AshleyFlys.com - tales of travel, torrid affairs, and a hatred for DELTA

The Cynical Life – Teaser

Ashley — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 02:51:57 +0000

The Cynical Life is in post production, and we’ll be finalizing a premiere date within the next few weeks! For the moment, our editor has put together a quick teaser to satiate until an official trailer can be released.

Check it out – starring Ashley Avis, Camille Cregan, Gerry Bednob, David Ballam, Chelsea Rae Bernier, Janna VanHeertum, Justin Taite, Alex Ashbaugh, Kayley Gable, and Jensen Daggett. Full cast here: www.imdb.com/title/tt1990064/

Sonas Denim Campaign

Ashley — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 02:44:40 +0000

… a whirlwind few months between Cynical Life post production and L2 Living pre-production (a cast which includes Social Network’s Mariah Bonner, Torchwood’s Shawn Parsons, and a flurry of other talented folks).

In between the inane shooting schedules (Kevin Huie, I owe you a large fruitbasket)… I’ve become the face of a kickass new denim company called Sonas (seen at the Emmys, and soon to be featured at the Grammys and Sundance 2012). Eco-friendly, awesome bring-back-the-60s flare patchwork jeans.

Check out some of the first shoot images, by Paolo Mascatelli.

www.sonasdenim.com | www.paolomascatelli.com

The Cynical Life for William Rast

Ashley — Thu, 28 Jul 2011 18:44:54 +0000

Whew! I don’t think I’ve slept for another 38 hours or something, again, but hey. What else is being twenty-something and having access to copious amounts of coffee for?

So a publication I occasionally do editorials for, Bunker Hill Magazine (Google Shepard Fairey + Manny Pacquiao articles, some cool folks) is doing a story on us this month (August) and then a cover with William Rast jeans in September. I met with Steve Ford, who runs Bunker, a few days ago – and pitched the idea of doing a dual shoot. William Rast rocks, the Rast pairs I own I literally live in, and they have an edgy brand that matches the tone of Cynical. Plus, the ladies in our cast? Stunners.

So… twelve hours after talking with Ford, we got the cast together at a bit under 5 a.m. and ran around Venice with photograper Paolo Mascatelli. Here are a few teaser images of my individual portraits with Paolo and then one very cool shot of some of the cast – go to the link below to see the full spread!

http://thecynicallife.com/2011/07/28/the-cynical-life-for-william-rast-gallery-test-by-paolo-mascatelli-bunker-hill-magazine/

The Cynical Life of Harper Hall – A Pilot by Ashley Avis

Ashley — Fri, 15 Jul 2011 21:39:58 +0000

Hey there guys,

Apologies for the lack of cynical blogs and horrifying DELTA experiences… but we’ve been shooting a pilot over the past few weeks, and I’m finally getting around to drinking another case of sugar-version Red Bull and posting some news on here.

www.thecynicallife.com – cast list, updates, photos from the set (courtesy of Kelly Lee), videos (including our car getting towed… with ALL the lighing equipment in it), extended Behind the Scenes, and more.

Starring Ashley Avis, Camille Cregan, Chelsea Rae Bernier, Janna VanHeertum, Alex Ashbaugh, Justin Taite, Bennett Gillespie, and a slew of other brilliant folks. Produced by Ash, co-produced by Alexander Emmert (Paddock Pictures) and Paul Harrison Daggett.

The Cynical Life of Harper Hall is the story of a lovably cynical, failed twenty something children’s book author, Harper (Ashley Avis), who works out of her local coffee shop attempting to pen something more Disney commercially viable than ‘When Barney’s Parents Died in the Lava’.

After a relationship implosion involving her folk-rocker ex (and the illegitimate daughter of David Hasselhoff), Harper moves in with her little sister Sparrow (Camille Cregan)… an aspiring actress who sells her eggs to an Invitro fertilization clinic in Beverly Hills for rent money. Harper is suddenly dragged, unwittingly, into a whole new horror filled world. Being late twenties, NOT an actress, and suddenly single in Los Angeles

Check out the “Behind the Scenes” trailer. This was put together at around 4:45am post day two of shooting, so do excuse the double ‘the’.

A Press Tidbit: Ash @ Star Magazine Party, with Jennifer Tapiero for Starcam

Ashley — Thu, 09 Jun 2011 22:38:30 +0000

Beverly Hills, CA: Short and sweet interview with Jennifer Tapiero. Dress by Calvin Klein … and, YES! I didn’t TRIP in it! ;> Victorrry…

“StarCam’s Jennifer Tapiero hit the Star Magazine Party and talked with Ashley Avis about supporting Star Magazine’s third anniversary event. Lacey Schwimmer talks about her dancing tips and whether she likes working out, Tatyana Ali dishes on her guilty pleasure reading, Carla Ortiz talks about reading “Star,” Jason Wahler talks about what it’s like seeing himself in the magazine, and Jackie Warner talks about a 6-minute workout. Interviews with Tess Taylor, Shanna Moakler, Lisa and Brittny Gastineau, Shannon Bex, Hanson, Jesse Bradford, Hope Dworaczyk,Gavin DeGraw, and Alexis and Jim Bellino. Check out these exclusives with Tionne Williams, Mary Schmidt Amons, Amber Mead, Chanel from Rob Dyrdek’s Fantasy Factory, and Dmitry Chaplin.”
http://blog.starcam.com

Ten Reasons Why Not to Fight a Viking in an Elevator

Ashley — Fri, 06 Aug 2010 03:40:43 +0000

Last night, I was the lucky purveyor of a gigantic fight outside my apartment building. Now, when I say apartment building — I mean live/work commercial spaces for (relatively sane) creative professionals. Generally people are, you know, sleeping, throwing parties, having ‘bedroom interactions’ … at four o’clock in the morning on a Saturday. Not at L2* Living, where your next door neighbor could be a serial killer or… in this case, a Gigantic $&@!-ing Viking.

