iPod, Do You?

Today at the store, I saw a small set of speakers and thought, “My iPod would probably really like those.”  So I bought them and found out I was right.  My iPod really did like them.

Readers who are in the mental health field are probably thumbing through their diagnostic manuals trying to put a name to my disorder.  Don’t bother.  I’m not sick. I’m just a perfectly normal human being who is owned by a perfectly normal iPod.

When you buy an iPod, you aren’t merely buying a few bucks worth of electronic gear packed into a stylish case with mystifyingly minimalist controls.  You’re joining a whole new culture.  A unique culture of individuals, made up millions of people just like you.  A culture that entices you to spend even more money to buy even more things because your iPod wants it that way.

In some ways the whole iPod culture is a lot like Harley Davidson culture.  We don’t define ourselves by what we are, but by what we own.  If you buy a Harley Davidson motorcycle, you’re saying to the world, “I’m my own man (or woman) and I’m not going to let the system get me down.”

Of course, given the cost of a Harley Davidson, most of the people who own them are part of the system.  Outsiders don’t have the scratch to buy their way into that world.

 The iPod is all about being connected to our audio collections via a pair of distinctive white earbuds.  They keep the music in and the world out.  Next time you go to the mall look around for us, we’re the people with wires in our ears and glazed, distracted eyes.

Owning an iPod (or a Harley) is just the beginning.  Your new device (or motorcycle) is going to want to you to buy things for it.  For the Harley crowd this is usually chrome or leather – for the bike, not the rider.  For the iPod crowd it’s cases and accessories – for the iPod, not the owner.

For a long time I resisted joining the iPod culture.  I’d owned other music players, soulless electronic gadgets which delivered music on command but never inspired loyalty from me.  Like obedient household servants they did exactly what I told them, operating with the reliability and excitement of an industrial irrigation system.  Like a Soviet worker I was satisfied with the technology I had, knowing that anything more fancy was an imperialist trick.

My youngest son crumbled first.  He took a summer job and sunk his discretionary money into a 30 gig Video iPod.  Faced with the inarguable superiority of his single device over the three or four that I owned, I quickly followed.

Buying the gadget was just the beginning.  Within a week I went shopping again.

The first thing my iPod needed was a protective cover.  It’s shiny screen was far too scratchable and the gleaming black-and-silver case that looked so good in the ads wasn’t going to survive unblemished in the real world.  Thirty-dollars on my charge card later I had a rubberized case to protect my precious iPod and which could double as a life-raft for small rodents.  It completely covered the iPod leaving only a small window for the screen.

This is some measure of just how irrational I’d become.  I bought the iPod because it was stylish and, miser-like, hid all of the beauty beneath a quarter-inch of rubber-plate amour.

I justified the iPod cover by telling myself I was protecting my investment.

No amount of justification could explain my next purchase; a car charger.  For when the battery ran out.  On my fifteen minute drive to work.  Was I terrified that I might be stuck in traffic unable to derive comfort from the simple act of playing some lost classic like “Puppy Love”?  Will I die if I can’t listen to “Dreamcoat” one more time before I pull in the driveway?
Unlikely, but why risk it?  Besides, my iPod clearly wanted the charger.  As it wanted the wall charger I bought a few weeks later.  And the speakers I bought today.

When it doesn’t want accessories, it wants more music.  Lots more music.  I’ve transferred my meager CD collection into the voracious maw of my iPod, consuming only a tiny fraction of the available storage space.  Mozart may have been a prolific composer, but he’d have to have lived a couple of centuries to fill up 30 gig of space.  Worse yet, since the music is arranged alphabetically, Wolfgang Amadeus is adjacent to Meatloaf.  So far they’re getting along okay, but I worry that Mozart might want to add a screaming guitar solo to his next piece or Meatloaf might compose an opera.  If you hear of someone performing “Paradise by the Magic Flute” you’ll know it started on my iPod.

Which is demanding more music to fill it up.  The iTunes music store allows me to buy songs one-at-a-time without all of the hassle of selecting a CD and spending the afternoon with a scalpel, blow-torch, and an industrial laser trying to open the shrink-wrap.

 The iTunes music store is an on-line emporium; convenient to the point of being addicting.  Click! — a quick hit on my credit card — and the song belongs to my iPod.  Searching and clicking I’ve racked up a music bill that rivals the gross national product of a third-world country where the major export is is fake pre-Columbian art.

 My children are endlessly amused at my choices.  The eighties weren’t kind to me and I’m too ashamed to name my favorite songs here.  Let’s just say if I ever invite you to my house for a party you might want to bring your own iPod loaded with the songs you like.

 And if you do come, please bring a small gift for my iPod.  It’ll be happier if you do.