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Drama isn’t just for the Jersey Shore cast; in fact it’s difficult to go out on any given night and not witness or be caught up in some level of it. When alcohol is involved, staying firmly planted in the land of reality is tough. For men, the combination of testosterone and alcohol juices them up for fights. Usually, it’s reactionary to something that just happened. But what about women? Why can’t a group of girls go out and have a good time without an incident?

One night I was traipsing around the EpiCentre with a couple of girlfriends. One wanted to hit up Whisky River and then move down the street to Town Tavern. The other didn’t want to go near Town Tavern.

“Look at these,” I said to Girl 1, pointing at my four-inch, giraffe print stilettos. “There’s no way I’m putting that much mileage on these tonight. I’ll die.”

Girl 1 replied, “I have flip-flops in my car and I’ll carry your heels in my purse, OK?”

“Deal.” Generally I’ll go anywhere anyone else wants to go, as long as it has both music and alcohol.

We began to walk towards Whisky when Girl 2 mutters to me, “I don’t want to go to Town.”

Before I could respond, Girl 1 whirls around and accuses us of (literally) talking behind her back. The three of us are then all standing in front of Whisky River — screaming. Girl 1 and Girl 2 at each other and me at them in an attempt to get them to stop making us all look crazy in public.

Dixie’s Tavern isn’t my usual scene, but with a friend guest-bartending and a crowd of out-of-towners in for the ACC Championship Game, chances were I’d have a lot more fun than I’d had in the past.

Surrounded by a pro-Virginia Tech crowd, the drink specials were on point. All of my ballin’-on-a-budget friends racing to get as many as possible down before the 11 p.m. cutoff, it got to the point where I was just handing my bartender friend cash and saying, “I don’t care, get me drunk!” He responded with two double vodka cranberries. My man.

The music at Dixie’s was its usually schizophrenic mix of old hip-hop, current top 40 and pro-America anthems, (in other words, more hit than miss) but when you’re getting drinks down at record pace, it’s all palatable to you.

Less than an hour in, we were standing on chairs, singing along and making it rain napkins. To blank stares by some and encouragement from others.

When the “DJ” dropped Miley Cyrus’ “Party in the USA” we started a “USA” chant that seemed to hit right at home with Hokie and Armed Forces sensibilities.

With our drink mission accomplished, the move was Elizabeth Billiards, but before I could even get to my car, I underestimated the wall outside of Dixie’s, tried to jump over and failed. I got up and high-fived the people who saw it like I was a daredevil and not embarrassed ... then jogged to the whip.

I swear EB’s is quickly becoming my very own Cheers. All was good: We were singing along to Toto’s “Africa” and having a good time. Then I asked a girl walking by why she was drinking Natty Ice. She said a dude bought it for her, to which I laughed, “That’s a shitty dude.”

She scoffed, telling me that dude was her boyfriend. My response? "Let’s go talk to him.”

We walk up to bruh and he was one of the people who’d migrated from Dixie’s with us. He laughed, saying it was the cheapest thing, to which other eavesdroppers replied, “What about High Life or PBR?”

He was stuck. She still defended his honor but once she walked away, he laughed and confessed, “I don’t care, that’s not my girlfriend!” to which we all laughed.

Before I left, I got my eyes on a drinks wheel spec the guys behind the bar have in the works. Can’t wait to see how that turns out.

I came to a conclusion while watching this clip from an old Soul Train episode: The 1970s was undoubtedly a more homophobic age, but if guys today danced they way the do in the video below, folks would label them as "gay" for sure.

That's not to say that all of the Soul Train dancers were straight. But, ultimately, the times didn't demand that people be so damned butch on the dance floor.

So, next time you see someone getting down at Suite or Dharma Lounge or Halo, don't assume and don't judge. Just have fun.

With its disappearance from North Carolina shelves imminent over the next few weeks, and everyone up in a tizzy about what it does to young folks (who happen to love it), some friends of mine decided to bid farewell to our good friend, Four Loko, one Tuesday night.

Its “ban” (which isn’t entirely accurate) made it surprisingly hard to find. After hitting a few gas stations on the way to the party that had either sold out or removed them from their shelves, I initially showed up to the house party Four Loko-less. Party foul. So when someone else arrived with three, I hit the “Murder Mart” on Plaza and Parkwood and got my hands on my favorite flavor, Cranberry Lemonade.

The night’s conversation was weirdly somber. Like discussing the qualities we’d miss most about a friend who’d moved or passed away, we debated our favorite flavors to the general consensus that Orange and Grape are terrible, Cranberry Lemonade and Watermelon are the jam.

