"Some Cynical Guy" No. 53: November 18, 2001

My Night As A Socialite

A few years ago I could never have imagined myself standing around in little conversational circles with finely bred Philadelphians, but here I was anyway. Tonight was the annual fundraising banquet for the historic Quaker house where my wife Anne served as caretaker for the past five-and-a-half years. She was invited to the festivities and, as a direct consequence of being newly wedded to her, so was I. 

You might assume that a professional Cynical Guy and confirmed introvert would balk at an evening of orchestrated gaiety among Philadelphia's social respectables. But I'm a genial enough fellow if you meet me in person, and I'm not averse to frolicsome conversation with representatives of any particular social class. In fact, I've enjoyed my recent close encounters with Philadelphia socialites at informal historic-house gatherings over the past year. They've treated me with more warmth and courtesy than some of my old advertising colleagues, and I actually met a woman who goes by the name of Kitsy. (Try finding a Kitsy in Perth Amboy.) Most of these Philadelphians have struck me as refreshingly amiable folks who just happen to have faultless manners and permanent listings in the Social Register.

When I lived in Allentown, socializing meant gathering with four or five friends around a little table at Hava Java on 19th Street. While consuming the caffeinated beverage of our choice, surrounded by young bohemians and middle-aged theatergoers, enveloped by mists of fragrant steam that sometimes fogged the windows on winter evenings, we'd launch into animated discussions of this-or-that film, or whether such-and-such a town was a 'real' place or a synthetic one. It was like being in college again, except that we didn't have to turn in papers, pay tuition or watch our friends vomit after an evening of excess. It was a mode of socializing that suited my rumpled and carefree bachelor ways.

Now that I'm married and living in Philadelphia, my social life has grown up in a hurry. Philadelphia is a major metropolis, of course, but its social geometry seems to consist of surprisingly small circles that intersect regularly with other closely related circles. For example, my wife Anne belongs to both the historic-house crowd and the art-conservation crowd, which are on friendly terms with the museum crowd, the library crowd and, marginally at least, the academic and civic-duty crowds.

Tonight was the main event for Anne's historic-house circle, and I wanted to make a respectable debut as her husband. I plucked my black wedding suit from the closet, chose a socially correct paisley tie and drove to Center City to meet Anne and make our entrance. We were looking our spiffiest as we arrived at the Down Town Club and spent a few carefree minutes chatting with the young women at the reception desk. (Both of them were colleagues of Anne's from the art conservation center where she works when she's not tending to that historic Quaker house.) 

I wanted to check out a richly illustrated book of old Philadelphia engravings that was on display at the desk. So I reached for my reading glasses in my shirt pocket, pulled them out and watched helplessly as the unbreakable titanium frames went SPROING. A tiny screw had popped loose, causing the rim to separate and the left lens to tumble onto the carpet. I picked up the lens, but the missing screw had vanished into that strange and sinister gremlin-land where all inanimate objects go when I drop them. Anne and her two colleagues got down with me on all fours as we searched fruitlessly for the renegade screw. The coat-check guard and all-around major domo, a diminutive gray-haired black gentleman in a handsomely embroidered uniform, commanded everyone to step aside so he could get a clear view of the carpet. He took several slow and deliberate paces back from the accident scene, hoping that the overhead lights might catch a glint of metallic reflection from the screw's surface. But it was such a minuscule screw that even his valiant efforts failed.

Meanwhile the hall had filled with incoming guests, many of whom had been glancing with curiosity at the spectacle of several well-dressed adults crawling around on their hands and knees. As these Philadelphia eminentoes donned their adhesive name labels and started chatting, I realized I wouldn't be able to read their names without my glasses. Even worse, my own name label refused to stay in place. I'd slap it to my chest again and again, only to watch it start curling ominously around the edges and finally drop off. People must have wondered why that dark fellow with the remarkable nose kept slapping his chest on one side. 

Anne had left my side to attend to some historic house business, so I was on my own. As I started mingling with the growing crowd, I'd strike up a conversation with someone I recognized, who would then introduce me to someone I didn't recognize. This, I concluded, was how newcomers like me could socialize with the socialites. (Some of the advanced-level socialites, I observed, would greet each other with a kind of modified back-rub; I knew I'd gradually have to work up to that status over the years, and I looked forward to my first social massage.) Somehow I managed to conduct several competent conversations while my name label kept sliding off my suit. At one point the label fell and attached itself to the trouser cuff of an imposing dignitary standing with his back toward us. With my scotch glass in hand, I swooped down and silently snatched my label from the man's cuff in a single deft motion. (I had always wanted real life to resemble a vintage Hollywood screwball comedy, and my wish was being granted.) 

About ten minutes after the trouser cuff incident I lost the label altogether, and my friend the coat-check gentleman helped me locate it on the rug near the bar. He whisked out a roll of tape and stuck that sucker to my suit jacket for good.

Finally I met the evening's guest of honor, and I looked forward to a meaningful one-on-one exchange with the man himself. About fifteen seconds later he politely excused himself to greet somebody else. No doubt he had pegged me instantly as an NIP (Non-Important Person) and sought more advantageous companionship. That's another key point to remember when socializing with socialites. If someone walks away from you, don't take it personally; it's only political. And it's evidence that the person in question is still a climber. (Bona fide socialites are too well-mannered to perform such a stunt.) 

I gained a measure of satisfaction when, during the guest of honor's pre-dinner address, in which he humbly extolled his own accomplishments for half an hour while we salivated for our entrees to arrive, I noticed numerous heads nodding throughout the room. Mine was almost one of them. As I struggled to stay awake, I looked forward to the evening, ten or twenty years from now, when the socialites would throw a dinner for me. Of course, they'd have to let me invite my old Allentown friends before I'd consent to it. And they'd have to give me a name label that would stay attached to my suit, at least for the remainder of the evening. A guest of honor shouldn't have to keep slapping his chest.

Cynic's Pick of the Week
As the hated Taliban fled south from Kabul, liberated Afghans rejoiced by shaving their beards (at least the men did), uncovering their faces, playing music and flying kites in public. Yes, flying KITES -- which had been expressly forbidden by the Taliban. Somebody please show me the passage in the Koran that denounces kites; I'd have to see it to believe it. Maybe Mohammed's father never gave him a kite, which might explain why the world is in such a pickle right now.

© 2001 by Bridget Petrella Media Relations. "Some Cynical Guy" appears here by permission of the publisher. If you'd like this column to appear regularly in  your own site or publication, write to UPBEATmag@aol.com.

Profile of a Cynic...

Bayan, who claims to be a "kinder, gentler cynic," currently lives in Allentown, Pennsylvania. His weekly column, "Some Cynical Guy," is published and syndicated by Upbeat Online.