Greetings, knights and fair maidens. You made your nominations.
This year’s Charleston City Paper Best of Charleston boldly goes where no other Best Of has ever gone before — into outer space. Joining us on our nearly 200-page journey into the outer reaches of the galaxy — and by the outer reaches of the galaxy, we mean Johns Island and, um, Hanahan — will be a team of Jedis, Trekkies, and little green men, who may or may not want to probe you. So go ahead and turn the page to see who City Paper readers selected as their faves. Beam us up!
Rock’s in a bad spot these days. The simple truth is, we just don’t have rock stars anymore. Those real-life disciples of Dionysus through which we once lived a vicarious life of trashed hotel rooms, drug-fueled orgies, and the occasional bat biting are now a distant memory.
Welcome to the Charleston City Paper’s annual Best of Charleston issue. But before we get to the winners, please give us a chance to apologize. We realize that some of you out there are scared to death of clowns.
The past few years have been very kind to Charleston. We’ve been showered with praise and honored with so many awards it’s getting kind of hard not to get a big head. It seems like everyone loves us. But when the folks at Condé Nast Traveler declared that Charleston was the Best City in the World, the news still managed to come as a complete shock. What about New York City, we asked? Or London? Or Paris? Or Rome? Surely we’re not as great as those places? We’re just teeny, tiny Charleston, S.C. But apparently, we’re as good as those places. And frankly, we’re absolutely thrilled and completely humbled.
We here at the City Paper are as gung-ho for local businesses as unicorns are for rainbows, sunbeams, and happy thoughts. Now, don't get us wrong. We don't have anything against the national chains and the big-boxes. We can't resist a good deal. But the mom-and-pop shops are risking it all to make our lives just a little bit better. And when you buy local, well, that money, more or less, stays local, unlike in the case of the corporate giants, where a good portion of that money goes somewhere else. Heaven forbid it's Ohio. As with previous Best of Charleston issues, when a national chain beats out a local competitor in the Readers' Picks, we have also noted a local runner up. No disrespect is intended to the nationals. This year we've also added a few new categories, like Best Food Truck and Best Johns Island Restaurant and Bar.
Once again, it’s time for the City Paper’s annual Best of Charleston issue, the one issue of the year where you, our loyal readers, tell us what you like best about the Holy City — the best new restaurant, the best jewelry store, the best local legislator, even the best local actor, who, in this case, happens to be the one and only Bill Murray. And it’s in honor of Mr. Murray, who has chosen to make Chucktown his home, that we dedicate this issue. Heck, we even designed Shepard Fairey-inspired stickers, each one featuring Murray’s iconic mug, to mark the occasion. So get to reading, and start searching for the Bill Murray stickers hidden in every photograph. Enjoy.
The number 13 gets a bad rap. It’s a perfectly fine number, but for whatever reason, 13 freaks some people out. But not us at the City Paper. Especially this year, our 13th year as Charleston’s premier weekly. So call us crazy, but we think the number 13 is, well, lucky. And we want to spread that luck around. Which brings us to this year’s Best of Charleston issue. As usual, it’s packed with readers’ and critics’ picks, spotlighting the best of the Holy City, from restaurants and bars, to music makers and public servants, and everything in between. They’re all lucky bastards.
See Also: Intro Archives
Once upon a time, Jack — a young man of humble birth whose ancestors had never quite saved up enough to warrant a family name worth remembering — found himself before the Constable. Sworn to uphold the law in this quaint seaside town, the Constable twisted the corner of his mustache as Jack stood before him, dressed in tattered sackcloth barely fit for a worn-out mare put to pasture, no less a man.
If there is one character that is essential to all sci-fi, it's the robot. In fact, if one were to call Mary Shelley's Frankenstein a sci-fi novel — which it is, albeit with gothic trimmings — the Creature himself is more or less the first robot, a humanoid-esque beast pieced together and brought to life by his creator.
Stanley Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey is the best sci-fi film of all time. It's better than Star Wars. Better than The Empire Strikes Back, Planet of the Apes, The Matrix, The Day the Earth Stood Still, Alien, Blade Runner, The Road Warrior, Akira, Close Encounters, Gattaca, Soylent Green, District 9, The Thing, West World, The Terminator, Invasion of the Body Snatchers, Wall-E, and Star Trek II and IV and VI.
I'm going to preface this article with a warning: I don't know a lot about Star Trek. I respect it, I do the Vulcan salute more than I'd like to admit, and I'm a big fan of the Family Guy spoof episode. But other than that, well, I had to Google U.S.S. Enterprise, to give you some idea of my ignorance.
