Mixing and Editing

Meet the two of the four presenters for Sound Mixing and Sound Editing at the Oscars last night. Now the inevitable reaction of me posting this picture is that around 60% of you will have the urge to emote profuciously in the comments about any one (or all) of the following: Salma Hayek’s – tits, ass, face, lips, eyes, jaw, neck, back, legs, arms, hair, accent, and smile. Boys, please spare us. We all know how devastatingly sexy and beautiful Ms. Hayek is and how much she makes you want to box the Jesuit. But if anybody is gonna be greasing up Salma Hayek around here, it’s gonna be me… suckas!

But moving on..

On a normal day, I have class in the morning and then head to the office for work. I don’t know if it’s fair to call what I do work but I think it’d be accurate to label this place a certified office. Passing through the doors, the first thing I usually see is the plate of tasty delights that Pam has on the corner of her desk – donuts, brownies, cookies, streudel, whatever. If it packs on pounds, it’s on her desk. Usually Pam moves these treats to the kitchen around noon after spending 2 hours lamenting another failed diet.. but I’m not on a diet. I don’t know why I can’t keep these yummies on MY desk. … but moving on. I say hello to all the secretaries (a collection of women that refuse to believe I’m older than 17), stop in the kitchen for some Sprite, wave at Omar at his desk of scouting futility, and then head down the hall and into my own office. By the time I sit down and kick my feet up, something has gone wrong and I’m either in the hall discussing an issue with a player or being lectured on virus updates by the OIT guy, Stan – a Rastafarian that drives a red-paneled child molester van, wears dashikis (hat and all), and reeks of patchouli. I get a contact high every time I run into him. I don’t know what’s going on with this guy but I don’t like it.

The secretaries at the office all have tvs… there’s no cable, mind you, but they have antennas, which means soap operas and talk shows all day, every day. Ellen, Montel, Passions, Dr. Phil, that soap with the serial killer and the rich people, and Oprah. Always Oprah. Entertainer, business woman, middlebrow book critic, dieter, and director of your soul’s salvation, her daily siren song beckons women to gather ’round the tele-pulpit and absorb the gospel. Ah Oprahism, pass a hymnal please. So as you all know, I’m laid up with a concussion and a burst eardrum. Aside from my ear leaking and my stitches giving me a Frankenstein’s monster vibe, I don’t have too many complaints. But due to my “condition,” I wasn’t permitted to go about my usual responsibilities and as a result, found myself trapped in the office with a pounding headache and the sounds of twelve secretaries hopped up on a day’s worth of pastries, coffee, and daytime talk. Dr. Phil was coming to a close, a riveting episode about men that are addicted to porn… since when is this an epidemic? Since when is this a problem? If my man likes to flip through a Playboy and it gets a rise out of him, I’m not gonna complain. I’d rather not be around when he does it but I’ll survive if he’s a “reader.” I can think of worse things than a Playboy spread to which a man can be addicted. But if my man is addicted to amateur or low rent porn, we may have a problem. The first thing I’d be doing is re-evaluating MYSELF. If watching some crack ho with snaggle teeth, acne, and breasts the size of casaba melons take it through the egress does more for him than I can, then I’m in trouble! I must not be as spectacular as I thought. It’s either that or my man is completely jacked up. Either way, I don’t need Dr. Phil to solve it for me. But I digress… Though I’d had the distinct pleasure of talking to super man, Matt Geiger, for quite a while (the only real thumbs up on the afternoon), even that had to end. I got off the phone and headed to the conference room… in the chicken scratch mess of lettering, I decipered what appeared to be, “Postponed. 15 minutes.” Now what? I walked to Omar’s area to hang out and steal some candy. While passing through the main foyer, I heard, “Suburban Teens, The New Prostitutes.” Very refreshing. Was this really the Oprah for today? Oddly enough, no. Sandy, another secretary, was watching an episode that she taped. See, she thinks a girl on her street may very well be a prostitute and she wants to bone up on the warning signs and tactics for confrontation before discussing said issue with the young lady’s parents and then call the police. Thanks Oprah. Vigilantes run rampant in our midst. But the real episode today was Oprah’s post-Oscar bash complete with Hilary Swank and God knows who else. Did it really matter though? Oprah could have an episode about how she blows her nose and ties her shoes and 40 million women would tune in just to see her unlock the magic. Including the office women. They would then incorporate Oprah’s skills and habits into their daily routines and openly bash those who chose not to follow.

