The 'short-fingered vulgarian'. Daniel J. Barry/WireImage

I know something about yuppies: the acronym for the young urban professionals who entered the popular imagination in the Eighties, obsessed with their money, their careers and all the preoccupations, predilections and playthings that came along for the BMW ride.
I myself had matured from Pepsi to Michelob to bloviating with great intellectual depth and subtlety about olive oil from Tuscany. From my elite institute of higher education I had descended upon the big city, sold magazine articles, then the book, then the movie rights — all of which was mere preamble to the first Cuisinart, the first VCR and chopping shitake mushrooms on butcher-block countertops. I was convinced that The Big Chill was a major cinematic achievement and that Jay McInerney’s Bright Lights, Big City was the great American novel. As my wife and I strolled from our renovated loft in an old industrial building — our little corner of real estate procured by means of a mortgage at a ridiculously high rate our dual-income household had been ridiculously happy to obtain — we took our first bite of forbidden fruit from the Garden of Eden that was New York City: not an apple, but a David’s Cookie.
So it was with great anticipation that I began to flip through the pages of Tom McGrath’s Triumph of the Yuppies. Finally, someone might bring order and perspective to the cognitive dissonance of Jane Fonda workouts, LL Bean suspenders, MBAs, hardwood floors and the epic advent of The Preppy Handbook.
Of course, McGrath would not be the first to go long or short on the Eighties, from the frenzied traders of Michael Lewis’s Liar’s Poker to the toxic class warriors of Tom Wolfe’s Bonfire of the Vanities to the epicureans who populate the infamous comic book series, Yuppies, Rednecks, and Lesbian Bitches from Mars. Still, I nurtured hopes that, at long last, McGrath might shed light on an enduring paradox: how a decade of hard work, high hopes and extraordinary ambition led us to our present moment of collective anger, distrust and despair. Today, our world is threatened by the last (and arguably the apotheosis) of the yuppie tribe, Donald Trump, who still believes a red tie is de rigueur, that lying is a form of venture capitalism, and that lipstick on a pig is a good business strategy — as long as it’s Dior or Louboutin. But perhaps that would be too much to ask of McGrath, or of any author of a book that also includes musings about Tofutti.
To his credit, the author earnestly reminds us that: “while thousands of people in Ohio and Michigan were visiting soup kitchens, and two-thirds of all Americans reported feeling anxious about losing their home or business… people who were well off were spending freely on things like travel, high-end real estate, jewelry, gourmet food, fine wine, and furs.” Unfortunately, McGrath offers no profound explanation for the fact that the evisceration of the American middle class went unnoticed by so many, except for the mesmerising pull of watching rich people behave badly on 357 episodes of Dallas and 220 episodes of Aaron Spelling’s Dynasty.
The book underscores the injustice of America’s tragic split, but stops short of condemning my generation’s blithe indifference to other people’s suffering, which could only be matched by our fascination with other people’s money. There is no moral outrage here, no foreboding sense of privatisation’s ineluctable advance across the globe, no disgust registered about the fact that finance capital writ large would leave a trail of third-world misery. And there’s no sense of how that fatal fracture between haves and have-nots might eventually be turned to profit by those who would exploit envy, resentment and rage, and turn the disempowered remnants of a disillusioned electorate into incensed insurrectionists, as was the case on 6 January.
Ignoring such intimations of impending doom, McGrath keeps to the straight and narrow by following the story of Michael Milken, who rose from finance nerd to junk bond king before succumbing to securities trading fraud. He details General Electric CEO Jack Welch’s conquest of the quarterly report while ruining livelihoods across small town America. But he fails to deliver a deeper sense of why, at the time, we actually envied our friends with MBAs who were heading for the C-suite. While we knew something of immense import was going on in the offices Goldman Sachs, Morgan Stanley, Shearson Lehman and Kidder Peabody, we did not really consider that 100 hours at the office each week might have some impact other than who could pick up the check at Nobu.
The yuppie era saw American innocence sacrificed on the altar of corporate mergers, leveraged buyouts and junk bonds. McGrath contrasts Ronald Reagan’s rosy speeches with the economic realities of a hollowed out middling class and the sociological stratification that resulted in two Americas. But here, too, he fails to note the ominous bifurcation of ad man Hal Riney’s promise that “It’s morning again in America”. This optimistic declaration that led Reagan to the Oval Office would eventually decay into the paranoid catalogue of American carnage that drove Trump to the same destination in 2016 — and might once again do the trick.
We are reminded that elitism, white flight, racism and cocaine-fuelled corruption went along with Perrier, Cross pens and premium ice cream. But Yuppies struggles to tell a pair of irreconcilable tales: McGrath must deliver the failures of the United States auto industry, the tragedy of the United States steel mill worker and the devastation of widespread farm foreclosures — while not forgetting to note the surge of coffee culture in Seattle and McMansions in Connecticut.
