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


Originally published at:


This is marvelous.


well…I do like garlic


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

Note: For Frederick Pohl see regrettable review Day Million.


“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?


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”.


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


“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


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.


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


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

That ought to be interesting.


I was thinking more David Foster Wallace.


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


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


Gonzo journalism lives!


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…


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