Infidels in My iPod

Disclaimer: Sometimes these things just kind of write themselves. Feel free to stop reading if it gets too ridiculous. Because it does. It’s also excruciatingly boring, but that pretty much goes without saying.

Note: This post was originally written two weeks ago and since that time I’ve experienced difficulties with my iPod, which is currently listed in unstable condition. This isn't a coincidence.


Most of us who aren’t subservient to our own ravenous appetites place certain virtues above our own well-being and will go to great lengths to protect them when threatened by a heretical combatant. Among those things that I will fight to defend are the welfare of my children, the good name of my family, and the sanctity of my iPod. It is the last of these that has recently become compromised by an unholy attack.

Early Monday morning, while browsing through my iTunes library, I detected the presence of a musical genre I find most repellent – sex-crazed, DBR-promoted dance pop. A quick check of the Recently Purchased folder confirmed by suspicions. There, to my great horror, sat tracks by Fergie, Bouncy Knowles, and the great devil himself, Justine Timberlake.

What makes this breach even more distressing is that these heathenish acts gained access through the willful abetment of my wife, a woman I once trusted. Not only had she allowed this axis of evil to infiltrate the sacred ground of my music collection, she actually paid 99¢ per desecration. Her act of betrayal stung like the cold steel of one thousand sabers.

Allow me now to retell the horror so that you might know the truth and be saved.

For years, ever since I came to peace with the digital revolution, my wife maintained a secular relationship with the iTunes deity. She would occasional beseech me to compile a list of tracks for a workout CD, and I would dutifully comply with a collection of upbeat indie rock and alt-country selections. All was peaceful then.

Such was my devotion for my wife, I even compromised my musical faith at times to accommodate her amoral leanings. Once I heeded her request to upload a Sheryl Crow album, despite the fact that the lords have made very clear that her music is pedestrian and not treyf. The Great One sent us Lucinda Williams so that we would not be tempted by Kid Rock duetresses.

I should have been alerted to my wife’s eventual conversion to the dark side when, one evening, a gathering of her co-workers culminated with a pilgrimage to Karma, the local discoteria. She came home reeking of rapacious beats and stupid lyrics. I deluded myself into thinking that consistent exposure to the Replacements and Uncle Tupelo had immunized her against an attack of sleazy dance remixes.

In the months that followed, she was able to mask her attraction to the allure of the Myhumpians. She kept the car stereo tuned to an innocuous, if not banal, country music station. I had no idea the spell she had been cast under, nor the jihad she was about to issue.

Last Saturday night, she came home speaking of a great song she had heard on WQNA. Never before had she spoke of the great non-commercial station that plays some of the best music in the city. I was gladdened.

My hopes were dashed somewhat when a Google search of the lyrics determined it was a Coldplay song that had entranced her, but I gladly downloaded it for anyway. Little did I know that it was all a ruse and she was covertly surveying my every move in an attempt to learn how to access the iTunes store. She struck the next day.

As I slept peacefully on Sunday night, she, fully possessed by Timbaland’s satanic production, set out to debauch by association every Twin Tone and Sub Pop recording in my digital library. Aided by the speed of DSL, she downloaded 16 of the vilest tunes ever to defile the human ear. Now I’m faced with how to respond to this scourge in a manner that is respectful to my musical taste, yet won’t lead me into damnation against an enemy much more imposing than I.

As most of you know, the next time I update my iPod all of her sickening songs will enter the device and could conceivably start playing if I set it to shuffle mode, an event that would surely have me longing for the sweet release of death. My only recourse is to banish the songs from iTunes, and risk whatever fate awaits me on the domestic battlefield. If I never post here again, know that I went down protecting the honor of my iPod. Veneration shall be mine.