Kristen — Ashley Alexandra Dupre — is poised to blow up. Two days ago she was just your typical, anonymous, young woman struggling to get ahead in the big City. A nobody. You know the type: the Myspace page with the requisite tagged photos of her “getting wasted”; lame dream of a music career replete with overproduced, utterly forgettable song; numerous bare-chested hangers-ons and playa “friends.” Standard shit, going nowhere.
But last night everything changed. Ashley Alexandra Dupre hit the lottery. Her John — the Governer of New York — got busted in an International Sex Scandal. Her pseudonym, “Kristen,” was famous. And it was only a matter of time before the media found out her real name. A blink of an eye later and they would find her Myspace page. And then they would see she was a budding musician, and then they would hear her song, and then they would report all of this to the assembled masses…
Yup, Ashley Dupre is poised to follow her predecessors in sluttiness down the path of skank fame and hard-fucked riches. Don’t believe me? Check the front of the line. Okay, who’s that? Why Pamela Anderson of course, clan matriarch. Pretty much a forgettable bimbo until that tape of her and Tommy Lee “mysteriously” got released. Next? Paris. Utterly B-list until that videotape of her fucking appeared. (The fact that she did so in the most blase and disinterested manner only adding to her cred). After that? Oh hello Kim Kardashian, you of the fat ass, mediocre looks, moderately familiar family name, and low expectations, what do you have there? Why is that a videotape of you and “Ray-Jay” doing some dirty shit? “Yes.” And did that video somehow make its way to the Intertubes despite being “locked in your room?” “Oh My God!” Oh well, why don’t we give you a show on E!? — “that’d be great!” — well we are thrilled to have you — “why thank you!” — you’re welcome — “I’m famous!” — yes you are.
Ashley’s next. And she’s courting it. You don’t agree? Then consider this…
She had two days to take down her Myspace page. “Nope.” She had two days to hide the photos on said site. “Ooops.” The tale of woe about how she left home at 17 and had to make it in the big city? “My bad, sooo embarrassing!” The songs? “Market them on more sites.” What, no Facebook page Ashley? “Maybe I should set one up.” Where do we find you? “The Flatiron District…but say I want the press to leave me alone.” People are buying your song Ashley! “Raise the price!” But what about the shame?
“This is my chance! Time to court the fame, pout the lips, strut the boobs! I’ll play sad and express regret, act embarrassed and tell them I wish things had worked out differently. They’ll see my sorrow, accept my apologies, and feel my plight. And, all of a sudden, guess what? It’s Friday night. Every edgy, self-respectingly ironic, and uber-cool DJ in town will know which song needs to be played…mine! After that its an interview with Vanity Fair, an appearance at LAX, a bikini-shot on a Malibu beach, a record deal, and I’ve made it!”
“Now where did I put that video I’ve been meaning to hide?”