My Kingdom For a Speakon Barrel

I am weird.

I know that most of you are chortling wildly at the immensity of that understatement, but I've recently realized that I take my own strangeness for granted. I think this is because more and more of my friends are simply getting used to the fact that I'm a few fries short of a Happy Meal – and because of that, I'm not constantly being reminded of it. Nana, my roommate since 2003, has been almost completely numbed to my insanity… to the point where, if she were to come home and find me standing in the kitchen mooing at the top of my lungs wearing tap shoes, she would simply nod at me on her way to the refrigerator.

This is, of course, an extreme case of desensitization that will probably only be cured by years of psychotherapy – but I'm definitely sensing this kind of trend amongst some of my other close friends as well. It's great, most of the time – as I don't have to answer such questions as, "What's wrong with you?" and "Do I need to call someone?" quite as frequently.

However, there's a down side to this phenomenon of desensitization – and that's the fact that I often fail to remember that there are those individuals out there who are COMPLETE STRANGERS to the realm of AmyLand. I was reminded of this lesson two weeks ago before the last Transitions meeting… which leads us to…

AMY'S GREAT ADVENTURES, EPISODE XXIII: My Kingdom For A Speakon Barrel

I had A Plan.

It was simple, really. I was going to leave work promptly at 5:00 pm, jump on the A train just two quick stops to Jay St/Borough Hall, run upstairs to the 5^th floor of 163 Livingston Street to put my stuff down, take a solid 30 minutes to chill and relax, grab some grub and be ready for worship team rehearsal at 6:00 pm. Simple.

AmyLand Stranger: … okay, sounds good. So what happened next?

AmyLand Veteran: LOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOL.

The first part of The Plan went quite smoothly – I left work right at 5:00 and squeezed myself onto a downtown A train (motto: If You See Something, Then Obviously We Can Fit More People In This Subway Car). I was upstairs at 163 Livingston at around 5:20 and found some of the Transitions leaders already setting up. I happily greeted some of them, and then went over to chat with Dave about the worship songs. However, Dave was in Tech Mode.

Tech Mode (n.):

A frame of mind triggered by an inordinate amount of technology-related work to be done in a very small window of time. A person in this state will be unable to respond to requests, questions or statements (such as "Hi") that are outside of the technological arena, because his/her entire world is made up only of cords, cables and speakers.

editor's note: Anyone who does not understand technology should STEER CLEAR of an individual experiencing Tech Mode, both for his/her own safety and the safety of those around him/her.

Fortunately, having worked in theatrical productions for a number of years, I immediately recognized this syndrome and attempted to steer clear... as my technological IQ is just slightly below that of a doorknob. Because of this, I have a slight case of TechPhobia – so moving away from the situation was definitely the best course of action.

I remembered The Plan, and went to put down my belongings and go grab some food. On my way out, I heard a sound of exasperation coming from the closet, so I peeked my head around. Dave was standing there, cell phone in hand, looking very disgruntled. Before I knew what was happening, the words were out of my mouth:

"Are you okay? Do you need help?"

In case you ever find yourself in this situation, this is the WORST POSSIBLE QUESTION that a technological ninny such as myself can ask someone in Tech Mode. People who have made this mistake in the past have found themselves knee-deep in wires holding a set of completely incomprehensible instructions longer than the US Tax Code. I realized this immediately after asking the question, and briefly considered just turning tail and running before I heard the answer, but I stuck around long enough to hear the response:

"I need… *sigh*… I need a cable! I need to go to Sam Ash to get a cable. No, not Sam Ash. That one by Atlantic… uh, uh, uh… Guitar Center, yeah. Hey – do you drive? You drive. Can you go to Guitar Center for me to get a cable? *hands keys*"

It was at this point that I realized two things. First, I realized that Tech Mode is a very, very serious disease that should immediately and unquestionably be added to the DSM-IV. Second, I realized that poor Dave had absolutely NO IDEA about AmyLand. For those of you who are AGA veterans, you know that the very concept of handing your keys to me IN GENERAL is an invitation for Disaster to come to dinner – let alone asking me to go to a technology store to purchase a technological item that is very important to the success of a major event taking place less than an hour from that moment. However, I knew that this was important and that there wasn't anyone else available at that moment, so I agreed.

I quickly determined that the car idea was not the best course of action – since you'd have a better chance of winning the lottery than finding parking near Atlantic and Flatbush – so I decided to jump on the bus instead. I started getting my stuff together and then asked, "okay, so I just need to buy a cable, right?"

"Okay, so here's what you're gonna do. I'm gonna need an eighth inch to two XRL males, and actually, yeah, can you grab a speakon barrel as well?"

My eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. I had no idea what language had just been spoken to me, but it was most certainly not English. I immediately grabbed my cell phone and had that sentence dictated to me (including the spellings of all words, including "and" and "to"). I made Dave PROMISE me that the store employees would know what I was talking about if I blurted out the sentence that was stored in my phone, and that I would not have to answer any clarifying questions. He assured me that everything would be fine (AGA veterans are burying their heads in their hands). So off I went. As I left the church, I walked through the sanctuary where there was a men's health symposium taking place. I felt a bit weird, as the entire building was packed with men and I was just waltzing through, but I was on a Mission so I took it in stride.

I arrived at the Guitar Center after a short bus ride, and immediately proceeded to walk in the OUT door, causing a near-traffic jam to the amusement of the security guard standing by the entrance. Shaking it off, I re-checked my cell phone for the fourteenth time to ensure that my meticulous notes hadn't somehow vanished on the bus (again, AGA veterans are nodding their heads). I proceeded to the counter and was greeted by a friendly customer service representative named Josh. Josh calmly asked if he could help me, and I immediately blurted out something to the effect of "I-DON'T-KNOW-WHAT-I-NEED-BUT-I-WROTE-IT-DOWN-HERE-LOOK-PLEASE-HELP-ME." Josh calmly took the phone and stared at it with a puzzled look on his face. "Um," he said, "… is this for an amplifier?"

All hope was lost. I hadn't the slightest idea what these things were or how to answer his question. I was just about to pick up the phone and call Dave in absolute panic, when another Guitar Center employee walked by (Jeff) and noticed the scene. He immediately recognized the sentence typed out on the phone and told me to follow him. It was then that I realized that I had just asked someone for an audio cable in the Guitar section *sigh*. We moved over to the audio section and Jeff expertly deciphered the hieroglyphics of "eighth-inch cable split to two XLR males." Within minutes, I had the desired product in-hand and I was feeling pretty good about myself. Then Jeff noticed the speakon barrel, and gave me a near heart-attack by saying that he wasn't sure that they had that in stock – but was finally able to locate it.

At this point, my spirits began to rise. It was actually possible that I was going to be able to achieve the mission for which I was sent forth with only a minimal amount of chaos. I paid for the products and cheerfully waved to the security guard as I unintentionally exited through the IN door (yes, I'm serious). I walked off to the sound of intense chuckling and jumped on the bus to go back to the church.

Remember the Squawking Sisters from "Subway Pregnancy" (AGA Episode XVI)? For those who aren't aware, the Squawking Sisters were a pair of elderly Chinese women who were having a conversation in Mandarin on the subway, speaking at the speed of sound and using the highest-pitched tones that human ears could possibly hear. Well, I think that they might possibly have met their match. Squawking Sisters, meet Cussout Chicks. As soon as I boarded the bus, I noticed them. They were two women, sitting near the middle of the bus, having an extremely animated discussion about something or someone. But, once again, they were practically screeching and every fifth word was a curse. I think cursing is absolutely vile and it completely rubs me the wrong way whenever I hear it, so I'm trying with EVERYTHING IN ME not to get Highly Upset. The Chicks continued their diatribe and I continued breathing deeply until we reached the church. I practically dove out of the bus, feeling like I needed to immediately scrub my soul with a Brillo pad and just simply irritated that I had to endure that mess for the ten-minute bus ride.

However, I was ELATED to have successfully fulfilled my mission, and confidently strode back into the church… ONCE again walking through the men's health symposium *sigh*. On my way up in the elevator, I started to get a bit nervous. "What if it's the wrong item?," I thought. I reassured myself that the Guitar Center employees were extremely knowledgeable and that Dave's directions were very clear. I told myself that I was just flustered from the Cussout Chicks and from twice crashing the men's health symposium, and that my task was complete.

Or so I thought.

I got back to the 5^th floor and went right up to Dave, who greeted me with gratitude. We opened up the bag and then I saw The Look.

The Look said quite a number of things, all in about .67 nanoseconds, but the basic gist was that this was NOT the correct item and our time crunch was now extremely serious. I was absolutely crestfallen. Dave was very kind, of course, and calmly explained to me that I had purchased a speakon barrel that had a sasjdasjdasd on one end, instead of a jdaasdh2asd. No, he actually used some kind of technological terms, but I hadn't the slightest idea what he was saying. I listened, nodded, even repeated back what was said to me, but all I could think of was "YOU HAVE TO DO ALL OF THAT ALL OVER AGAIN." I could tell that Dave was torn between his need for this item and his not wanting to send me back out again… but Tech Mode won out, and off I went once again.

