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

Nothing Important. Manhattan Coffee Shop.

Ashley — Fri, 05 Mar 2010 02:51:21 +0000

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-mail is the Best – Unless Someone is Trying to Voodoo You.

Ashley — Mon, 01 Mar 2010 20:27:15 +0000

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

Ode to the Asshole Starbucks Guy

Ashley — Mon, 22 Feb 2010 02:53:54 +0000

Okay. So if I’m sitting in a Starbucks, holed up IN THE CORNER with my laptop — brow furrowed in intense, I’ll-eventually-need-Botox-screw-you concentration – obviously, quite obviously, I don’t want company. Communication of any kind. My angry black leather jacket and body language, in any way you Star Magazine slice it, reads LEAVE ME ALONE.

But no. As I’m in the middle of Photoshopping the graphic for my newest entrepreneurial venture — and only halfway through the coffee that will eventually render me remotely civil to the rest of Starbucks kind — some rejected extra from the 80s version of Gulliver’s Travels saunters up.

My eyes barely flicker from the toolkit of CS4. Go. Away. Asshole. I silently chant to myself.

Keep in mind The Boyfriend is presently out shooting someone (fashion versus killing spree), and I have this woman’s crap around the Starbucks table and my feet. You actually had to STEP OVER half of the contents of her Studio apartment to access the other chair.

Gulliver stands there for a good five minutes, shifting his weight indecisively and occasionally clearing his flem-filled throat. Finally, just as I’m in the middle of a one-pixel-wide effort to remove an under-eye bag, he speaks.

“Eafreuahm. Can I… fish, sit?”

What the fuuuuck, I silently yell at myself. I look up. Once, and briefly. ”Uh…”

Manhattan Ashley kicks in. I continue working.

He keeps shifting.

“Menh… yes! May I sit? I— fish.”

I’m so confused at the antics of this odd human being that I look up, again, and stare at him in the face.

“Sure.” I stated, flatly. Nobody sensical would have sat. I might as well have said “I’m going to murder you in your sleep with a fork.”

He bobbed his head, taking a large step over the three pieces of luggage that formed a moat around my solace. Nearly tripping on a large blue hat box, he sat.

He looked at me. I glared back at him, and — without blinking — slowly slid my computer toward me with only my forefingers.

“You don’t — ehaiifahg (cough) — have to mouv’it.”

I didn’t answer. I looked down, and continued working. I allowed my fingers to ram the keyboard with every stroke.

None of the hints worked. He continued sitting there for THREE HOURS, attempting to make small talk to the front of my head as I silently ignored him, built things in PHP, and wrote some stuff. I went through four Green Teas (did you know Starbucks now charges you $2.45 for a teabag and WATER?!) before I finally gave up and called The Boyfriend.

The shoot promptly ended. The Boyfriend came to the rescue, his client in tow. She carefully extracted her hat box from beneath Gulliver’s knobby (still immobile) legs.

It wasn’t until I got up to go to the bathroom, leaving The Boyfriend and Boyfriend’s Client standing over the table — that the guy finally put down his crossword, slowly ripped the black and white box parts from the paper — and placed them over my open laptop. His number was scrawled in each box. Roses littered the margins.

He then got up, and left.

Jesus. If I knew I’d attract men by killing them slowly with my mind while sipping overpriced Chai, I’d have stayed single for longer.

Time for a cup of wine.

– Ashley Avis

Well… Er, Hello.

Ashley — Fri, 19 Feb 2010 00:48:59 +0000

AshleyFlys.com, Log 1. 5:05 pm, New Hartford (i.e. The Boyfriend’s Family’s House) in New Hartford, CT.

Presently Drinking: wine & coffee, in separate glasses.

Presently Eating: burned scone.

So after a few delightful individuals petitioned the resurgance of my Manhattan-made-me-cynical writing, I finally decided to sit down… consume several of my favorite things at once… and submit myself to WordPress. It kind of feels like walking into a prison on Lost.

