“I made you a mix tape,” he said as he rummaged frantically through his coat pockets. He extracted a haphazardly folded yellow sheet of paper, unfolded it, and presented it to me with his typical lopsided smile.

“This is a mix tape?” I asked, my eyes scanning his illegible scrawl in red ink.

“Yeah. You know my limitations when it comes to this whole digital era. I’m behind, Rose,” he said, leaning in closer, a sign that he was feeling intrigued. I could read his expressions fairly well.

“All the songs are by Bob Dylan,” I mused.

“I’m breaking you into him real easy. I even added commentary for better insight,” he explained, “Now all you have to do is assemble it yourself.”

“This is genius,” I started, “It’s bringing mix tapes to a whole new level. A track list with no actual physical form for playing but it still holds the same meaning.”

“It’s a real whig,” he said with a laugh.

“Now I’ve got everything I need,” I said.