In Asheville, I went to two open mic nights.  The first happened to be one that I attended those years ago when I spent a week there, where I met a hipster asian girl named Christina.  We had spent a few days together.  We had ended up in another city at the same time a few days later and shared a bed but did not sleep together.  I guess I was lonely this time around; maybe that’s why I texted her halfway through the event with a beer buzz.  She responded but wasn’t available.  A guy asked to borrow my guitar.  He happened to have been there those years ago, the night that the featured act had a singing dog.  I forget how that subject came up, but he exploded with the joy of surprise at this quirky memory.

I went to another open mic the next night.  I didn’t care for the hipster unappreciative vibe of the “community” and this space.  I performed and connected strongly with one new lesbian fan.  I got my first and last tarot reading.  It forecasted lots of hard work, skies mostly favorable, with one big pain.

Perhaps the most fascinating occurrence was that at almost midnight down a quiet street in a slower part of town, a man came knocking on my van window who recognized its graffiti artwork, work that was done in LA.  #aubcrew; I found a picture of my van on their Instagram.

At night, I drove up into the Blue Ridge Parkway and practiced in remembrance of my visit years ago, until my hands froze.

On to Simpsonville.