Mark my words: the most dangerous device ever created by man isn’t a nuclear bomb.  It isn’t some ultra-potent strain of anthrax or the ebola virus that’s been cooked up in a lab.  It isn’t the radar gun either.  The most dangerous device in the world is a wireless microphone.  As many witnesses will attest, I learned this for myself in 1997, when it fell to me to announce my high school district’s annual symphonic band competition. 

These competitions were pretty simple.  Bands from the surrounding areas would pile into dangerously unsafe school buses, truck in, then unload and play a few pieces for a panel of judges who would score them.  It was one of those things that, to most adults, don’t mean that much, but when you’re a student or a parent it’s a major event in the universe. 

During my senior year, the high school I attended was chosen to host the annual competition, meaning that a number of faithful music dorks would be getting out of class for a few days to help out with running the affair.  As one of the premiere band geeks in this lackluster institution of secondary education, I was assigned the choice job of introducing each competing band to the stage, listing the pieces they would be performing, and then spend most of my time goofing off while they played.  Best of all, I got to wear a wireless microphone.

The first day of the competition went fairly normally.  Three bands into it I was bored, and began spending the time between each group roaming the halls in search of entertainment.  By far, the highlight of the first day was when I caught a freshman from a neighboring high school trying to covertly smoke in a bathroom.  Earlier that day, I had fashioned a crude nametag that read simply: “Noah – Security”.  It was a prop that enhanced my credibility when I burst in and proceeded to confiscate the young man’s cigarettes (after – not making this up – frisking him).  The poor kid was terrified of being caught, and was almost crying by the time I’d “confiscated” his lighter.  To conclude the charade, I took a final dramatic drag of the cigarette he had been smoking.  “Ooh that’s sweet,” I muttered, before disgustedly hurling it into the toilet with the rest of its packmates.  “Now get the hell out here!” I yelled at the trembling youngster as I flushed the toilet, inadvertently clogging it in the process.  The freshman’s abrupt departure was mirrored by my own as I watched the water level rise uncontrollably and spill over the edge of the bowl.  Later, I excelled at feigning ignorance when the ensuing mess was discovered by the authorities.

The story of my little scam increased my popularity almost instantly.  Flush with overconfidence (pun intended), the second day of competition dawned to find me overwrought with arrogance, spoiling to show off and more than a little cocky.

In competitions of this sort, the early parts of the day’s schedule are reserved for bands from small high schools.  Drawing their performers from the most rural parts of a state few would argue is a cultural mecca for the arts, these groups put on valiant, albeit occasionally laughable efforts.  The apotheotic group for this category came from a high school I’ll call South Steubenville, whose band numbered only 17, insufficient orchestration to cover all the parts in the music they were slated to play.  To complement their deficient numbers, the director occasionally stopped conducting to play a little tambourine during their warm-ups (seriously).  I’m sure this was a violation of the rules, but saying something would be akin to disqualifying a special Olympian for not being retarded enough.  However, as an idiot teenager beset with a false sense of superiority, I found this hilarious.  And distracting.

With increasing stage confidence, my introductions had become more dramatic.  For one group, I assumed a haughty British accent.  For another school, I gave a quick introduction in English, followed by an inexplicable translation in bad three-semester Spanish.  As I ambled to the podium to introduce South Steubenville, I noticed they only had a handful of performers.  And the director still had the tambourine.  On impulse, I decided to introduce the group as though I was a ringside announcer introducing a boxer: “Laaadies and Gennnntlemen!  Appearing onstage… from Class Single-A… playing out of Steubenville, North Carolina: South Steeuubenviiiillllleee!” 

At this point, I strolled offstage, free from responsibility for the next twenty or thirty minutes while the Steubenites performed for the judges and the few hundred audience members that had trickled in at this early hour.  However, in my rush to more leisurely pursuits, I had forgotten to turn off my wireless microphone.  This was not the end of the world.  In fact, a contingency plan had been put in place for just such an occurrence.  A student working as the sound technician had control over the volume of the microphone, and acted as a failsafe that would mute me until I next appeared.  Unfortunately, due to the early hour, the student had literally fallen asleep at the switch.  Matters were further complicated by the positioning of the drowsing technician and the shut-off switch.  Both were located in the pit (a hollowed section smack dab in the middle of the stage), making them physically unreachable without seriously disrupting the onstage performers in the process.

