It's funny how we find such pleasure in making the ubiquitous mix tape, which has now evolved into the mix cd. I think the first one I made was for my boyfriend, Scott Dilly (the one who took my virginity in Mammoth and needlessly dumped me weeks later for a younger blonde--I was 16, he was 18--and flaunted her in front of me at work at Nordstrom). After he dumped me, I ceremoniously left him one in his security cubby at our employee entrance and check-in at work (we both worked at Nordstrom, he in Brass Plum Shoes, me in Brass Plum--incestuous metropolis as it was). I knew one of the "security" guys, who happened to also be his high school buddy, and asked him, tearfully, to slip it in his box. When I asked later if he has gotten it, the security buddy nodded, as if to say that my 16-year-old antics were not appreciated and were not going to gain back Mr. Dilly, playboy esquire. Songs on this were Miami Sound Machine love songs, depressing Cure wrist slashers off Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me, and cheesy Go-Go's heartbreak songs.
I may have grown up a bit since then. I still made mix tapes, but never really gave them away to anyone. They were marked with: Valentine's Day 1988; The River May 1992; Love Stinks June 1990; or Fucking Songs. They had the usual running length and would encapsulate what I was listening to at the time or songs that reminded me of the person/people in my life. I kept these bulky tapes for many years, up until my divorce when I had to majorly consolidate my possessions. Somehow immature mix tapes didn't fall into the category of being necessary. I think the last one I had actually made was for my ex-husband, commemorating our one-year anniversary or something. Awwww. How romantic it was to be young and in love. Though now, many of these songs haunt me as being representations of bad times in my life or people who are no longer around me. I do wish I could have the liner listings of songs so I could now download them all and make them into playlists on iTunes, our new source of making mixes . . .
Now that cassettes are obsolete, other than at some rummage sale or thrift store, ranked at a mere $.25 or less, we have the Internet and with that comes, iTunes, or whatever source of music you have for MP3's. Now, at our fingertips, are all the songs we ever wanted to put together to represent our lives. And how much easier it is (though costly). There is no longer the need to cue up a cassette, have dual cassette players, have to record and rerecord for perfection, and that nasty little static noise sometimes heard on that stringy brown tape. Now it is a click away. Everything we've wanted and individually, rather than buying a whole cassette or album (which was even worse because we had to record it from vinyl onto cassette, which left for shitty quality, as well), and easily put into a playlist that eases onto our iPods for every day listening during the commute. Ah, camping at San Onofre and making out with a random 21-year-old in 1987 in his tent while my dad was asleep in his tent about 25 campsites away. Or the drive to Lake Havasu 1988 in an Iroq listening to Val Halen all the way with 2 Hessian potheads and a black co-worker female who became so obliterated on White Russians that she had me take nude pics of her with a tampon string coming out of her. Then, can never forget August 1989, when I walked in on my boyfriend screwing his friend--yeah, that tape was a kicker.
So, as we speak, I am making a cd of songs for a guy who I went on one date with. Actually, I have already made the first one, but he requested another if I liked. He was intrigued with my musical taste (being pretty obscure, but damn good) and asked that night as we sat in the parking garage, listening to my iPod at 1 am, if I would make him a cd. I agreed at the time, feeling rather flattered and enamored. Of course he was also being flirty and putting his hands through my hair and laying it on quite nicely to get about whatever he wanted. Now he has flaked on me twice for dates, and though he randomly emails me asking how I am and whining about how busy he is with work and such, I am making his second cd. I don't know why. I want to show off my taste in music. I want to woo him into going out with me again. I want him to be my boyfriend. I want him to want me. But, just like with Scott Dilly and his love-mix cassette left with love in his cubby, it never made him want me again. Instead of making this guy, my new object d'amor, want me more, or not flake out on the dates he has made, it only jades me to a bunch of great songs that I love. I will listen to this playlist in a few months, or even longer, and remember the guy who called his style, "the charmer," and took me out for dinner and drinks and lured me in for hours, while luring me even longer over weeks via email. It will only make me sad that I fell for another guy who "just isn't that into me" and made me despise men and their lack of committment and follow through more so than before. It also makes me loathe the song "The Dress" by Blonde Redhead, which we listened to, of his choice, in the car that night. It also makes me understand the power of music and question our desire to encapsulate it in little bursts of 20 songs or so . . .
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