J.G. Ballard

I got halfway through High Rise today while sitting in the town square, removing and re-applying my sunglasses like an ostentatious and unsuccessful secret agent, leaving when it got cold. It's great, less thick than I thought it would be after reading The Atrocity Exhibition, but great.

The younger kids all appear a shade or two more hip than they actually are. The arc of stylistic justice is long, but it bends towards hipness. Case in point, last night dark British indie cocktail dress attire girls claimed to love Madonna when Bizzare Love Triangle started playing. I am the old fart at the party, a dance floor Richard Simmons moving myself in easily replicated self esteem boosting bursts of the 1970s that young women with body issues are looking towards. Somewhere upstairs white lines are cut, and the stew of bawdy communication downstairs is thinned. I am unable to get in on that train, and remember my place.

One of the girls had orange hair and a green dress and was named Allison. She made me feel like Elvis Costello, but it didn't work because I made her feel stupid and judged. I am radiant, bounding through infinite faceless baseball cap and jean wearing proletariat, looking at the women like another close study of outfit will give me a better idea if she ever thought about the meaning of being free.

I didn't sleep, resisting a fadeout with the idea of a warm bed and bong would be my reward for soldiering down more cola and cigarettes as the women began to leave the party. Somebody pulled a knife, but from my perch on the white picket fence it just looked like the guy who pulled the steel was fighting off giving adoring fans his autograph. Nobody is stabbed, but the party's epitaph is written when one of the coked out birthday girls laments how this all happened because nobody was listening to her instructions. I just have to leave.

And leave I do. My reality incriminating, I will start my own tribe. I will be king, And we'll drink all the time, I think that's what that song is about.
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