I’m a Voice Talent, but I’m No Superman

I’ll be even less super by the end of this blog


A Super Photo Shoot

Clark Kent Superman Me

I rebranded, if you haven’t noticed, and it’s marvelous.  All the colors of red, white, blue and yellow are there, and can be easily seen with X-Ray vision if you look close.  My photographer brother-in-law takes great photos with a high-res camera that I’m told can let you see inside my pores, if you zoom in close enough.  I’ll not be doing that myself.  I don’t need to see inside my own pores, and I don’t think you need to either.  Jimmy Hoffa may be in there. Or the TV remote that we lost three years ago. Or perhaps the cure for coronavirus, or at least something called "coronavision", so that I can see who has it and who doesn't, and take evasive action.

My new rebranding is along the lines of Superman.  Why, you ask?  Do I think that I'm actually Superman?  Most assuredly not.  Let me take a moment to remind my readers of my weight.  There, I just reminded you of my weight, but I did it using my superpowers: I did it so fast that you probably didn’t even notice.  I just did it again!  You probably didn’t catch that either.  Watch closely, and I’ll do it in super slowmo – oh, there it was again and I still don’t think you caught it because due to my superpowers it was imperceptible to the naked eye.  See?  That was both in an effort to demonstrate my extreme superpowers at detailing my current weight, and also my extreme embarrassment at detailing my current weight.

No, as Lazlo Bane sings, I’m no Superman.  After all, Superman had the figure of a Norse God (except he was Kryptonian), the chiseled looks of a blonde surfer (except he was brunette), and the sheer might of Arnold Schwarzenegger (except he wasn’t Austrian and didn’t hunt down Sarah Conner in an endoskeleton).

I have three things that pretty much inform everyone around me that I truly am no Superman:

  1. Flabby midsection
  2. Saggy man-breasts
  3. Ability to sniff out the nearest Taco Bell within 300 miles


Do I aspire to greatness?  Yes.  Do I wish I truly did have superpowers?  Yes.  Actually the greatest superpower I could wish for would be that slingy, sticky web stuff to shoot out of my wrist so I could open the fridge from the recliner and grab my soda and then sling it back here without having to get up.  Ahhhhhhhhhhh…all in a day’s work.  Now back to People’s Court, because I stand for truth, justice, and Marilyn Milian.

Or I’d like to have the super ability to quickly do laundry.  “Doing the laundry” - laundry apparently being a word in singular form - is a highly deceptive term considering that it usually is comprised of folding 47,296 plural items, and requires approximately 8 consecutive days and 291 espressos.  I would like to be able to “do the laundry” in 8 seconds.

No.  My knees hurt, my head aches, and I often get a pain I can’t locate.  I now need glasses to see anything that comes within 3 miles of my face.  Otherwise I’m just seeing shadows and shapes, and fumbling about when I try to spoonfeed my infant, only to later slip on my glasses and find that I’ve slathered Gerber food all over our 7-year-old labrador Macy, who is at this point ecstatic.  I could try Lasik, but it wouldn’t help me, as they are required to have me do that eyesight test beforehand, and I’d just end up getting Gerber food on all the wrong letters.


Slowly Becoming Un-Super

I think that there’s something that magically happens when you turn 30 and begin to slowly and painfully disintegrate.  As Brian Regan jokes, you wake up and then say to yourself, “Oh that’s right, I hurt.”  I imagine one day I’ll be shopping, and my arm will simply fall off because it’s grown tired of hanging on for far too long, like that Zombie in Thriller.  Then the overhead PA will say “Cleanup of dismembered former super-limb on Aisle 7!” and they’ll whisk me out of there as soon as possible so as not to frighten the young superheroes in produce.

I’ll never forget the moment in time I received the stark realization that I was not, in fact, Superman.  Never mind the fact that my voice sometimes needs extra warm-ups for all these scripts, or my lungs cry out desperately for some tree-trunk of a paramedic to come resuscitate me and make these wimpy sacks carry actual oxygen again.  I’m talking about when I realized that my body was no longer, in fact, super.  I happened to be wearing a “Superman” T-Shirt and was flying (ok, running fastly with my arms out in front of me) down the halls of our old church, when I bumped into old “Gramma Jean.”  We bantered, as Superman-wearing wannabes and adorably squeezable old grannies are wont to do, when at one point I asked her what she thought of my shirt, and with my curly-cue, didn’t I look like Superman?

“Well, you should lose some weight first.”

Instantly what went through my mind was “How much can I do to an 80-year-old Grannie and legally get away with?”  Feasibly I could throw dead spiders at her, call her a mean name and scamper out of there before a tree-trunk of a paramedic came barreling down on me and knocked the wind back out of me.  Ouch!  I could take the paramedic…but brutally honest Gramma Jean?  Not a chance.

That was the day the super music died.


