I Came, I Saw, iPod

You've seen us. On the bus. In class. Walking across campus, strolling down Telegraph Avenue. We're everywhere. We're 'Pod people.

iPod people, to be exact-the creepy "Invasion of the Body Snatchers" connection hadn't dawned on me until I was recently hailed as "Hey! ‘Pod girl!" by a cute boy in my French class. But since I've come to class every day this semester with the Best Christmas Present Ever strapped to my hip and The White Stripes blasting in my ears, I can see how the ‘Pod could become my most identifiable characteristic.

Still, that's just strange. Not that I'm being labeled by my most prominent accessory; I'm used to that. All through elementary, middle, and a fabulous pair of high schools, I was "That Weird Book Chick." I was cool with it. I would see other book guys and gals around town, and we'd smile and nod at each other's battered copies of "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy," acknowledging our connection, our elite little club.

But now that I have Jack-I named the iPod Jack-at my side, is the oft-read copy of "Neverwhere" in my hand no longer relevant? Have I inadvertently tied myself to a group of people who might, for all I know, be using Jack's brethren to bop around to Britney Spears in a miniskirt and Uggs?

I don't know how I feel about the connection I once shared with the Douglas Adamsites, the Neil Gaimanphiles, being transferred over to every cargo pant-wearing, sunglass-sporting schmuck with white ear buds trailing out of their hoodie. On the one hand, there's a wonderful sense of community, a bonding experience ingrained in the knowledge that we've all sunk several paychecks for the privilege of hearing "Tubular Bells" whenever the morbid mood strikes.

When two iPod owners meet, the first step in the mating dance is to exchange the standard "How many gigs?" queries. Most ‘Pod people I know, myself included, have the 20GB model-encountering the owner of a 40GB ‘Pod would, I suspect, be like meeting the Dirk Diggler of MP3 players. Once size has been established, fellow ‘Podders are of course keen to know how you use it. I browse other people's song lists with an intensity bordering on obsession, as if the assortment of tracks will give me deep insight into the user's soul. Or maybe I'm subconsciously seeking potential mates-if you favor '90s U2 and delight in the juxtaposition of cuts from tranquil Thomas Newman scores with The Clash, gimme a call.

It's a ritual I relish-that I savor, even. But whatever happened to conversation? Not to sound like, oh, my parents, but I realized the other day that while I often feel I'm experiencing deep connections in a glance, and while I claim friendships with Live Journal buddies all over the world, I'm becoming more and more disconnected from the real, tangible people around me. Sure, Jack keeps my heart eternally filled with song-but is it worth it if I've stopped talking with the girls I live with? They don't have iPods. They're not like me.

So I'm willing to accept that like all new technology, iPods and their ilk have their benefits and their drawbacks, their soaring musical highs and their crushing anti-social lows. And even if an acclaimed academic study came out proving that my precious Jack was causing me to lose friends and alienate people, I'd still have a hard time giving him up. Not now, not after he's been there for me so many times, like when I got stuck at the airport last weekend and his arsenal of The Beatles and The Rolling Stones was the only thing between me and my dear friend Britney slaughtering "I Love Rock and Roll" over the terminal's loudspeakers in what can only be called a ritualistic sacrifice to stave off the end of her hopefully fading career.

Tell me I'm wrong, my fellow ‘Pod people: Tell me your iPod is not the best security blanket you've ever had. I feel vulnerable if I leave my house without Jack safely in his holster, ready to be drawn, with speed that would do the finest gunslinger proud, at the slightest whisper of Creed on somebody's car radio. With Jack at my side, I'm completely protected in my own, self-regulated, iPod bubble.

Everywhere you go, you see people like me. Browsing through the used sci-fi section at Moe's, you can press shoulder to shoulder with your compatriots and not make contact: they're all safe within their own little iPod worlds. When we see each other, we'll smile and nod. But we won't say anything.

Words aren't needed here.

Tags: