Amanda Dumey
London Literary Nonfiction
4 December 2005
Plugged In, Tuned Out
I have a love-hate relationship with a lot of things: men, food, AIM, exercise, Britney Spears, and that little bugger, the I-pod. Out of all of my complicated relationships, the most tumultuous, the most pervasive, the most irritating of them all is me v. the I-pod. It’s even followed me over the ocean. People tell me that I’m just jealous, suffering from I-pod envy. Apparently two white strings sticking out of one’s ears is all the rage in fashion; it’s the ultimate status symbol. It screams “Look at me! I’ve just spent way too much money on this little machine, but don’t I look ravishing?” Come on. Jealousy is definitely not the word to describe my feelings. It’s more like befuddlement, or utter bewilderment. Why would I want to become an Apple droid, plugging in my music and tuning out the world?
If I plugged in my I-pod, I would be missing out on crucial parts of London. This city must be experienced with all five senses: touch, smell, taste, sight, and sound. No, listening to music on an I-pod doesn’t count. I mean listening to the city—the guy playing the recorder in the Underground Station, that awful police siren, the preacher in front of Earl’s Court station attempting to save our souls, the Japanese tourists yapping way too loudly because who cares? Nobody understands them anyway. It’s like watching TV with no sound—you sort of know what’s going on, but not really. Why go through life, through London, only half understanding?
At this point, I must qualify myself as an expert on the dismal effects of I-pods. I once did a study where I observed students at my university and whether or not they opened doors for one another. The exact number eludes me, but an overwhelming majority held the door open for the person behind them. There was one group of people that never, ever, not even once, held the door open for their fellow students; you guessed it, the I-pod droids. Even if a male approached the doorway closely followed by a leggy, buxom blonde, if he was plugged in, that door slammed in her face. Why? They are not even aware that other people exist! So there. I have scientific proof that I-pods are detrimental to humanity.
My scientific proof gives me something to brood over, especially when I am standing around with my plugged-in friends. I have three months and a few weeks to soak in London; heck if I’m going to plug in my I-pod. My time here is precious, so it baffles me when I see my classmates tuning out London and listening to the same fifteen songs on their I-pods. There seems to be a correlation between I-pod listening and looking at one’s feet. Funny how that works. While in transport from point A to point B, whether it be on foot, on coach, or on the underground, I-pod droids have a fascination with their feet. Not only are my friends looking at their feet listening to Nelly’s Country Grammar, again, they are—more importantly—NOT paying any attention to me. I feel rather lonely in most crowds, because I seem to be the only one not enjoying a personal rock concert. The other day as we stood outside the Globe Theatre waiting an excruciating five whole minutes to go inside, I took that time to walk up to the River Thames and feel the breeze and smell the river. My friends frantically whipped out their I-pods and plugged in. As I turned around, “Hey guys, check out…” I was met by blank stares and heads bobbing robotically.
“Hell-O! Anybody home?” I say with no response. And I do have to wonder, is anybody home? Do brains function when I-pods are inside ears? Tube riders sway with as the train jolts along the track. Their faces remain blank, I-pods firmly inserted. I wonder what they are thinking. That’s what I do on the tube—I think. My idea of chilling out, as many people do during their long commutes, is not completely zoning out. My idea of chilling out is sorting my thoughts. So many of them flutter around in my head, especially since I’ve been in London. I think about how I feel about fully veiled women, I think about whether or not I should buy the coat I saw at Dorothy Perkins, I think about what other people might be thinking about. I think about what I-pod droids could possibly be thinking about with “MMMmmm I’m goin’ downtown baby
rollin’ in the Range Rover boom boom baby…” blaring in their ears. Not only are I-pods detrimental to humanity, they are severely injuring the art of thinking.
Come to think of it, I-pods are butchering the art of listening to music! Music isn’t meant to be enjoyed privately amidst a bustling city full of people. It’s meant to be enjoyed out loud! Watching people try to restrain themselves from actually moving to the music, enjoying it, is hysterical. When I listen to music, it’s usually in my car, really loud, with me car-dancing, an art I think I’ve perfected. Folks driving next to me think I’m a raging lunatic, thrashing about in my bright yellow Pontiac Aztec, singing at the top of my lungs. But I don’t care! People should be proud of the music they listen to, not hide it from the world. I would absolutely love it if someone brought their portable speakers with them and broadcast their music on the Piccadilly Line. What would people do? Knowing Londoners, they would probably do nothing. That’s the sad part about it. Some people are so jaded that something like that would only cause a small bleep on their radar screens. They would pretend that nothing was happening and carry on. Only me, the wide-eyed American in London would notice, because I’m silly enough to want to pay attention to my surroundings.
But not all Americans approach London with this sponge technique. They pick and choose what they will pay attention to. Just today I saw a man walking down the street with Tweety Bird socks peaking out from underneath his three-piece suit. On the plane back from Barcelona the kids in the seats behind me played a rousing game of “Why, why, why, why, why, why…” I saw the Pyranees Mountains out the window and over the heads of my sleeping, plugged-in friends. The little girl across from me on the tube coming home from the airport sang me a song, something about birds and trees. My companions missed out on all this because they were plugged in and tuned out. It doesn’t make for a very good story when someone asks you about your plane ride: “Oh it was lovely! I turned on my I-pod, set it to Nelly, and then fell asleep!” I suffered through the “why” game, but I also saw the mountains. My story is much more exciting. I take the good and the bad, and somehow it all works out. Part of being a temporary resident is actually living here, not wandering the streets listening to an I-pod being oblivious of the commotion around you.
Maybe I shouldn’t worry myself about it. After all, it is just a little machine and two little white strings. It’s not my loss if everyone around me fails to detect the particulars and oddities of London life. If people choose to numb their fifth sense, so be it. I want to experience all of London, or at least all that I can. My little quirky stories about men in Tweety Bird socks and listening to loud foreigners on the Tube are part of London, not just Buckingham Palace and Piccadilly Circus. Take those I-pods out of your ears and listen up, people! You’ll be amazed at what you hear, see, experience. London’s calling. See what it has to say.