Die Yuppie Scum

A good friend reminds us this morning via Twitter:

AMERICA. You forgot the yuppies. You forgot the yuppies. Hipsters are a diversion.

As if they were checking Twitter on their smartphones, a couple of gentlemen during my morning commute carried on a rather loud conversation about how "they" are pushing "us" out of the city. Wearing argyle socks, a pink OCBD and a windbreaker while reading the morning's WSJ, I couldn't help but realize that I was the "they" in that conversation.

I'm not a hipster. I'm too old, too married, too employed. I have clients, a mortgage and a lawn mower. Sure, I once dabbled in facial hair, band t-shirts and radical politics; I know my way around cheap beer, pawn shops, and house shows. But when I go out now, the kids see me as some boring old guy - if they see me at all. Guy Debord may still have a place on my bookshelf, but the truth is I've become much more establishment than situationist.

I would argue, however, that I'm not a Yuppie, either. For one thing, I don't know what the cutoff age is, but I've got to be approaching it. For another thing, I don't wear my duck boots with a suit.

That said, I do own pink pants and bit loafers. Crap.

Anyway, my friend is right. You don't hear much about Yuppies anymore. Of course, we all agree that we hate Fabulous Fab, and we're definitely disgusted with the foppish elitism of a President who eats dijon mustard. But 'Yuppie' just sounds so quaint.

So what does all this mean? Well, hopefully someone will vouch for my character when Red Guard finally comes to strip me of my docksiders and haul me off to a re-education camp. In the meantime, I'll take the excuse to post clips from Last Days of Disco.