Introducing Yup-Town's new author

You may already know him as the Ballantyne Big Dog, who has previously posted on Chris Rock and Kanye West and demanded that you come party in the burbs. Starting next week, he will be lifting up his left leg and claiming this blog all for himself. But since he's a Southern gentleman, he decided to introduce himself first.Salutations.

Get ready for the Yup-Town invasion from the South. Ballantyne, that is. I'm coming in parachute-style, like the Russians did at the Wolverines' high school in "Red Dawn."

But don't fret, readers. Most of the content you have come to know and love on this blog will remain the same. Except I don't have as many friends who get shot or almost shot. I promise to try and work on that.

More on what I'm about will be coming next week. For now, let's discuss something that is affecting us Charlotteans more and more.

The attempts by Harris Teeter to control everyday life.

First off, out in south Charlotte where I live, HT has established a monopoly. There are seriously three (THREE!) within a 3.5-mile radius. How lazy can one get? Really, is the one in Stonecrest better than the one on Ballantyne Commons? Do the employees have Teeter-offs? These are things I'd like to see, rather than that stupid dragon offering me a day-old sugar cookie.

Then, there's the VIC card. This little piece of plastic that hangs on my keychain seems to offer "deals," but it also offers hassles. If, for some reason, you don't have the holy card, now the Teeter can find it by asking for your phone number. No thanks, Big Brother Harris. I'm onto you. You're not fooling me with your double-agent sushi chefs and deli workers.

Also, whenever the VIC card is scanned, they always say, "Thank you, Mr. (or Mrs./Ms.___." For me, here's the thing: The last name they call me isn't mine, but an old college buddy's. How I got his VIC card is beyond me, but it'll make me feel better if I'm ever the subject of one of those "Security Check" announcements you always hear over the intercom.

Finally, U-SCAN: designed to save you time, but ends up doing the exact opposite. If you're buying alcohol, it doesn't matter if you're 8 or 80; you get the "please show your ID to the register now." However, half the time the register attendant isn't there, so you end up waiting. Since they're so intent on getting your information, they might as well have a retina/facial scan there. At least I'd be able to walk out with a 6-pack quicker.

I guess I could always choose another grocery store, like Lowe's or Food Lion. But I keep getting drawn to the Teeter. Guess their strategy is working.

Tips for i-banker vacations

From one who recently jetted away for a very sunny and sandy extended weekend:

"You have to go far away (so your blackberry doesn't work) and take expensive ones (so they are less likely to cancel them because then they have to reimburse you)."

These guys never cease to impress me.

Celebrate me

Yup-Town will be changing hands next week, because I'm heading out of the country. More on that over the next few days.

To fill the void, make your way over to the annual festival held in my honor. That's right: The Giglio Feast. The feast will feature, as always, the majestic Dance of the Giglio, which should not be missed. Here's a brief, but very accurate, description:

Why is a Giglio danced?
For over 300 years in Italy, and the past century in communities throughout the greater New York area, this glorious ritual known as 'The Dance of the Giglio' has been celebrated each Summer with unbridled passion and devotion.

The Dance of the Giglio will also likely be on display at the Breakfast Club and points throughout Charlotte over the weekend, for those unable to make the trip to Williamsburg, Brooklyn, or the homeland.

'Just make it sexy'

In April, my friend Dick informed me of the amusing hiring practices at Whisky River when we dropped by for one of the bar's many grand openings. He had been creepily observing the tryouts from a window at work (the post):

They would show up in groups of "two to seven," all good looking and lacquered with makeup. Dick claimed to have overheard the following conversation outside his place of business one day:

Girl: What do I wear to the next interview?
Recruiter (male): Just make it sexy.

I asked one bleached blond bartender how she got her job. 'Like this,' she said, and closed her eyes and smiled real big. Then she mentioned her many years of experience as a bartender. To be fair, another also said she was hired after passing a test of her abilities behind the bar. Also for the record, she was young, blond and attractive too.

Apparently, this might be the practice throughout the EpiCentre. Or at least at Suite as well. Check out what Meck has to say at her blog "Keeping up with the Belks." She recently failed to get hired there:

"As much as it bothers me that this is how they determine who to hire, it bothers me even more that this is how they determine who to hire, and they aren't hiring me! ...

"But the point is, I have a good body. I realize that because I don’t believe in fake baking (in the summer), and don’t have plastic boobs or platinum blonde hair – that makes me not that desirable to Charlotte men at large. But I get checked out by the Brooks Brothers crowd and ogled by summer associates at my office enough to know that I could sell a ton of $8 shots to young professionals trying to get drunk on a Thursday night."

You can read her entire post here.

Best of luck to all the aspiring young table dancers out there.

Getting paranormal at Caribou Coffee

I just noticed a sign on the door behind my perch at a picnic table outside the Caribou Coffee on East Blvd. "Tonight outside at 7pm :)" reads the hand-written note on a piece of paper taped to the glass. The letterhead: the Charlotte Paranormal Meetup Group (a combination of believers and investigators).

Sure enough, just in front of me, about 15 people are finishing up what must have been an incredibly long gathering for what seems like such an off-the-wall topic. They all look normal enough, at least for the Caribou Coffee crowd. Surprisingly, though, they're almost all middle aged. I don't know what I was expecting, but regular potential moms and dads it was not.

I'm going to have to check this out. A woman just stood up to announce the end of the meeting. She must be the leader. Take me to your leader...

The leader: Ambur Rose. Ambur is a clairvoyant. Does that mean she talks to ghosts?

Well, first of all, we shouldn't get too caught up in how the media defines ghosts. Ghost means different things to different people. Someone who was raised Catholic might think possession and exorcism. A pagan or Wicca, on the other hand, might think entity to communicate with.

On top of that, we all have the intuition to know when someone's about to knock on the door, or get a chill up our spines when we just know something is wrong. It's just a matter of honing those skills, and looking into the feelings and what's causing them.

So Ambur has honed it. She's trained in psychometry. You know that sensation you get when you pick up an old memento--teddy bear, picture, postcard? The memories that wash over and seem to transport you to another time and place? Ambur might get it from walking through a (haunted) house. She could be feeling the wall and get suddenly struck by a feeling, sound, or image.

In other words, a family who thinks their house is haunted will give her a call and ask her to tell them what's been happening and why.

"Once they see a scary movie or two, they think they're going to wind up with Carrie in their house, or being thrown across the room," Ambur tells me. "What the media shows you is far, far different from what really happens in this world. They need assurance that something like that is not going to happen."

But on a full-scale investigation, Ambur is only one part of the team. There are also lots of people with gadgets. To explain that side of things, Ambur walks back into the crowd and brings me Tina McSwain, the founder and president of the Charlotte Area Paranormal Society (CAPS).

Homes and businesses can be haunted, especially if there was once a death on the premises (battlefields are almost always haunted). If a client thinks his home or business (or battlefield) is haunted, he'll make the call.

Maybe he's hearing strange noises: bumps, knocks, voices. He could feel unusual hot or cold spots, or see something that he just can't explain, like a mist cloud or flickering ball of light. Sometimes, things in the house even move on their own--dishes or cookie jars slide across the counter and smash onto the floor.

First a few members of the team conduct an interview with the potential client in person, usually after work (all ghost hunters have day jobs; investigations are free of charge). They get a feel for his character. Is he trying to pull a fast one? Does he have an overactive imagination? Is there a pattern to what he's been experiencing? Did someone die in his house recently?

If they think it's legit, the full team will head over on a Friday or Saturday night, say around 8 (they might stay until 4 or 5 am). Instruments include, but are not limited to, Electromagnetic Field Detectors, night vision goggles, thermal imaging cameras, digital voice recorders, digital cameras, a compass.

The first order of business, according to Jason Porter, a member of the Atlantic Paranormal Society (the group that's featured on the TV show "Ghost Hunters") who's moving to Charlotte and considering starting his own team here, is proving that there aren't any ghosts.

"The term we use is debunk," he says. "And we try to debunk all the claims first. Like if a door is opening by itself, we check to see if it's level."