Typically, the Oprah talk raises my blood pressure, as I am certain that she is the devil.. or at the very least, one of his minions. It’s not that I don’t respect Oprah. She is a brilliant business woman that has overcome tremendous adversity to parlay her intelligence and acument into a billionaire commercial empire and status as one of the most powerful, influential women in the world. She commands respect… but let me tell you something – Oprah’s meteoric rise from the female equivalent of Geraldo to saint is something that has gone unnoticed for far too long and I plan to expose the madness.

If you’re still reading this post, that means Oprah hasn’t gotten to you and you’re still thinking for yourself. Congratulations. Now let’s continue.

What I’m going to say may be very shocking to you: Oprah Winfrey is the Josef Stalin of Soccer Mom USA. Whether she’s fat, skinny, or in-between, women between 18-65 are lead like lemmings to the sea, as she legislates what to eat, drink, read, and wear. But not me. I hate her show and that bloody magazine. I hate her treasury of cookbooks and self-help guides that she didn’t even write. I hate it when she sings that she’s “every woman” while throwing down ill-advised dance moves in front of America. I hate trying to find my spirit and and I hate her whole bloody empire. And let me tell you, I really hate her bloody book club.

Sisterhood, adversity, abusive husbands, and feel-good tales about the ties that bind. Pick your poison. Oprah’s self-actualized, co-dependent army is full of so many mindless followers that every Book Club Selection, immediately causes a tidal wave of rampant consumerism. And so this literary jetsam washes onto the New York Times Bestseller’s list and into our lives. Why? She’s not a respected author nor is she a respected literary critic. Like it matters. Oprah speaks; the masses read. And I know what you’re thinking – have you even read her books? Yes, I have. I wrote a 35 page essay about Oprah, her dreadful book club, and its impact on literacy. I base my vitriol on 18 book club selections – all touching stories about a woman struggling through adversity only to discover that the true blessings in her life lay in her blah blah… blah. And yet the formula works every time. I don’t mind that she has increased the literacy rates – I applaud her for it. But at the same time, I can’t help but be at least slightly spooked by this reality. One woman with the power to make the millions read?

No matter who you are, Oprah is not like you. The fact that she can co
nvince you that she is should make you even more afraid of her than I am. I’ll probably have my legs broken by angry mobs of women sent by Harpo Productions tomorrow but I don’t care. She is the Pied Piper of the female species. She is leading us down the primrose path right to the damn river with her siren song of book clubs, spirit searching, and her favorite things. She will not drown me, dammit! The rest of you lemmings can follow her every whim but not I! I shall not submit. I shall conquer. I shall rise. One of these days, boys and girls, she and I will do battle…

and the heavens will shake.

Minor Complaints of Sport. Argh!

It’s been a pretty shitty run of days for my teams. First, Arsenal goes out like a rabble of bitches to Bayern Munich. Score? A not completely disastrous 3-1, which means that thanks to a VERY late rebound goal by Koulo Toure, we’re not completely out of the Champions… YET. We have to win 2-0 at Highbury in a couple weeks in order to advance into the quarters. A daunting task given our play of late all season but my hope springs eternal. Something has to go right for once.

Missing Sol Campbell and Ashley Cole in the back was incredibly painful but it made no difference as our big names were completely silent on the night. Henry hardly touched the ball, Vieira kept giving the ball back to the other side, and Ljungberg and Pires both looked like they were playing out of position, which, of course, they were. On top of that, the FA slapped Reyes with a 3 match ban for gettin a little rowdy and Bergkamp’s red card appeal went nowhere. Ah well. Hopefully the boys will really wrap themselves around the classic cliches and be ready to give 110% and leave it all out on the field from whistle to whistle next time out.

And then, the infantile antics of Minnesota Viking receiver Randy Moss have frustrated the American tundra so much that my Raiders are trying to answer the call with Napoleon Harris and a couple draft picks. I don’t know what to make of this. As much as I wish that Moss would a) poke his eye out with, b) be killed by [or c) both] his pick in some freakish afro shaping incident, we really, really, really need him. The Raiders roster is simply devoid of playmaking talent right now and maybe with Moss’s leaping ability, we won’t have to worry about Kerry Collins throwing 3 of every 5 passes 8 yards too high and to the right. Well, we will. But at least we’ll have a receiver that might be able to go-go Gadget his way to the ball.

But… well… it’s just that I hate Randy Moss. Randy Moss is a snatch. And if he scores 4 TDs a game for the next 4 seasons for the Silver and Black, he’ll still be a snatch. I don’t mind people who cause trouble. I mind whiny bitches who don’t try, and Moss is the epitome of that type of athlete. What makes me so nauseated is that if he had half the heart and desire of Tim Brown, he’d be the greatest receiver to ever play the game. But I suppose this is how it has to be. I hated Roger Clemens and A-Rod before they were Yankees. They arrived and though I had no problem appreciating the good they Clemens did for the organization, my hate continued to live strong. So… go Snatch go.

