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
why a guy so rich is going Democrat. This seems like a
Republican quality to me. Anyway, halfway through the
shindig, I change my nametag to “Jane” and start pocketing
Obama pins. That’s when the emcee of the evening, “Mr.
Patrick-sends-me-a-Christmas-card,” steps up to the mike to
introduce the night’s featured Democrats. If it were me, I’d
talk about the important people, instead of myself. But, “Mr.
I’ve-held-Patrick’s-daughter” thought he could mention all
the cool things he’s done for the cause, oh and here’s Steve
Santarsiero and he’s running for state representative. This was
repeated before and after Murphy. So, I needed some air.
Okay, here’s where it all comes together.
I’m out on the steps of the gallery when all I can hear is a
throng of people spouting profanity walking down the street.
What are a bunch of Beerfest-goers supposed to do but cap
off a day of boozing with a night of boozing at the bars?
And when you have drinkers, you have a certain percentage
of the crowd being bad drunks, mean drunks. As they pass the
rally from the other side of the street, one notices the rally.
“Oh, look a wine party. Look at those wine drinkers,” one
belligerent guy said. “I’m going over there.”
Another chimed for him to not take so long and watched his
buddy stumble across the street without looking both ways.
I wasn’t alone. A middle-aged man was standing on the
other side of the stair, so when I did what I did, I acted knowing
that if I was going to be attacked, I would be safe.
As the drunken ass approached the stair, I took one small
step to my left, standing in front of the door.
I said, “You don’t really want to go in there.” He said,
“Why?” I said, “Because you’re a drunken mess.”
Then it was more profanity and a pledge to vote for McCain.
I say he owes me one. I don’t know who thinks they can
walk, three sheets to the wind, into a hoity-toity wine party
with a state representative and a congressman with the intention
of creating a scene and not be arrested within moments.
I returned home having felt like I made a non-monetary
Murphy contribution.