"Parker you are kind of a douchebag, but I think I like it. Even better? I like that you're the one throwing up right now and not me."
I laughed as I looked over at Parker Myers burping next to me in the Uber. Then I looked up to see whether the driver was getting ready to kick us out. But he, too, was cracking up as he reached for a barf bag to pass back to me.
About a week ago *insert YouTube video of what will probably be Bobby Shmurda's one-hit wonder* my editors, Mark Kemp and Ryan Pitkin, informed me that they wanted me to link up with the infamous Parker Myers. Don't know who that is? Neither did I. Apparently, Parker used to write about nightlife for Creative Loafing, and his column was fairly popular.
The thing is, Parker is locked in an '80s and '90s timewarp. It's not that he's dead. He's just kind of. . . well, he isn't exactly real. He was a parody and a composite of at least two writers whose pseudonym was a play on Myers Park (touché!).
I was stoked. So I did my homework. This is how CL described him back in the day: "Parker Myers is a real social animal. Here's a guy who knows the Charlotte social agenda like it was written on the back of his BMW owner's manual. . ."
I sighed, looked at the caricature of him wearing glasses, high waters and a UNC sweatshirt while holding a beer. Typical. Then I read about his adventures as a recently divorced single guy exploring local bars with his friend Craven Hempstead. That's when I got the tell-tale sign of the type of guy Parker was: "Some gentleman [Craven Hempstead] was – the rascal didn't even have on Topsiders."
Separated by time, space, class, race and well, style, I knew exactly what our first encounter would look like.
I decided to meet Parker at Draught, one of my favorite brunch spots, so we could get an early start. It's an upscale sports and craft beer bar that usually blasts hip-hop music while bargoers are encouraged to make their own mimosas and Bloody Marys. I knew upholding the stereotype of being late wouldn't be an option with this UNC frat guy, so I showed up a bit early, requested a table for two and wondered if I would recognize him when he walked through the door.
Just as I was about to pull out the caricature sketch of Parker, a white guy wearing high water khakis, a polo and Topsiders stepped through the door. Yep, he was the poster child for either Selwyn Pub or Montford.
"Parker?" I asked as he strolled past the receptionist.
"Aerin?" he responded.
"You got it bud!" Why the hell did I feel the need to say "bud" and why did it roll off my tongue so casually?
He sat down, stuck one finger in the air, and a confused waitress traipsed over to the table.
"Did you need something sir?" the waitress asked, puzzled at his laissez-faire approach to getting someone's attention.
He didn't even lift his gaze to order. "I'll take a Bloody Mary. Make it a double, honey."
I awkwardly watched the exchange and smiled weakly at the waitress as she turned to go put his order in.
He turned to me: "So what are we doing today, hun? Can I call you 'hun'?"
There we were, a hip-hop loving black girl wearing Doc Martens, jeans, a tee and a leather harness, and a white guy dressed like he was itching to buy a keg and recreate Project X. Boy, were we a sight to see!
Despite his dress code and demeanor, I silently told myself, "You went to Duke, you know all about the frat-star life, and you can do this. All you need is a few mimosas and you'll be good to go!"
"Ha! C'mon now Parker," I said. "Surely you did your research on feminism in 2017 before making your trip to the future. 'Hun,' along with 'shag,' are no longer on the menu when you're trying to get it in with the ladies. While we're on the subject, 'super' and, no offense, Topsiders aren't really a thing anymore either."
He looked at me and smiled, but I knew his line of thinking was right in line with mine as he stared back at me. Fortunately, the waitress returned with our drinks. I gave him the rundown on the venue, pointing out the industrial décor, showing him the downstairs event space and highlighting that this is a popular spot for watching sports in Charlotte.
Oops, I should've left sports out of the conversation.
"Go Heels!" he shouted as he showed his class ring.
"I should've mentioned that I'm a Duke grad." I responded.
"You went to Duke? Interesting. . . Well, Dean Smith will go down in history."
"To each his own. I'll let you have it. UNC just won this year's NCAA Championship."
A grin appeared on his face, and even though we were clearly a Tinder match gone wrong, I could tell he was enjoying the idea of becoming my frenemy as Biggie Smalls came on and we both started singing, "I love it when you call me big POPPA! Throw your hands in the air, if you'se a true player..."
I breathed a sigh of relief: "At least you know a lil' sum'n sum'n about hip-hop," told him. "I was nervous."
He laughed as he finished the chorus: "If you got a gun up in your waist, please don't shoot up the place, 'cause I see some ladies tonight who should be having my baby, bay-bee!"
You never get used to seeing a white guy in khakis rapping all the lyrics to old-school hip-hop. This was going to be interesting, to say the least.
Over Mimosas and Bloody Marys, we talked about how the nightlife scene has changed since he was "picking up hot chicks" at hole-in-the-wall bars after his wife, Peaches, left him and took his Beemer. I filled him in on the dating scene and how almost everyone is on Tinder, works at a bank and loves brunch, craft beer and tapas. While I could tell he was confused about the meaning of "tapas" and "craft beer," he was only interested in one thing that was unknown to him: Tinder.