Faulty electrical wiring could cause lights to flicker. Iron deposits under a house might cause weird magnetic spots. Short circuits can make people feel like they're being watched.

But lots of places also have ghosts hanging around.

Unexplained hot and cold spots in a room might give one away.

"One theory is that when a spirit is around it needs energy to manifest or move things," McSwain says. "They'll take energy out of the air, thereby creating a cold spot. I mean, it's a theory, you know?"

The best results often come with a digital voice recorder, which can pick up otherwise undetectable voices. McSwain usually asks if there's a ghost in the room with something to say. Or the ghost might just speak up on its own.

McSwain remembers an investigation during which the clairvoyant asked her to come into a room, because she felt the presence of a little girl. McSwain said she would, but worried out loud that she'd scare the little girl away. Hours later, upon reviewing the tape, a little girl's voice could be heard: "You didn't scare me."

Once the client found out it was just a child-ghost, she was no longer afraid.

This would never happen at Starbucks.

The meetup group meets at 7 pm on the last Friday of every month. You can follow CAPS exploits at Ghost GRRLS.

**a few mistakes in the original post have been corrected

The Big Dog checks out Chris Rock

Another guest review from the Ballantyne Big Dog (read his last posts here and here).

In 1996, Chris Rock became a comedic icon when he premiered "Bring the Pain." The special, in which he riffed on subjects from media to racism, propelled him to superstardom.

And although he's made millions in movies and TV, stand-up is where his roots are at. Twelve years after "Bring the Pain," Rock showed he's still on top of the comedy world with his "No Apologies" tour, which made a stop in Charlotte on Thursday night.

Now, I've seen all of Rock's TV specials. Have them on DVR, and they never get old, along with Dave Chappelle's "Killing 'Em Softly." But nothing compares to seeing Rock live. He has a set routine, but ad-libs better than anyone else, like when he talked about being from South Carolina.

"But ya'll are in North Carolina, the future," Rock said. "There are still some 'colored' signs that have been left hanging up in South Carolina."

Gay marriage, straight marriage, Britney Spears ... as usual, nothing was off limits, ringing true to his tour name. But, the biggest roars from the crowd came during Rock's comments on the presidential election.

If I may channel Rock for a moment: Being able to do stand-up comedy during an election year is like being Brad Pitt at a sex addicts anonymous meeting. You really can do no wrong.

Rock went through all the candidates.

John McCain: "Everybody likes him because he's a war hero. Yeah, but he's a war hero who got CAPTURED. There are plenty of people in prison who have been captured."

Hillary Clinton: "When the Celtics beat the Lakers, the Lakers didn't stay on the court for another week. They left!"

And, of course, Barack Obama, who Rock supports. That didn't stop Rock from talking about him.

He mentioned Rev. Jeremiah Wright ("A 75-year-old black man who doesn't like white people ... is there any other kind of 75-year-old black man?) and Michelle Obama (Barack is going to have to get him a white woman, because a black woman can't be the first lady. 'Hey, honey, I won the presidency.' 'Uh-uh, WE won.')

Now that I've gotten my fill of the new material, I can get back to my couch and DVR.

More bad news on the banking front

From the cover story of today's Observer.

Inside the changing world of i-bankers

My latest article for the magazine discusses how the financial crisis has affected the rich, cocky young professionals who might be the standard-bearers for Yup-Town.

Here it is.

More people are choosing cities

According to this story in today's New York Times, energy prices are pushing people from suburbs to cities across the country:

"Across the nation, the realization is taking hold that rising energy prices are less a momentary blip than a change with lasting consequences. The shift to costlier fuel is threatening to slow the decades-old migration away from cities, while exacerbating the housing downturn by diminishing the appeal of larger homes set far from urban jobs."

The article is well worth a read.

The Cage Bully

When the buttoned-up bars and clubs of Yup-Town are getting me down, I make for the Breakfast Club. A couple of blocks and a world (or at least a few decades) away from Trade and Tryon, it's a square and cement-walled oasis of debauchery smack dab in the center of a parking lot.

The $7 cover is often negotiable. On Friday nights, bottles of domestic beer are $1. The chairs downstairs are shaped like hands. Up top, a disco Rubik's Cube hangs from the ceiling. The movie that provides the bar's namesake, along with everything from 80's dance videos and wrestling matches to "Fraggle Rock" and "Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo," are projected on the walls above a dance floor that's packed with all kinds of people.

And these people are always dancing. Sometimes, even break dancing, but usually just grinding and getting ridiculous to the music. The atmosphere is relaxed and fun and very drunk.

Except, surprisingly enough, in the elevated cage in the corner of the dance floor. In the past, that tiny, difficult-to-reach cage has been home to rotating shifts of the drunkest, most hysterical women in the club, who make the precarious, ten-foot climb up the ladder along the side to spend a couple of songs in the spotlight.

Recently, though, that cage has been taken over in force. By a bully. A cage bully.

The cage bully is built like an offensive guard. She wears intimidating boots and black attire. She doesn't drink. Instead, she commandeers the cage for about twenty minutes at a time, dancing in a manner that can best be described as violent and angry. When she gets tired, she makes a slow and wobbly climb back down the ladder, then waits right there in the corner until she's ready to go again.

Aside from keeping most of the other women away from the cage, the cage bully also acts as the resident enforcer of the cage's only rule: No men allowed. On a recent Friday night, I decided to test her. First, I tried to woo her with kindness, climbing up and poking my head into the cage while she was going through her routine to politely asking if I could join. She gave me a firm denial, referring me to the "women only" sign. Then, when I tried to pull myself up anyway, she gave me a firm boot in the shoulder and turned around and blocked off the entrance.

I retreated to the dance floor and waited for her to come down. Fifteen minutes later, she was back at her post at the base of the cage. When she turned to talk to someone, I made a break for it. I was two rungs up when I felt her enormous hand grab the back of my shirt and yank me back to the ground. I tried another lunge for the ladder, but she jumped in front of it, and could not be convinced or bribed to move.

Eventually, she climbed back into the cage, where she danced defiantly for the rest of the night.

If you have any information concerning the cage bully, or how to stop her, please contact Yup-Town immediately.

A photo from the good old days:

An Eastover resident's defense

A reader writes:

"I live in Eastover Ridge for a few reasons. First, they have very affordable housing and very spacious rooms. My apartment is a 900 sf single at a very good price. Second, they have great amenities. There are two pools, a good workout facility, and garbage pick-up at your door. Third, most of the residents are rather young and in their 20s. This makes it a fun place to live. Fourth, it is located in a safe area just outside of town. Finally, it is very close to my office and makes for an easy commute every day."

The prices aren't that great. The amenities aren't bad. His third point is probably right. There are always parties over there.

Basically, he's describing a dorm. His basic needs are taken care of, there's plenty of other people around just like him, and it's a short drive to class every day.

More on the New Balance prejudice

Late breaking development: They're not allowed at Suite, either. What's a casually stylish man to do?

Re-stocking the Yup-Town ranks

With several friends among the recent post-graduation migration to Charlotte, I've been doling out plenty of housing advice these days. With that in mind, here's a very condensed guide of my very limited knowledge on finding a suitable place to rent in Yup-Town.

1) Use craigslist. It's the most comprehensive collection of properties around, and also strangely addicting. First figure out what places in your area of choice are going for. Then check back feverishly; the good deals can be gone within a day, even an hour. For-rent-by-owner is preferable to for-rent-by-sleazy-real-estate-agent.

2) Never, under any circumstances, agree to rent a property you haven't seen. Sometimes, big apartment complexes will insist on showing you a model instead of the actual unit you'll be moving into. Abort.

3) The best way to find deals better than the going rate of craigslist is to rent from someone who has never heard of craigslist. Stroll around and look for signs. Call the phone numbers listed on those signs.

4) When dealing with a realty lackey or landlord, go with your gut. If the person seems slippery, it's probably a snake.

