In which Fanny waxes poetic on her MP3 player

You have to understand this: when it comes to things computerized & digital, etc, not only am I a neophyte, but as recently as about a month ago I was a thorough naysayer. (Though I will not relent on the subject of cellphones—they are evil, and I pray daily for the soul of those among my friends who own one.) There are several factors at play in my newly embracing technology—one of which is my recent acquisition of an MP3 player.

(Before you think to ask, you geeks, it is a Creative MuVo TX FM, whatever that means, 256MB, is small and sleek and white and damn sexy.)

Given my until-recently-held position on matters of tiny, gadgety electronics, it is of great surprise to myself (and to you as well, I’m sure) that I soon after the purchase found myself not only totally enthralled with this potent little thing, but also totally overcome with iPod envy. Lusting after gigs! Me! Who would’ve thunk it?

I am not deluding myself here that I am adding anything new to all the e-ink already spilled about the wonders of these bits of plastic and wires and whatever else go into the making of MP3s (if I am wrong and there are no wires in the thing, don’t write to tell me, I utterly don’t care) but please allow me to share my small personal epiphany* on this matter.
I was up till all hours last night downloading tunes—I went on an both an 80s and a Motown binge. (Shoot! As I wrote this I just thought of about a half-dozen songs I didn’t think to include. Relax Fanny, breathe, for at this rate twelve-step programs and sponsors are not far around the corner.) This morning I was all pumped to go running to listen to my new mix. Never mind the fact that the thing is so light as to be unnoticeable, that the sound is clear, does not skip. I have only seven words of praise for my MP3 player: Thank You Fallettinme Be Mice Elf Agin.

Among music snobs, I am the chief of sinners. I wholeheartedly agree with John Cusack’s utterance in High Fidelity (my favourite movie) that what really matters is not what you are like, but what you like. Music, books, films, these things matter. (As my friend Matthew said in a conversation recently, when there is a lot of crossover between two people’s record collection—and only the truly cool persist in calling them records—now that’s love. But I’m getting sidetracked.) And I am glad to have reached a point of maturity in my life, of self-knowledge and self-possession that allows me, without having to choose camps as in the days of teenage wasteland, to proclaim my equal & unapologetic love for Pearl Jam, George Michael, Marvin Gaye and Modest Mouse, —and to have a gadget to facilitate the expression of such love.

I know this is nothing new—I too have been making tapes absolutely forever—but this is so much less messy, so much more malleable. And just so cool.

I give you my morning run—each song causing me to exclaim yeessss to the bushes & robins, each one pushing me to run harder: I Just Can’t Get Enough, by Depeche Mode; Hungry Like the Wolf, by Duran Duran; Faith, by George Michael; When I Come Around, by Green Day; Lust for Life, by Iggy Pop; I Love Rock n’ Roll, by Joan Jett & the Blackhearts; Ocean Breeze is Sally, by Modest Mouse; Let’s Get It On, by Marvin Gaye; Daughter, by Pearl Jam; Rapture and Indian Summer, by Pedro the Lion.

Now, that’s love.

*A side note—did you know that my name (this is a loose translation) in Greek means Light? As in epiphany, theophany—it means the showing forth, the coming forth of the Light of God. As in, "Oh Lord, open my lips, and my mouth shall Fanny your praise." Sure is better than the meanings the British and Aussies give to my name. (Thanks to Father John & Matthew for this re-naming.)