Obama's HQ in Elizabeth opened recently, a week after he made an appearance at the Grady Cole Center. Hillary's office in SouthPark started up last night. And Bill Clinton is speaking at Halton Arena today.
North Carolina is a big deal this time around.
Look for events uptown over the next few weeks.
Thursday, April 3
Time for a conspiracy theory
Big Brother is watching.
I walked by my window as I was getting ready for work yesterday morning and noticed this ominous structure staring right into my apartment. It hadn't been there the day before, and must have been erected under cover of darkness.
Later in the day, I asked a police officer strolling through the park what was going on. He didn't really know, except that the thing had apparently been a waste of $60,000 and could be used to look down over large crowds. Right. Just after our conversation, a police helicopter began circling overhead.
I grew even more paranoid after I asked my roommate, whose room faces the park, whether he had experienced any strange nightmares the previous evening. Actually, he'd dreamed he was a CIA operative. One minute he was fighting with who he thought to be the good guys. Then his handler ordered him to terminate them. But we're on the same side, he said. Trust us, his handler replied.
Someone please monitor these posts over the next few days. If you notice any Newspeak or other worrying deviations from my regular ramblings, please contact editor@charlottemagazine.com immediately.
I walked by my window as I was getting ready for work yesterday morning and noticed this ominous structure staring right into my apartment. It hadn't been there the day before, and must have been erected under cover of darkness.Later in the day, I asked a police officer strolling through the park what was going on. He didn't really know, except that the thing had apparently been a waste of $60,000 and could be used to look down over large crowds. Right. Just after our conversation, a police helicopter began circling overhead.
I grew even more paranoid after I asked my roommate, whose room faces the park, whether he had experienced any strange nightmares the previous evening. Actually, he'd dreamed he was a CIA operative. One minute he was fighting with who he thought to be the good guys. Then his handler ordered him to terminate them. But we're on the same side, he said. Trust us, his handler replied.
Someone please monitor these posts over the next few days. If you notice any Newspeak or other worrying deviations from my regular ramblings, please contact editor@charlottemagazine.com immediately.
Tuesday, April 1
Unfortunate bar photo of the week
Courtesy of, naturally, the Breakfast Club.
Another winner:
Best use of a Fake ID
Send in your own favorites. This site has a bunch.
Another winner:
Best use of a Fake ID
Send in your own favorites. This site has a bunch.
Monday, March 31
Renters always get screwed
I live in Fourth Ward, on the park, right next to the Harris Teeter. A nice part of town. But,
Cars in the building's outdoor parking lot (where my truck resides) are always getting broken into. Mostly, it's crackheads scrounging for change. I know this because a friend stayed over once, and a crackhead took all the change from her car.
A car was even stolen.
Also at issue:
Someone put his Christmas tree at the edge of the lot, where it remained for over a month, soaking up dog piss.
Non-residents abuse the parking lot. (We've been promised, via elevator memorandum, that towing will begin soon. Don't get any crazy ideas.)
There's no garbage pail in the lobby.
But back to the robberies. After a particularly worrying spree, an owners' vote was called on the issue of security cameras. It failed (despite the efforts of my own landlady, who is a saint). Instead, we got a pile of cards to hang from our rear-view mirrors that said something pathetic like "Stop, Thief! I promise there's nothing good inside."
A quick survey of my neighbors reveals the cause. Most of us rent. The Powers That Be don't have to worry about their cars or piss-ridden evergreens. The checks will come either way.
Sucks to be a peasant, doesn't it?
Cars in the building's outdoor parking lot (where my truck resides) are always getting broken into. Mostly, it's crackheads scrounging for change. I know this because a friend stayed over once, and a crackhead took all the change from her car.
A car was even stolen.
Also at issue:
Someone put his Christmas tree at the edge of the lot, where it remained for over a month, soaking up dog piss.
Non-residents abuse the parking lot. (We've been promised, via elevator memorandum, that towing will begin soon. Don't get any crazy ideas.)
There's no garbage pail in the lobby.
But back to the robberies. After a particularly worrying spree, an owners' vote was called on the issue of security cameras. It failed (despite the efforts of my own landlady, who is a saint). Instead, we got a pile of cards to hang from our rear-view mirrors that said something pathetic like "Stop, Thief! I promise there's nothing good inside."
A quick survey of my neighbors reveals the cause. Most of us rent. The Powers That Be don't have to worry about their cars or piss-ridden evergreens. The checks will come either way.
Sucks to be a peasant, doesn't it?
