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Chronicle of the NonPop Revolution
Oh, Those Eyes!
When Cyanora was 11 years old, she and her parents vacationed in Florida for three weeks where, each morning, she was treated to freshly-squeezed orange juice, a marked improvement over the pale yellow glop that her mother spooned out of frozen cardboard cans and reconstituted with lukewarm tap water. The color, flavor and aroma so impressed her that she grew to love everything orange: the fruit, naturally, but also the New Jersey and California cities, the princely family of the Nederlands, the tree, the Julius, even the -utan. It did not, however, include the faint orange glow that emanated from behind the kitchen door in her Boise Street duplex.
Before she pushed open that door, Cyanora, like most North Americans, thought of ears as generally uncommunicative, non-ambulatory and aluminous. Imagine, then, her surprise when she discovered a nabob of 'em -- yes, an even hundred -- sitting at, on and amongst her kitchen table quietly cackling, wiggling aerobically and occasionally levitating. The orange glow appeared to be an incandescence resulting from several dozen of them rubbing one anothers' lobes in a rather salacious manner. Too stunned to formulate a reaction plan, she just stood there gaping at the scene, unaware that a nabob o' noses, working together, could readily induce tacit hypnotic recommendation on certain sentients ... like Cyanora. Gradually, the part of her mind that was open to counsel decided that she should return at once to her arts council office, take the $75,000 check from the National Bunion League's Arts Endowment that was to fund the Muppets Do Beckett summer theater production and sign it over to cash, drive to the all-night bank in Pitskimmie, cash it, then, on the way back -- mind you, by now it's half past three in the morning -- stop at the DrugAgora for a two-gallon bottle of NosalWash. This all seemed perfectly reasonable to Cyanora and she was keen to oblige, but as she walked towards the Hudson Wingback, a giant dark cloud descended over her, effecting a kind of elongated figure eight. Before she could say ... well, anything, she was sucked up into the same Algonquin Hole that had revised the histories of, among thousands of others, Chuck and Clementania Habsburg.
DrugAgora, by the way, was a colossal retail pharmaceutical shoppe that had intimate ties to Eli Lily. The founder was a man who ran the experimental cosmetic surgery research division which had concocted, in addition to NosalWash, Bruce's Retinal Douches and Tangier Ear-d'Waxer. The man's name was Wingate -- not Bung Hollow or Canadian, but Spengler. Remember? The guy with the head that looked "like a Montana monadnock?" But more on that later.
This time Cyanora didn't have to deliberately recontextualize her body to the consistency of gruel; the Algonquin Hole did it for her. Then it reconfigured her concept of reality as a universal constant, reformatted her hypotheses on 12th century Mayan reliquaries, briefly played a game of hide and seek with her memory buffers, then shunted her off into a neighboring space continuum, while happily not messing with the Time Department.
Meanwhile -- and how many times have we heard that transitional ploy used before? -- Peter continued to gaze uneasily out the second story window of his Uncle Kinkajoul's Saskatoonian cabin at the plethora of ambulatory head organs headed his way. The eyes -- oh, those eyes!, red and inflamed from a combination of congested vessels and overall vexation -- were especially unsettling in their bloodshot gazes. Naturally, Peter thought they were all staring at him, but in truth they were focused on the stairway behind him, whence a nervous, fluttery sound suddenly issued. Peter looked around to see a clump of eyeballs -- must've been at least an eyrie and a half of 'em -- segregating out of and rising from the pile of noses and ears. They made that annoying "wwwwwwww!" sound as they nictitated, then en masse they began to leisurely flutter towards Peter. Tacit hypnotic recommendation appeared to be at work here, too, as the vacation-challenged lad watched the approaching cluster of throbbing globules with indifference. A more perceptive individual might have noticed that the rhythmic pulse was identical to the theme song from "77 Sunset Strip," but a more perceptive individual would also likely have tried to jump out of the window at that moment.
Fortunately for Peter, the Algonquin Hole chose that moment to open a rift in itself and supplant the ninety-some eyeballs with an equally surprised spat-out solitary Cyanora.
Surprise likewise plays a big part in this 261st episode of Kalvos & Damian's New Music Bazaar -- for example, whatever theme has been chosen for the show will certainly be a surprise to me! -- and nowhere is this more evident that on the surface of the front of the head from the top of the forehead to the base of the chin of Kalvos.