Bob the "The Downtown Power Broker" Picks (Idiotic) Email Fight, Threatens Career
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
Random fan letters are the best. I recently received (via my manager, as I try to keep my personal-personal email hidden from the world, stalkers, and Bill Clinton at all costs) a letter from a Mr. Thomas:
Hi Ms. Bluestone,
I am very sorry to take up your time. I am a big fan of Ms. Avis and think she is such a beautiful actress! Could you please let me know how I could obtain an autograph picture of Ms. Avis. Does she have a fan mail address that I could mail a self-addressed stamped envelope to? I truly appreciate any help that you could provide. Thank you so much for your time!
Aloha,
John Thomas
Now, my first instinct is to be insanely flattered and send this John Thomas a fruit basket. However, the inner cynic in me has a few questions first:
- How and why are you a fan?
- What have I done that deserves any accolades, really?
- If it is accolade-relevant, what are you a fan of?
– My writing and firing from Nielsen?
– The borderline interesting indie film work?
– The Miss Teen Universe pageant at sixteen by which I walked the runway [in a rhinestoned bikini] with an accidentally self-induced concussion? - Why is your name the most stereotypical thing on the planet besides Bob Smith, and CLEARLY not Hawaiian?
Perhaps John really is a random cult-like groupie (and, trust me, I’d love to have a gaggle of random cult-like groupies who want my signed headshot), but I just can’t seem to shake that this email is written stylistically similar to those “You’ve inherited 430 million dollars from an estranged uncle, so please send a mere $1,000 via Western Union to Africa to claim it…” emails from third world country scam artists.
Then again, what is my signed headshot worth… really? Perhaps this really is a fan. Named John Thomas. Who was adopted by an American family who’s simply crazy about free healthcare. Or perhaps it’s one of my maniacal webdesign clients, who’s just Amazon.com’ed a book on voodoo.
Regardless, signing one of my freakin’ headshots, here we come.
– Ashley
You know what’s great? Being a kid and getting away with everything short of murder. Like “exploring” (i.e. sneaking into the Creepy Neighbor’s house to observe him), “scavenging” (i.e. getting up at 3 a.m. with your little brother to search for loose change around the house), and crank calling.
I loved crank calling when I was a kid. I was a crank calling fiend. If you were in the Yellow Pages, you were instantly at risk that my voice would greet you on the other line sometime around 3:45 and 5:15, post school and prior to Doctor Mom coming home from “squeezing puss” all day, as she would put it.
My crank calling was never random, either. I would specifically look for people with strange last names, as it was naturally assumed that these individuals were inherently weird anyway and deserved to be pranked.
“Erwin Bogstrupple”, for example. I’d definitely call that guy.
My biggest “pitch” during my crank calling career was coupled with the fact that I was (at age 10 or 11), learning how to do basic webdesign.
At this point I knew how to create simple webpage, reserve a domain, and upload the contents — however ridiculous — to the internet for the world to see. The possibilities of this skill were absolutely endless for my imagination. Just conceive of the innocent little deceptions I could create!
YouWonTHECHEESE.com!!! was only an inevitable matter of time.
December 12th, 1995. Get home / eat a pop tart / deceive Immigrant Baby Sitter / obtain cordless phone
Riiiiing. Riiiiing.
Long Incessantly Annoying Beep: “Hi! You’ve reached Weird @*($-ing Name Ashley Can’t Stand! I’m not dancing around the house right now, so puhhh-lease leave a message after the beep, BEEP! Just kidding, haha! And I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Or maybe not! Who knows! BEEP! Haha…”
I hated these people. These PEOPLE who leave MESSAGES on their machines that just go on and on and ramble for a seemingly interminable amount of time for absolutely no conceivable reason. WE GET IT. An ineludable beep at the end of your ridiculous vomiting of poorly strung syllables WILL AT SOME POINT OCCUR. Enough of dragging the process out more, already!
They deserved it, I would always mentally justify. They forced innocent people to listen to minutes upon minutes of idiotic banter. They way I saw it, they stole little pieces of people’s lives.
Riiiiing. RIIIIIING.
Long Incessantly Annoying Beep: “Hi! You’ve reached…”
Me [in a booming announcer's voice]: “CONGRATULATIONS, LUCY! Yoouuuuu’ve won THE CHEESE! Sixteen pounds of limburger, swiss, or the fine innards of GOAT?! WHO KNOWS! Go to www.youwonthecheese.com to claim your prize!”
I’d then hang up, insanely thrilled with myself, and go run around the block for a few hours to wear off the sugar high I’d inevitably gotten myself on.
I never knew what happened to the people who got these messages. I did, however, leave about 500 of them… and I had actually built a website that listed each name with a type of “Cheese Won” next to it. Forty-five pounds of limburger was my favorite go-to prize.
The delivery within 4-6 weeks was a sham, though. I hope nobody was ever too disappointed.
Ah… the sweet — endless hours of childhood. This was almost as fun as that time I captured a four foot pelican off the end of my dock and kept it in the house for three days. Parents still don’t know about THAT one.
