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Coca-Cola’s Soda Coda

Like many junk food peddlers these days, Coca-Cola is reeling from the fallout of the consumer realization that ingesting massive amounts of sugar and chemicals is detrimental to their health and well-being. To keep profits as fat as their stalwart customers, Coca-cola is scrambling to cater to the non-alcoholic beverage needs of the nutrition-savvy marketplace. Maybe it happened something like this…

Coca-Cola Marketer #1: Ok, strategy number 1 is to push back against all this Type A Diabetes and obesity hoop-la by spurting a bunch of McBullshit McRhetoric that flies in the face of all sound nutritional advice.

CCM #2: We need to fight against high-fructose corn syrup’s bad rep, and promote that it’s not actually high in fructose. Let’s start an exercise initiative and get a bevy of Coke-chugging athletes on board.

CCM #3: “Learn the importance of balancing the delicious, refreshing calories you consume with the calories you burn.”

CCM #1: I don’t buy all this learning and balancing shit. I mean, how are I going to enjoy my frigging soda if I’m busy calculating my penance on the treadmill. Can’t anything be enjoyable these days?

CCM #2: We need to appeal to what the consumer wants to believe, that moderate amounts of soda can’t hurt and their 64-ounce, 800 calorie Big Gulp falls within the USDA-approved range of a discretionary treat.

CCM #3: “A low-sodium mainstay of American life. Soda has been around for decades – you’ve only been obese since 1990.”

CCM #1: Shit. Strategy 1 ain’t going to fly. Let’s move on to strategy number 2. We abandon the men and fatties sailing on the goodship sugar-pop, and direct all the women, children, and metrosexuals onto the wellness lifeboats.

CCM #2: We can no longer rely on the expanding market share of existing diet product lines. There’s too much in the media about how artificial sweeteners actually make people fatter, and cause tumors, cancer, blah blah blah. The educated health-conscious consumer wants something more than ‘no calories.’

CCM #3: “A revolution in refreshment: the healthy soda.”

CCM #1: (snorts) Come on, not even the most delusional, gullible gastric-bypass surgery candidate’s gonna believe that anything called ‘soda’ is healthy.

CCM #2: It needs to sounds natural, like it once flowed in an aquifer. It needs to sound superior to juice. And we need to use the word ‘antioxidant.’ The average consumer thinks antioxidants flush fat and toxins out of their bodies.

CCM #3: (deep breath) “Zero-calorie sparkling refreshment fortified with vitamins and minerals and infused with antioxidants that tastes great.”

CCM #1: (whistling) Not bad. Fucking fortified with buzzwords, that was it is! I’m sure development can manufacture something resembling this… this… hey, what do we call this stuff?

CCM #2: We need a name that says ‘this beverage is sexy, fun, and contains vitamins B3, B6 and E, and chromium.’

CCM #3: Well, um, you know I used to work at a big pharm firm, and when we were specing out an obesity drug that was never launched because it caused constant diarrhea, we played around with a name that I sort of like: Tava.

CCM #1: Tava! Like Tab with vitamins! Damn, I could use a Tab. (standing up) Anyone else?

CCM #2: No thanks. That stuff can take the paint off of a car. I’ll take a green tea.

CCM #3: (thinking out loud) “Sparkling Green Tea Tava”…

RETRACTION

This morning Mr. Pinault and I were enjoying le petit dejeuner when some nice folks in suits rang the doorbell. They identified themselves as attorneys representing Pepsi-Cola North America (the refreshment beverage unit of PepsiCo Beverages and Foods North America, a division of PepsiCo, Inc). They were retained by PepsiCo specifically to inform me that my post on March 9 erroneously identified Tava to be marketed by Coca-cola, when it is, in fact, a PepsiCo product. After legally impelling me to write this retraction, they poured coffee on our croissants and gave each other high-5s.