Unaware I was still broadcasting, I strolled away from the stage to a rear staging area.  I was heading to the changing rooms, which another group of students pressed into stagehand duty had commandeered as a lounge in which they could smoke pot between performances.  For obvious (and incredibly lame) reasons, a password was required for entry.  This code phrase, which contained a reference to a visually disturbing sex act, was the first utterance I made after leaving the stage.  Yards away, a very surprised audience was treated to my brief, matter-of-fact description of the limits of the human anus and, possibly, the faint sound of a lock sliding open in response.  South Steubenville’s band director paused, waiting to see if this interruption would be a pattern, or a one-off occurrence (perhaps another sophomoric prank by the flip announcer).   

After being let in, I headed straight to the urinal and proceeded to relieve myself1.  As Steubenville launched into their first piece, the gentle sounds of a trickling stream filtered in.  These matched the soft opening notes of Steubenville’s opening fugue quite well, and may have gone unnoticed among audience members.  The less gentle moans of pleasure (and – I’ll admit it – possibly the faint ‘bang’ of a single flatulent report) accompanying this evacuation probably left the judges scrambling over their copies of the sheet music to find the vocals in Steubenville’s opening number.  And when I started getting loquacious, most everyone in the auditorium realized what was happening and concluded that the show on stage had been joined by a new and unwitting performer.

I say ‘most people realized what was happening’ because there was one notable standout.  No doubt unsure of the etiquette (and effect on their scores from the judges) a pause might instigate, South Steubenville’s conductor pressed on, and the group continued to perform their repertoire as I continued to hold conversations with what seemed to be every individual on campus that day.

After relieving myself, I proceeded to the main lounge, where I briefly quizzed the stagehands on the quality of their marijuana and teased them over their questionable sobriety.  From there, I wandered out to the main lobby, where I engaged a number of my peers in meaningless banter.  In the course of several minutes, I expressed opinions on the attractiveness of several female faculty members, voiced a suspicion over a classmate being gay, and made a brief presentation to a compatriot on how to surreptitiously scratch one’s ass in public.  All of this was broadcast with crystal clarity as South Steubenville’s tiny musical armada struggled gamely to express their talents in the midst of this storm of words.

Quite rapidly, news of this mishap reached the ears of Jeff “Murph” Murphy, our band director and the man who’d made the mistake of giving me the means to electronically amplify my voice.  At that moment, Murph was in his office, changing into a tuxedo to conduct his junior group later that day.  Bystanders later told me that Murph barged out, half-dressed, and demanded I be found immediately.  Searchers were dispatched immediately.  Unfortunately, the microphone’s range meant that I could be anywhere in a quarter-mile radius.  The only way to track me down was if I gave a clue in my conversations, which were increasing in volume as quickly as they decreased in tact.

Still oblivious to the ongoing crisis, I was proving elusive to those that sought to deactivate my microphone.  It was at this point when I really stepped it up to the level that distinguishes me from others who have made the same mistake: I started talking smack about the group onstage.  One opening was all I needed, and I got it when one of my friends asked me if I saw the group that was onstage now.

“Oh God, I sure did.  How do you even play music when you’ve got so few people?  Jesus, they suck – their horn section sounds like one of my sonorous farts.”  [As an aside, South Steubenville received 2 out of 5 total points, a score that was no doubt inflated from pity over my mid-performance ridicule.  Even with this largesse, their score was one of the lowest of the competition.  In addition, several of those in attendance told me my comments – while harsh – were spot on.  This judgment seemed particularly credible, considering they had heard me flatulate during the performance in question.]

My friend was laughing, which was plenty to egg on someone who relies on the approval of others for validation as a human being.    

“Did you see them onstage?” I asked.  “The group looked like a football team huddled around the coach!  I thought she might threaten them with laps if they didn’t play well.”

