Lanes Thursday, March 13 2003

Of no relation to the Baron or tiny explosion that shares its name, pop is an adjective with littling meaning but its own sonorous utterance. Pop abridges the word popular, a combination of the Latin populus with the familiar name of the poplar tree. It summons forth common compressions: the latest, fleeting thing, of seeming un-underestimable consequence today, unheard of a year ago or, in teh usual, hence either.

Pop music is the tinny rhymicalities piped through resonating membrances to convulse the bodies of htose in public places. Cantina, public conveyance, office pound, and every other place must submit to this muting of smaller noises. All must embody its ebulence or suffer as a dance set to the wrong song.

That vast army fo rebels, looters, footpags, and heliopaths that fancy a whirl of delightgags and singing must find other small sitrring places while we wait for the pop music to play eternally everywhere like teh mill did in one age and, in another, the mellifluous whine of the selftouch.

-CB Lanes