Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Civility

Charleston: Old South or New South

Even in my lifetime, Charleston has changed exponentially. Yes, she is still the crown jewel of the South, a tableaux of grace and gentility, and she is full of Southern charm (not in reference to the upcoming Bravo show) that seems to ooze from the very walls of our ancient buildings. However, she is not the same city I knew as a child. Just in the past 20+ years, she has adopted a very chic and cosmopolitan image; whether or not this is for better or worse is a discussion for a later time. Where most of the South has a plethora of barbeque joints, all-you-can-eat buffets, and meat-and-three establishments, Charleston has a plethora of plush fine dining institutions. Where much of the South is covered by vast fields of cotton, corn, tobacco, and soybeans, Charleston is one of the fastest growing metropolitan areas in the nation. Where many Southern towns just have a few honky-tonks, Charleston has numerous clubs and trendsetting bars. Much like the Atlanta metropolitan area, Charleston has fallen in line with mainstream America, thus being one of the big Southern cities that makes up the New South.

The New South is a phenomenon that resulted from two mass migrations: the first was the move from the rural South to the bigger Southern cities, and the second was the move from the Northeast and Midwest to the South. These migrations caused these larger Southern cities to fall more in line culturally with the rest of the nation, yet they retained their Southern identities, albeit much more watered down. Ergo, the New South.

So, this brings us to two questions: 1) Why were the last 20+ years such a culturally changing period in Charleston’s nearly 350 year-old timeline, and 2) Where does this leave Charleston in terms of the Old South versus the New South?

First things first: a history lesson.

Throughout her history, Charleston has been plagued by disasters, whether by the hand of nature or man. She has been heavily involved in two “civil wars” (the War for American Independence was truly a civil war in South Carolina), many devastating fires, numerous hurricanes, a catastrophic earthquake, and even an occasional tornado. Yet, through all of this, she has emerged: maybe a bit worn and battered, but in due time, her people find a way to honor her past and bring her back. After the fire of 1835, a whole neighborhood was burnt to the ground, and unfortunately, several of Charleston’s treasures were lost forever. The second St. Philip’s Church, one of colonial America’s most beautiful church buildings, was lost during this fire. By 1838, however, a third building was erected in all of the former’s glory. During the earthquake of 1886, many of Charleston’s buildings were unsettled, damaged, or destroyed. For example, St. Michael’s steeple separated from the nave and sank into the ground eight inches. But even as people were setting up tents in Washington Square, her bells - the same bells that rang out during the American Revolution and were melted by Sherman during The War Between The States, then later sent to England to be recast - rang out to rally downtrodden Charlestonians.

But these tragic events did not change the character of Charleston. What was it that so changed it during the 1980s and 1990s? The answer lies in a name, and this name continues to spark the memories of those who endured this event. This name is Hugo.

In September of 1989, Hurricane Hugo ravaged the South Carolina lowcountry. There was certainly wind and hail damage, as many roofs of the historic buildings were stripped or lifted from their posts, but flooding was also a devastating factor (just ask anyone from McClellanville). After the storm, people came from shelters and far-off escapes to assess the damage. They came back to a war zone. The streets were covered with trees and slicks of pluff mud, power was nonexistent, and food and ice lines were never-ending. But, through all of this, Charlestonians once again rallied together to rebuild their city; however, unlike any of her previous disasters, the rest of the nation enthusiastically came in to help.

Donations and insurance money came flooding into the Holy City, and from that, her historic buildings were repaired. Actually, they were beyond repaired. Because of the nation’s generosity, Charleston was in better shape post-Hugo than it was before. In fact, it was the best she looked since her antebellum days. And here, my friends, is where we trace the origins of the second “Charleston Renaissance.” With a new coating of stucco, freshly polished brass, and restored slate roofs, Charleston was open to newcomers who saw her as a gleaming jewel. And came they did. In droves. Those from the Northern states saw the quality of life in Charleston and her suburbs, packed their bags, and began a new life in a newly revived town. This was a huge part of Mt. Pleasant’s population boom in the 1990s and 2000s, as the town’s population more than doubled in less than ten years. With these new people came new customs, new accents, and new activities: in short, a new culture. This culture was different, fresh, and very modern. It was glamourous and contemporary. And from the marriage of Charleston’s world-famous Southern charm and the newcomers’ edgy twist, the lowcountry’s very own flavor of the modern New South came into existence.

Keep in mind, this is not to say Charleston was void of culture before the late 1980s. On the contrary, Charleston has always had refined culture. She is home to many of the nation’s firsts: the first operatic performance, the first building erected for theatrical purposes, the first game of golf, the first American-born architect, the first public museum, the first Reformed Jewish congregation: just to name a few. She also stood out from her neighbors, with her many genteel societies, beautiful buildings, lavish customs, significant political figures, and, though only in the first half of her history, her vast wealth. She was a place where tea was more than just a drink, where rice was more than just a side dish, and where buildings were more than brick and mortar. An aristocracy, only to be rivaled by the Virginians, was set in place, so strong that there are cases where several men took their mother’s maiden name in order to inherit family property and wealth. Truly, to say Charleston was unrefined and void of culture prior to the influx is just plain ignorant.

In addition, the aforementioned is still going strong. The aristocracy, though now intertwined with the newcomer socialites, still carries an air of elegance and refinement. We still have our characteristic culture, complete with our famous seafood dishes, idiosyncratic single houses, and unique terminology. We still have the soul of the Holy City, with centuries-old religious institutions, lively taverns, and resourceful libraries.

