Mother's Little Helper
I just read a depressing little first-person piece in Newsweek about a Boomer mom's lust for her new i-Pod. She gushes that she has 822 tunes stored on it, which allows her to create a sort of streaming soundtrack to her life that accompanies her on grocery runs, keeps her safely sedated during soccer practice, and helps her endure the boredom of swim meets and the like.
Remember Mother's Little Helper of the 1950's?
See what I'm saying?
I feel that the i-Pod is functioning just like Valium for this woman, only with a particularly narcissistic element: why should she enter into conversation with others around her, or be aware of ambient sounds, or confront the inner dialogue that is sure to arise in the silence of her over-scheduled, often-frustratingly empty days (her insinuation, not mine) when she can bliss out on a steady stream of songs that brings her back to the freedom and joy of the mid 1980's?
So sad. So sad. It's written in that fake-jovial "ain't-I-jes'-a-wacky gal?" tone, but this fish ain't biting. And no, I don't think it's charming that she and the other moms are standing around obsessing about their i-Pod accessories and trading tunes. It's just another example of inane thing-ism that gives the middle classes the sensation that they've really achieved something. Go ahead and download more tunes, lady. Upgrade your component. You ...are...getting...very...sleepy. When you wake up, your daughters won't have the right to a safe and legal abortion and our federal deficit will be larger than the combined gross national product of the entire E.U. But that's okay. Groove on with your bad i-Pod self.
I had been considering getting an i-Pod before I read that piece. Now I'm definitely not getting one. This computer is drug enough.