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

©2010 AshleyFlys.com - tales of travel, torrid affairs, and a hatred for DELTA. All Rights Reserved.

Now, this particular Record Player isn’t new as in, “I’ve recently uncovered this from smelly plastic and sold my soul to Anthropologie” new… but a recent Craigs find in Venice… extracted from the likely treehouse of some Gigantic Weed Smoking Post-Goldman-Sachs-Layoff Newborn “Hippie” that had little use… much less regard for, for the majesty of the thing.

The Record Player… oh, my adoration for it heightens with each sip of alcohol!  The Record Player… emits vibrations by which one can literally… subtly…  well, “bounce” to (I bely my ethnicity with such a statement).  It inspires movement.  It makes me think, just for a moment, that the entire 18 piece orchestra for The Nutcracker and a few stray spandex-wearing ballerinas are galavanting about in my living room.  It makes me cook a mean turkey meatball that is that much, more, meaner just by playing ambiently while I set off fire alarms.  [Did I just write "more meaner" without immediate deletion and momentary self-loathing?  Yes, yes I did.]

So as I sit here… fireside… consuming a fine glass of somewhat exceptional wine and contemplating what the Santa Ana winds are anyway (and whether they really do make you crazy and/or desire to have sex with strangers…) I’m utterly, Heaven-Concept-on-earth… content.

[...I mean, in the theory of perfectious scenarios, could do with a chocolate covered strawberry platter, served by half-naked Andy Whitfield before he goes and slaughters some fabricated pseudo-homosexual Gladiators... but really, other than that...?]

And…. and and… just before I delicately ’slip’ into that other-wordly writing mode that happens, at best, once a blissful week or so… where my pupils properly dilate and I’m consumed by the character-Life-intertwining my fingers have the power to titilitattingly create… I gaze at The Record Player, and smile.

About twenty years ago, probably to the day (because Life would just have it that way), I was post-preschool bounding into our house in Illinois… extracting my pet red-eyed tree frog “Hoppy” from his terrarium while The Unsuspecting Babysitter thought I was playing with the Barbie I had (only moments before) flushed down the toilet… and plopping him down to “ride” upon my parent’s… delightful… antique… Record Player.

Thankfully Hoppy survived his carnival rides upon that (very collectible, very vintage) Vinyl collection.  He did not, however, survive the overabundance of live mealworms that eventually consumed him alive.  But that was another afterschool experience altogether… and rather, unnecessarily, inappropriately morbid for the quintessential moment at hand.

So excuse me, dear reader, as I pluck myself from this world… sink deeply into the fabulous furniture craftsmanship that is Herman Miller… and allow my fingers to take themselves where they please to go this evening.

…

And no, there is no sexual reference coyly dug into that last statement.  And yet, and yes.

Cheers, for the night… do go out immediately and taste this fine Borolo!

Regards,
Ashley

©2010 AshleyFlys.com - tales of travel, torrid affairs, and a hatred for DELTA. All Rights Reserved.

©2010 AshleyFlys.com - tales of travel, torrid affairs, and a hatred for DELTA. All Rights Reserved.

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.

©2010 AshleyFlys.com - tales of travel, torrid affairs, and a hatred for DELTA. All Rights Reserved.

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

©2010 AshleyFlys.com - tales of travel, torrid affairs, and a hatred for DELTA. All Rights Reserved.

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

©2010 AshleyFlys.com - tales of travel, torrid affairs, and a hatred for DELTA. All Rights Reserved.

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 its imperfections, its 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.

©2010 AshleyFlys.com - tales of travel, torrid affairs, and a hatred for DELTA. All Rights Reserved.

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…….

©2010 AshleyFlys.com - tales of travel, torrid affairs, and a hatred for DELTA. All Rights Reserved.

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!

©2010 AshleyFlys.com - tales of travel, torrid affairs, and a hatred for DELTA. All Rights Reserved.

“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

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