I explained that Tinder is a dating app used to match users, giving the account holder the option of swiping right if they were interested and left if they weren't. He had no idea what I was talking about. When I pulled out my iPhone to download the app, he looked frightened. He'd never seen a cell phone that weighed less five pounds, let alone a smartphone.
Yeah, this was going to be fun. I set up a Tinder profile for Parker and laughed as he set out on meeting a "hot blonde" at our next stop, Lucky's Bar and Arcade.
When I summoned our Uber, I knew he'd have 100 questions. He grilled the Uber driver on how everything worked as soon as we piled in. After taking a break to ask how his Tinder was doing, he started delving into his divorce and how he was more concerned that she'd taken his Beemer and that she even went as far as to take the Carolina sticker off their other car, a Ford Country Squire — whatever that is. Shout out to Peaches for taking out the trash before she left.
We pulled up to Lucky's and Parker's eyes lit up as he saw something I knew he'd recognize: arcade games. I pretty much had to tackle him as he began to run right up to a PAC-MAN machine.
"We have to buy tokens first, Parker. You know you're paying, right?" I was joking, a little. We grabbed some tokens and went straight to the bar. I told him he could have whatever he liked, but he had to add a Nerds rope to it.
Parker may or may not have beaten my PAC-MAN score, but I knew he wouldn't be able to handle my skills on air hockey. Between the multitude of #tbt games he'd seen before and the Nerds rope he was munching on, you would've thought he was Charlie winning a golden ticket.
Just as I was giving him the lowdown on one of my fave spots in the Q.C., I noticed Parker staring at this blonde chick. And just like that, I knew I'd lost his attention. He turned to me with his cheesy grin and before I could say, "Parker, please don't use the 'wanna check out my Carolina ring' line," he was in front of the blonde. He'd already set his ring in front of her and was attempting to pick her up with his other signature line, "Hey baby, want to shag?" then added, "You should find me on Tinder."
I shivered. Those were the worst pickup lines I'd ever heard. And yet, with a tipsy blonde, it seemed to work. *insert my knack for blocking* I walked up to the two, put my arm around him, smiled and said, "I'm sorry, is my boo bothering you? Let me guess, he used the 'wanna shag' pick-up line? And that worked? Trust me, it's not worth it."
She shot me a look of confusion as she compared the two of us and said, "Nice meeting you Parker?" I thought he would be offended that I interrupted "the one" hookup that may have been successful, but then, after singing Biggie, he was probably down with the swirl.
He laughed and said, "Oh, someone's jealousss..."
I shook my head, rolled my eyes and searched for a change of subject before things got awkward. I had to break it to him that I wasn't interested.
"Alright ParkeR, I hear you like jazz? The smooth kind? Let's go around the corner to The Imperial. They have live jazz every weekend, an intimate vibe, a comfortable rooftop patio and craft cocktails. Trust me, you'll be toe-tapping in no time."
Without any hesitation, Parker gathered himself as best he could. We'd had quite a bit to drink and I could tell it was starting to weigh on him. We ordered a couple more and listened to the soulful sounds of a local smooth jazz band.
Even though we were the drunkest duo in the room, it was nice to be surrounded by mature, young professionals. Quite frankly, I couldn't believe they even let us in between my boots, his high waters and our belligerent states of mind.
Parker excused himself for quite some time and when he re-emerged I could tell by his paling face that it was time for us to head home. I called an Uber and that's when I shared my excitement with Parker about him being the one who couldn't hold his liquor instead of me while the driver laughed.
The next day Parker was back in the late '80s or early '90s — wherever he lives these days — with a hangover, telling his buddy Craven Hempstead about his strange dream of pocket phones and digital portals that could get a guy laid.
Me, I was kinda missing my frenemy who wore high water khakis and Topsiders and called me "hon."
The Modern Erotic is a new column in which Allison Braden will explore Charlotte's sexier side.
At last week's "Foreplay! Goes South," a monthly sex-themed open mic event, I heard stories about firsts. But these were not stories of the blush of youth or that first trepidatious touch. One woman stood at the microphone and told the dim and crowded room about her first experience with a glory hole, then her first experience having sex while others watched. A man talked about his first kink convention. Another shared a story about learning an important lesson: "You can ride the dick, but the dick rides back!"
With that, the room erupted in hoots and hollers, something the event organizers, Metanoia and Zoe Hart (who requested to be identified by their stage names), absolutely encourage. Before anyone takes the mic, the pair stand on the stage and explain the guidelines. "Burletiquette" rules apply — hollering and catcalling are welcome, as long as it's positive. Respect and consent are the emphasized priorities and, according to Metanoia, are fundamental to the success of the event.
"We work really, really hard to foster that type of environment –– something that's casual, that's comfortable, that feels safe and accepting."
Before the open mic portion of the night, there's an hour of informal socializing, during which Metanoia and Hart try to meet and chat with every attendee. Their efforts to build an accepting and open environment helps participants feel comfortable sharing intimate stories, whether it's their first time or their 50th.
"I think it's a really healthy thing to hear about sex and to even share your stories if you do feel comfortable, and I just love seeing people who blossom," Hart says.
