So as I write this, Ashlee Simpson's voice is bouncing around the hills of Santa Barbara. I can hear it from my bedroom. To me, this is too funny: a bunch of people who spent a lot of money for prime Santa Barbara real estate but who live unfortunately close to the Santa Barbara Bowl and thusly cannot escape the range of this stupid girl, who can’t sing and has the stage presence of a bucket of pig meat.
I can just imagine some retired Santa Barbara businessman leaning out his window in an effort to hear better. He shakes his head after a few verses. “That girl must be having a bad night.” No, Mr. J. Alfred Pennypacker. No. Everything you’re hearing is pre-recorded. And she was probably having a good day when she pre-recorded.
Thanks, Ashlee, for getting the greater chunk of this side of State Street to close their windows and, just maybe, in an effort to drown out your warbles, converse and consequently reconnect with their loved ones.