R.i.Pod

	A fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. [theistore.com]

Last week, walking to work one morning, in the first 30 seconds of "Big Wheel" by Tori Amos, my iPod suddenly shut off. When I turned it on, it had registered half battery life, so I tried firing it up again. But it wouldn't start up. It just cycled through the reboot and never got through to the menu screen. The battery had been acting up for well over a year, so I assumed it would shut off on its own, as usual, and I would just charge it up again at work.

When I pulled it out later to charge it, it was still running. It was still rebooting. Over and over and over. And it was hot to the touch. I held the Menu and the Play/Pause buttons to reset it, but it never got past its opening screen. Click, whirrrrrr, bzzzzz... pause. Click, whirrrrrr, bzzzzz... pause. Click, whirrrrrr, bzzzzz... pause.

I began to panic and went to the Apple Web site, but I couldn't do anything about it with my work PC. I needed my Mac at home. Eventually it puttered out and stopped spinning. Safe ... for now.

That night I couldn't even get it to mount to the desktop; nor could I get iTunes to recognize it — so I could do absolutely nothing to reset or restore. No amount of troubleshooting would help.

After five years, my iPod's number is up. His little ticker has finally gone out. Long will I remember the countless hours of Madonna, Tori Amos, Cyndi Lauper, Indigo Girls, Gorillaz, '80s playlists, the Wicked soundtrack. I will be forever grateful for years of encouragement on the Bally's treadmill with Ultimate Kylie and Confessions on a Dancefloor. Those days are over.

My iPod was Generation 3, the last model before the display went color. Before the click wheel. Before the 30GB model. Before video.

He filled my heart with joy, but at 20 GB — five times the size of my first Mac G3 desktop machine, mind you &8212; he had not yet been filled with music.

Now he has gone to Abraham's bosom. He's bitten the big one, the biscuit, the dust. He's kicked the bucket. He's bought the farm, cashed in (or cached, for the geeks) his chips, checked out, climbed the golden staircase. He's cooking for the Kennedys. He is passing over Jordan. He is gathered to his fathers. He has met his maker. He has joined the ancestors. He's croaked. He's snuffed it. He's toast. He's dead meat. He's given an obolus to Charon, crossed the river on the Stygian ferry — to the undiscovered country, fallen into the dreamless sleep. He is at journey's end. He is sailing on the grey ships. He's done like dinner. He's flat-lined. It's curtains for my poor iPod. It's Taps. He is information superhighway roadkill. He's feeding the fishes. He's worm food. He's going home feet first, toes up. Therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for my iPod. He's shuffled off his mortal coil. He's shit the bed. He's gone to his just reward, his last home, his rest, his last account, the last roundup, the sweet hereafter, the happy hunting ground. He is sowing the Elysian Fields. He's met the grim ferryman, the grim reaper, the great leveller. He's hung up his tack. He's picking up his harp. He has left the building. He has been launched into eternity. He's on the road to nowhere. He's paid the piper. Pegged out. Pulled the plug. He's given up the ghost. He's pushing up daisies, singing with the angels, sleeping with the fishes. He's six feet under.

I'm gonna miss you, little guy.

(Special thanks to Dead & Buried.)