So you see, in a Mayberry-meets-Manhattan sort of fashion, Charleston blends her steeped traditions with her newly-adopted modern trends. However, as with most blends, one ingredient dilutes the other, and clearly this has happened in the Holy City. Charleston’s Southern qualities have muddled those of metropolitan America (read: Old South muddles New South), but in turn, the metropolitan culture of America has muddled Charleston’s Southern identity (read: New South muddles Old South).

Reviewing the previous comments, saying Charleston is Old South or New South seems like an impossible task, but I dare say it isn’t. You may or may not have realized it, but in the riddle lies the answer: Charleston is one, the other, or both.

You can’t do that, you exclaim as you read this. You have to pick one!

I know, I know: it seems shallow and fickle to claim the middle ground. Trust me, it isn’t.

Charleston is a cliquey city with many different social circles. Some people in Charleston can be visibly social and never become friends with a Ravenel or Middleton. Inversely, a blueblood can remain in good social graces and never have to mingle with prominent people from off. In this small city bound by two rivers, we find two realms that are independent of each other. For some, Charleston is very much Old South, with gracious gentility and a bona fide pedigree. For others, Charleston is a beacon of the New South, with exciting new trends and interesting contemporary flavors. And for others, Charleston is both, with a mix of Old South traditions and New South trends. This view is the most prominent, as showcased by national media. This is what I call the “Sweet Tea and Magnolias” syndrome. This is the persona of Charleston captured in the quaint pictures of hoop skirts, tours led by pirates, and Charlestonians sipping Mint Juleps on their piazzas, all the while being viewed by hoards of people brought in by bus, boat, and buggy: in essence, the Disneyland version of Charleston. Whether or not the “Sweet Tea and Magnolias” approach to Charleston’s marketing is flattering or sacrilegious is still a controversial topic - one I will likely address in the near future - but this view is the result of her many different qualities as both an Old South monument and a New South hub.

Yes, Charleston is no longer the same place that I came to know as a child, but that doesn’t mean I should be upset. I would be lying if I said I weren’t often irritated by tourists, congested roads, and the rapid disappearance of the old brogue, but I have come to embrace the new face of Charleston. She is still the same beautiful Grande Dame as before; she has just added a few new pieces to her extensive wardrobe.

To Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Civility,

A Charlestonian Bon Vivant

(I claim no ownership of these images, save for that of King Street at the beginning of this post. Click on the images to be sent to their original sources)

2 weeks ago -

5 -

Why Pursue Civility?

“In this blog, you will learn of Etiquette, Fashion, Gastronomy, Self Improvement, and Southern Culture. There will be elaborate stories, anecdotes, testimonies, recommendations, lists, rules… the possibilities are endless! Thank you for stopping by! I wish you good health and prosperity.”

-Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Civility: “Welcome”

When I wrote those words in November of 2011, I had no idea that Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Civility: The Ramblings of a Charlestonian Bon Vivant would come so far, nor did I realize it would be known by a different name: The Pursuit of Civility. Granted, at this current stage of The Pursuit of Civility’s life, I wouldn’t dare say I am a well known blogger. Hell, I wouldn’t even say I’m remotely known, as I have very little recognition outside of a few people on tumblr and twitter. But this doesn’t have any bearing regarding my previous statement. I am still amazed at what this blog has turned into.

When I started The Pursuit of Civility, it was simply an outlet for frustration and expression. At the time (and still today), I was sick and tired of rude people and unkempt people, and I constantly ragged on both monstrosities. After several weeks of critiquing and criticizing, several close friends suggested that I start a blog about such subjects. I gave it a thought, but I had no idea how to start a blog. Eventually, tumblr came into the picture and I set up an account. I wrote my mission statement and from there, we find this humble little blog.

At first, my concept for the blog was to set it up as a primer, with each post being a lesson in etiquette or fashion and occasional inserts relating to Southern culture and Gastronomy. Needless to say, this didn’t last very long. Over time, the posts shed their cold and distant voice of a miserly tutor and, instead, took the form of a personal tour through a journalistic archive. Other subjects came into the picture. We explored the origins of South Carolina barbeque. We examined the value of words. We contemplated the meaning of being a Southerner. We questioned the meaning of the Good Life, explored the idea of a bucket list, and even dabbled in religion from time to time. What once was a manual became an cooperative experience, and through this, we have begun to fulfill our moniker: the pursuit of civility.

But why pursue civility? In this world of hustle and bustle, grab and go, does something as archaic as civility have any bearing?

It seems every generation has one thing in common: they believe the next one will be the demise of American culture as we know it. Regardless of our ages, we all have heard something along the lines of: “Back in my day, we didn’t have these problems,” or “This generation is going to kill America!” Even though many of these statements are akin to predictions of the coming of Christ, skewed and inaccurate, there are some that are very valid. It doesn’t take a genius to see how American culture has changed over the course of a century. I could list off a series of points that I believe demonstrate such a cultural shift, but that would be overkill, for you see, all can be tied to two words: respect and refinement.

Respect, whether it be towards authorities, elders, or fellow peers, is given very little thought. Not to sound like an octogenarian, but there was once a time when a lack of respect was a serious offense. Teachers would punish, parents would chastise, and authorities would reprehend. There wasn’t any coddling, compromising, or negotiating. It was what it was.