The emphasis on cultivating the right environment is why the event, which started a year and a half ago, has had a challenge finding a permanent home. In April, it was held at Petra's in Plaza Midwood for the first time. The pendant lights over the bar set a sultry mood while Beyonce played over the speakers. At the bar, I chatted with a professional dominatrix. She drove over an hour to attend, but didn't come for the stories. (With 15 years of experience basically torturing people, she told me, she has enough stories to last a lifetime.) For her, it's about being part of a community and socializing with her friends.
"I'm in the kinky lifestyle and this is a kinky event."
And she's right: It is a kinky event. Many attendees learn about it on FetLife.com, a social media platform for members of the kink community, but it's certainly not exclusive to that community. Other attendees learn about it on Facebook, or they just wander into the crowded bar. Metanoia says that first-time attendees are often surprised at how explicit and edgy the stories can be.
"The stories do get very graphic, very explicit, very edgy," she says. "Which we enjoy." Hart adds that, generally, "it's a positive experience for them when they hear that. It opens a door in their mind." Kyle, who requested that I use only his first name, is a regular at the event. He says, "There's nothing I could say that would be the creepiest, weirdest thing that's been said."
Lacking any pretension or judgement, the crowd is wildly diverse in age, gender identity and sexual preferences, but most attendees are white. Before going, I had wondered how political the event would be, even though the open mic has nothing to do with politics. Lately, it's seemed sex and politics are inextricably linked. Especially in North Carolina, Kyle says, we need a venue where everyone is accepted. "We need a place where no matter what their thing is, it's OK for it to be a thing."
When I asked Metanoia and Hart about politics, they paused to consider the question. During the open mic, I could see why a connection between the event and politics didn't immediately spring to mind. The stories were raw, unrehearsed and vulnerable. They were funny, and when the audience laughed, everyone laughed together. The storytellers brought the whole room wherever they were, whether it was on a first date or being erotically mummified on a beach. As they brought the audience on their most personal journeys, the storytellers radiated joy, and the room radiated it right back. The storytellers were seen and heard and accepted. Politics seemed far away and utterly irrelevant.
Kyle calls it "uplifting." There was a lot of uplifting content, but in this case, I think he meant it figuratively.
"One time I got so high, I had an out-of-body experience. We were smoking marijuana out of a gravity bong which was comprised of a two-liter bottle and a huge plastic tub. I don't even remember clearing the chamber when all of a sudden I was riding around the room looking down on my body. While I could still hear everyone as if they were right next to me, I couldn't hop back in my body to save my life. That's when I saw someone walk in and say, 'Who's this dead girl you've got in here?'" — SE
April 20 is just a few days away and you know what that means: Weed week! Considered a national holiday in some circles, 4/20 is a day that recreational users celebrate the consumption of marijuana. According to Wikipedia and HuffPost, that the concept was born when a group of high school kids referred to as the Waldos decided to meet up at their fave spot to smoke pot at 4:20 every day in 1971.
Not surprising at all given the timeframe; we're all familiar with hippies, right? Nevertheless, 4/20 has become the holiday for pot smokers and their allies. News outlets break out their favorite recipes, stories and events focused on 4/20 activities.
"The first time I encountered marijuana use in public in the Q.C. was in a music venue. I was shocked that no one seemed to hide what they were doing. What was crazier, no one was getting arrested." — BE
As I was riding dirty on the light rail on Monday — no I wasn't carrying marijuana, I was riding the light rail without a ticket because the machines were broken — I started thinking back on the first time I heard about marijuana. I couldn't remember. I'm sure I watched one of those instructional videos on the effects of drug use in middle school or high school, but I couldn't remember the first time one of my friends alluded to using it, or when I decided it wasn't a "big deal" to me.
"The benefits of marijuana in conjunction with autism are astronomical! I would love to be able to give [my child] real cannabis oil for his autism." — FM
My parents have always been what many would call "helicopter parents" and never condoned the use of any drug, including alcohol. They warned about the dangers of "gateway drugs" and how the best advice they could give was never to get wrapped up in any of it. And I can honestly say since having those conversations with them as a child, it was the best advice anyone could give. Even the stranger I chatted with at Tin Roof made a point to say that while he felt weed should be legalized, every person is built and reacts differently.
Television stations like Viceland, my favorite for binge-watching such shows as "Desus and Mero," regularly explore all facets of marijuana, especially during Weed Week. From exploring the stories of addicts who may have started out smoking marijuana to the small pot farmer in California to world-renowned chefs cultivating cannabis-infused delights and medical marijuana facilities, there's little we haven't heard when it comes to Mary Jane.
As a 26-year-old graduate of what many consider a "party school," and experiencing nightlife professionally as an adult, I'm very well aware of the ways in which drugs have become a norm. I've lost friends to more dangerous drugs than marijuana. I've seen other friends go to jail for years for possession of marijuana. But I've also seen the benefits of cannabis for friends and families struggling with autism, cancer and Parkinson's. That's why I understand how the question of "to smoke or not to smoke" has become a critical debate.
I polled my friends on Facebook and I know that the majority of them would be paranoid about weighing in. But for those who did, it was clear the consensus was yes, smoke. Whether the argument was along the lines of "other drugs are more harmful, including alcohol," or "there are many benefits from a medical perspective," these are conversations ready to be had.
