Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Civility

Charleston: Old South or New South

Thu, 02 May 2013 17:20:00 -0400

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 mothers’ maiden names 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)

Why Pursue Civility?

Wed, 17 Apr 2013 17:47:00 -0400

“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

The Pursuit of Civility at SP Smoking

Wed, 03 Apr 2013 18:21:00 -0400

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

SP Smoking: A Review

Mon, 01 Apr 2013 19:04:00 -0400

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

_________________________________________

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

Happy Easter from The Pursuit of Civility

Sun, 31 Mar 2013 23:46:00 -0400

Happy Easter from The Pursuit of Civility

On Lively Libations: Beer

Wed, 27 Mar 2013 16:02:00 -0400

As you are probably well-aware, I am what many people call a boozer. I am very fond of a strong drink and am very much the opposite of a teetotaler. Note: this does NOT mean I am an alcoholic, nor do I joke about being one. Alcoholism is a serious problem that should be dealt with. If you have a problem with Alcoholism, please click here.

Now that this is well known, I may continue.

Drinks are a great way for us to come together and share our lives. We bond over drinks, we use them as peace offerings, we provide them at parties to aid the good times: in short, we use drinks as a catalyst for our good times and as a contributor to our well-being as a society, when not abused. This is seen throughout history, and we continue this tradition today.

Our nation was founded on the principals of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. What a better way to celebrate these than over an ice cold beverage?

Showcased today is that beverage known to both the lowest of the social ladder and the highest of European courts. No matter what you call it: a brewsky, a cold one, a cerveza, it doesn’t really matter, as long as you enjoy them. Today, we shall pay homage and respect to the most versatile of alcoholic beverages: beer.

I know, I know: I used think the same thing. “Beer?! How dare you compare that horse piss with the likes of the finest wines and liquors!” Hear me out, y’all. You have sadly been disillusioned by the likes of the mass-produced Budweisers, Miller Lites, and Coors. This, my friends, is the last thing you should think of when beer arises in a conversation. This is cheap stuff people chug as quickly as possible, only for the goal of becoming intoxicated. I mean, there is a reason the stuff has no taste. If there is anything you should remember from this post, it is this: quality (craft) beer is just as, if not more complex in flavor than any wine or spirit.

Yes, I said it, and I stick by it.

Brewing is a fine art, albeit a very “untapped” one down here, because even in the year 2013, Southern breweries are few and far between. Most people down here don’t know the difference between an East Coast IPA and a Milk Stout; in fact, most people, thinking they know their stuff, look at me like I’m a simpleton when I talk about East Coast IPAs. “You know IPA stands for India Pale Ale, right?” You see what I’m dealing with, right?

The simple truth is beer - well, alcohol in general - is still a somewhat taboo subject down here in the South. True, there are cities that embrace and publicly support the stuff, but for many small towns across the South, blue laws reign supreme. The thought of drinking alcohol on Sundays is an abomination to many, and the thought of selling the stuff means certain damnation for all eternity. Now I’m not here to argue the validity of blue laws or the “evils” of alcohol (because it should be fairly obvious where I stand on these issues), but the aforementioned is a good explanation as to why many people in the South don’t know the first thing about quality beer.

Luckily, I grew up in a household that treated alcohol with its proper respect. We certainly drink the stuff, with at least one trip a week devoted to purchasing wine and beer, and every once in a while, the nectar of the gods: Grand Marnier. But we don’t abuse it. We know when to stop and we know better than to cross the line. This has given me a good foundation when it comes to drinking, though my earlier years were filled with several miserable nights. Aside from these collegiate blunders, my experiences with alcohol have been positive and educational, though prior to last year, none of them included beer. That all changed during last year’s Lent.

Prior to last year’s Lent, I detested beer. Truly, I hated the stuff. After trying Bud Light and Budweiser, Dos Equis and Corona, I came to the conclusion that I would never be a beer drinker. I saw my awkward future ahead of me: tailgating with gin, beach trips with rum, and barbeques with wine. Quite dismal and disappointing, as I would never be able to enjoy an ice cold IPA on a hot day at the beach. I would never know how satisfying oysters are when followed by a swig of a Hefeweizen. Moving on to Lent. Every year, I give up something that really challenges me, and for the year 2012, I had the urge to give up liquor. My close friends can attest for how serious this decision was. So, during those forty days, I either had to drink wine or give beer another chance. One evening, my roommates and I decided we were going to have a friendly game of Beer Pong. Nothing crazy, just a little bonding time. This, of course, meant we had to use beer. I apprehensively agreed to play. We went to the grocery store, bought our “supplies,” and returned back to our West Columbia house. We chilled the beers, set up the cups, and began to play. Lo and behold, I took a sip, and something was different this time. I don’t know if it was the liquor hiatus or a simple change in tastes, but from that moment on I became a serious beer drinker. This was much to my dad’s pleasing, as he is a beer connoisseur.

Aside from his daily glass of wine and occasional G & Ts (I reckon this is where my love of gin stems from), his only alcoholic beverage of choice is beer. And not just any beer: craft beer. Never will you see a 24 pack of Bud Light in our household. The closest thing he will buy to that is Blue Moon, and that is only to appease my mother. This means we are constantly trying new things and discovering new favorites. And luckily for us, there is always a huge selection of new crafts coming straight from the Holy City.

We are seeing the blossoming stages of a beer culture here in South Carolina, most especially in Charleston. True, it isn’t a craze yet, but it is getting there. More and more bars are carrying local brews, and more and more stores are stocking the stuff on their shelves. Names of local breweries are starting to circulate amongst the population, and restauranteurs are starting to push their products. We have the potential to start a great new Charlestonian tradition. The supplies are here, the clientele is here, and the nightlife is here: it just needs that extra push. And for people like my dad and myself, this is a very exciting time as we are part of the process.

Though I love beer from across the country, I have a special place in my heart for our local breweries. True, other nationally known breweries are innovative and revolutionary, but Charleston breweries add a whole other level of crazy to the batch. Lemongrass in beer? Sure, give it a try. Make a smoky grätzer? Different, but worth a try. Revive the salty and sour Gose? Why the hell not! These breweries aren’t afraid to try new things because, well, they are too young to know better (at least that’s what I reckon). And I love that! It’s risky and dangerous, but I believe fortune favors the brave!

For Charlestonians, there are a several breweries that provide libations for the lowcountry and beyond; some are small, and others are fairly large. There are a few small ones such as Southend Brewery, which caters mostly to its own building. These are very unknown and untapped unless you venture into these places for a bite of lunch or dinner. One I remember from my childhood was T-Bonz in Mt. Pleasant, now called Liberty Tap Room. Though I did not know it at the time, the big drums in the front of the building were devoted to their in-house brewery. Now I look back and wish I could have tried their selection, but such is life. Though newer to the scene than these small-scale brewers (save for one), Charleston is home to several big contenders: Palmetto, COAST, Holy City, and Westbrook. Of these big names, Palmetto and Westbrook are my favorites.

-Palmetto Brewery

The oldest of these big brewers is Palmetto, located on Huger Street behind Charleston Coffee Roasters (more on them later). They say that their legacy began in the 1850s, when Charleston first enjoyed the brews of Palmetto Brewery, only to be stifled by the grips of Prohibition (a very, very nasty time, if you ask me). For many decades following, brewing in the state of South Carolina was nonexistent. That is, until 1993, when Palmetto Brewery was revived. Since then, they have steadily paved the way for other brewers in the state.

Palmetto’s selection is not crazy or terribly vast, but rather like their history: tried and true. Their year-round selections are a Lager, an Amber, their Espresso Porter, and a Pale Ale. Of these four, I’d say the Espresso Porter is their most unique of the standards. Though not an eccentric creation, Palmetto’s Espresso Porter is a testament to local teamwork, as the beans used for this brew come from right down the hallway at Charleston Coffee Roasters.

Though I probably shouldn’t divulge details yet, I can say that we should expect some exciting things from the folks at Palmetto.

-Westbrook Brewing Co.

Westbrook is a new kid on the block, but that doesn’t really affect its reputation, as the Westbrook name speaks for itself. Founded by Ed Westbrook (son of Edward J. Westbrook, a prominent local lawyer) in 2010, Westbrook Brewing Co. is what I call the eccentric child of the brewers that became vastly popular. Located right off of Rifle Range Road in Mt. Pleasant, Westbrook easily has one of the nicest facilities of all the local breweries, but don’t let this lead you to think the hype is not worth the product. Westbrook is well known for its very strange, yet highly successful brews. Who else would dare try to revive a nearly extinct beer from Leipzig that is both sour and salty (Gose)? Who else would create a beer that is dark as Guinness but hoppier than some IPAs (Covert Hops)? Who else would make a beer that is more akin to Bourbon than Budweiser (Vanilla Tree Dubbel)? Westbrook, that’s who! They are different and unorthodox, but that’s why I love them! I mean, their Mexican Cake: a beer with cocoa, vanilla, and habanero peppers. Who thinks of this stuff?!

Of course, if you aren’t the adventurous type, Westbrook still has plenty of selections that are mild enough for any palate. Their two year-round selections are the White Thai and IPA. White Thai is their take on a Hefeweizen. It has the familiar wheaty taste and light citrusy notes, but they take it a step further and add a little Asian influence with coriander and lemongrass. The result is absolutely delicious. And the IPA? Well, it is just your traditional IPA: nothing fancy or eccentric. Personally, I like my IPAs to be a little hoppier, but it is nonetheless a refreshing beer.

I love my local breweries, but I still have a soft spot for other craft brewers. Dogfish Head, Sweetwater, Red Hook, Allagash, Founder’s: the list goes on and on. Simply put, I love a good beer that is made with passion. I think that is what separates the craft brewers from the mass producers like Budweiser. These people have a passion for beer. They love to create new brews, venture into the unknown, and perfect the tried and true. And that, my friends, is what separates a Dogfish Head 120 Minute IPA from a Bud Light, or a Westbrook Brett and No Mices from a Rolling Rock. There is simply no comparison.

So, my friends, do yourself a favor and abandon your preconceptions of beer. Drop that Natty Light! Throw away that case of Budweisers! Well, don’t throw it away, but you know what I mean. Just rid your fridge of all major American beers. Learn the fine art of microbrews and enlighten your palate to a whole new world. And for those who still don’t know what an East Coast IPA is: American IPAs are typically divided into East and West Coast IPAs; a West Coast IPA is much hoppier and drier than an East Coast IPA, which is more complex in flavors and focuses more on malt and fruit notes.

To Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Civility,

A Charlestonian Bon Vivant

Top Ten "Do Nots" of Charleston

Tue, 19 Mar 2013 15:57:00 -0400

I love my hometown, as do many others. We are a hotbed of culture, cuisine, history, and good ol’ fashioned fun. We have beaches, the Battery, plantations, and gardens. We have friendly people, beautiful buildings, and a huge helping of hometown pride. More importantly, we are hospitable and love to share our hometown with visitors. Many natives, myself included, love to teach our out-of-town guests the history of our town, invite them into our homes, and show off what we know to be a true gem. And for the most part, both natives and visitors get along perfectly, that is if the visitors don’t set us off. Our manners dictate that we must grin and bear it, but let me make this clear: if you make a Charlestonian angry, be ready for a healthy dose of passive aggressive belittling. We are friendly, but we are quick to put you in your place if the situation calls for such action (all impeccably polished in presentation, by the way).

If you’re from “off,” don’t fret! There are several things you can do to avoid a stern look and genteel scolding from a native if you happen to cross the line:

1. Don’t stand in the middle of the street

Look, we get that you are here on vacation and we’re very grateful that you chose Charleston as your destination. Truly, we’re tickled pink. But for the love of God, don’t stand in the middle of a street to take a picture. Charleston is beautiful and scenic, but it is also a living city. People have places to be and clients to see. Trust me, a picture from the sidewalk is not too different from one taken in the street. Of course, some areas of town are not nearly as populated; if you see a break in traffic long enough to quickly snap a picture, do so and then get back on the sidewalk.

2. Don’t gawk in windows

The historic district is, well, historical, meaning our buildings are old and unique. But Charleston isn’t Pompeii or Ephesus: our old buildings are regularly used and lived in. There are some house museums, but for the most part, the historic homes in Charleston are private residences. They are no different from houses down your neighborhood street. People live in them. And just as you would like privacy, these people would appreciate you keeping your space. By all means, you can take pictures of the exteriors and admire their architectural beauty, but don’t peek in their windows or gawk over their gates. How would you like to see people randomly peering in your living room window? If you MUST see what the interior of these houses look like, make your peek inconspicuous and quick: no longer than two seconds.

