Okay, I didn’t literally marry my father, but sometimes I am amazed at the similarities between Daddy and Mark. And I know Daddy used to groan and not particularly want to be compared to Mark, just like Mark did today when I said, “I married my father!!”
I have been attempting to do some voice work for my dear friend Steve who I’ve worked with at Mix 102.9 in Dallas, ABC Radio in Dallas, and StarSystem here in Austin. Now he owns a radio station in Gainesville and I’ve done a couple of commercials for him, but I still haven’t gotten my “studio” tweaked the way I want it to be to sound right when I record for him. Upon his advice, I bought a good piece of equipment to process the signal and make my voice sound warmer and fuller. Mark brought me a great microphone (well, he’s brought me a couple actually). But the sound still didn’t sound right. Steve’s advice was that I needed a microphone filter.
Everyone has heard someone POP their P’s when they’ve been on a microphone. It’s something that disc jockies learn to control and radio station equipment is also designed to eliminate that burst of air from making a sound through the mic. Steve sent a link to one he recommended, but I hadn’t wanted to invest yet.
I asked Mark about his thoughts on a filter for the mic and where I should go to get one and asked if he already had one (that’s a great thing about Mark, most things I ask for in the way of wires, cables, audio equipment, etc., he already has it!). Mark said, “Here’s what you need to do. Get you one of those round things that you do needlepoint or whatever in.” An embroidery hoop? “Yeah, that. Get one of those and pull some pantyhose across it and you’ve got yourself a filter.” No way! “Sure, that’s all they are.” Right. Am I going to believe that?
So today he needed to go to Guitar Center and I tagged along. Then I thought about needing a microphone filter and figured they would have them. They did: At $20, $30, $50, and $70. So I asked what was the difference between the lower priced models and the higher priced models. The clerk was knowledgeable and said, basically, these two cheaper ones, they are like, just a hoop, with, like, nylon hose pulled across them. Incredible! Exactly what Mark had said. So, did I rush home and get my embroidery hoop and pantyhose and save $20? No, of course not. I still wanted the cool looking filter that attaches to the mic stand and looks impressive. I paid the $20. No, I let Mark pay the $20. Thank you dear.
Now why is that like my Dad? I’m sure I have other examples of Daddy saying the most ludicrous statements and thinking he was either losing his mind or just was simply mistaken, my favorite happened only 15 years ago or so. I say that so you’ll know I wasn’t just a rebellious teenager that refused to listen to my parents. I said something to the folks about not having any tomatoes on my big tomato plants despite a lot of blooms. Daddy said, “Here’s what you need to do. Get your broom and go out there and just wail the tar out of those bushes.” I thought he had to be out of his mind. He didn’t offer any explanation. Would the tomatoes cower in fear and say, “Okay, we give, here’s your stinking tomatoes”? I think I did do it and I don’t really remember if tomatoes immediately popped up, but one day I was listening to a garden show on the radio and someone had the same problem. The host offered the solution of going out and shaking or striking the tomato plants in order to shake up the blooms and the pollen and get things going. Unbelievable, Daddy knew exactly what he was talking about.
Obviously, I immediately began believing everything my father advised from then on out (NOT!) and I’m sure I will do the same with Mark.
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I have just begun a new family history project. If you want to follow along on the progress, you certainly can. Right now it is just off-the-cuff, writing from memory, and I will fill in more details as I go. We will call it Janice’s Big Family Project and you can find it here.
I miss my daddy. quirky but he was my daddy!
Comment by Mackie — June 20, 2009 @ 10:58 pm