dumb it down
You'll sell more records if you (dumb it down)
bandom (The Dresden Dolls & pop), Amanda Palmer & Ashlee Simpson, PG, ~1200 words.
Title by Lupe Fiasco, beta by algernon_mouse and secrethappiness. All remaining mistakes and the hate-on for L.A. are all mine. It’s fiction, it’s not real, it didn’t happen.
Posted as a part of 14valentines [Day 14] V-Day, International. I didn’t make it all 14, but I tried.
( The best thing about being Ashlee Simpson is that people are always amazed at how articulate she is in private. )
The best thing about being Ashlee Simpson is that people are always amazed at how articulate she is in private, how much she knows. Pete thinks it’s funny, he loves to smirk at how industry people’s mouths will drop open when she starts talking business, profit margins, cuts of sales, shares in futures.
The shitty thing about being Ashlee Simpson is that people are always amazed at how articulate she is in private, how much she knows.
It’s not her fucking fault that her first album was written when she was seventeen years old or that some of her most awkward moments have taken place in front of an audience, permanently marking her as naïve and clueless in most people’s minds.
It’s also not her fault that she’s been marketed and packaged within an inch of her life - her manager is her fucking father. What was she supposed to do, say: “No, Daddy, I will not act the part of the teenage pop punk princess that will sell records?” or “No, I will not let you believe that you still have one daughter that is innocent and sweet?”
It’s not like he came right out and told her to dumb it down. That would have been too obvious. But words like “softer” and “sweeter” always mean “dumber” and Ashlee can play it, but she’s not actually stupid.
*
Pete has to go meet the management for some act that he wants to sign at a stupid industry thing so Ashlee is standing near the buffet table, hoping that he wraps up his schmoozing soon. When she first started in music, after the acting kind of went bust and the dancing flatlined, she’d actually imagined that music industry parties involved … well, music.
They don’t.
They’re exactly like everything else in L.A. - there’s some kind of unobtrusive classical music in the background, everyone is just a little too dressed up and all of the women look like they’re starving. Most of the men don’t, which always kind of makes Ashlee want to go over to the buffet table and eat the world in protest.
Of course she doesn’t. She doesn’t even take one of the stuffed mushrooms. There’s futile protest and then there’s gaining weight in protest and Ashlee doesn’t have the additional cardio time this week to work off that particular act of dissent.
A woman with bright red hair is at the buffet table, though, carelessly tossing finger foods onto a plate, including three of Ashlee’s longed-for stuffed mushrooms. She’s pale and, like pretty much everyone else, dressed all in black. Despite that, she looks different, beyond actually holding a plate, even though she’s meeting all of the social expectations of the environment. Like taking reality and skewing just a little, maybe ten degrees, just to see if people notice.
Before Ashlee knows that she’s doing it, she finds herself at the table, her hand on the table next to the woman’s hip.
“Hi,” she says. “I’m Ashlee.”
The red-haired woman turns around and … oh, Jesus. Of course it’s Amanda Palmer. Well, that would explain the ten degree skew. And the eating the buffet food. People from the East Coast take a while to pick up on all of the L.A. intricacies.
People from the Midwest usually take even longer. Ashlee just got on an accelerated learning track.
“I know,” Amanda says. “Amanda Palmer. Hey, haven’t we met before?”
They haven’t, actually. Pete was doing an on-again with Jeanae toward the end of the Nothing Rhymes with Circus Tour and Ashlee hadn’t really had any reason to be around. She loves The Dresden Dolls, though, has their CDs and actually tried to get to one of their shows in L.A. last year, but never managed. Still, she’s not going into this conversation as a fan.
“Don’t think so,” Ashlee says, smiling the bright, empty smile that usually gets people to talk to her.
Amanda’s eyebrows - or the ink where her eyebrows would normally be - pull together a little. She looks confused. Then, her eyebrows flatten out, like the question she was asking just got answered.
“I’m gonna go smoke,” she says. “Last chance before the surgery in a couple of weeks. Want to come?”
Pete hates it when Ashlee smokes. It’s kind of the last vestige of his straight edge days, as if drinking vodka, popping Xanax recreationally or eating steak aren’t just as much breaking edge.
Fuck it. Ashlee never claimed to be edge. He can regret his own crappy tattoo of his post-adolescent idealist phase on his own.
“Sure,” Ashlee replies, her smile real this time.
