What to do?

That was the question I posed to myself when I found out my girlfriend was visiting from Upstate New York. She is someone who has never been to Western North Carolina, never been to Southern Appalachia, let alone anywhere in the South for that matter. 

When he was just five years old, Michael Turco knew what he wanted to do with his life

“All I wanted to do was be a magician,” the 29-year-old said.

Now a professional magician, Turco tours across the country and around the globe, mesmerizing and astounding audiences every night. Currently a performer with Six Flags Magic Mountain (right outside of Los Angeles), he will be one of the many world-class magicians going on tour with Masters Of Illusion — Believe The Impossible, which will hit the stage on Aug. 23 at Harrah’s Cherokee.

This sucks. 

One of the finest actors, comedians and pop culture icons of our lifetime, Robin Williams, gone, just like that — a bright flame, snuffed out.

For all the naysayers, rock-n-roll is alive and kicking — especially in the hands of Rich Robinson.

Guitarist and founding member of The Black Crowes, he has circled the globe for the last 25 years, spreading the mighty word of six-strings gone electric. With the Crowes representing the musical crossroads of Led Zeppelin, The Allman Brothers and The Band, Robinson is a beacon of light in a modern music industry, where real musicians seem to fall by the wayside in favor of pop idols and instant gratification from a guy onstage hitting buttons on a laptop.

When the camera bulb flashed, it hit me — had it really been that long?

Standing in the Belhurst Castle, a Great Gatsby-esque property situated on Seneca Lake in Geneva, N.Y., I realized it had been around a decade since my childhood friends and I had been in the same room together. And yet, here we were, drinks in hand, smiles plastered across our faces, as family members and dates for the wedding stood in front of us, eager to capture the moment we all were huddled as one.

There’s no place like home. Amid my first few weeks living in Western North Carolina, there were times I got homesick. Though I have bounced around the country for many years now, I, too, have moments where I start to miss things familiar to me.

I am the human sponge.

As far back as I can remember, into the early days of my youth, I have always wandered, wondered and wished. My senses have been my guide, with maps thrown out the window as I follow intuition and head in the direction my heart leads. 

Hundreds of Elvis Presley fans converged on Cherokee last weekend to pay homage to the King. They arrived from a five-state area for a tribute to beat all tributes.

The goal: to amass the most Elvis impersonators ever convened under one roof. If successful, the gathering at Harrah’s Cherokee Casino would go down in Guinness Book of World Record history.

For Mary McCall, it was a crowning moment in her lifelong adoration of Elvis. She’s seen hundreds of Elvis tribute artists, usually swooning and screaming at the edge of the stage and, on lucky nights, going home with a scarf lowered down to the ladies just like Elvis used to do.

It’s the soundtrack of my life. Growing up in the Champlain Valley (Upstate New York/Vermont), the music of my native land echoed through the albums of moe. They are North Country boys, whose central blend of rock, jam, funk and jazz coagulated into a unique tone. It’s a seed planted in your head that grows and blossoms with you, becoming a beautiful vine of melodies wrapping around your flourishing soul.

Screw it all.

There have been days, many days, where I’ve found myself sitting in traffic, standing in line, waiting on the phone, ordering something I really don’t want (or need), drinking and eating something that probably isn’t good for me, and think to myself, “Screw it all, I don’t want any part of this — no more.”