I'll be honest… at this point, I was Not Happy. I was Not Happy at the Guitar Center employees, I was Not Happy at the Cussout Chicks, and I was Not Happy at the fact that I had chosen to wear boots on that day, of all days, and my feet were beginning to scream at me. And that's when the giant bulletin board attacked me.

See, I had made the egregious mistake of walking out the normal double-door exit from the 5^th floor. I had CLEARLY SEEN that the bulletin board was propped up against those double doors from the outside when I came back into the room. In fact, it didn't even cross my mind that something might be amiss when I tried to exit through the double doors and was met with some resistant. I remembered actually saying, "What is WRONG with these DOORS?" and pushing with all my might. I finally managed to swing the doors open with a shove, and the first thing I saw was the bulletin board start to tumble while Nicole's voice in the background was saying "Don't go that waaaaaaaaaay….."

Desperately trying to save the bulletin board, I did what any other single-brain-celled individual would have done in that situation – I stood there completely motionless and screamed. And as I did so, the bulletin board fell in such a way that the bottom of the bulletin board tilted upward, scraping the entire front of my right calf. Of course, my scream alerted everyone in the outer room to come running and watch me standing there like a stump as the bulletin board ravaged my leg. People were trying to express sympathy (and others were trying to restore the bulletin board), but I was Done. Now I was hobbling from the scrape AND from the pain in my feet from the boots. All I wanted to do was get to the store and get back as quickly as possible. Of course, to do that, where did I need to go? Back through the men's health symposium.

Incidentally, it was this bus ride back to Guitar Center when I decided to vent through Facebook, and threw up a status message that said, "Amy is EXTREMELY displeased with a speakon barrel and a 1/8 inch cable split to 2 XLR males." To which Ricardo helpfully replied, "Try 1/8 inch to (2) RCA, into 1/4 inch adapters, into (2) DI's then XLR to XLR while lifting the ground." I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I think I did both.

When I got back to the store, the security guard absolutely roared with laughter. He didn't even ask for explanation – I think he just intuitively knew about AmyLand and was just enjoying the experience. I found Jeff and explained the problem using the terms that Dave had explained to me and he understood immediately. "Ohhhhh," he said. "You want THAT kind of speakon barrel. Yeah, we definitely don't have that."

That would have been an AMAZING time for the rapture.

But, no, that was not the moment preordained for Christ's return – so I had to deal with what was in front of me. I begged Jeff to tell me where else I could get this thing, and he pointed me across the street to a store called ProLine. I hobbled across the street, praying what were probably completely incomprehensible prayers without the translating power of the Holy Spirit ("Lord, would you PLEASE let them have the thing with the two things instead of the one thing," etc.). I walked in and almost laughed – this store was the complete opposite of the Guitar Center. The Guitar Center was well-lit and spacious with clearly defined sections. This place looked like someone's garage. It was just this giant jumble of stuff and I was almost certain that SOME kind of illegal activity was probably taking place in a back room somewhere. However, I had no other options but to ask the guy at the counter.

Wouldn't you know it that this guy goes into one of the back rooms and comes out with the exact right item? No bag. No price tag. No label. For all I know, he could have dug it out of his couch cushions. I didn't care. I paid for the item and jumped back on the bus. This time, *I* was the crazy person that other people are probably blogging about right now. I took that infernal item in my hand and I monologued to it for most of the way back to the church ("GOD HELP YOU if you are not the item that I need… you had BETTER be the right one…") I arrived at the church and, for the fourth time, I crossed through the men's health symposium – and this time, people started turning to look. I briefly considered screaming out something like, "IT WAS THE WRONG SPEAKON BARREL, OKAY?!?!?!?!?," but really didn't want for Big Willie to have to escort me off of the premises.

By the time I got back upstairs, the entire worship team was on the stage and we were pretty much ready to start. I went up to Dave, and with my entire sanity and livelihood on the line, I held out the barrel for approval. The smile and nod said it all.

So I supposed all's well that ends well, but there are some DEFINITE lessons learned here. Flee to a neighboring continent when anything remotely connected to Tech Mode comes near. Do something beside remain motionless when a giant bulletin board is falling on you. Never wear boots to a Transitions meeting. And in regards to the AmyLand Desensitization problem… haven't quite figured that one out yet. Nana has always said that I should come with a manual. Perhaps a training course should be offered, or a mentoring program for those who are just starting to come in contact? Something to ponder. But until next time, we remain…

Foolish Things Ministries: Confounding Wisdom and Common Sense In a Neighborhood Near You!