Already regretting assigning J.G. Ballard to cover the Fyre Festival

Originally published at: http://boingboing.net/2017/04/28/already-regretting-assigning-j.html

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This is marvelous.

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well…I do like garlic

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Already regretting whatever Phillip K. Dick will have been assigned. Now wait for last year’s election roundup.

Note: For Frederick Pohl see regrettable Match.com review Day Million.

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“Note to proofreader: I just received this copy and figure it should just go up verbatim.”

And this is different from the usual procedure in what way?

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You realize what’s coming next, right? Pre-staged “Disaster Music Festivals” where the chaos is intended. It only makes sense following “Murder-Mystery Dinners” and “Danger/Puzzle Rooms”.

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I’m already regretting assigning BoingBoing to make cover assignments.

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“McLuhan predicted the global luxury festival. But what he didn’t predict was this extreme volatility and nervousness. I see the world of Fyre being swept by excitement and panic. The average individual will be unable to predict what’s going to happen in the next ten minutes, which produces a retreat inward or a turning towards some of the less attractive defenses. You’ll see people resorting to the extreme measure much more quickly than they ever did in the past.”

  • J.G. Ballard, 1989
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I read some Ballard last year.

There was not much dialogue, and yet not much description either.

Each story was like an outline for a novel that never got written.

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Are you sure that wasn’t Jorge Luis Borges? He did that for fun.

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Perfect. Now I’m waiting for William S. Burroughs’ take.

That ought to be interesting.

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I was thinking more David Foster Wallace.

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Not to speak of Stanlislaw Lem - he published a volume of reviews of nonexistent books, and another volume of critical essays on nonexistent books.

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How long till they make a movie of it?

Reminds me of Yelping with Cormac

“the gluten in the rye” - snort - Robert Burns and I raise a glass to you on that one

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Gonzo journalism lives!

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J.G.Ballard? Not William Gibson?

The sky over the ‘music festival’ was the color of a broken LCD tuned to a dead channel, the howls of the trustifarians echoed over the jungle and swept through camp disturbing our haunted dreams. Then someone’s goddamn iPhone bleeped…

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Figures. We won’t be able to eat the rich, but we can watch them eat each other on Instagram.

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