The question then is why has there been such a slide? Why has a lack of respect become such a pandemic? The answer lies in our development as a society.

The twentieth century was one of the most progressive of any in recorded history: not necessarily because of philosophical ideas or an artistic renaissance, but because of communication and transportation. What once took weeks or months to deliver to others became instantaneous. People could travel across vast distances in a matter of hours, where previously it would have taken days or weeks. From there, it was simply a chain reaction. Society’s pace was hastened, and life began to run at a much faster pace, especially in the big cities. When life moves at a faster pace, courtesy becomes a speed hump, and thus it was thrown to the wayside. Because these cities were the industrial and cultural hubs of the nation, their cultures spread throughout the rest of the country as headlining examples, mainly because of two inventions: the radio and the television. From these outlets, countless amounts of people across the nation heard of the goings on in New York, Chicago, and other media-centric cities. The culture, arts, and everyday affairs of these fast-paced cities were sent out to listeners and viewers in their homes, cars, and offices. Thus, American culture became more homogenized.

Now before you start calling me a modern day member of the “Southern Agrarians,” I am quick to say that I am glad such mass communication came into play. Many beautiful and culturally rich mediums were broadcasted to people that would otherwise never witness or enjoy such. NBC, for example, heralded the music scene by broadcasting concerts from their studios. In fact, at the time, the NBC Symphony Orchestra was one of the best in the world. Under the leadership of Arturo Toscanini, the NBC Symphony Orchestra introduced many Americans to Beethoven’s symphonies (luckily, I have in my possession all of their Beethoven symphony recordings on LPs), Wagner’s operas, and Bach’s fugues. So, in short, mass media is a double-edged sword: many great things have been spread because of it, and many bad things have been spread because of it.

Back to the subject at hand.

American culture, as we now see it, is fairly homogenized. Yes, we still have regional identities that distinguish us, but for the most part, American culture has a solid definition. To the rest of the world, American culture is defined by what happens in New York, Chicago, Washington D.C, and Los Angeles, and for the most part, we Americans buy into this as well. Thus, the gruff and impersonal demeanors of these cities have spread from coast to coast. In turn, this evolved into a lack of respect. Is this to say the lifestyles of cities such as New York are the spawn of Satan? Absolutely not, but the fast-paced development of these cities is the progenitor; it wasn’t intended to be this way, but circumstances led it to be such.

Respect, though integral, is but one half to the definition of civility. Equally important is refinement.

Not to sound pompous or snooty, but being a Charlestonian skews one’s view of refinement. Though I did not grow up on the peninsula, a good amount of my time was, and continues to be, spent down there, and as we all know, the Holy City is a gem. Genteel and beautiful, she is a majestic image of refinement at its highest. And it doesn’t stop there. Many of Charleston’s suburbs, especially east of the Cooper, are very upscale and have a “southern chic” vibe, with the area possessing many country clubs, tennis courts, marinas, and nice shopping venues; thus, this area is also very refined, though not in the historical sense. In turn, being a native of such a special place lends one to be naïve towards the rest of the world. For Yours Truly, such was the case.

When I moved to Columbia, I was shocked by the lack of culture, style, and sense of identity; even in the most rustic areas of Charleston, there is still a heaping of culture. Columbia, on the other hand, just seemed like a cookie cutter kind of town, just like any other relatively good sized city in America. Apart from the University and a few local churches (mine included, thank goodness), it was a generic concrete jungle with government making up its cultural activities. This was not always the case, for Columbia used to be a very beautiful town at the beginning of the twentieth century. Unfortunately, her old homes and buildings were torn down in favor of modern styles. One thing led to another, and most of downtown Columbia became a generic image of American development. Over time, I have learned to appreciate Columbia for what it has, but I am still refreshed by the buzzing and exciting culture of Charleston. Yes, I am well-aware that Charleston is not a bustling city like New York or Los Angeles. Frankly, I’m glad that it isn’t, but it still has a defining cosmopolitan buzz and idiosyncratic culture. It is a hotbed of arts, fashion, restaurants, and has a unique nightlife. True, we still have our traditions and customs that will never budge, but we also have a new way of life that has swept our town.

Ramblings aside, refinement is a necessary component to civility, but I think we still need to dig deeper, because refinement doesn’t mean the same thing to someone in Valdosta, Georgia or Centreville, Maryland. In addition to the common idea of being “nice and luxurious,” I believe refinement also means celebrating your culture, whatever that may be. Not every town has pre-revolutionary mansions or antebellum plantations, but every town does have something of which to be proud. Your hometown may not have a performing arts festival, but you may have a very expansive library. Maybe your hometown has a famous resident, or is known for having a very quirky history (Columbia falls under this example)? Instead of bulldozing this and whitewashing your town, thereby turning it into the textbook image of commonplace American development, you should preserve, promote, and celebrate these qualities! Make a name for your town, and show the world why your little slice of heaven is special.

Now that we have explored the “demise” of civility, we can answer the question at hand: “Why pursue civility?”

Simply put, we should pursue civility to make a difference in the world: no matter the outlet or aspect. Why should we settle for a quick meal of a prefabricated hamburger and day-old french fries? Why should we settle for mediocre architecture and design, with neighborhoods full of identical houses? Why should we settle for a T shirt and blue jeans? Why should we settle for a Bud when we go out for drinks?

We shouldn’t.

