My senior year in high school, AP US History fell during the same period as jazz band. And, Louis and Miles being nearer and dearer to my heart than any dead president, I opted for jazz.

While I’ve never regretted that choice, I’ve often regretted the deep hole in my knowledge that resulted. What was, for example Truman’s legacy? Or Harding’s? I have absolutely no idea.

Over the years, in fits of self-improvement, I’ve therefore picked up a slew of US history texts. I’ve tried to slog through Loewen and Zinn. I’ve even resorted to Davis’ much maligned Don’t Know Much About History. Because, as I’ve said, I don’t.

But, despite my best intentions, I’d never make it more than fifty pages through any of these tomes. I’d sit down to read and my eyelids would droop before I could even crack the volume open to the right page.

So, it was with some trepidation that I picked up Erik Larson’s The Devil in the White City, which retells the story of the 1893 World’s Fair by intertwining the perspectives of Daniel Burnham, the fair’s lead architect, and Henry Holmes, a serial killer who used the fair to lure in his victims.

As one reviewer commented, Larson seems a historan with a novelist’s soul. Several other reviewers called the book ‘engossing’; I couldn’t agree more, having, in less than three days, devoured three hundred and forty-some pages – more, perhaps, than I’ve read of all my prior history reading attempts combined.

So, if you like history books, I highly recommend The Devil in the White City. And if you don’t, I recommend it even more.

Very good.

Very not.

At the same time that I picked up the now-carried-everywhere Shuffle, I also picked up Freakonomics, by Steven Levitt and Stephen Dubner.

Or, more accurately, I downloaded it, as an audio book from the iTunes store. It was my first audio book purchase, and buying it felt like I was cheating. Like I had eschewed a classic novel for its Reader’s Digest summary. Technically, my download of Freakonomics was unabridged. But without its crinkling pages in hand, without its black words racing past my saccadic glances, it still felt, well, less than the actual book.

Worse, it still felt less than actually reading. As if, by taking in the Steves’ work through my ears rather than my eyeballs, I was missing the most important part, was divorcing myself from the long, grand history of letters, was undermining my aspirations to the snotty literati crowd.

It turns out, however, that there’s historical precedent for such aural affairs: until the twelfth century, nearly all reading was done alound. Saint Augustine, for example was shocked to discover that when Ambrose, bishop of Milan, read, “his eyes followed the pages and his heart pondered the meaning, though his voice and tongue were still.” Even reading privately involved quietly speaking the words aloud, leading Ivan Illich to describe the monasteries of his time as ‘communities of mumblers’.

Indeed, at that time, reading was an inherently social activity, not the solitary one that it’s since become. As David Levy describes in his excellent Scrolling Forward: “for many centuries… if you read aloud, you were likely to be reading to others. And those listening were themselves considered to reading – not because they were looking at the text, but because they were hearing it.”

Or, in the words of Ivan Illich again, “all those who, with the reader, are immersed in this hearing milieu are equals before the sound.”

Equals before the sound! I like that. And, it turns out, I like audio books as well. I can read them walking down the street or jostling through subway cars, can play them by stereo while mopping the kitchen floor, and can stuff them, in bits and pieces, into the small gaps throughout my day.

This past weekend, I picked up Bill Bryson’s A Short History of Nearly Everything – which, unabridged, belies its name with a seventeen hour playing time. After that, I have an Audible.com wishlist slowing filling up with any number of auditized volumes I’d love to listen through. I’m immersing myself into Illich’s hearing milieu, and I’m going in deep.

With my Airport Express intermittently on the fritz, I’ve fallen off of streaming music from iTunes, and back to an older technology involving music on plastic saucer-shaped objects I vaguely recall being named ‘compact discs’. And, the crazy thing is, the music on those discs sounds much, much better than the same stuff compressed to 192kbps MP3s. Who knew?

People tend to assume that, since I spend much of my life immersed in one genre of pop culture, I must be, at least to some degree, hip to the world of pop culture as a whole.

Which, sadly, is not the case. While I do, obviously, follow the film world closely, I tend to follow it from the making movies side, rather than from the star obsession / People Magazine side, leaving me embarrassingly behind on whether Brad and Jennifer are together or not at any given moment.

