Conspicuous Consumption:

Back in the late 1960s, the term entered (or perhaps "re-entered") the American lexicon as baby boomers came of age and the hard working, disciplined "greatest generation" began to enjoy the wealth the country was developing after two decades of post world war industry.

Having been one of those boomers, I can tell you that one of the first things my parents did was to open a savings account for me, and as a small child, one of my most prized possessions was a piggy bank.

By the end of the Sixties, I had served my country with sufficient distinction to earn a letter of commendation and had returned to civilian life and the job I'd left after having been drafted to help defeat international communism by playing war games in the Black Forest. One of the first things I did was to buy a new car.

One day shortly thereafter, I stopped in the local diner, and as I was paying my bill before leaving, Mrs. Fox—she and her husband owned the place—asked if the new car parked out front (where everyone was sure to see it and me getting in and out of it) was mine. I nodded, and she arched a brow in the way only the most contemptuous of the elderly can and uttered that phrase, "Conspicuous consumption," while depositing my cash in her till and summarily dismissing me. That hurt.

Naturally, I had sought to be admired. Worse, I was already considerably worried about my ability to pay off the loan I'd taken on the new car, the price of which was about 80 percent of the income I expected to receive that year.

But these were good times, especially if you were young and willing to work hard. As it turned out, I was not only able to keep up with my payments but also to earn at least 20 percent more that year than I'd anticipated. I was helping to build the Interstate highway system, and there was enough work to keep a willing and unfettered young man busy for the next five years. Throughout that period I not only worked steadily but also often 60 to 80 hours per week. This provided me with a good income, and limited my consumption. When you're at work that much, there just isn't much time to shop.

I did manage two more splashy purchases during those years: at one point, I was the proud owner of a 23-foot cabin cruiser and a 40-foot house boat. But after owning these two toys for a year, I realized I wasn't really a waterman, and I sold them, managing to recover most of my investment in both instances.

By 1973, I had managed to save the equivalent of three and a half years of normal income, and I decided to strike out in a new direction. I headed west, and conspicuous consumption was no longer the vogue. By this point, even rich kids were wearing worn out jeans, flannel and the proverbial Tennessee Tux (a colored T-shirt with a pocket). Even owning a car made you suspect as someone who might just value personal possessions too much.

Now flash forward thirty-five years. The boomers and the generation that followed have turned that perspective inside out. Stephen Roach, in today's New York Times, chronicles the shift from a country that produces and saves to one that simply consumes in "Dying of Consumption."