Life is a one time offer; we don’t get two chances. With this in mind, why on earth would one settle for mediocre? We should take this one chance and take on the world, all the while only settling for the absolute best. The Good Life is for all, no matter the budget! If you love fine art, go to the library and study the works of the greats. If you have a passion for Bach’s oratorios, buy a ticket for a performance at the symphony. If you savor fine food, buy a cookbook and start cooking. You are only limited by your imagination, for if you have a will, you can find a way. For example, I enjoy fine clothes, fine music, and fine food, but I seek out ways to gain access to such at more affordable rates. I buy clothes at thrift shops, look for free concerts, and experiment in the kitchen by copying the recipes of local chefs. Do I justify spending $70 for one at a restaurant? I can, but it doesn’t have to be so. Do I justify having reserved box seats at the symphony every season? I can, but it doesn’t have to be so. Do I justify spending $5,000 on a bespoke suit? I can, but it doesn’t have to be so. You see, it is possible to have champagne tastes on a beer budget; just don’t strictly define champagne as Dom Pérignon. By taking a stand for gentility, refinement, and quality, we can all show the world the value of civility in our modern age. We should seek refinement in all aspects of life: spanning our cuisine, history, culture, fashion, and day-to-day interactions. We desperately need to understand the need for such an outlook, for life is too short to go on monotonously. This takes great courage, but as it is said: “Fortune favors the brave!” Therefore, live life to the fullest and prosper, whether in wealth or experiences, and, as always:

To Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Civility,

A Charlestonian Bon Vivant

1 month ago -

11 -

The Pursuit of Civility at SP Smoking

This post is about my experience at SP Smoking Weekend. For the review of the show, see this post.

_________________________

To say two weekends ago was amazing is a vast understatement. Heck, even saying it was outstanding is an understatement. For you see, I have been in the company of a genius!

The vision, the excitement, the parties, the dancing, the new friends, the booze: it was pure magic. What began as an ode to Charleston turned into a force of nature, a cultural landmark amongst a sea of mediocrity, all because of the work of a visionary. This visionary dared to be different. He refused to settle for the mundane, and as a result, he has gained a group of loyal supporters: a following that sticks together in its dandy eccentricity. He is an innovator that changed the definition of Southern menswear. He has taken the idea “go to hell prep” to an entirely different level. He is a bon vivant, a dandy, and a Southern gentleman. This visionary is K. Cooper Ray of Social Primer, and this past weekend, I was invited as a guest to view his formalwear line: SP Smoking.

If you don’t know who Social Primer is by now, then you clearly have not been here very long, as I am an ardent supporter of SP and owe a lot of my inspiration to Mr. Ray’s blog (Note: inspiration, not imitation). Just last year, I was a Campus Representative for Social Primer at the University of South Carolina, and though I did not re-apply for this position, I continue to be a voice of praise and support for SP; I guess you can call me an SP Disciple, if you are so inclined.

When I caught wind of SP’s new formalwear ideas, I was very excited. Remembering what Cooper did in New York with the idea of the Social Primer Fraternity, I knew that his vision for formalwear would be nothing short of stunning. Granted, Social Primer was, and continues to be, a successful part of the Brooks Brothers family for many seasons, but it was time that SP step out on its own. Thus, we find Social Primer by K. Cooper Ray, a line of both long ties and bow ties that feature contrasting patterns that walk the line of professional and nonconformist.

Honestly, before I met Cooper, I didn’t have a clue about how menswear design or production worked. My knowledge of clothing stopped with picking out what looked good and giving sartorial advice to my friends. I always liked wearing nice things, but my knowledge was limited to Polo Ralph Lauren, Brooks Brothers, Ben Silver, the stuff from local haberdashers, and the popular preppy options (vineyard vines, Southern Proper, and the like). Beyond that, I was lost. After meeting Cooper and following the birth of his new line, I have seen a glimpse of the realm of menswear. I mean, I still have no clue what’s going on, but at least I have been introduced to it. And I must say, I am infatuated with it. I have soaked it up like a sponge, and despite being called a “fashion guru” by my friends, I continue to explore this exciting new world.

Back to SP’s formalwear line.

This past December, I met up with Cooper and Taylor Eubanks (Social Primer’s head of sales) at Craig Reagin in Lexington, South Carolina for a trunk show. I planned on spending a few minutes just to say hello and view the new ties, but I ended up staying until the end of the show, during which Cooper gave me a little sneak peek of the upcoming show, which he called SP Smoking. He explained how this was a nod to Le Smoking, a revolutionary show from Yves Saint Laurent that pushed the boundaries of women’s attire, introducing the concept of women donning more “masculine” forms of clothing. I was instantly captivated by his vision.

Fast forward to March.

SP’s twitter and facebook pages were abuzz with pictures of invitations and sneak peeks of SP Smoking. Though Cooper and I knew each other, we never saw each other outside of the confines of St. Philip’s. As such, I assumed that I would view SP Smoking via pictures afterwards; after all, I was just a church acquaintance. Fate, circumstances - hell, maybe even some luck - would have it otherwise. In my inbox on facebook, I saw a message from Cooper. Inside were three things: a sentence and two pictures. The sentence simply said, “I hope you will join us.” The pictures were of a guy in a tuxedo with a shotgun and an invitation to Peter Ashley’s Winter Formal. This was my invitation to SP Smoking! Let me say, this was a very exciting thing to see when I woke up.

Fast forward a few weeks.