*
They’ve been outside by the pool for more than an hour, the unofficial social space for the maligned smokers. Because everyone lies about smoking now, there aren’t many people outside. They did the pleasantries, the “do you know X” and “hey, me too”s. There was blessedly little bullshit talk, no networking and now the conversation is just kind of rambling.
Ashlee kind of wishes she’d grabbed a jacket - lately, it seems like everything in L.A. is a little colder, which doesn’t make any sense. Its 80 degrees outside.
“So this is L.A.,” Amanda says, flipping her bare feet in the water at the edge of the pool.
“Well, it’s a party in L.A. Which is, more or less, L.A.,” Ashlee says taking a deep drag off another cigarette Amanda gave her.
Amanda makes a face. “I don’t know how you do it all the time. I mean, it’s okay to visit - it’s like some kind of Bret Easton Ellis novel out here, all hard edges and cocaine and shit, but … damn, Ashlee. This place is …”
“Shattered,” Ashlee finishes, stubbing out her cigarette on the nubby concrete. “Little broken pieces placed close enough together that they can be mistaken for whole.”
She looks over at Amanda out of the corner of her eye, expecting the “holy shit, Ashlee Simpson has a brain” face. It’s not there.
Amanda just looks thoughtful.
“I like that. You gonna use that in something?” she says, like she never would have expected Ashlee to say anything but interesting things.
Maybe she never would have expected anything else. They have been out here for an hour.
“I don’t know,” Ashlee says. She doesn’t really think about writing anymore. She doesn’t really think about any of it anymore, not since the third album got shelved for the fourth fucking time and Pete actually offered to put it out on Decaydance which … just. No. “I don’t know what I’d use it for.”
“So?” Amanda says, stubbing out her own cigarette. “I never know where shit is going. I’m lucky to know where I’m going.”
But at least you’re going somewhere Ashlee finishes mentally.
Amanda stands up, holds her hand out to help Ashlee up.
“It’s probably time to return to the fray, huh?” Amanda says with a smile and her head tilted a little to the left.
Ashlee nods and looks over Amanda's shoulder to the house full of suits and hungry girls in tight dresses.
She nods again, more to herself this time, her smile not bright or false or anything short of real.
Maybe it’s time for more than that.
bandom (The Dresden Dolls & pop), Amanda Palmer & Ashlee Simpson, PG, ~1200 words.
Title by Lupe Fiasco, beta by algernon_mouse and secrethappiness. All remaining mistakes and the hate-on for L.A. are all mine. It’s fiction, it’s not real, it didn’t happen.
Posted as a part of 14valentines [Day 14] V-Day, International. I didn’t make it all 14, but I tried.
( The best thing about being Ashlee Simpson is that people are always amazed at how articulate she is in private. )
The best thing about being Ashlee Simpson is that people are always amazed at how articulate she is in private, how much she knows. Pete thinks it’s funny, he loves to smirk at how industry people’s mouths will drop open when she starts talking business, profit margins, cuts of sales, shares in futures.
The shitty thing about being Ashlee Simpson is that people are always amazed at how articulate she is in private, how much she knows.
It’s not her fucking fault that her first album was written when she was seventeen years old or that some of her most awkward moments have taken place in front of an audience, permanently marking her as naïve and clueless in most people’s minds.
It’s also not her fault that she’s been marketed and packaged within an inch of her life - her manager is her fucking father. What was she supposed to do, say: “No, Daddy, I will not act the part of the teenage pop punk princess that will sell records?” or “No, I will not let you believe that you still have one daughter that is innocent and sweet?”
It’s not like he came right out and told her to dumb it down. That would have been too obvious. But words like “softer” and “sweeter” always mean “dumber” and Ashlee can play it, but she’s not actually stupid.
*
Pete has to go meet the management for some act that he wants to sign at a stupid industry thing so Ashlee is standing near the buffet table, hoping that he wraps up his schmoozing soon. When she first started in music, after the acting kind of went bust and the dancing flatlined, she’d actually imagined that music industry parties involved … well, music.
They don’t.
They’re exactly like everything else in L.A. - there’s some kind of unobtrusive classical music in the background, everyone is just a little too dressed up and all of the women look like they’re starving. Most of the men don’t, which always kind of makes Ashlee want to go over to the buffet table and eat the world in protest.
