Yuppie Like Me?

It's certainly not the greatest of films, but there's a memorable scene in "Damien: Omen II" wherein the titular, young anti-hero gets tipped off as to his actual identity (that being, of course, the human embodiment of absolute evil). Initially incredulous, he whips out a Bible, finds a descriptive verse and then summarily searches for the mark of the beast (three little sixes) that are purportedly etched into his scalp beneath his bowl of jet black hair. With the aid of a mirror, Damien spots the mark and lapses into a fleeting and somewhat hoarily melodramatic, existential crisis. He runs through the woods to a nearby dock and screams out over the water to one uncaring deity or another, "Why? WHY ME??" He gets over it, of course, and in relatively short order, Damien gets on with the nasty business of being the antichrist. Infernal shenanigans ensue.

I had a similar moment of dreadful self-examination recently, only my quandary lacked the supernatural payoff (try as I might, I remain unable to summon jackals at the slightest whim to rip the flesh off of my many nemeses). Invariably because of my big mouthed opinions regarding the metastasizing gentrification of Manhattan, I've been branded with the arguably justifiable title of "hypocrite." On a couple of discussion boards I've been known to sound off on, I've been reduced to a bit of cartoon character for loudly lamenting the vapid transformation of downtown while at the same time having the audacity to live in a building with a doorman (yes, I know -- where on God's green Earth do I get off??) I can live with this conflict. I'm only human, after all. As such, I'm not above the odd moment of contradiction, although I'd hasten to point out that there were indeed veritable scores of buildings staffed with doormen downtown long before the seismic re-drawing of Lower Manhattan's map took hold. I've copped to it on other posts here. I've admitted to shopping -- however begrudgingly -- at outlets like the rancid K-Mart on Astor Place, if only because as a father of two, it takes my diaper-shopping-dollar the furthest. I'm not perfect and I'm not happy about it either, but at least I'm aware of it. I don't blithely turn a blind eye to the changes that are going on. I remain as reverent of Manhattan's storied history and character as I can, but I must take care of my family first.

So I'll cop to a bit of that accusation. I did, after all, move downtown from the Upper East Side. I'm a native New Yorker, but I'm not a downtowner by birth. I was fortunate enough to grow up in Manhattan and attend schools that I currently have no prayer in hell of being financially able to send my own children to. While never especially affluent, I was privileged enough to live and -- so far -- remain here. In that light, I am an interloper downtown. But, again, at the very least I am cognizant and respectful of the environment and loathe to see it erode as it's doing. 

But while I'll dutifully carry that cross, there was another term shot in my direction that made me wince and bristle, that being the dreaded word "Yuppie." First of all, the term itself seems so dated. Calling someone a Yuppie in 2008 seems vaguely akin to calling someone a Beatnik or a Teddy Boy. It's a title firmly rooted in the 1980s. TIME Magazine even jokingly declared the death of the Yuppie in 1991. Wikipedia defines Yuppie -- obviously short for "Young Urban Professional" or "Young Upwardly Mobile Professoinal" -- as "a market segment whose consumers are characterized as self-reliant, financially secure individualists." I certainly know my fair share of bona fide Yuppies, but am I one?

If I am a Yuppie, I'm certainly not a very good one. I don't own a suit, three-piece or otherwise. I hate sports. I think Bret Easton Ellis and Jay McInerney were slavishly overrated tools. I don't like Starbucks. I don't own any albums by Hootie & the Blowfish, John Mayer, Bruce Springsteen or The Eagles. In college, while everyone else was majoring in Economics, I pursued English and Studio Art. I wasn't in a fraternity. After we all graduated, while those former classmates feverishly commenced lucrative careers in banking and finance, I delved into the vocational wasteland that is music journalism. While they were networking in Midtown cigar bars, I was shuttling downtown to catch bands like Cop Shoot Cop at CBGB or The Voluptuous Horror of Karen Black at The Pyramid. I've never had a six-figure salary, much less a job that I had to wear a tie to. I've never owned a car. I don't own nor want a Blackberry. I've managed to carve out a respectable career in journalism, but even at its veritable zenith, that's never been the most high-paying of fields.  I'm certainly not young, and after nine months of crippling unemployment, that last thing I'm feeling is "upwardly mobile". I was blessed to finally land a job in March, but this past year has been leanest, most stressful period of my life, and I've still got a long way to dig out from the hole. I'm dangerously close to being entirely priced out of Manhattan, to say nothing of being gravely in peril of not being able to pay for my kids' education. Is this Yuppie living? 

Still, I have no leg to stand on in my defense against the nasty epithet. I'm white. I'm (arguably) a professional. I live in a doorman building. I'm solvent enough to live here, but probably for not much longer. Once I'm finally forced to kiss Manhattan goodbye (a reality that is near enough to taste at this point), I don't know where we'll end up. Brooklyn's already been be-set by hordes of inarguably genuine Yuppies -- or, more precisely Yunnies (Young Urban Narcissists). Maybe we'll go to Queens or Westchester or maybe we'll split and move somewhere where these titles won't matter. I know it's just this type of angst that fueled five seasons of "Thirtysomething," but at least I'm demonstrating a trait that most Yuppies -- legit or otherwise -- usually don't have: self-awareness.