Don’t know when I’ll be back again
If you’ve been following my blog - and I have no idea why you wouldn't do such a thing - then you’ll know we’re moving. By that I don't mean that people are emotionally impacted by listening to us. Not that kind of moving. The kind of moving that is forged in the fires of Sorrow, fueled by the despair of billions of atoms of Woe, and then slathered with a thick coating of Misery. You know the Sorrow that I mean: it's the same thing you feel when you go to Claim Jumper and they’re out of BBQ Chicken Pizza. I think I have your attention now.
We’re preparing for a BIG move. It’s coming up in exactly 21 days, or, as it is known in Voiceover Time, RIGHT FREAKING NOW. At least that’s what it feels like, because there’s so much pressure in moving, akin to the pressure you receive from that one voiceover client who needs pickups for their project RIGHT FREAKING NOW. I believe I read somewhere that “failure to plan on your part does not constitute a RIGHT FREAKING NOW emergency on my part.” Can I get an Amen? As a voice talent, I’m acutely aware of the need to be ready at any given moment to produce. It’s in our DNA as voice talent. In fact scientists and biologists, in an ever-expanding search to find the cure for COVID-19 (apparently there were 18 before this one and we haven't figured it out yet), have studied voice talent, and they found that deep within their DNA coding, there are genetic blueprints akin to those found in microwaves, which I assume they've also studied. Heck, I myself study microwaves as I sit and wait for the popcorn bag to get bigger and bigger. It gives me hope for the human race that there are YouTube videos on how to cook a bag of popcorn in a microwave.
Let's get back on track here. As I said, we’re moving. It’s coming up quick, and there’s still a lot to do. The one thing that I am most definitely NOT looking forward to is the dismantling of my beloved StudioBricks voiceover booth, which we assembled in this video. I have affectionately nicknamed her “Shaniqua Poison.” She’s my girl. She and I go way way back, to August of 2019 (so, less than one year, which is only way way back instead of way way WAY back), when I first began to depend on her for quality voiceovers. She’s a tantalizing work of art, much like a steaming hot plate of lobster smothered in so much I-Can’t-Believe-It’s-Not-Butter that I can literally hear my arteries hardening. It’s beauty personified. Oh Shaniqua, Shaniqua…how I’m not looking forward to dismembering you.
The good thing is, my voiceover booth, my beloved Shaniqua, is for all intents and purposes a giant Lego building set. I’ll disassemble her in stages, and as long as I’m not crushed by the giant falling glass door that is the same weight as Jupiter, I should be OK.
Never the twain shall meet
So, come the end of the month, we’ll be heading south to a brand new location, and only when we get there will be when we clap our hands to our cheeks and cry out “Kevin!” realizing that we brought all the boxes but forgot our children crawling around on the floor at home. We have temporarily renamed both of our children to ‘Kevin’ in order to facilitate this.
Moving is a pain. I like it about as much as being poked repeatedly in the face by my son who wants me to get up at 5am on a Saturday. It's in those moments where I find that you truly CAN love someone, and yet still want to see how much you can get for them on eBay.
Moving is a chore, and it’s an emotional drain. At least that’s what my psychologist says. He’s a delightful chap: I found him in the Yellow Pages under an ad that said “Are you a Voiceover Artist and you're moving south and don’t know if you can handle moving AND disassembling Shaniqua? I can help, especially if your son is poking you in the face. Call 1-800-MOVE-SUX for astronomically-priced counseling services and free beer. Oh yeah and you forgot your kids!” I found his ad curiously specific.
I think everyone who is a voice talent knows full well how difficult it is to move a voiceover studio. It doesn't matter if you're moving three hundred miles or three feet. You've got work to do. As for me, I’ve got to pack or dismantle:
- Shaniqua (Miss Poison if you’re nasty)
- Mic cables
- Power cables
- Headphone cables
- Other cables that I'm sure I'll need to buy because I've bought everything else twice since we can't find any of our other cables because everything is in the garage and this sentence has grown tiresome
- LED lights
- My interface
- My computer monitors
- My Yamaha HS5’s
- My Sennheiser 416's
- My mic stand
- My other stand
- My ability to stand
- My script desk
- My iPad
- My studio monitor
- Other little things
- LOTS and LOTS of more and more OTHER little things
- The Jenga tower that I worked so hard to put together
Calgon, take me away. So much to be done, and my I-Can't-Believe-It's-Not-Butter-Lobster is getting cold.
Thank God we hired movers this time around. But peacefulness and moving? Harrumph. Never the twain shall meet. It’s a complex process filled with stress and packing and checklists and planning and stress and budgeting and stress and spreadsheets and organization and coordination and stress. I cannot stress how stressful it is without stressing the stressfulness of the stress, which is happening RIGHT FREAKING NOW.
Someone call my shrink.
The Immovable Object
On top of all the hundreds of various components required to enable my voiceovers, there’s also the four-hundred-million-seven-hundred-thousand-eight-hundred-seventy-seven Pixar toys, puzzle pieces and plastic dinosaurs that are not sold separately from small children. When you have a kid, they are automatically included. I remember wheeling a huge wheelbarrow out of the hospital when our firstborn arrived. It took everything to load up my SUV and cram my wife in there. It was only when we got home that I noticed my phone was ringing off the hook with a frantic call from the night nurse asking us if we still wanted our baby. Apparently we leave our kids behind a lot. I told her to just relax; we'd be back to pick up Kevin momentarily.
Moving is hard. It's not easy in ANY respect to get all of this done, and it’s taken a potent prescription of Ibuprofen, bourbon, and whacking myself repeatedly in the head with a sledgehammer to drown out the frustration.
In addition, I recently came to the tender conclusion that I was not in fact twenty any longer. My body decides, at random intervals, to just suddenly stop doing things that are perhaps critical for survival. Just the other day, while stewing in my thoughts about the move, I realized I wasn't breathing. Apparently I can no longer remember to think and remember to breathe simultaneously. And yesterday morning, after repeated trips up and down the attic ladder carting massive tubs of unnecessary books (belonging to my wife) that were approximately the weight of your average Honda, I noticed that my knees feel like that slushy mix of cottage cheese, crumbled Saltine crackers and Sadness.
My only consolation will be driving down the road with Shaniqua stacked neatly in the back of my van, listening to that great John Denver song, “I’m leavin’…on a Voiceover Jetplane…don’t know when I’ll be back again…ooh babe, I hate to go…”
It will be nice to finally get there...but then the dreaded unpacking begins. I truthfully can't wait until it's all over with. Oh, Shaniqua. It’ll be pure heaven seeing you all setup in our new abode. It’ll be a treat to see you assembled, like a big gigantic gleaming white Lego block, and hop into my beautiful ivory tower once more. How I shall bound into thee! How I shall record once again in thee! How we shall be one again at last! Oh to be in the studio yet again, and to record, and know precisely where my studio is located. I shall not care that the box of spoons is somewhere in the house and we just don’t know where! I shall not care that the remote for the TV is sitting in a box we know not where! I shall not care that my toothpaste is packed into that one box under the piano and I can't get to it until April. All shall be well again!
Well, it’s getting late and I guess I had better head back north to pick up our kids in the old house RIGHT FREAKING NOW. C'mon now, say it with me:
HEY. WAIT JUST A S.E.C.!
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