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 convince 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.