5) Choose the right area. Some tips:
- Eastover is for people who don't want to make the effort. It's Charlotte's go-to post-college dormitory. You'll know someone who lives there; use them for access to the infamous pool.
- Gateway is nice, but it's not uptown. Don't pay like it is. The man will try to get you here.
- Same with Third Ward, which also goes by the euphemism "the Warehouse District." You can't walk to anything but Panthers stadium. And Hartigan's. If you can't walk to Trade and Tryon without breaking into a nasty sweat, you're not uptown.
- First Ward is in walking distance. But you can get shot there. Seriously. Wins the award for best Euphemism though: "the Garden district."
- Fourth Ward is where it's at. Park, Teeter, Alexander Michael's. Entertaining vagrants here and there. It's far too expensive, but deals can definitely be found. They just won't be at Fifth and Poplar.
- Each of the surrounding neighborhoods--Dilworth, Plaza Midwood, NoDa, Elizabeth--has its solid neighborhood bars. But know that you'll feel detached from center city, especially every time you get in a cab to head to the main strip of bars. You can do Dilworth cheap without living in a slum (like I did). Look to rent a room in one of the big houses. The closer to Tyber Creek, the better. NoDa is a great area--if you just count the two blocks of its main street. Otherwise, you might be in danger.

6) I'll close with some words of wisdom, passed down from a man far greater than myself: Live where you play, commute to work. In a small city like Charlotte, the commute will never be too bad.

**also, check out the rent vs. buy map on this site: http://hotpads.com/pages/features/rentRatioHeatMaps.htm

Charlotte 'clubs' are getting snooty

First, it was HOM. On Saturday night, they wouldn't let me in. The guy in front of me with a t-shirt and chain? No problem. My two friends before me wearing shorts and sandals? Go on in. But then the bouncer, who actually had a European accent, stopped me at the door. He told me, in that filthy accent, that my New Balance sneakers didn't make the cut.

I began pointing at all the people in line wearing sneakers. Nikes, Reeboks, and Pumas, he said, were all permitted. Pumas? I tried to engage him in a conversation about proper style, but he couldn't be swayed. Then I reminded him that he was wearing a blazer with jeans. It was a lost cause.

A little shaken, from there my friends and I headed to Grand Central, or Old Faithful, as we like to call it. We hadn't been there, surprisingly, in a few months, but knew the free cover, cheap drinks, hysterical clientele, and dark and dirty atmosphere would cheer us up. Unbelievably, they were charging a cover. And the bouncers had taken to patting everyone down at the door. Say it ain't so.

Last night, we made our way to Suite, the fancy new club on the top floor of the EpiCentre (note the snooty British spelling). I was wearing jeans and brown shoes to avoid trouble. But a few of my friends were wearing shorts. No dice. After some arguing and name dropping, we finally made our way inside, only to find other guys in shorts already raving it up. Apparently you can wear shorts to Suite, but only if you're willing to fight your way inside. You have to work for it.

Charlotte may be getting a little full of itself.

HT success story

Jurassic J hates many things. But he loves the Teeter (for good reason). Another guest post from the last of his kind.

Yesterday I couldn't decide what to eat for dinner so I went down to the Harris Teeter and wandered around like someone that was stalking the wine-tasting lady until I realized I had free sub points. I haven't had a sub in a while, and I never tried the chicken, so this was a perfect opportunity. After picking up the sub I cruised by the meat section and noticed $4 off the 2lb 93% lean hamburger meat that comes wrapped up like sausage. This cut the price down from $7 to $3, or $1.50 a pound which is insane for 93%. Dinner for tonight and extra hamburgers for lunch next week. Done and done. I also picked up a six-pack of fancy beers (Red Stripe) for $7. My total was $10 and change, but it took care of my six-pack for Thursday night, Thursday night dinner, Friday lunch, Friday dinner, and potentially lunch for a few days next week and a late-night burger this weekend. Just another HT success story.

Previously, Jurassic J has disrespected the Bobcats and almost gotten clapped at the mart.

Food Street

When trying to figure out what will be going on at any uptown event, you need only to check for one detail. What type of currency will be accepted?

At Speed Street, for instance, it was straight cash, all combinations of pocket change encouraged. And we all know what happened there. Alive After Five, meanwhile, makes you stand in one line to purchase tickets, then get in another to purchase alcohol with those tickets. Mind-boggling, I know, but it sends a message. A message that says, "We're so fancy, we invent our own money. Welcome to Yup-Town. Now please go wait in another line."

This weekend, there's a festival called "Taste of Charlotte" taking over center city. Some information here and here and here. I've never been to it. But I just checked out the Web site. The first link along the left side: "coins." Description from the site:

"Coins are used to purchase food samples, beer, wine, soft drinks & water!"

You can even pre-order them online. They come in "cups," priced in intervals of $20 at first, then $100. No telling how many coins the food will cost. Be careful how many you buy. Their refund policy reads, "If you have unused coins, you can bring them back & use them next year!"

This should be Yup-Town on steroids. Enjoy.

Speaking of yuppie spectaculars, this could get interesting.

Leftovers: Speed Street

So you'll appreciate the relative sanity this weekend.
I don't know about you, but I pretty much stayed away from all the madness. Breakfast Club Friday night, HOM Saturday night, and both were pretty free of riff-raff considering what was going on in the rest of the city. I did venture out to Dixie's for a bit one night, and this is what I found. (It might look like that girl is trying to dance with him. She's not. Everyone cleared away and gave this guy room to work.)
I only heard one crazy story, aside from the standard "all these drunk guys were trying to fight" line. It was from the woman below, who was working the entrance on Seventh Street and keeping people from bringing things like drinks and firearms into the festivities. Between bites of fried turkey leg, she informed me that she's seen a riot break out in front of the Miller Lite stage on Friday night, then "got the hell out of there." Then she finished off my cup of whiskey and ice for me.
I didn't see any riots myself, though I did run into a group of kids stomping into the party to avenge their friends, who apparently had "just been stomped by a bunch of Mexicans." Yikes. And the guy below was out at the bars all weekend, screaming "Freedom Fries!" at everyone within ear shot and accusing those who gave him dirty looks of being French. I followed him back to his apartment afterward to watch the show.
Here's a regular view of the street from Saturday night, for everyone smart enough to have stayed inside.

Take cover!

The normally docile block on Sixth Street between Pine and Church contained a frightening number of men wearing wife-beaters and chin-beards last night. When I looked a little closer to make sure that those were really chin-beards, they immediately snapped into "What the heck is that guy lookin' at" mode.

I can only imagine that the rest of the city was much worse; the people I saw looked lost.

Here's an update from Jarvis Holliday (of Grown People Talking), pulled from the comments section:

Yo Giglio, I was out at Speed Street last night with a friend. Jagged Edge had just finished performing when two girls next to us started arguing and cussing each other out. I told my friend it was time to go.

I said: 'The later it gets, the drunker people become, and the more likely they are to fight. As a matter of fact, a guy who writes for Charlotte magazine wrote a story a few months ago recapping his first year in Charlotte. In the story he tells how he got BEAT UP at Speed Street.'

Then when we got to the light rail stop and were waiting for the train, a drunk guy tried to start a fight with a civil guy. The drunk guy was wearing a T-shirt that read: Redneck Rafter. I kid you not.

Please keep Yup-Town updated about all such incidents throughout the weekend. I'll be taking my camera out, and trying not to get punched in the face (again).

How to bail your friend out of jail

A public service courtesy of Yup-Town. Because, as the previous post details, you just might need it during the debacle that is Speed Street. (People were drunk on Tryon street by lunch this afternoon. Head out of the office for fried turkey legs at your own risk.)

1) When he (or she) is in the process of being arrested, do not interfere. Even if you're 100 percent sure of his innocence, there is nothing you can do to help, no matter how well you explain what happened. But you can piss off the cops.

2) Once the situation looks relatively calm, cautiously and politely approach the officers and ask for an estimate on what time your friend will be ready to be bailed out, and where you can pick him up (this will almost certainly be 801 E 4th Street; 704-336-8100).

