old guy next to me really began to take notice of my unusualness. This made the scenario even more hilarious, naturally, and I began snorting with seemingly unfounded laughter. The flight attendant looked at me suspiciously and she zoomed by again with her cart.
As I sat there essentially laughing and arguing with myself, another cart came by with the peaceable offerings of food. I took this as a sign, kind of a ‘white flag’ sort of thing. Fred and Vladimir simultaneously agreed. Sorry, Sir Vladimir… jesus, will you let it go already…!
I had the choice between pasta and chicken, and after several minutes of deliberation sided with poultry. What I failed to anticipate (and to Vladimir’s delight), was upon unveiling the miniature tomb that housed my “chicken” that the stuff looked more like chicken vomit than the actual deceased bird. I ate it anyway, because of the starving children. I think I saw a legume rolling around somewhere in there, too. I ate that as well.
These bouts of madness eventually cease their run, don’t worry. The lunacy eventually passes and I revert to a state that could be l likened to a stewed potato. And yes, if you’re wondering, you can stew a potato. You can also freeze and microwave and blow up a kiwi, but from experience, I’d highly suggest you don’t do that.
On second thought, DO.
The women in front of me looks suspiciously like she’s thinking about putting her seat back again, so I think I’m going to escape to the bathroom for a few hours and contemplate the meaning of my existence. It certainly can’t be to come to realizations about the fat little British guy in my head that somehow got knighted; do you know how many people die for that title, and he receives it? Oh, who cares anyway, he’s safe in my head. Don’t put it back don’t put it back don’t put it baccckkkk– AHHHHHHHHH! Damn it, here they come again. Excuse me, I now need to sprint toward the back of the plane and find some way to get out. It’s only thirty thousand feet or so, right? After all, I’m sure my massive wad of lunacy will cushion my fall. Vladimir agrees, so do take care of Fred. Bon voyage!
So I wake up this morning, ridiculously and blissfully content for the first time in weeks… I shuffle down the stairs, looking around for coffee through the I-went-to-bed-at-4-am eyeball blur… find said coffee, microwave it… sit down…
“I WANT A FUCKING REFUND FOR MY WEBSITE YOU F-ING…”
I won’t go on much further for the sheer amount of profanities that were idiotically strung about through yet another one of these psychotic webdesign client emails. Back in January (on my birthday, more specifically) I had some asshole get hold of my client files for the past three years and email absolutely everyone telling them how easy it was to do a credit card chargeback.
Granted, there were a few folks that didn’t get resume updates for the month and deserved refunds. Like, FIVE of them. And even though nobody but their parents/relatives/significant others were LOOKING at the freakin’ website anyway — in the theory of things, they deserved to get some money back. And they did.
However — all of these crazy people decided to jump into an email string screaming Class Action Lawsuit, Chargeback, and KILL ASHLEY! Jesus christ. SORRY, you pathetic people that have eight hours a day to spend theorizing on how to put a hit out on me because your SELF PRODUCED REEL didn’t get optimized for the measly TEN DOLLARS you paid to have it done — here’s your refund — but GET A LIFE, ALREADY!
Some of these nutters even went as far to research me, find out who I’m dating (The Boyfriend is a brilliant photographer), string together that OH MY GOD — we did some cross promotions together that OH MY GOD were actor affordable and OH MY GOD how could we possibly be working together?! It’s a conspiracy!!! LET’S DO A CHARGEBACK!
I really hate working with Wannabe Actors Who Think They Have Careers But Really Don’t Because They Suck And/Or Are 40 And Still Working the Temp Desk.
And if the “radicals” find this post they’ll freak out and try to report THIS to the BBB, too.
Coffee’s ready.
– Ashley
I absolutely love it when psychotic man-children (i.e. self-proclaimed ‘Power Brokers for Upscale LA Living’) decide to pick a fight with you over email.
The Boyfriend and I are in the process of attempting to find a new spot somewhere in Los Angeles… preferably a gigantic live/work loft we can turn into a fine art gallery ON the ocean… our sights are as full as our gigantic wine glasses.
March 3rd, 11:45pm, Mid-Wine: I’m sitting on a windowsill, sipping Pinot (as per usual), and find this gorgeous industrial loft downtown in a rather famous building. It’s for sale. I decide to take a cordial shot in the dark. I decide to email the broker with a proposal.
