Ashley Jillian

In case you wanted to know more about me as a person, this is what I do when I’m bored. Also, Chris Kattan is a cool dude.

Happy Wednesday!

Seven men, six in custom-tailored suits and one in a suit straight off the rack, gathered in a dimly lit bar with only one shelf, and it was the tops. They were surprisingly good-looking for aspiring magicians, even objectively dashing. They conversated with each other in hushed tones, shallowly letting their tongues run ragged with their knowledge of classic American culture.

“Buster Keaton was a brilliant man, it’s a shame you can’t get away with artful blackface these days,” commented the tallest.

“Charlie Chapman, what a class act, I respect a man who is unafraid to fight a taboo,  even if it was taking on multiple teenage wives,” said the most attractive.

The group communally complained that they don’t make beauties quite like Greta Garbo anymore, but the men all agreed Sofia Vergara was passable.

By this point, Steven, the young man in the hackneyed suit had zoned out — life leaves you at a certain disadvantage when you grow up with only basic cable and parents that exclusively watch reality television. Worried about his social stature within the group, he walked into the center of the informal circle and put on his largest, most genuine, stage smile.

The group gave him their full attention, expecting a magic trick, an illusion or a witticism of new heights that was reminiscent of old ones. With all the flare of years of magic lessons and social rejection, Steven took off his top hat and whipped it around to prove that it was empty. He flipped the hat back towards his body, tenderly reaching his hand in and taking out a dove.

In great jest he yelled, “Who let the doves out? Who, who, who?”

Steven was never heard from again.

After three strenuous and emotionally-taxing weeks of planning, Rebecca and her BFF Miles put away their heavily-earmarked issues of People’s Most Beautiful People. Rebecca wrote a check-list, crossing out the crudely-drawn boxes as a monument to their accomplishments; they did not listen to the radio in the car (despite Miles’ urge to ironically operate a HAM radio), they did not use the air conditioner (despite Miles’ pit-stains setting-in when temps reach North of 80) and Miles opened the door for Rebecca in a nostalgic want of gender norms of yesteryear (despite the tendonitis in Miles’ weak wrists and Rebecca’s BA in Gender and Women’s Studies).

The debate over whether humorous autobiographies of 30-something television writers were to be allowed on the camping trip remained decisively unsettled, the main pro-argument being that books have existed forever, and breezy-reads could always be made more challenging under the flickering light of a gas lantern.

They established camp — Rebecca shot Miles a death glare for commenting on how the decor was absolutely Pinterest-worthy. Miles rebutted that it would look great on his wall entitled “Earthtones and the Appreciation of Nature.”

By day two everything made Miles itch: the dirt, the bugs, the idle hours spent doing restorative yoga in the meadow. Day three was convulsions, and on day four Miles started to feel the phantom limb of his iPhone in his back pocket. Miles entire body was a pit-stain by day six, and his ability to stand on his real limbs was greatly diminished by his overwhelming urge to marathon RuPaul’s Drag Race.

On day seven, Miles tenuously whipped out all the prayers he could summon while Rebecca was frolicking in the communal showers with a a farmer’s market lesbian she met the first night of the trip.

Rebecca’s big reveal came that evening when she started unearthing video cameras from throughout the campground. She opened her bag and non-chalantly grabbed her laptop.

“Miles, you can’t possibly be mad — your popularity on IMDB is now twice that of Nick Jonas!”

Both parties were found checking into the 405 freeway an hour later via foursquare, separately.

———

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I like to think of myself as of a survivor of LAUSD’s low expectations. There is a mandatory and fairly demeaning class they make you take in high school called “Life Skills” where they teach you things like how to apply for jobs at the mall, how to waste tens of thousands of dollars at Devry and how to wash your hands. For the curious, the second semester was “Health” where they showed us a lot of pictures of warty penises and had a lady come in and attempt to preach the power of abstinence. She had a power point presentation that compared her old life as a sexual deviant to how it must feel to be a used thrift store dresser at the end of the line. I was somehow the only person who didn’t take an abstinence ring from her, I guess free things triumph over values for a lot of people.

