Post number thirty-seven and a half, Sam Cooke.

A few months ago, I bought the Sam Cooke record “Night Beat” and promptly forgot about it.

Last week, I unintentionally loaded it onto my new (and overanalyzed) Nano.

It has been in heavy rotation ever since.

I don’t know what possessed me to buy the album, but it was a good call.

“Night Beat” is the shit. Trust the Optimist.

Post number thirty-seven, Nano.

I’m a gadget guy. A couple of weeks ago, a colleague who understands my predilection to all things shiny and electronic teased me cryptically about the new iPod.

”Dude, you haven’t seen the Nano yet?”

No, but when I got back to my office and looked up photos online, it was lust at first sight.

I got on the phone. After a few calls to area Apple stores in which I feigned cool disinterest----“I’m curious about this new gizmo the kids are talking about, what do you call it? A Nano? Is that it? Hmm. Well, when will it be available?”----I discovered that the object of my electronic affection wasn’t yet it stock. If I ordered it directly from Apple, I’d get my Nano the same time it shipped to stores.

Part of the fun of gadgets is being the first person to have one. I’d ordered it, but now had to wait (im)patiently for it to arrive. Suddenly aware of the Nano, I found it impossible to avoid----on TV commercials. On billboards on my way to and from work. Online. In reviews. On television commercials. On billboards. At Best Buy, I even found myself fondling a display Nano, wondering how they got theirs first. After all, part of the fun of gadgets is being the first person to have one.

The following Monday morning, my Nano arrived. Black. 4GB. 1000 songs. Devilishly small. Elegantly designed. We made our first appearance together that evening at the gym. I nonchalantly cruised the other mp3 players with the confidence of a man with a supermodel on his arm.

People stared. Wanted to touch. Hands off the Nano, bitches.

The morning after, as I stared lovingly into it’s cute little color screen, I felt a pang of guilt about the other iPods that have been a part of my life.

The first generation iPod was pushed out of my heart not long after the second generation iPod came around.

The second gen iPod was supplanted by the mini, with its slimmer profile and cool metallic case.

And now the poor mini is stuck forlorn in my glove compartment, jilted by the Nano.

And even now, in the midst of the honeymoon, I can’t commit to loving the Nano forever, because I know that next year or two, an even more attractive model will come along.

I’m increasingly afraid that this consumerist pattern of next-year’s model permeates my personal relationships as well.

Why am I never satisfied? Will I ever find the gadget of my dreams? Will I ever find the penultimate person?

Do I treat people like I treat my iPods?

Post number thirty-six, The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie.

This is my apartment. Freshly painted, thanks to a visit from mom. New furniture, too, thanks to me. Simple. Clean. Masculine. Comfortable.







As my internal growth manifests itself in objects, I am oddly disappointed that my personality seems best represented by a beige couch--even if it is among the most comfortable couches in the history of couches.




As I look around my new/old home, the omnipresent television coverage of the tragedy in New Orleans shakes me out of my self-indulgent navel-gazing and I realize:

- I'm thankful to have a place to call home.

- The things we own don't necessarily end up owning us.

- The possessions don't make the man.

- The spare bedroom will come in handy.