labubus.

A few days ago, I found myself at Westfield Century City. As much as I love towering skyscrapers, a dazzling aesthetic that rivals that of Fremont street, and listening to white LA girls gossip about their middle-school friends, I wasn’t there on purpose.

No, of course I was not there on purpose. I was here because after exploring so much of Los Angeles, I thought it would be funny to allow Google Maps to tell me that the new, beachside-facing Din Tai Fung was in Westfield Century City of all places. Obviously not in Santa Monica where everyone says.

I tried to kill my 2-hour wait time at Din Tai Fung by grabbing gelato from Bacio di Latte, attempting to get a hold of the Dubai Chocolate Shake at Shake Shack, and roaming up and down floors in the mall. Eventually, I walked into Pop Mart.

Pop Mart brought back a lot of nostalgia from my childhood — as a kid, I would spend a lot of time watching unboxing videos for all kinds of mystery boxes and bags. One of my most prized possessions is a Kidrobot Shah Mat Dunny Chess figurine. As I was bickering to my friend about how I own some Skullpanda figures, a long line formed just outside the store. Curious, and a little bit concerned, I walked out of the store to see what the fuss was around — and realised the line was for the vending machine, where they were just about to restock the “Exciting Macaron” blind box, which, you guessed it, is one of the many ways you can get a Labubu.

My instinctive reaction to this situation was to analyze the people waiting in line as much as I could in a 5-second glance. The line seemed as diverse as the crowd at Howlin Ray’s — there were all kinds of people, from Louis Vuitton loyalists to broke college students. So why are these random people capitalizing on my childhood?

I would be lying if I said this was the first incident that introduced me to Labubus — as an avid figurine collector, I was aware of them a good while back, but mostly because I saw them as a symbol of recession. As the economy goes downhill, people of all socioeconomic statuses tend to invest in smaller luxuries, like the Labubu, rather than bigger luxuries, such as houses or cars – this is dubbed as the “lipstick effect”. The lipstick effect has been proven to exist based on data from past recessions, where fast-casual restaurants and movie theatres saw more business than usual (Investopedia, 2024).

The bandwagon effect started from BLACKPINK’s Lisa’s Instagram story, where she posted the Labubu, and what followed were several viral instagram posts and reels featuring the Labubu. This prompted me to think about other viral places where I saw similarly diverse long lines — and the first thing that came to mind was Erewhon. If I were to judge Erewhon based on nothing but food quality, I would think Erewhon is just passable. Given the absurd prices, it’s only somewhat justifiable if you’re desperate to eavesdrop without looking weird — so you buy food just to sit nearby. Plus, the whole roaches controversy is not helping them either (Eater LA, 2025) So why do people even go to Erewhon, or pretend that it’s good?

The answer lies in “conspicuous consumption”, a concept I’ve been fascinated by for months. Coined by Thorstein Veblen in his 1899 book The Theory of the Leisure Class: An Economic Study in the Evolution of Institutions, conspicuous consumption is a phenomenon where the nouveau riche (new rich) buy luxury goods that have little practical use in the hopes that the public display of their wealth will increase their social status. Another example of conspicuous consumption were the USC girls next to us at Din Tai Fung, who ordered more than they could stomach, and confidently wasted over half of their chicken fried rice and xiaolongbao.

In an effort to empathise, let’s sit and think about the compliments we receive in our daily life — our heart skips a beat when a friend compliments our outfit, music taste, restaurant recommendations, and so much more. In the modern world, our identity is synonymous with our taste. Pocket luxuries give commoners a chance to signal their identities, in addition to being a symbol of performative affluence.

For college students, Labubus are not just the outcome of a socioeconomic construct, but may also be appealing for the nostalgia it offers, especially in a post-COVID world. The 2020 effect (Vox, 2020), affected adults and children alike, but made many current college students feel like a big chunk of their teenage years was stolen away from them. Perhaps buying a Labubu is their way of rekindling their lost youth.

In a world where identity is curated as carefully as an Instagram feed, Labubus, Erewhon smoothies, and overpriced xiaolongbao aren’t just commodities — they’re performances. Whether we’re chasing childhood comfort or identity signaling, our consumption reveals far more about our desires, insecurities, and aspirations than we’re comfortable with admitting. And to the USC girls who sat next to us at Din Tai Fung and wasted more than half of their food, why would you do that when I’m next to you ordering food on a $25 budget?