It’s Friday night and I am getting ready to head to the Charleston Library Society for the show. I am freshly showered, am cleanly shaven, and am donning my evening attire. I then hopped in the car and drove down to Broad Street in hopes of finding a relatively close parking space. I didn’t. Instead of the usual spots up and down Broad, I was greeted with a film crew. Hardly the sight I wanted to be seeing at the time. Don’t get me wrong: I love having film exposure of my beloved hometown, but I was hardly in the mood. I went up and down the street, scouring for a measly few feet of unoccupied pavement. No luck. So, with time running short (the invitation said 7:00 and it was 7:32 at the time, very much past being “fashionably late”), Plan B was enacted. South of Broad was my next option, for if Broad Street was packed, then anything north would surely be jammed. After finding a spot on Church Street, I made my way up to the library. The walk from Church to King was almost dreamlike. Here I am, walking through the alleys and passing visitors, knowing I am about to be blown away! It took all I could not to sprint down Broad Street up to the library.

I arrived at the library, only to be greeted by someone saying it would be another thirty minutes. Not a problem, so I ended up spending a few minutes resting in Charleston Place (my normal hub). Thirty minutes passed, and after a thorough check of my twitter feed, I headed back down to the library, only to be turned away again. At this point, I began to think: Should I get a drink at the Thoroughbred Club? Head down to the Blind Tiger? Grab a bite to eat? Do I have enough time to do this? Do I know anyone coming to the show? I was running out of ideas, so I sent out a tweet saying the show was delayed. Nick from Great Lakes Prep responded and said he and his brother, Anthony, were on King Street. I was less than a block away from their location, so I said that we should meet up. We did so, and thus there was a new connection. In case you were unaware, social media is the coolest thing once you meet a follower in real life, a modern pen-pal correspondence of sorts. After conversing by Charleston Place for a bit, we headed back down to the library. Finally, they were ready for guests to enter.

Once inside, we were greeted by a shag band, several bars, and the great Social Primer banner stretching across the center of the room. I have to hand it to Cooper: I can’t think of anyone else that can change a library into a 1950s country club. This being a Social Primer event, it would be sacrilegious to to not start with a drink. We headed over to the bar and started what would be a long night with many more drinks to come. Naturally, I ordered a Gin and Tonic, as this is my signature drink. Truly, if you ever see me at a bar without a gin-based drink or without a beer, you’ll know something is horribly wrong. One of these days, I’ll write an article about the wonders of gin, but enough about that; back to the library.

After getting our drinks, Anthony told me he was never a fan of gin. Just so you know, if you ever say this to me, consider it a challenge. Thus the following unfolded: Oh boy, I thought. Another person to convert! As I have mentioned before, I am a Gin Apostle, and my conversion rate is near, if not at, 100%. I cannot recall a person I have met that does not like gin after I get a hold of him or her. After discussing my passion of gin, I suggested for him to try Gin and Ginger Ale, a great drink to introduce the spirit to a newcomer. More on this later.

As a former Campus Representative, I try to stay connected with the current reps, just to see what is going on with Social Primer in other parts of the country; plus, they are some outstanding people! Considering this was Social Primer’s biggest event in Charleston to date, I expected to see several Campus Representatives in the crowd. It didn’t take long for me to spot several, and I went over to make a connection with one I regularly converse with on twitter: McKenzie Mullins of Western Kentucky University. I brought him over and introduced him to Nick and Anthony. Not too long after this, people began to shag, and naturally, I was feeling the urge to dance - have I ever mentioned how much I love to shag? I’m sure I have - but I wasn’t quite boozed up enough to dance. That didn’t matter, as some older ladies approached our group wanting to dance. So off we went, the four of us. Mind you, the other three were as familiar with shagging as I am with getting around the streets of Bangkok: not very much at all. I kept looking over to see how they were doing. Needless to say, the old Charlestonians had taken the reins and began teaching the novice shaggers how to do our beloved state dance. Quite a beautiful site, if you ask me.

A few minutes later, the man of the hour, Mr. Ray, stepped up on the platform and announced his predicament. It turns out that the plane toting the clothes for the evening had broken down in Memphis, and the clothes had no other way of getting to Charleston in time for the show. He said he called everyone he knew with a private plane to see if they could get the clothes in for the evening, but alas, no other details were divulged. We didn’t really mind, as we all were having one hell of a time. Combine shagging, a top-notch band, more than an ample supply of booze, and a fun-loving crowd, and you have a party that cannot be stopped. Clothes or no clothes, models or no models: we were going to celebrate!

As the night continued on, I met many others in attendance. Some were “Old Charleston,” and others were newcomers from “The College.” Some had known Cooper for years, and others were new friends and supporters. Speaking of “The College,” it was around this time that McKenzie introduced me to another Campus Representative: CofC’s Ryan Mazza. Gin continued to be poured, dancing continued to be done, and conversing became more and more relaxed. Somewhere in the mix, the Electric Slide came into play. Time went on, and Rhett Boyd of Rogue Wave Surf Shop approached me. We chatted for a few minutes and spoke about the wonders of the Shag (seriously, y’all have no idea how much I love this dance). I joined up with Nick and Anthony, and lo and behold: Anthony was smiling as he sipped his second Gin and Ginger Ale, or was it his third? Mission accomplished.

At once, the interns corralled the crowd into three major sections, forming a T-shaped runway in the middle of the great hall. The music changed from the sounds of beach music to the squeal of guit - you already know this part, don’t you?

