By most appearances, the year just ended was a bad one for ''bling bling.'' A slang term that has made its way from hip-hop culture to the mainstream, bling blinging is most easily understood as flaunting that $1 million Piaget diamond-crusted watch. It doesn't tell time any better than a plastic Casio; it does send a clear message that the wearer has money to burn. The phrase was popularized in a song by rappers from the Cash Money Millionaires stable that was in part a catalog of obnoxiously flashy possessions (a private plane, for example).

Of course, that song dates from 1999 — the good old days, when rap artists were hardly the only ones bingeing. Twenty-something stock tycoons, Wall Streeters and various staid old white guys in charge of huge corporations bling-blinged all through the 1990's, and nobody complained. That was partly because they seemed to be fueling an economy that was good for everybody and partly because so many people saw skyrocketing individual wealth not so much as a problem but as something to get in on. It's only natural that a couple of years of crashing stocks, rising unemployment and corporate fraud — and, of course, the wrenching personal reprioritization that Sept. 11, 2001, inspired in many — might turn us into a nation of Thorstein Veblens, with little tolerance for such conspicuous consumption.

Evidence of an anti-bling mentality is all around. The neo-grunge, thrift-store style of Avril Lavigne, for example, is shouldering aside the glittery flash of Britney Spears on the radio and in retail outlets across America. There is the form that the vogue for C.E.O.-bashing has taken: Dennis Kozlowski ended up with the words ''Oink Oink'' over his picture on the front of The New York Post not because people were upset with — or even understood — what he is accused of doing wrong as the C.E.O. of Tyco but rather because it came to be known that he owned a $15,000 umbrella stand. And in her latest hit song, even Jennifer Lopez seems a little nervous. In what seems to be a stab at humility, she assures that ''I love my life and my public'' and encourages us not to be ''fooled'' by her diamond life because deep down she's ''still Jenny from the block.''

But wait a minute. In the video for that song, Lopez positively revels in the trappings of extreme wealth — the diamonds, the limos, the fur coats, the boats, the champagne. If J. Lo really thinks her public might punish her for losing touch with ''the block,'' then why rub our noses in her flagrantly bejeweled lifestyle on MTV? Her ''public'' doesn't seem to mind, having pushed the slender tune near the top of the charts. How does she get away with both sickening riches and humility? Dennis Kozlowski, among others, would like to know.

The answer is that despite appearances to the contrary, deep down Americans don't really have a problem with conspicuous consumption per se. It is all in the packaging: we're O.K. with bling bling so long as we believe it has been earned. Lopez makes for an interesting case study because her public image is simultaneously middle of the road — as the star of the bland romantic comedy Maid in Manhattan — and streetwise, as a pop singer who collaborates with rap artists and borrows liberally from hip-hop culture. It is the latter point that matters, because even now hip-hop culture remains a safe haven for ridiculous expenditure.

Bling king Sean (P. Diddy) Combs, for instance, has lately been photographed jet-skiing in his bathrobe on the French Riviera, and he has bragged about his extensive list of demands (flowers, mirrors, tequila, multiple copies of Scarface) for being the host of a music-awards show, and noted that for prospective guests at a related party, "Manicures and pedicures will be required, as will waxing and good hygiene." Snoop Dogg, styling himself a kind of Hugh Hefner, has taken to drinking from a goblet covered with rhinestones. Then there is Nelly, another rap artist selling millions. If hip-hop was once ''the CNN of black America,'' as Chuck D memorably put it, Nelly's new single is basically an infomercial. Titled ''Air Force Ones,'' it is an ode to shopping for a style of $80-and-up Nike shoe — buying by the case when possible — and includes what must be the least impressive boast in the history of rap: ''Walk in the mall and they know what I'm 'bout to say.'' The song is a smash and has sparked such a run on the shoes that The Wall Street Journal says some Foot Locker employees have been accused of ''scalping'' pairs at $200 a pop. Fatigue among hip-hop fans with endless raps about Courvoisier, diamonds and Cadillac Escalades is said to have played a role in the embrace of Eminem's less-brand-oriented subject matter. But if some hip-hop fans see flashy spending as worthy of condemnation, others clearly see it as worthy of emulation.

''Using objects to make connections between people and establish one's authority is an ancient and universal form of human behavior,'' Thomas Hine argues in the recent book I Want That! How We All Became Shoppers. He notes that those who possess ''key objects'' — the crown, the mantle, the Piaget watch — ''have been the rulers and wizards of their peoples.'' The subtext of the song ''Bling Bling'' was that the Cash Money Millionaires had clawed their way out of a brutal New Orleans housing project to become multiplatinum stars, and indeed some variation on that is the theme of much hip-hop. Often it is not even articulated; it goes without saying that the squandering protagonist is a rags-to-riches figure who beat overwhelming odds and has every right to the fruits of that success.

But the bad news for Dennis Kozlowski is that our tolerance for $15,000 umbrella-stand owners drops to zero if such ''key objects'' are not earned. Like many a hip-hop star, Kozlowski rose from humble origins, too, and according to his lawyers, he has done nothing wrong. But the overwhelming consensus is that somehow or other he and his peers cheated their way to wealth. So it is too late for Kozlowski to pose as Denny from the block. Sure, Sean Combs was once accused of hitting a record executive with a chair and a Champagne bottle, but at least he has never smacked your 401(k) around.

This is why the new and supposedly humble incarnation of J. Lo — who once included a 45-foot trailer with white sofas, a VCR and green seedless grapes as part of her specific demands for participating in a charity project — should be taken with a grain of salt. When she sings ''I used to have a little, now I have a lot,'' what she is saying is ''and therefore, I deserve it all.''

This essay appeared in the January 19, 2002, issue of The New York Times Magazine.