I have been stuck in a hell hole called Philadelphia for almost all of my life. It is a maddening city to be sure, though I'm not really planning on going anywhere else. I have found that anything there is in the world, good
or bad, can be found here. Earth is a pretty dull place. For example,I don't think there is any real difference between Philadelphia and say, New York except the people are more obnoxious and there are more deadbeat mediocre waiters posing as struggling actors in New York. There's no real difference between Philadelphia and Washington, DC except maybe a higher class of prostitute and a greater abundance of home wrecking interns. Everywhere you go there will be nice, interesting people and jerks, that's it. But, the tie that binds every major metropolis in the world is simple: the void between haves and the have nots. In Philadelphia, at least, the haves have their own magazine and it is unfairly and inaccurately named after the city.

Each major city that I have visited has a shining example of this class separation right in the local magazine racks. There is a Boston Magazine, a Baltimore Magazine and of course for the citizens of that over-rated rat hole, The New Yorker (Go Rangers!). I have never purchased a Philadelphia Magazine, but I have read several. Ex-girlfriends of mine have purchased it, friends' mothers have subscriptions to it and sadly friends I use to have
before they took off in the middle of the night to that mosquito and elderly infested groin of North America called Florida never to return and stiffing me 1200 dollars back rent, have also purchased it. So, I have in my wondrous
life, been exposed to it and every now and again I have thumbed through it and in moments of great weakness and boredom I have even read it. The articles are not that bad per se. Every now and again some seem to even be interesting. But, any well written article inevitably gets overshadowed by all the local gossip and the fact that almost every word is dripping with pretentiousness.

When I was in college (yeah that's right, I went to college) I would read the magazine's reviews of the restaurants and trendy bars that all the beautiful people go to and I would day dream that one day after getting my
Bachelor of the Arts in Communications, I too would be able to sip on my Tangueray and Orange and think, "My God, we're all so beautiful!" Then graduation came, followed by reality, followed by a job in the fast food industry. (Two words of advice for the kids out there: Business Major.)

My anger at Philadelphia Magazine does not stem from bitter resentment as I do, occasionally grace the trendy bars and restaurants of such high faluten areas as Society Hill and Manayunk and wherever else all the people who consider themselves too good for the rest of us go. My anger comes from the damn pretentiousness of the entire publication and the fact that for a magazine that calls itself "PHILADELPHIA" it represents a minority of the
city's citizens. The topics and issues addressed in the magazine do not reflect the concerns of the average, work a day Philadelphian. It should be called, "WEALTHY PHILADELPHIAN" or "GOOD LOOKING PHILADELPHIAN WITH RICH
PARENTS."

I also gag at the snobbery. It's written with an attitude that suggests the staff and their "real" readers are part of this ultra-cool uber clique that YOU will never be a part of. You get the impression that these people all
just hang around dimly lit bars listening to Enya and Bjork with their noses in the air drinking their micro-brews and holding conversations like, "Have you tried the sushi at 'The Pod'? It's simply divine." Or, "I'm getting a
turbo charge added to the Audi." While a vast majority of people inPhiladelphia sit in bars with names like, "The Hut" or "The Watusi Pub" and hold conversations like, "I had a milkshake at Charlie's and it had a frickin' piece of wood in it!" or "The Goddamn Ford's in the shop again!"

Each spring the magazine has "The Shore Issue" which helps you decide how to best spend the extra 100 grand you have stowed away for your vacation. Apparently, the editors of this magazine don't realize the average person living in Philadelphia can't afford to get out the city let alone get that summer beach-front condo with screened-in pool and Jacuzzi. They also hit us with the Super Pompous "Best of Philly" issue each summer. In this issue we can find out who in the city has greased the palms of the editors enough to be named "Best Spa", "Best Resturant", and "Best Mafia Run Amphetamine Lab". We get to find out our favorite people in the Best Of issue as well. We get "Favorite News Anchor," "Favorite Athlete," and "Favorite Irish Politician
to be Bounced From Finnegan's Wake for Throwing a Punch."

Unfortunately for all of us, the magazine has decided not to have their annual Best of Philly Party this year. They reached this decision because as the editor-in-chief has said, "The issue isn't on the rack [by the time of
the party] and it really doesn't help sell magazines." It's a shame really because when the social elite of any city gets together to pat themselves on the back, a good time is guaranteed for all. I attended one such party (not
as a guest, but as uniformed help) back in college. It was great to be rubbing elbows with the assembled gliterarti. Such upstanding fine citizens as, well Jack McMahon who recently got almost the entire Philadelphia mob off of murder and drug trafficking charges, despite overwhelming evidence of their guilt. He also was able to get two guys who beat, raped then murdered a female jogger acquitted, despite two video taped confessions by the defendants. Mr. McMahon is an amazing person because he does the impossible.
For example: each day he gets up and brushes his teeth, shaves and washes his face and at some point during that routine, he can look himself in the mirror, and that's astounding. There are also many fine local celebrities
like Arlen Spector the genius who came up with the "Magic Bullet" theory, and our illustrious collection of humble TV and radio personalities who just don't seem to be good enough to go on to a National level of stardom.

I don't like to tell tales out of school but at the PM Party I attended I overheard a conversation between a gentleman invitee and a local weather woman, who's youth is rapidly passing her by and shall remain nameless:

Gentleman: "I just want you to know I never miss your morning broadcast at 6 AM. You're the reason I get up an hour earlier than I have to."

Weather woman: "That's sweet. Well, let me tell you something; you know while you're just getting up an hour earlier, I have to get up at like 3 AM to do that broadcast for people like you."

Sweet. You wouldn't think a weather person of all people would be so hot under the hot under collar, especially when they look like they're made of plastic. Which brings up another favorite topic of Philadelphia Magazine:
Plastic Surgery.

There are more advertisements for Plastic Surgeons in this magazine than all other local publications combined. You can't turn a page without seeing a siloutte of a naked woman caressing her naked breasts with print that says:
'Firm Yourself.' This just adds to the whole pomposity of the magazine. It tells you page after page that you aren't good enough for the elite of this town looking the way you do. Want to fit in with us, the upper crust of society? Then get your breasts enlarged. You too would be able to dine at fabulous restaurants if your rear end was a little tighter. Why don't you get some liposuction? While you're at it, get that bump shaved from your nose, get some perfect teeth surgically implanted in your head, get the fat
sucked from your thighs and shot into your lips for that "Barbara Hershey Look". Then, maybe you would fit in around here.

The back pages are also covered with ads for "massage parlors" and "escort services" which we all, except for obviously the police, know are prostitution services. Now, I realize that since Dikembe Mutombo's now in town for the long haul we have to make sure there is easy accesibility to
hookers for the wealthier members of Philadelphia society, but let him find his "escorts" the way the rest of us do: in the Yellow Pages.

In short it's a magazine for the haves (and apparently sexually frustrated). It's definately not written for the average citizen of Philadelphia though they'd like you to think that. It's written for men who wear Rolexes and
know the name of the designer of their suits. It's for women who get weekly facials, hit the saloons and who's shoes always match their purse. In other words it's written for people much, much better than you.





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