the good kind of mix-up.

It's time to reintroduce the mixtape.

Or perhaps "reintroduce" isn't the right word. Since CDs, then MP3s, Ipods, and the resurgence of vinyl, mixtapes have experienced a few moments in silence, but they've been repetively glorified as icons of the early 90s in all kinds of pop culture memorabilia. From best-selling books to boombox bags, the mixtape never really shut up -- even once the sales of blank tapes did. 

My home collection of personal mixtapes is mostly stolen from Rick Dees and the Weekly Top 40 -- a collection of Enrique, Love Inc., and Vertical Horizon -- one which I refused to be ashamed of. I've carefully written the tracklisting in gold gel pen on each label, some a few times over when I ran out of 1-dollar blanks. I listened to more mixtapes than I bought real tapes, and I didn't own a discman, nor a CD player 'till mid-junior high (is that old?). I'm sure everyone and their dog wants to say they were a mixtape afficiando back in the good ol' days, but I'm pretty sure I played my part -- and I played my part loud. I mean, there was a large Coldplay phase somewhere in between... but no more needs to be said about that. Chris Martin's still one hot dada.

Anywho, now that I've bored you with my nostalgia, it's time to regrasp your attention, as I introduce you to something a little more aesthetically appealing than my own bewildering babblings. Now that muxtape's gone all muddly, and because I cannot afford to send each and every one of my three loyal blog readers their own personal tape, I have had to track down a substitute. And don't give me any credit, it wasn't a tough task.

So now please, I insist -- sit back, relax, and allow yourself to be soothed by my first "favtape". If you know me, you know I'm the nerdy music junkie type -- but I've had to tone it down for my introductory work (and fear not, I'll bring out my signature full-on weird-out stuff in due time). 

Now I know we all listen to foreign music - sure, Rolling Stones and Rihanna are outta-towners, but here I suggest you delve into some deeper cuts. And so, for the purposes of this playlist, I've ignored all artists from Canada, the States, and U.K. -- not cause I dislike 'em, but... well, they're just too easy. I've specially imported some select tracks from Sweden, Denmark, Japan, Australia, Lichtenstein... oh, and this one dude from Santa Fe, but his band is named after a place in Lebanon -- that counts, right?

But don't let me do all the talking -- I've entitled my masterpiece "Erocktic Exotica". Listen, let the travelling tracks soothe your ears, repeat... there will be more to come.

for such a small price, ms. perry requests your presence....

where I belong.

Some way, somehow,

No matter how much work I've done, regardless of how much homework I have left to do... on Monday nights, the point at which I realize I can work no longer always seems to align perfectly with the buffering of a certain gossip reel...

NYmag awards the highest number of points -- 25 -- last night for Derroda's personal ringtone "I'm a Slave 4 U" for whenever Eleanor summons.

My own tally?

I'm a slave to Gossip Girl. Plus 25 for owning my Monday-nightlife, JRN 312, 0.

You probably don't care, but...

...after years of complaints, insults, and quitter talk, a new saga has begun in the sports section of my life...

coach bob got the axe. And as it turns out, he was the one dumb enough to drop it on his own foot.

D-oh!

In his futile attempts to secure the full-time position of coaching the women's team, Bob failed to recognize that the mere "technicality" of posting the job position would cost him his team.

We've got Olympians, national team members, Americans, Brazillians.... and Bob. One of these things is not like the other....

Meet Dustin Reid. He has a Nine Inch Nails tattoo--he's pretty fuckin' cool... at least for a coach.

 All that really matters? Bob's gone.. gonzo.. kaput!

a postcard from Sweden.

Meet Gustav Ejstes.

He's the one-man musical mastermind behind Swedish folk-psych-fantasy rock outfit Dungen (DOON-gen). He records every aspect of entire albums by himself, and graciously allows a few good men to accompany him on tour, carrying instruments and standing on stage... it's like he's in a band or something. 

The mass of musical instruments he brings on tour probably outweigh his slight frame, yet cannot overpower his mastery over each object he plays. A man of the many talents, Gustav can play a magical flute while simultaneously smoking cheap cigarettes. He's a man with the midas touch, everything he touches turns to musical gold. He's the magnificent merchant of everything beautiful and Swedish (he even makes dirty captain mo's and ginger ale mix well). He likes rap as much as John Bauer.

And, more than anything else, this 28-year-old loves 6 a.m. lectures towards unassuming younger women on life accomplishments and success. Bless your sweet, sweet Swedish soul, Gustav.  Please come back to Canada.