You all recall the word "yuppie," right? Of course you do. Young Urban Professionals are those elitist brainiacs freshly out of the Egghead University with designer degrees and fast-track careers rushing hither and thither in their Volvos and Beemers for all to see and envy. Lawyers, U. S. congressmen, plastic surgeons, computer whizzes, entrepreneurs, golf course designers, they arrive crooning that old Third Reich top 40 fave Tomorrow Belongs To Me. And indeed it does… for now.
Actually, given the rising interest rates, those yuppies with ARMS — adjustable rate mortgages — may find that their future, their homes and their cars belong to the Repo Man. But I digress; that’s the subject of another diatribe.
On our travels in America last summer, The Boy, a.k.a. my son, and I encountered a yuppie couple. Without being subjected to litigation, I have lived to tell the tale.
After three days of nursing our vintage — viz. no air conditioning, air-cooled engine — VW camper across the Mojave Desert and Southern Utah in three digit temperatures, The Boy and I found our selves in Arches National Park. The great American Southwest is my favorite place in the world.
The Boy and I chose a campsite nestled beneath sandstone monoliths and pinion-juniper trees. An hour after we set up camp, we were drinking in the soothing sounds of the desert, when they arrived… The Yuppies.
A pseudo-sports hatchback (station wagon) drove up to the site next to ours. Reeking of pretend opulence and brandishing a Bush-Cheney 2004 bumper sticker, the metallic pea Dodge Alcatraz screamed: “Do you know who I am!” The car stereo was blasting some has-been MTV "alternative sell-out," a sure indication of pretend hipster cool. Oh joy. I don’t go camping for this.
Sighing like a well-turned cork, the car engine stopped and the doors opened to decant into the desert a young and beautiful yuppie couple. The fashion plates attempted to assemble their R.E.I. deluxe, four-season shelter (what you and I call a tent). Of course, they kept the music on. Their entire life has to have a soundtrack. With inept camping skills more blatant than their music, they floundered about. The girl squealed, "Should I hit these tent sticks with a rock?" Naw, use your boyfriend’s stylishly shaved head. It’s harder.
Whatever, this pair was clearly out of their element. This is the curse of National Parks. They are not secret. Tenderfeet who know nothing about outdoor etiquette always show up, make a lot of noise and trash the place while purporting to be "green" supporters.
The night passed.
Early morning and I peered out of our VW camper. Hallelujah! The yuppies were gone! Their site was completely abandoned. When the camp host came by, he noticed that the yuppies had bailed. An old-fashioned American from Alabama, the camp host knew about vintage VWs, beer, Jimi Hendrix, the Scopes Monkey Trial, you know, cool stuff.
I told the camp host that I didn’t know where the yuppies went. But their tent was gone, a sure sign of breaking camp. That meant the spot they had vacated was, well, vacant. The camp host joked that they probably couldn’t take the heat. It was 107 degrees. I said, yeah, they looked soft.
So, the yuppie campsite was given to a family with an old-fashioned Coleman trailer. Cool. Now these folks were taking the kids to see America without frills and luxuries, as it should be. Leaving their Coleman trailer at the campsite, the family went off to explore.
At about 7:00 PM, I heard a booming soundtrack: The yuppies had returned. Imagine their fury when they found squatters on their campsite!
Mr. Yuppie fought off a tantrum. Being neighborly I said: "You might want to talk to the camp host about this." He looked at me indignantly and announced: "Why should I talk to the camp host? I have a reservation"!
Well, hoopdy doo! Aren’t we important!
I replied: "Fine. You wait here and kick these people out yourself when they come back." I sat back and waited for the show. Well, that didn’t happen. It didn’t even come close. Ma and Pa Yuppie hadn’t followed a basic rule of camping; always leave something behind to claim your site! Always! Nobody is going to steal your tent! What, were they paranoid? Never mind. Dumb question. The yuppies slithered off after about ten minutes of "deep thinking" and frantic, useless attempts to make calls from their cell phones. Surprise, surprise! There ain’t no service out here!
What a couple of nimrods! They lost their site. They expected everyone to simply know it was their spot. I mean they had a reservation right? What a shock for the yuppies to discover that The World does not belong to them.
When did humility go out of style? Sure, it comes hard. The fact is, all human arrangements are flawed. Sometimes we get it wrong. How we recognize our errors and deal with them is what matters. A self-centered mentality epitomizes the essence of the American yuppie. On the way out is the American who admits his mistakes, honors integrity and does not demand camp ground or global dominance as his right.
Those yuppies have a lot of learnin’ to do. It was a small incident but it illustrates much. Starting with a campsite, those yuppies think they have God-given reservations for the premier spots on this planet. It just don’t work that way!
Trouble is, not a one of us is all that important. In the big scheme of things, we’re just future oil deposits over which a society of giant insect men will fight wars in the distant future. My money is on the Empire of The Mantis People.
Now before I piss off everybody… again… let’s get one thing straight. Not all yuppies are sniveling, arrogant clones of Dick Cheney. Hey, some of them are my friends… well, perhaps not after they read this.
As a society, America is doomed if these self-important children don’t mend their ways. I hate to say it but if the USA continues to behave like a spoiled yuppie brat there’s going to be a spanking.
Elizabeth Gyllensvard edited and contributed to this article.
