Last week I attended a meeting where the Los Angeles County Registrar of Voters addressed my regional grassroots group and answered questions. Because she’s quite the piece of work (she posesses the lovely combination of being lazy, slick, dismissive, single-minded, defensive and pretty damned close to being evil, trying to appear personable and open to voters’ concerns whilst dancing a little side step), a few people decided they needed transcripts of her hour and fifteen minutes at the mike. And I was asked if I could type up such a transcript from digital audio.
“Sure,” I said, “not a problem.”
G-d, sometimes I’m such a fucking idiot.
I mean, I know I’m not the fastest typist around, but I’ve had some experience with transcribing before. However, transcribing from a thirty minute Dictaphone using a foot pedal with the speaker talking clearly and succinctly into the mike is one thing. Trying to transcibe a seventy-five minute meeting with different voices and occasional heated debate? Not to mention a few voices that manage to hit all the wrong nerves, even though the majority of the voices are speaking clearly into the microphone?
Painful in the extreme. And I’m still working on this g-ddamned thing.
The only balm in this nightmare is hearing MusicianMan’s low, soft-spoken, soothing voice so often on the recording, as he moderated the Q&A part of the evening. It’s probably the only thing that is keeping me from beating his pretty little head in for asking me to do this in the first place.
When the hell did I become such a sucker for good-looking dark-haired men with piercing brown eyes and gently wry voices? Oh yeah, pretty much since forever.
I’m *thisclose* to asking for the sweet hand of death…