Somehow, I managed to get a “front row” spot with Nick and Anthony. The show went on, and I documented the looks with my “oh-so advanced” Blackberry. Thank goodness Nick was both smart enough to bring a camera and tall enough to tower over the crowd, and his footage was superb!

The finale concluded, we sang “God Bless America,” and then the bombshell was dropped. Out of the blue, the notes of our cherished dance rang through the halls of the old library. Almost like a radio signal to the brain, the crowd stopped what they were doing and began to dance. Because my mother’s family is steeped in dance - my great grandmother was an award winning dancer of “The Charleston” and my grandfather danced with Fred Astaire - I was familiar with how to Charleston. I was overcome with the urge! So, with arms waving and legs twisting, I began to Charleston my heart out. Another lady joined me in our beloved dance, and we proceeded to show everyone how it was done. To be honest, I don’t know why this moment was so memorable; I had just seen a monumental show that made a mere dance seem trivial. But somehow, “The Charleston” was the most appropriate answer to such a show. It was our response to Mr. Ray, our “amen.” It was our applause and congratulation.

After some very enthusiastic dancing, I was in dire need of another drink. Just before I reached the bar, an older gentleman approached me. He was wearing a grey suit with a Huguenot lapel pin. The gentleman introduced himself as Thomas Middleton LeMacks, and we spent the next few moments talking about all sorts of stuff: dancing, families, Huguenots - you know, the usual. After mentioning my Huguenot ancestry, he enthusiastically invited me to visit the French Protestant Church some time. A very nice jesture and a very real possibility, considering my church is literally the next block north. We parted ways, and I returned to the watering hole.

The rest of the party was the same as the first half, albeit more boozed and crazy. Dancing, music, and an all ‘round good time. Eventually, the time came to close shop, but if you know anything about the SP crowd, you’ll know that the party never ends swiftly. Cooper made the proclamation: the afterparty was in the works! But where to go? Upper King was too far, and we weren’t exactly in the part of town known for nightlife. That is unless you know about a wonderful local dive: the Blind Tiger. So, with the location in sight, we made our way. Some rode in the hired cars, some walked, and others crawled. No matter, for more good times awaited!

Nick, Anthony, and I arrived at the Blind Tiger shortly after the hired cars, and thus we came in right at the start of the hype. We grabbed our drinks and headed out to the courtyard. Once there, we met up with a few other familiar faces and a few new ones. McKenzie introduced us to Tom Fisher, the Campus Representative for the University of Georgia, and in turn, Tom introduced us to his cousin and a few friends. We made our way to the old part of the courtyard and joined Cooper, F.E. Castleberry, and others who were gathered. Before I knew it, the last call was being announced. I said my goodbyes and strolled back down to Church Street.

SP Smoking Weekend was over, or so I thought.

The next day, I did some video editing for a friend - I know, you had no idea I was so “multi-talented” - and thus I thought the fun times were over for the weekend. Later that afternoon, McKenzie sent me a message wondering what was going on around town. This, my friends, was the start of another crazy night. I ate dinner with my parents, jumped in the shower, got dressed, and hopped back down to the peninsula.

Per usual, I set up camp in Charleston Place and waited on McKenzie to rendezvous. Eventually he showed up, and we scooted on over to one of my favorite places: the Thoroughbred Club. I sipped on my gin, he on his bourbon, and we talked about all sorts of stuff. A few minutes later, Ryan met us and we continued to swap stories. McKenzie told us about his family’s old seats at Churchill Downs, I told them about, well, growing up in Charleston, and Ryan answered my age-old question: what do you call someone from Connecticut? According to the Connecticut native, people from Connecticut do not call themselves anything in particular. Time went on and we received a message from Cooper. He told us to meet him at The Ordinary. So, we downed our drinks, headed out the doors, and made our way up King Street.

As we made our way up the street, Cooper messaged us once again. He told us to forget about The Ordinary and to meet him for an afterparty at Stars, a popular Upper King bar. He told us to tell the bouncers that we were with Cooper and Cynthia Bailey. Yes, that is the Cynthia Bailey of The Real Housewives of Atlanta fame. Mind you, none of us knew who she was at the time, but if she was a friend of Cooper, then this would be far from a mediocre experience. We arrived at Stars and looked for Cooper. He was nowhere to be seen. We headed up to the rooftop bar, thinking they would be up there. Alas, no success; however, while up there, we met back up with Tom and his entourage. We weren’t about to give up our search, so with Tom joining our party, we went a floor below to the private rooms. Jackpot! We told the bouncers the spiel, and after a quick glance inside, we were waived through. Inside, we saw an enthusiastic Cooper dancing his heart out. We met up, he introduced us to Ms. Bailey, and we made our way over to the bar. So there we were: a group of current and, ehem, “retired” Campus Reps, Cooper, F.E. Castleberry, their friend named Mary, and Cynthia Bailey. Time went on and Cooper told us he was ready to move on to the next spot. He and F.E. Castleberry went on ahead and we waited for Ryan. Somehow we all got separated, so Tom, McKenzie, and myself decided to join Cooper, F.E, and Mary at the Silver Dollar, another popular Upper King bar.

We walked across the street to the Silver Dollar, only to be greeted with the sounds of yet another amazing band. We walked inside and, you guessed it, headed straight to the bar. Sidenote: I love bars. I love big bars and small bars, nice bars and grungy bars, but more than these, I love cheap bars. The Silver Dollar is just that. Well, at least it is fairly cheap by Charleston’s standards. Cheap booze is happy booze, and likewise, a cheap boozer is a happy boozer.

