Ranting wrap

R

After a million tutorials on Ableton Live and still not being able to turn my mic on and record my voice saying hello and play it back so that it was audible, I went into my closet last night around eleven… yes. I know. I went into my closet. Haha. Funny. Someone must be laughing. Anyway, I went into my closet, where my podcast studio has been built, and opened my computer. This is the night it works, I thought to myself. I’ve got fifteen minutes till Colbert. Say something magical.

I pushed the white button on my audio interface until it went red. Red is good. Red means on. I navigated the jungle of Windows 10 and opened Ableton Live Lite (the cheap confusing version of the expensive confusing version), I put on my headphones, I hit the record button, and… just started ranting for about eight minutes. I hit the playback button and nothing happened. What a surprise. The easy-to-use solution for all my audio hardships won’t even record me saying hello. I need to take a class on how to click the record button, apparently. Who made this damn software? Well, Ableton I suppose. But whose idea was it to hide how to actually use it?

“Should we let our customers know how it works?”

“You mean, so they can use it?”

“That’s right Jerry.”

“Heck no George, that’s not what we’re all about. We’re not going to help mold closet DJs to act like they’re musicians! Make it so they don’t even know where the on button is.”

“Good idea Jerry. That’s why you get paid in blow jobs.”

“Damn right it is George, damn right it is.”

That was a weird imaginary conversation that definitely did not happen. Anyway, fuck it, I thought. I see the audio waves. Something must have recorded. I’ll export the shit anyway.

So, I exported the wave file and played it back on some audio player that wasn’t Ableton Live and it fuckin worked. It’s eight minutes of me ranting about how pissed I am that the damn expensive podcast equipment doesn’t fuckin work, I even talk about the guy at Guitar Center. I talk about the cop from London that I met in Nashville at my hostel the other week, I talk about prank calling my girlfriend and how funny that would be.

Then I start talkin about–what did I talk about? Oh right. I start talkin about that chick who broke the Guinness World record for longest motorcycle journey in a single country.

Did you know they included her in the print version of the book and they excluded me? They included longest motorcycle journey, longest kayaking journey, longest skateboarding journey, longest everything journey but they didn’t include longest car journey? Are you fucking serious?

Whose idea was that? 

“Hey! We got all the journeys… well, all of them except that guy who kept emailing us every day those annoying questions–the car guy. Should we just leave him out? To fuck with him?”

“Leave out the longest road trip?

“Yeah, just to fuck with him. He’s the guy that emailed us his expense report saying that he was hemorrhaging money to make this happen and that our support team was shit.”

“OOOoohhh, that guy!”

“Yeah, him.”

“Leave him out. Fuck that guy.”

“Copy.”

Anyway, I wonder if they had that conversation? I even went to their headquarters in New York to do a Facebook Live with them and they left me out. I wonder if I can still find it–the Facebook Live. I bet I can. Point is they shoulda put me in the book. Now I’m only online, and online isn’t as good as offline.

Okay well, this post was about nearly nothing. But it’s almost 9AM and I need to move onto more productive shit. Consider this a ranting wrap.

About the author

Greg
Greg

I'm a high school dropout who escaped reform school when I was sixteen and hitchhiked the country as a homeless teen till I finally made sense of the world. I now work as a travel writer, marketer, publicist, I published a book and broke the guinness world record for longest road trip. I've done some other crazy shit too. But I'm still alive and seven years sober. Enjoy my insanity...

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