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Pulling out

What's funnier? Steve Martin pretending to care on SNL or Johnny Knoxville shopping a taxidermist for his grand mother? Exactly. Watched Amadeus today, with the volume way up. What happend to Tom Hulce anyway? Right now Kenny Rogers is urging me to buy the Superstars of Country Collection, for the pleasure of listening to Ray Price, Conway Twitty and Merle Haggard again and again. All digitally remastered. I could switch. There's 8 Mile on MMM.

Or I might pick up a book. Haven't read much lately, but bought books like crazy. I'm about 10 books late. A mix of noir, sci-fi, auteurs québecois and poetry. And that's not counting the comics. I am of an addictive nature. It used to be dope. Then paperbacks. Then TV. Then something else. And now I'm trying to wean myself again. But TV won't do it. Nor trash novels. Drugs are out of the question. Now I really get what cold turkey means.

I posted the Dylan song because it says so much about appreciation, acceptance of the inevitable or unavoidable. About not having regrets but embracing the past and caring for your memories. I have a choice. My past is mine. I can decide what it means to me and how I look at it in the rearview mirror. Reajusted it. Like when you let someone borrow your car and everything is out of place, out of position. Reajusted. Perfect view. Clear. My hand is on the stick. My eyes look down.  The needle moves up. Stops on D.

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