Perhaps it is fitting that McGrath’s emotional register goes no further than irony, typified by his narration of Jerry Rubin’s journey from Hippie to Yippie to Yuppie to stockbroker to capitalist nabob of networking — then back to cultural irrelevance. But McGrath’s irony ends there, neglecting to add how Rubin’s collection of 70,000 business cards from his fellow yuppies would lead to the venal absurdities of Soho House and Zero Bond.
How else did the army of rapacious Material Girls and Saab-driving Modern Families define today’s cultural arena? McGrath had a chance to connect the yuppie’s infamous commodification of everything everywhere all at once to a world in which Eighties fashion icons such as Calvin Klein and Gloria Vanderbilt would make that Eighties mantra, “dress for success”, into a full-time gig for influencers. But once again he shies away from the ugly truths that raw lust for fame, money and power would grow into armies of living, breathing avatars of capitalism — from toned pecs to perfect complexions.
McGrath describes the change to language itself, as in the yuppie’s spreadsheet-adjacent parlance of “interface”, “bottom line”, “fast track”, and “prioritise” — but will not take the next discomfiting step: that modern love and friendship would eventually align with algorithms. Nor does he delve into the meta-textual obsessions of the era, the victory of surfaces over depth, the defeat of Sixties idealism by the trivial pursuit of pop culture regurgitation, as the interrogation of corporate and political responsibility was replaced by a more pressing question: Who shot J.R.?
Yuppies also fails to show how the rapey ruthlessness of Dynasty‘s Blake Carrington might have had anything to do with the rise of a philandering nepo baby whom the ultimate chronicler of yuppie mores, Spy magazine, famously dubbed a “short-fingered vulgarian” — Donald Trump. In this regard, McGrath may be guilty of ignoring the most plangent of all yuppie phenomena, namely the origins of the absurd dictum that in order to succeed we must all become our own brands. This scourge was not lost on that same Eighties real-estate developer, who after a series of business failures and financial losses of more than $1 billion (and the ultimate embarrassment of being banished from the Forbes 400 list) reached a fateful decision: This particular über-yup would no longer develop and sell properties — or anything real, for that matter — but only his gilded name. The consequences would be devastating.
A quarter century after the Iranian hostage crisis doomed Jimmy Carter’s presidency and made the star of Bedtime for Bonzo into the most powerful man in the world, a new era came to dawn. On 8 January 2004, The Apprentice made its debut on NBC, delivering an unending feast of yuppie signifiers to the short-fingered vulgarian himself. It was the moment triumph transformed into tribulation.
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SubscribeI am keeping it simple, just rooting for Valerie.
I fully sympathise with letting go of the bike. I started taking my son to swimming lessons when he was a baby – his mom is a bit of a hydrophobe when it comes to submerging herself, and we wanted him to be used to water from the off to avoid any chance of “inheriting” it.
I was the *absolute worst* in the class of 20 or so at letting go of him in the water. The instructor used to yell at me over it.
Now in his teens, I’m working hard on getting him ready for the “real world” – teaching him basic DIY, household finances, extra tuition for his studies and such, so I think I must be past whatever it was. Maybe living with a teenager has altered my thinking!
Can’t comment on Sylvanian Families, I guess I’m old enough to have missed them coming out, and i thought it was some sort of vampire thing (Hotel Transylvania style)…
You sounds like a great dad! You didn’t miss anything with the Sylvanian Families, they were freaky things.
Good for you. I mean teaching him the real and really useful things I bet they still don’t teach at school. Basic DIY. How to manage money at household level. You’re setting your son on the path of a successful life
Well done in letting go of the bike. I hope you are successful in letting go psychologically to allow your daughter to become a fully independent adult. So many parents never achieve this.
Re: pets as ersatz-children. I have observed (and thought) this recently.
My circle of acquaintances includes a couple who are empty-nesters. Their son is in his early 20s, he was mainly raised by his mother who stayed at home while dad worked. This set-up seemed to work quite harmoniously, but I always felt that the wife’s compromises in life had included accepting (or having to accept) that her husband was not a giver of emotional support or nourishment; he was focused on work, always doing his own thing and probably never thought too much about his wife’s emotional needs. Buy her nice clothes, nice Christmas presents, the occasional nice holiday – job done.
Anyways, as soon as the child flew the nest, the wife got a dog. The husband’s life continued as before (work, work, work, travel, travel, travel) but a huge void had clearly opened up in her life when her child grew up and her role as mother retreated (I assume that it never “stops”) and the dog was the perfect way of filling it. And it was, I suppose, also a way of keeping the marriage ticking along as it had done before. The wife’s mothering instincts shift onto the pet, which is dependent as a child and gives a kind of emotional sustenance. The husband can keep the distance he obviously needs to be happy in the marriage. Everyone’s a winner.