Time for a gigantic hunk of Brie.
– Ashley
Wanna know what’s awesome? Being 18-years-old with washboard abs no matter what horrific food-plunder you place inside your body… and doing REALLY BAD indie films.
This one is called The Leather Vixens, and I just re-found it doing another random drunk Google search. It’s pretty freakin’ awesome… somehow got into a few obscure film festivals, too.
I showed up for the audition dressed in head-to-toe black leather. I was 18. Feel free to judge me.
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n1vP1m-hiAI&hl=en_US&fs=1&]
Dear Delta,
I was recently on flight 45 from Los Angeles to Tampa, Florida. The flight was as delightful as flights-in-coach can theoretically be, the salted peanuts were more than satisfactory, and my complimentary pillow — to my surprise — did not smell of disgruntled infant feces. All fantastic factors I think your airline should be overwhelmingly proud of.
However — one minor detail seemed to elude the Delta Team on August 31st, 2009. It concerned a window in row 16. A window that didn’t exist.
Before you crumple-toss this letter aside with the assumption that it’s some random flying patron who is exasperated by the lack-of-free-blanket-situation you have going on… continue reading. I have a serious issue to discuss with you, Delta.
Upon sitting down and (consequently spilling my overpriced airport Macchiato) in seat 16A, I shortly thereafter became aware that the entirety of my row would remain unoccupied for the duration of the flight (or “Delta flying experience”, as I’ve come to call it). I made a fateful slide over to seat 16B. The Gods were watching out for me that morning.
After the customary buckling of the seatbelt, perusing the irrelevant pop-art safety precaution pamphlet, and draining the rest of my less-than-strong vanguard coffee, I prepared myself for takeoff. The stewardesses did their safety thing (failing yet again to inform us of our ultimately screwed position if something went minority wrong with the plane), and the airliner began trucking down the runway.
It began to take up speed.
I continued sucking down my Macchiato.
This is where it gets interesting.
About forty-five seconds into takeoff, just when I was about to reach for the prohibited electronic item and turn it on — a sudden WHHHHHUUUSHHH sound erupted from my direct right, accompanied by a large window FLYING out of the window socket and ramming into the place where my head would have been, right in window-seat of 16A.
WHHHHHUUUSHHH.
We had just taken off from the ground of the runway. And the window of row 16 had ERUPTED out of the airplane.
I was shockingly calm as I eye-bulgingly stared at the emply place where the window should have been. Obese Pearl-Wearing Domestic Woman in row 17 began screaming, and hysterically proclaiming how we were all about to plunge rapidly to our deaths.
Everyone else was staring at the hole, listening to the WHHHUUSSSH sound, and essentially in various progressive states of shock.
“WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIIIIIE!”
With one look at Obese Pearl Wearing Domestic Woman, I decided then and there that if I was fated to plunge into the cement runway of LAX on that absurdly early morning hour, I was certainly not going to do it with the shrill voice of an over-pampered retard resounding in my head.
And with one steady motion… I leaped upon the fallen window.
Yes. Leaped, Delta.
I grappled it between two 22-year-old arms, and I forced it back into the gaping hole from whence it came.
WHHHUUUSSS…hhh…….. hhh…. h.
The sound stopped.
Obese Pearl Wearing Woman tempered her yelling into a soft hyperventilating wheeze.
The passengers all looked at one another. Did the stiletto-wearing chick in seat 16(B) just save us all?
I was mentally forgiven for my second personal item by the entire aircraft that day.
We landed in Tampa with gusto (funny how the pilot instructed all stewardesses not to leave their seats for the entirety of the ride) and the WHUUUUSH sound only re-emitted three or four more times. I was not able to hear high-pitched sounds for a good six days after the experience. I’m pretty sure Obese Pearl Wearing Woman is now deceased.
And thus, Delta, for all of the effort and borderline customer servicing of your psychotic Midwestern patrons (and, you know, circumventing near death) I feel entitled to either the sum of 13.5 million dollars, or free flights for the rest of my life.
I’m certain I’m being more than fair — and if anything, giving you guys a massive deal.
Think of all the lawsuits you could have had. Think of all of the eardrum replacement therapy you would have had to provide for. The cost of re-caucking the window so that it fits back into it’s original frame.
I look forward to your response, Delta. Thank you most sincerely for the opportunity to be in a position to legally screw you over.
Think you can routinely take my nail clippers? What now.
Most sincerely, Ashley Avis
Take Me to "The Wilhelmenia". No, Because You're 35, Ugly, and have a Bad Attitude.
Wednesday, 10:07. The Boyfriend’s Sister’s Brooklyn Apartment.
Wow. So a friend of mine runs a PR company that I helped establish (do the webdesign, help out with marketing, etc) that is targeted towards actors. The amount of money they charge is a pittance compared to any of the other PR companies in town (100 bucks, 200 bucks, compared to the thousands upon f-ing thousands demanded — and rightfully so — by 42West, Workhouse, etc).
Ashley
