Plugging in

I've been trying for a week and a half to get Armed Forces Network to work on the tv in this house. Until now, I thought that it would be as simple as plugging in the box to the television.

Sadly, the plus on the wall doesn't match the one on the box. So a standard cable is out. I spent the better part of an hour last week trying to find something that would fit. My wild goose chase took me to tiny roadside shacks, sketchy electronics stores whose wares I'd rather not know the provenance of, and one slightly alarming occassion in which I was directed to a windowless room several doors and an alley removed from the street. Somehow or other, though, that room contained someone who pointed me towards a shack where I was certain to find the parts I needed. That shack didn't exist, but a shop around the corner did, and there I found Daniel, who, after a solid twenty minutes of explanation, finally understood what I was looking for. Ok, even Daniel needed two tries to get it right. But in the end I walked out with exactly what I asked for. I had even found a Ghana Black Stars soccer jersey in XL. It had been a good day.

I walked in to the house in a good mood. I got out my cable. It fit perfectly into the box. Then I went to plug it into the wall and - blast! I had gotten the wrong piece on the end. Oh well, I thought to myself, at least I found a Black Stars shirt. I tried it on. At least two sizes too small.

A few days later I went back to Daniel. He was nice enough to replace the connector at no cost (I gave him the wrong one back, and he was probably eager to get me out of his shop anyway). I took my newly repaired cable home and plugged it in. I turned to the box-tv cord. Having secured it to the box, I turned around to put it in the tv and - blast! Wrong kind of plug again!

Back to Daniel I went. It was 4pm on a Friday, so I have no idea where he was but my friend was not in his shop. In fact, the whole place was locked up. Maybe he had anticipated my return and fled the scene. I have no idea. But, armed with the cable he had already made me and needing an exact replica, I felt certain that I could just show it to people and get the right thing made. Indeed I could. This time one of the roadside shacks did the trick. The guy even demonstrated the quality of his handiwork by putting an electrical current through the copper coax and using it to light up a bulb mounted to a piece of plywood. It was an impressive sight. Almost as impressive as the hen and chick pecking around on the sidewalk, or the herd of goats that rambled down the street, or the mysterious fellow in a Penn hoodie who walked down the other side of the road as I waited for my cable to be assembled. (Was he an alum, or did he find a used sweatshirt in a shop in the market? This will forever remain a mystery.)

Bringing the cable home, I was optomistic this time. I knew it would fit, and it did. I turned on the box. Lights: a good sign. The tv started to warm up, and - blast! The television answer to the blue screen of death. Nothing.

At least I'm now the proud owner of a XXXL Black Stars shirt.