Briefly interrupting the reminiscing was a guy in a minivan who pulled up to the house, trying to sell ribs out of his cooler. While most people ignored him, one friend went in for a closer look. To watch his drunk ass investigate the product, then try and negotiate a price for this loose and random meat, before realizing he didn’t get paid for a few more days, was priceless.

Almost like going through the stages of grief, about a half a can (a can and a half for others) later, the “good times” clicked in everyone’s head, and we started celebrating the life of the “Black Out in a Can.”

Shenanigans, which to that point had been minimal, were soon replaced by outright dumb shit. The music got louder. Some people started wrestling. Some people sang and danced along to YouTube videos (what you know about “Movin’ Like Berney”? Look it up if you’re unfamiliar). Others just sort of stumbled and sat quietly, clearly in their own zone.

Unlike the college days of Quattro Crazy, people here could actually handle their alcohol. Blackouts were all but nonexistent, but the familiar, good times were soundly intact.

Godspeed, old friend. We’ll miss you — or just suck it up and cross the border, because all the cool and dangerous stuff, like fireworks and Four Loko, are legal in South Carolina.

Much like Christmas, it comes but once a year: a season when people who are usually stuck behind cubicles and under fluorescent lights come to life, venturing out into the Queen City and shaking up the even-flow of weeknight club life.

Starting Thanksgiving weekend and going through New Year’s, the holiday crowd completely changes the dynamic of Charlotte’s party scene. Places like Apostrophe Lounge that usually have no lines now have them going down the sidewalk. The wait at the bar becomes even more infuriating, and the general confusion of people is unexplainable. That free corner you always post up in? Not anymore. The only free space is right in front of the speaker, where you’ll lose your voice trying to have mundane conversations about the chick with the crazy hair or the guy who’s dancing like he popped a pill.

It’s common knowledge that 9 to 5’ers never stay out until 2 a.m. They’re usually heading home when the party is starting to jump. Now, so relieved to be off work, they have to get their drunk legs back, and it’s awesome to watch. The overconfidence in their former tolerance oozing, you can almost guarantee a sloppy end to the night or an outright carrying-out and temporary shunning by the embarrassed friends who had to help do it.

The holiday crowd is also highlighted by its visitors. Like the random cousin from out of state your friend doesn’t know that well but was compelled by their parents to bring because they’re around the same age. That same cousin who shines light on his or her possible whorish reputation hundreds of miles away before the night is over.

And then there are the college kids who come home for break, convinced their hometown sucks now because they can’t find a kegger with ease. They spend most of the night bitching about how, “back at school we ...” Well, you get it.

Much like the spirit of the season though, it’s spirits that bring us all together. After a Sailor Jerry Cherry shot or two — tasting like spiced rum and grenadine, I don’t know where these came from but they’re my new jam — and a couple tallboys, the party strangers quickly become your party friends.

And yet, let us regular partygoers be thankful this scenario is only temporary.

Aaliyah’s song “Age Ain’t Nothing But A Number” is a constant theme in my nightlife experience, one that can make for some brutally awkward moments.

I completely understand how older women can assume I’m their age. I’ve had a full beard since 19, gray hairs sprouting up since I was even younger and a voice that could pass for someone’s dad. I get it. But what I don’t always get is how some women, who may or may not be old enough to have been in my parents’ yearbook, don’t seem to care.

There was the woman who stared me down at Alley Cat. “I’m looking at you, silly!” she yelled out when I tried to sidestep her gaze. She proceeded to tell me she moved to Charlotte 17 years ago for a job. Everything else she said afterward was white noise because all I could think was, “Damn, I was 6!”

Then there was the woman who made it her mission to get me to dance at Luna Lounge, going as far as taking my Blackberry from me. I half-heartedly complied, but about midway through the blaring ’90s hip-hop and my non-committal two-step, it struck me how this one song held completely different places in our psyches. She was excited like they played this at her prom (granted, they probably did). I only heard this song around my older cousins.

Those examples aren’t to say I’m against the idea of an older woman. It’s just always been this way.

I was 17 years old the first time I ever went to a club. I got in with my college ID because it didn’t have my age on it and was immediately accosted by a woman who was every bit of 35, trying to buy me drinks and insisting, “Chill next to me, baby.” I only stayed about five minutes.

I’ve learned the real keys to pulling off these scenarios seem to be laughing at their jokes — that may be generationally irrelevant (I didn’t grow up on Good Times, sorry) — letting them get away with comparing me to bearded stars who’ve passed away like Teddy Pendergrass or Gerald Levert, or, my personal favorite, just shutting the fuck up, smiling and nodding.

By the end of the night when others are sealing the deal, I’m usually admitting I was born in 1986 and either being laughed at, followed by an abrupt exit or, the weirder of the two, only endearing myself more to these potential cougs.

