This past fall I attended a working conference in downtown Toronto, and decided to share the trip with a couple of my daughters. They paid for part of their flights and during my off hours, we did some sight-seeing, visited relatives, and attended the theatre district there.
While out walking around Yonge Street one evening, we mused aloud whether we might bump in to the street protesters we had been hearing so much about on the news. Occupy Toronto was in full swing, and a court case was pending to try and have the inner-city camp forcibly-removed. This might be a questionable tourist activity, but we felt almost famous for being so close to this notorious clash of cultures.
The corner of Yonge and Dundas represents perhaps Canada's most spectacular consumer intersection. On full outdoor display there is a massive, dazzling multi-story array of neon lights and screens on all four sides. There, among the street entertainers, we thought we had stumbled upon the "Occupy" protest -- a few hundred people camped out in front of Sears, with sleeping bags, tents, warm coats and so on, some of whom were carry placards. I grabbed my camera, and we made our way to the ropes which separated the sidewalk camp from the rest of us. As I got closer, I was surprised to see how well-dressed they were. "They have some classy protestors here in Toronto!" I commented to my daughter. Fur hats and expensive ski coats kept them warm, while they sat in nice wooden folding chairs, and high-end camping gear adorned their well-kept tents.
As I was about to take a picture, I noticed that one of the camper's signs read: "Please respect our privacy. No Pictures." A security guard was just behind me, looking more amused than menacing. "I don't get it" I queried, "don't we see these guys on the news every night? Why don't they want us to take their pictures?"
"These are not protestors," he explained in halting English. "They are waiting in line for the Versace sale tomorrow morning." Noting the screwed up look on my face, he explained: "Versace... $300 throw cushions, $400 bath towels, that sort of thing, you know?"
In the stuffy world of economics, Veblen goods refer to status symbol purchases. In short, when money is no object, some people choose to distinguish themselves by making conspicuously-expensive purchases whose functional utility includes the bragging rights for what they spent.
In the geezer hockey league I play in, we have no such affliction. Quite the opposite, some of us have developed a strange sentimentality about our old hockey stuff. The attachment we feel towards a bag overstuffed with some of the raunchiest, sweat-stained pile of semi-rotten padding imaginable will sound like some sort of mental illness to all but the similarly-afflicted.
I think it's the smell. I mean, none of us actually like the smell, but the stench is so deeply associated with the sheer joy of the game, and is so poignant, that we can't help ourselves. We breath it in with bizarre, grimacing semi-fondness, and refuse to wash our gear more than once a year.
There is another group most certainly not burdened by the pitfalls of Veblen goods -- investors. Investors have been making and saving money for dozens of years, and the thought of wasting it on status symbol purchases is worse than an ill wind steaming off a pile of decomposing synthetic leather. Their hard-earned money may be stained with grease, or sweat, or soil, but it but it holds a sweet smell that they are in no hurry to wash out.
Mark Ryan is an advisor with RBC Wealth Management, Dominion Securities, (member CIPF) and can be reached at [email protected].
