Good Friday in Pittsburgh's Cultural District -or- How and When I Learned I Was A Panty-Sniffing Stalker
By Mikhail Stafford

March 25, 2005:

Ashlee Simpson at the Benedum v. Gauge at Club Elite

Good Friday nearly gouged my eyes out with a sharp image of nearly 3,000 14-year-old girls screaming bloody-frigging-murder for a band called The Click Five. But first, they screamed louder for another band called Pepperville or Pepperghost or Pepper's Ghost or . Glasnost, or something like that. Later, Ashlee Simpson performed. The scene was generally overwhelming. Couldn't make heads or tails of it from the beginning, and was left tired and fragile at its end. The drugs didn't help at all. Came down hard before Ashlee finished her antics. And when it was over, I felt paralyzed and astounded, like the huge electric shock I had just experienced was actually harmless.

But then I was tapped on the shoulder by a little girl who asked me: "Are you a panty-sniffer?" I knew it was done on a dare - she had to be less than 12; and she sniggered toward her friends after she asked. I laughed.

"Fuck off," I said, smiling. Then I took into consideration the cashflow initiating this wave, this harmless electric shock. Yeah, I thought. It's initiated by all the little girls in here, paying upwards of $50 a ticket. They're probably wondering why a man in a Hawaiian shirt and fisherman's cap, chewing an unlit Marlboro, is hanging around the Ashlee Simpson show.

But then again, so am I.

The pornstar, Gauge, said "Hi" as she smirked, looked into my eyes, and pulled my face close to hers. "You like my tits, huh."

"Well, uh." I had eaten sedatives beforehand to prepare (shrooms had fallen through). But, in retrospect, nothing could've easily prepared me for this. Because, as I watched man after man humiliate himself for this girl (at least 50 guys forked over $20 for a Polaroid with Gauge, saying the dumbest shit imaginable, like: "Can I lick your ear, sweets?") it was as if the entire basis of capitalism had materialized into a dildo, and I had, in consecutive hour-long humps, sat on both ends: Ashlee Simpson on the unused end, then Gauge. The pornstar and I chatted. The first part of the interview was not recorded because she didn't want anyone to hear her voice on tape. "Yeah. Your tits are nice," I said.

Ashlee Simpson's karaoke-quality live performance didn't exemplify what you'd expect from a triple-platinum artist.

But you could've probably guessed that.

You could've guessed, too, that she giggled a lot between songs; and that she didn't have an acid-reflux attack. You could've also guessed that, judging by the thousands of screaming teenagers, her status didn't dive-bomb in one evening. Nope, it seems that she is, instead, moving along with a successful (however, probably short) career, in accordance with Risk -like plotting by her father. Her daddy's a former minister, by the way, who has, from all indications, the intention of overtaking pop music (by force, if necessary) with his seed.

You could've guessed these things, yes. They've been reported everywhere. She's been panned, torn-down and mocked. Her father's been ridiculed for everything from using his kids as dollar-magnets, to looking funny on camera. And since Ashlee's SNL lip-synching incident, The Heartless Bastard Media (which doesn't include Tiger Beat , et al) hasn't let up on either Ashlee or her father.

And it's really not fair.

But do you know why they haven't let up?

Do you know why every serious review of her music seems negative?

Because [.drum roll.] Ashlee Simpson has no talent.

See, Jessica, her half-wit sister, was bred to be a performer from the beginning - she's a talented singer and has obviously trained to fit the trite celebrity role.

Ashlee, however, just fell into this shit. Her dad was sitting around plotting, trying to figure out some way to find someone to compete with Avril Lavigne (who's also, since we're on the topic, evil). And the only thing he could come up with was: "Let's get my other daughter, Ashlee, on stage."

She's out of her element.

And:

. She has co-opted the Anarchy symbol into her logo (for fuck's sake)

. She said things on stage like, "This is about finding your identity and being yourself," before singing a song she almost certainly did not write (no matter what her co-writing credits might indicate).

And last,

. She was somehow brought into town by the Pittsburgh Cultural Trust - an organization with the intention of encompassing "a complete transformation of Pittsburgh's Downtown; from a 'red light' district with only two cultural facilities . to a vibrant animated area with over fourteen cultural facilities, public parks and plazas, and new and proposed commercial development."

Which brings us back to Gauge, who performed a block away, also in the Cultural District, at Club Elite.

Snapshot: Gauge interview:

Me : "So like, what do you think about when you're getting Chinese-finger-trapped by two random...uh, fuckers...?"

Gauge: "Fuckers. Yyy eeah. Well, um, I like to be professional so I just think about the scene, where to go next - what looks best, you know?"

Me: "Yeah, but do you ever get bored on that front? Sometimes you look bored. Do you ever think about, like, what's on TV while you're having sex on film? Do you contemplate President Bush's foreign policy decisions? Start making...like, shopping lists in your head?"

Gauge: "No I just give head." [laughs]

Me: "Ha ha, nice. Oral communications major, right?"

Gauge: "Right! How'd you know?"

Me: "Lucky guess." [she ranted about college minutes ago, explained that she spent a stint in an Arkansas community college before moving to Los Angeles. She got into porn by responding to an ad looking for someone to perform sexually, on film]

Gauge: "Yeah right. Are you a stalker?"

Me: "Well . kinda, yeah. That's my job. Sorta."

Gauge: "Stalker?"

Me: "No. More like reporter. But, see, it's reall-"

Gauge: "Cool, whatever. Do you want a t-shirt?"

The point, I guess - cause I'm struggling to find it - is that there are minimal differences between 1) a performer who signs autographs by pressing her painted breasts against a white t-shirt, and 2) a performer who fakes her way through a career, pretending that there is some musically-oriented reason she's on stage, charging $40 for the cheap seats.

Granted, Gauge can't sing . But Ashlee can't dance.

And, by my calculations, that makes them even.

Actually, Gauge wins.

And I need to find better things to do with my time.

To make your own decisions, torture yourself at www.ilovegauge.com, www.ashleesimpson.com, and at Club Elite on Ninth Ave., in downtown Pittsburgh.