The Rittenhouse Bears by Scott O'Malley

If I may parlay a tale about a holiday in Philadelphia.

So my hairy-chested friends and I were drinking next to tuxedos in Philadelphia. Before we proceed a few observations: It’s in the nature of the working class to test the pride of the wealthy class. It’s a masochistic maneuver, as it’s in the nature of the upper class to spank the middle class whenever their pride is vandalized.

The people working on Madison Avenue know two things: (a) we live in a class-based society, and (b) this fact must be hidden from the public at all costs.

The Ad man says – “This is America baby, we’re all equal, and the only thing separating you from them is the fact that you don’t own my luxury car… Or wear my clothes, or drink my alcoholic lemonade.”

Everyone knows, or at least says, that buying stuff won’t make them happy. But it also doesn't raise social standing. One can grow rich, but one can't be rich. No matter what Calvin Klein says.

In other words, one never escapes the social class they were borne into. They can only mask it.

Ok, so what’s this have to do with Philly?

New Money vs. Old Money
On a Saturday night, relative virgins to the Philly night life, we taxied from South Street to Rittenhouse Square. The goal was to return to McGillans, Philly’s oldest bar, and host to the previous night’s fervor.

It was closed, as was Monk's, that German bar, and the rest of 'em. For the non-natives, we went from bustling streets concentrated with partyers and single gals, to a ghost town lined with gated gadget stores.

Here now a quick tangent: Earlier that night on South Street, my scruffy gang set up shop in a noveau-chic bar called, “Paradigm.” My friend said it reminded him of the bars in Tokyo because the bathrooms smoked-up when you locked the doors. W. Edwards Deming would be proud of his adopted Japanese - Ok, it was friggin' cool.

We went to work, or my friends did, and by work I mean buying shots. Specifically, $60 rounds of Petrone. Now I’m not certain, but I think that holds up as a moderately expensive round of six shots anywhere outside of free water in Beverly Hills. Here now ends the brief tangent.

In Rittenhouse square we eventually found some action. The place was dimly lit via candles, surrounded by champagne, fake laughs, drunk escorts, and tuxedos. My internal class radar went off: We didn’t belong. But, as is the case sometimes, the desire for the drink overrules the warnings (sadly for those who then tend to drive). And as I stated before, it is the nature of the middle class to test the rich.

They didn’t disappoint. My lil’ brother and a few friends set up shop at the bar. The slender red-haired bartender promptly ignored them. “Either they should serve us or hire a bald dude to work the door,” I decided from a distant table.

Now this bartender looked like she studied accounting in college, but after graduation her divorced aunt told her she should model. The fiftieth time’s a charm, they say. Five years from now, after a few commercial gigs, a brief romance with a producer from LA (read: line producer), and a few wrinkles, she’ll be back in Harrisburg crunching numbers.

After taking the order, she began raggin' on my friends with other patrons. With the depth of skill, I presume, of an Ashlee Simpson live show.

Anyway, here is new money vs. old money. South Street chic, that, while trying to be hip, realizes the value in taking any Joe’s money. Or Rittenhouse Square snobbery, where membership to the club outweighs funding for the club.

It should be noted this snobbery was atypical of blue collar Philly. The only other instance I encountered was in the airport... my airline flew out of the International terminal.

Europeans know their class at birth and relegate themselves to it. Americans differ only slightly, in that we claim to know our place and choose to stay in it. It’s not true, we stay put because we’re shamed upon venturing forth. The only guaranteed passage to the

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