3. Don’t drive downtown without first reviewing a map

Charleston is a city shaped by expansion. The original city stretched from White Point to Cumberland Street. From there, we see expansion outward onto the rest of the peninsula, some even being built on landfill. This means our streets don’t necessarily follow a grid pattern. In fact, you’ll be hard pressed to find any grid-like pattern on our street map. We have a plethora of one way streets, dead ends, twists and turns, and many confusing sign names. This is no place to drive without studying first. Doing such puts you at high risk for an accident, or worse, a scolding from a native. Do yourself a favor and carefully study a roadmap of Charleston before you even crank your car. Both you and your surrounding drivers will be thankful.

4. Don’t cross a street without looking

Remember how I mentioned our roads are confusing? This makes drivers unpredictable. As a pedestrian, you must be aware of this. As such, pedestrian traffic has rules to follow as well. Most importantly is knowing when to cross a street. Our traffic lights are offset, meaning they are on the corner of the street rather than in the center. Underneath each light is a little pedestrian signal, and unlike most cities, that little hand and walking man mean business. If that red hand is up, you better wait. If the man is up, cross with caution. But don’t, and I stress don’t cross when the traffic light signals cars to cross your path. For example: let’s say you are meeting your friends at Marion Square from the Starbucks on King Street. You walk out the coffee shop and turn left to head up town. You are at the corner of King and Wentworth the light is green for Wentworth traffic. DO NOT CROSS. I know this sounds stupid, but I cannot begin to count how many times I see people cross the street when the light is green for opposing traffic. Stay safe and be smart.

5. Don’t wear swimwear and/or leisurewear around town

We are a fashion-conscious city, ranked the second most stylish city after New York in 2011. We are home to one of the nation’s hottest fashion weeks, several nationally-known retailers and designers, and some of the nation’s best shopping. We know how to look good, and as such, tourists are very easy to spot. I know, I know: don’t stereotype, but there is truth to this. Walk down Meeting Street and you will very easily differentiate between a local and someone who came straight off the cruise ship. Pasty-white legs complete with knee socks, only to be strangled by the traps of Jesus sandals. T shirts with “I Love Charleston” printed in bold capital letters spanning from armhole to armhole. And don’t get me started on the fanny packs or, gasp, bathing suits around town! Y’all, Charleston is not an all-inclusive resort, where attire is free range. Take the time to look presentable if you are coming off the ship. You’ll get a lot more respect from locals if you do so.

6. Don’t butcher local names and think you’re right

Because of our melding of cultures and nationalities, we tend to change the pronunciations of many words: words that would otherwise be pronounced with ease. I mean, you wouldn’t think you could mess up the word “Hasell,” would you? Believe me, you can, and you likely will. And that’s just the beginning. Wait till you move on to Prioleau and Huger or words with several pronunciations (such as Vanderhorst). By all means, try to guess and give us your best effort. As long as you are willing to try, we will politely correct you. But if you are ornery and insist that Huger is said “you-GZHEY” because you took French in high school, we won’t be as forgiving.

7. Don’t criticize our past

We know our history well; you don’t have to tell us that we were the cradle of secession or that we were the largest port in the slave trade. You aren’t the first to tell us this. We aren’t always proud of it, but it is nonetheless a part of what makes Charleston the gem that she is. You can talk about our past, but remember: we are known as the city “where history lives.” This rings especially true for The War Between The States. It’s great that you know about this war, but keep in mind that we are still sensitive about it. Yes, it was a century and a half ago, but the effects were felt as late as the 1940s. If you have an opinion about “The Recent Unpleasantness,” it would be in your best interest to keep it to yourself. There are still people in this town that fiercely defend the honor of the Confederacy, so be careful of what you say.

8. Don’t criticize our culture

Now I wouldn’t say this in quite an aggressive manner, but a common phrase around town is, “We really don’t care how you did it Up North.” We do our best to make visitors feel welcomed and appreciated, but when someone tells us that we do things wrong and it was done better “back home,” we see this as a direct attack to our very being. We take pride in our culture and do our best to preserve it. Don’t come down and tear our culture apart, please. We rather like how thing are done here. After all, our culture is why we are the number one city in the world. Not to be rude, but if you think things are done better “back home,” I’d love to see where your town is on this list.

9. Don’t mock our accents

Just in case you weren’t aware, we know we talk funny. We say things differently and phrase things in an odd way. It works for us. We love how older people drop their R’s and shorten their A’s, we love how they say Cooper like “Cuppah,” and we love how Joe Riley says “out” like a Canadian. It’s quaint, beautiful, and very Chahlstonian. Don’t make fun of it, please. We aren’t too keen on people pointing out that no one says “y’all” back home, or that R’s are in words for a reason. It’s very unbecoming and rude. We don’t like rudeness down here.

10. Don’t forget your manners

Manners are more than a suggestion around here. They are mandatory: no ifs, ands, or buts. And no, it is not forced or fake. We truly are this friendly and mannerly. In return, we expect you to reciprocate. This being a Southern town, we are big on following the Golden Rule: do unto others as you would have them do unto you. If you receive directions from a helpful local, say “thank you.” If a lady is following you out of a store, hold the door for her. If you accidently bump into someone, offer your apologies. If you’re in a restaurant, be pleasant, friendly, and forgiving. Flipping the bird, honking your horn, yelling obscenities, and the like are simply not tolerated down here, neither by our residents or our police officers. Don’t test us on this one.

Keep this list in mind on your next visit to Charleston, and I promise your experience will be golden. Locals will be willing to help you out, show you the local dives, and give you helpful tips on the rest of your trip. Who knows: maybe you will make a few friends during your stay.

To Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Civility,

A Charlestonian Bon Vivant

Springtime in Charleston

Wed, 06 Mar 2013 18:29:00 -0500

At this moment, my voice is both scratchy and muffled, and my nose is in disarray. My eyes are red and my car has transitioned from a brilliant silver to a fluorescent yellow. The weather may be fluctuating between cold and relatively pleasant, turning my closet into a bouquet of both Barbour and chino, wool and cotton, but this is nonetheless triumphant news: spring is just around the corner! Winter in the South, though still a season of wonder and majesty, doesn’t have that spark that our Northern friends get to experience. Unless one is in the mountains, ice and snow are things of legend, elements of tall tales passed down through the ages. Snowfall in the South is a rare event, evidenced by our drivers as soon as the white powder falls from the sky. Even at the mere mention of a chance of snow, otherwise sane people head out in droves to stock up on essentials. Stores run out of bread and gas stations face long lines. And that’s even if snow isn’t guaranteed; you can only imagine what happens when the stuff actually accumulates. In an instant, a light dusting of snow can cripple a Southern town. Roads are “treacherous,” communities are “stranded,” and stores are places of “refuge.” Okay, maybe I am exaggerating a wee bit, but I’m not terribly far off. Otherwise, winter in the South is a season of bare trees, golden marshes, coats, concerts, social functions, and that’s about it. No picturesque scenes of houses amidst fields of snow. No children at play with saucers and toboggans. Not even a snowman. In short, winter is not the South’s best time of year.

But things change as soon as spring starts to show up.

The trees begin to abandon their sickly states in favor of color, the sun begins to grace us with its presence for a few more hours, and the chilly air gives way to a pleasant wafting of heat. Note that I said pleasant; the unpleasant variety comes later. The air, though infused with pesky pollen, takes on the beautiful perfume of blossoming flowers, notably Tea Olive Tree and Confederate Jasmine. In the way winter creates a scene of wonder up North, spring creates a scene of enchantment down South.

In a subconscious effort to reflect nature’s awakening, people also go through a change. It doesn’t take a genius to recognize a change in mood as soon as spring begins to show signs of its arrival. People are friendlier when the weather gets warmer, and with our famous manners and already-friendly disposition, Southerners display this phenomenon perfectly. We also begin to bring brighter colors into our wardrobes. Earth tones give way to pastels, burgundy is retired in favor of pink, and the mighty fabrics of madras and seersucker banish corduroy and tweed to the recesses of our closets.

Springtime, though complete hell for my sinuses, is my favorite time of year. After months of cold, short, and barren days, life begins to take on a playful and cheerful quality, and that just makes me beyond happy. Because of this, it is of many peoples’ opinions that spring is the best time of the year to visit Charleston.

And they are very right in saying so, especially for these reasons: Festivals, Shopping, Attractions, and Atmosphere.

Festivals:

The Gate at 14 George Street

Wintertime is no doubt the height of Charleston’s social season, but springtime is where Charleston shines as a cultural hub. Between the months of February and June, the Holy City is abuzz with festivals. The big contenders are world-famous expressions of Charleston’s charm and culture: the Southeastern Wildlife Exposition, the BB&T Charleston Wine + Food Festival, Charleston Fashion Week, and Spoleto Festival USA.

The Southeastern Wildlife Exposition (known as “SEWE” or the “Wildlife Expo”) is the largest event of its kind in the United States. Lasting a total of three days in February, SEWE is a city-wide celebration of wildlife and nature, showcasing the best of natural art, food, conservation, education, and retailers. It is a mix of both city and rural cultures, with both black tie galas and bird dog demonstrations. Many events require ticket purchases, but there are also many free events to see during the festival, many being in hotels and on Marion Square. Essentially, SEWE is like Garden & Gun “come to life.”
The BB&T Charleston Wine + Food Festival, an annual event from 28 February to 3 March, is a showcasing of Charleston’s cuisine and culture, with events ranging from demonstrations to book signings, from competitions to lectures, and from wine walks to restaurant booths. The Wine + Food Festival is not as open as SEWE, with every event requiring a ticket, save for one or two tents. In all, the Wine + Food Festival is a great way to experience Charleston’s cuisine in one big celebration.
Charleston Fashion Week is a relative newcomer to the “festival” scene, with this being its sixth year. In this short time, Charleston Fashion Week has become one of the nation’s premier fashion weeks, putting Charleston on the map as a hotbed of fashionable people, designers, and products. Charleston Fashion Week is a five-night event from 19-23 March, and during this time, some of the East Coast’s newest and brightest designers come to the Holy City to show off their talent. In addition to the runway shows, there are competitions, after-parties, and other celebrations of fashion.
The Spoleto Festival USA is Charleston’s flagship cultural celebration, as well as our biggest annual event. Begun with the insight of Gian Carlo Menotti, Spoleto Festival USA was formed as the American counterpart to the arts festival of Spoleto, Italy. After scouting the United States for the perfect combination of theatres, churches, and charm that matched that of Spoleto, Charleston was chosen as the ideal city, and how right they were. Since then, Spoleto Festival USA has become the nation’s premier performing arts festival. During the course of 17 days, the Holy City is flooded with musical, dramatic, and dance performances. Churches are transformed into concert halls, and concert halls are elevated to temples of art. Bear with me: I’m about to deliver my “arts sermon.” South Carolina’s culture is vastly dominated by sports, with arts receiving very little support or recognition. Charleston is the exception to this trend. Arts are one of the major focuses of Charleston’s culture. Our schools are nationally known for our performing arts (Wando High School being a very good example), and our city arguably has more art displays than sports banners. Don’t get me wrong: I love sports, but the arts are my first love, and I am very thankful that my hometown embraces the arts in such an enthusiastic way. Is it the first focus of Charleston, or even the most funded aspect of Charleston’s culture? No (make that a “heck no!”), but it ranks higher than it would in any other city in South Carolina. This is why Spoleto Festival USA is so special to the Holy City: it is a celebration of the arts in a city that embraces such an expression.

Shopping:

Springtime Thrift Shop Finds

Charleston is a great place for shopping. With King Street being one of the nation’s best shopping streets, downtown is often the focus of Charleston’s shopping scene. And that is very understandable. WIth a mix of national retailers and boutique shops, King Street has something for everyone. Some big names - Ben Silver, M. Dumas & Sons, Birlant’s, Croghan’s, Grady Ervin & Co. - are the landmarks of King Street. Some are newcomers and some are longtime fixtures, but they all provide world-class shopping experiences for the Holy City’s guests and locals alike.

Aside from King Street, the suburbs have many treasures that would otherwise go unnoticed. Our thrift shops are indeed diamonds in the rough, offering selections from the biggest names in fashion for a fraction of the price. I can’t tell you how many Gucci suits I have seen for less than $500. Gucci, Oscar de la Renta, Brooks Brothers, Giorgio Armani, Christian Dior, Etienne Agnier, Burberry, Barbour, Ben Silver: every time I walk in a thrift shop, I’m bound to come across at least one of these labels. Truly, Charleston is a thrift shop treasure-trove.

But why is this special for spring; isn’t this available year-round?

Well, yes and no. Yes, you will find these offerings year-round, but spring is especially unique. Go into these stores in early spring, and you will find the best deals and newest trends for both the spring and summer seasons. You can rack up on all sorts of things: madras sport coats, real Nantucket Reds, white bucks, and rows upon rows of seersucker and linen suits. The racks are not bland, but rather a palette of pastels. This, my friends, is a beautiful sight, and only in springtime can you find these deals.