Of course she doesn’t. She doesn’t even take one of the stuffed mushrooms. There’s futile protest and then there’s gaining weight in protest and Ashlee doesn’t have the additional cardio time this week to work off that particular act of dissent.
A woman with bright red hair is at the buffet table, though, carelessly tossing finger foods onto a plate, including three of Ashlee’s longed-for stuffed mushrooms. She’s pale and, like pretty much everyone else, dressed all in black. Despite that, she looks different, beyond actually holding a plate, even though she’s meeting all of the social expectations of the environment. Like taking reality and skewing just a little, maybe ten degrees, just to see if people notice.
Before Ashlee knows that she’s doing it, she finds herself at the table, her hand on the table next to the woman’s hip.
“Hi,” she says. “I’m Ashlee.”
The red-haired woman turns around and … oh, Jesus. Of course it’s Amanda Palmer. Well, that would explain the ten degree skew. And the eating the buffet food. People from the East Coast take a while to pick up on all of the L.A. intricacies.
People from the Midwest usually take even longer. Ashlee just got on an accelerated learning track.
“I know,” Amanda says. “Amanda Palmer. Hey, haven’t we met before?”
They haven’t, actually. Pete was doing an on-again with Jeanae toward the end of the Nothing Rhymes with Circus Tour and Ashlee hadn’t really had any reason to be around. She loves The Dresden Dolls, though, has their CDs and actually tried to get to one of their shows in L.A. last year, but never managed. Still, she’s not going into this conversation as a fan.
“Don’t think so,” Ashlee says, smiling the bright, empty smile that usually gets people to talk to her.
Amanda’s eyebrows - or the ink where her eyebrows would normally be - pull together a little. She looks confused. Then, her eyebrows flatten out, like the question she was asking just got answered.
“I’m gonna go smoke,” she says. “Last chance before the surgery in a couple of weeks. Want to come?”
Pete hates it when Ashlee smokes. It’s kind of the last vestige of his straight edge days, as if drinking vodka, popping Xanax recreationally or eating steak aren’t just as much breaking edge.
Fuck it. Ashlee never claimed to be edge. He can regret his own crappy tattoo of his post-adolescent idealist phase on his own.
“Sure,” Ashlee replies, her smile real this time.
*
They’ve been outside by the pool for more than an hour, the unofficial social space for the maligned smokers. Because everyone lies about smoking now, there aren’t many people outside. They did the pleasantries, the “do you know X” and “hey, me too”s. There was blessedly little bullshit talk, no networking and now the conversation is just kind of rambling.
Ashlee kind of wishes she’d grabbed a jacket - lately, it seems like everything in L.A. is a little colder, which doesn’t make any sense. Its 80 degrees outside.
“So this is L.A.,” Amanda says, flipping her bare feet in the water at the edge of the pool.
“Well, it’s a party in L.A. Which is, more or less, L.A.,” Ashlee says taking a deep drag off another cigarette Amanda gave her.
Amanda makes a face. “I don’t know how you do it all the time. I mean, it’s okay to visit - it’s like some kind of Bret Easton Ellis novel out here, all hard edges and cocaine and shit, but … damn, Ashlee. This place is …”
“Shattered,” Ashlee finishes, stubbing out her cigarette on the nubby concrete. “Little broken pieces placed close enough together that they can be mistaken for whole.”
She looks over at Amanda out of the corner of her eye, expecting the “holy shit, Ashlee Simpson has a brain” face. It’s not there.
Amanda just looks thoughtful.
“I like that. You gonna use that in something?” she says, like she never would have expected Ashlee to say anything but interesting things.
Maybe she never would have expected anything else. They have been out here for an hour.
“I don’t know,” Ashlee says. She doesn’t really think about writing anymore. She doesn’t really think about any of it anymore, not since the third album got shelved for the fourth fucking time and Pete actually offered to put it out on Decaydance which … just. No. “I don’t know what I’d use it for.”
“So?” Amanda says, stubbing out her own cigarette. “I never know where shit is going. I’m lucky to know where I’m going.”
But at least you’re going somewhere Ashlee finishes mentally.
Amanda stands up, holds her hand out to help Ashlee up.
“It’s probably time to return to the fray, huh?” Amanda says with a smile and her head tilted a little to the left.
Ashlee nods and looks over Amanda's shoulder to the house full of suits and hungry girls in tight dresses.
She nods again, more to herself this time, her smile not bright or false or anything short of real.
Maybe it’s time for more than that.