 You Call This Luxury?
In The Community
Baron Von Ghrekendorf
It has recently come to my attention that a great fuss is being made over the final “full floor” available in Rittenhouse Square’s Parc condominium. Its realtor has even taken out a full-page advertisement, detailing the place’s floor plan, on the rear cover of Philadelphia magazine. I urge you to pick up a copy—if only to enjoy a rich, scornful laugh, as I recently did. For you’ll see that the dwelling’s 7,545 square feet offer exactly none of the “unrivaled amenities” that are so falsely promised. Seven-seat movie theatre with adjacent popcorn room? 1,675 square feet of outdoor space spread across six airy decks? Private pool club? Allan Domb Real Estate, such feeble “amenities” lead me to ask a painfully obvious question: you call this luxury?
 Were I looking for a kennel to board my champion Weimaraners, or a flophouse for my daughter’s alcoholic fiancée, I might consider assuming the cost of this pathetically wretched dump. But how, exactly, is one supposed to live comfortably with a mere three guest bedrooms? When my business associates have jetted in from Bahrain, London, or Tokyo, am I expected to entertain them in my leather-appointed wet bar? Or, for god’s sake, should I just pitch them out onto the street and have them pilfer a bottle from the nearest crusty vagrant?
And I shudder at the meagerness of “four park-and-lock garage spaces.” Who on earth has four cars these days? I know I certainly don’t—why, my fleet of vintage Maseratis alone consists of seven prize racers. Where shall I park my 1953 Nash Healey coupe? My 1912 Stutz Bearcat? Or, for that matter, my United States Navy-issued one-man hovercraft? The mind staggers at the horrid unsuitableness of it all.
Were this Allen Domb fellow to truly attract buyers of the appropriate rank and breeding, he might look into offering features that would actually suit their day-to-day needs. I ask you directly, Mr. Domb: where is the heated rooftop zeppelin pad? The floor-to-ceiling killer whale aquarium? The elevator leading to a set of rough-hewn basement slave quarters? Are we expected to be enticed by a residence that does not contain even a single teakwood humidor?
This is not the Dark Ages, Mr. Domb. Were I wheeling a wooden cart piled high with rotting turnips, barefoot and spattered with sheep feces, I might consider sheltering myself from the elements in your falling-down shanty. But we are living, not in the Dark Ages, but in the 21st century. And I demand luxury! This pitiful lean-to overlooking the square, sadly, does not meet that demand. Not even close.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to stalk the wily white rhinoceros with my good friends Warren Buffett, Rupert Murdoch, and Sheikh Abdul of the Saudi Royal Family. Which reminds me: that glorified pup tent does not contain a single room devoted to the display of exotic hunting trophies.
For Pete’s sake, I’d rather live in the bus station! |
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Govberg Getting Pushy
April 21, 2009 –
In recent days, area residents have reported that Irv Govberg, of Chestnut St.’s Govberg Jewelers, had publicly urged them to sell him their gold, diamonds, jewelry, and watches. “Yesterday, I was crossing 18th Street, and there’s a whisper, right in my ear: ‘Sell me your old gold today!’ ” recalled Rittenhouse Square’s Rosalyn James, 60, clutching an heirloom pendant that hung at her neck. “It was Mr. Govberg—and he seemed a bit off. Something told me to get away from him as quick as I could.”
 Others in the area reported similarly upsetting run-ins with the 78-year-old jeweler, whose exhortations had previously been limited to advertisements in newspapers and magazines. “I was sitting in the park, having a cigarette, when [Govberg] sits down next to me—starin’ hard at my watch,” frowned Grays Ferry resident Vernon Ryan, 40. “‘Sell me your fine timepiece today,’ he says—and his voice is all shaky. Accourse, I got the hell out of there.” According to Center City’s Irene Helprin, 55, “[Govberg] has become a public menace, if you ask me. For God’s sake, on Saturday, he tried to rip the pearl earrings right out of my ears!”
Govberg, reached outside his store, seemed much too distracted to respond to the allegations. “Say, that’s a fine timepiece you’ve got there,” he said, eyes dancing, spittle forming at his lips as he gazed hungrily at this reporter’s wristwatch. “And have you any diamonds? Why not sell them to me today?” Such boldness troubled James, the Rittenhouse Square resident. “I think the jewelry-resale business has pushed Mr. Govberg off the deep end,” she said sadly. “And—just between you and me—I hear he’s stopped bathing, too.” |
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