During the Second World War, the BBC aired seemingly absurd lines of dialogue—The dog barks at midnight and such—during its daily programming. The vast majority of listeners never knew that these lines were secret coded messages for the Resistance, over the Channel in France. The messages announced actions and strategies, the comings and goings of paratroopers.
Like loners, Resistance fighters were outnumbered, unseen. They passed as ordinary citizens, but secretly they stood apart. In every home and army base, every shop and office, the BBC was popular culture. Only Resistance fighters, alone and in secret, could extract from the flow of comedies, concerts, and dramas seeds of meaning, blueprints they and they alone knew how to use.
We neoloners are not likely to throw grenades onto Nazi transport trains. But, like Resistance fighters, we can prick up our ears for codes the mob does not know are there. Tricked out with coonskin caps and spider feet, the codes say Hey, I’m here and This is possible and Watch what we can do. Staticky though they might be, crowded out by other signals, the codes are still there. The mob doesn’t know it. The mob is singing and dancing to our codes and does not know it.