punk rock and caviar

This afternoon during a half-nap, I dreamt of the upper, upper middle-class poseur punk rock girls I knew in college, who smelled nice, had liberal arts degrees and would shoplift Iranian caviar from import shops.

I bought import vinyl and would pay for it.

Our tastes in music were very similar, and senses of style almost converged, but it was of course easier to dress like a boho weirdo if you could afford to. I couldn't afford not to. It was torn clothes or the fucking Izod sweaters that came as birthday and xmas gifts.

These girls mostly ignored me. On campus I would have lunch with an Iranian girl. Because of the hostage crisis, she would tell people she was Persian. She knew they didn't know the difference.

I wonder if any of these chi-chi, high society slumming punkettes are divorced nowadays. Nowadays our stations in life have probably just about crossed. Man, the rich girls were stunning. So stunning that I acknowledged and yet overlooked the pose. They couldn't overlook my poverty, though.