It was somewhat ironic that my conversation had shifted to more mundane topics by the time someone interceded on my unintended verbal rampage.  I was telling one of the parent volunteers that I would be going to Duke next year when a one of Murph’s school-wide manhunt tracked me down.  I was exchanging barbs over the Duke-UNC rivalry with the very pro-Tarheel parent when an attractive coed ripped open my coat and began pawing around for the on-off switch to the microphone.  The last thing anyone in the auditorium heard was my stunned voice saying “I’m not sure what you’re looking for, but I think it’s a little lower.  Wait, what?  Oh.  Shi-“ followed by the blissful silence of dead air.

As the glow from the microphone’s battery pack faded, we sat there in stunned silence.  After a moment, the chaperone finally broke the silence.  “Duke, huh?” he said.

For the record, those in attendance had some interesting things to say about my impromptu performance.  “It sounded like… oh, I don’t know… you were telling a story to the music or something,” one classmate said.  Another commented, “It sounded like you were the voice of God, and were delivering universal truths or saying what everyone was thinking.  Especially when you started talking about how they sucked.  It was… powerful.”  “Look on the bright side,” said someone trying to comfort me, “at least people will remember them for something other than the way they played.”

During the aftermath, I made it clear that I seriously felt bad about this one.  Were I not so sure South Steubenville’s band director would attack me on sight, I probably would have apologized.  Thoughts of this sort were tempered with wonderings over what I had done was really so wrong.  Was it really so terrible to live in a society in which we say what we mean?  And is it really fulfilling for us to sugar coat every bit of bad news?  After all, doesn’t adding five pounds of ice cream to five pounds of shit merely leave us with ten pounds of shit? 

I brought up each of these explanations during the inevitable sit-down with the school administrators.  To put it mildly, they didn’t fly.  It appeared I would be in a significant amount of trouble for this particular kerfuffle.  And then, at this darkest of moments, I discovered a valuable lesson in self-preservation that I will now share: if you ever do anything wrong in a state located below the Mason-Dixon line, it can be explained away with a bible quote.  Even if that quote is completely made up. 

I stumbled into this on the heels of my “ice cream and shit” comment.  The principal of the school had joined the mob of irate parents and students.  “Young man, you need to follow the golden rule of social interaction, namely the unified theory of mind your own damn business,” he said, towering above me during an impromptu meeting held in Murph’s office where I sat next to a still-sleepy sound technician. 

The mention of the golden rule prompted something – maybe I could play the religious mea culpa card and get off.  Sadly, my knowledge of the Bible is rather deficient, having atrophied after being kicked out of Catholic school several years previous.  So I improvised.  I said something to the effect of “As the Bible says: Smote the unrighteous does the sword hand, so too does the microphone.” 

I’ll admit the line wasn’t my strongest effort.  Temporal anachronisms nonwithstanding, it didn’t even make sense.  But the efficacy of this tactic was nothing short of astounding.  Every adult in the room (the principal, assistant principal, and Murph the band director) nodded thoughtfully and turned their wrath upon the sound tech.  It was as though I had muttered the magic words and had become invisible.  I considered attempting a second faux-Bible verse on my counterpart’s behalf (“Judge not the slumberers in the herd, for hast not thou slumbered upon the rock as well?”), but thought trying the same trick so soon might be going to well once too often2.  Without a papal endorsement, the sound tech was removed from his post.  The most amazing part of this was that they let me keep announcing.  Perhaps the power of Christ compelled them.

I emerged from this embarrassing incident unscathed, but feeling a little philosophical.  After much puzzling, I came to two conclusions about the nature of life that have played an integral role in shaping my personal philosophy.  These are:

(a) There is a God.

(b) He doesn’t like me, but hates me too much to kill me.

1This has been done for several movies and TV shows.  As such, it may be tempting to believe I am making this up.  Once again, I remind you that several hundred people witnessed, or at least heard, every bit of this.

2You can actually use this maneuver quite a bit, particularly around southerners.  As they say in the restaurant business, “Chef Recommends!”