Fickle Food Economics: The Shifting Plate of a Generation

There was a time when fame was a byproduct of accomplishment. Today, it is often the accomplishment itself. The economics of fame—who profits, who chases, and who gets left behind—has become a defining feature of our era. And like all economies, this one, too, has its currency, its winners, and its illusions. Perhaps the best way to understand it is through the lines of a poem written long before viral moments dictated livelihoods, before social media turned attention into a tradeable asset.

Fame is a fickle food

Upon a shifting plate,

Emily Dickinson, in her poem Fame is a Fickle Food, likens fame to a shifting plate—something insubstantial, unpredictable, and ultimately unsatisfying. She couldn’t have known how prophetic those words would be in a world where virality is the new currency and attention is the new capital. And yet, here we are, breaking down her words, picking at their meaning much like the crows in her poem inspecting the crumbs left behind.

A few months ago, I met someone who had just experienced his fifteen minutes of fame. He had posted a video—a passing, offhand remark about something absurd in the news. It was barely a thought, just something funny he’d said to a friend, but the internet picked it up. Memes were made. People quoted him. Overnight, he had followers, brand offers, and even a local news interview. The dopamine rush was intoxicating. Encouraged by the attention, he tried to replicate the moment, posting more, trying to stay relevant. But the magic didn’t strike twice. The algorithm moved on. The internet, once fascinated by his wit, found a new amusement. A few months later, he was just another face in the crowd, with nothing left from his moment of fame except the fading echoes of a joke he barely remembered making.

Whose table once a guest, but not

The second time is set.

Fame had arrived on a shifting plate, and before he could savor it, it was gone.

In an age where fifteen minutes of recognition is both attainable and expendable, people make irrational decisions in pursuit of visibility. The chase for likes, shares, and fleeting influence drives individuals to spend beyond their means—on designer goods they can’t afford, on experiences curated for the camera rather than for their own fulfillment. The performance of wealth, class, and quiet luxury has overshadowed the actual possession of these things. This is not a secret, nor is it accidental. Brands have learned how to market aspiration. Louis Vuitton no longer caters exclusively to the ultra-rich—it has understood that its most valuable customers are those who want to look rich. They are the ones who stretch their credit limits, who believe that signaling wealth is the first step to attaining it. And while they chase the aesthetic of affluence, companies profit off their longing.

I wonder, though—do people really chase fame? Or is it something simpler, something more fundamental? A need to be seen, to be acknowledged, to feel validated? And is that so different from what we all want? I tell myself I am unaffected by validation, yet I still send my emails to a friend before I send them to someone important. The first line of validation, then the second. It doesn’t change the content of the email, but it changes something within me—an assurance that my words are being witnessed, even before they reach their intended recipient. Perhaps that is all people are chasing, too. Not fame itself, but the proof that they exist in a way that matters to others.

Even this blog of my unpublished essays from the last four years hasn't been in pursuit of fame but more to validate that I had written these thoughts and maybe the five people I like—like the way I think. It’s knowledge vanity on my part. I crave not the praise for beauty, but of the brain.

Whose crumbs the crows inspect

And with ironic caw

Flap past it to the

Farmer’s corn

But the chase extends beyond mere validation. It extends into the smallest of things—the Gucci belt worn to hint at wealth, the carefully composed photo taken with someone more known, as if proximity alone confers status. A quiet, subconscious signaling: I am close to fame. It doesn’t have to be global recognition. Sometimes, it’s just about being seen by the right people, being noticed within a circle that matters. And that is enough, until it isn’t. Until the plate shifts again, until the crows flap past, unimpressed, until the moment is gone and the hunger returns.

Fame, or the illusion of it, is an economic engine. Entire industries are built around its pursuit. The beauty industry thrives on the promise of a face worthy of a million likes. The luxury industry profits from the idea that status can be bought, even when it comes at the cost of financial stability. Social media platforms have perfected the art of dangling fame as an incentive, making users believe that just a little more effort, a little more visibility, might tip them into the realm of influence.

Men eat of it and die

Dickinson’s fickle food metaphor rings truer than ever. The generation chasing fame is consuming something unstable, shifting, and ultimately unsatisfying. The plate keeps moving, the metrics keep changing, and the goalposts of success are never fixed. In a world where visibility is currency, everyone is spending, but few are actually earning.

And yet, I think of the ones who have tasted it—the ones who once chased it, only to recoil from it once it arrived. Fame, it seems, makes people shy. Speak to someone who has known it, and there’s often a hesitation, a wistfulness, a quiet disillusionment. They wanted it. They got it. And now they don’t. If those who have had it hesitate to embrace it, is it the by-products of fame we truly chase? Or is it a price too high once paid?

Perhaps it’s time to reconsider the diet.

Disclaimer: It's okay to chase fame if you inherently crave it.

P.S. Show rec: Dickinson on Apple TV+