3) In any case, let your friend know you will be there first thing to get him out. This makes it a lot easier on him throughout.

4) Even if the officers won't give you an exact estimate, it's going to be at least four hours before he gets "processed." But don't try and go home and go to sleep, then wake up and take care of it. If you oversleep, your friend will be in a world of trouble.

5) Try the Pita Pit on Tryon to keep yourself busy; it's open until 4am.

6) Once you get to the jail, prepare to spend the majority of your time waiting for the magistrate, the person responsible for setting and receiving your friend's bail. This takes place in a large waiting room inside the building. Usually, you're just waiting in line for the magistrate to show up.

7) The first time the magistrate shows up, she might not even know who your friend is yet. Get in line, repeat.

8) Around this point your friend might start trying to call your cell phone from the pay phone in the jail (local calls only; if he's well behaved, they'll let him pull some numbers out of his cell before they take it away). You'll be yelled at if you answer. Run outside and reassure him.

9) When you finally get something worthwhile from the magistrate about bail, remember that it's cash only. They'll tell you where the nearest ATM is.

10) When you pick your friend up, greet him with your camera phone. But try to wait a few days before really rubbing it in.

Speed Street. Here it comes

Apologies for the week-long break. Graduation season hit me right in the face. I can only listen to so many insurance executives and social workers give their honorary-degree acceptance speeches before my nose starts to bleed all over my loafers...

Speaking of bloody noses, Speed Street will be shutting down the city this weekend. In case you're unaware of my arrest history, this is the weekend I got thrown in jail, unfairly I might add, for getting attacked by drunken idiots. (I probably wouldn't mention this if the charges hadn't been so easily dismissed.)

In other words, don't expect a regular weekend in uptown Charlotte, especially at night. Trade Street will be blocked off and full of people wearing sleeveless shirts and Dale Jr. hats, and a lot of these people will be very drunk.

But the real worry is the police, who get extremely aggressive and arrest-happy during big uptown events like this. My own incident aside, 169 people were arrested on the Fourth of July last year, and hundreds more likely bullied into saying "yes sir" for minor offenses. One thing I learned the hard way is that to accommodate the personnel demands that come with turning center city into a police state, the county brings in a good portion of its reserves, or cops with no cars or clue and a frightening determination to assert their authori-tah.

When I told the other people in my holding cell last year that I had been arrested at Speed Street, the ones who hadn't also been arrested at Speed Street laughed at me. Apparently, it's common knowledge, at least among the regular jail crowd, that you don't go uptown during big events unless you're looking for trouble.

That being said, I'll be heading uptown this weekend, though turning and running from any potential altercations. It's nice to see people wearing ripped jeans and oversized belt buckles in places like Ri Ra's. And who can pass up a free concert featuring a Kiss tribute band on the "Budweiser Stage"?

Here's the event schedule. And here's some help for the impending traffic problems.

Good luck.

A story from a vagrant

Every once in a while, I stop and talk with one of the bums that populate the benches in Fourth Ward Park. I usually learn something interesting. For instance, some live in makeshift tents in the wooded patches scattered around the area. Others have let me know that a good number of them sleep in the Elmwood Cemetery, which I can only hope has led to schoolchildren declaring it haunted. But I recently met an unhappy drunk man with the most memorable story yet.

(Obviously, none of this has been verified; just a passing conversation that I couldn't politely end, because he wouldn't stop shouting.)

A Vietnam vet who had lost his home about a year ago, the man wore camouflage cargo pants, a hooded sweatshirt, and a puffy black vest. He had a bottle of wine in his hand, shaggy graying hair, and a matching beard. Partly because of the wine, partly because he was cold, and partly because of what he described as heavy-handed treatment from a certain local officer (we'll go with Lieutenant Murtaugh; five cool points for whoever gets the reference), he was spitting mad.

A few days back, he had gotten sick--too sick, he said, to really move--and called the police to ask that they take him to the local shelter. The man did have a cell phone; he seemed to be talking into it before I walked by and my dog started barking, which is what struck up the conversation in the first place. When Lieutenant Murtaugh found him, instead of bringing him to the shelter, he arrested him for improper use of a 911 call. And he did this roughly, slamming him against the car, and pressing the cuffs into his wrists.

At this, the man shot his wrists in my face to show me the marks, and I jumped back in surprise. He was missing the thumb of his right hand. I assumed it was from the war, but he told me he'd been robbed one night and had the thumb bitten off in the process. I'm not sure if this is even possible, but the thumb definitely wasn't there.

So he'd spent three sick days in jail with his sore wrists, and had just gotten out and gone on his drinking binge. Apparently Lieutenant Murtaugh had a history of abusing him, and when he'd complain to all the other cops about this, they'd always just shake their heads and say, yup, that's Lieutenant Murtaugh for you.

He had a solution to it all, which is really what made the whole encounter stand out, aside from the missing thumb. A football game, right there in the park. Him against Lieutenant Murtaugh in the open field.

"We'll see who's the real man without all the equipment on," he said. Then he went through a surprisingly detailed account of all the different weapons a police office carries: gun, club, flashlight, mace, cuffs.

At this point I began to notice that the other dog-walkers were altering their normal courses off of the brick path and through the minefield to avoid getting near what was becoming a real scene.

"Now I'm not trying to go out and hurt somebody," he continued. "Just a game of football. Man against man. Hell, we could even charge money for people to come and watch. And the money could go to support the kids..."

He repeated his plan over and over again, talking about the beauty of a tackle football game played between men on a level playing field, and the nobility of helping the kids. Listening to him talk about it, I'd have paid to watch it happen.

Of course, I didn't have in me to tell him that this idea had been made, twice, into a movie called The Longest Yard, and that people had indeed paid good money to go and watch. Maybe that's where the idea came from in the first place. Or maybe it really is what a guy dreams about when he spends his time getting bullied, at least from his point of view, by police.

In any case, in the interest of the children, let's put this thing together already.

"Preacher says"

One of Ramblin' Willie's tales from the road. Read his last post here.
I was ramblin' up 77 when I made an emergency weightroom stop in Podunk North Carolina: population = tooth count. Eventually, I found the local gym and began tossing so many weights around, I was afraid I'd run out.

Of course, Redneck Randy rolled in and struck up a conversation about how he's going into cage fighting. The bad news: he can't afford a mouth piece. The good news: judging from his grill, it won't be necessary. In between discussing his cage fighting dreams and his prior job as a strip-club deejay, Randy decided to enter the political realm.

Randy asked me, "Willie, who you voted for in the eeelection? Barack or Hillary?"

I informed him that I'd voted for Obama. He replied,

"Well, preacher says ..."

Anytime a sentence starts with "preacher says", prepare yourself for complete enlightenment.

"Well, preacher said on Church on Sunday that the Book of Revelations speaks of a man. This man is Christ-like in his ways and is of Muslim deeeecent. He is from the island of Hawaii. He speaks change and is very popular with the common folk. This man is the f**kin' anti-Christ! Preacher says Barack Obama is the f**kin' anti-Christ! You gonna vote for the f**kin' anti-Christ, man? HELLLL NO YOU AIN'T!"

This prompted me to call he and preacher ridiculous. It also reminded me of all the white conservatives pissed off over what Obama's "preacher says." We have podunk rednecks taking Obama's preacher's words out of context, and their own preachers think it's necessary to convince their congregation that Obama is spearheading the rapture. This has lead me to create some new pro-Obama slogans:

"Vote Obama, piss off rednecks."

"Vote Obama, expedite the rapture and Jesus' return"

"Vote Obama, preacher needs material."

Feel free to include your own Pro-Obama slogans.

Kanye takes over Charlotte

Another guest post from the Ballantyne Big Dog (read his last post here).

Kanye West has been called many things since arriving on the music scene nearly five years ago. He's turned some people off with his antics and comments, even though many are the ones dancing to his music out in the clubs or bobbing their heads in the car.

And boy, can the man put on a show.

