Loves me, loves me not: We're tuned into this relationship.

07:11 PM CDT on Tuesday, June 20, 2006

As everyone who has one knows, getting an iPod changes your life. You aren't just buying a gadget, you're acquiring a relationship, somewhere between a pet and a mail-order bride. Technology makes strange bedfellows, and what starts as a mass-produced, inanimate object can become a running buddy, a trusted confidant and who knows what else. To paraphrase a Harry Nilsson song (see "Silly Songs" list), "wherever we go, everyone knows, it's me and my iPod." In these three essays, we track the arc of the iPod relationship from beginning through the middle to the end.

Tom Maurstad

My iPod's name is Chauncey Billups.

I'm not a big basketball fan, though the NBA Finals haven't passed me by. (Go Mavs.)

Not even sure which team Chauncey plays for. The Detroit Pistons? But the name ... it's special.

Kind of like Mookie Wilson, a baseball player, possibly for New York. A beer soaked Sox game at old Comiskey Park on Chicago's South Side. Next on deck, Moooooookie Willllson. Now that is a name to get behind.

A thought, in hindsight, better left unspoken. Rough crowd at Comiskey.

But Chauncey Billups is a perfect name. Perfect for a basset hound. I've always wanted a dog and if that dog were a basset hound, I'd call him Chauncey Billups. Can't you just see him trotting around, all soupy-eyed and flop-eared?

Sadly, dogs need humans who are, occasionally, home. So I have an iPod named Chauncey Billups instead.

He's coming into his own now. Part ball player. Part droopy hound. But mostly, a character from a Graham Greene novel.

Downloading brings the prompt, "Update Chauncey Billups?"

Yes sir, of course. I'll bring the dossier right away.

Rumpled khaki suit and some thinly veiled "posting" in a godforsaken place that manages still to have gin rickeys at a club and now, how do they keep those linen dresses so wrinkle-free? (Me, I hate gin, but hey, it's Chauncey's taste we're talking about here.)

The iPod found its way home in February, but I just recently took it out of its box. Frankly, I've been ambivalent.

Already there's MySpace and iTunes, Real Player and Yahoo, various music blogs; now Burn Lounge is coming and who knows what's next? It's true, I'm no early adapter. But I get the job done.

The main stereo receiver in my life, homemade of vacuum tubes, is perfect for a Luddite. Just two buttons: turn on; turn up. And a big exposed transformer that will kill if you accidentally touch it. It's my favorite, signed in magic marker by the man who made it.

Although there's also a boombox, another stereo in the car, and one in the computer. All useful, all nameless.

I flirt with the idea of satellite radio. But old tape recorders, the Walkman, the Discman are coming to anonymous ends in dusty places.

Am I just crushing on the thought of KCRW video podcasts? Looking for a new way to deal with the CDs that spill out of boxes and pile up on counters?

Personal music delivery system ... the sterile words almost defeat the purpose. Maybe that's why this one gets a back story.

Last week, I watched the Mavs win game Game 2 with friends, but Chauncey was waiting for me when I got home. He had some big and loud ideas. I worried about the neighbors so we went upstairs. And we danced in front of the bathroom mirror until 3 a.m.

I think this man is trouble.

Anne Bothwell

For the first year or so of our relationship, iPod was my cool friend with the great taste in music.

He rarely played anything that I wasn't familiar with, but I was always excited to set the controls to shuffle and see what he felt like listening to.

"Man, you are really on a Weezer kick today," I'd say in a voice loud enough that only he could hear. Or, "The Clash, followed by Bloc Party, topped off by Coldplay. Aren't you quite the Anglophile?"

We became great running partners, and he always found a way to make those monotonous six miles entertaining and fresh. Occasionally, he'd go to the U2 well one too many times, but I always figured I had 68 songs by them on there compared with, say, three from the White Stripes. So I was already 23 times more likely to hear Bono than Jack, or say, Beck, who also had three tunes make the cut.

And then I discovered his dirty little secret.

While updating him, I stumbled across the "playback" tab under preferences on iTunes, which allows you to set how likely you are to hear multiple songs by the same artist or in the same genre or what have you.

In an instant, my relationship with iPod completely changed. All this time, I thought he had been putting together mini blocks of songs tailored just for my enjoyment, keeping me on my toes with anticipation over what my personal DJ would play next.

But, as it turned out, I was the one unknowingly calling the shots all along. I felt like Eddie Murphy in Coming to America, when he confronts his beautiful and unfailingly obedient prearranged bride by saying, "Listen, I know what I like, and I know you know what I like because you were trained to know what I like. But I would like to know, what do you like?"

I had accidentally paid attention to that man behind the curtain and learned that he was me. When I would hear a triple shot of Pearl Jam, I knew that I had somehow subconsciously arranged this, and I missed the satisfaction that comes with tuning in for true randomness.

And then I learned what it really feels like to be unsatisfied. Halfway through our usual run, iPod died on me.

Apparently, I had failed to fully charge him the night before, and he didn't have the energy to make it all the way. I was left with the sound of silence, possibly the only sound more draining than actually hearing "The Sound of Silence," maybe the least energetic song ever.

But I would have taken it, or any other procession of songs at that point. And that taught me a valuable lesson: My iPod may not be perfect, but it's as good as it gets, and much better than the silent alternative.

Now, when I question his (and, in reality, our) taste, I go to the option that's been there all along. Hit the button that advances to the next song and hope for the best.

Stephen Becker

There's one thing you need to understand upfront: I love my iPod. She was my first, and you know how it is with your first – she always holds a special place in your heart.

I named her iPollonia; she was my little digital goddess. We've had some great times together. Those first months we were so happy. I would create lists till I was dizzy, and she would sit beside me in her charger, waiting for my next shower of songs.

"You're going to love this one," I'd gush. "It's songs for rainy days; I included that Weather Prophets song from the first album I ever loaded on to you."

And whatever I came at her with – hard, soft, slow, fast – she'd take it and was always ready for more. "What am I going to do with you," I'd laugh. "I'm never going to fill you up."

She would just flash, telling me she was charged and ready to go.

Yeah, those were good times. But you know how it is. Time passes; routine sets in. The old girl (that's what I call her now) still chugs along, but her battery doesn't hold a charge the way it once did and her navigation wheel isn't nearly as responsive to my touch as it used to be. Her white face, once so clean and smooth is smudged and scratched. They're beauty marks, I tell myself. They add to her charm, I inwardly sigh.

So here's the thing. I got a new cellphone about a month ago, a Motorola SLVR. What a stunner. Unblemished black, half as thin as the old girl, and that screen, that big, beautiful, full-color screen – I can't stop staring at it.

Funny thing, it turns out – and I didn't know this when I got it, I swear – this phone, well, you know, it's also an MP3 player. She doesn't need a computer or a docking station. I just push one of her fresh, crisply clicking buttons and, poof, we're wirelessly connected to iTunes and she's practically begging me to download some songs.

It was just a few songs at first, but now we're downloading all the time. I can tell iPollonia suspects something. And, it's true, I don't spend as much time with the old girl anymore. I take the phone with me on runs now, but, be reasonable, it's not just about the music. It's a phone, too. What if I fell down and needed to call for help? I couldn't do that on my iPod. Did you ever think about that?

Relax, I tell her, you'll always be my first. Besides, I haven't even named my phone – yet.

Tom Maurstad