The Rittenhouse Review

A Philadelphia Journal of Politics, Finance, Ethics, and Culture

Saturday, January 03, 2004  

Xing With the VIPs

This is just a slice of my life. Or maybe it falls under the category of “random vent.” Either way, I’m miserable.

The girls upstairs, the ones on steroids, the ones who apparently think “upstairs” means “VIP lounge,” are having themselves a fabulous Saturday afternoon, their night-club prepping regimen having begun before noon today.

The music is blaring through open windows -- If you play junky music and no one else can hear it, does it mean you’re merely B-list? -- which comes as no surprise since one of them is, get this, a DJ in London! . . . London . . . A DJ . . . In London . . . London, England . . . Uh, Madonna lives there? . . . Elton John? . . . Pet Shop Boys? . . . Hellooo? Ringing any bells?

Not impressed? I wasn’t either, not when the information was first force-fed to me nor on the half-dozen occasions on which I was reminded of my neighbor's thoroughly uninteresting employment.

Please, it's London. English people live there. Give me Australia any day. They have better teeth. And much nicer bathing suits. Plus that whole criminal element, penal colony thing . . . well, you know what that’s about.

[Post-publication addendum: John of Waremouse, writing from my old stomping grounds, shares my pain. Don’t worry, John, I’ve been blasting “Creeque Alley: The History of The Mamas and The Papas,” a two-CD set, all afternoon. And singing along. Paybacks are hell.]

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