West and three other acts brought an electricity that had previously yet to be seen in three years at Time Warner Arena. Even though it's only May, it's going to be extremely hard for any other performer(s) to top the "Glow In The Dark" tour.

First up was Kanye protége Lupe Fiasco, one of the more underrated artists out there right now. (If you haven't picked up "The Cool" yet, do so. You won't be disappointed.) Fiasco got the still-filing-in crowd going with past gems such as "Kick, Push" and "I Gotcha," then brought Matthew Santos on to sing the current hit "Superstar." Fiasco and Co. closed with an amazing version of "Daydream," which got the crowd moving in their seats.

N.E.R.D., also known as hitmaker Pharrell Williams' group, was up next. And they wasted no time putting the fans into a frenzy, with an electric set that featured a full band with dueling drummers. On the song "Mosh," Williams brought up several fans from the crowd to dance on the stage. One guy stood out more than the rest, and for good reason—it was Chris Brown,
who put on a mini-show of fantastic moves and showed why he is this generation's top dancer. The highlight of the set came during the song "She Wants To Move," when the band broke into a cover of The White Stripes' "Seven Nation Army," letting Williams and bandmate Shay Haley rap over the tune. N.E.R.D. is a tough act to categorize (rap? rock?), and that's just how they want it.

After Fiasco and N.E.R.D., Rihanna (who is dating Brown, hence his attendance) took the stage. I'll admit this is the one act I was not excited about, and the mood shifted a little when the R&B singer took the stage. However, the beauty from Barbados impressed me when she covered M.I.A.'s "Paper Planes," and the crowd was grooving with her as she ran through radio hits such as "Umbrella," "S.O.S.," and "Don't Stop the Music."

The stage was then set for West to enter. Actually, the stage required almost a 30-minute setup behind a curtain, which made sense once things got going. As the lights went dark, West emerged lying down with his crashed spaceship, "Jane," as they embarked on a journey from space trying to get back home. After fittingly opening with "Good Morning," West blazed into "I Wonder." From there, it was hit after hit featuring tunes from all three of Kanye's critically acclaimed albums, including "Through the Wire," "Heard 'Em Say," and "Champion."

With the crowd moving in their seats and rapping along with every word, West scored some of the best crowd responses with "Diamonds From Sierra Leone" (featuring every fan throwing up the Roc-A-Fella diamond sign), "Gold Digger," "Flashing Lights" (my favorite song off "Graduation"), "Good Life," and "Jesus Walks."

The one time the show slowed down was for West to pay tribute to his recently deceased mother during "Hey Mama," a touching moment, which was followed by a stirring rendition of Journey's "Don't Stop Believing." After that, West got the fans back on their feet with a seven-minute version of his megahit "Stronger." From there, the crowd was spent, to the point that it was hard to muster energy for the two-song closing finale of "Homecoming" and "Touch the Sky" (featuring Fiasco).

As for any outbursts, well, there was a small one during one of the songs, when West told the stage director that "we need to get these flames together," referring to one of the many elaborate parts of his stage that also featured a rising platform, smoke, and a light show. The flames never appeared again, so the problem was solved in a way, I guess. West also had an incredible live band beneath the stage, which is much better than just using a DJ.

So while Kanye may have an ego as large as Jerry Richardson's bank account, he backs it up. Near the end of his set, he said, "They say hip-hop shows are boring, boring. But now I got the No. 1 show touring, touring."

And he's spot-on. It was an electrifying night, and showed why West is such a perfectionist and meticulous about every little detail. He wants to make sure every single fan has an unforgettable experience, and did just that in Charlotte on Thursday night.

Spy on your friends

You can check out how your precinct voted in Tuesday's presidential and gubernatorial (aka, for governor) primaries with this map.

It's confusing if you don't know your precinct number, though. You can look that up by entering your address here.

To be a little creepy and find out whether or not people you know voted, use the "show me my voter information" option on this search engine. Not everyone knows this is possible, making it an excellent way to make someone uncomfortable, especially a co-worker who used "voting" as an excuse for an extended lunch break. It's not updated with the recent results yet.

Smoking the reefer in Fourth Ward Park

With all the weird people that hang out in the park--hippies on blankets by day, bums on benches by night, and everyone in between--I've been wondering if I'd ever catch someone doing drugs.

I catch people, including myself, drinking alcohol from time to time. As I've mentioned before, a gun has been pulled. Crazy vagrants accost dog-walkers on occasion. I've even seen someone pull up in a car, get out, and pee in a bush.

Well, as of this weekend, the park is officially lawless. The ferocious roommate Jurassic J had his parents come for a visit. The standard family visit involves a walk to Alexander Michael's followed by a stroll to show off the park. So it was about 8pm when they walked by a couple of young guys in jeans and tee-shirts, possibly high-schoolers, hanging out beneath some trees off to the side of the path.

"It's been quite a few years since we've smelled that," was the remark made by J's father, who probably didn't think as highly of our neighborhood anymore.

For the record, the graveyard off of Graham Street seems to be another semi-secluded location favored by pot-smoking teens. If you're interested in having a little fun, just skateboard on over.

Increased security in the ward

Courtesy of Ramblin' Willie. Who's friend was ... shot in this very stairwell. This is how the people in charge at Fourth Ward Square handled the threat. As many of us know, people who live in buildings like this with a significant portion of renters tend to get screwed.

Jurassic J disrespects the Bobcats

His nomination for the Worst of the Worst awards, which actually covers a few categories: Worst Sports Owner, Worst Sports Arena Name, Worst Sports Team, Worst Potential Draft Pick. (Read Jurassic J's last post here.)In case you have not heard, the Bobcats finally sold the naming rights to their arena.

After four years of terrible basketball, half-hearted promotions, questionable front office moves (to put it mildly), and non-HD telecasts, the Bobcats selected Time Warner Cable as their arena sponsor. In the immortal words of Mike Gundy, “Makes me wanna puke!”

Actually, the naming decision makes perfect sense, in that it is just another stupid move by Robert Johnson and the Bobcats. I thought the Bobcats had enough problems attracting fans. Why did they go and name the arena after one of the most hated companies in Charlotte? How much more broke can you get than naming your arena after a cable provider that wasn’t providing HD broadcasts to the current fanbase? Even young single women are buying HD televisions now, and the Bobcats can’t even get their games in HD?

The Bobcats should have been aggressively pursuing young professionals in Charlotte as a foundation for ticket sales to come. What is the go-to first purchase of a newly settled, recovering frat star? An HD flat screen TV, of course! Why would these newly transplanted people watch a Charlotte Bobcats road game in crappy regular-definition when they could catch a good team on TNTHD or ESPNHD?

Seriously, it was about time you put the games on a reasonable channel. Channel 14 was a terrible NBA broadcast, and generally a terrible station outside of their informative nightly news broadcasts, which you should check out if you ever get tired of the nonsense that goes on Fox News Charlotte. The Fox Sports deal is the only element of this that makes sense, and it only took you 15 months to complete it? Congratulations, Bob Johnson. It only took me 16 months to get Time Warner to come out and replace my cable box!

Let's recap. The Bobcats developed their own TV station called C-Set, which folded in 2005, shortly after it debuted. Why did this channel fail? Well, it was only offered on Adelphia and not Time Warner, so potential fans were unable to see the inaguaral Oakafor in ’04 campaign. C-Set folded since no one was able to watch the games in the Charlotte area; only fans in Lake Norman were offered Adelphia.

Also, I know for a fact that C-Set interns were asked to punch all-star ballots for Bobcats players, and could vote for anyone else they pleased, as long as it wasn’t a New Orleans Hornet. Instead of tapping the brains of young college students and recent graduates for promotional ideas to increase the popularity of the team, the Bobcats had their interns voting for Primoz Brezec. Don't worry, I will save my player personnel rant for another day.

