Pound your chest and punch your neighbor

There were two primetime spectacles Monday evening. One was the first presidential debate between candidates Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump. The second immediately followed the debate, when John and Jane Q. Public took to their smart phones and computers to spout their political opinions, many of which seemed as if the couple ran out onto their front yards across America, ripping off their clothing in a state of madness and confusion, pounding their chests and howling up to the heavens, in hopes of being loud enough that the neighbors would hear, turn on their porch light and say, “What the hell is going on over there?”

Say what you will about Clinton and Trump, there isn’t much left that hasn’t already been plastered or dumped onto the world spotlight. Watching the debate, Clinton resembled Tracy Flick from the film “Election,” poised and ready for any curveball thrown at her, but also seemingly perfect and untouchable to a fault, something voters can’t seem to swallow when deciding who to cast a ballot for.

This must be the place

I teared up immediately.

This must be the place

It pushed me back a couple of feet.

This must be the place

I awoke with a bit of a chill in the air.

This must be the place

The instant the guitar chords echoed from the Mexican restaurant speakers, a slight grin emerged on my face. Immediately, the Asheville traffic disappeared from my urban patio view, where all I could see was that old farm town — far away physically, but oh so close emotionally.

This must be the place

It’s a feeling rather than an attitude.

This must be the place

It took me a couple seconds to realize where I was.

This must be the place

What are you afraid of?

This must be the place

As I enter my fifth year living and thriving here in Western North Carolina, I’m also sliding into a space of reference and observation where I can now compare and contrast those subjects I continually cross paths with throughout my travels. 

Of which, I find myself running around in numerous musical circles, from Asheville to Franklin, Hot Springs to Murphy. And when you’re writing about all of these talented and unique acts, one thing sticks out — how far they’ve come.

This must be the place

I noticed it two rows behind me.

Sitting at the cold, hard tables of my eighth-grade science class in the fall of 1998, I thwarted away my boredom by gazing around the room, sometimes at the clock slowly ticking away on the wall, sometimes at the cute girl at the next table I’d hope to someday kiss at a middle school dance.

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