The landscape of drug use, marijuana, in particular, is changing rapidly. A full 28 U.S. states and D.C. have laws legalizing marijuana in one shape or form. North Carolina rejoined the conversation this year as legislators began taking another look at legalizing medical marijuana. As I reflect on my experience throughout college and in Charlotte nightlife, I'm left with the questions of how legislation can help us all move forward in a positive way.
I didn't throw up this weekend.
In fact, I was barely hungover. A normal feat for many, I'm sure. However, I took a trip back to Durham for my five-year college reunion at Duke University.
Still doesn't put anything into perspective for you? I've known this 10-plus group of people for almost 10 years. It was with them that I learned how to rage. With them I learned the art of "puke and rally." With them I learned what it meant to drunk-cry.
You thought my coworkers in Charlotte were some characters? This crew gets lit and then heads back to their respective states where they've passed the bar, napped while working at Google, dominated Wall Street, clued us in on the best deals at Amazon and perfected the brightest smile in dental school. Yeah, you could say we're a different breed.
That said, I was nervous my excitement would take me back to the "good ol' days." Which is why I was shocked that I managed to make it the whole weekend with little-to-no hangover. As a matter of fact, my friend sent me a meme on Sunday that was a picture of an annoyingly chipper SpongeBob throwing flowers in Squidward's face; it said, "That friend who never has a hangover and is ready to go out again even though last night you two almost died." I chuckled to myself while reflecting on the weekend, thinking about how many parties I snuck into without paying and tasting the remnants of how much alcohol we drank.
Even though I was about to head down to my car and could easily stop by a fast-food joint before driving back to Charlotte on Sunday, I ordered room service. A shrimp Caesar salad, scrambled eggs with cheese and a Pepsi. Fifty bucks later, I can't say I regretted my decision; however, my eyes were definitely bigger than my stomach as I looked at half of everything still plopped on my plate.
After the two-hour trip back to the Q.C., the boyfriend asked if I wanted to stop by Carolina Courts for an AAU game in downtown Concord. I was tired, but I'd also missed the boy toy, who couldn't go to my reunion, so I thought, "Why not?" The only problem? We were both hungry and the concession stand was virtually empty. I started searching for Concord restaurant options on Google. I thought surely we'd be able to easily find a cool place to grab a bite.
Nope. Everything is closed on Sundays in downtown Concord, including the hot dog spot that had its neon "Open" sign turned on. I'd already parked my car, though, so I just started walking, hoping to stumble upon something. That's when I looked across the street and noticed a storefront with "beer," "music" and "food." I didn't even care what kind of food they served, at least it was open.
When I walked in, I was captivated by the homey vibe and eclectic nature of a spot that I'd simply happened upon.
Lil' Robert's Place is a bar, bottle shop and live-music venue on Union Street in Concord, just a hop, skip and jump from Uptown. The décor reminded me of the oddities you find at Common Market, but the atmosphere was anything but your local grocery market hangout.
A cardboard Snoop Dogg drinking a Blast (brought to you by Colt 45) stood in the corner in the front room surrounded by yellow velvet couches. A Midway arcade game console was to the left. A deer, dressed in random clothes, welcomed me into the larger sitting area decorated with a drum set, string lights, more of Grandma's comfy couches, and more art and signage than a person with ADHD could handle. There was also a Concordopoly board game with a Sun Drop logo. (Who knew Concord had its own Monopoly game?)
After passing through the main sitting area, I grabbed a stool and sat at the bar. I'm not going to lie, I was initially nervous that I'd run upon a motorcycle gang rest stop instead of a hipster haven. But the bartender welcomed me with open arms, and even though he was a man of few words at first, when I started asking questions he had lots of great things to say about this spot that's been open for seven years.
I ordered four hotdogs and two sodas. While waiting, I asked if they had any sour beers. They did.
"Guess who's drinking a beer already?" I texted my reunion squad group as I grabbed a pint.
What else do you need to know about Lil' Robert's Place? Back patio, check. Bottled wine and beer for you to take on the road, check. Open mic nights on Wednesdays. Live music on Fridays. And unlike the two or three breweries in the area, this place is open seven days a week.
Two Saturdays ago, the boyfriend and I decided to go to Petra's Bar in Plaza Midwood for Su Casa. If you didn't catch one of my past articles on the event, search Creative Loafing's website for the tag line, "The monthly oasis for Charlotte's culturally starved." What does it look like, you may ask? Afrobeats, natural hair and chocolatey goodness! If diversity is something you're missing in the Q.C., this event, which takes place on the last Saturday of every month, is one you won't want to miss.
After a trip to the bathroom, the boyfriend turns to me and says, "They have a buzzed spelling bee here. There's one next Tuesday." And that was all I needed to hear.
What most people don't know about me is that I'm a total nerd. I loved multiplication shootout and spelling bees in elementary and middle school. So you can imagine how my excitement must have been overflowing as I made plans for "goin' up on a Tuesday" knowing I would have to go to work the next day.
On Tuesday morning, March 28, I started my recruiting of coworkers. "Would you be down to go to a drunken spelling bee?" I asked. One of them laughed when I showed her the flier.
"So what?," she said. "They're going to be like, 'Spell hippopotamus?' OK, H-I-P-P...hip, hop, otamus...hmm." As soon as she realized she may not be able to spell the word, she bought in.
