It's not really a tape; well, it's not a tape at all. Just a conglomeration of bits and bytes packed into a little black box which we call a disk, which really isn't a disk; well it's not a disk at all.
That tape of yore (has it been that long?). Wound around a spool then unwound to bring to the senses a delight of sounds and moving pictures, imperfect though they may have been, a feast they still were.
She ribs me about my great enjoyment of Samba Mapangala, says that I should listen to it on tape. If she only knew that it sounds much better on vinyl. The irony is that as I write this, I'm listening to Monica's "Kickin' it with you", that oh so lovely ballad from '95 where the tape is much mentioned.
Slide a tape in to play our song.
What's in a name you might ask. That question that has now become an age old question. Would it hold as much allure if it went by any other name? The bard said it would "smell just as sweet" but you and I know it just wouldn't be the same. We can't escape that urge to hearken back to the way it was in the past, distant or otherwise, in however little way we can. That is why some names will never change.
So, go ahead, make that sex tape. Don't lose it in the mail, drop it online, let the world partake of your unbridled sexuality.
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