On March 18, 1978, at approximately 1:15 a.m., Deputy Pike Limehouse with the Dorchester Sheriff's Office was called out to a remote area near Summerville to investigate something that could not be explained. Speaking to a film crew later that year, the officer said that once he arrived on scene he was approached by a North Charleston resident by the name of Bill Herrmann, who told the deputy he would not believe what had happened.
We don’t know about you, but at last night’s Best of Charleston Party we partied like rock stars. Unfortunately, we’re paying for it today. No matter what we do, we can’t get Poison’s “Nothin’ but a Good Time” out of our heads.
You might not suspect it while driving past the azalea-lined sidewalks and quaint historic homes of Summerville today, but at one point in the early 2000s, the Flowertown in the Pines was an underground hub for East Coast punk, metal, and hardcore music.
Metal is a many-headed beast, each one capable of melting your face with a blast of turn-it-up-to-11 thunder. Although metal these days is largely the province of death metal riffers and Cookie Monster vocals, this wasn't always the case.
Hollie Anderson, a City Paper account executive, has quite a history with metal musicians. In her previous life as a radio personality, she worked at alternative stations in Little Rock, Ark., and Milwaukee, Wisc., before coming to Charleston in 1991 to work at the legendary 96 Wave.
Pity the poor coulrophobe who was invited to last night's Best of Charleston Party. They had a difficult decision to make: Stay home and miss out on the party of the year or drop by Johnson Hagood Stadium and be surrounded by the very thing they fear most — clowns. Judging by the crowd, more than a few coulrophobes faced their fears. Wrong decision.
One gloomy afternoon in February, when icy weather had shut down much of Charleston, Charlemagne Pittsford, a.k.a Mr. Pitts, was drunkenly hurling hypodermic needles at a dartboard in a back-alley hobo camp on Upper King Street.
Puddles, a nearly 7-foot-tall sad clown from Atlanta with a mellifluous baritone voice best known for singing Lorde's hit single "Royals" in a viral YouTube video, won't talk to me on the phone. Instead, Puddles' publicist refers me to Big Mike, Puddles' right-hand man of sorts.
Clowns used to be images of happiness, jovial reminders of childhood, but it seems these days that more often than not they strike fear in people — young and old. Where did this coulrophobia, or phobia of clowns, come from?
For a country built on religious freedom and free speech, we certainly are a judgmental lot. In fact, certain subcultures seem to receive a disproportionate share of scorn. Ponytailed ex-hippies in expensive vehicles.
Ivy Esposito wears her heart on her sleeve, one she's been working on over four sessions and about 15 hours since November. Each bit of plush greenery that decorates her left arm represents a member of her family: parents, siblings, cousins. And hidden among the foliage and flowers is something else, a tattoo for her nine-years-younger brother. Unlike everyone else, Esposito's brother is represented by a cat, or, more accurately, a furry gray kitten with green eyes that almost mews at you from its tucked-away spot on the inside of Esposito's left arm.
Phillip Hyman wooed his future wife Kay with two unicorn drawings. The unicorns in each of the illustrations exist in a bright, happy fantasyland befitting fairy-tale princesses and daring knights, a world where good always triumphs over evil. Somehow the tenderly penciled, pastel lines managed to express his feelings for his eventual partner. According to Kay Hyman, Phillip told their elementary school-aged daughter, Zoe, "'That was my love letter to your mom.'"
If you're anything like us, all this talk of unicorns has given you a funny feeling in your pants. You're sitting there, dreaming of one-horned beasts, translucent rainbows, twinkling butterflies, and pink glitter falling from the sky. You close your eyes and imagine riding your very own unicorn into the burning sunset. If you're feeling kinky, you may even be imagining the unicorn riding you. In any case, your passionate love for unicorns has prompted a citywide hunt for the mythical creature, and luckily, we know the whereabouts of your fairy-tale fawn. Check out these shops to help make your unicorn dreams come true.
Maybe you knew this, maybe you didn't. But you can buy cans of unicorn meat. In fact, we here at the City Paper ordered two cans of the stuff. We haven't tasted it yet, because we've been waiting for just the right occasion. Judging by a recent survey of area restaurants, we may never even have to. Apparently, unicorn is popping up on menus all around town, including at several of this year's Best of Charleston winners. Some people might say neigh to eating unicorn meat, but we say yay. Read on and enjoy.
See Also: Features Archives