Bizarre courtship rituals: part one
Thirteen steps for a last-ditch hook-up attempt
On a recent Saturday night around 1 am, I am sitting with some friends in a booth at Stool Pigeon's. To the left of us are two tables, about the only ones left with any people.
One has a group of four drunk girls--not bad looking, but nothing overwhelming--and a small, wiry guy in a red polo shirt. His eyes dart around frantically, and every time another male passes he makes an overt, awkward gesture at the girl to his right, who is apparently his girlfriend. When we look at her, he glares at us.
At the other table are two guys wearing baseball caps, cargoes and pastel shirts. We catch one of them mouthing the words when a Dave Matthews song comes on. They start to formulate a game plan. Here is how it plays out.
1. Order two shots of Jägermeister. Look each other solemnly in the eyes, clank the shot glasses, bang them once on the table, shoot them, cough, wipe mouths.
2. Deep breath.
3. The burden falls on he who is closest. Lean partially into the conversation at the other table and laugh at the first joke you hear. When the nearest girl notices you, begin talking to her. Ask some open ended questions; laugh first to let her know when you're trying to be funny.
4. The wingman must now inject himself into the conversation. Everything is going according to plan. He, too, must make a loud joke or humorous observation.
5. Shake hands with the man in the red polo shirt. Now he cannot stop you.
6. The man in the red polo shirt stands up and announces that the girl sitting to his right is his girlfriend. This is unexpected by all parties. Brush it off.
7. In ten minutes, with conversation now brought to an uncomfortable lull, give the girls what they really want. Jäger shots. Yes, buy one for the man in the polo shirt as well. But first double check that he wants one too, to make him understand his imposition.
8. Clink your shot with all the girls', spilling as little as possible onto your hand. Take shot. Wipe hand on pants.
9. The shots didn't help. Bring out your camera phones. This gives you the chance to put your arm around someone.
10. Oh no. The girls all get together, and one of you has to take the picture. You do not want to be the one taking the picture. Pretend to have a great time either way.
11. No luck. Red polo shirt exerts his considerable command over the group of girls and rushes out the door with them. They don't resist.
12. Survey the bar. The waitress is cute. And she is required to give you your bill. Leave a huge tip. Walk up to her to pay it, instead of letting her come to your table. Be aggressive. Ask her how she is doing.
13. She thanks you and runs behind the bar. Leave quietly, but confidently.
On a recent Saturday night around 1 am, I am sitting with some friends in a booth at Stool Pigeon's. To the left of us are two tables, about the only ones left with any people.
One has a group of four drunk girls--not bad looking, but nothing overwhelming--and a small, wiry guy in a red polo shirt. His eyes dart around frantically, and every time another male passes he makes an overt, awkward gesture at the girl to his right, who is apparently his girlfriend. When we look at her, he glares at us.
At the other table are two guys wearing baseball caps, cargoes and pastel shirts. We catch one of them mouthing the words when a Dave Matthews song comes on. They start to formulate a game plan. Here is how it plays out.
1. Order two shots of Jägermeister. Look each other solemnly in the eyes, clank the shot glasses, bang them once on the table, shoot them, cough, wipe mouths.
2. Deep breath.
3. The burden falls on he who is closest. Lean partially into the conversation at the other table and laugh at the first joke you hear. When the nearest girl notices you, begin talking to her. Ask some open ended questions; laugh first to let her know when you're trying to be funny.
4. The wingman must now inject himself into the conversation. Everything is going according to plan. He, too, must make a loud joke or humorous observation.
5. Shake hands with the man in the red polo shirt. Now he cannot stop you.
6. The man in the red polo shirt stands up and announces that the girl sitting to his right is his girlfriend. This is unexpected by all parties. Brush it off.
7. In ten minutes, with conversation now brought to an uncomfortable lull, give the girls what they really want. Jäger shots. Yes, buy one for the man in the polo shirt as well. But first double check that he wants one too, to make him understand his imposition.
8. Clink your shot with all the girls', spilling as little as possible onto your hand. Take shot. Wipe hand on pants.
9. The shots didn't help. Bring out your camera phones. This gives you the chance to put your arm around someone.
10. Oh no. The girls all get together, and one of you has to take the picture. You do not want to be the one taking the picture. Pretend to have a great time either way.
11. No luck. Red polo shirt exerts his considerable command over the group of girls and rushes out the door with them. They don't resist.
12. Survey the bar. The waitress is cute. And she is required to give you your bill. Leave a huge tip. Walk up to her to pay it, instead of letting her come to your table. Be aggressive. Ask her how she is doing.