Attractions:

The Azaleas of Magnolia Plantation

We’re obviously famous for the beach and ocean, but the middle of summer can be a bit unbearable. This makes trips to inland attractions downright miserable. For example, standing in Drayton Hall during a breezeless summer day is the very definition of torture. Read my lips: No. Air. Conditioning. Winter is the opposite problem: you freeze to death if you want to see anything outside. Spring is the perfect happy-medium. The plantations are decorated with blossoms, the beaches are a temperate haven, and the peninsula is an oasis. Go ahead and take a stroll; you won’t have to worry about sweating profusely, for in the summertime, you cannot avoid sweating like a whore in a churchhouse. Tennis, golf, and other outdoor activities are fair game during the spring; however, I would hold off on swimming until late spring. The water is still cool until the real heat sets in.

Atmosphere:

Blossoms on Meeting Street

Festivals are grand times, shopping for a bargain is exciting, and attractions are a lot of fun, but they are just one part of Charleston’s springtime charm. Like yin and yang, salt and pepper, or, dare I say, the Captain and Tenille: the activities of springtime go hand-in-hand with the atmosphere of springtime.

Think about it: wintertime is barren and dead, summertime is nothing but green, and we don’t have the deciduous displays of fall. But springtime makes up for all of these shortcomings. The world become a palette of color, bursting forth from once brown and skeletal branches. The plants begin to match the buildings of Charleston, a splendid pairing of Caribbean-inspired shades and native mainstays. The air is once again fragrant with the perfect balance of Charleston’s scents. Summertime is overpowered with the smell of pluff mud and salty air, and wintertime is, well, not terribly fragrant aside from smoke and spices. But springtime is the sweet spot: a perfect mixture of earthy, briny, and floral notes.

All around, it is just a beautiful time of year, and what better place than Charleston to witness this beauty?

No matter the time of year, Charleston is a great place to visit, but springtime is the epitome of Charleston’s activities and charm. Come down for Spoleto Festival USA and then head across the river to Magnolia Plantation. Or maybe you’d rather venture into Mt. Pleasant for a deal on some Gucci saddle-bit loafers. Whatever your motives or itinerary, plan your trip to Charleston during her season of enchantment, beauty, and frivolity.

To Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Civility,

A Charlestonian Bon Vivant

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(Aside from my own photograph in the “Shopping” section, I claim no ownership of these images. Click on the photographs to be routed to their original sources.)

The Essence of Barbeque: An Ode

Mon, 25 Feb 2013 15:14:46 -0500

It is no secret that I love barbeque. Shoot, I’ve even written my own short account of South Carolina’s barbeque history right here on “The Pursuit of Civility.” Keep in mind, though, this post is not a reiteration of the aforementioned, nor is it really a “Part II;” it simply serves as an ode to the All-American culinary creation, an homage to the essence of a purely Southern cuisine, and a homily on the experiences of a smokehouse.

Even though I have a personal favorite, I truly enjoy all forms and styles. Well, almost all forms and styles; no offense Northern Alabama, but I detest mayonnaise and therefore would likely not like your famous White sauce. Aside from this, I can say that I enjoy almost every plate of barbeque I come across. Whether it be the Vinegar-Pepper sauce of the Lowcountry and Pee Dee areas of South Carolina, the sweet and spicy Lexington style of central North Carolina, the sweet sauce of Memphis, or the tangy Mustard sauce of the Midlands of South Carolina, whether it be dry rubbed ribs, slices of Texan Brisket, Whole Hog plates, or Pulled Pork sandwiches: I love it all! Serve it with sides of macaroni and cheese, white rice, and an onion ring, and I can die at peace. Hold on, I recant that statement. After I eat some Shrimp and Grits, then I can die at peace.

To the uninitiated, barbeque seems like an overhyped and overly mentioned culinary peculiarity. Simply put, it appears much simpler than it is made out to be. A plate of barbeque, in itself, is not a beautiful creation. It isn’t a decadent sculpture of culinary art, with every element serving an aesthetic purpose. It isn’t a lush or seductive dish, with a palate of colors used to heighten the raging lusts of ravenous diners. It isn’t even a pretty dish. In fact, to the uninitiated, barbeque is downright ugly. A plate of brown and red meat dressed in sauce ranging from “mayo white” to “molasses brown” isn’t exactly the definition of a beautiful plate of food. There it is: a plate of what looks like stripped meat doused in the products of putrefaction, sitting in all of its glory. Hardly a dish that compares to the beauty of a slice of Bourbon Pecan Pie, or even a rustic piece of Bruschetta. It looks disgusting.

And then, once the uninitiated is past the presentation, the concept of barbeque is not all that impressive. It is meat cooked by smoke and smothered in sauce. Compared to the talents of a James Beard award-winning chef, or the complicated skills required for a masterful dish, barbeque appears quite mundane and plain. At surface level, barbeque appears to require very little manpower, aside from the occasional check and dousing of sauce. In what appears to have the workload of preparing a meal with a Crock-Pot, people across this nation create their trademark meal, many making a living due to the exploitation of these talents.

But that doesn’t matter.

Barbeque isn’t supposed to be haute cuisine, with a five star rating for every barbeque smokehouse this side of Kansas City. Barbeque isn’t supposed to be a culinary hodge-podge, with a list of ingredients trailing the length of a menu. Barbeque isn’t supposed to be common, with a barbeque joint being a dime a dozen.

It isn’t supposed to be any of these things, and frankly, I’m glad it isn’t.

Cuisine is not limited to the food alone, just as music isn’t limited to an instrument. The setting is just as much a part of the experience as the meal. A symphony orchestra wouldn’t dare perform in a movie theatre, nor would a theatrical drama take place in a courtroom (well, I guess they do, but you know what I mean). In the same light, barbeque has no place in a fine dining institution. Just to clarify, saying this does not discredit barbeque in any way or fashion. In fact, I think it glorifies it. To transport barbeque to a plush and refined restaurant would be similar to cooking Shrimp and Grits with storebought shrimp: you know, the kind found freezerburnt in a presealed plastic bag. True, this would make it more accessible to others, but it would lose its essence. Barbeque doesn’t belong in a restaurant headed by a renowned chef. It belongs in a gritty place, complete with a styrofoam plate and plastic utensils. It belongs alongside homemade sweet tea served from a Rubbermaid pitcher. It belongs in the confines of old cinderblock walls and plastic gingham tablecloths. This is barbeque’s sanctuary. Does this mean that there aren’t barbeque dishes in nice restaurants? There may be, but I dare take the liberty of saying that these dishes are only half of the recipe that makes up barbeque.

To those in the know, the first step to finding true and authentic barbeque is to fill up the gas tank and drive out to the rural areas across the South. Though some relatively populated areas have authentic barbeque joints, for the most part, the upper echelon of barbeque masters can be found in the rural South. A common gauge when judging the quality of a barbeque joint in South Carolina is to see if it qualifies as “100 Mile Barbeque,” meaning one would be willing to drive 100 miles to eat the delicious barbeque from these people. These places aren’t fancy, nor are they well-advertised (for the most part). They are humble, lowly, and have about as much aesthetic charm as a rural Southern Baptist church’s fellowship hall - don’t you point fingers, you know what I mean - but what they lack in decor, they make up in friendliness and pride. Sit down with a Big Joe Basket from Melvin’s in Mt. Pleasant, and you’ll see what I mean. Though more refined than most barbeque joints, Melvin’s has a down-home feel to it, complete with a myriad of porcelain pig figurines and old family photographs adorning the walls. It isn’t pretentious or snobbish. It is raw passion with a love of good food and pleasing people: all packed in between two buns.

Above its culinary qualities, barbeque is a religion.

I cannot think of any other category of cuisine that brings about such fierce rivalry, deep conversation, serious study, or devoted loyalty as barbeque. Not to reiterate my former article, but because of its roots in America, we have come to honor specific traditions associated with this cuisine, lending to different clans rising above the masses as barbeque’s great apostles. The “holy” names of barbeque masters bring about a sense of reverence amongst barbeque’s followers: Bessinger, McCabe, Shealy, Hite, Scott, and others are canonized by the masses as members of this elite realm.

In addition to the honor associated with the history, varieties, and families of barbeque, the “experience” that is barbeque is also one of religious qualities.

The smells, sights, and reverence of a smokehouse are not unlike a cathedral. The steam and smoke rising from the pits - a mixture of the spices in the sauce, the evaporated juices of the meat, and the earthy aroma of hickory - intertwine and entrance your sense of smell, just as the billows of a thurible do at Sunday service. The basting of the sauce is done in a ritualistic pattern, never wavering in action, as each batch of barbeque must be the same as the one before; this is very much in the same fashion as centuries-old traditions one would find at Sunday service, such as the Agnus Dei, which remains the same throughout all time. Then, after all is done, the time comes to enjoy the meal. It is a celebration of tradition, a thanksgiving for the efforts of the masters: a eucharistia.

All of this brings us to this one question: why?

Why care so much about a simple plate of meat? Why is this so much more special than a hamburger? Why swoon and lust over a mere pulled pork sandwich? Unfortunately, I do not have all of the answers. I don’t know why it is so much more special than other American standards. I don’t know why we get the urge to drive halfway across a state for a sandwich. I don’t know why we fiercely defend the honor of a sauce. It’s crazy: there’s no doubt. But that doesn’t mean it is not important.

Traditions are funny things: some are vastly important, while others are idiosyncratic minutia, but regardless, all traditions have value. Whether or not barbeque is an important benchmark or some silly time-honored nothing is not the point. What matters is the reasoning behind its hype. Barbeque transcends a styrofoam plate and a Sunbeam bun. Barbeque is an experience, a family tradition, and a wonderful story. It brings us together in pursuit of our common well-being. It is a platform for bonding, an opportunity for teaching, and a catalyst for sharing. So you see, it doesn’t matter how “lowly” a plate of barbeque may seem, because beneath the pulled pork and the many layers of sauce, we find the true story of barbeque: a story of family, tradition, honor, discipline, and thanksgiving.

To Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Civility,

A Charlestonian Bon Vivant

A Quick Announcement: DISQUS

Sat, 16 Feb 2013 23:50:49 -0500

Happy Saturday, y’all!

As of last night, “The Pursuit of Civility” has DISQUS as a new feature for the website. This program allows for a richer and more in-depth discussion between y’all (the readers) and Yours Truly (the writer). At the end of each article, you will notice the DISQUS feature, which gives you the opportunity to leave a comment directly in correlation to the specific article, as opposed to sending one through the “Ask” tab. In addition, DISQUS can create a forum of sorts, a way in which we all can discuss our reflections on a specific article.

In all, I think DISQUS will greatly enhance our collective experience on “The Pursuit of Civility,” so feel free to give it a try! As always:

To Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Civility,

A Charlestonian Bon Vivant

The Rebirth of Great Americana

Mon, 11 Feb 2013 19:24:00 -0500

Once disregarded as a land of inferiority (at least when it came to products), the good ol’ U.S.A. is finally getting its act together. Gone are the days of cheap plastics, shoddy construction, and the creativity level of a middle schooler - need I mention the Booty Pop? I, for one, am ecstatic! I no longer have to cringe whenever I see the interior of an American car, once a vast area of vinyl and hard plastic, and worry if the slightest touch will cause it to crumble to pieces. The same goes for the engines of American cars. The infamous acronym ascribed to Ford Motor Company: “Found On Road Dead,” or “Fixed Or Repaired Daily,” is no longer valid. Clothing that says “Made in the USA” is no longer limited to inferior non name-brand products or simple American tools such as Craftsman - no disrespect to Craftsman at all, but they are just simple everyday tools. Yes, the age of Great Americana is finally in a revival! We are finally coming to our senses and have had enough of everything falling apart, and luckily, the manufacturers of America have said the same thing.

American-made products are now hot items with a very high demand. What once was a mark of mass-produced mediocre products is now a symbol of quality and bespoke craftsmanship. It is a statement for businessmen across our nation: a stand against cruel labor, a stand against sweatshops, and a stand against outsourcing American labor for the sake of cutting costs. It is a statement of a belief in the American Dream, a statement of confidence in the American worker, and a statement for putting quality over costs. These people are bringing new and high quality products to the limelight, and are showing the American population that they have something of which to be very proud.

Like most Americans, a majority of the things I own are imported from other areas. For example, the car I drive is Japanese, the clothes I’m wearing are from Peru and France, my computer and phone were made in China, my sunglasses are from Taiwan, and my watch is Swiss. The rebirth of Great Americana is still in its early stage, and as such, we still have a long way to go. The products offered are not nearly as plentiful as their imported counterparts, and the costs, both for the consumer and the manufacturer, are substantially higher. That means we have to save up to splurge on these products, and that means these manufacturers don’t gain a profit nearly as easily as those who outsource.