So we made plans to go to The Corner Pub for $3 wine night and then migrate over to Petra's for signups between 8:30 and 9:30 p.m.
I ended up having to get my hair done, so when the boyfriend and I arrived, two of my coworkers were sitting there "buzzed" as can be with huge smiles on their faces. The reason for the smiles?
They'd only signed me up for the spelling bee and my fun fact was, "I bring cat food with me to bars." Great. I'd picked up some food for my cat and left it at Corner Pub; they had to bring it with them to Petra's, and now I was the "cat lady." Sigh. I rushed to the bar to grab liquid courage in the form of an RBV before the competition began.
I scanned the crowd. I've never been so comfortable bringing my backpack and wearing my thick-prescription glasses. Why? It seemed like everyone was wearing glasses. Call us hipsters or nerds, I didn't care, I'd found my eighth-grade class all over again.
Before getting started, the "sultry" male host laid out the rules of engagement. If for any reason, a speller couldn't spell a word, they had three lifelines they could use: chug a drink, spell an easier word backward or a secret option. (Forgive me if those are incorrect, I did my best to take thorough notes, but in my defense, I had to establish a "buzz" in order to participate. Wink, wink.)
My first word: meanwhile. I knew I had this one, so my friends encouraged me to ask for the definition and origin. This was most definitely commonplace for the first round, as spellers used the opportunity to "own the stage." I kept asking myself, "Is this a spelling bee or stand-up?" Everyone and their mama ended up taking five minutes to spell their words. Nevertheless, I walked away victorious after the first round. What'd I get for my efforts? A tall-boy PBR that I would later regret.
After every participant took their first turn, there was a "redemption round" in which those who'd been kicked out could try again to restore their honor. The second round began, and I could feel myself going to "buzz city."
I don't even know what my second word was, so I went for a lifeline. Of course, I didn't think about any of the lifelines except for chug a drink. Yeah, I had three quarters of a tall boy left and had to chug the entire thing.
The crowd watched in uncomfortable amusement, wondering if I'd vom with every burp. [Spoiler alert, I didn't. However, by the third round, when I received either "'subjugation" or "crescendo," I don't think I could've even spelled my name.]
What did I learn? I spelled much better in the eighth grade, when I couldn't consume alcohol. Oh, and get this: Someone got the word "hippopotamus!" Thank goodness it wasn't me. Be on the lookout for the next Buzzed Spelling Bee at Petra's scheduled for April 25! It most definitely is a blast from the past.
"I had you pegged for the snootie type."
That's what a random bargoer visiting Tin Roof in the Epicentre said to me after we started talking about everything from where he'd live outside of the United States to social relations in Charlotte to the best hip hop artists on the scene. We laughed, because he was wearing pajama pants and already had been snubbed by many other patrons.
I was honest with him: I, too, had judged him before we spoke, but not because he was wearing his PJ's — after all, I've seen much more interesting things at Tin Roof and elsewhere. I had been trying to figure him out, because that's what I do.
As a frequent rider of Charlotte's public transportation, I've run into quite a few characters who will try and get my number while I'm engaged in a phone conversation, sometimes even when I'm on the phone with my mother. "Aerin, tell them to go away!" she will tell me as I reassure her the person is harmless. She's always meant what she says when it comes to "stranger danger."
This particular day I was cranking out my column while enjoying drinks. While taking a phone call I noticed PJ (a nickname I've given him in place of his true identity) and thought, "How long before this guy attempts to interrupt my flow." But he didn't. He kept to himself, went back inside to grab a drink and when I entered to grab another he casually asked, "Whatcha writing about?" When I told him I was writing about nightlife, he became intrigued. I thought, "This will be the perfect opportunity to learn more about the urban nightlife scene."
Little did I know, he'd school me on so much more.
After heading home, I began to think about the many social interactions I've had since I started writing for Creative Loafing. I've mentioned it before, but my RBF (resting b*tch face) could rival Rihanna at an awards show where she's not getting an award. And I'm thankful for liquid courage and the fact that I have to "show myself friendly" because I'm writing and meeting people. In fact, I can't tell you how many "conversations" the boyfriend's had with me about showing up when I say I'm going to show up when he knows I've been running my mouth somewhere with someone.
In previous columns I've shared some of the most hilarious things I've overheard while out at local bars and restaurants. Now I've upgraded to joining those conversations. Just a couple weeks ago, I went to Ink n Ivy to grab a couple drinks with my P.I.C. and a few people from work. After deciding I was ready to "break the seal," I raced to the women's bathroom where I heard two ladies having a conversation over the bathroom wall.
"Yo, it smells like a fish market in here," one of them said and laughed. It took us all a minute to realize how awkward that reality was before we all burst into laugher. *Insert long-drawn-out conversation while washing our hands about hygiene and how well each were wearing a clothing item. Typical.*
Then there was the random passerby on the street, who was nice enough to lend me and my coworkers a copy of his mixtape "Undisputed" — free. A nice guy who seems to be facing some challenges, he never hesitates to drum up a conversation about music and the need to discipline children. It's people like him that have a lot to say, and simply want someone to listen.
