"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.
Let's rewind.
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.
Oh well.
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.
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