But that’s not the point.

It isn’t about finding the cheapest product, or even finding the best bang for your buck (even though this is likely an outcome). It isn’t about shaking a defiant fist at chains that outsource or even one towards those across the oceans. It isn’t about that at all.

It is about supporting your fellow Americans and having pride in your workforce. It is about looking at a pair of shoes and seeing the genius of a fellow American, who sacrificed his chance at a huge profit in order to support another American worker. It is about seeing a suit in a display window and marveling over the creativity of a fellow American, who used his or her eye to showcase the best of American tailoring. It is about looking at a tie, belt, or tool, and seeing a small businessman fighting and struggling to share his passion. It’s about striving for the best, even at the cost of your immediate success.

There are a few brands in the marketplace today that embody this message, and they are some top-notch people with equally top-notch products: some of which I am very familiar with, and others I am not so much. Regardless, their strides for excellence are evident in all of their products. Below are five brands and/or products that possess the qualities of superb craftsmanship and a dedication to staying American-made.

1. Social Primer by K. Cooper Ray

Okay, this entry may have some bias, but that does not detract from its relevance.

The first brand on my list of the rebirth of Great Americana is straight from the East Coast: the colorful and characteristic ties of Social Primer.

As you may know by now, Social Primer is a blog-turned-brand that has its production roots in Brooks Brothers. After several successful seasons with Brooks Brothers, Mr. K. Cooper Ray has taken the helm of his brand and steered away from the oversight of “The Mothership.” Though still made in the Brooks Brothers factory, these ties are Social Primer in its purest and most independent form: bold, colorful, and complete with a defiant shout of “Go To Hell!”

From the beginning, K. Cooper Ray has asserted that Social Primer is, first and foremost, an American brand, and as such, he is committed to keeping his ties the same. Though the silk for these ties is from England, the ties themselves are made by skilled American workers in Brooks Brothers’ New York factory. They are true artisans who take the raw fabric and turn it into the beautiful ties you see on display in many fine menswear institutions.

The first season, debuted during last year’s New York Fashion Week, was introduced in the form of the SP Fraternity, with the ties respectively named Alpha, Gamma, Omega, and so on. The reception, at least from my perception, was very well-received, with many respected menswear institutions signing up to carry these products, forming the SP Founding Fathers. Though established before this release, the Social Primer Campus Representative program also began to grow, with many students across the nation “pledging” by representing the brand on their respective campuses.

Just this past week, Social Primer released its second season, the SPring Collection, just in time for the spring market, and Social Primer is signed up to make a huge statement at Charleston Fashion Week with its formal show entitled “SP Smoking.” And just as it was with the first season, Social Primer is committed to remaining an image of American craftsmanship, being formulated in the Holy City and manufactured in the Empire State.

2. Kiel James Patrick

The second brand is a born-and-bred product of New England: Kiel James Patrick.

The brainchild of a Rhode Island native, Kiel James Patrick is a brand that captures the nautical nature of his home state. Made from American-sourced products and assembled by American labor, Kiel James Patrick is truly American from start to finish, and the products themselves are of the highest quality and construction. And I haven’t even mentioned its design yet.

Once again drawing inspiration from the surrounding area, Kiel James Patrick’s products have a nautical flair that, combined with the refinement of Ivy style and the whimsicality of Go To Hell prep, have a nice presentation of both restrained class and tongue-in-cheek tomfoolery.

Their product line is mainly composed of bracelets and belts, but they also produce ties, handbags, and other accessories. I personally fancy their hand-braided rope belts, as these add a touch of seafaring character to any guy’s wardrobe, especially for us East Coasters who live and breathe by the changing tide.

3. Jack Rudy Cocktail Co.

The third brand on the list of American brands is another Charlestonian concoction: the Jack Rudy Cocktail Co.’s Small Batch Tonic.

Confession time: I’m probably the only Southerner who detests Whiskey. Yes, say what you will, but it’s not what you think! Unfortunately, Mr. Beam and I had a rough altercation a while back, and as such, I can only handle Whiskey in VERY small doses. Woe is me, for I can no longer enjoy what used to be my favorite of all spirits.

But do not feel sorry for me. Though the mere scent of Whiskey makes my stomach churn, I have reverted back to my old standard, the one spirit that I consider the pinnacle of our libations: Gin.

Yes, I know: “It smells like Pine-Sol!” But just hear me out for a minute. I actually enjoy the taste of Gin far more than any liquid of the alcoholic variety, save for Grand Marnier. Nothing beats Grand Marnier, and I really mean nothing. Ramblings aside, I find Gin to be a refreshing spirit with herbal and sweet notes, and I am an avid “Gin Gospel” apostle. Because almost every drink I order from a bar is Gin-based, I am always prepared to bring others to the light: one sip at a time. So far, I have done my job well. To date, I have a near 100% conversion rate when it comes to showing people the wonders of Gin.

The one problem with Gin, however, is its association as a summertime spirit. Though, for the most part, I disregard “seasonal” drink rules, there are times when ordering the wrong drink will put off the wrong message. For example, ordering a Gin and Tonic in the dead of winter at the bar at Peninsula Grill would much draw unwanted attention. Luckily, there is an elixir that makes a Gin and Tonic a year-round option, all thanks to the talented Brooks Reitz at Jack Rudy Cocktail Co.

Keep in mind, this is not your father’s Tonic. Yes, it has the familiar tartness that comes with quinine, but this batch of tonic is far more concentrated in botanicals and spices. It’s consistency is not fluid like water, but rather that of a syrup. It is rich in flavor and packs a big punch, but in a very good way.

Thanks to the talents of this American mixologist, Gin has been given a major boost and is being discovered as a superior alternative to its cousin Vodka, which has about as much flavor as it does color.

4. Bean Boots by L.L. Bean

Long considered a staple of the outdoorsman, the Bean Boot has become a symbol of classic Americana, with very little change to its design over the course of 100+ years.

Made in Maine, the Bean Boot (commonly called the Duck boot) is a rubber soled boot with a leather upper, specifically made for hunting excursions. People across the nation have revered its construction for generations, and L.L. Bean has recognized this. They have remained committed to keeping the construction of the Bean Boot specifically in Maine, from conception to the finishing stitch. Though the years have brought about different varieties of the Bean Boot, their dedication to the soul of the boot is unchanged.

Though we don’t get much snow in the South, we still see the benefits of owning a pair of Bean Boots. Their waterproof quality has made the unlined variety a staple for rainy days, and when those occasional snowstorms do roll through, we simply put on a pair of thick socks and are ready to go!

Regardless of the style or lining, the Bean Boot remains a testament to long lasting American-made products. Their status is forever etched into the chronicles of great American products, and (God willing) L.L. Bean will continue to honor its commitment to keeping its construction in the great state of Maine.

5. The Old Try

This brand is the child of two ex-Southerners who moved to Massachusetts: The Old Try.

The Old Try is an old-style print shop, with all of their prints relating to the American South. Prints are all specific to each state, such as “Forever to Thee” for the University of South Carolina, or “Old Line State” for the state with an identity crisis: Maryland. They are hand-pressed in the duo’s shop in Massachusetts on 100% cotton, and are shipped to consumers across the country.

Their products are very bespoke, as each print is unique in its own way. The craftsmanship is evident in every single print and consumers are fiercely loyal.

Beyond their prints, the whole identity of the brand is downhome and personal, just the very thing that Americana should be. Their website, which is their only “store,” is very quaint and characteristically Southern, with their contact link being called “Holler at us.” Their website is shut down every Sunday, and their copyright notice tells all that “trespassers will be shot.” This is it, folks. There’s nothing more American than a husband and wife duo producing handmade prints out of a “teensy shop.”

The American marketplace is not just limited to specific products and brands; that’s just one part of the equation. “Mom and Pop” shops across the country embody this same spirit: helping their fellow men and women by providing quality products with a personal touch. These people are the beating heart of America, not a superstore with aisles of sweatshop-produced items. Unfortunately, the costs of running such operations are taking a toll, as the superstores offer much cheaper alternatives. I know money is tight, believe me, but these “Mom and Pop” shops are feeling the same strains. They are struggling to keep their doors open, and many have failed to do so under the extreme circumstances. My friends, we must not let them die!

Thanks to the aforementioned products and brands, and many others, we are heading in the right direction; we still have a long way to go, but the American market is looking brighter and brighter each and every day. Great Americana is in the beginning stages of a glorious rebirth. Let’s all do our part to bring America back to her glory days of top-notch quality, personal service, and a burning passion fueled by the Red, White, and Blue.

To Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Civility,

A Charlestonian Bon Vivant

The Dapper Dog -from Menswear Dog

Thu, 07 Feb 2013 14:42:19 -0500

The Dapper Dog

-from Menswear Dog

"City Southerners" and "Rural Southerners"

Wed, 06 Feb 2013 19:43:00 -0500

I am what you would call a “City Southerner.” I didn’t grow up on a farm or in a small town in the rural South. I didn’t grow up working the land or rising up in the early morning to carry out chores. I didn’t grow up with big family breakfasts or live down an old dirt road. I didn’t grow up in an old country house with a wraparound porch and I didn’t have any contact with farm animals. Aside from 50 acres in Greenville County, the extent of our family’s property consisted of our manicured lawns in Suburbia and in the city. And it isn’t just me. My family hasn’t lived in a rural area for several generations. My grandfather wasn’t born on a farm or even in a rural area: he was born right in the middle of downtown Atlanta in the family home, just has his father was. I am far from a “Rural Southerner.”

To many, this is considered a discrediting blow to my “Southernness.” Most people consider “true” Southerners to be those who honor the agrarian lifestyle. These are the people who live on a farm, stay close to their extended families, eat comfort food, and are either Baptists, Methodists, or Presbyterians. I live in the suburbs, stay in close contact with only my immediate family, eat Coq au Vin more than Fried Chicken, and am Episcopalian. I relate with people from Buckhead more so than people from Williamston, South Carolina. My family members drive imported cars, with the closest things to trucks being our RX 300s. We shop at Trader Joe’s, and “turn on” the fireplace with a switch. If you took me to a farm and told me to take over the chores, I wouldn’t even know where to begin. It’s very obvious that I do not fit into the definition of what many consider to be the “true” Southerner.

But that does not discredit my knowledge of the South, nor my love for her. It does not mean that I am a city slicker with no knowledge of the rural lifestyle. It does not mean that I do not relate with the small towns that give the South her characteristic charm. It is far from this.

One of my favorites aspects about the South is her diversity. We don’t all come from a certain mold, and we certainly are not a unified group. You have the Good Ol’ Boys, who love nothing more than to go duck hunting in the rice fields in the early morning hours. They appreciate nature and understand her importance, and are the caretakers of her bounty. Then you have the sports-loving Southerner, who lives his or her life based on an ESPN broadcast and sports leagues. They are scientists, studying a sport down to the very operations of a single play. Then you have the cosmopolitan Southerner, who would rather go to a concert at Spoleto Festival USA and converse with the artists over drinks at an after-party. They can tell you the latest trends in the fashion world, the music industry, or the arts scene. We are all different, and we all contribute to the greater Southern agenda.

If I had to place myself in a certain group, I would probably call myself a Lowcountry Prep Neck (leaning more in the Prep direction): I can appreciate a pig pickin’ as much as a six course meal. I’m neither a gentrified S.O.B. nor a Good Ol’ Boy. I am just as at home shrimping in the flats near McClellanville as going to a black tie affair in Charleston Place; however, it is important to note that I am neither one nor the other. I did not grow up in a colonial single house or an old antebellum country house. Just because I am not “either-or,” doesn’t mean my past isn’t filled with memories spanning both groups.

Some of my dad’s best friends live in rural towns across the state of South Carolina, and some of my earliest memories are rooted in these rural towns. One of my dad’s friends is from an old family in Manning, South Carolina, and we used to go out to their old family property for an annual dove shoot. I remember watching my dad shoot skeet in preparation for the big hunt, and I remember driving out to the fields to watch them shoot the birds out of the sky. Another thing I remember was the traditional afternoon dinner, where we sat down at a great big dining room table to feast on wonderful Southern delicacies. After we finished, the adults used to spread a giant tablecloth over the food in order to cover it until suppertime.

