If Your iPod Could Talk

It's already in your ears, is it inside your head?

Sam Wellerby Sam Weller

My iPod has survived. We lost a luminary and captain of industry just this week in Steve Jobs, and while the internet will be covered in a myriad of tributes for the man, this article won't be one of them. While I owe a debt of gratitude to Mr. Jobs for Apple and the technology that made my life easier and Historectomy possible; I'm writing about the one device that started it all.

No. Not the computer. The iPod.

My iPod has survived. It has outlasted three hard drives, two docking stations, four cell phones,  four years of high school and college, three sets of mini-speakers, countless headphones, two cars I 've driven, my Invisalign braces, all my girlfriends, awful albums I've bought, being dropped on the floor, the street, off a building, lost in the woods, dropped in a lake, being smooshed with Reese's Pieces, been through at least ten laundry cycles, and being thrown in a drunken state by yours truly.

My iPod has survived. And so will yours.

If our iPods could talk they'd tell us to charge them more often, sure, but they could also tell us about ourselves. The iPod is stalwart, it is kind. It can teach us about resiliency and loyalty for ages to come. But it can also teach us about loss.


I've had at least three stupid f****** iTunes accounts. The first I lost because it was attached to my college email account. I couldn't remember my password or the recovery question answer.

"What was John Bradshaw Layfield's finishing move?"

If you answered, "Clothesline from Hell" or "the Powerbomb" then you'd be right (As I assume all my readers are well-versed in obscure wrestling finishing holds) Well…apparently I wasn't when I wrote that password answer at 18. For some reason, entering those two were never right, and I had to start my iTunes music collection all over again.

The second one I lost simply because I couldn't remember it. Which would be a more entertaining story if I didn't come up with it when intoxicated and never wrote the stupid thing down. My recovery question was even something like "What's my wife's maiden name?" Ugh. I don't even want to think about the answer to that.

Due to the constant frustration of recovering all my music, my iPod experience taught me about the "other" areas of the internet where music can be acquired. It taught me to hate copy protection while at the same time educating me to the plight of the artist that loses out because of bittorrent. The iPod is ying and yang, light and dark, bought and free all at once.

Holy shit I love my iPod Nano.

I've stuck through thick and thin with my Nano, even when newer, better models came out. Though I couldn't afford them anyway, I figured "This does everything I want it to, why buy a new one?" I am a loyal husband to my device. It sleeps next to me on my bed, lulls me to sleep, it plays on portable speakers as I make out with a human woman.


My Nano has been with me through good times and bad. It's played Beastie Boy's "Body Moving" when I was trying to learn all the lyrics to be cool in high school, it sang out Warren Zevon's "Heartache Spoken Here" when a girl stomped on my heart and I drank myself to sleep, and was even the conduit through the entirety of Darkside of The Moon when I first imbibed illegal substances by myself.

My Nano has seen the darkness inside of me.

If we aren't careful technology will inherit the earth, but for now my Nano has inherited my heart. If it dies on me, I swear I could never replace it.

Until a friend lets me buy their old one.


For more tearful tech confessions follow @cravesam