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.