The Charlotte Observer reported that the Bobcats games will now reach 3.8 million homes instead of the 1.2 million they previously reached as a result of the new TV deal. Common sense says an expansion franchise trying to build a fan base would maximize their home viewership numbers to begin with, but maybe they knew something about their 07-08 playoff prospects the average fan didn’t. One would think the Bobcats learned their lesson from the C-Set disaster. Instead, it took ownership from the C-Set debacle in 2005 to April 2008 to figure out a way to get their broadcasts into 3.8 million homes.

Now, the naming of the stadium is almost as terrible as the service Time Warner provides, but this cannot be changed. At least the Bobcats recognized their broadcast problems, even if it did take them two tries, and corrected the mistake on their second attempt with the upgrade from Channel 14 to Fox Sports Net. I am assuming Fox Sports Net will offer the games in HD, but this is a huge assumption knowing the Bobcats braintrust. At least the games will now reach more potential fans. Lets just pray they don’t have to watch the crappier of the two Lopez twins running down the court next season.

Hillary supporters receive middle finger

I'm sure I missed the big showing, and these had to be the leftovers from Hillary Clinton's visit to Church Street this afternoon. But at around 6pm, after receiving a text from a friend advising me to come "check out the pathetic Hillary supporters at the corner of Trade and Tryon," I drove by to see four young women standing glumly behind a blue HRC banner at the aforementioned location.

As I passed slowly by heading west on Trade, blasting Obama Girl on my stereo to see if I could get their attention (I couldn't), a car with two twenty-something guys headed in the opposite direction screeched to a halt at the intersection. The driver blared his horn and began waving his middle finger out the sun roof before speeding off. The looks on the faces of the Hillary supporters said this wasn't the first time they'd been subject to some abuse.

Judging by the number of local volunteers and the level of enthusiasm (by my hasty, likely inaccurate guesstimate), Obama seems to have the most support in center city. Maybe that's not surprising given the high percentage of young professionals here. The fact that there's a hefty generational (and educational) divide in support for the two candidates has already been beaten to death by the media (though you might have to dig a little deeper, and navigate through some careful language, to find the latter).

For what it's worth, I had a nice little spin experience while trying to find volunteer numbers for the respective campaigns to include in a short article I wrote on the subject for the most recent mag. The Obama campaign didn't have exact numbers, but told me they signed up over 700 volunteers at the grand opening of the campaign headquarters in March. The HRC rep, meanwhile, would only say her camp had "hundreds" of volunteers.

Hundreds like 900, or like 200?

"Oh, there are just so many people here every day. Just hundreds."

So you're not going to tell me?

"We're so happy to have all these hundreds of volunteers."

I politely hung up, then called back and asked the rep whether she could at least tell me how many people had signed up at the HQ opening in South Park. No dice there, either.

Should be a good show leading up Tuesday's vote. Be prepared to throw it right back if someone flips you the bird.

Charlotteans clap back

Over the first three months of this year, there's been a thirty-eight percent increase in applications for handguns (according to a story in today's Observer). That's following a ten percent increase all of last year.

Also, concealed handguns are perfectly legal with the right permit. In other words, be careful who you bump into around here.

Increases in gun applications are usually seen as a response to increases in crime. Percentage of NASCAR fans also appears to be a factor.

*
As a side note, is there a more annoying word than "Charlotteans?" There must be a better shortcut for describing people who live in Charlotte. Queens? Mecks? Charlatans?

Ballantyne Big Dog wants you to come party

An Alternative to Uptown

Down in Ballantyne, when the weather warms up, it means two things:

1. More stay-at-home moms/trophy wives clog up the roads in their gas-guzzling SUVs.
2. The nightlife gets much better.

If you've grown tired of the uptown crowds (also known as DudeFest '08), it might be time to mosey on over to Ballantyne one weekend night. Forget what you hear about it being the wine and cheese scene, there's a few spots that will change your outlook.

This past weekend, I visited On the Roxx, which has now been open for about five months (the original one is up near Lake Norman). The first time I went (with Yup-Town's author, Mike G.), there was only a handful of people inside. At the time, the bartender promised more action once spring rolled around, and he was right. When my friends and I walked in, we were greeted by a bouncer and the sounds of Lil' Wayne's "Lollipop."

Definitely not what you'd expect from a Ballantyne spot. But also definitely welcomed. A diverse crowd of young and old, black and white kicked back with beers and specialty martinis and even made a mini-dance floor when the DJ spun "Cupid Shuffle." Almost made me want to join in. Almost. (Although I've been known to cut a rug on occasion, I've never really been into the whole "do what I say" dances. But they are fun to watch).

Across the street from On the Roxx lies Villa Antonio and Vesuvio, two other Ballantyne nightlife spots that have grown in stature in the last year. Again, these are places where it's not overflowing with people (as uptown can get), but still a decent crowd to party with. And there's less likelihood you'll be bumped into by some dolt with his collar flipped up.

And since this blog often ventures into the cougar discussion, yes, Ballantyne is still the area where you'll more often than not run into attractive older women—which isn't entirely a bad thing.

Come out for a night at these three spots (aka "The Cougar Crawl), and you'll be back.

Worst of the Worst

For the month of May, Charlotte magazine will be celebrating all that is best in the Queen City with its annual Best of the Best (BOB) issue. But what about everything that sucks around here?

Yup-Town is pleased to announce its own awards: the Worst of the Worst (WOW). The winners will be announced on Friday, May 9, the day after the BOB Banquet (or Kanye West concert).

Send in your nominations now to yuptown@gmail.com, along with an (optional) explanation of why he/she/it is the worst. I'll post the best rants over the next couple of weeks, and online voting commences on May 1.

Some sample categories (feel free to invent your own):

- Worst Blog
- Worst Professional Sports Team/Owner
- Worst Professional Athlete
- Worst Place to Live
- Worst co-Worker
- Worst Local TV Personality
- Worst Crazy Street Vagrant Personality
- Worst Car Dealership Commercials
- Worst Bar
- Worst Restaurant
- Worst Place to Shop
- Worst Thing About Charlotte

An updated list of categories will be maintained on the blog's sidebar.

And now for something completely different

My story in the May issue, which is about middle-school kids playing chess.

'The King lives!'

So screamed one of the six people experiencing Renelvis in the backyard of the NoDa's Rat's Nest late Friday night. For those who haven't had the pleasure, Renelvis is Charlotte's resident Philippino Elvis impersonator, and he is truly a master.

I'm not just saying that to be funny. He might miss notes or words from time to time, or laugh to himself during a particularly ridiculous segment of a performance, or collect tips in a cowboy boot that he returns (along with his cowboy hat) to the shelves inside the Rat's Nest (which is a consignment shop) afterward. But watching him shuffle around the small wooden stage singing along to his mix CD--and pulling the case from the belt of his homemade (and for sale) jumpsuit after each song to see what's next--you can't help but get the feeling that whatever he's trying to pull off, he's doing it, and beautifully.

At least I do. It's not everybody. One of the best parts of a Renelvis performance, in fact, is watching the people who don't get him. For at least four or five songs, there were only six of us out there in the Rat's Nest's yard, sitting in the dark in scattered lawn chairs and drinking free cans of beer. Some couldn't help but shout things like "The King lives" and "Rock on" or "Never stop, Renelvis, never stop," throwing in the occasional, and genuine, standing ovation. But from time to time a customer would begin to walk into the yard to see what was going on and stop dead in his tracks, frozen with an expression of disbelief and utter confusion, before collecting himself and running back into the store.

I've long believed that I can tell whether or not someone is "on the level" by the way he or she interacts with my dog. Same thing goes for Renelvis. One of my friends (you might have guessed that the audience consisted mostly of me and my friends), who had never been to the Rat's Nest before, had invited a co-worker he described as "a pretty big tool" to meet up with us.

The co-worker did a double-take when he walked through the door right as Renelvis moved down onto the grass for his rendition of "Always on My Mind." He seemed to contemplate fleeing, but instead cautiously made his way to the open chair. I could see his heart sink when he realized we were serious about sticking around until the end. He looked around for help, or at least reassurance that he wasn't crazy, and then spent the next half an hour staring uncomfortably at his Reeboks.