Beyond my own industry, things go downhill quickly, leaving me clueless as to new television shows, recently released novels, or hot new indie bands. In the case of TV, I’m somewhat happy not to know the latest reality hit. With books, as most of my friends tend to be serious bibliophiles, simply watching what they’re toting along for subway reading is enough to make sure I catch any fast-spreading paperback meme before I’m too distressingly behind the curve.

But music. That’s a tough one. I do, I believe, know a number of people with really good musical taste. But unlike reading choices, the contents of their iPods aren’t nearly as easily gleaned from casual observation. So, instead, I tend to follow the offhand comments of my most music-savvy friends, snapping up the names of bands and albums they mention like a dog hungrily collecting table scraps. Which works. But in a slow and haphazard way that leaves me to miss entirely bands and musicians I’d really like, and to search through the large number of mentioned groups that aren’t even vaguely up my alley.

Here, as in so many other areas, it seems I may be rescued by technology. Rescued, in fact, by technology I discovered and installed several months back, but then promptly forgot about.

Like with most things in the world of music, I may be one of the very last to discover AudioScrobbler. But, on the off chance that some small number of you readers lag even further behind, I highly, highly recommend that you download the plugin for whichever audio player you use.

In short, AudioScrobbler watches what you listen to, compares it to what other people listen to, and make recommendations based on other artists people with similar tastes are playing frequently. Last night, on AudioScrobbler’s advice, I downloaded a slew of Denison Witmer, Sufjan Stevens and Rufus Wainwright. And, frankly, I was shocked by how much I liked them all.

With those successes, I’ll be checking in on AudioScrobbler’s recommendations every month or two, and acquiring some new CDs. I may not be any hipper or better tied in to the indie music world, but, with a bit of help, it looks like at least I’ll be able to fake it.

In his excellent, if curmudgeonly, essay, “E Unibus Pluram: Television and US Fiction,” David Foster Wallace argues that TV “is not vulgar and prurient and dumb because the people who compose the audience are vulgar and dumb. Television is the way it is simply because people tend to be extremely similar in their vulgar and prurient and dumb interests and wildly different in their refined and aesthetic and noble interests.”

Which, frankly, is probably the best explanation of how, last night, three college friends and I ended up pigging out at Virgil’s Real BBQ, then sneaking 40’s of malt liquor into a screening of Meet the Fockers.

While I love the feeling of accomplishment in finishing reading a book, if I’m enjoying a read – and, particularly, if I’m enjoying a novel – I tend to look with dread at the swaths of pages disappearing to the left. With each turn, I get closer and closer to running out of story, to no longer feeling the constant tug of the book, away from what I should be doing, begging me to curl up, read a chapter, and then another.

That’s why I’m particularly glad I’ve enjoyed the first hundred pages of Anna Karenina (one of the many classics I somehow missed in my years of education). With literally hundreds and hundreds of pages yet to go, I have days of reading left before the fear of running out taints purely enjoying the unfolding narrative.

These days, with nearly 40 gigs of music spinning inside my iPod, I listen most any time I hit the subways or streets. And, by and large, it’s great. With sound-isolating high-fidelity buds in my ears, I barely hear the city grinding noisily away around me. With a click of ‘shuffle songs’, my entire CD collection pours seamlessly into my brain – from Aaron Copland to Zoot Sims, reminding me constantly of songs and bands I’d forgotten how much I love.

The problem is, from years of playing music, I can’t help but move in time to the beat. A year back, enrolled with a friend in a ballroom dance class, I was constantly amazed by the number of people with no sense of time – couldn’t they hear the music pulsing away? But, as iPodding goes, an overdeveloped feel for the rhythm is a bit of a disability – I can’t not move in time to the song. So, as my listening shuffles from slow ballad to up-tempo rocker, my walking speed shifts way up and down – a problem today when, already running late for a morning production meeting, I hit a stretch of laid back Clem Snide, Nico, Iron & Wine and Love is Hell Ryan Adams.

Despite broadening my (in-time) stride, I still arrived late. But it won’t happen again – just downloaded to the iPod is a ‘running behind’ playlist with enough Pixies, Donnas and Yeah Yeah Yeahs to have me fairly sprinting towards wherever I’m bound.

I’m in the Newark Airport. I have been here for the past eight hours and, according to the most recent departure time update, I should be here for at least two more.

With each passing minute, I’m increasingly cursing myself for having not yet seen The Terminal, as I’m pretty sure that, if I had, I’d know how to use this stretch of airport time to bed Catherine Zeta-Jones.