So in the midst of … ahem, a mixture of Pinot-consumption and ‘bedroom interactions’ … The Boyfriend and I hear a loud CRASH from what we assumed were our Crazy Swinging Neighbors invading our roofdeck again. As we (naked, naturally) ran up the spiral staircase to confront them for shagging on our orbit lounger – we found the two of them, shockingly (mostly) clothed, hanging over the lip of the roof, eyeballing the scene below.

The Female Swinger looked over her shoulder, waving.

“Hey Ash! Don’t worry, we’re not having sex on your patio, we’re on the roof part this time!”

“… okay!” I half-smiled, not sure how to address that sex on top of our apartment … anywhere … was kind of theoretically Not Cool in my mind, but …

“But there’s a SWEET FIGHT downstairs!” she called, before turning her attention to the obvious scene below.

Fight! I mentally chimed, always in the mood for viewing a healthy altrication. I ran downstairs with Boyfriend, sprinting to our sliding glass doors. Flinging them open, I suddenly realized I needed to clothe.

Boyfriend, who already had some pants on, watched the figures downstairs roll about on the concrete, punching each other, while I found some jeans and a sweater, and — stuffing a snowboarding cap on my post-bedroom hair, I bounded back to the balcony so we could watch the action.

“There is no lamb For the LAZY WOLF!” bellowed the larger dude below, who was blonde, very pale… and physically GIGANTIC.

“Did he just quote some Viking lore?” I whispered excitedly to Boyfriend, who shook his head quizzically.

Pretty sure that he had, I immediately determined the fellow’s ancestry. He probably had a ship somewhere, but had been banned from it for pillaging villages and causing Loads of Unnecessary Death.

“Help!” called the Annoying College Guy. Gigantic Viking turned his head, staring down the Tiny Ninja Security Guard who had begun creeping up toward the scene. I imagined him gnashing his teeth, or using his Viking powers to hypnotize the fellow… because our security guard literally took one look at the dude, grabbed his walkie, and RAN.

“YOU PLAY MUSIC LOUD! NIGHT TIME! MY CHILDREN SLEEP!” yelled the Viking, who apparently housed some offspring in our massive loft building. I knew his unit layout, too — it was a one room loft — I mused for a moment where he kept them. Perhaps in the bathroom.

Gigantic Viking continued to pummel College Guy. Boyfriend quietly dialed the police, before grabbing a beer and leaving the house.

I nabbed a cold one as well before returning to the window, just in time to see Gigantic Viking take his Gigantic Foot … raise it like a radiation-bombed Karate Kid … and SMASH through the all glass front door of College Guy’s apartment.

“AAAAAHHHHH!” the kid wailed, seeing his floor to ceiling glass windows come tumbling down in shards. He crumbled into our pseudo-grass, staring at the Viking (who was surely about to kill him), his ruined house, and his utter lack of door. Viking began approaching, slowly, and College Kid knew in that moment… he was about to die.

As if by pre-determined Fate-or-Something timing, The Boyfriend came strolling casually around the corner with his beer. Viking turned. His body lowered slightly, as if he was about to go into a full on Viking sprint –

“LAPD!” came a bullhorn, and sirens flashed. As if by magic (perhaps Gigantic Viking was also part… vampire or something…) the humongous Beanstalk of a man disappeared. College kid wandered around in a circle for a moment, before collapsing on the ground.

The police eventually took care if it, but not before (further) beating up College Kid (they thought he did something), hitting on me from the Balcony (“Don’t jump, Juliet! But if you do, I’ll catch you!), playing chess on our gigantic outdoor chessboard, and sitting by the communal hottub for half an hour.

They finally made some reports, and as of today — after Viking cornered me in the elevator (thank goodness a tiny little workman was in there with us, or I fear I would have had to fight him with my pruning shears) — Management has officially kicked him out. About an hour after our elevator altercation, movers were on the premises throwing his $!#% into the back of a truck.

I have come to the following conclusions about Vikings after this experience.

1) Vikings are $*@!-ing huge.

2) Vikings want to eat your soul.

3) Vikings will mash you between hairy knuckles and feed you to the whales.

And now… I’m going to go consume some Sherry and reflect. That, and hide from the Viking Children that will one day shoulder the L2 Management / College Guy / White Hat Chick injustice for the rest of their Freakish Viking lives.

I said I’d give you ten reasons… but? Time for some well deserved inebriation. That is all.

Regards,
Ashley

Why I Hate Crackheads Who Buy My Shit Off Craigslist

Ashley — Fri, 25 Jun 2010 05:18:51 +0000

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.

______

*** 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!

______

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.

Press on BFF… Comedy Shorts Film Fest 2010, Los Angeles

Ashley — Wed, 05 May 2010 07:23:37 +0000

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.

A Dissertation About People Who Loudly Eat Apples On Airplanes

Ashley — Wed, 24 Mar 2010 18:45:55 +0000

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

Watching Stupid Actors Is Better Than Going to the Zoo

Ashley — Sun, 21 Mar 2010 16:48:47 +0000

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