“Hello there, Bob*,” I type, eyeballs widening with fear at the gigantic snowflakes catapulting themselves around outside my window, “Just saw the lovely loft you represent… random, so please excuse — but would the owners be at all interested in doing a rental arrangement while it’s on the market?”
Keep in mind — as beautiful as this loft is — it’s not exactly a penthouse, either. Whomever is selling is not doing it because they “don’t need the money”.
I send the email, continue sipping my fermented grapes, and staring at the monster snowfall occurring in central Connecticut.
Ping!
I hate the sound of the iPhone email. However, I had one. From Bob, the ‘Upscale Power Broker’.
“We DO NOT DO short term rentals,” screamed the email in capitals, “NO ONE ELSE in Downtown does either. BOB.”
Well $*@! you, I grumble, mentally banishing him from my real estate search.
I have a bit of a problem, though. I have a hard time letting assholes like this — and their idiotic ’self proclaimed’ (read: fabricated) brokerage credits — go:
I had to. And I thought that’d be the end of it. Bob would realize he should — from this point forward — talk to clients with a Santa-inspired benevolence, understand further he’s also a client-mutilating dumbass — we’re obviously looking for exactly what he proclaims to be his speciality – and either apologize or go sit in the pool of sorrow that is his single, shitty studio apartment in East LA.
Bob replies:
Dumbass. Really? You’re in the people business and you’re REALLY risking pissing someone off — for absolutely no reason — to get in the “last word”?
Perhaps it was the wine — or the fact that I’m just EXTREMELY confrontational when it comes to dealing with idiots — OR the fact that I was the highest grossing agent at Corcoran/Citi-Habitats when I was in real estate, and I HATE pompous real estate agents like this in general:
Then this mole of a human being goes and Googles me. He unearths my Backstage blog from ‘07-’08.
Wow. I’m just absolutely amazed that a grown man — who doesn’t sound like a young kid, from my perspective [he sounds like a crotchety late 40-something that tried to be an actor, got a shitty job paying minimum wage in the William Morris mailroom instead (if that's not a delusion of his warped noggin, too), and got fired because he didn't have the intelligence or people skills to survive in the entertainment industry --] would further an email fight.
My final email, before blocking the guy — considering it’s now Thursday morning, I’m happily sipping on coffee, and I’m realizing what a ridiculous vat of shit this has gotten stirred into:
And… close the book on Psychotic Not-So-Powerful-’Power-Broker’-Bob. I won’t throw in his first last name, because I’m kind of afraid he’ll do more Googling, find this, and come stab me in my sleep.
At this point, I’m seriously considering whether I should move back to Los Angeles. There’s too many people out of their f-ing minds.
Perhaps I’ll move to Alaska and build an igloo. Might have trouble with the coffee, though…
– Ashley
I have this amazing ability to frequent a Manhattan coffee shop, order a cup of regular, and allow it to go perfectly cold before ever touching it. Each time this happens, I wonder why I’m surprised.
O’Reiley’s Irish Pub at 31st and Broadway. 2:51pm. Also surprised why, out of all the Irish Pubs in Manhattan, I come here when I need to hole up somewhere and work. Especially when I know The Boyfriend (during The Separation) brought the only person on the globe I actually — and vehemently — hate here. She gave him a love note, then. He kept it.
I like to pretend she has wall-eye.
Sigh.
Having a tough time with the homelessness (please note I’m not sleeping on a bench, but rather don’t have a solidified lease and am presently bouncing around aimlessly), and The Boyfriend’s inability to realize that I’m smarter than him.
Not in a pompous way, mind you. But after starting several companies on my own which I’m happy to have The Boyfriend involved with (as mentioned, The Boyfriend is very supportive, a good kisser, and generally wonderful to have around) — The Boyfriend has taken to thinking he knows better than me about things. We had a discussion yesterday that has now rendered us… well, discussion-less — for more than 24 hours.
I may have also told The Boyfriend to go fuck himself and learn PHP coding, then talk to me. Considering his lack of computer background, we might not be speaking for awhile.
Interesting… the tendencies of relationships. When things are good — when money isn’t a directly pressing issue — when you’re actually having life-is-great-intercourse on a regular basis — you wonder how anything could ever go wrong, how anything could possibly infringe upon your unrealistic snowglobe of bliss.
Until some clepto finds it and flings it against a marble wall.
I’m only twenty three. Sometimes I wonder where I’m going.
Coffee’s cold again. *@#$.
– Ashley