And you can't forget the hundreds of Ubers — yes, I Uber quite a lot — that are forced to pick me up in between destinations. Those are some of the longest, most intimate conversations I've had with strangers since I've been in Charlotte. Granted, part of that is because I want to get to know who's literally got my life in their hands. But the other part is the indescribable urge to tell someone what's on your mind in the late-night hours and most likely never see them again. I came across one of the most hilarious memes on just the other day that said, "If you've told at least one Uber driver your entire life story, you'll fit in just fine here." (credit: @shopelsafine) So don't act like I'm the only one.
Nevertheless, there's something to be said about meeting people you think you'd never be friends with or who make a difference in your life without even realizing it. From the musician trying to make a living on the street, to the hot guy at the bar who actually had a personality, who are some of the most memorable strangers you've met in the Q.C. and where'd you meet them?
Share it with me at email@example.com.
(Psst, keep an eye out for Part 2. I've got some questions I'm going to ask every stranger I meet and share their responses with you!)
Sunday morning I was packing a bag to stay at the boyfriend's for the week. You gotta love the commuter/honeymoon phase. If only he understood what it meant to bring a "U-Haul to the second date." Nevertheless, packing for multiple days almost always means I have to check the weather, especially with the way things have been in the QC lately — we did just have snow you know? I pull out my phone, reluctant to see how cold it was going to be all week and to my surprise, my weather app indicated warm weather and sunshine. Thank goodness.
Just a couple weeks ago the boyfriend and I were heading to the mountains to go skiing. I wasn't going to let a silly stereotype regarding black people and extreme sports slow me down.
We'd had an extremely stressful week and we were excited about just having a little bit of fun. Looking back, I thought about a status I came across after that adventure that said, "You want to make God laugh? Show Him your plans." Well He/She was definitely laughing as our plans kept falling apart. We made it, but by the time we arrived after what felt like "A Series of Unfortunate Events," I was ready to "trump" any card with my "black card" and avoid all cold, snow and physical activity like the plague.
Needless to say, after we returned to the Queen City, my patience was wearing thin as I anticipated warmer weather.
"I'm sorry for what I said when it was winter." I actually laughed out loud when I saw that meme scroll across my timeline on Facebook Monday morning. Then, a sponsored banner ad complete with fluttering birds or butterflies popped up letting me know it was the first day of spring — along with every other human on my timeline posting pics of tulips and flowers we'd all thought would die during the "snow." That's when I realized that Seasonal Affective Disorder, aka Winter Depression, was a reality that we were all actively trying to escape.
If you've lived in Charlotte long enough to experience the full range of seasons, you are very well aware of how much the city and nightlife scene changes with the seasons. Patios, beers, festivals, break-ups, pools, sunshine, guns and buns. Everyone has smiles on lips and hands on hips. The ladies don't have to worry about tip-toeing around in heels in the freezing cold and can finally shed the layers to let loose. Not to mention that my birthday's in April, which solidifies spring as the best time of the year.
All this to say, spring has officially sprung in the Q.C. and I'm all for it. My CL cohorts may have released their official Spring Guide last week, but I decided I'd have a go.
Besides craft beer, sour ales and hip-hop, here's my personal top three list of what's on tap for spring in Charlotte:
3rd Annual Moo and Brew: If you've kept up with me since the early days, you'll remember I wrote an article on how to prepare for festival season by attending my first one in Charlotte with my editor at the time. If you love burgers and beer, this event is for you. Accompanied by live music and local goods, there's something for everyone to enjoy. Get your tickets before it's too late, Moo and Brew is scheduled for Saturday, April 22nd rain or shine.
Hippie Fest: Throw it back to one of my fave decades — I'll leave the why up to your imagination *wink wink* — for Hippie Fest 2017. Groovy vibes, food trucks, local vendors, tie dye and maybe even some illegal activities, Hippie Fest is sure to be a hilarious event. Perfect for the new age free spirit, stretch your festival legs on April 22nd. Keep in mind, this is the same day as Moo and Brew. You can totally do both!
The Queen's Cup Steeplechase: Hat contest! Dress in your Sunday's best and tailgate with your friends for the Queen's Cup. You've seen horse races on TV and watched gamblers lose a bunch of money, but have you experienced the excitement for yourself? Bet on a race or just party at the tailgate like most will end up doing. You won't want to miss schmoozing at one of the most anticipated social events of the season. Grab your tickets before the event on April 29th!
These events are just a snapshot of what's to come in the Q.C. this spring. Keep up with my whereabouts by following me on social media or by checking out my column. What are your plans for #QCspring2017? Share it with me and we can party together at firstname.lastname@example.org!
After staying out too late on Thursday, the end of the Friday work day couldn't have come soon enough. By the time 3:30 p.m. rolled around I was itching to get the weekend started.
Why was I so anxious, you may ask? Well, for one, Duke was playing Carolina in the ACC tournament. If you haven't heard already, the Duke University/UNC Chapel Hill basketball rivalry is the biggest rivalry between two sports programs in North Carolina.
After multiple texts, threats and Facebook posts from UNC fans, this Duke alum was ready to paint the Queen City with royal blue.