I also grew up visiting my best friend’s grandparents on their cotton farm out in Cameron, South Carolina. We would go out there and ride dirt bikes through the fields and woods, feeling as free and adventurous as a young kid could ever dream to be. We used to climb old Magnolia trees, racing to see who could reach the top first. All of us fell out at least once, hitting branches all the way down. Luckily, kids are resilient beings, and we would get right back up and restart our ascent. As we grew older, we would play paintball out in the woods, creating a very realistic battle scene. I was a bit sneaky, in that I always hid in trees and bushes, waiting for someone to walk by. I guess it’s in my more-or-less passive aggressive nature to wait for the opportune moment to strike. In addition to our shenanigans, I also saw the bond between the cousins in the area, as their vast cotton fields were connected by family. We would take the dirt bikes across the fields to go see cousins for an afternoon gathering, and then hop on across the fields again to go back to Dem and Demps’ house. Though I don’t make it out to the farm anymore, I still cherish my times out there.

My father and I also shared some good times in what many would call the rural Southern lifestyle. One thing we used to do was go up to the Francis Marion National Forest to go spend some time at the rifle range. We would go up there with several targets, cans and bottles, and a few rifles and shotguns. It was there that I learned the sobering responsibility that came with the handling of a gun. We would go over the Ten Commandments of Firearms Safety on the car ride out to the range, and we would go over a checklist before we even loaded a gun. Because of these memories, I understand the balance between having fun with a gun and treating it with its proper respect.

On the other end of the spectrum, I have many memories of growing up in a Southern city.

I remember going to Cotillion with all of my friends, even though that was the last thing we wanted to do. In fact, our parents came up with a very clever scheme to “convince” us to go to class. Each Cotillion ended with a Winter Ball at the conclusion of classes, and it was a big to-do for all of the parents and students. Well, one of our friend’s father worked for a local funeral home, so he arranged for us to be taken to the ball in one of the limousines. Even though we had no choice in going, our parents used this as a bribe to make the whole ordeal run more smoothly.

I also remember going to musical events throughout the year, one being the annual Christmas show. Back in my youth, the show was called Serenade, and it was a Broadway-style show complete with comedic sketches and classic Christmas numbers. One year, a member of our party was brought on stage for a skit involving a Marilyn Monroe-esque Santa Baby performance: Santa hat and all. I think it was fairly obvious which row was laughing the hardest in the theatre. After the show, we would either drive back into Mt. Pleasant or walk down to Market Street. Regardless of our choice of location, we always made sure Kaminsky’s was in the schedule.

Of course, I remember growing up with the traditions that Charlestonians have honored for generations. We went to Sunday service and enjoyed a bountiful brunch following. We went to social events around town, and enjoyed the company of friends during cocktail hour. We also enjoyed aspects of modern Charleston. We went to the Family Circle Cup every year, many of which we enjoyed from box seats and private tents. We went to highly populated schools with endless social clubs, and went to a variety restaurants with different cuisines. I truly grew up in the new and cosmopolitan South.

These two different definitions of the South have created a major rift across Dixieland. One is considered more genuine and traditional, while the other is said to be a result of the so-called “Yankee Invasion.” Those who grew up in rural areas are the poster children of the South, and those who grew up in the larger cities are more or less un-genuine: a “Diet South,” so to speak.

I, however, emphatically say that both make up the “true” South!

Some of the oldest areas in the South are now the largest tourist cities. Look at Charleston, New Orleans, and Savannah: these cities have become the cultural hubs for the South, showcasing their unique customs, cuisines, and histories. No one would dare say these cities are not Southern, but they have very little in common with the rural parishes and counties in their vicinities.

Then we have the newer (compared to the previously mentioned) cities, such as Atlanta, Nashville, and Charlotte. These cities may have a trace of Southern culture, but for the most part, they are very much examples of the American metropolis. However, these cities are the homes to some of the South’s largest cultural contributions. Atlanta is the home of Coca-Cola and Delta, and Nashville is the home of Country music. Without these, the South would not nearly be the landmark it is today.

By no means am I discrediting the rural areas of the South, as the majority of the South’s landmass is rural. Our flair is preserved in these areas, as the national culture is harder to infuse into places where it cannot reach as readily. Accents are thicker, food is purer, and traditions are stronger. There is a reason the South is known for its rural and rustic charm, and it is important for us to preserve this.

Southerners are rarely defined by one term; that is both to our benefit and strife. We will always have a label in which we are placed, but rarely are we confined to it. I am far from a “Rural Southerner,” but that does not mean that I do not have experiences in the rural South, just as someone from the rural South may be far from a “City Southerner,” yet still has a lot of experiences in the cities. Both are integral to our identity, and both must be respected. Whether you are a “City Southerner” or a “Rural Southerner,” remember what the key word is in these vastly different labels: “Southerner.”

To Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Civility,

A Charlestonian Bon Vivant

Our Southern Identity: Damned If We Do, Damned If We Don't

Tue, 05 Feb 2013 19:09:00 -0500

I am a true born-and-bred Southerner; as soon as I open my mouth, there’s no denying it. My accent is thick (by Charleston’s standards), and my pride is evident. My family has been down here for nearly 400 years, and we don’t plan on leaving any time soon. My mother learned to water ski on the bayous of Louisiana when visiting her father’s family, and my father grew up hunting on the family’s abandoned farmland in the Upstate of South Carolina, so these roots are very evident, even if only one generation prior to myself. My grandmother still serves a traditional Sunday dinner (never leaving out the silver, crystal, or crisp white tablecloth), and my great-grandfather still talks about growing up in a mill village. Yes, I am Southern, through and through.

For those of y’all not from the South, I’m sure you had at least five stereotypes come to mind when you read the previous paragraph. You see, this is the problem we face as Southerners: because of our roots and our collective past, we will never be able to shake the stereotypes that plagued our ancestors. Yes, they are not nearly as bad as they used to be, but even as late as the 1990s, my older friends were dumbfounded by questions some people would ask them:

Wait, you don’t drive an old pick up truck?

Where’s your hound? And shotgun? And orange vest?

Why aren’t you wearing overalls?

Do you still push the “coloreds” off the streets in South Carolina?

You know what a Mercedes-Benz is?!

When did you guys get neighborhoods? I thought you all lived in old shacks?

I have heard accounts of, and personally witnessed ignorant questions such as these come from the mouths of otherwise educated people. This is still the Southern identity to many across the country, and sadly, I bought the idea for several years of my youth.

I grew up in a small community in Charleston; for the sake of the example, this community shall remain unnamed. Anyway, it was a tight-knit community where most everyone knew each other. We may have been more progressive than other areas of South Carolina, but we still retained our Lowcountry charm and Southern culture. Fast forward to sometime around 2000, and my hometown changed dramatically. New neighborhoods were built and the houses became bigger and bigger, eventually creating communities of McMansions. Roadways were expanded and the town’s population more than doubled by my 10th birthday. Buildings changed from quaint to modern, and the old shacks along the sides of the roads were given a blind eye. We became the definition of a sprawling suburb.

(http://www.searchforcharlestonrealestate.com/waterfront.php)

For me, I especially noticed the change in my classes. What once was a classroom of people with solid Southern accents became a room mixed with both Lowcountry drawls and Midwestern accents, with the trend swinging more and more in favor of the latter. Over time, I noticed my accent became more neutral, but I didn’t give it much thought. At least I didn’t until a very memorable day in class, when my very identity took a dramatic change. In one of my classes, there was a guy with a really thick Southern accent, and many kids in the class nicknamed him “Country.” They asked him really ignorant questions, like: “Do you live in a trailer in the woods,” or “Are your parents cousins?” Mind you, this was in South Carolina, of all places. It was then that I assumed these newcomers were the dominant voices in the school, and thus I abandoned my Southern identity to try to gain the upper hand. First I dropped the word “y’all” in favor of “you guys.” Then went the rolling and lilting cadence of my accent in favor of a well-received standard American accent. I virtually erased my Southern identity, and most people assumed I was either from the Midwest or from New England, unless someone asked me of my origin (or they knew me). Luckily, I began to get over this “complex” and go back to my roots; however, this has left me changed.

I have a genuine Southern accent, albeit it not the usual twangy one associated with the region. Though genuine, it is not always constant. Even now, I notice that my accent changes when I am around people I don’t know. When I order food, meet new people, visit other towns, or speak in public, I drop my Southern accent. At first, I had no idea that I did this. It wasn’t until I ordered a meatball sub in the Atlanta airport that I was made aware, because when I ordered my food, “Meatbual” was what came out of my mouth. Yes, this born-and-bred 11th Generation Southerner said “Meatbual.” Shamed and embarrassed, I changed my ways as I ate my sub in Concourse C. Now that I am conscious of this, I make an effort to retain my identity, but it still remains a struggle from time to time.

Essentially, I completely changed who I was, all because of a stereotype. Luckily, I am now at a point that I embrace who I am, but I still have to fight the urge to blend in with the contemporary culture.

Why do I mention this? It may seem like a ramble, but trust me: I have a point. In what turned into a series of paragraphs, I summed up one of the greatest obstacles of being a Southerner: rising above our stereotypes. Unfortunately for me, I did not succeed, as I changed who I was to avoid ridicule. But for many, this “issue” was never a problem. In fact, showcasing Southern culture has become a huge phenomenon. Shows such as the “Blue Collar Comedy Tour,” “Duck Dynasty,” and the ever-controversial “Here Comes Honey Boo Boo” have mesmerized the TV viewers of America with what can I call “Redneck Affinity,” and the word has shifted from its derogatory roots to a more accepted stance. This, in turn, has led to a problem on the opposite end of the spectrum: Southern culture is being turned into a novelty. Everywhere I turn, I see Confederate flag vinyl window coverings on brand new Toyota RAV4’s, girls wearing camo as a theme for a party, and high schoolers buying old lifted pick up trucks and blaring Country music as they go muddin’, yet they live in multi-million dollar McMansions behind guarded gates. This is just as much a problem.

(http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/455286.Jeff_Foxworthy_s_Redneck_Dictionary)

Now before you go pointing fingers, let me state my case.

I don’t have a problem with someone showing Southern pride or being in touch with his or her roots. I don’t have a problem with someone driving lifted trucks or someone wearing camo. These are all perfectly fine, but I do have a problem with turning these things into a novelty because they are popular. For example: if someone were to move to the South from Illinois and begin to wear camo shirts, drive a pick up truck, and put a Confederate flag on the end of a long antenna, all because they were popular in the area: I think that is a problem. That is turning a culture into a fad, and that is no better than trying to suppress a culture. Turning a unique city into a Disneyland is just as bad as trying to bulldoze it down. And it’s not just the newcomers who are guilty of this. Southerners are just as able to exploit the culture. Not to start an argument, but I find some Country artists to be prime examples. They may have great hearts and have great talent, but some of their songs are just far too over the top, “Camouflage” being a great example.

So, what are we to do? We’re damned if we try to suppress our roots, but we’re also damned if we exploit them. For some Southerners, the lifestyle romanticized by the new “redneck affinity” is their true day-to-day life. Are they to be ridiculed? And for some Southerners, lobster macaroni and cheese and a Lexus GX470 are more familiar than collards and a Chevy Silverado. Are they to be shunned?

The answer, though cliché, is simple: just be yourself. If you are from Hell Hole Swamp, embrace you Hell Hole Swamp-ness. Honor your down-home roots and humble origins. Cherish your traditional values of a close family and living off the land. Enjoy the natural beauty of your area and the connection between you and the flora and fauna. If you want to call yourself a redneck, have no shame! You are who you are, and be proud of that! On the other side, if you are from South of Broad, embrace your S.O.B-ness. Honor your gentrified roots and illustrious origins. Cherish your customs and your collective history of refinement. Enjoy the aura of your ancient streets and buildings, and the connection between the past and present. If you call yourself an S.O.B, have no shame! You are who you are, and be proud of that!

Now we come to another interesting Southernism. Southerners, though usually grouped into a certain sub-category, often blur the lines between social groups. A Good Ol’ Boy can be both gentrified and down-home, and an S.O.B. can just as easily navigate a formal place setting as a shotgun. And this is where we come to a rather peculiar breed: the “Prep Neck.” To most, this word describes people that fall under the “Redneck Affinity” category, but I use the term to describe something a bit different. “Prep Necks,” in my humble opinion, fit somewhere in the realm of both “Good Ol’ Boys” and “South of Broaders.” Think someone that would be in the pages of Garden & Gun Magazine: refined and cosmopolitan, yet still in touch with the traditional Southern identity. They are people who are just as comfortable in a deer stand as in a tuxedo. They go out duck hunting in the morning and roll up to Hibernian Hall for a debutante ball that evening. They are true amalgams of the extremes of the Southern identity. If you find yourself in line with this category, by all means: live it out! You are what you are, and if you enjoy fishing in the creek as much as a black tie dinner party, then be the best “Prep Neck” you can be. Just be careful: there is a fine line between being a “Prep Neck” and buying into “Redneck Affinity.” Those “in the know” however, can tell the difference, as a “Prep Neck” would clearly set the record straight if ever referred to as a “Redneck wannabe.” There’s a difference between being a “Prep Neck,” with pursuits of both the outdoorsman and the refined gentleman, and someone who claims to be “country,” let lived in the suburbs all of his or her life.