The Capeless Non-Wonder

Superman Clark Kent

Fast forward about 10 years to my rebranding photo shoot, and I was now asking my photographer brother in law to photoshop out my fat rolls, slim down my neck fat and smooth out my man-boobs.  Unfortunately, it always comes down to my running tab of 15,000 lifetime soft tacos (and counting!)  Because the most effective way I’ve learned how to avoid eating soft tacos is to not avoid eating soft tacos.

Avoid them??  That’s about as impossible as putting my AirPods back into their case correctly, even if you gave me a Thomas Guide, Octopus arms, and the mad skills of Houdini.  (Sidebar: Thomas Guide Houdini Octopus Man sounds rather like a nifty superhero name.  You read it here first, folks.)

Even sadder is that in such a seemingly easy activity, I just want to sleep.  This is due to the fact that I have a preschooler and an infant who were given to us by a God who apparently thought it would be enjoyable to watch rest and recuperation evaporate from our lives.  In his supernatural wisdom, He has graciously given us tiny humans who are genetically programmed to systematically remove things that we once cherished, such as sleep, shower privacy, TV remotes, money, alone time, patience, freedom, the will to live, and basically anything that we wanted to have all to ourselves, which brings me back to soft tacos.

So I sleep instead, to pass the time until they’re 18 and we can send them off to The University of Deprogramming and Sensitivity Reinforcement, where they can hopefully mature, discover, adopt new behaviors, learn what it means to be selfless, and really truly grow as a sensitive human being, at which point the University will automatically swap them out and return other good kids to us because yeah these ones don’t do that.

Just kidding.  I love my kids.  They’re great.  Especially when they give you that heartwarming, adorable, life-giving, memory-making expression that says, “You will not win.”

So I’m tired all the time.  I fall asleep in a chair at 9pm while trying to put my preschooler to sleep.  The “superhero” always seems to crash before the preschooler at 9pm.  Or 6pm.  Or 10am.  Or anytime I assume any kind of a non-standing position and my body instantly says OK YOU WILL SLEEP NOW.  I blame the stupid, magnificently comfortable plush people-eating chair, because it is impossible for me to stay awake anymore.


Only Human

There are definitely things in my life that I’ve done that have most assuredly NOT been super, and that I wish I could take back.  Such as:

  • The time where those guys on the highway came speeding up to my left and tried to merge in front of me, and I intentionally cut them off.  Actually I'm not sorry about that one.
  • The time I bought those two delicious Hostess pies and brought one home for my wife, which was in my stomach with the other one that I bought for myself.
  • The time where my brothers and I shaved "Boz" into the fur of our dog.
  • The time where as a young adult I attended a Seattle Mariners game in full Mariners garb, and after the game those adorable teenage girls thought I was Omar Vizquel and accosted me in the parking lot for a signature, so I told them that I wasn't Omar Vizquel, and signed their T-shirts as...Omar Vizquel.  True story.
  • The time as a teenager where that customer was mean to me in Dairy Queen, and so I flicked a booger into his burger and snickered as I thought of his “booger burger.”

Just kidding about that last one.  I would never flick a booger into someone’s burger, what kind of un-super person do you think I am?

It was his milkshake.

Oh well.  So I’m not super, but I’ll gladly take a voiceover rebranding photo shoot pretending to be super, just so that I can sit back, and dream…of soft tacos. (Which, since I haven’t realized by now that that’s my kryptonite, then I don’t really deserve to be super after all.)

On a SERIOUS note: be healthy and well out there, everyone.  May this pandemic pass us by quickly.



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Joshua Alexander
Seattle Voice Actor & Voiceover Talent for hire

6 thoughts on “I’m a Voice Talent, but I’m No Superman”

  1. Josh,
    I believe that we all feel this way as we get older. Our bodies fail us and everything that can go wrong, will.
    Someone said, the older we get, the closer we are to death. Once you reach an age that is over half of the average life expectancy, you begin to wonder if your dreams will come through the haze that’s developed in your future. It’s easy to lose hope and begin to see yourself as less than what you thought you where yesterday. I know. I’ve been through this.
    There are days that doing something else other than what you should be doing is more attractive and we can make justifications that what we are doing is the right thing. This is especially strong when our body tries to take control of our minds. Funny how that works.
    These are the times when we (as Voice Talents and Actors) encourage each other and look for ways to call upon accountability. So, wither you are one of those needing the encouragement or in a time of struggle, both sides need to reach out and MAKE each other SUPER again!

  2. Ha! You may not be Clark Kent, but you are pretty super.
    I’m so looking forward to turning 40 next year. Most of my joints are excited too; they literally crackle with excitement every time I move…

      1. How about joints that cackle, anybody else’s cackle? At least I don’t have cankles that cackle, nor do I even have cankles that don’t cackle. All I know is that I’m thankful that I’m not cankful, or something like that.

        Signed, Theresa “Cankle-less Koenke” Diaz, or maybe “The Cankle-less Wonder?” aka mild-mannered T Diaz when I’m not wearing the cape!

        PS: Thanks, Joshua, for the laughs. Keep ’em coming, please. I think we all need a bit of levity now more than ever these days . . . and cackles, even!

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