When . . .
do I get . . .
to win?
Saturday, January 01, 2005
Monday, December 27, 2004
This is the part about lip synching that I don't get.
Its your song. You sang it. Its your voice that's being played from the amplified sound equipment. Its not like you've never put the words to voice before. So then how the hell can you not be able to match up to your original song? This seems like a simple matter of vigilant practice. If you actually do your bloody job, and learn the stupid version of the song that you've committed to the backing track, then how can you not be able to lip sync it when you pretend to do it live?
Girls? Go back to the damn studio, and learn your flippin' song! You can all go get drunk, stoned, and turned inside out by whatever Neanderthal gorilla that has your panties in a twist, AFTER your put in the twenty god damn minutes a day it takes to make sure you can live up to your celebrity! The celebrity that got you into the club underaged. The fame that got you the narcotics for free, from the shady guy that seems to know everyone. And the mystique it took to convince a guy twice your age that it was worth the risk to bend you over the marble counter-top in the men's restroom for 5 minutes of sweaty, but meaningless visceral thrill.
Its your song. You sang it. Its your voice that's being played from the amplified sound equipment. Its not like you've never put the words to voice before. So then how the hell can you not be able to match up to your original song? This seems like a simple matter of vigilant practice. If you actually do your bloody job, and learn the stupid version of the song that you've committed to the backing track, then how can you not be able to lip sync it when you pretend to do it live?
Girls? Go back to the damn studio, and learn your flippin' song! You can all go get drunk, stoned, and turned inside out by whatever Neanderthal gorilla that has your panties in a twist, AFTER your put in the twenty god damn minutes a day it takes to make sure you can live up to your celebrity! The celebrity that got you into the club underaged. The fame that got you the narcotics for free, from the shady guy that seems to know everyone. And the mystique it took to convince a guy twice your age that it was worth the risk to bend you over the marble counter-top in the men's restroom for 5 minutes of sweaty, but meaningless visceral thrill.