I don't know about any of the bars in South Carolina but I'll offer this advice: Do not -- I repeat, DO NOT -- ever stop at South of the Border, one of the nastiest, most ridiculous places in the universe. The marketing genius behind Pedro needs his ass kicked.
Then again, maybe the marketing guy ought to teach classes. It seems everybody -- including me a few weeks ago -- stops at least once.
I don't know about any of the bars in South Carolina but I'll offer this advice: Do not -- I repeat, DO NOT -- ever stop at South of the Border, one of the nastiest, most ridiculous places in the universe.
Unless you want to pretend you're in a horror movie. SOTB, deserted at 3 a.m., is like a scene from the cutting-room floor of "The Devil's Rejects" -- especially when you drive down the back road where the employee's trailers are. _________________ The soul walks not upon a line, neither does it grow like a reed.
The soul unfolds itself, like a lotus of countless petals.
I'm a proud graduate of the University of South Carolina, 1981, when mini-bottles and Sunday blue laws ruled, men were men and sheep were nervous. I have no idea if it's still there, but there was a great bar in Five Points called Group Therapy. It had: a moosehead with an earring hanging on the wall; barmaids on rollerskates; Bose 901 speakers hanging from the ceiling and a stereo system that played everything from Henri Mancini to The Kinks; and just about any beer you could imagine, including Foster's Lager in the giant cans. I majored in journalism, but I got my minor in Group Therapy. _________________ "I'm no schoolboy but I know what I like..."