“There’s no there there.” ~ Gertrude Stein
Our culture embodies mutually-exclusive beliefs in tribalism and individual exceptionalism. An extreme and overt example of this would be the relationship between Donald Trump and Elon Musk.
Tribalism used to depend on family; over the past millennium it increasingly has come to depend on wealth and status with new elite groupings developing every day — now they’re called “lifestyles.” The economic stratification of America isn’t dissimilar to the caste system of India, the main distinction being that Americans believe they have the opportunity to gain more and more status if they put their shoulders to the grindstones and employ good ol’ fashioned industriousness.
Rooted in the contradictions of a society that (falsely) promises equal opportunity yet remains profoundly hierarchical, our will to status produces more and more exclusive “tribes.” These tribes are rarely defined through explicit discourse, but rather through subtle performed semiotic coding. From the color and weight of our credit cards (business cards in “American Psycho”) to the amenities of destination hotels, from the logos embroidered on shirts, hats, and handbags, status functions simultaneously as a mechanism of both distinction and belonging. Obviously social media has exacerbated the performative nature of status in our society — and now we’re learning that many of these “influencers” are faking it a little too hard until they make it.
The most immediate and obvious craving for acceptance is revealed in our fashion choices. Fashion functions as a finely calibrated machine of social inscription, where our choices become markers subtly positioning us within overlapping hierarchies of taste, wealth, and cultural capital. Particularly in neighborhoods like mine — Santa Monica — designer handbags wield immense semiotic power as potent symbols of luxury and status. The extreme example is the Birkin bag, whose forced scarcity elevates it far beyond mere monetary value. Much like the “stealth wealth” signaled in “Succession” character Kendall’s understated yet exclusive Loro Piana baseball cap, a Birkin bag broadcasts cultural capital through a quiet exclusivity that avoids the nouveau riche flamboyance of brands such as Gucci, Chanel and Louis Vuitton. Each handbag thus functions as a tactile vocabulary, enabling the wearer not only to communicate individual success but also to claim membership in a specific social tribe.
Cars are also are potent carriers of status coding, imbued with symbolism that transcends utility or performance. Choosing to drive a Porsche instead of a Tesla — or a Bentley rather than an electric car — is more than a decision about transportation. It is a performative act inscribing one’s allegiance to historical and cultural narratives of power and identity. Our choices in cars are grounded cultural scripts that articulate which version of modernity we participate in.
Status coding extends deeply into wellness and lifestyle consumption. Brands like Alo and Lululemon represent more than athletic gear — they demarcate social tribes. Suffused with influencer culture and minimalist aesthetics, Alo signals performative engagement with spectacle, digital sociality, and the elites of social media. Lululemon, by comparison, offers broader accessibility but still articulates functional affluence, disciplined self-optimization, and mainstream fitness aspirations. As for grocery shopping (particularly in Los Angeles), brands imprint even sharper social divides: Erewhon is a locus of spiritual consumption interlaced with material exclusivity, which is a very different vibe than Whole Foods (post Amazon), as well as Trader Joe’s, which focuses on utility and practicality. I won’t even mention Ralph’s, Von’s, Albertsons and other legacy supermarkets…
All of these signifiers — cars, handbags, wellness brands, grocery stores, etc. — converge into a sophisticated system of status coding, performing dual functions of inclusion and exclusion, affinity marking and boundary setting. Individuals engage in these operations both consciously and unconsciously, diving into ongoing semiotic rituals that negotiate their trustworthiness and belonging within chosen communities.
The psychological and cultural competition that lies just below the surface of capitalism propels us to always want more, different, better. In Todd McGowan’s brilliant book, “Capitalism and Desire”, McGowan argues that capitalism thrives because it mirrors the structure of human desire — one marked not by fulfillment but by perpetual lack. Each new status bump provides a tiny dopamine rush as we feel we are getting closer and closer unattainable subconscious goal of wholeness. Status coding, therefore, is not merely the display of wealth or identity; it is a manifestation of the capitalist logic of desire, where each new status symbol is a temporary patch on the ever-widening void of self.
This explains why even billionaires continue to endlessly accumulate more wealth and shiny objects: the enjoyment is not in reaching a final, satiated state but in the perpetual movement toward something that even they can never attain: contentment. The poise of an elite bag, the rev of a Porsche engine, the exclusive allure of the shimmering Alo leggings — each perpetuates the myth that someday you may be included in that innermost innermost circle.
But is there a there there? Is there any final destination besides death? And what is hedonistic, compulsive consumption other than a repression, a distraction from the fact that we’re all going to die.
I hope you see that what we wear, drive, and consume are not mere aesthetic choices but are acts of belonging, signaling our supposed identities to fellow tribe members in the endlessly performed social theatre we call life.
I’ll leave you with apocryphal anecdote: Kurt Vonnegut and Joseph Heller were at a hedge fund manager’s house when Vonnegut informed Heller that their host had made more money that day than Heller would earn from “Catch-22” over his entire lifetime. Heller responded, “Yes, but I have something he will never have: Enough.”