CMPD responds to food truck incident at Lovin' Life Music Fest in Charlotte
Shortly before 8 p.m. on Sunday, several Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police officers and the Charlotte Fire Department were seen responding at the Bojangles' food truck near the Miller Lite Stage during Teddy Swims' performance.
According to fans at the festival, the truck appeared to be on fire, with flames seen blowing from inside.
At this time, it's unclear what exactly happened or if anyone was injured. But around 9 p.m., CharlotteFive's team noticed that fire trucks left the scene, though the area was still cordoned off and being guarded.
We have reached out to CMPD, Charlotte Fire and Lovin' Life Music Fest organizers for more information.
This is a developing story. Keep an eye out on this space for more updates.
Théoden Janes contributed reporting.
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Atlantic
19 hours ago
- Atlantic
Goodbye to All That
Carrie Bradshaw's last episode of television ended not with a bang but with a flush, which feels appropriate somehow. 'Party of One,' the series finale of HBO Max's And Just Like That, rehashes old patterns for the show's last hurrah, but no one's heart seems to really be in it: Miranda tries to adjust to an unexpected pregnancy; Seema wonders if she could be happily partnered without marriage; Charlotte tells Carrie, 'I'm so excited to show you my new hallway,' to which Carrie replies, pro forma, 'I may be alone for the rest of my life.' The image left in my head, though, is of the toilet bowl being frantically flushed by Charlotte's art-dealer boss, a man whose private jet can't spare him from the gastrointestinal Thanksgiving issues of a lactose-intolerant Gen Zer. Humiliation, more than anything else, has been the theme of all three seasons of And Just Like That, a cringe comedy without comedy. (Who among us will ever forget Carrie peeing into a plastic bottle while Miranda got to third base with Che in her kitchen, or Charlotte taking a pratfall onto a Tracey Emin–esque art installation and emerging with a used condom stuck to her face?) To be fair to the series, which is more than it deserves, Sex and the City was also often about mortification—the indignity of putting yourself out there as a single woman time and time again, only to be rewarded with funky spunk, porn-addicted dates, pregnancy scares, STDs, men who can't ejaculate without shouting misogynist slurs, envelopes full of cash on the nightstand. When it debuted on HBO in 1998, Darren Star and Michael Patrick King's show seemed determined to puncture the fantasy of single life in post-feminist Manhattan. 'Welcome to the age of un-innocence,' Sarah Jessica Parker's Carrie narrated in the pilot. 'No one has breakfast at Tiffany's, and no one has affairs to remember. Instead we have breakfast at 7 a.m. and affairs we try to forget as quickly as possible.' Over the course of six seasons and two movies, the show's thrillingly cynical core got smothered by cloying commercialism—a fixation on both wide-eyed romance and flamboyant luxury. What stayed consistent, though, was the disgust the show seemed to manifest anytime it was forced to think about the corporeal bodies beneath the characters' clothes: Carrie's horror at Miranda's postpartum nipples and Samantha's disgust at her unwaxed bikini line, Charlotte's refusal to look at her own vagina, Anthony's appalled proclamation—when Samantha returned from Los Angeles approximately three pounds heavier—of 'Mother of God, what's with the gut!' And Just Like That has been a lot of things since its debut late in 2021: an apologia for the sins of the past, a lookbook, a backdrop for cameos from the two most Machiavellian men on reality television. But it's consistently been oddly squeamish about both sex and human physicality—almost pathologically so. During the first season, critics winced at the heavy-handed flagellation of the characters for their unconscious bias and uptight middle age; during the second, the show's lack of purpose and stakes crystallized into excruciating storylines about strap-on sex toys and, in one case, an unsolicited octogenarian dick pic that rudely interrupted a fundraiser with Gloria Steinem. The third season, set in the more genteel location of Carrie's new Gramercy Park townhouse, seemed nevertheless stuck on the idea that anyone still tuning in must be watching with the sound off, cackling at the visuals of their favorite characters being ritualistically shamed for the crime of aging. And so: We had not one but two stories about Harry's penis—first a brief examination of something called 'ghost sperm' that troubled Charlotte during sex, followed by a multi-episode storyline about prostate cancer that left Harry impotent and peeing all over his raw-denim jeans. Seema's armpits occupied a variety of scenes, culminating in the gardener she began dating recommending a crystal deodorant that failed her during a crucial business meeting. Charlotte's sudden struggle with vertigo left her staggering all over Manhattan like a toddler on a boat. Miranda, cursed on this show like no one else, had sex with someone who turned out to be a virgin