I'm not easy to market to. I'm loyal to few brands. I shun most advertising. I'm a jaded consumer. (I think these qualities make me a more effective marketer.)
Which is why I love Costco, the wholesale warehouse club. I can get good deals on a huge variety of necessities and luxuries. I feel like Costco is on my side -- doing
deals with manufacturers of good products to benefit me. Importantly, Costco doesn't aggressively market to me in irrelevant ways. In fact, Costco is there when I want it, and otherwise out of my
face. At the risk of appearing like a pathetic suburban dad, that is why Costco has become a weekly ritual and a part of my life. I even browse the member magazine regularly. It's people like me that helped drive Costco's sales up 5% in October 2009 versus last year -- amidst challenging economic conditions.
But
there's another side to this story: Costco attempts to be relevant through all life stages. After stocking up last Sunday on baby wipes, diapers, Brita filters, organic milk and cleaning
supplies, I stumbled into the club's new casket display, positioned next to the window-shade and tire displays.
(I also discovered you can purchase caskets direct from
Costco.com.)
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At first, I laughed. Yet it underscored an important idea: organized buying groups (like Costco members) will continue to advance commodification in ways we never thought
possible. On one hand, I like the access, choice and discount value. However, there is something perverse about such extreme product expansion -- in this case, from cradle to casket. What does that
say about life and consumerism? I'm not sure, but it's concerning. Businesses want to grow, and a discount value proposition can extend to a lot of things. But to very personal objects of mourning --
featured at the end of the checkout aisle? How much business expansion is too much expansion?
What do you think?
For the record, I don't intend to be buried in a casket. I prefer
cremation. I'm sure Costco will offer that soon, as well.