Happy Valentine’s Day..

Much to the chagrin of my boyfriend, Valentine’s really isn’t my day… he’s this hopeless romantic and i’m on the opposite side of the extreme. Ah well. Why can’t things be how they were in elementary school when you bought Transformers valentines and candy hearts with all the writing on them, and went to school the next day knowing that you’d spend the entire morning creating a box out of construction paper and aluminum foil.

That said, this was the precursor to the inevitably traumatic Valentine’s Day party.. the two hours when some of us found out how unpopular we were when we got a Valentine and it turned out to be from our parents and shitty little girls like Amy Cook racked up on cards from everyone in a 3 mile radius. Nah, I’m not bitter. I’ll admit it. I’m harboring a lot of repressed anger from childhood. Another part of my problem is that I hate Hallmark and 1-800-Flowers telling my man when he should be good to me. In my humble opinion, if he’s acting right on the other 364 days, I don’t need a special “holiday” reserved for him to express to me how special he thinks I am. And apart from ALL those things, I don’t like chocolate anyway.. unless it’s in brownies and we baked a whole batch of those yesterday.. YAY!

That’s enough of my rambling because I have to get to work but Happy Valentine’s Day to all. Boys that are proposing today – good luck. Girls that are expecting things (or aren’t), don’t be so hostile if things don’t go perfectly. In the end, you have to remind yourself that he’s a man and though he’s doing the best he can, muck ups are bound to occur. And to my man – baby, I love you, I love you, I love you. You are the best thing to ever happen to me and I can’t imagine life without you. Oh and one other thing – Rest up…

Cheers!

Pats 34, Eagles 17

Okay, my pre-playoffs prediction went nowhere since the Patriots made the Colts look like a team put together by the Special Olympics. Luckily, my Mascot Style may prove itself an accurate judge of the ultimate winner, though it erroneously tabbed the Vikings to defeat the Eagles in a Man vs. Beast Division extravaganza.

Super Bowl Prediction, Mascot Style:
Eagles. These graceful killers of the sky are equipped with skull-crushing beaks and sharp talons three times stronger than a Rottweiler’s bite. The chilling ferocity of their attack is one of the most impressive scenes in nature.

But what good is an aerial attack against the Minutemen – a hand-picked elite force of farmers, fishermen, and tradesmen selected by their commanding officers for their enthusiasm, reliability, and physical strength – when your only experience is against fish, game birds, and small mammals? Though they are a hodgepodge of skills and backgrounds, these men are smart, prepared, and quick. They have mastered guerilla warfare, smooth strategies, and the musket. I highly doubt they’ll struggle to defeat an aerial assault from a bunch of birds; it’s a pigeon shoot.

Winner: Patriots

——-
In my humble, non-mascot prediction considering opinion, I don’t think the Patriots can lose unless, with the score tied 0-0, they spontaneously combust en masse immediately after McNabb has hiked the ball. From there, McNabb will have to either manage not to trip over himself or O-linemen in a mad scramble to the the end-zone or he’ll have to complete a 2-yard toss into the middle of the end zone to a stick-um-covered T.O. And even then, I’d challenge the call.

I don’t know about the rest of you but I’m rooting for the Pats. Sure, I want to see Coach Weis and Big Dave snap up another ring but I’d take more joy in watching the Iggles spend yet another year in the no-championship abyss. I hate them. I hate their organization. I hate the obnoxious, uneducated, slobbering, drooling, annoying pile of crap fans. If God descended in Jayville in a Pats jersey, Filthy fans would throw batteries and cheesesteaks at him. I hate T.O. and his “God has cleared me” bullshit. I hope God clears Rodney Harrison to snap him at the knees. I hate that crackass Freddie Mitchell and his 90 receptions in 4 years shit ass career. I wish Chuck Bednarick would suit up in his 1960s body and blast TO and Mitchell into unconsciousness the way he viciously took out Frank Gifford’s face. I wish Donovan F. McNabb would realize that no amount of cornrows or bowls of Campbell’s can disguise the fact that he’s a big fucking dork better suited to throwing a 20-sided die, wearing chain mail, and swinging a boffer.

