Is it the Shoes?

Is it the Shoes?

In the course of duty your culture commentator finds himself in L.A., attending yet another gathering of the stars who either make us what we are or reflect our dreams of glory. He wanders past banks of refrigerators, among indoor jungles by pools and waterfalls, freezing in pockets of social control as if caught in a series of stop-frames, observing personalities posed in tableaux which he could join simply by kneeling in the phantic position. Now and then he is beckoned, offered a line to chant. But largely he glides by as if invisible, preoccupied with the illusion of hunger, or is it simply psychic space to be decorated? His mind fumbling among half-digested bistro reviews, he seeks egress, wondering if he dares eat at a restaurant that will seat him.