The night started out with a couple RBVs at the Corner Pub off North Graham. Per usual, I should've eaten but I opted for a glass of water here and there instead. That's why when I showed up an hour late to meet the boyfriend and company at Brazwell's on Montford I was so wired and anxious for the game that I talked all the way up until the last couple minutes.
After the game was over and Duke walked away victorious, the boy toy and I convinced a couple of his friends to join us for celebratory hookahs at Barreled at the Lift. Sighs.
This night was starting to look just like every other Friday in the Q.C. That's when I realized one of my co-workers was celebrating her birthday at 8.2.0. Charlotte. If the boyfriend had been smart, he would've vetoed that decision. But he's also a Duke fan so it didn't take much convincing when I suggested checking out somewhere new.
For months, I've had multiple friends talk about how much they loved going to 8.2.0 for karaoke.
However, they never went into detail about why they loved it so much and, quite frankly, finding the energy to go to AvidXchange (will we ever get used to this name change?) takes more effort than I feel like putting forth most times. Fortunately, the boyfriend was the designated driver making the adventure much more feasible.
(Side note: Shout-out to Scott, one of the chefs — I believe — for chatting with me about the venue for what had to be the longest 17 minutes of your life. I listened to the voice note of our conversation and it was the longest 17 minutes of my life, so I feel your pain.)
By the time we finally arrived, it was pretty much time for my co-workers to throw in the towel. They'd been rallying since escaping the office as well and it's safe to say we should have all been home. Before they left, however, they took the time to take me on a private tour of the humongous venue.
The space is broken up into rooms, each serving a different purpose. From the moment you enter, you'll notice an arcade room featuring old school games and next door, in another enclosed room, the attraction everyone's talking about: karaoke.
I was shocked I literally couldn't hear patrons belting out songs while standing in the main bar area — soundproof glass. No more shame karaoke lovers, you can sing as loud as you want!
But that wasn't even the best part of 8.2.0. If you're like me and you love secrets, you'll be floored at the secret room featuring a library, record player, lounge chairs and jazz music over the speakers. Try not to narc, like I almost did; knowledge of this hideout is a privilege, not a right. I'd suggest sitting back and watching customers to see where the entrance is.
Brought to you by the same owners of VBGB, 8.2.0 adds something quite unique to the nightlife scene in Charlotte. Feeling karaoke? They got you. Feeling like playing a few games? They got you. As my new friend (hopefully) put it, "It's hard to get bored of."
And if you do get bored, you can eat your face off in their pizzeria. Thankfully, I'd at least had a slice before chatting my man Scott's head off.
What's featured on the menu? All the gourmet "za" your heart can handle, including a cauliflower-crust option for you calorie counters.
Meatballs, cauli-balls, pommes frites (cooked extra crispy for those that end up eating them at home anyways), dips and salads. Your midnight munchies will thank you.
Four bars, outdoor patio, massive event space, karaoke, arcade games, secret rooms and a late night menu. Does it get much better than that? Be sure to check out 8.2.0, if you haven't already, and share your experience with me at email@example.com!
"Meet us at Piedmont Social House," my co-worker said as I attempted to chug an off-brand version of Pedialyte. Sighs.
The last time I'd gone to PSH was for a random after-house party. Before that? I'd gone to meet with the marketing manager about the grand opening. Both times? I was either working on a hangover or hungover wearing the same clothes I'd worn the night before.
In other words, I wasn't sure going there was a good idea.
Last week, I mentioned in my column that I ended up having to forego CIAA events for two reasons. The first being I partied too hard on Friday in French Quarter after planning just a drink or two after work with coworkers. The second being those same coworkers had planned a bus party. Now, if you've followed this column for a while, you know this isn't the first time I've gone on a party bus with these same coworkers to PNC for Weenie Roast and a Dave Matthews Band concert. Both times, I wanted to run for my life and grab an Uber by 9 p.m.
Nevertheless, one of those coworkers found out he was having a baby and why wouldn't my amazing friends think we should throw a party in his honor? That's when the concept of a "Dadchelor Bus" came to be. Oh, you didn't know? According to Google, it's a thing. A Dadchelor Party, or Man Shower, is a celebration of baby-making for the fellas. Welcome to the feminist movement of 2017?
Don't get me wrong, every party bus we've been on has been epic, but I was definitely scared. Especially given the fact that I'd gone to grab a beverage that I despise because it "prevents dehydration and replaces nutrients and electrolytes lost through vomiting and diarrhea."
By the time I started feeling better, I'd been at the dealership getting my oil changed for an hour and I was running late for the bus pick-up in Southend. That's when my coworker called suggesting I just meet the crew at PSH. That meant they were already well on their way as far as pregaming goes and I would be showing up completely sober to the beginning of a hot mess.
When I arrived by way 30 minutes later, all my friends greeted me with the warmest, happy-drunk welcome ever. While taking group pics (without the party bus in the background because apparently that was a faux pas at that point) I knew I would have to make a break for the bar to catch up ASAP. That's when one of my coworkers pulled out a baby bottle filled with a mixture of vodka and Gatorade. Ingenious. A Dadchelor-themed party bus complete with baby bottle party favors for every guest?! Too bad, Gatorade isn't a thick enough chaser for my palate, I couldn't even stomach the idea of sucking on a baby bottle nipple that anyone else had already suckled on. One RBV later accompanied by nausea, and we were hopping back on the bus for what seemed like the longest ride back to Uptown ever.
