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Chronicle of the NonPop Revolution
All right all right, I, too, have washed onto a desert island with no immediate means of rescue. Utterly by happenstance, I find that my prized case of 100 favorite musical recordings is by my side, a bit damp but otherwise in good condition. Using Stone Age tools, bark from a papaya tree on the island -- whose only other inhabitants, luckily for me, are slow-witted and tasty ancestors of the common weasel -- and memory of a 1959 Popular Mechanics article on how to build electronic stuff from vegetable matter, I am able to fashion a rudimentary cassette player. By another sheer coincidence, I was, before I mysteriously landed here, en route from Washington DC, where the US BuRec had named me beta-tester for their new Dam-in-a-box, and I conveniently still have one unit in my pocket.
By the end of the day, I have managed to channel the island's fastest-moving stream through a sluice gate and tap into enough hydroelectricity to power the cassette player. Music is not of primary interest when one is leery of frostbite, however, and I feel no remorse from making a small shelter out of the dismantled case and burning forty recordings in order to keep warm the first night. Had I only explored a cave on the ridge across from me earlier, I would have found the hot springs, short wave radio, and hundred fifty pounds of Acme brand pemmican.
After a hearty breakfast, an APB to ships in the surrounding sea as to my desire for rescue and orange juice, and a nice hot bath, I decide to relax with some tunes. I am able to choose from among the following, all of which have, serendipitously enough, appeared on The Bazaar:
Oh dear, the pemmican's burning, and I think I hear shrieks of gaity from a passing ocean liner. Must run.Damia...