Life Skills was held in Mr. Wagner’s bungalow, which smelled of canned tuna and decades-old nickels, leaving you to wonder whether he had the same awful lunch everyday or if he was just unfortunate. I sat in the back right hand corner of the room, not necessarily by choice, but by nature of having a last name at the end of the alphabet. The class was filled with the kinds of students who were pregnant by senior year and/or still felt such a crippling pressure when they were asked to read aloud that they shook and stuttered when attempting to read at a 6th grade level. The kid in front of me orchestrated drug deals via text message in full view of the teacher, who didn’t give a fuck. Mr. Wagner is a brooding 6’5″  but was formerly hulking college basketball player whose month of glory consisted of sitting on the bench during a final four game, but never getting to participate in the joy of drenching his coach in lemon lime gatorade.

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An elderly man, heavily sun-spotted and slightly hunchbacked, orders a medium black coffee, extra hot. His freshly drenched friend stands behind him in line, without umbrella, wallet or smile. The elderly man anticipates being asked for a favor, so he laboriously shrugs his lopsided shoulders, cocks his head and turns to his friend.

I don’t give a shit, fuck you.

I am a huge fan of mediocre coffee, and by that I mean I am a huge fan of the strange people who congregate at places with mediocre coffee. Going to diners with mediocre coffee is probably right behind day drinking and right before watching America’s Next Top Model on my list of fav things to do. Just being honest.

On Monday, I met up with a friend at my favorite overpriced 24-hour diner in the valley, the one I grew up going to with my dad after seeing midnight movies.  My friend was eight minutes late, I was two early. I sat down and ordered coffee, because at $2.85 I wanted hella refills #age23 #broke.

Behind me to the right, or to the SouthEast of my shoulder, or at 4:30 on a 12-hour clock, there was a table filled with small persian business men in suits with their collective attention turned towards a confident gray-haired hulking version of Richard Branson. The group was having a serious and hushed meeting. It had a tone of an executor delving out the will of a very wealthy man to his six sons who all had nice suits, bad posture, and were presumably all drinking mediocre coffee.

Three minutes in, an older white man and a 30-something hispanic man sit at the booth in front of me. I would file them in the “unlikely friends” category.  The older white man either likes to make an entrance, or has bad knees, (both?) so he stood at the edge of one side of the booth and plopped into his seat. Like some straight up timberrrr shit. At this point they have my full attention, and the executor people could go screw themselves in the way that only happens when it comes to divvying up the financial resources of a relation at a diner.

The old man starts to survey the place, sighs, and says “I remember coming here with my grandma in 1958.” He then waves over the female night manager and whisper yells “Hey coach, come here!”  The man’s stoic 30-something friend flashed an obligatory smile if only to acknowledge the existence of the lady he was being introduced to.

Turns out Lucy, the night manager at the shitty diner, was an assistant college volleyball coach for 20-years tossed out of the industry because  ageism kicks in after two decades of never being where the promotion is. Turns out the stoic fellow was a professional baseball player who got injured and was trying to make his back into the league. The most depressing conversation about the nature of athletics ensued,  followed by the two men ordering slices of coconut cream pie, iced water and mediocre coffee.

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Take note: this is the correct way to do a St. Patrick’s Day window display.

I had to book a room in a theatre complex for my improv team as none of us have large living rooms/we wanted to be able to yell, sing and jump as much as we wanted – something important to consider when booking space for an improv team, and also something important to consider in general life.

I got to the space a bit early so I could pick up the keys. I opened the lobby door turned the corner and as I hit the stairs I was immediately confronted by walls two inches thick with dust and three inches thick with indie theatre production fliers from the ‘80s. When I got to the top of the stairs, I was unenthusiastically greeted by a fabulous gay man, who clearly also reached his theatrical prime in the ‘80s.

He asked me who I was and I reacted equally unenthusiastically with an “Ashley, we spoke on the phone earlier.” His face lit up, his posture straightened and with a big hand gesture he starts to saying “Ashley! Ashley!”

It’s one of those moments where you wish someone else was there to share in how ridiculous this guy is, but you’re also relieved because that would have been embarrassing as fuck.

I didn’t know how to react, so I flashed him a confused stare since saying “yes, it’s me Ashley, the girl you spoke to on the phone” didn’t seem like the appropriate response.

I knew I was in trouble as soon as I got a stern “don’t you know where that’s from?” A quick brain scan came back with nothing but a debate about whether pretending to know it would get me out of there sooner.

“Gone with the Wind! It’s from Gone with the Wind!” He continued to call me “Ashley!” for the rest of the conversation, which was both terrifying and strangely respectable if only for the commitment.

He then gestured me away and directed me to look for “the marginal looking man with strawberry blond hair, the type of fellow who looks like he hasn’t showered in a few days” in order to get the keys. While totally a dick move, I knew who he was talking about immediately.