I Pod Anxiety

So. My friend Miriam, a hotshot sound and lighting designer walk's into my office this morning and says to me. 'Hey baldy. Do you want my old I Pod? I've got a new one and this one is kind of redundant, I know you love your music and I am in a giving mood. There is six days worth of stuff on it. From The Ben folds Five to Evita (I'm a bit of an old tart, I went to RADA you know, please forgive me). You can delete it all if you want and mess around with it in your little squalid palace on your own and at your leisure. I know you have a big affection for Guy Clark and there's a bit on there you saddo'.

I respond. 'Thank you darling, yes indeed I would love it'.

She will get a bit of overtime for this. Under the table, you know how it works.

Miriam, apart from being a bit dotty and too happy with herself for my liking has indeed a fine selection on the thing. The complete Roy Orbison and Aimee Mann, loads of Johnny Cash and even the Pale Fountains. I'm impressed.

So I bring it home and delete what I don't want and add what I do. I don't need David Soul! A bridge too far on anyone's highway Miriam. Except maybe yours lady. What on earth do you dream about?

So. I have stuck the little white box on shuffle and plugged it into my Hi Fi.

This fucking I Pod is telling me the story of my life, From the Clash to Lloyd Cole. It's having some nasty Nick Hornby inspired laugh with me. I'm pissed off with it but compelled. It's churning it all out the extremes and everything in between. The fucker is mocking me. I know it's hot and we have been knocked out of the old Jules Rimet and everything. But how dare it. I feel invaded. It's playing the theme tune from Popeye the sailor man as I write this. Cheek!

Help?

Ralph