Elitists for Obama

I lived in Philadelphia for a number of years and eventually moved back to New York City. I guess I got tired of hearing Philadelphians congratulate themselves for not living in New York City – it seemed a little bit elitist, and elitist in the wrong way.

So perhaps Obama made a dread mistake by suggesting that driving around with guns in the rack and Jesus Saves on the dashboard is not necessarily where Pennsylvanians would want to be if they had their druthers. I haven’t heard too much from the voters involved, though I do remember a conversation, last time I was in Center Hall, between the owner of the local package store and his deliveryman: “Hank, some of those newcomers want to know if we carry Purry Water.” Hank stared at him a minute and shook his head: “Bud, you don’t want no Purry Water around.”

Then again, I can’t help thinking when the media tells me Pennsylvanians reject elitism, it’s because the Clintons and the elitist media want to keep the good stuff for themselves: the best thing about Philly was, you could get tickets for a Vladimir Horowitz concert without waiting on line. That, and the cheese-steaks and grinders and the Rare Book Collection at the University of Pennsylvania.

So perhaps the people of Pennsylvania are ready to move on to the big-time, Purry-drinking, concert-watching, rare-book collating lifestyle, the way we did in New York in 1969. That was the year a certain Mario Procaccino ran for Mayor on the Democratic Party line and was buried in the general election by the very liberal Republican John V. Lindsay. Procaccino’s one claim to fame was the term “limousine liberal” that he invented – look at where it got him.

So, Pennsylvanians, if you’re looking to compete: back in 1969, when we New Yorkers were given the choice between the lager and the latte we chose the latter – come on board. Just after Procaccino lost, some slick journalist pointed out the obvious: given a choice between a hand-holding romance with our next door neighbor and screwing our favorite star on a trampoline, in the deep dark secret of the voting booth we all know who we are.