Back to Saturday night.

We loaded up on our drinks and met back up with the SP entourage. Conveniently, an all-time party favorite was ringing out from the speakers of the packed bar. We honed in on a dance spot, and awaited the bandleader to sing those famous words: “You know ya make me wanna…”

SHOUT!

The bar, much like the crowd the night before at the first notes of “The Charleston,” erupted into a massive frenzy. We jumped, we danced, we shouted and sang. We got a little bit softer and a little bit louder. We had an enthusiastic call and response. We fulfilled one of our founding principles as a nation: the pursuit of happiness.

The lights flickered, the band packed up, and the bar began to close. As if the night couldn’t get anymore exciting, a fight erupted right beside us. In a flash, Cooper, F.E, and their friend Mary exited the bar. Meanwhile, the rest of us were left to fend for ourselves. Without too much drama, we did such and met back up with Cooper & Co. One member of the SP entourage was a bit overserved, and told us he was going to walk back to his lodgings. This was on Cannon Street, hardly a place to walk alone when under the influence. Cooper enlisted us (the Reps) to get him back safely and to meet him at the studio, and with that, he and the gang departed. McKenzie and said friend got in line for hamburgers while I went back to get the car. Through the rain and the droves of people, I ventured back to Hasell Street to pick up the car. As I was driving up King Street, I knew I was going to face a challenge, as parking is nonexistent in the area. Somehow, I lucked out and snagged a spot right in front of the Silver Dollar. We loaded up and, with the entourage in tote, I made the winding trip to Cannon Street.

After we dropped off Cooper’s friend, we made the trek down to the Harleston Village. As we rounded the corner of Rutledge and Montagu, I asked McKenzie which house was Cooper’s, as he was staying at the studio for the weekend and I had never seen “SP HQ” before. Eventually I saw Cooper’s SUV, with his St. Philip’s sticker serving as our beacon. We parked, went to the gate, and proceeded to the carriagehouse.

Living downtown is very different from any set up you would find in most American cities. There are single homes, apartments built into single homes, additional houses behind a main house, and old carriagehouses converted to studio apartments: it really is a neat assortment. As such, you sometimes have to walk through people’s back lawns to get to a house. This is the case for Cooper’s carriagehouse. So, as we walked past the main house on Montagu, we were greeted with the glow of Cooper’s front stoop light and a blur approaching us rather quickly. This blur turned out to be Tess, Cooper’s adorable Yellow Lab mix. After our introductions by the “SP Welcoming Committee,” we headed to the studio.

What came next was a surreal experience. Once we crossed the threshold of the front door, we saw the clothes from the show. Much like being inside an exhibit of a museum, we were in the presence of precious artifacts. We were shown the brilliant coats, the regal fox stoles, and the Prep Necky waistcoats from the vantage of their creator. Cooper then took the experience a step further. He told us of what was to be, what wasn’t, and - I’ve already said too much…

I’m not entirely sure how it happened, but as the night went on, we were all wearing the fox stoles and Tom had on a top hat. And it was perfectly normal. We discussed life, cars, the exciting life of SP, and other topics of the realm of early morning hours. I looked at my watch; it was 3:40 AM. McKenzie was being picked up in an hour for his flight back to Kentucky, I had church at 10:30, and I still had to drop Tom off at his cousin’s house. So, we said our goodbyes and parted ways. I dropped Tom off, went home, and took a short nap before church.

SP Smoking Weekend is one to live on throughout the ages. We danced, we drank, and we partied. We made friendships, met celebrities, and, for a spell, became the SP Entourage (no offense to the original SP “Brotourage”). We danced in a library, partied at local dives, conversed in the Club, and chilled in fox furs and top hats till early Sunday morning.

To those who were a part of this production, I thank you for one hell of a shindig. To those who were a part of the entourage, I thank you for the fellowship. And to Cooper, I thank you for being a visionary.

To Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Civility,

A Charlestonian Bon Vivant

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SP Smoking: A Review

Let it be known: I am not a fashion guru.

Yes, this blog that is full of menswear reviews, rules, and write ups is written by someone who would never don the title of “fashion guru.” I can’t tell you the latest trends in New York or who will be the next rising designer. I can’t even tell you how a fashion show really works. But two things are for sure: I appreciate nice clothes, and I appreciate when people try to look nice. I know what looks good, and what doesn’t. I know the difference a blazer can make in one’s appearance. I know that loafers are the most versatile shoe known to mankind. I know the difference between someone who puts effort into their daily outfit and someone who, well, thinks an Ed Hardy T shirt and camouflage cargo shorts are perfectly acceptable. They aren’t, by the way.

I also know that some rules are meant to be stretched, and some even broken. True, there are some rules that should not be touched, such as the components of white tie and the boundaries of seersucker season, but some should be pushed to their extremes. What once was considered taboo is now revolutionary. Who would have ever thought of someone using camouflage in a formalwear show, or wearing a gingham shirt in in a business setting?

At the same time, I know that we must genuflect in respect towards tried and true traditions, with some archaic practices coming back into the limelight. Straw boaters are now slowly creeping back onto the scene. Bow ties, once seen as the adornment of the nerdy, are now a commonplace choice for neckwear. Horn-rimmed glasses are now being bought in place of gunmetal; sadly, this is something I still need to do, but that’s not important information right now.