nun, accidentally flashed Carrie, became a meme after a disastrous appearance on live television, and eventually found love with a woman who's strikingly weird about her dogs, even for a Brit. And Just Like That, as Jake Nevins wrote in July, 'feels, at times, openly hostile to its own source material and even to the characters themselves.' The pie shoved in Anthony's face by his lover, Giuseppe, felt like a neat distillation of how crudely the series seemed to clown its characters, week after week after week. Earlier this year, I wrote about television's current obsession with extreme wealth, and how shows such as And Just Like That suffer from the diminished stakes that come with easy abundance. When you're insulated from calamity, maybe, the worst thing that can happen is physical degradation—a reminder that no matter how big your closet, how exclusive your couture, we all share the same basic bodily functions, which can fail and shame us in all the same discomfiting ways. Still, the casual cruelty with which And Just Like That treated its cast's bodies as punch lines and visual gags seemed to suggest a deeper unease with what it means to age—to be undeniably, messily human. The show occasionally expressed the same kind of disgust toward poverty, or toward any evidence of how rising inequality in New York has left many people to live. In the finale, Carrie visits her old apartment, now occupied by a jewelry designer named Lisette, and is horrified to see that Lisette has divided the studio into two claustrophobic spaces with a temporary wall, presumably because she can't afford roughly 600 square feet on the Upper East Side all by herself. The moment reminded me of a plotline in Season 2, in which Miranda went home with a voice actor who was her dream date, only to be repelled by the woman's cramped space: the cat-litter tray, the unmade bed. No one wants their fantasies to be punctured so abruptly, and yet both scenes demonstrate how out of touch these characters have become, and how hard it is for us to empathize with them in turn. Anthropological curiosity used to define Carrie's work as a columnist; now, in her 50s, she's happier behind the walls of an inward-facing fantasy land, posing for no one in her pre–Gilded Age living room, and turning her romantic misadventures into a god-awfully mawkish historical novel. It's not the ending I would have chosen, but it sure does make it easier to say goodbye.
Los Angeles Times
20 hours ago
- Los Angeles Times
‘Sweetener' is a fun sapphic romp brimming with identity confusion
In 1984, at age 33, I fell in love with a woman for the first time. Her name was Cathy. Her previous girlfriend's name was also Cathy. 'Wasn't that confusing, sharing a name with your girlfriend?' I asked. She shrugged. 'Everything about being a lesbian is confusing at first,' she said. 'You get used to it.' In 'Sweetener,' Marissa Higgins' sexy, poignant second sapphic novel, the reader is served plenty of confusion, lesbian-related and otherwise. For starters, two of the book's three protagonists, who are breaking up as we meet them, are both named Rebecca. With 18,993 girls' names in active use in contemporary America, why would Higgins build this disconcerting element into 'Sweetener's' structure? It proves to be a decision well-made. As the reader turns the pages, learning to individuate the two Rebeccas (whose central struggle is learning to individuate from each other) gives us bonus information about, and empathy for, both of them. 'My wife and I have the same first name, though our friends never used mine; I've always been Rebecca's wife,' Rebecca No. 1 says of Rebecca No. 2 — No. 2 being the more powerful one, since she's the one initiating the breakup. 'Our last names, too, are still the same, as I took hers at our court wedding,' No. 1 tells us. 'With the same name, it's easy to become one person instead of two.' Applying for a part-time cashier job near her dismal D.C. apartment, Rebecca No. 1 mulls, 'Inside the market, I remind myself I am a person. I have an age, a birthday, an address.' When the store manager asks about Rebecca's hobbies, she thinks, 'Making rent? Getting myself off? Finding a woman with more money than either of us to take me to the dentist?' The engaging, original plot of 'Sweetener' is complex, too. Unbeknownst to Rebecca No. 1, she and No. 2 (PhD student, less depressed, more conniving, heavy drinker) are both dating Charlotte. Obsessed with having a baby, Charlotte wears a fake pregnancy belly, a fact known only to Rebecca No. 2, because Charlotte keeps her shirt on while having sex with Rebecca No. 1. (Having Charlotte thinking, 'Please don't notice please don't notice please don't notice' to cover Rebecca No. 1's failure to notice that her sexual partner is wearing a huge baby-shaped silicone belt seems a bit of an, um, stretch.) Both Rebeccas have great sex with Charlotte. Neither Rebecca wants to stop. Rebecca No. 2 also wants a baby and doesn't want to stop drinking, which means not bearing but instead fostering a child, which means enlisting Rebecca No. 1 in the effort, since the two are still legally married, and fostering as a single divorcee requires a minimum one-year legal separation. Neither Rebecca is certain whether pretending to be married will result in their actual reconciliation. Only Rebecca No. 1 is certain that she wants that. 