A Modern Hypocrisy
Laura Irwin
Issue date: 10/20/08 Section: Op/Ed
Here's an anecdote from my weekend:
For the past three years, "Brewfest" has been held at
Stockingworks, a former factory turned business complex off
South State Street, next to my place in Newtown borough.
I sit outside jamming to music, checking out the people
walking by and wait for 5:30 p.m. when it ends and the cops
pick off drunk drivers like lions hunting gazelle. I don't have
television, mind you, so this is the equivalent of a good police
drama.
Circa 11 a.m., ticketholders flock to the outdoor
"Oktoberfest" minus the good German food and quench their
early morning thirst with beer. Those that paid extra attend
early for the "connoisseur" tasting. As noon approaches,
warning announcements interrupt the band saying, "In one
half-hour the tasting commences and general admission
opens." It's like the wine party is being interrupted with the
lower-class beer drinkers. "Watch out, the Miller-Lites are
coming."
I'm going to switch stories now. Later it will all come together
though, I promise. Bear with me.
Later in the day my former roommate, now upstairs neighbor,
invites me to a Patrick Murphy rally at the Newtown Art
Gallery.
Who am I to turn down snacks and free booze?
I walk in, slap on a nametag that says "Joan" and down a
clear plastic cup of Pinot Grigio followed by a toothpick-appetizer
of olive-mozzarella-cherry tomato.
The nametag thing: I get a kick out of my neighbors, who
have seen me 'round the 'hood and then at other events as a
reporter, calling me Joan.
Okay, here's interesting guy 1. The host of the party is a man
who has held Murphy parties in the past. "Joan, so good to see
you. Patrick should be here really soon. He's a good friend of
mine, so…"
Later, when Murphy arrived, "Joan, did you get the chance
to meet Patrick? I could arrange that for you if you wanted. I
know him. He's such a good guy. We've had dinner, so…"
This is what I would like to call social-elitism. I don't understand
For the past three years, "Brewfest" has been held at
Stockingworks, a former factory turned business complex off
South State Street, next to my place in Newtown borough.
I sit outside jamming to music, checking out the people
walking by and wait for 5:30 p.m. when it ends and the cops
pick off drunk drivers like lions hunting gazelle. I don't have
television, mind you, so this is the equivalent of a good police
drama.
Circa 11 a.m., ticketholders flock to the outdoor
"Oktoberfest" minus the good German food and quench their
early morning thirst with beer. Those that paid extra attend
early for the "connoisseur" tasting. As noon approaches,
warning announcements interrupt the band saying, "In one
half-hour the tasting commences and general admission
opens." It's like the wine party is being interrupted with the
lower-class beer drinkers. "Watch out, the Miller-Lites are
coming."
I'm going to switch stories now. Later it will all come together
though, I promise. Bear with me.
Later in the day my former roommate, now upstairs neighbor,
invites me to a Patrick Murphy rally at the Newtown Art
Gallery.
Who am I to turn down snacks and free booze?
I walk in, slap on a nametag that says "Joan" and down a
clear plastic cup of Pinot Grigio followed by a toothpick-appetizer
of olive-mozzarella-cherry tomato.
The nametag thing: I get a kick out of my neighbors, who
have seen me 'round the 'hood and then at other events as a
reporter, calling me Joan.
Okay, here's interesting guy 1. The host of the party is a man
who has held Murphy parties in the past. "Joan, so good to see
you. Patrick should be here really soon. He's a good friend of
mine, so…"
Later, when Murphy arrived, "Joan, did you get the chance
to meet Patrick? I could arrange that for you if you wanted. I
know him. He's such a good guy. We've had dinner, so…"
This is what I would like to call social-elitism. I don't understand
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