So from the perspective of a “menswear lover but not a fashion guru,” the trends in menswear are a combination of polar opposites: a nod to tradition and a blatant step into new territory. On paper, a pairing of such opposites sounds like a match made in Hell, with failure surely being a product. This couldn’t be further from the truth. Call me open-minded - hell, call me crazy - but the wedding of both tradition and cutting edge works in its own “Traditional Go To Hell” sort of way.

Such was the show put together by K. Cooper Ray with the debut of his formalwear line: SP Smoking.

After the success of his first solo tie collection, Social Primer by K. Cooper Ray, Mr. Ray’s next step was obvious: a formalwear line; after all, Mr. Ray is known to be a party lover in the ranks of Charleston’s social circles. And with his new hometown as the source of inspiration, what better angle than that of the Charlestonian gentleman?

But what is the Charlestonian gentleman? Is he the old man on Water Street with a pedigree as blue as indigo, who never leaves the house without his hat on his head or a handkerchief in his breast pocket? Is he the young man who walks the line of being a good caretaker of the city’s traditions and being a hell-raiser, making his weekend trek from his home on Savage Street to Upper King to crawl from bar to bar? Or is he the Good Ol’ Boy on Bull Street who spends his weekends shrimping in the creeks or hunting out on the old family property near the Santee?

The answer? He is all of them.

The Charlestonian gentleman is a unique breed: both resplendent and rustic, refined and rowdy. He is at home with both the “high society” of the peninsula and the Geechee of the surrounding islands. He dons both cordovan and camouflage with equal ease. He has no problem cutting a hunting trip short because of a debutante ball later that evening. A suave shagger, a debonaire deer hunter, and a fetching fisherman.

Such was the message of SP Smoking, and with DuBose Heyward’s Peter Ashley as his muse and the Charleston Library Society as his backdrop, Mr. Ray transported us to a world of elegance and intrigue. Though a true Charlestonian fête - complete with a landmark venue, a stellar band, and enough booze to stupefy a small army - his vision of a gentrified societal gathering was perfectly captured.

The guests were dressed impeccably; ladies were stunning in their cocktail dresses and gentlemen were sharp in their blazers. Some were very traditionally dressed, while others decided to follow in Mr. Ray’s footsteps and let out a sartorial shout of “Go to Hell!” Both of these crowds, complimented with an ample amount of booze, mixed and mingled in the twilight hours of the evening. The band, donned in crisp white dinner jackets, played standards of beach music, and considering Charleston is shagging country (sorry Myrtle Beach, but we adopted your dance as one of our favorites), it didn’t take long before the crowd began to show off our beloved state dance. Intricate flips, tricky footwork, and intertwining arms were rampant throughout the library.

As the guests were dancing and drinking, the cast and crew were behind the scenes working hard to put the show together. Though it was announced that the clothes for the evening were stuck in Memphis, the guests had no idea of the calamity that went on “backstage.” Luckily for us, the fates had other intentions, as the clothes arrived at 164 King Street shortly after 9:00.

The crowd was corralled, the red tape was laid, and the music changed from the sounds of beach music to the squeal of guitars. The show, after many delays and setbacks, had begun.

My friend Nick, the creator of Great Lakes Prep, was smart enough to bring a camera and record the entire show. I, armed with only a cellphone, had limited memory on hand, and thus had to record the show in segments. Follow the link to see Nick’s footage of “Social Primer Smoking Show” in its entirety.

After the models strutted down the checkerboard tiles of the runway, and after Mr. Ray led the crowd in a rousing rendition of “God Bless America,” the highlight of the evening’s euphoria culminated in a moment of Southern delight. Within seconds of the finale, the notes of “The Charleston” triumphantly rang out in the great hall of the library. With that, the crowd turned into a frenzy. With feet flailing and arms waving, both young and old alike danced their hearts out as our eponymous moves were showcased for all to see. Some people had been doing the dance for decades; others were learning as they went. All, however, celebrated.

Eventually, the crowd began to thin and the street became quiet. SP Smoking came to an end. Well, at least it was so for the library, for the remaining crowd made its way down to the Blind Tiger. Guests mingled once again, this time in the hidden courtyard of a bar. Amidst the old brick walls and starlit sky, the party advanced onward. New friends were made, old acquaintances reconnected, and the corps of SP Campus Representatives, both active and “retired,” celebrated with the success of a grand show. Festivities continued until the early morning hours of Saturday, and eventually the time came the first afterparty to end. Some parted ways, and others continued on to the second afterparty. Some people say Charlestonians never know when to quit. I dare say others just don’t know how to keep going.

The evening’s showcase was daring, different, and, at times, very much out of my comfort zone; however, it was all Social Primer. It was Mr. Ray’s vision come-to-life: the Charlestonian gentleman. A man at home in both the woods and the parlor of a pre-revolutionary single house. A man who has no problem wearing Levi’s with velvet slippers. A man who has no shame in wearing an orange vest; in fact, he’ll add some elegance to the hunter’s vest with a splash of tartan. Call it what you will: wild, edgy, different, or Prep Neck. These things may be fitting and proper, but more importantly, call it SP Smoking.

To Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Civility,

A Charlestonian Bon Vivant

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(I claim no ownership of this photograph. Click on it to be routed to its original source)

1 month ago -

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Happy Easter from The Pursuit of Civility

1 month ago -

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