Take two earbuds and call me in the morning.

After running through Manhattan on some exasperating errand or other or running late on the morning power walk to my clickety-clack morning commute, losing countless minutes at each subway transfer, sweating through the heavy, dirty summer air, trapped behind slow walkers on narrow stairways, dodging passengers who stop for a chat in front of the turnstiles, desperate to the point of violence for a breath of the stale but mercifully cold air on those refrigerated trains, I often find that the only thing that makes it all bearable, apart from my paycheck, is my iPod.

In this whole wide, sedated world, who needs drugs when I can plug my headphones in and hear songs that have made me happy for more than two decades. Video may have killed the radio star, but Apple killed the DJ.

“Causing a Commotion” makes me walk faster. When I hate everyone around me, “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” brings a smile to my face and helps me forget the woman with the Volvo-sized baby carriage too distracted by her cell phone conversation to walk in a straight line. When I have nowhere to stand on the F train, and we’re packed in like frozen herring, “Voices Carry” helps me keep my cool and breathe a little easier. Kylie Minogue gets me through that infernal treadmill at the gym. And Dar Williams keeps me from having to talk to crazies on the sidewalk.

I wonder how many homicides Steve jobs is responsible for having prevented.

I find myself so often grateful for this little device. It’s better therapy than a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and far lower in calories.

It makes my trek through the pungent footpaths of East Broadway on my way to work almost bearable. (At least the rhythm propels my legs and my body further and further from the morning food distribution of Chinatown.)

I should evangelize the healing powers of the One True iPod more often. Can I get a witness, brothers and sisters? Can I get an amen?

Because, ladies and gentlemen, her hair is Harlowe gold.

Her lips a sweet surprise.

Her hands are never cold.

She’s got Bette Davis eyes.


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the untallied hours

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