Anyway, weird-ass analogies aside (and because the Pinot/Dunkin’ combination has resulted in a strange, temporarily askew mental state)… here’s a quick recap of the last 12 months of my existence:

February 2010: A few days at Sundance in Park City, Utah post enduring a bomb threat by angry clients. Note: Don’t ever form a webdesign company and give away cheap design for next to nothing, then try to outsource to China. Render self “theoretically homeless” for 36 days.

January 2010: Leave apartment on THE OCEAN because landlords are a pair of 65-year-old lesbians, and they have 12 page Google-stalked you. Note: Take down 10 year old Myspace page that innocently says you enjoy the consumption of strawberries while taking bubblebaths. Another note: Be more aware of bookshelves in future fully furnished apartments that primarily house volumes such as “The Shocking Mysteries of the Female Orgasm”.

December 2009: Escape apartment on ABBOT KINNEY because landlord allows himself to routinely enter apartment without notice, and does things like assault you in the street when he leaves your door open and gets your shit stolen. Note: Find new apartment with less crazy landlord. Another note: Find an apartment on THE OCEAN.

November 2009: Fly to New York for meetings. Hate New York for the first time, ever. Loose storage keys, get into a fight with manager at Manhattan Mini on 213th and Broadway. Break into storage locker. Fly to Paris two hours later. Note: Fly AirFrance more often — the amount of complimentary alcohol they almost force upon you is shocking. Another note: Don’t loose cell phone charger in Paris airport. You will be screwed.

October 2009: Have one blissful month in Venice, California. New city, new friends, new apartment. Wake up eerily happy, all the time. Wake up to even more eerily perfect weather, all the time. Note: Don’t go back to Manhattan any time soon. Another note: Pay overpriced car loan.

September 2009: Road trip from New York to Los Angeles with a crapload of photography equipment and random stuff. Note: Don’t ever drive Saab more than 20 miles at a time, every again. Another note: SELL THE F*#)@-ing SAAB

August 2009: Road trip from Los Angeles to New York to visit aunt in Wyoming. Saab blows up half way to Denver. Obtain AAA, and not the alcoholic kind. Pay some jackass named Al $1,400 for a new fuel pump “imported” from Colorado.

July 2009: Fly to New York to reignite things with The Boyfriend. Realize being single without the love of your life absolutely sucks. Throw him a surprise birthday party in SoHo. Purposely overdraft bank account to obtain The Perfect Sexy (Surprisingly Orange) Dress. Successfully re-ignite things with The Boyfriend.

June 2009: Run around Los Angeles and date. A lot. Date some guy who works for some charity. Get read tons of obscure Spanish poetry. Consider another relationship. Consider the possibility of insanity.

May 2009: Move to Los Angeles. Be miserable in a tiny room for several weeks. Get kidnapped by an Oscar winning producer. Get locked into a room and get told “You Will Eat Sushi with Me Tonight” by another Oscar winning producer. Consider moving to Alaska.

April 2009: Bad month. Actually break up with The Boyfriend. Pack up life, store half of it at 213th and Broadway. Get proposed to. Don’t accept. Book a one-way to Los Angeles.

March 2009: Okay month. Audition for lots of pilot season crap. Do really well with the depressing and/or Sci-Fi related stuff. Get close to a pilot. Fly out to LA to screentest. Get down to the wire. They chose “the celebrity”. #*@!.

February 2009: Bad month. Go through heart-hurting things with The Boyfriend. Wonder if moving to Los Angeles is a good idea. Wonder if he’s dating something else.

January 2009: Worst month ever. Break up with The Longtime Boyfriend due to marriage/playing house fears. Don’t want to mutually own plate sets anymore. Spend the New Years Eve countdown in the bathroom of a yacht, hiding from a Middle Eastern Billionaire. Miss boyfriend. Start auditioning for pilots.

__________

(burp). So, in writing that I’ve easily consumed a good portion of this glass of wine, as well as most of the coffee. Exceptional cranial displeasure has resulted, so I think I’m going to go take an Advil and make out with The Boyfriend. Because The Boyfriend rocks, and is a really good kisser.

Welcome to AshleyFlys.com. Because DELTA sucks. — Ashley Avis