Have you ever been to Fuel Pizza after 2 a.m. sober? More specifically, have you ever been to Fuel Pizza after 2 a.m. sober during Halloween season, when Charlotte’s usual craziness is publicly acceptable?

One night at home, I catch a crazy craving for a slice. Without a drop of alcohol in my system, I head over to Fuel. Everybody else there? Hammered.

I sit at the picnic tables and observe the people around me, many still wearing costumes, doing everything but eating. One strange couple is doing what can only be categorized as light petting. Another guy uses Central Avenue as his catwalk, letting the breeze hit his gown in a way that, I must admit, is Titanic-ly dramatic. Two random dudes pop-locking. But the person you can’t take your eyes off of is Jesus.

This guy actually looks like Jesus every day, but this night, a toga brings together his prophetic look. He is totally in character, spouting peace and love — and insisting we all get high together.

Instead of laughing and moving on, one guy determines to shut him up. (I guess drunk atheists don’t like Jesus costumes). He picks up some BBQ sauce and says he’s going to put it on the back of Jesus’ toga. He tells the people at my table that the sweet stickiness will attract bears and, “as we all know,” he says matter-of-factly, “Southern bears can’t be stopped.”

He went on to explain there are multiple kingdoms on Earth, and Jesus doesn’t run the animal one — Southern bears do (I’ll spare you the rest of that drunken insight). He does his devious deed, resulting in a big brown spot against the white cloth — and Jesus is totally oblivious. People erupt in laughter, but he just thinks it’s something he said.

With the smell of BBQ sauce in the air, eventually he realizes something’s up and asks if he has anything on the back of his toga. “Yeah, it looks like you shat yourself,” I tell him. He replies in calm disbelief, “That sucks, man.”

Somewhere during his pro-Christ, pro-Prop 19 rant, after a brief but playful physical altercation with our Southern bear philosopher inches away from a cop car, Jesus makes a peace offering. He offers us LSD (which got a “hell no” from me), then admits it’s shitty — because someone dressed like Christ wouldn’t lie to you.

I decline and head to the car, laughing to myself. I can’t believe Jesus offered me LSD

The Deal: The Young Affiliates of the Mint held the Annual Black and White Gala at the Mint Museum Uptown on Friday. Nov. 12. The cause: Project Ten Ten Ten, an initiative to bring 10 works by 10 of the world’s most innovative craft artist’s to the Mint.

The Good: The evening’s inspiration was Truman Capote’s 1966 Masquerade Ball. The inspiration turned into reality at the Black and White Gala. The atmosphere was alive with a diverse crowd of young and older attendees, which made for a fun and vibrant evening. The evening started off with a downstairs reception including a silent auction with great gifts including artwork, gift certificates to fitness classes and specialty stores — there was just about something for everyone. A beautifully arranged dessert table was on display with a handcrafted black and white cake and decorative cupcakes (including vegan and gluten free ones too!). An open bar kept guests mingling downstairs until the party moved up to the fifth floor of the museum. Swanky lighting, beautiful flower bouquets and familiar tunes, from a local band, filled the air. A variety of extremely appetizing heavy hors d’oeuvres were served buffet style while guests gathered around tables to chat. Others chose to dance the night away on the floor or catch some fresh air and exquisite views on the large out door balcony.

The Bad: Location: perfect. Food: delicious. Guests: fun. What more do you need?

The Verdict: This is a must-attend annual event in Charlotte! While it’s a great way to promote the arts, it’s also one of the few, true class-act events held in the Queen City.

Courtnee Mason left the Miss Butter competition with a smile, a crown and a new title on Nov. 5. Ten contestants competed for the title of Miss Butter at the N.C. Music Factory hot spot, but only one winner was crowned.

Mason is a model/actress from Gastonia, N.C. Aside from countless appearances on television shows, runway shows and print ads, Mason was named as one of Charlotte Style Mag’s “Charlotte’s 25 most stylish” as well as being 2nd runner up for the title of Miss Black NC USA 2009.

The competition included a panel of five judges including Brotha Fred, former Miss NC USA, Scott Cooper from Evolution Talent Agency, among others. The ladies strut their stuff in both a swimsuit and in evening-wear for the panel and audience. Prior to the competition, the competitors were explained the duties and responsibilities of representing the nightclub. Although the ladies did not answer questions on the night of the competition, they did have an interview with a panel of three judges (current and past N.C. queens) earlier in the week.

Mason says that she feels "so honored to represent one of the nicest upscale night spots in Charlotte.” As far as responsibilities go, Mason said that she is “excited to have a hand in helping with the Ronald McDonald House which is opening in Charlotte in March 2011.”