Pulse: Correspondence: Confessions of a Country Club Reject

Last month, we reported that a prominent local media person (who shall remain nameless) was a member at a particularly prestigious Main Line club (which shall also remain nameless). But as he informs us, it was all a bald-headed lie

May 5, 2005
Mr. Larry Platt
Editor, Philadelphia magazine


Dear Larry:

Most who get rebuffed by a prominent club are able to lick their wounds in private. Not me. I never had that option. Thanks to you and your horse**** magazine, my rejection became media fodder. And while my publicly aired personal failure was not tawdry enough to land me a nationally televised session with Dr. Phil, it did cause me to down a few Stolis at Savona and leave you that garbled voicemail message.

In hindsight, I’m not surprised by the rejection. People say I’m a big talker, and I’ve got an e-mail trash bin that proves I offend on a daily basis. The chances of a bastion of privacy tolerating someone in my profession were a bit thin, but the prospect of my kids enjoying the racquet facilities was too good to pass up.
Then came the call. It wasn’t in the cards, I was told. Despite a several-year application process, nothing more was said. 

Initially, I suffered in secret. Wandering the streets of Gladwyne, I pondered who and what exactly had done me in: Was it spilling my Manhattan on the madras pants of a guy named Thaddeus one night at the Old Guard House? Was it the old woman in the Oldsmobile with the “MCC” license plate whom I cut off in my F-150 while diving for the only available parking space at Super Fresh? Perhaps it was that guy who didn’t get the yacht trip in Narragansett Bay because I couldn’t see paddle no. 205 at the annual Episcopal Academy fund-raiser, when I again served as auctioneer. It was driving me crazy. I was kept awake with visions of Horace and Thurston wrapped in towels, sharing a steam and having a laugh at my expense. But at least my humiliation was self-contained.

Then came Philadelphia magazine. You bastards.

Last month, right here, you profiled local clubs, detailing when each was founded, its facilities, and notable members. That’s where I came in. I was incorrectly identified as a notable member of a club that had, some months prior, rejected me for membership. How shoddy. (This does, of course, raise the issue of whether there are any notable members in the club if the only person who makes the “notable” list is someone who was rejected.) Still, the humanity of it all!

Then, to add insult to injury, the Daily News ran a story about my snubbing, with a headline that ran across the entire width of a page. It was twice the size of that day’s real news, about the runaway bride from Georgia who turned up in New Mexico. You’d think the fact that she initially claimed she’d been kidnapped by a Hispanic with “a huge pistol” would’ve given that story more prominence. Not to mention that he was supposedly armed.
Now I’m facing an uncertain social fate. People were staring at me the other day in Nectar. And I’d swear I was followed by a man in Bermuda shorts, seersucker blazer and no socks at the Farmer’s Market in Wayne. Pray that it rains Memorial Day weekend, lest I experience more insults at the Devon Horse Show.

About the only thing certain is that “lunch at my club” will continue to mean the counter at the place where you can also buy copy paper by the case, toilet paper in 25-roll increments, and five-gallon drums of Beeferino. See you at Costco, you S.O.B.