You can get an idea of what I'm talking about with the Renelvis videos on Youtube, but it's best to experience him in person, preferably with a free can of PBR from the Rat's Nest in hand. On my previous trip there during a Gallery Crawl last fall, it was Elvis Night, complete with fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches. The yard was packed. The house band took up the small stage, so Renelvis padded around on the grass in front, absolutely killing it.

Ramblin' Willie's homey actually got clapped

A guest post from the man you might know as the Cougar Hunter, whose homey actually did get clapped in uptown Charlotte. Yup-Town takes no responsibility for his views and language.
Another Halloween, another excuse for me to dress up like a professional wrestler.

Last Halloween I wasn't feeling very creative, so I recycled the previous year’s costume: Stone Cold Steve Austin. I was thrilled to yet again have an excuse to wear black spandex in public with a vest to match. The vest greatly highlighted my manly physique and killer traps. I topped off the costume with an official Stone Cold Steve Austin Heavyweight Championship belt like the one he wore when he was Heavyweight champ: a Smoking Skull and Crossbones. Of course, mine was made from $10 material, but that is beside the point.

My neighbor showed up in a Kenny Chesney outfit, complete with a guitar and jeans; no spandex. All the girls at the party were a "slutty" something or other: a slutty teacher, slutty librarian, slutty nurse, or slutty slut, you get the picture. We were all set to have a great time, so we headed uptown. The air was brisk, but I had thought ahead and worn a cup to offset the shrinking tendencies caused by a cool October night. The girls looked cold, but they too were smart; they decided to travel in a "slutty group" to keep warm.

After a few hours yelling the phrase, "And that's the bottom line, cuz Stone Cold Said so" mixed in with chants of "Austin 3:16 says I just wupped your ass," I noticed that Kenny Chesney had wandered off. At this point in the night, I had become pretty intoxicated, and the "sluts" were now "sluttily boring." I decided to head back to First Ward.

On my way back to the Ward, as we call it, some guy uttered, "I look gay, but not as gay as that guy." That didn't bode well with the former WWE Heavyweight Champion, so I had a couple choice words for him. After threatening the poor guy with a stunner, I returned on my track to the Ward.

I passed out and received a phone call at 8:30am. Still wearing a vest and spandex, I wasn't very thrilled to have been woken up at such an hour. The girl on the line said, “Willie, Kenny has been shot.” She told me he got shot last night when he walked home. I quickly sobered up, removed my Stone Cold outfit, and headed for the hospital.

Once I arrived, I said, "Dude, what happened?"

My buddy replied, "Dude, I got f***in' shot."

I responded, "Yes, I see that. But what happened?"

"Dude, I got f***in' shot."

"Details please."

My buddy walked home the night prior and was standing on his balcony of his third-floor apartment with his female roommate when three guys began yelling obscenities at her from the parking lot. He told them to come up and say it to him. They told him to come down there instead. So my buddy, still dressed as Kenny Chesney, walked down the stairs.

One of the guys was waiting by the side of the staircase. He shot my buddy shot him three times in the leg with a magnum, then ran away. My buddy had enough adrenaline to run up the stairs bleeding all over the place and lock his door. The ambulance came, and took him to the hospital, where he recovered rapidly. He was lucky that the bullets only hit meat and was able to run 6 weeks after the incident.

Clearly, nobody was arrested in the shooting, and our apartment did little to increase security. Luckily, my friend and I had gotten separated earlier that night, because I don't believe the stunner is effective against magnums.

Whisky River opens up

Apparently the new location at the EpiCentre (note the annoying British spelling) on Trade has been open since the weekend, but tonight was media night, or something like that. Lots of reporters and other sycophants showed up for free booze and all-you-can Dale Jr. Television cameras followed him around the bar for at least a couple of hours, getting in all the blandest shots imaginable:

(pardon the crappy photography)

- Dale Jr. walks through the crowd
- Dale Jr. stands in the crowd
- Dale Jr. unhooks the "Tensionbarrier" (the things that form lines at airports and DMVs), after a few practice tries, and walks awkwardly up a ramp to take a seat in the VIP section
- Dale Jr. sits at the bar
- Dale Jr. fields questions from a blindly smiling and nodding horde of reporters
- and finally, Dale Jr. stands in the middle of a staff picture, surrounded by the gorgeous bartenders and waitresses

These girls are a reason to check the place out. Their uniform consists of a tight black sleevless top, a short skirt or booty shorts in any color of the denim rainbow, and cowboy boots. Some made half-hearted attempts on the mechanical bull. Others walked through the crowd with trays of food. Most stood around waiting for something to do. I recognized a few as "the hot bartender" from various uptown establishments. My friend I'll call Dick, who I snuck in under the guise of an amateur Charlotte mag blogger being mentored by myself, was especially obsessed with them.

Apparently, Dick had been watching these girls audition for the job outside of his office uptown for the past month. "Basically, I had nothing to do at work all day except go outside and catch the girls trying out for Whisky River," he explained.

They would show up in groups of "two to seven," all good looking and lacquered with makeup. Dick claimed to have overheard the following conversation outside his place of business one day:

Girl: What do I wear to the next interview?
Recruiter (male): Just make it sexy.

I asked one bleached blond bartender how she got her job. "Like this," she said, and closed her eyes and smiled real big. Then she mentioned her many years of experience as a bartender. To be fair, another also said she was hired after passing a test of her abilities behind the bar. Also for the record, she was young, blond and attractive too.

Dick began getting drunk and striking up conversations. We met a contractor who had helped put the place together, along with several other venues scheduled to go up in the EpiCentre. He said he was worried Whisky River would be a passing fad, only popular when NASCAR comes to town. Hard to tell, though, since nothing about the EpiCentre is complete.

Most of the building is actually still under construction, which makes the Whisky River a little hard to find (you have to follow paper signs taped on walls if you try to enter from Trade). The contractor told me about a few of the bars and restaurants planned to open one day (apparently depending on cooperation from the city).

For what it's worth: A pavilion on the top level that will one day host the esteemed Alive After Five; an upscale restaurant/night club called Black Fin; Wild Wing (disclaimer: do not confuse with Buffalo Wild Wings, as this is apparently a touchy subject); Strike City Lanes; Smoothie King; a piano bar called Howl at the Moon.

Anyway, I'm not going to go into a detailed description of the bar. Dick summed it up like this: The three different bar sections have three different themes: old Western (mechanical bull), sophisticated (constellations of changing lights on the bar surface), and sophisticated new Western (big, sleek electric guitar hanging on the wall next to a huge projection screen).

"Sophisticated?" I asked, looking at the cheesy lights on the bar.

"Well, it's sophisticated to NASCAR fans," Dick said, living up to his alias.

Then he began drooling over a bartender in red cowboy boots, and I eventually had to drag him out.

Cougar Craze sweeps the nation

And onto SNL.

Here's my "Cougar Hunting" story from the singles issue, from which the SNL writers obviously took their cue.

Support the cause.

Stealing from Harris Teeter: why not?

I was picking up dinner during the after-work rush at the uptown Harris Teeter one evening last week--minding my own business, groping fruit--when I witnessed a shoplifting in progress. But first, let me set the scene.

Teeter is at its busiest from about 5 to 7 pm on weekdays, along with Sundays right before the 1 pm football games. (Yes, I will say Teeter from now on, at the risk of sounding like a prick.) This is probably the best time to steal, as the sole security guard (still can't tell whether he's a real cop or not) is at his most distracted.

The uptown Teeter has a few different guards, but one who's there most of the time. It's a well-known fact, and constant source of amusement, that he rotates between four different tasks throughout his shift:

1) smelling the flowers
2) talking to pretty girls
3) moving shopping baskets from the checkout counter to the pile near the door
4) folding both arms behind his back and staring up at the sky or ceiling

Occasionally, he carries out task 4 while strolling aimlessly through the store. As it happened, he was next to me in the fruit section when the deli girl ran up and related in a hurried whisper that she had seen the grungy looking kid next to the customer service counter (and within striking distance of the back exit) put some food into his pocket.

