Death of cassette - death of Mixed Tapes

I was cleaning my basement the other day and came across a box with no fewer than 300 cassettes, most of which I bought in the store or in one of those record-club deals.

I hate to throw them out but am never going to use them anymore. I know there's machines that you can use to transfer tapes to CDs, but I don't know if I have the energy.

So they'll probably continue to sit there, right next to the big box with about 100 videotapes I feel the same way about :'(

 

Anyone read Rob Sheffield's "Love is a Mixtape"? I remember the excerpt in GQ, I believe, was pretty good.
http://search.barnesandnoble.com//e/9781400083039

 

Should've been around before cassettes were invented. It was a real chore chiseling out that vinyl into perfect analog, concentric grooves conveying your passion for the one you love. While walking uphill both ways. (/spnited)

 

Awesome, awesome book. One of the best gifts I ever gave Mrs. T.

 

Extremely good.

 

Before my birthday, I joked that all I wanted from my wife was a mixtape. She made a mixCD. While I love the songs she chose and she did a great job on the order, it's not the same as a mixtape.

 

I remember someone broke into my car in the mid 80's and took my stereo and the tapes. I cared about losing the stereo but losing the tapes? Man that was hard to get over.

And that "um...here's a tape I made for you..." is one of the best moments of young romance (and I'm not ashamed to admit it.) I hope my kids find a similar feeling thing when its their turn.

 

Underrated post.

 

I just got rid of a box full of stuff, but there are just some tapes I can't get rid of. I still have a walkman for the times I go to the gym and want to hear Master of Puppets.

A bit of a tangent off the Love Songs tapes, but I remember going in the City to buy hip-hop mixed tapes. So many DJs, scratchin and mixin new songs. Buy one, then like two weeks later its already too old.

 

Mrs. BYH liked Big Fun and Ray Pruit on the mix, did she?

 

Nicely-turned phrase, Mr. Hartlaub.

 

Two days after my 17th birthday, on Valentine's Day, 2000, I took my first girlfriend out for a romantic night out. We'd started dating six weeks prior to that and were still in that infatuation stage, where you care about nothing but seeing each other. She had dated a few guys before, but none seriously, and she was my first -- serious or not. I wanted this night to be one she'd never forget.

So I took all the birthday money my parents gave me and went to the florist, bought a dozen long-stemmed, red roses -- her favorite -- washed my red 1992 S-10 Blazer, dressed up nicely and picked her up at her house. I walked up to the door with the flowers in hand, and her mom oohed and awed enough to make us both blush. Her dad, embedded in the couch (as I often found him over the next four years), looked at me and laughed slightly, as if to say, "Sucks to be you, kid." My girlfriend's eyes lit up and she looked for the perfect vase. Then we were on our way to dinner, to the most romantic place ever: The Olive Garden.

We waited for about 90 minutes just for a table, and she kept looking at her watch. "I've got to be home at 10," she said. "My mom's not going out tonight, and she's taking it out on me," she said. "I just want this night to be perfect, but she won't let it," she said. But everything was going to be perfect. I had a plan.

We ate dinner, looked at each other longingly, at least as longingly as a couple teenagers can look. Then we went out to the parking lot. It wasn't a long walk, so she left her coat in the car. As we left the restaurant, I gave her mine, playing it cool, even if it was for only about 45 steps. I opened the back door and told her we'd exchange presents there before I took her home.

She gave me a stuffed bear, which I kept until a year ago. I didn't really dig it, and neither did she. "I didn't know what to buy a guy for Valentine's Day," she told me. "Neither do I," I said. "That's why I'm with you; it's easier to shop."

I put the bear aside and I handed her her gift. She opened the card, which said, "Thanks for being with me. Mike" Then she opened the box and pulled out a stuffed Tigger. (She loved that little guy for some reason; by the time we were finished dating, her room was covered in pandas and Tiggers because I had no idea what else to buy her.) She said she loved it. "It's my favorite," she said.

But there was more. Under the animal was a piece of paper with a note written on it, expressing my last six weeks of feelings on it -- above a track list of the mixed tape I stayed up all night making. There were our favorite -- my favorite -- songs on it. All of them now reminded me of her, and all of them made me almost as happy as she made me at the time. She loved it.

I was relieved, and I was nervous. I looked into her eyes and told her, "I know we've only been dating for six weeks, but you make me feel like no one else could. I think I love you." And I waited for a couple seconds until she laughed and said, "I love you, too." "OK," I said. "I know I love you. I was just really scared."

That was the last mixed tape I ever made anyone. I used to make them all the time with my best friend, and they'd inevitably have most of the same songs on them, only with different transitions and different obscene names my dad would yell at me for writing.