Re: adults using kids’ toys. I scoffed at this for a long time – until The Other Half (a Lego lover from early on) persuaded me to do a Lego project. I said OK, go on then. Being as lovely and generous as he is, he bought me a beautiful girly set: an autumnal flower arrangement.
I loved it! I wasn’t just impressed and delighted at how well these things are made and thought out, it was intensely soothing to lose myself in a manual project after spending all day in the digital sphere.
It’s now an annual ritual: he gets a project and I get a project and we sit down and do them together. This year, I had a kingfisher, he did Notre Dame cathedral.
Who cares if we’re the typical, overgrown millennial kids? We can afford it and it’s something to do together that doesn’t involve screens or politics.
What a good idea, and your acquaintance’s also.
Makes me think ultimately the human spirit will triumph, despite all the nonsense.
I think there are far more worrying things than doting on pets to fulfill one’s own emotional needs. As long as the pet doesn’t suffer from the lashings of love and care, everyone’s a winner.
Almost agree. They, and society, are not winners if they have pets rather than children. Unless they are loony progressive woke types of course.
Im sure she would feel much more included in society and relevant if she got a job as an early morning cleaner at IKEA and got up at 3am to catch the 5.30am bus across town. She’d get a surprise if she did. A whole secret society of people who have dropped out,but still need to pay bills. Are super intelligent but choose to keep it to themselves rather than sell it to The Man. So much nicer to spend most of your precious time in the company of shitty people you don’t like and who you carefully curate OUT of your friend group. For money. Your husband has to. You don’t . So dont.
Owning a pet is a strange business. You deprive it of a natural adult life and take total responsibility for it. Parents do not own children, their role is to nuture them whilst they mature into an adult and wean them, so they can be an adult. It should be an enjoyable experience on both sides. Ownership is not part of it and they shouldn’t be a surrogate pet.
I think that Mary is experiencing the loss of innocence the second time around, the first being her own, the second her child’s. As a mother, she can create an innocent being, but not prevent its loss of innocence any more than she could prevent her own. That’s what I experienced, but didn’t fully realize it until reading this article. And that’s yet another reason why Mary is worth reading.
Fine observation. I hadn’t put her thoughts in the context of loss of her own innocence, but i think you’re right.
Plus, it’s probably a lot more important than many of us might care to acknowledge, as we rush towards independence. The surest sign of success as a parent is an independent child, a fully-fledged adult.
Becoming independent in a more complex world than my youth seems to be more ‘scary’ and the recent trans phenomenon is likely a reflection of that. Maybe those adults who promote it are suffering from their own issues over loss of innocence. That’s not to exonerate them; not at all. It’s simply to reflect on something deep within the human psyche.
Point of order. Mary did not create her daughter. Lack of understanding of biology with perhaps a touch of misandry MJ
The subject here isn’t biology, but growing up and becoming a person. The idea of ‘creation’ in this is not misplaced.
Co-created then. I understand the biology of procreation. If she had mentioned her husband sharing the same feeling, I might have used that word instead. And no, I don’t hate men, neither myself nor you.
Loss of ignorance not innocence. I’ve known old ladies of 80+ who’ve had several children and know what’s what but they keep that quality till they die. You lose Ignorance. Usually from experience despite “sex education”. And then you realize that most of what you’ve learned was never worth knowing in the first place.
You don’t need to lose innocence as you become older.
I’m sure you’ll love your little girl even when she’s a big girl and bossing you about. That’s a film I’d watch “I claimed Freedom ,woof woof”. I wonder how many rare endangered Australian native creatures Valerie has killed and eaten so far! But maybe she is filling a niche that we had emptied. When I was ten I had to,with my younger siblings go to stay with my grandparents on their remote Dartmoor farm. It was for two months while my Mum was in hospital. Another ten year old girl lived up the lane. She was more like a granddaughter to the family than we were. Well,they knew her she was there all the time. She had a very special relationship with my uncle,my Dad’s youngest brother,at that time a good looking and vigorous 25 year old young man. I.so remember the cuddly huggy closeness of Uncle Stuart and his cute little doll like friend. I mean we all know now that children born of us are void of sexuality until the magic day they hit 18,or is it 21,or maybe 30. I guess it depends on how rich the one you want to sue is.
Eh?
I am “triggered” by any mention of Sylvanian Families. My younger son had a brief, all-pocket-money-spending, pash on them. The most revolting items I’ve ever seen. I even preferred the later Panini stickers and WWE figures pashes.