(http://williamlambandson.blogspot.com/2012/08/who-is-son.html)

One final word: whether your roots are in the outskirts of Denmark, South Carolina or you live in the heart of ZIP 29401, don’t ever try to hide who you are. I made that mistake for several years of my life, and I look back with great regret. You are Southern; yes, that comes with baggage, but the baggage is definitely worth it. I know that now, and I thank God every single day that I was born south of the Mason-Dixon. Be true to yourself and embrace your Southern identity, whichever one it may be.

To Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Civility,

A Charlestonian Bon Vivant

A Welcoming Invitation to: The Protestant Episcopal Church, of the Parish of Saint Philip, in Charleston, in the State of South Carolina

Sun, 03 Feb 2013 14:47:00 -0500

If you’re ever visiting Charleston and want to attend Sunday service, we’d love to have you at historic St. Philip’s Church.

Founded in 1680, the Parish of St. Philip is the oldest congregation in the state of South Carolina and the oldest Anglican congregation south of Virginia. During her many years, she has encountered and survived many disasters: both of nature and man. As the ninth oldest church in the nation, her history is very much intertwined with that of our nation. Many of her members have played a pivotal role in the history of both the colony and state of South Carolina, the United States of America, and the briefly organized Confederate States of America. Though she is ancient, she continues to faithfully carry on her work of spreading Christianity to the people of the Holy City and beyond.

Come visit St. Philip’s Church whenever you visit town, and experience a robust tradition 333 years in the making.

The Family Dog: A True Friend

Tue, 29 Jan 2013 15:57:00 -0500

We all have best friends. They are the ones who know our deepest and darkest secrets, our most embarrassing moments, our worst pains and weaknesses, and our greatest moments of joy. They are usually or lifelong friends; they rode on the school bus with us, and then rode bikes with us as soon as we got out of school. They ate at our family tables and considered our parents just as much family members as we did. Valuable are these people, my friends, because they will never leave your side, no matter the circumstances. Just as the Good Book say s in Proverbs: “A man that hath friends must shew himself friendly: and there is a friend that sticketh closer than a brother.” Remember these people in both your happiest and weakest moments, for they will gladly rejoice in triumph and grieve in sorrow.

The aforementioned is true wisdom, but I dare say it is not limited to people. There is one being that will stick by your side just as closely as your childhood friend. He will require your love, and show his without ever ceasing or wavering. He will defend you, comfort you, and certainly entertain you. This being is the family dog, and he certainly has a lesson to teach.

Everyone remembers his or her first dog. For many, the first glimpse of their very first dog is in the pen. There you are, sitting in the middle of a litter of puppies, looking to see which one is destined to be your companion. Is it the lively one, awkwardly crawling amongst his brothers and sisters? Is it the quiet one in the corner, resting contently as she recuperates from an exhausting day of play? Which one, which one? Out of nowhere, a little puppy stumbles over to your lap and rests his head for a quick slumber. He knows, and you know. You’re positively sure that he’s the one. Like a plug in a hole, that little puppy has filled a void that can only be filled by the love of a defenseless creature. A few minutes later, you and your puppy journey back to your home to begin a new life together; little do you know, at the time, what an impact this little fur ball will have on you in the years to come.

Maybe your first puppy was a surprise. That’s how it was for me. One day, as I walked in the door from a day at school, I saw a rather large box in the middle of the foyer, covered from top to bottom in a sheet to hide the contents. I just had to take a peak. Of course, with some sort of intuition that is common amongst all mothers, my mother came around the corner at the same time to put a stop to my curiosity. “Wait,” she exclaimed as she came barreling from the kitchen. “You have to wait for your father.” Agony is a light term for my feelings at that moment. “What is it?! When is Dad coming home?!” My thoughts ran wild. After what seemed like an eternity, but, in actuality, was probably only a few minutes, my father walked in and called for me to see what the great surprise was. I lifted the sheet, and inside was a little Golden Retriever, quietly whimpering as she was anxious to see her new family.

Mind you, my only pet prior to this was a bunny rabbit named Bun-Bun. Yes, go ahead and get your laughs in: my first pet’s name was Bun-Bun. Names aside, Bun-Bun’s favorite pastime was to hop as quickly as possible to escape my presence, and then hide under the furniture till the path to his next destination was people-free. Clearly, Bun-Bun was not the most lovable or friendly of pets. Eventually Bun-Bun passed away, and it was then that the family was ready to move out of the realm of rodents. So when I saw a little Golden Retriever staring back at me, I was beyond excited. I had always wanted a dog, and here she was! As I opened the door to the kennel, she awkwardly made her way over to my lap, as puppies do when their paws are far too large for their bodies. I knew from then on that she and I would share many memories together.

Animals are very riddling when it comes to emotions, in my opinion. It is often said that people are the only “animals” that possess a soul and display true emotions. Yet, when I look into a dog’s eyes, I see something. True, I see the physical eye with all the bits, but beneath all of that, I see something much more meaningful. I see a caring individual, complete with a range of emotions that range from unconditional love to dreadful shame. I see an individual with his or her own personality, complete with idiosyncratic quirks that no other dog possesses. I see joy, bliss, and serendipity; I also see despair, sorrow, and grief. So you see, I am rather perplexed. How can something without a soul show such a diverse range of feelings and emotions? If, by some chance, you know the answer to this riddle, please let us know; I’m sure we’d all be glad to see some light shed on this predicament.

A child with his or her first dog is a beautiful thing. Walk out to the park and watch a young one play with his puppy, and the world seems like a decent place in which to live. The worries of the world wash away, the stressors of the office seem distant, and things appear to be simpler. A child at play with a puppy is a detoxifying sight, and something we all secretly wish we could have once again. There they are: just a boy and his puppy with no one else. The young boy stands in front of his puppy, emulating his father’s actions and demeanor. “Sit, boy. Sit. Wait for my command.” In that moment, the young boy shows a glimpse of his future adult self. The puppy, not really sure of what is going on, catches on as the young boy lightly pushes on his backside. Eventually, he picks up on the routine, and the puppy learns how to sit. Barely containing his excitement for a job well-done, the boy then stands by the puppy’s side, waiting anxiously to begin the next lesson: fetching. He shows the puppy the tennis ball, and the puppy instinctively knows that this object is something of great desirability. The boy then throws the ball with all of his might, and gives his enthusiastic command: “Fetch, boy! Fetch!” The puppy then tears off, running as fast as his overgrown paws will carry him: all to catch the ball! Eventually he finds his prize, but in an instant, the puppy then decides to play a different game: something we all know as “Tag.” With great fervor and dedication, the young boy catches up to his puppy, grabs the ball, and then falls to the ground out of exhaustion, with the puppy attacking him with love and kisses. The young pup may have not learned how to fetch, per se, but they have created a moment that will forever live in both of their memories. In that moment, the world has become simple again, where the only worry is catching your puppy. No bad guys with bad intentions: just a boy and his dog.

Walking your dog for the first time is an ordeal to remember. It may be pure agony at the time, but looking back, you wish you could relive that moment over and over again. You know your set path and destination, but to your new puppy, the world is an exciting new place: with new paths and new people to see, as well as many new bushes. And I mean every single bush, as your puppy must explore and claim all of them. Tedious this may be, but certainly bearable. The moment of true terror is the first sighting of dog’s greatest foe, the feline. Somehow, your puppy sees this elusive creature, and with all of his might, he charges to it with your arm in tow. Frantically you fight to regain control, but this is an uphill battle. Even worse and more terrifying is having this occur when wearing rollerblades. Yes, this has happened to Yours Truly, and I do not wish that kind of fear on my worst enemies. Think about it: a Golden Retriever isn’t exactly a slow or weak dog, and when you are essentially dead weight on wheels to an enthusiastic dog, all bets are off. Do I wish a different turn of events had occurred? Yes, and no. Yes, I wish I didn’t fly off the street and land in the neighbor’s lawn, but no, I wouldn’t trade away that moment, as I continue to relive stories such as these. Life is made in your memories, both the good and bad, and my pup helped to create many of these.

As our puppies grow into dogs, a transformation occurs, and I don’t mean just the physical one. Like people, their characters mature and age. They retain their kindhearted personalities, but their nonchalant youthfulness has disappeared. Gone are the days of puppy kisses and couch cuddles. Gone are the nights of whimpering and the mornings of eager greetings. Like us, they become more subdued and developed. They start to get a little whiter in the face, and their once gleaming eyes become a bit more tired. It is during these years that their mortality becomes evermore present, as a dog’s lifespan is greatly limited. But, by all means, don’t begin to call it quits! There are still plenty of memories to be made!

During these “golden years,” take advantage of your dog’s physical peak. Go out in the early mornings and take your dog hunting; put those early years of training to the test. Take your dog out to an island and go for a long walk in the sunset. Spend some time together, you and your best friend. He won’t ever leave your side, and will always give his all to please you. Eventually, your dog will perfect the art of being your companion, and will continue to impress you every day. So, by all means, continue to live your life with your best friend by your side.

Eventually, that tragic day will come. You know which one I’m talking about. You’re getting ready for bed and your dog goes off to a corner. Unusual, but you don’t think much of it. You brush your teeth, pull back the covers, and slip into your bed to get a restful night’s sleep. Dawn comes, and with it comes a new day. You rise and look to the side of your bed, only to see your dog is not in its usual spot. Secretly, you have that gnawing fear in the back of your mind, but for a few more moments, you deny it. After all, your dog is going to live forever; well, at least you naïvely think so (as we all do). You walk down the stairs to see a horrifying scene: you best friend, your greatest companion, and your closest comforter has seen the end of his days. All at once, you panic, unsure of what to do. Eventually, you come to and begin the process of saying your final goodbyes. With your family by your side, you hold a service for your best friend as his lifeless body is lowered into the cold ground.

Now for some, the end of a friendship may be different. For me, I never saw my dog die. Due to the close proximity of our neighbors, our Golden Retriever was never truly allowed to run free, and my parents thought this was unfair for such a breed. After a few years, my parents decided it would be best to give her to someone with a farm. The day she was taken to her new home was a devastating blow. I said my goodbyes, we took a few final pictures, and off she went to her new home. I stood at the end of our driveway to watch her drive off with her new family, and as the van went around the corner, she disappeared forever. I knew this was the right thing for her, as keeping her cooped up was unfair to such a majestic dog, but I was upset. My best friend was gone, and I was left with only memories.

You will never forget your first dog. Many people have numerous dogs in their lifetimes, but they will always remember their first as separate and special. My family has had three dogs to date: Sandy the Golden Retriever, Maggie the Shih Tzu, and now Capers the Miniature Dachshund. They have all been great companions with their own personalities, but none will compare to Sandy. There are moments that I had with Sandy that will never be recreated. I will never forget the day my father and I took Sandy to train her for duck hunting, an activity she never quite mastered. I will never forget Sandy plopping on my lap as I sat on the couch; she never realized that she wasn’t a lap dog. I will never forget our special moments together, as she showed me a love that only a dog is capable of showing. No matter your disappointments, your faults, or your shortcomings, your dog will love you just the same.

It is this astonishing act that makes me question who is the higher being: dog or man? We judge people based on nothing but an impression and hate others based on nothing but speculation, but a dog will love someone regardless of faults or appearances. This often makes me think of a quote from My Dog Skip: “Like all dogs, Skip was colorblind. He made friends easily with people of all races and origins. The town was segregated back then, but as we know, dogs are a whole lot smarter than people.” How can we complex human beings that create great works of art and masterpieces beyond imagination, come so short with such a simple task? A dog can love unconditionally, but for some reason, such an undertaking is nearly impossible for a person. Why? I dare say we could learn a few things from our trusted friends, as they are always willing to teach, patiently waiting and constantly rewarding.

A family dog is a special friend: it knows neither hate nor prejudice. It continues to show us how to love, and in turn, shows us how to live. We go through the daily grind with so much negativity and hate, but why can’t we learn to appreciate people for who they are: folks with ambitions and dreams, faults and fears, families and friends, and desires to be something bigger than an individual. Our canine friends show us this every day, so let’s try to learn something from them every once in a while. A family dog is more than just a pet: it is a being in which we can learn the value of unconditional love.

To Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Civility,

A Charlestonian Bon Vivant

A Party Primer from Yours Truly

Mon, 28 Jan 2013 19:27:00 -0500

Who doesn’t love a party? True, we all need our down time and nights in with a glass of wine, but I’m willing to bet every single one of us loves to live it up on a Friday night until the early hours of the morning. Note: I didn’t say get plastered or participate in, ehem, other activities. I simply said to have a good time. You see, I think that’s the problem with a lot of young people these days (oh lord, I sound ancient): in order for a party to be a success, the floors must be buckling under the weight of hundreds of people, neighbors should be forming a mob to overtake your house, and the police should be organizing a raid on the scale of Seal Team Six’s operation. And I haven’t even mentioned the kegs. Kegs upon kegs upon kegs.

For most, this is the ideal college party. Most of us have seen a portrayal of this “experience,” whether it be through the lens of Van Wilder or Project X. Parents try to shield our eyes and speak of the evils of such movies, but we adolescents and young adults (i.e. younger than 26) watch and soak it all up as part of the American culture. We secretly want to walk in to a house packed with people and music blaring. We crave a strong drink, and then crave many more after that. Then we want to wake up hangover-free and carry on, compliments of being young and resilient (how I dread the day that I start getting hangovers).

Sounds like a great time, right? Well, it may be the “kegger of the century,” but this is no way to live. Who wants to go through the morning-after ordeal of trying to paste together the fading memories of the night before, and then deal with the dreaded facebook photos? Who wants to wake up from an alcoholic stupor in a jail cell due to imbibing far too much? Simply put, who wants to deal with the long-lasting consequences? Not me, that’s for sure.

I may not enjoy nights of pure inebriation (at least not anymore), but I still love to party! I love gathering with a group of people and dancing the night away. But before we continue, let’s define what I mean by a “party.” Do you remember the aforementioned description of a party? Scrap it! A party does not require hoards, heavy bass, or kegstands. It doesn’t require a club atmosphere or a lawn covered with the contents of people’s stomachs. We’re starting from the ground up and redefining the party experience. It’s time to grow up, put on your “big boy” clothes, and leave the keggers to the underage crowd.

The Prep

Picture this, if you will. You are sitting in your office and you are starting to get restless. You haven’t been out in weeks because work has piled up. You are about to lose your mind due the the daily grind taking its toll. This, my friend, is your “Check Engine light.” It’s time to unwind and detox, but how? Do you organize a bar crawl with your best friends? Do you round up a group of coworkers for a few drinks after work? These aren’t bad ideas, but you need something a bit more substantial. You need a good ol’ fashioned party complete with good drinks, good music, good company, and good times. You now have a vision and goal, so now we begin the first stage to any great party: the prep.

-Step One: The Size

First things first: you need to decide how big or small of a crowd you want. Should it be a small group of your best friends, or should it be a larger group of friends and acquaintances? Different sized groups require different levels of planning. A small group can be impromptu while larger groups require a few days (at the absolute shortest) to a few weeks of planning. This is up to you, but if it were me, I’d tell you to go big or go home. For the sake of my primer, we’re going to have a big party: let’s say seventy-five people or more.

Good, we now have an idea of what kind of crowd to expect. Because this is a rather large party, it’s a good idea to have at least a few weeks to get everything organized and ready for the evening. If it were me, I’d probably give myself at least three weeks, but different people require different time. Remember, these few weeks are the most important for a party to be a success. The party is the finished product, but the prep is what makes the party.

-Step Two: Tell the Neighbors

Before you even start inviting people, you need to perform this one task, as it is by far one of the most important: if you are having your party at your own house, inform your neighbors! You don’t want them to come home after a long day at work to see your street packed with cars and music blaring from across the way. This is a good way to have the cops knocking at your door at some point during the evening. So, with this in mind, tell your neighbors. You can do it in person, through the mail, or over the internet; if you spread the word via word-of-mouth, make sure you do it during appropriate hours. For example, don’t knock on your neighbor’s door during or after dinner time. If you opt for snail mail, make it clear and to the point. Inform them of your party, when it will be, and, if you wish to be extra courteous, add an invite if you are comfortable (more on the crowd later). Emails or facebook messages should follow suit: be clear, concise, courteous, and to the point. No matter your form of choice, be sure to apologize for any inconveniences. I promise you, if you let your neighbors know of your party beforehand, you will have fewer problems the evening of your party, not to mention they will be much more tolerant of future gatherings. If your party is at a different venue, this step will not be necessary.

-Step Three: The Booking (Optional)

This step may be unnecessary depending upon your venue, but if you plan on having a party away from your own property, make sure you reserve a spot. Keep in mind, holidays will be much harder to grab a date, so if you plan on having a holiday party, call several months ahead. If your party is during the off seasons, a few weeks should be adequate. Whether your party is a holiday party or a “just because” party, make sure your venue is reserved before you start Step Four. If your party is at your own home, disregard this step.

-Step Four: The Invitations

Good, either your neighbors are all set and shouldn’t give you any problems (as long as you don’t overstep your bounds), or your venue is booked. Now we can get the guest list together.

A party is a tough thing to pull off on your own, but it isn’t impossible, so long as you help yourself out along the way. One of these ways is to find the perfect balance of people for your party. Much like a bouquet of flowers, people at a party should compliment each other; they don’t have to be the same or from the same social circles, but there should be some sort of organic flow amongst the group. My tip, though a bit vague, may help you out: find a balance between your most social friends and your most anti-social friends, and find a common denominator between these two groups. Some love to talk, some love to listen. Both have a place at your party, so long as you keep the group balanced between different types of people and different social circles. Those who love to talk and listen equally are golden, and should be at the top of your guest list, as these are the catalysts to conversation. Conversation is key: as long as you keep conversation flowing, your party will not flop.

For the invites themselves, snail mail is your best option. Send out invitation cards with the date, time, location, dress code, and any other information you deem necessary. Here’s an example of an invitation:

*Mr. R. Pringle Drayton* Cordially Invites You to an Evening of Good Company and Fun Times

on Friday, 1 February 2013, at 9:30 in the evening

at South Carolina Society Hall in Charleston, South Carolina.

Black Tie is preferred.

R.S.V.P. 555.555.5555.

(*made up name. Insert your own*)

The aforementioned may be a bit stuffy depending on your target crowd, but it is a good generic blueprint. Keep in mind: it is a good idea for the invitations to be seen at least a few weeks out. You don’t want regrets from everyone because they already have something penciled in. Make your party the highlight be setting it far off. The anticipation may be horrible, but you don’t want a party without people, do you?

Once you start receiving confirmations and regrets, be sure to make a guest list, but it’s not for granting or denying access at the front door. For one, you aren’t that important; secondly, that is beyond over the top. The guest list is something to review a few hours before the party begins, just so you’re familiar with who will be there. It is for the host’s eyes only.

-Step Five: The Itinerary

Now things are starting to shape up. We have the people and the place, but what about the plan? What are the individual details that turn your friendly gathering into a hopping party? This is where Step Five comes into play: forming your itinerary.

This is where the magic happens, people. This step is where your party takes life, where it develops character and drive, and where it begins to stand out as a party to end all parties. This is also the most time-consuming of all steps, as every little detail must be planned, but don’t fret: all will be okay! There are a few things you can do that will make this step a lot less stressful.

Firstly, find someone who can help organize the party. Get one of your good friends to help you decided on the little details, and have him or her give you advice. The ideal person would be an “Idea Guy/Gal,” someone who can formulate great ideas on the spot. He or she should also be very creative, as this party is no minor event. Also, this person will greatly lighten your load. Two heads are far better than one!

After you find your confidant, plan a meeting and work your magic. Plan every little detail, from the drinks to the music, from the food to the crowd control. I mean every little thing. Daunting as this may sound, it isn’t all that bad, as long as you write everything down. Make a list with headings and bullets: headings being the major topics and the bullets being the minor details. Take this list as a guideline:

-Food

Choose something light, but of substance. Find the balance between starving your guests and filling them up to where they won’t dance.
Hors d’ourvres: pate, brie with walnuts and brown sugar, crab-stuffed mushrooms, etc.
Main dish: prime rib sandwiches with basil, tomato, and mozzarella, shrimp and grits, lobster macaroni and cheese, etc.
Dessert: coconut cake with a Grand Marnier glaze, rum cake, zuccotto with marscapone cheese, etc.

-Drink

Granted a fifth will provide roughly 50 shots and there will be 1 to 2 shots per drink, one bottle of liquor will cover anywhere from 50 to 25 drinks.
Continuing the math, an average person in Charleston would drink about about 6 to 10 drinks, so with 2 shots per drink, that equals a total of 12 to 20 shots per person. Plan your inventory appropriately.
Buy the standards: whiskey, gin, rum, and vodka.
If the crowd is at least 25 people with a high percentage of men, a keg is not out of the question. Buy a craft beer, but something that is good for most palates. For example, Westbrook’s White Thai would be a good choice.
Don’t forget cups. Go-Cups are a great idea. Avoid Red Solo cups, unless the mood is highly casual.
Buy at least 3 different cordials, one bottle each depending on local popularity. Example: Grand Marnier, Fireball, and Peppermint Schnapps.
For every bottle of liquor, buy another mixer. Coke, Tonic Water, Club Soda, orange juice, etc.
Water is a must. As is ice. Don’t forget a lot of ice.

-Music

Find a good mix. Don’t make it all of one variety, but don’t make it too diverse. You don’t want to pair Nicki Minaj with Frank Sinatra, for example.
Start out with something calmer, and work your way towards more upbeat music. Start with the classics: something people are familiar with. Then throw in some more fun stuff. People react to new music better when they have alcohol in their systems. Plus, they are more willing to dance.
Line dances are a MUST: go with old favorites and a few contemporary ones. Must haves: The Electric Slide, The Cupid Shuffle, The Wobble. Additional options if you’re willing to teach on the spot: the Tush Push, the Charleston Line Dance, the Booty Call (let me know if you want to learn these, by the way).
Don’t be afraid to take requests. Requests will keep your guests happy.
It doesn’t have to be perfectly clean, but don’t let the music get too vulgar.
If you opt for a live band, choose someone that has a good reputation. “The East Coast Party Band” and “Deas-Guyz” are two great bands that can be booked in Charleston and surrounding areas.

-Decorations

This is where you get to show off your decorating side, or lack thereof. Gentlemen, you may want to contact a lady friend to help you with this step.
Simplicity is key. Don’t get too gaudy or flashy. Your work should be noticed, but not noted.
Provide some tables and chairs. You can’t dance the entire time. Create a centerpiece that is tasteful and not too big. And for heaven’s sake, use tablecloths!
If outdoors, stringed lightbulbs are a nice touch. And don’t forget candles.
Make sure your space devoted to the dancefloor is large enough for a lot of dancers. This should be hardwood and conditioned properly (hint: a slight bit of baby powder doesn’t hurt).
The food and drinks need to be separate. Set up tables for the food, and bars for the drinks.
Create an environment for both the talkers and the dancers. Keep a spot intimate and complimentary for conversations, and then keep an open and inviting space available for dancers.

The Party

It’s finally the week of your party! By this point, all of your details should be worked out, and the physical work begins.

-Step One: Set Up

Physical work for your party should begin as soon as possible. If you are having your party on your own property, begin at least two days before your party. If at a venue, begin as soon as your host allows. Get some of your best buddies together and put everything together. Set up your tables and bars, string up your lights, and lay out your dancefloor. If you are hiring outside party planners or caterers, they should have a staff to assist with this step.

-Step Two: “The Day of” Details

Here we go, it’s the day of your party! Everything is set up and it looks amazing; however, there are still a few final details to cover. During the few final hours, the food should be brought in, the DJ or band should be setting up and doing final sound checks, and your staff should be assembled. Just a tip: hire your friends as staff; they will be cheaper than hiring an outside service. Double check your lists from the prepping phase, and once everything is crossed off, check it again.

Be at the venue at least an hour before the party begins, dressed and ready to go. Check everything again, have a christening drink with your staff, and relax until people begin to arrive.

-Step Three: Party the Night Away

The guests are here, the music is playing, and the drinks are flowing. Everything worked out and you are pleased, but your work isn’t done. As the host, you must be on your guard. Be prepared to deal with complications as they arise, and be ready to take charge of the situation. By all means, don’t be stressed by this; it’s a party, after all! Just keep that thought in the back of your mind. Balance your task as a partyer and a host, and you should be perfectly fine. Walk around from time to time and check with your staff. Ask if anyone needs anything. Look out for your staff and guests, and they will look out for you.

Your demeanor should be happy and frivolous, as you are the star of the show. Mingle, introduce people, and don’t forget to dance! Jump on the dancefloor and get the crowd going! Teach people some new dances and let them teach you. Bring some shy people out of their shells by talking to them, and introduce them to some of those “golden” people I mentioned earlier.