'I know it's not fair of me to ask anything of you,' Rebecca No. 2 admits in a phone call to her soon-to-be ex-wife, 'but I'm serious about wanting to have a family.' Desperate as she is for a reconciliation, Rebecca No. 1 mulls, 'When she says she wants me to think about how important a family is to her, and what this could mean for her, I understand she is not using the word we… I tell her I miss her and she says she misses me, too. Then she says, 'So you'll come by when the social worker is here?'' In 1984, when I dated Cathy No. 2, like the Rebeccas, most of the lesbians I knew were young, poverty-stricken and uncomfortably enmeshed with their lovers, and they considered 'lesbian' to be their primary identity. Unlike the Rebeccas, we were also terrified by the consequences of being out during what were extremely dangerous times. During the 1980s and 1990s, Cathy and I were chased down city streets by men shouting slurs at us. We were refused rooms in hotels. Cathy would have been fired from her childcare job if she'd come out at work. My custody of my children was threatened. I was banished from my father's home. 'My wife and I go to our first class on child development together,' Rebecca No. 1 tells us. 'Next to my wife, I feel cool.' A few pages later, she observes: 'The social worker tells me I'm lucky to have a partner who values non-threatening communication.' During their home visit with a second D.C. social worker, the Rebeccas lie about a lot of things — chiefly, their marital and financial instability. But they don't lie about what Cathy and I would have had to hide if we'd tried to adopt a child in the 1980s. Living in a big, liberal city, the Rebeccas don't feel the need (still required for safety in 'red' locales) to call each other roommates or friends. They call each other wives, because in 2025 same-sex marriage and parenting are givens, not distant fantasies. Ten years after it became 'cool' (and legal, and publicly acknowledged) for a woman to have a wife; 40 years after I and many, many others paid a terrible price for coming out in our families, workplaces and neighborhoods, lesbians like Marissa Higgins are creating lesbian characters who live in a sweeter, changed-for-the-better world. The sugar that made life safer for us is the queer activism that begins with telling true tales of queer lives and persists today with renewed need and renewed vigor. 'Sweetener,' the novel, is a fun romp through one version of lesbo-land circa 2025. Higgins' 'Sweetener' celebrates and accelerates the long, rough ride to lasting queer equality. Maran, author of 'The New Old Me' and other books, lives in a Silver Lake bungalow that's even older than she is.
Yahoo
2 days ago
- Yahoo
Browns: The origin of Tony Brown's bamboo scepter
Cleveland Browns rookie quarterback Shedeur Sanders made quite the impression last week in the team's opening exhibition game against the Carolina Panthers. And we're not just talking about what he did on the field! Sanders created a buzz on social media with a video of his entrance into Bank of America Stadium, which was filmed by his social media team. It wasn't just Sanders that caught everyone's eye, however, as cornerback Tony Brown was right there carrying a bamboo scepter. Brown shared the meaning of the scepter during an appearance on NFL Network on Wednesday, explaining that it began with a trip to Ghana with linebacker Jeremiah Owusu-Koramoah for JOK's annual football camp: 'We traveled through Ghana, visited the king in the western region, and visited the Cape Coast, a very historically relevant dungeon as it relates to the transatlantic slave trade. So, as I'm going through the tour learning about how the slaves were held, he explained to me how you can try to calm your emotions by speaking with the ancestors as we walk through this dungeon. 'So during the last part of the tour, I asked the ancestors to grant me the wisdom, guidance, and strength that I can use to make you proud. As we left the dungeon castle, it is along the shores of the Cape Coast, I walked into the water to clear my mind. This staff washed ashore at my feet, and I picked it up and thought it was pretty cool. Jeremiah was about 10-15 feet behind me, and when I turned around, they looked at me in awe. The Ghana chiefs we traveled with imparted their wisdom on what it means and explained the meaning behind obtaining this in the way I did. 'I carry this with pride and honor as it connects me to something greater than myself. I want people to rise with me, and I will continue to empower others with my word and help people shine by being my authentic self.' Brown went into greater detail about his experiences in Ghana in a guest blog post at Matt Lombardo's site — check it out here. Brown is in his second season with Cleveland, having signed as a free agent in 2024. He played in six games with the Browns last season, all on special teams, before being placed on injured reserve in late October after suffering a foot injury.
