To all visitors: Kalvos & Damian is now a historical site reflecting nonpop
from 1995-2005. No updates have been made since a special program in 2015.
Chronicle of the NonPop Revolution
Jonny of Yogyakarta
The year is 1958; the time, 7pm; the place, a backwater cantina named the
Jinsee Prahn in Tulungagung, a small burg 120 rutted road miles south of Surabaya, in
Indonesia. Two men and one woman are seated at a booth in the corner of the room. They
are dressed in traditional ethnic garb: shimmering green one-piece suits of lexan with red
neckerchiefs of monofilament. Their shoes are inflatable, and squeak when they tap their
feet on the floor, which they do with vexing regularity. The men are clean-shaven; the
woman sports pelage on her cheek, a sign of nobility. She is also the only one wearing a
nametag. It reads Namcha Pik. I would like to report that they were engaged in a heated
game of whiskers six-draw -- since that oddly chimerical game of chance seems to form a
recurrent theme in these sesquintros -- but they were not. Instead, the two men, who
obviously regarded the woman with veneration, were scooping up glutinous pellets from a
narrow trough on the table in front of them and popping them into her mouth. The
woman didn't swallow, but rather hawked the morsels into a spattoon at the other end of
the room. If her manner seemed a trifle vulgar, it was nonetheless unerringly accurate.
When the spattoon was filled to the brim, the barkeep strode over from his electric tap and
bent over to retrieve the dampened goods, presumably to use at the sedentary doris ritual
later that evening. The aroma wafting from the spattoon momentarily dazzled him, and
he staggered into the barpost, knocking off his klinglehat and revealing a fresh thatch of
tundra on his pate. The significance of this discovery was not lost on the two men as they
quietly clamored for thirst-quencher. The barkeep, klinglehat firmly reattached, sidled up
to the booth. "Yer gentlemenís pleasure?" he queried, with an undercurrent of unease in
his voice. The woman, her mouth still agape, ventrilloquized "Your name, barkeep." At
first startled, the klinglehatted subservient quickly recovered, "I am called Jonny, son of
Uxor Vigilantium of Yogyakarta, a village due west of here noted for its grain auctions,
Mayan temples and pleasant Mediterranean climate. The population fluctuates wildly,
depending on the number of people abducted by aliens at any given time. My mother
freed herself from gravitational limitations on one such extraterrestrial holiday. Since
then, she tours and frequently performs with the Blue Angels of America." The barkeep
lapsed into silence. One of the men at last spoke. "I'll have a pint of bammelsporn, then,
my good man!" The woman nodded, launching one final pellet spattoonward. "Make that
three, then." The barkeep bowed and edged away. The woman leaned toward the two
men, who quickly followed suit, lexan notwithstanding, and they loudly bonked heads.
The resonant sound boomed through the cantina, causing sympathetic vibrations in the
bamboo chandelier. The barkeep, bammelsporn in hand, turned around suddenly and
collided with an official from the experimental House-on-a-Stilt project. Their heads, too,
bonked. Again the chandelier jingled in response. Other patrons, their cognition perhaps
a bit clouded by excessive amounts of bammelsporn of their own, began to engage in head
bonking of their own. This activity continued into the wee hours of the Indonesian night,
interrupted only by pauses for Excedrin.
And thus did a small but representative fraction of Indonesian villagers celebrate their country's 11th year of independence, or le flambeau oriange, from the Romulans. Those very bonking sounds, by the way, may be heard in cascadingly rhythmic pandemonium in the closing minutes of last Tuesday's "Circular Screaming" soundtrack, now available on Malted Media cassettes and DATs.
And here to tell you more about Malted Media's selection of wares and whyevers is the spokesman for Kalvos & Damian's New Music Bazaar, is himself, Kalvos the Shopkeeper.