13. She thanks you and runs behind the bar. Leave quietly, but confidently.
Thursday, March 27
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.
Wednesday, March 26
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 25
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?
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)
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)
Sunday, March 23
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.
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.
Thursday, March 20
Building Etiquette
I've lived in my apartment for about seven months now. I recognize very few of my neighbors. So when I'm in the small lobby and someone knocks on the door, I usually let him in. The lobby is the size of a living room, and the doors are made of glass, so it would be pretty uncomfortable to refuse a knock and run out the other door or into the elevator, especially if I then had to worry about passing that person on a daily basis.
I even take it a step further: if someone's at the call box, and I'm heading out anyway, I politely hold the door. I don't discriminate by appearance, keeping in mind that I often look like a hobo on quick trips outside. I don't see how I could just slink out, anyway, and let the door close behind me when someone very obviously needed to get in.
The other day, I ran outside to throw away some pizza boxes wearing mesh shorts and a t-shirt. I forgot my keys. So I stood at the lobby door, looking like a cold, pathetic orphan, and waited for someone to pass by and let me in.
A girl entered from the other door (which is located directly across from where I was standing). I knocked. She pretended not to hear me. I knocked again. She huffed and spun around and looked me up and down. Then she told me to try the call box. I explained that I was a resident, and that the call would only go to my cell phone, which was sitting on my kitchen table. She hesitated for a minute. Then she ran into the elevator.
I can see her point--barely. But there has to be proper protocol for situations like this.
From the Archive
Concord's Dr. Michael Brown (see Leap of Faith) weighs in on the new CMS anti-bullying policy in the opinion page of yesterday's Observer:
CMS Opens Pandora's Box
CMS Opens Pandora's Box
Observing Obama
Here's how the Observer spent three of its eight questions in last night's interview with Obama:
Q: Have you done your bracket yet?
Q: Have you done your bracket yet?
Obama:
I'm doing it right now.
Q: Who's going to win?
Obama:
Well I'm in North Carolina right now ...
Q:
Come on, don't just be politically correct!
Obama:
Well, I have to say, uh, Hansbrough's looking tough. That's a big boy, there. So I've got to fill it out, I've got to do a little bracketology before I make a final decision.
Q: Who's your favorite NASCAR driver?
Obama: You know I have not met any of these guys. Jeff Gordon seems like a pretty impressive guy. And so I've followed his career. But I can't say that I've been watching a lot of NASCAR lately. I haven't been watching anything lately. That's the biggest problem putting together my bracket. I haven't seen any games. It's all guesswork.
A story from a friend
She was standing outside the Harris Teeter on Sunday afternoon, with her dog. Some background: the store has an annoying new policy where its karts lock up once they get a few feet from the door. The story ...
A guy comes out of the front entrance with a kart full of groceries; his kart locks up. He curses and runs inside to grab a manager.
"I just need to get it to my car right there," he says, pointing to the lot across Pine. "Come on, man."
The manager grudgingly bends down and unlocks the wheel. The man pushes it towards the corner. "They try to control us more and more every day!" he tells her as he passes.
Then, instead of crossing to the lot, he turns the corner and begins sprinting down the street with the kart.
A guy comes out of the front entrance with a kart full of groceries; his kart locks up. He curses and runs inside to grab a manager.
"I just need to get it to my car right there," he says, pointing to the lot across Pine. "Come on, man."
The manager grudgingly bends down and unlocks the wheel. The man pushes it towards the corner. "They try to control us more and more every day!" he tells her as he passes.
Then, instead of crossing to the lot, he turns the corner and begins sprinting down the street with the kart.
Wednesday, March 19
Charlotte gets Barackupied
"The First Family" is how this guy described the shirt in his hand (of Barack, Michelle and kids). Obama's face was also plastered on buttons and burlap sacks for sale. Primary season is officially upon us.
The line outside the Grady Cole center was pretty long and full of excited people, as might be expected when tickets sell out in two hours.
If you find yourself struggling to properly describe Obama's visit, try using this helpful dictionary.
What's going on here?
Charlotte Magazine has decided it needs a blog about what it's like to be young and living in the city. I am young. I also live in the city. So I came to an arrangement with the editor: I'll post a few times a day on whatever I see fit in exchange for invitations to the magazine's monthly Preview Parties.
It's going to be a work in progress, and feedback good and bad will be appreciated. The comments section will open up once things get underway. Until then, feel free to email with thoughts, complaints and suggestions.
It's going to be a work in progress, and feedback good and bad will be appreciated. The comments section will open up once things get underway. Until then, feel free to email with thoughts, complaints and suggestions.
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