The Impossibility of Eroticism in the Suburbs

In fact, it's not that impossible. But don't quote me on that one.

I've been going through my stuff lately, since I'm in the process of sanitarising my life. I'm cleanin' up the mess, brothers. I realise that some of the boxes I have yet to open, in my storage room, have been there forever. They followed me with every move, and yet I'm not quite sure what's in them.

I have this "strategy", you see : a box you haven't opened in seven years will contain two things... either big surprises that you'll be glad to finally get your hands on, or just plain junk you'll be quite happy to throw in the poubelles.

What happens in my case is that I have boxes & boxes of VHS tapes. Litterally thousands of 'em. To make a long story short, I'm a big fan of eurotrash movies from the 70's, and they're kinda hard to find these days, so I have devoted a good chunk of my life at hunting them down and "archiving" them in the basement. However, it is categorically impossible that I move with them in July. I'm a bit fed up or carrying them boxes around, you see.

So I'm sorting through them, and I find lots of good ones. Which makes it difficult to decide what stays & what goes.

And instead of investigating about that to downsize my crap, here I am drinkin' coffee, reading the new York Times online and listening to Modjo's "No More Tears" remixed by Alex Gopher.

Was anything of the above of erotic interest to anybody ?

I didn't think so either.