I watched the guard's face change from somewhat interested (slight eyebrow raise) to disappointed (slight eyebrow furrow) to downright sad (frown). Then I looked at the culprit and laughed out loud. He had a blond crew cut and chin-strap, tremendously baggy jeans, and an unseasonably large and puffy vest over a dirty white t-shirt. He was pretending to stand in the customer service line, but contemplating a break for the door. His vest and jeans were bursting with food.

The guard strolled between the kid and the exit, then stood there against the wall, crippled by indecision. He just stared at the kid--not in any menacing way--and tried to figure out what to do. Eventually, the frustrated deli girl stomped over and began whispering in his ear again. At that point the kid finally caught on and walked away from the exit, trying to keep his cool.

The guard stayed put, and the kid made his first right into the salad dressing aisle. I followed him and watched as he frantically stuffed the items in his pockets behind bottles of dressing. The guard eventually made his way over, at which point the friend I was with shouted "He's right there, man!" and pointed at the kid. The guard just looked at her curiously. It started feeling pretty awkward, so we walked away and got in line.

After a minute, I went back to the aisle to see what had happened. The kid was gone, but there was the guard--arms folded behind his back, staring up at the ceiling as he ambled past the bottles that hid all the contraband.

Maybe the guard has a soft spot for dirty teenage shoplifters. Maybe he's unbelievably lazy. In any case, if you're down on your luck, or just up for a quick thrill, try pocketing some food at the uptown Harris Teeter. You have nothing to lose.

Alive After Five: it's back

Yup-Town's signature event returned in full force to Wachovia Plaza yesterday.

For anyone not in the know, every Thursday evening from now until it gets too cold there will be a free concert in the plaza, usually some type of cover band. Tents will sell overpriced bottles of domestic beer. The plaza will be packed with well-dressed people showing off and avoiding those they don't want to have to say hello to. It's a great time.

Here are some helpful hints.

There is a caste system at Alive After Five.

For men:

At the bottom are the people wearing jeans or shorts. Who invited those guys? Go back to NoDa.

Next is the khaki-pants-and-polo-shirts crowd. Nice try. That's not what real people wear to successful jobs.

The middle caste wears standard business casual. They have their best shot with the girls wearing jeans and high heels. Smart to accesorize with expensive-looking watches and neat shoes. A five-o-clock shadow means you're lazy, not too busy to shave.

Near the top are the suits. Take off your tie and unbutton the top of your fancy shirt. This suggests you came right from an important job, are looking for a good time, and will definitely pay for drinks. The suits have their pick of most females. Every man not wearing a suit looks at them with trepidation and envy. Except the guys in the jeans and shorts. They're too drunk to understand. If you're just wearing a blue blazer, that's kind of weird, and it might seem like you're showing off.

The highest caste are the men who had the leeway to return to their uptown condo and change into classy casual attire. Nice chinos, a pastel button-down, and leather sandals or boat shoes signify a man of leisure. They often show up with a lady in tow.

For women:

It doesn't really matter. There are so many freakin' men.

The classic "I-want-to-marry-a-banker" look. A shiny, expensive-looking dress, just short and revealing enough to convey the following: You can probably take me home tonight if I think you're successful and attractive enough, but I'm a classy girl and don't do that for just anyone, so you should feel extremely lucky, and compelled to date me, if it happens.

The standard currency for any Yup-Town gala. Tickets. First you buy the tickets, then you use the tickets to buy the beer (or tiny clear plastic cups of wine). Tickets cost $4 apiece (please tip your ticket-tender). But a Bud Light only costs one ticket (please tip your bartender)!

Can you sneak liquor in? Yes. Use a flask (not plastic), and buy a small bottle of coke. But you're letting everyone know you can't afford to get drunk off $4 beers.

The proper way to show you're down with the funky music from the band. Every once in a while, nod your head, slightly, to what you have identified as "the beat."

Dancing? Don't even think about it.

How to pass through a tight crowd (of mostly men, who have been drinking). Confidence is key. Clap your hand on the shoulder of the biggest guy in the group you need to get through and say, loud enough to be heard clearly over the music, "Excuse me." Stare straight ahead, through the group. Try this with the short guy, and he'll think he's being picked on. The big guy has nothing to prove.

Most polite and effective way to blow off someone you know who catches your eye. A short, aggressive nod, coupled with a knowing furrowing of the eyebrows. Don't make eye contact for more than a three count.

Now, enjoy.

Jurassic J almost got clapped at the mart

A guest post from the esteemed and sometimes ferocious roommate. As it happens, he came somewhat close to getting clapped, or at least jacked, one night on a visit to the mart.

So I've finished off the Harris Teeter sub special of the day (which rarely leaves you completely satisfied) and I start planning a night around HBO On Demand and Season 4 of the Wire. I sit down and realize I don't have enough Skoal to help me pound out two or three episodes before I go to bed. Now, I could have purchased a tin at the Harris Teeter when I was scoring point number 28 on my sub tab (for some reason I can't bring myself to use sub points unless it is a special occassion), but the Harris Teeter grossly overcharges for smokeless tobacco. So I take a trip down Graham Street to the mart. You may know this as the Fourth Ward Market, but for me and everyone else in the know, it's just the mart. A stroll down Graham Street to the mart is never uneventful.

After nearly having my left elbow torn off by a sideview mirror, I finally get to the mart. Instead of the usual half-smoked menthol cigarrettes still burning on the sidewalk, I see two of North Meck's finest's vehicles parked outside. No sirens, no lights. To the untrained Fourth Ward eye this looks like it could a routine stop for a complimentary snack for keeping the hood safe. I walk in knowing from past experiences this is probably not the case, and I throw the hoody up. Inside the mart the clerk is jabbering to the tall officer while the officer repeatedly responds, "Did you scan the lotto tickets, sir?"

As I march up to the counter, the shorter officer looks up from his clipboard and casually says, "He just got robbed at gun point." He went back to writing his report, murmuring, "Improperly scanned lotto tickets were stolen."

After a few seconds of scanning the scene, I glance over to the shorter cop and say, sarcastically, "Oh yeah, you gonna catch the guy?" Both cops immediately stop what they are doing and laugh in unison. With the clerk's incense still burning, the shorter cop leans over to me and motions to his buddy: "Watch this, I'm gonna make him file the report." He chuckles to himself. "Hey, Foster (name redacted to keep the anonymity of the officers that protect us intact), how about I stick around here and gather up all the eye witness information. You can head back to HQ and..."

"Hell no," Foster interjects. "I ain't heading back to HQ with the video tape. All that means is I'm the first one back and expected to file the report. No, no, no. I will not file this report!"

During this exchange the clerk is creepily manuevering his way around Foster to get to me at the register. "Yes how may I help you?" he asks in his foreign accent. "Skoal mint, please," I reply. The clerk rings me up for more than the standard rate. After all, he's got to find a way to make up for those lost lotto tickets.

New series: My Homey Almost Got Clapped

Yup-Town is beginning a brand new exercise in bad taste.

Have you, or someone you know, had a memorable experience with a firearm inside the seemingly safe confines of Uptown Charlotte?

If so, send in your account. If I don't deem it entirely fabricated, you'll win a free posting of your story on this very blog.

Here's one to get us started:

My homey was walking through Fourth Ward Park one sunny afternoon after work. Suddenly, a man ran up to him, waving his arms, and related the following:

Just minutes earlier, a pick-up truck driving down Sixth Street screeched to a halt in front of the park. Two men, in the middle of a heated argument, jumped out onto the sidewalk. After some screaming and gesticulating, the driver reached back into the truck and pulled out a handgun. The other man took off through the park, and the driver jumped behind the wheel and sped away.

Not the most exciting one I've heard so far. But still, a couple minutes earlier, and my homey could have almost got clapped.

As a side note, you'd think with all the cops who like to kick it in the shade around the park on sunny days, something like this would be noticed by the Law. As it turned out, the man waving his arms was approaching my homey to see if he could use his phone to call the police.