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Record Shop, California Central Coast.

I drive up the central coast of California for a few days. In a small town I step into a used record store. I thumb through the racks, of LPs as I have done for decades. It's quickly apparent there's nothing but crap in this shop.

The shabby guy with long hair behind the counter immediately strikes up a conversation. He has the ability possessed by certain people - making small talk seem intimate -- in a creepy way --  but I don't notice this for a while. His friendliness has the quality of a beat up guitar.  Intonation slightly off.  His nervous laugh makes me think of clanking metal fan blades. 

He puts a record on that "he thinks I might like".  I ask him a question just to be polite, because I'm the only one in the shop. He tells me is not the owner. 

Casually he tells me that he's not as sharp as he used to be because of all the drugs he took. He says this without drama, humor or irony. It's simply an abiding fact. This is his life.

For too many year…

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