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Chronicle of the NonPop Revolution


 
The Essay
Show #33
Kahlil's Tongues
David Gunn
One hundred years ago today, on what was to be his 13th birthday, Kahlil Gibran experienced what Earl Scruggs calls an epiphany. While rummaging through the kitchen in search of breakfast, the young, pock-faced lad scalded his tongue on a bucket of hot cherry jubilee which had been left simmering on the stove overnight. A blister festering on the tip of his tongue was the very image of a 1952 Ford Fairlane hubcap, which his public relations-minded dad likened to a sign from god, and one that could probably turn a tidy profit. He stretched and poked Kahlil's tongue until the blister more closely looked like a silhouette of Randy, the Syrian Goddess of Mortgages. It was this image that he and Kahlil jointly massaged into a holy vision for the prognostication-starved masses of the day ... which was Thursday.

The vision was of a handsome, swarthy, two-tongued man kneeling before a gigantic, golden spittoon in which hot dogs and chimichangas are steaming. He breathes in their spicy aromas, smiles and leans over to lap up a chili pepper with his amazingly prehensile tongue tips. Suddenly, he sits up, gasps, and coughs, his mouth afire from the piquant pepper pod. A passing mathematician sums up the situation, peels off his moustache, and sticks it in the mouth of the two-tongued man. Instantly, the nosewhiskers burst into yellow flame, but just as abruptly the fire is extinguished. The two-tongued man hands the mathematician the key to Albuquerque, they shake hands, and the vision quickly fades.

What does it mean? Who was the two-tongued man? What kind of moustache did the mathematician have? Why Albuquerque and not, say, Le Flambeau Oriange? If you know the answer to any of these questions, or to any other question for that matter, call us soon, because the identity of the two-tongued man forms a rather spicy corollary to today's quiz on Episode 33 of Kalvos & Damian's ... well, you know who we are.

This portion of Kalvos & Damian's -- well, you know -- contains tunes extra spicy in nature and, without proper adult supervision (which, admittedly, is in particularly short supply here in the sesquistudio) may in some instances cause scalding of the ears. If you experience such a radiophonic phenomenon, remain calm, do not attempt to adjust your radio, and call us at once for further instructions. If you are unable to call, please write us at WGDR-FM, in care of the Federal Communications Commission, New York, New York, 10191. If you have a fax machine, please contact the Intercollegiate Broadcasting System in Vails Gate, New York, and enclose a self-addressed stamped fax cover sheet.

Today is Twelfth Night, or Nuit de la Fromage, and as a special feature, all musical meters on the program will be divisible by 12, unless there is a really good reason for them not to be. The music over which I am currently speaking, for example, is not divisible by 12, but it had a note from its doctor which excused it from today's metier avec fromage.

OK, I've pressed every button at my disposal and still the music won't stop, so I can only hope that the radiophonic controls are in the hands of someone else, someone who won't forget Max and Earl and Alex, someone who knows his LPs from his RPMs, someone like ... well, Kalvos, for instance.