Soon after boarding the bus I realized I was nowhere near ready to rally. I know, I know, what a buzzkill I was, right? That's when baby bottle nipples were being thrown in my face. "Aerin, you're not tipsy enough, you need to drink it." "Oh no I'm fine, just chilling," I responded queasily. That didn't work. All I could think was, "This. Is. Happening. Get over it." What we didn't factor in, however, was that this was the first time we would be party busing without a "pot (or parking lot) to piss in." So imagine a bus full of full bladders riding on a bus with no bathroom and no destination. Yeah, I couldn't even focus on drinking a beer or music because after each bathroom break my anxiety went through the roof wondering when we'd stop by a bathroom again.
It wasn't until we were dropped off in front of Tyber Creek for Tyberpalooza and those of us that made it until 9 p.m. were nonsensical that I realized I was tipsy but still not drunk enough for the shenanigans. The line at Tyber was absolutely ludicrous and I was seeking shelter for my inner circle. I looked for anywhere we could find refuge, and that's when my eyes landed on Big Ben British Restaurant & Pub. I'd never been or knew anyone who'd been, and yet, there we were asking if we could stash our cooler anywhere, baby bottles in hand.
Needless to say, this party bus trip was one we will never forget, and I drank Pedialyte and survived the following morning like a Queen of the City should. The next time you're trying to get weird and can't find anything to do, hit the road in style and safety, grab a crew and rent a party bus!
After work on Friday, a few of my galpals were trying to decide if going to grab a drink was a smart idea. As I mentioned in last week's column, a large handful of my coworkers were anticipating a "Dadchelor" (aka father-to-be) celebration for the following day on a party bus. While we didn't want to go home at 5:45 p.m. on a Friday night, we also didn't want to be hungover.
Finally, we decided a drink or two wouldn't hurt and started discussing where exactly we would go. "Not to get super fancy, but doesn't the new place, The Imperial, have a roof top?" I was pumped. I'd visited this venue for the first time a few weeks ago and was thoroughly impressed. (I can't say I was in a state to visit the rooftop at the time though.) "Hmm. Was just thinking there may be a CIAA party there tonight." And just like that, my excitement dwindled. Let me explain why.
For four years I've listened to Charlotteans — from a variety of demographics, I might add — complain about the CIAA (Central Intercollegiate Athletic Association) tournament, which consists of NCAA division II conference teams from primarily historically black institutions. Around the same time every year, my timeline becomes filled with flyers advertising parties that will be held all around the Queen City celebrating the tournament. While many friends and acquaintances are filled with the same amount of excitement as my coworkers had over anticipation of our party bus, others are simply annoyed by the inconvenience. Some are frustrated by the traffic, others by how packed every single bar is and let's be honest, others are simply uncomfortable with, or even scared of, the idea that so many black and brown faces gather in celebration of the event.
I picked up my phone and started Googling different venues Uptown, including The Imperial, where we could go. Nothing showed up on the Instagram or Facebook of the Imperial so I thought we were golden. I checked their business hours and confirmed they were open at 5 o'clock. I informed everyone I would call and see what was up.
After I didn't receive an answer, I decided I would just wait until work was over and walk there. When I stepped outside, the city was buzzing with excitement. My office had never been Uptown before, so I'd never experienced the CIAA vibes in the heart of the city. Hell, even Vapiano's, my favorite Italian spot, was bumping with music and packed from what I could tell.
As I walked down S. Tryon to The Imperial, I took note of every bar we could go to and whether or not a day party was in progress. When I turned on College Street to do the same thing, on the way back toward The EpiCentre, I noticed that Flight and Lucky's were both partying and charging covers. Sigh.
I walked up the stairs to The Imperial in a sweatshirt and jeans to ask the person standing outside if they were open. "We'll be open in like an hour, we're hosting an event and entry will be $20." Yeah, no one, including myself, was going to pay a cover for a drink or two. Even a coworker I passed that was just planning on grabbing Libretto's texted me to tell me everywhere in The Epicentre was packed. In a last ditch effort, we settled on Latta Arcade, commonly known as the French Quarter.
I'm not going to lie, I was nervous. Almost as nervous as I was in the days following the acquittal of the cop involved in the Keith Lamont Scott case. No, I wasn't worried about going to the French Quarter or drinking too much, but that someone, anyone, would have comments about the inconvenience of CIAA or about how unsafe/threatened they felt and "allude" to the reason being related to race.
A couple years ago during CIAA weekend, I was visiting a local bar that wasn't hosting a tournament party. A white guy, no lie, came all the way across the bar to tell someone right next to me, "There's so many black people in here tonight." Coincidence? Doubt it.
Even though I dodged those kinds of conversations Friday night, it wasn't long before my timeline was filled with commentary on any and every incident — I mean, incidents don't happen regularly in Charlotte, right? Before the weekend was over, multiple news sources had reported a shooting allegedly involving Young Dolph and around 100 shots fired. "We knew this was going to happen. SMH!" I read on someone's status. To which I wanted to reply, "Why exactly?"
Instead, I chopped it up as yet another "successful" CIAA weekend.