Also, make sure you have someone take pictures and/or video for the evening, whether that be a friend or yourself (nonchalantly, of course). You will want this documented; just make sure it isn’t obtrusive.

-Step Four: After the Party

Wow, that was fun! Now, it’s time to tear everything down and clean up.

Obviously, your first task is to make sure people are okay to drive home; if not, make sure you call a taxi. You are responsible for these people, so act the part.

For clean up, make sure you take care of everything the night of. If you don’t, everything will be that much harder to do the next morning. Work like an efficient machine, and you can all go home without any additional tasks.

When all is done, make sure you reward your staff. Write “Thank You” notes and give a complimentary bottle of wine or some other form of gift. This is insurance for future staff members for other parties. If you rented a venue, write a “Thank You” note to your host; once again, this is insurance. Tip your band or DJ, and tip your caterers. What goes around comes around.

That, my friends, is a guaranteed way to throw a fantastic party to live on throughout the ages. People will speak of it for years, and your parties will soon become as famous as Jay Gatsby’s.

To Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Civility,

A Charlestonian Bon Vivant

Barbour and Social Primer

Fri, 25 Jan 2013 18:22:00 -0500

Barbour and Social Primer

Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Civility: The Future Begins Now

Thu, 24 Jan 2013 14:56:00 -0500

“Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Civility: The Ramblings of a Charlestonian Bon Vivant,” more commonly known as “The Pursuit of Civility,” began as a hobby and outlet for Yours Truly back in November of 2011. Though its original content was mainly Etiquette and Fashion, TPoC evolved over the course of 2012. More subjects were explored, more topics were addressed, and it began to form its own image and voice. During that time, I have also come to realize Tumblr is not the friendliest of platforms for writers, as most of y’all’s blogs are dedicated to photos. Though I enjoy y’all’s content (for the most part), I feel out of place amongst the masses, and I’m sure y’all notice this; whenever I post, your dash becomes cluttered with words where it is usually filled with pictures.

Now, as we are in the early days of 2013, I believe it is time to start thinking of the future of TPoC. I see a lot of potential in the “brand” that is TPoC, and thus I have begun to formulate its future endeavors. With a lot of prayer and many crossed fingers, I see the potential for TPoC to grow into something beyond my wildest hopes and dreams. So, in short, today marks the beginning of what could be a great new adventure, and I have y’all to thank. I may not have the largest following, but that does not diminish the quality of my followers.

Until I learn how to create a new website (I am so computer illiterate, hence the reason I use Apple products), I shall remain on Tumblr for the foreseeable future, but I will eventually move. When that time comes, I hope y’all will continue to join me in the pursuit of civility in whatever medium that may be.

Now back to your regularly-scheduled scenes of foxes and architectural shots.

Who Are the "Real" Charlestonians?

Thu, 17 Jan 2013 18:57:00 -0500

The Holy City, The Most Mannerly City, Little London, Chucktown: these are all nicknames that have been bestowed upon a true diamond in the rough: a city of beauty that, frankly, her neighbors do not begin to match, save for two or three. Once a small settlement, she has grown into her own. She has retained her small town feel, but has become a bustling city; well, at least by the Southern standard of “bustling.” She is ancient and she certainly shows it. She bears her scars and nicks, but like an old Grande Dame in an evening gown, she remains beautiful and stunning as ever: a bit worn, but nonetheless a sight to behold. Save for her cousins that are scattered across the South, such as New Orleans, Savannah, and Beaufort, she is truly a treasure of uniqueness.

Her history is a series of both major triumphs and devastating setbacks, a cycle of prosperity and poverty. She, like all of us, has experienced life, and life rewards and punishes equally. Her experiences as both a member of the richest and then the poorest is beyond comprehension to some of the nation’s population, but it is a great lesson for all of us to observe.

Once the richest city in British North America, Charleston’s inhabitants were renowned for their elaborate lifestyles. Great mansions were built, clubs and societies were organized, and extravagant theatrical performances were produced: in short, Charlestonians were far more luxurious than most of the population of the Original Thirteen, and even more so than most of London. It was during this time period that the Old Guard was established, as most of the wealth was due to the planters and merchants. Here we find the rise of the Ravenels, the Laurenses, the Gadsdens, the Izards, the Draytons, and the other names that are etched in stone across the city.

Mr. and Mrs. Ralph Izard

Fast forward to the end of the “Recent Unpleasantness.” Much of Charleston is left in ruins and the population’s morale is killed. Many of Charleston’s treasures are lost forever, as the city’s elite decided to ship their heirlooms to Columbia for “safekeeping.” What a horrible move this turned out to be, as most of Columbia was burned to the ground. Even though Reconstruction took its tole on the city, the worst was yet to come. On a clear August day in 1886, all hell broke loose in the streets of the Lowcountry. A devastating earthquake ravaged the Holy City, and many buildings were damaged. Sadly, the population could not afford to raze the buildings, so they made due with poor repairs. A popular description of Charlestonians during this time was “too poor to paint, too proud to whitewash.” Though their buildings were in states of decay, Charlestonians continued to polish their brass every day. Though they could not forsee this, it is this “misfortune” that saved Charleston, as their vast poverty is what saved our historic buildings from destruction.

The Devastation of Church Street

During this time, Charleston experienced a large influx of new immigrants. Many of these families were of Greek, Jewish, and German origin. Families such as Krawcheck, Tellis, Dumas, and others made their way from Europe to make a new home in South Carolina. Most were very poor and were outcasts amongst the city’s elite. Most of these families lived Uptown, as it was called, and were business owners in the area around mid to upper King Street, though a few were able to open shop farther down the peninsula. It was this group that gave Charleston its flair in the retail realm, as these families were the “Kings of King.” Stores such as M. Dumas & Sons, Berlin’s, Max’s, and Jack Krawcheck are all traced to these immigrant families.

An advertisement for Jack Krawcheck

A few decades after the European influx, Charleston experienced another wave of newcomers. Because of her military presence, new families began to move from across the nation to the area. Even though Charleston was known across the nation as an old and historic town, it wasn’t until this major influx that Charleston began to make a way in the tourism industry. These newcomers wrote back to their relatives, and thus the Holy City began to draw in visitors. This, in an interesting way, became a foreshadowing of events to come.

The twentieth century was still a rough time for Charleston. Many new families came, but the old buildings were still rundown and decrepit. Crime rose to much higher levels in the city, and the slums began to become very dangerous areas. In the 1970s, an enthusiastic Irish Charlestonian took the mayoral office and decided to clean shop. Many buildings were restored, the police force began to crack down on crime (something we are still dealing with), arts were showcased once again, and public projects were put in the works. It appeared that the Holy City was making strides to once again be a pleasant and beautiful place.

Nearly one hundred years after the last major devastation, the Holy City was once again stuck with a serious blow. In 1989, Hurricane Hugo rampaged across the Lowcountry and wreaked major havoc. Many of the historic buildings in Charleston were further damaged, the residents were without food and water, and national relief was not yet helping the downtrodden. Oprah Winfrey broadcasted from the Holy City, asking for relief from her viewers. In attendance was Mayor Riley, wearing a shirt saying “Charleston, SC-WE’RE GOING STRONG!” He told the nation how Charlestonians were hurting, but were also resolved. From this, the nation poured out its charity and funds. Once again, from destruction, we find Charleston’s saving grace. Because of these funds, the old buildings of Charleston were not only restored, but repaired beyond their pre-Hugo states. Charleston, as tired and old as she was, received a major facelift. This is where Charleston owes her thanks, for these restorations and renovations sparked her modern tourism boom.

Oprah Winfrey and Mayor Joseph P. Riley, Jr.

The rest is, well, “history.”

Charleston is a melting pot, but for a different reason than I usually harp on. As documented above, we’ve had many different waves of immigration. We have the original settlers, the eighteenth century immigrants, the Reconstruction immigrants, the military immigrants, and the new Yankee influx. So many different groups, with different customs and lifestyles, are now all together. They work in the same offices, walk along the same streets, drive along the same highways, but who is the “real” Charlestonian?

Obviously, the old families and S.O.B.s would argue their case, as they were the group that made Charleston what it is. They built the historic buildings, they formed the ancient clubs and organizations, and they were here through the good times and bad times. They are the Old Guard, the bluest of bluebloods, and the progenitors of the many native residents. Clearly, they are “real” Charlestonians.

“Cousin” Arthur Ravenel and his namesake

But then we have the Reconstruction immigrants, who are responsible for another one of Charleston’s attributes: fashion. These families created the clothing meccas that we frequent, Dumas being one of the major contenders. They are the Pioneers of Prep, the Masters of Menswear, and, as I previously said, the Kings of King. Charleston’s prep scene has inspired the masses, and rightfully so; we are a rather dapper group. We are ranked as the most fashionable city behind New York, and Charleston Fashion Week is quickly earning a very respectable reputation. Many brands are now based in Charleston, and many fashion experts are starting to look at Charleston in a very serious light. And we owe all of this to these old institutions that our fathers and grandfathers frequented. I assuredly believe that these are also “real” Charlestonians.

David Dumas of M. Dumas & Sons

Then we come to the newcomers, those who are classified as “from off.” They do not have a family history here. They were not born or even raised here. They are from far-away places and talk with strange accents. Actually, before I continue, I probably should divide this group in two. We have the Southern newcomers, from different South Carolinian towns or different Southern states, and then we have the so-called Damn Yankees (hey, don’t shoot the messenger), from strange lands such as Ohio, Connecticut, New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania. Among the local population, there is a clear distinction between these two different groups, as one is ambivalently welcomed as friends and the other is shunned as modern Carpetbaggers. Clearly these are not “real” Charlestonians.

Now wait a minute: let’s not be so quick to judge!

By no means are these people invaluable to the Holy City, as many of these people have become local celebrities and beacons of the “Charlestonian Way.” We have Southerners such as K. Cooper Ray who move to the Holy City and become captivated. They see our streets, observe our people, study our culture, and absolutely fall in love with all of it. They then share our ways with the outside world. Mr. Ray, for example, has dedicated his brand to the Holy City, as he continually cites his inspiration as the young dapper gentlemen of Charleston. People such as Mr. Ray have become “ambassadors” of the Holy City, and for that, we should be thankful.

K. Cooper Ray, founder of Social Primer, at the Charleston Library Society

Then we have celebrities such as Bill Murray who set up camp in the Charleston area and become involved in our local affairs. They have found an oasis in the midst of their busy lives and have come to love it. They pour in their talents and resources to help make this a pleasant place to live. They help promote our culture and draw other benefactors to our lovely little town. They infuse their influence in our institutions (such as Mr. Murray being the “Director of Fun” for the Charleston Riverdogs) and fight for our local causes, and for that, we should be very grateful.

Actor Bill Murray, Director of Fun for the Charleston Riverdogs

Yes, even our Northern residents have a place in Charleston. Even though our past experiences with Northerners are far from pleasant (we may have had a “little war” over some disagreements), they now come in peace. They may talk and dress funny, complain about the heat and humidity, and constantly rag on about how much “better things are Up North,” but we must be tolerant. They move here and work here, they help boost our economy, and, with due time, come to love the Holy City. They bring with them trends from around the world, and then try to establish them in the affairs of our daily life. People such as Mickey Bakst, who hails from Detroit, have become the faces of Charleston’s Hospitality and Tourism industry. Many of our tour guides are college students from the North, and a good population of The College is from above the Mason-Dixon, and many of them choose to stay here. They are cosmopolitan, cutting-edge, and wish to share their ways with our people. So let’s be patient, be polite, and learn to accept them with open arms. Maybe over time we can make them a bit more Southern, and with even more time, a bit more Charlestonian.

Mickey Bakst, General Manager of Charleston Grill

So, we come back to the question of the day: who are the “real” Charlestonians? All of these different groups have left their mark on the Holy City, and all have decided to call our charming city home. Yes, we have the definite blueblooded Charlestonians and the longtime established families from the nineteenth century, but what about those who came later? Are we to disregard their claims as Charlestonians? This, I believe, is where things get a bit tricky. No, they are not “genuine” or “real” Charlestonians, but I believe that they are still indeed Charlestonians, just not in the same way. They are a new breed of Charlestonians: the “Charlestonian Pledge.” Much like pledge of a fraternity, these people represent the establishment that is Charleston, but they aren’t quite “in the club.” Again, like pledges, they remain a valuable part of the institution, for without pledges, a fraternity remains stagnant. So let’s remember that our “Charlestonian Pledges” are an integral part of our city. Maybe after pledgeship, they will become the “J.I.s” of Charleston (known as locals), and then add their own chapter to the rich and wonderful history of the Holy City. Only time will tell.

To Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Civility,

A Charlestonian Bon Vivant

(a sidenote: I do not claim any ownership of these images)