Sep 4, 2008 10:26 AM
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In this time of economic woe, those of us stranded in the middle and lower classes aren't circling the wagons, trying to protect what little stake we've left. Instead we're looking at those people far across the income gap—the fantastic private jet-having super rich—congratulating and emulating them and waving them to greener shores while we stand dumbly on the docks. Or so argues Alessandra Stanley in a Times trend piece today, using the new hyper-moneyed 90210 as a springboard.
You see those kids aren't just rich like they might have been on such a show thirty years ago, with a sports car and a nice haircut. In this "new," cash-obsessed post-Reagan era, your typical rich kids are Aaron Spelling rich. With like private planes and hugely expensive birthday parties and $800 just-because! friend presents. Even the new kids in town—fresh from storied rube-mill Kansas!—don't live in a humble shack. No, they live in a big stucco mansion with their prodigal rich kid dad, their fashionista mother, and their boozy former actress of a grandmother. That's the new poor! Same goes for the humble Humphreys on the east coast money fest Gossip Girl who, as the penniless kids in town, live in a modestly sprawling DUMBO loft with their former rockstar, gallery owner dad.
Our fascination with bank accounts not our own represents some kind of political pandemic, Stanley argues:
It could be that adolescents, like their parents, simply do not want to identify with ordinary folk. The economy is bad, but it’s still an aspirational age. Some economists argue that many lower-income Americans, young and old, vote against their own financial interests — opposing tax increases on the wealthy or a national health-insurance plan — because they identify with people who have more money and hope and even assume that someday they too will reach those lofty tax brackets.
Which sounds sort of ominous and wicked, no? A huge chunk of the population wooed by glowing lights and flashy fake rich people, hypnotized and sedated enough to not realize we're being pick-pocketed where we stand. Pretty grim for "teen entertainment." And you thought the sex was bad! (Well, maybe you didn't.)
Send an email to Richard Lawson, the author of this post, at richardl@gawker.com.
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