In Quest of a High Style

I have lived in Charleston all my life, and though it both galls and embarrasses me to admit it. I have never achieved that certain recognition that all Charlestonians of even borderline eminence must luxuriate in before they pass through that Great Sword Gate in the sky.

Yes, despite feeling like a guy coming out of the closet at a teamster meeting, I will confess that I have never once appeared in the “High Style” section of the Post & Courier. And until I do so, no matter what I have accomplished—“Honorable Mention in the Most Beautiful Baby Contest” 1942, High School of Charleston “King of Hearts” 1956, or third place “National Association of Free Newspapers” feature article category 1992—my legacy will still be shallow and pathetic.

And so, after finally deciding that I must do all that’s possible to ensure that my progeny does not inherit this worthless estate of affairs, I came up with a plan:

Since obviously I am never going to be on the guest lists of any events that warrant “High Style” attention, I will have to have my own event. Therefore, I called the editor of “High Style,” An Glo-Saxon, to find out just what I needed to do to make my even worthy of their lofty consideration:

Me: Good morning, Ms. Glo-Saxon, my name’s Bob Coskrey and I’d like to have “High Style” cover a little even I’m putting on.
AGS: Bob Coskrey, you’re the one that writes those revolting article for East Cooper Monthly.
Me: I was thinking of having a Fourth of July party that would unite all of eh citizens of the Great Charleston Area, especially after the divisive Confederate Flag issue and the general lack of civility between various political, religious, and ethnic groups. I’m simply going to call it “America’s Birthday Party.” And I’ll invite everybody: all minority groups, whites, liberals, conservatives, gays, Christian Coalitionists, ACLU members, NRA members, pornographers, politicians, South-of-Broaders, Goose Creekers, flag haters and supporters, and on and on.
The theme will be: WE may hate and disrespect one another, and behave like total a-holes for 364 days of the year, but for this one day, let’s all just get s-faced, eat hamburgers and hot dogs, and pretend we actually like one another.
AGS: Well, it’s certainly a noble though, despite its rather crude manifestations.
Me: Yeah, I know all that, Ms. GS, but here’s the most important question: Will you cover it and will I get my picture in “High Style”?
AGS: Well, Bob, let’s answer it this way: I’ll give you our “High Style” qualifications criteria, and we’ll see if your ambitious little shin-dig meets them:
1. Unless it’s Kwanzaa, Cinquo de Mayo, or one of those other ethnic celebrations, there must be at least 75% WASPs to others ratio.
Me: Well, I certainly can’t guarantee that, especially when one of purposes is to promote cultural diversity along with unity.
AGS: We’ll consider your point, Bob, but let’s move on.
2. There must be at least one white female in attendance with the same Missy, Sissy or Muffy.
Me: Actually, I think I may be able to arrange that.
AGS: They will have to have either ID or someone of unimpeachable character (more likely of the same background of course) who can verify the name.
Me: Well, that might be harder, but I’ll do my best. What else?
AGS: Spoleto is over, there can be no more than 1% of gay attendees.
Me: I don’t know. How can you always tell who’s gay and who’s not?
AGS: Simple, you do the same thing that the Republicans do at their conventions; random lisp testing.
Me: What?
AGS: You stop the guys and ask them to say the word “fabulous.” If they lisp it, you simply ask them to leave. Oh, you may miss a few of the Rock Hudson or Raymond Burr types, but at least you’ll get the “flamers.” In fact, that’s what the Republicans call it: “Putting out the flames.”
Me: I’ll do what I can, but I want all groups represented. What else?
AGS: 3% Swarthies limit.
Me: Swarthies?
AGS: Swarthies. You know, Mediterranean types, Italians, Greeks, French, plues the Spanish ones. The Spoleto waiver has been rescinded for them, too.
Me (noticeably frustrated): Okay, okay.
AGS: There must be at least 15% of the people with the last name of a Charleston street.
Me: Translation, please.
AGS: Funny, you don’t seem as dense in your articles. Do you have a ghost writer?
Me: Of course not, but having never experienced the intellectually stimulating environment of a “high styler,” I am naturally a bit slow on the uptake.
AGS: I understand perfectly, Bob. What I meant by people with the last name of a Charleston street were, you know, Rutledge, Huger, Maybank, and Ashley, and so on got it?
Me: Sure, but with all due respect, why?
AGS: It’s just a whim of ours. Indulge us, unless you think you have a choice.
Me: All right, what else?
AGS: There has to be at least one guy in a white linen or seersucker suit, wearing a bow tie.
Me: Once more, I feel an irrepressible, but perhaps foolhardy, urge to ask why.
AGS: Certainly understandable, Bob, but again, if you have to ask why, then obviously you just don’t get I – the High Style Philosophy—and I will be wasting both of our times if I try to explain it. It would be like me asking my father why every New Year’s Eve he gets drunk, takes off his pants, sticks on a fireman’s helmet, and put out the fire in the fireplace “naturally” yelling “Hose Man to the rescue!”
Me: Okay, I’m will to accept a lot in life, as pitiable as it is. Anything else?
AGS: Yes. There has to be at least one glassy-eyes local celebrity with his arm around an attractive female who’s not related to him.
Me: Okay, and I won’t ask why this time.
AGS: But, for once, you should have, because the answer is, “It’s just the Jerry Springer in us,” tee hee hee.
Me: Hey, now I get it.
AGS: How quaint.
Me: Okay, we must be getting near the end.
AGS: Yes, for you, Bob, perhaps. (Snicker)
Me: Oh, you are way too much for me, Ms. Glo-Saxon. May I be so bold as to call you Ann?
AGS: The answer to that question is that it depends on whether your supreme quest for “High Style” status is successful or not, Bob.
Me: Thank you for allowing me a secondary life goal almost as lofty as the first.
AGS: Does the term sychophanticide mean anything to you, Bob? Never mind. Your next to the last criterion is, of course, that everyone, even minors (this is Charleston, after all) must have a mixed drink in his or her hand—whether they drink or not. Surely you are aware that this is a time-honored tradition of the Holy City, even among the ungentrified, such as yourself.
Me: Oh yeah, probably the best one of them all, Ms. Glo-Saxon, and one that I fervently support.
AGS: You know, Bob, occasionally, you display faint flashed of civility, if only for a few precious seconds.
Me: I’m unworthy of your flattery, Ms. Glo-Saxon, but shouldn’t we start the drum roll introducing the final qualification criterion?
AGS: Actually, a drum roll would be perfect, since this is the e I think you will really like, Bob. There will be absolutely no residents of Goose Creek or Ladson in attendance, and North Charleston residents can be present only in a menial or service capacity.
Me (beaming): Thank God for your common, I mean uncommon, sense, Ms. Glo-Saxon. When I included them, I was obviously stretching the limits of multiculturalism. But what if some of them are wily enough to disguise themselves (though this is most unlikely)?
AGS: Simple, Bob. Set up a clogging demonstration. Anybody who watches it gets kicked out. It works every time.
Me: Suddenly, I feel very differently about you, Ms. Glo-Saxon. There, you see, there is always a common ground. Sometimes, one just has to blow away the leaves of hate and misunderstanding. Do you know the words to “Cumbaya”?
AGS: Isn’t that one of those Kwanzaa songs?
Me: Oh, never mind. Did I pass or not?
AGS: I’ll be in touch, Bob. We have to do some perfunctory background checking, too.

And so, I sit in agony, awaiting Ms. Glo-Saxon’s (or Ann’s) call, praying that her relentless investigation into my past will not somehow uncover a young writer in 1979 watching a clogging contest at the Coastal Carolina Fair, purely out of idle, but innocent curiosity.