Ermine quilts. Woven leather bread baskets. Biscotti cappuccino latte cinnamon garnish. Peruvian canine sweaters. Titanium alloy door knobs. Fur-lined glacier goggles. Iguana therapy. Mechanized aluminum mango holders. Pesto-roasted garlic parmesan gorgonzola sun dried tomato toothpicks. Freshly-ground pepper, delivered to your door via horse-drawn carriage.

Such are the trappings of modern luxury, if you believe the catalogs I find piled inside our door everyday. Evidently someone out there hopes someone in here wants this stuff. Perhaps they have good reasons for such a hope–I forgot to mention the electric nose hair trimmers. We own those. How embarrassing.

How bourgeois. Of course, they were partially a novelty gift for my dad–and he no longer has those unsightly schnozz-sprouts. When my mom ordered the clippers, the operator asked if she wanted two–one for each fur-lined nostril.

Buy one over-priced gadget from Halamacher Scalamacher and they arrive at your door in droves, indexes of yuppie culture positively glowing with healthy earth tones. The glossy pages boast eight different kinds of rustic looking shelving devices and a pear-mint scented fluid with which to clean them. Still, these catalogs prey so obviously on yuppie taste that it makes me cringe. Try a little tact, if you would.

Starbucks, though they send us no catalog, leads the charge of the yuppie hunters. They should sell Starbucks bed sheets, with the aroma of steaming mocha. They’d make a killing. Set foot in any Starbucks and you’ll understand what I’m saying. Obscure jazz jangles in the foreground, and someone has written poetry on the walls. How quaint. How beat. The floors are wood, the counters feature something heavy like marble, and all around glitter bits of chromed bright work.

It would all seem (or be) real if this company consisted of only this one coffeehouse. But it’s not–this company plans to have 2000 outlets by the year 2000, at least one on every continent (even, I presume, Antarctica, for the yuppie tourists hell-bent on seeing real penguins in their natural habitat).

A barista accidentally shatters a crystal espresso shot glass. Somewhere a yuppie fairy drops dead.

I just think it’s funny, all this targeted marketing. Almost every company on the planet cultivates this sort of charming corporate image–think of Burger King with its golden oldies ads or Abercrombie and Fitch with its borderline kiddy porn. Appealing to a consumer’s sense of self can be profitable.

If I think I’m a radically hip Beatnikesque throwback, when I walk into a Starbucks, I’m going to become a patron. I’m going to order the same triple-frothed hyper-caffeinated goat’s milk latte everyday and the person working behind the counter will learn my name. She’ll start making my beverage right when I walk in–I won’t have to say a word.

I’ll reread the mural poetry for the ninety-second time–it’s starting to move me–as she twirls the sparkly levers and faucets. Personalized service–how very cool and unique.

Don’t pick on the yuppies. They, or should I say we, can’t help it if real French boot buffers strike our fancy. It’s not bad, not abnormally sleazy, just funny.

Mostly this article is simply a forum for me to write things like hand-carved inlaid mahogany-and-rosewood computer track ball. Or US Navy SEALS precision synchronized chronometer.

Or hands-free voice operated cordless Cuisinart.