It’s only too bad the Iggles didn’t lose to the Falcons and cement themselves in history as one of the greatest assemblages of choke artists in the history of team sports. But maybe it’s all for the best. In 15 hours, the Philadelphia Eagles will have created a brand new category of futility in the annals of sport’s greatest chumps; a category lower than the Bills, the Cubs, and Phil Mickelson. It doesn’t get much better than that.

Patriots - 34
Iggles – 17

ReRe of the Month

In other news, I’m sure most of you have heard about Daunte Culpepper’s faux pas with the paralyzed high school football player. In case you missed it, our favorite Minny mental defective ungifted $75,000 in diamond necklaces from some random paralyzed kid – one was the No. 11 and the other was a large pepper…for Culpepper.

I know it makes little sense for some professional athlete to just hand over $75,000 in bling just because you asked him to but what in the hell was Culpepper thinking? Does the kid really need this crap around his neck? He can’t even move his bloody arms!

I’m just spitballing here but maybe an additional 20 pounds of rock is compounding the issue… Nice moves, Daunte. But we probably can’t blame him. He’s functionally retarded.

Throwing to No. 84 = good. Throwing to non-purple men = bad. Run to the big yellow posts at end of the field = good. Getting tackled by non-purple men = bad. I think Culpepper actually needed his necklaces back.

I’m gonna take a shot in the dark and say that his address is engraved on the opposite side. If he gets lost or has any struggles getting on the short bus, he can turn to the bling. Let’s face it, when you take the helmet and the jersey away, it tends to cloud the issue for some of these guys. “Ah, No. 11… That’s me!” “Pepper… that’s for me!”

There ya go, Daunte! There ya go, buddy! And is all of this really surprising to any of you? He’s a wondertard, but the public is hampered by the fact that we don’t see him without his helmet very often… which may be by design. Just look at him here. Is that guy REALLY aware of what’s going on? If I had to guess, someone told him to put on his helmet; it’s time to finger paint.

The Union’s State…I think

So how many of you deadbeats actually watched the State of the Union Address? … I thought so I’ll admit, I didn’t watch the first time around; I was too busy watching Sky Captain, BUT I caught a repeat late last night. I’m not a big fan of the Address. In principle, I think it’s great, but I’d really prefer the President to just sit down at his desk with some cameras and give his speech rather than watch Congress do the stand up, sit down, fight fight fight routine after every good soundbite (which happens once every 22 seconds it seems).

I want to hear what the President has to say – no more, no less. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I could really do without the partisan cheers and boos and standing and sitting; the scowls of Chappaquidick and Nancy Pelosi; and the look of orgasmic glee from Rick Santorum at the sound of marriage legislation.

I understand the importance of addressing Congress with this speech but in my world, they would sit there silently (gagged and tied down) rather than engage in braindead aerobic exercise. The cameras would focus on the President (and the Grumpy Old Men sitting behind him) and occasionally on the individuals that the President chooses to recognize during his speech (clapping is permitted for them).

Addresses set the tone as well as the agenda for an administration’s term and in 2002, we were given the “axis of evil” and the drumbeats of war. We all know what followed. This time, the domestic agenda (primarily Social Security) was the focus. The speech wasn’t a blueprint for reform, nor was it expected to be, as I understand.

Plans and changes were never espoused but the President gave us explanations, reassurances, options, and the news that SS is on a crash course to bankruptcy. This revelation elicited some boos from the crowd, but why?

If I’m not mistaken, President Clinton said similar things in his 1999 Address and no one uttered a sound. According to the Congressional Budget Office, the system will begin paying out more than it takes in around 2020 and be bankrupt by 2042.

I took bankrupt to mean that it’ll be unable to continue in its desired form, not totally bereft of funds. So basically when we all retire (except for you, kindly older readers), we’re toast. At least the AARP crowd is okay. I’m also somewhat impressed – the President nailed his colours to the mast on this one… The chances of reform hinge on his ability to change the political landscape to make Democratic opposition unsustainable. Fat chance.

In addition to the domestic matters, the President promised a more diplomatic America; he stressed soft power, hinted at multilateralism, and reiterated that the rhetoric of his inaugural hymn of praise to liberty was not just windy aspiration but a guide to our foreign policy. Highlights and goals as the President saw them:

Confirmation of a tilt from unilateralism? Possibly. It was tough (though sometimes idealistic) rhetoric. But it sounded good if it can all come to pass. Another plus is that this is the first time the President sounded like the leader of the free world from beginning to end and wasn’t standing in the middle of ground zero.. but maybe we should thank his speech writer for that. I’m no political pundit by any means, but as a random person with dual citizenship and an unusual place in the world, I was pleased.

** It’s very possible that I made this post simply so I could do something with the above picture… Sorry. **