It all started when I went out to take out the trash. A simple task. Routine. Noble, even.

But there they were. Four old cassettes. Not CDs, not vinyl: cassettes. The kind we used to record songs from the radio and make compilations with titles like "Romantic Mix '99." The kind you had to rewind with a pencil. And of course... I'm not made of stone.

Who could resist some cassettes from Metallica, Led Zeppelin, The Doors, Deep Purple?
Or the discovery of a Brazilian classic I hadn't heard of until now: Belchior. Damn, what good music.

That Belchoir song took me back to a rainy car trip in the middle of the afternoon, with that autumn chill. What a vibe it gives off.

I saw them there, on a broken orange box with some DVD boxes too, about to be thrown into oblivion. And something inside me (something deeply masculine, ancestral) whispered: "Take them. Rescue them. It's your duty."

So I picked them up. And when I walked back into the house, it was as if I had crossed a border with something illegal.

My wife looked at me as if I were carrying a biological bomb.

"Aren't we taking old stuff out of the house?" "What the hell are you bringing in trash that someone else threw away for?" she said, quite rightly.

Then, like someone trying to save their case before a hostile jury, I launched into my dissertation:

"But my love! This is material culture, nostalgic heritage, modern urban archaeology. Do you know how many people would pay for this at a vintage flea market? These cassettes represent an analog era where every second of music had intention. There was no skipping, no streaming. It was commitment. It's art. It's history!"

(Silence. "I don't care, they'll end up in the trash tomorrow anyway.")

And yes, I admit it: maybe my attachment to vintage borders on the pathological. But what can I do? Something in me is triggered by the old, the forgotten, the mechanical. Maybe it's a kind of dying romanticism. Or simple accumulation disguised as an aesthetic sensibility.

In the end, the cassettes are there, in another little box for when I get my Kombi. And although the domestic battle hasn't been won, the collector's soul sleeps peacefully.

Because, let's face it: men haven't changed that much. We're still fascinated by buttons, things that click, the smell of old plastic, and the mystery of analog.

And yes, I'll probably have to take out the trash again tonight. Only this time... I'll make sure to go in empty-handed (or maybe not, who knows, and I'll earn another speech).