Anyway, I must be heartless, because I never felt any pangs. Oops.
Interesting conflation of ideas. Made for a good read but communicated intrinsically what we already knew.
Who would want to pour filth onto the world of the Sylvanians? Undoubtedly there would be radicals of some persuasion or other who would, just as they did with that other reflection of childhood innocence, Rupert the Bear.
If you want to stay your hand and not do this, it would be out of pity. The individual creatures cannot fight back, even the predatory ones. You would have some sense that you must not transgress a sacred boundary over which the other exists in a way that you do not.
The Edwardians would have called these toys ‘dressed animals’. They appear in such novels as Wind in the Willows; essentially a story for adults. The Victorians had a fad for stuffing small animals, dressing them and posing them in human settings. A strange mixing of their sometimes ghoulish treatment of death with innocence.
How would the Sylvanian infants benefit from being taught sex, swearing, and smoking? Would they be ‘liberated’ from the ‘darkness’ of ignorance?
If they were taught to feel despondency and gloom over the state of maritime pollution, as clearly the schoolchildren of Eastbourne have, to judge from their poems that decorate the 1930s seafront bandstand, would they be freed from their bourgeois ‘isolation’?
There is a scene in the film Titanic where the rebellious female hero sees an upper middle class mother and her dutiful daughter at table in the restaurant. The heroine looks at them with contempt, even hatred, and then goes carousing and out-drinking the men. From frilly lace respectability to frowzy ‘authenticity’.
There is what may be called a law of sin in Christian theology. Once sin has mastered a person they feel a craving to drag others down into the pit. Such was Potiphar’s wife in the Genesis story.
Her target is a young man who had been abominably treated and who might have been expected as a consequence to have developed a bitterness of spirit that would give opportunity to receive this invitation to rebellion.
But the young man, Joseph, responds, “How can I do this great wickedness and sin against God.” How could anyone pour filth on the Sylvanian infants? How could anyone teach the Sylvanian primary school children ‘bum sex’ and not know exactly what they were doing, both to each individual and also to their family structure?
In the Gospels, Jesus of Nazareth holds up infant children as exemplars of the kingdom of heaven. Small children copy their parents exactly and trust them implicitly. When engaged in a task, they have a formidable single-mindedness. All these characteristics are those ascribed to Jesus of Nazareth in his following of his Father in Heaven.
In the setting that the Sylvanian parents and children are posed in by those who play with them, there is a recreation of Eden: a spiritual reminder of our fall.
Sorry if I keep repeating myself but, yet again, the whole pet thing is another leisure pursuit (and lucrative industry) due to our relative wealth in the last 40 odd years. Before that cats and dogs usually worked for their living helping with the hunt, or keeping vermin down.
The aristocrats and gentry were the only ones who could afford to have toy or ‘lap’ dogs, or occasionally little monkeys. It is that self indulgence that has filtered down to almost anyone in the latter half of the 20th century, and up until today in the 21st.
Maybe it’s just that humans like to have something to lavish affection on if possible, especially when the creature can be so devoted – dogs, or sensuous – cats.
Of course ‘helping with the hunt or keeping vermin down’ or watching the kids and home, etc. are part of a more naturally fulfilled life for our pets. It’s really the best way to keep them happy.
P.S. The hunt doesn’t have to end in anything’s death. The chase is the important part. My father had a small dog who couldn’t get enough of chasing the deer. Eventually the deer started coming around to tease her and off they would go, playing harts and hounds all around the adjacent woods, until she came home happy and ready for a long nap.
There might be some good advice here in re: raising children. But, alas, I’m not in a position to say.
It was ever thus,
https://verse.press/poem/in-reference-to-her-children-23-june-1659-10831
Lovely poem which I hadn’t come across before. Thank you.
Point of Order: Kangaroo Island is off the coast of South Australia, not Western Australia.
You beat me to it. I wondered what the dachshund lived on or if it was decimating all the boring little grey marsupials but it appears there are mice and rats (introduced) there which is just what it was designed to hunt.
The breed was actually designed to flush badgers out of their sets, I believe, hence the name.
Home of the wonderful Echidna!
You’re thinking of Echidna Island.
Not in my case as Kangaroo Island is the only place I have spotted the ‘beast’, and that includes extensive yet futile searches in Tasmania!
Stealthy beast, the echidna. The platypus even more so.
Plenty around where I grew up in the Otway foothills. My Scottish friend was delighted to spot a spiny anteater on his visit and tried to think of the usual name but … ‘echidna.
I’ll get my coat.
When I read ‘Sylvanian’ I just assumed K.I. was off the coast of Noeline Donaher.
Have a look at forest_fr1ends on X if you want some Sylvanian smut.