In a generous response to my request, I had been sent three emails “remember the microphone!” We were talking about the Shure microphone I had promised to bring in for a test recording that was expected by the client the following day.
The reminder floated up from my subconscious at precisely 2:00 AM—waking me. Had I not seen the microphone as a prop in a mock KaraOK performance in the hall? Had this not starring my five year old? This can NOT be good.
I began a systematic search of the entire house. By 4:00 AM I enlisted the aid of the perpetrators themselves, waking each child in turn with the somewhat desperate refrain, “Where’s the microphone?” No useful recollections were forthcoming from their semi-stupor.
Years from now, as I clean out some long forgotten box of toys, I will find a microphone, of this I am “shure.”
Update: Emerson, my son, is 10 now, and I have still not found that microphone.