I can hear you all the way over here.
Yes, that’s me, across from you on the Red Line near Park Street. Think I’m exaggerating about how grossly tinny and loud your music is? Dude, I can actually make out Chamillionaire saying: “They see me rollin’/They hatin.’” Yes, I like “Ridin’ Dirty” too. And yeah, I know, there’s actually a line in it that blusters, “My music’s so loud . . . ” But c’mon, it’s eight in the morning, I’m trying to figure out my schedule for the day, and I just added “Swangin’” for 4:30 this afternoon.
The problem isn’t your volume, it’s those white spaghetti cords dangling from your ears. They suck. You have no excuse: we’ve told you this before. (See “Hacker’s Delight,” Music, August 6, 2005.) Never mind that the iPod turns five this week — and after years of looking at those voguing shadow-ad people, you should know that those fools are always dancing alone because those goddamn earbuds drive everyone else away.
At least “Ridin’ Dirty” shows you’ve got a little taste, no matter what those lame-o headphones say. Not like that douchey guy I sat next to yesterday, who indecisively kept scrolling around his “Girl Lead Singers” folder. Seriously, “Girl Lead Singers”? He might be forgiven if everything in this directory were Lilith Fair saps. But the people forever segregated in his iPod? No Doubt, Christina Aguilera, and Evanescence. Yes, they all have boobs.
Then there was this curly-haired college student on the train back from New York two weekends ago. Forget that she had 28 million cell-phone conversations in my ear about a cute text her crush sent over the weekend. (The “cute” text? “When R U coming back?” Sorry, girl, but what he really means is, “When should I tell the Romanian hooker to leave?”) Anyway, when she finally retired to her current-generation iPod, she listened to about 30 seconds of Paris Hilton’s “Stars Are Blind,” then settled on a song called “Reggaetón.” Nothing else, not even “Reggaetón Mix 1.” Just “Reggaetón.” After that? “Reggaetón3,” then “Reggaetón5.” After that (I kept looking), Fergie’s “London Bridge.” Those iPods whose batteries expired prematurely didn’t just die — they committed suicide. I wanted her to nod off so I could steal her iPod, hook it up to my laptop, and re-label every other song on there “Pop1,” “Pop2,” “Pop3,” ad infinitum.
Oh, look. You’re getting off the train. “Swangin’” is rescheduled in my datebook for the weekend. You just dropped your iPod . . . and some fat lady stepped on your headphones? Kiss her, kid. As long as you don’t buy one of those plastic pastel iPod covers, you’re so much better off.
