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.

Fourth Ward Park: the Hollywood of Mecklenburg County

Following the recent debut of a Bojangles commercial featuring happy picnickers in a lush, green Fourth Ward Park (obviously filmed many months ago), white moving trucks and grungy hacks wearing cargoes and t-shirts and carrying things like sound booms filled Pine Street near the park last week.

One night I pulled up around 11 to find the entire park lit up with fluorescent lights. Later, what sounded like fireworks shot off several times.

The dog-walker rumor mill holds that all the commotion was the filming of a movie called "Insignificant Other," which I can find no evidence of on the Internet. IMDB lists it as a "Hitchcockian version of Sex and the City" that was released to little fanfare in 2002.

An update to last week's conspiracy theory: a man with a little black dog informed me that the police watch tower is in fact a prop for the movie, which also features several police officers. If that's true, either the cop I talked to was an impostor, or he was badly confused.

But was the police helicopter also a prop? And though the hacks have seemingly disappeared, the tower still looks in through my window.

Another update: While the frightening police tower may in fact be there for the movie shoot, it is, in fact, real. The $60,000 (by one confused officer's estimate) have indeed been wasted. Unless Charlotte's anticipating any unrest in the near future.

Campaigning in NC

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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)