O-mentum sans Obama

This is not a political blog in any way. As whatever readers it has so far can probably already tell, the basic format normally goes along the lines of Hey, something unusual happened to me (or someone I know) today. Here's a witty take on it.

But politics are important, to use the blandest statement possible, especially with the state primary a little more than a month away. When something big happens in (or near) center city, chances are I'll try to post something on it. This evening's Obama rally was big. Even though he wasn't around.

At least 500 people showed up for the Charlotte campaign's inaugural organizational meeting at its brand-spanking new, futuristic headquarters on 1523 Elizabeth Avenue (shiny white walls, glass-encased offices, overwhelmed young people running around everywhere).


The official start time was 6 pm. People began showing up at 4:30, and by the time I got there at 6:15 traffic was being directed into overflow lots. The crowd overflowed onto the sidewalk from a large reception room adjacent to the headquarters.

All the generic Obama-rally media descriptions then played out before my eyes. The crowd was diverse in age, race, class (from what one can tell by clothing and facial hair), gender, sexuality, and body odor. Those running the show looked younger than twenty-five. An older volunteer began reminiscing to me about the Kennedys. Everyone chanted "Yes We Can" and "Fired Up, Ready to Go." They said were looking for hope and change.



I played reporter and interviewed a lady wearing a pink "Women for Obama" button named Angela Sewell. In every possible way, she was the idealized Obama supporter. This was her first time volunteering for and donating to a campaign. She knew everything about the issues and candidates. She was all about the grassroots. She had been a Hillary supporter, but came to believe she couldn't be trusted, and gave in to the desire for change.

As soon as I pulled my pad out, she talked excitedly for fifteen minutes without pause. She could have gone much longer.

(I realize this is getting quite sappy at this point. But the Obama campaign, if you think about it, is about as sappy as they come. And this was quintessential Obama campaign, the type of event that might be described on his Web site and easily dismissed as drummed-up propaganda.)

One morning this week, Sewell met a young man outside the bank who hadn't decided between Obama and McCain. "Well, I was late for work," she said, as a little boy walked by in a "Change You Can Believe In" shirt.

Sewell was obsessed with registering people to vote. She uses her job as a stylist at a barber shop toward that end, or to demand that ignorant customers read up before they sit back down in her chair. She's started keeping the shop TV tuned to CNN.

The kid centered in the picture above was organizing a drive to register voters. All the people around him were volunteering to be neighborhood captains, or some title like that. He didn't have a business card or remember his cell phone number.

Anyway, if anyone hears of events like this from the other two candidates, or something else of note, please let me know. The blogger Ben Smith linked to an exhaustive description of the NC primary, for those who are interested.

Apartment caste system

Every apartment building has three distinct castes.

At the top are those with their own wireless Internet connection, protected by a password. They can afford to shell out the big bucks, and they're wise and competent enough to keep intruders out.

Next come the people who open up their laptops on their first day in the new place, discover an unprotected connection, and exploit it for free service. What they lack in finances they make up for in brains and survival instinct. They stick it to The Man.

And then there are the exploited. The resident push-overs who foot the bill for everyone else's party. The whipping boys of The Man.

My roommate and I have been getting whipped. When we moved in, the good connections were locked. We thought about proposing to pay our next-door neighbors for their password but eventually realized that real people don't do such things, sucked it up, bought a modem, and made a deal with The Great Satan (Time Warner). We identify with the second caste, but faced with no other options, we guessed we were moving on up.

We were wrong. We proved incapable of protecting our goods. The installation CD that came with the modem doesn't work, despite several pointless calls to the help desk. So we have full service, but can't set up a password. We have become the village bicycle.

About a month ago, new neighbors moved in down the hall. We sadly imagined their joy when they performed the obligatory test run and found a full signal there for the taking. This weekend, we finally asked what connected they use. Belkin. (The inability to name your network lets everyone know it will be available forever.)

We told them we used it too. But we didn't mention that it's ours. The shame would be too much to bear.

Something weird just happened at the gym

This morning, I was sweating it out in the steam room. I have a routine: I sit on the bench in my towel and stare at the clock until I can't take it anymore. That's exactly what I was doing when an older man walked in wearing a bright teal bathing suit.

He spread his towel out on a bench near the side, then stood about three feet in front of me, facing the opposite wall. There's was a hose at his feet. He slowly removed his suit, then bent down and sprayed it with the hose for an uncomfortably long period of time. Then he laid on his back on top of his towel and placed his legs up on the wall.

The two other guys in the room immediately jumped up and left, which was alarming. But I had only been there for three minutes. So I kept staring at the clock and tried to play it cool. A few minutes later, the man got up without his towel and strolled across the room and out the door.

Two minutes later he was back. This time he used the hose to wash his feet. Then he laid down again with his legs propped up against the wall. Eventually I just got out of there.

I normally have no problem in the locker-room. And I usually give old men a little extra lee-way for acting strange. But this seemed way out of line. Am I being a baby, or can we flag this as inappropriate steam-room behavior?

Welcome to the blog (2.0)

The Magazine tricked me into posting for an entire week with no way for anyone to find the blog. It's finally been advertised on the main page, though without the bells and whistles I was promised. So here goes a (second) quick introduction to what's going on.

The name: cleverly suggests that uptown Charlotte is populated mainly by yuppies

Me: I live uptown, write for Charlotte magazine, and will use this blog to share what I encounter

The point: see what it's like to live and work in the city, at least from my perspective; contribute with your own thoughts and experiences

This will be a work in progress. So please send comments, suggestions, and criticism. I accept all hate mail, but expect a response, because I have no one else to talk to.

(Comments won't be moderated unless someone insults my dog. If you want me to post something, email it to yuptown@gmail.com)

While I'm still posting to myself ...

I noticed this blog has yet to be placed on the Charlotte mag site, meaning that I am still writing for an audience of one. With that in mind:

Go Cats.

I made it up to Raleigh for the first session on Friday. The atmosphere was great, especially once all the Carolina fans filed in during the second half and started pulling loudly for Davidson. I heard it was the same today. We owe them for that.

This line from a friend who graduated with me, and recently totaled his car, wins the award for over-the-top praise of the day:

"I'm half-drunk, but I have to ride my bike to the 6:00 [pm] service to thank God for Stephen Curry."

Happy Easter.