This must be the place: Somethin’ keeps him driftin’, miles and miles away, searchin’ for the songs to play
I was already 10 minutes late to my niece’s seventh birthday party some 20 minutes away last Sunday afternoon.
This must be the place: I feel summer creepin’ in and I’m tired of this town again
He walked into the bar, grabbed a seat next to me, and proceeded to order four shots of Jameson Irish whiskey. He was surrounded by two friends to the left and one friend (me) to the right. I figured he was buying us a round, even if I wasn’t in the mood for liquor this past Monday evening.
This must be the place: Racin’ with the wind, and the feelin’ that I’m under
My eyes shot open when the air-conditioning unit kicked on. It took me a couple of moments to realize where I was. Our room was dark and silent. The queen-sized bed, sheets and pillows were extremely comfortable, and damn well better be if you’re paying a pretty penny to stay at the Wyndham Garden in Greensboro.
This must be the place: Ode to Albino Skunk, ode to the spirit of ‘Fes-Taa-Vul’
It was just about 8:30 a.m. when I awoke in my pickup truck last Saturday.
This must be the place: Ode to ‘Lucinda,’ ode to busted front bumpers
Sitting in the waiting room of my hometown mechanic last week, I knew it wasn’t good when he called for me to come into the repair bay. The rusty, musty Toyota Tacoma pickup was up on the rack. And the look on the mechanic’s face wasn’t one of optimism.
This must be the place: The best things in life are truly free, singing birds and laughing bees
Woke up this morning with the thought of the impending summer, impending “state of being” for all of us slowly sliding back towards to some sense of normalcy amid “all this.”
This must be the place: Don’t look too far, right where you are, that’s where I am
Coming to a stop at the end of the off-ramp of Exit 40 along Interstate 87 last Saturday evening, I turned right and headed down the Spellman Road. Entering the small hamlet of Beekmantown, New York, it’s a few miles from the off-ramp to my parents’ farmhouse.
This must be the place: Ode to Mr. P, ode to never sacrificing the gift
It is with an extremely heavy heart that I share the news of the passing last Friday morning of Brian Power (aka: “Mr. P”) after a long, debilitating illness.
This must be the place: Driving down a corduroy road, Ferris wheel is rusting off in the distance
Yesterday, at the corner of Brown Avenue and Hazelview Drive in Waynesville, this weird feeling washed over me. The thought of getting older, and to a point to where most of the people that knew you (your stories, personality and ethos) would slowly fade into the background of time and place.
This must be the place: I never ever saw the stars so bright, in the farmhouse, things will be alright
It was a flood of memories I hadn’t thought of in years. There I was on a date with this girl the other day. She works in town, not far from my apartment. A casual conversation turns into a casual drink. Kind of nice to have that rare interaction these days amid “all this,” truth be told.
