Pop Rock Fever
by lundo lundissimo
Psycho Moto Zine
Winter 2000

It was back in the day, when most folks carried a little brown jar with a brass spoon attached to the cover with a little brass chain. I had snorted up a few breakfast lines, all lit up again, ready for a day's work. I was living in MacDougal Alley, where I could park my 1961 Chrysler 300G (Batmobile) just two feet from the door. And the uptown video facility where I worked gave me a parking spot at the lot next door instead of more salary. So I was livin a kind of suburban commuter life, tearing up 1st Avenue to work every say. I burst into the lobby, eyes and nostrils wide open, itchin to attack my various computer screens, and said good morning through my perpetually clenched teeth.

Someone offered me some Pop Rocks. I spilled some out on the reception desk, and automatically brushed them into lines with the bag. Like a Pavlov dog, I see lines, I snort lines. So I grabbed one of those ubiquitous semi-straws and inhaled two healthy lines of rocks, always lookin for some new kinda kick.

Now, I dunno if everyone can picture this, but what it brought to mind was the time I was strolling on Walden Pond one late winter with the wife of a close friend (wife of a close friend...), and the ice was beginning to thaw. You hear that intense sub-sonic rumbling of massive ice grinding against itself, with your ears and your gut. Back in the lobby, it was like some great ice breaker was edging its way through the frozen tundra of my mind, the deepest sound I'd ever heard. Hold together, dear sinuses! Besides that, I was fascinated by the sight of the jaws of my comrades dropping far below their faces, and their eyes spreading wider than ever.

Fortunately, nothing lasts forever (though it seemed like it might). The gases bursting out of the little rocks eventually dissipated, and my head settled back to where it once belonged (relatively, anyway). In the end, it was a tremendously enriching experience, and became a videotape house legend for years. I escaped with my cranial cavities intact, and I confirmed the proposition that if you wanna know how something feels, there's only one way to find out - DO IT! In this case, once was enough - "been there, done that" works for me when it comes to Pop Rocks.

If a rash of Pop Rock deaths results from this tale, I absolve myself of all responsibility. You're on your own, fellow curious experimenters!