With my duct-taped, demo-model discman out of commission with, for lack of a better term, internal hemorrhaging, I’ve recently been able to witness headphone and mobile music-player style and etiquette in a new light as I take the necessary morning bus ride into Algonquin.

Apart from the ubiquitous white wires of iPod and Nano consoles confronting me at every sideways glance, MP3 digitals in general are popular not only as efficient listening devices, but as wardrobe accessories as well. But I must say the proliferation of digital players has left me and my antiquated discman feeling, well, a little inadequate.

I’ve already started prepping my pep talk for when my audio “bus buddy” is repaired and ready for action again. Don’t worry, you only prematurely skip once in awhile...and um, you’re much bigger than all of them! There have been some unexpected surprises.

For instance, could I have really seen an original legendary Sony Walkman, circa 1979, perched upon a commuter’s knees last week? Maybe it was the fog of the always-delightful hangover playing tricks with my eyes. Or maybe it was just someone bringing their VCR in for repairs. I’m also pretty positive I heard Bruce Springsteen’s powerfully aching (or overblown pseudo-sentimental, whichever side of the fence you’re sitting on) throaty croak emanating out of the headphones of a very young woman who looked more like the Jay-Z or Young Jeezy type.

I know it’s not my place to judge a person’s musical affinities based on dress sense, but it was odd to see a Springsteen fan decked out head-to-toe in Baby Phat. On further rumination, I may have confused her with the bearded gent reading Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath behind her (about the Springsteen, not the Baby Phat). Of course this unintentional eavesdropping on the Boss brings us to the inevitable question of volume.

While definitely a topic for another day, I’ll just say for starters that although anyone else’s noise can only be measured using the two criteria irritating and excruciating , I have heard less instances of it lately. But you’ll still get the occasional smart-alec who swears that a) others can’t hear his tunes despite the knotted brows and hisses of his travelling companions and b) the Pantera only sounds good cranked to, like, at least 9, man. You might think so, but to the rest of us it just sounds like Chewbacca...vomiting.

While listening to music loudly on the bus is not a crime, throttling someone for doing so is, so until I can petition the courts and government to change their whole outlook on common assault, or until I get my discman working and over its state of MP3-envy, I’ll have to grin at all the digital beauties and bear the lovely melodies of the day, be it Babyface, the Beta Band or Blood Sausage.