Mix it up

Mingus and I got into a rush hour scrape the other day. I came out unscathed, as did all the other humans involved, but the wagon didn't fare too well. So it's off to the car doctor he goes, my expensive silver date, and I arranged to tool around town in yet another rental.

I wasn't excited about it at first, but now I am. After years of passing by Rent-A-Relic, the West Coast sister of New England's venerable Rent-A-Wreck, I finally remembered the place existed when I actually need a car. In addition to being walkable from my house—very handy—turns out it's cheap, friendly, and old-school in the best possible way.

Meaning this: They gave me a brown 2002 Ford Escort with squeaky brakes and a tape player. Did you hear that? Do you need me to turn it up? A TAPE PLAYER. You may remember that I threw almost all of my tapes away when I moved into this lemon tree cabin, but you'll be none too shocked to learn that I did keep all the best tapes. The originals. The teen angst. The sorrow, the joy, the coming of age. The labors of love.

Yes, that's right. The mix tapes.

It sucks that I'm going to have the highest insurance rates in the universe soon, but it almost doesn't matter when you consider that I got to listen to But Anyway, Roadhouse Blues, and Walk of Life on the drive to work this morning. Then, on the way home, my favorite car song ever—the car song to rule all car songs—the crown jewel.

The best part is that I don't remember what's on most of these tapes I once slaved over, trying to fill those last 45 empty seconds with the perfect hidden track, so I just pop them in and get a full 1.5 hours of delicious surprises.

Ladies and gentlemen, the art of the mix tape lives on in my rental relic. Which is named Ferris, by the way. I just thought you should know.

Anyone? Anyone?