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By Meredith – March 9, 2007

The Chicanery of Cheney

In the aftermath of the bungled 2000 election, most Democrats expressed resigned acceptance. After a month of watching Floridians puzzle over dimpled chads and listening to Republicans gloat over the Nader effect, we wanted to move on with our lives. Even if we suspected Bush was a moronic puppet, obviously the men controlling his strings were able enough to make him dance. “Bush isn’t that great, but I’m sure he’s got great advisors,” many people said hopefully.

Sure, Dick Cheney was disturbing – his industry connections, academic failures, frantic draft evasion, DUI arrests, unscrupulous political career – but he comforted us nonetheless, especially in light of Bush’s lack of foreign policy experience – nay, foreign policy knowledge, or awareness of such things as foreign policy. I viewed Dick Cheney as the levee that would hold George Bush’s ocean of stupidity in check.

My optimism was vividly recalled when Mr. Pinault and I discussed France’s upcoming elections, in which Socialist Segolene Royal has a shot of becoming President. I am surprised that France, a country which prides itself on being a leader in foreign affairs, would consider such an inexperienced candidate who has made several notable blunders on the campaign trail. “The feeling in France is that she is surrounded by many capable people,” Mr. Pinault said. It brought a chill to my soul as I remembered “That’s what America thought about Bush!”

I have come to believe that Dick Cheney is an evil man. Whatever intelligence and experience he has is more suited to shady politic wrangling – as the NY Times pointed out, the recent Libby trial exposed “a man immersed in the kind of political pushback that is … the province of low-level political operatives, not the vice president of the United States” (here). And the only evidence we have that Dick Cheney has a heart is that it’s constantly failing.

A grassroots movement to impeach Bush and Cheney for high crimes and misdemeanors is currently sweeping small town meetings in Vermont (here). People have had enough of this Administration, but Democratic leaders are so focused on 2008 that they dare not do anything controversial. Maybe the Democratic party needs a few Dick Cheneys working under the covers to maneuver and manipulate and spin things to their advantage.

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By Meredith – March 8, 2007

The Natick Natives Are Restless

After years of emotional debate, the Natick public school system has decided to stop using its controversial 50-year old nickname “Redmen” (here). Yes, beginning in 2008, Natick students will refer to themselves in a much more politically-correct fashion: The Redpeople.

Natick citizens are outraged — outraged — at the vanquishment of their beloved American Indian mascot. Pleaded one resident, “Where does freedom of speech begin and where does it end? ACLU where are you?” Please, save us, ACLU, from these fascistic school committees and their freedom-hating racial sensitivities. We’re checking our civil liberties at the door. Goodbye Natick Redmen… hello Natick Reds.

The Natick School Committee was swayed to drop the nickname after testimony by American Indians who declared the “Redmen” nickname to be demeaning, racist, and “as offensive as white men and yellow men.” Now there’s an idea: The Natick Whitemen. Give those whites a taste of their own racist medicine.

One former Natick athlete declared that the “blood he spilled on Memorial Field was red enough” to earn to his Redmen moniker, although it’s unclear if he also contracted smallpox, was forcibly resettled to barren farmland, and eventually starved to death.

Posted in Massachusetts, migrated.

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By Meredith – March 6, 2007

Cookie Monsters

It’s that time of year, when America’s cutest racketeers stake out prime public space with boxes of industrialized cookies, luring weak-willed adults who are defenseless against carefully-scripted sales pitches about how the Samoas are “yummy for the tummy” (here.)

The media is widely reporting that, starting this year, all the varieties of Girl Scout cookies are “nearly” trans-fat free (here), but that does little to curb the collective surge in our nation’s blood insulin. “It’s hard to know what’s sweeter, the girls or the cookies!” pooh-pooh patrons as they purchase peanut butter patties from those darling entrepreneurs. Um, the cookies, cause they can actually make you diabetic.

A co-worker/proud Girl Scout parent left 4 boxes of the coveted Thin Mints in the kitchenette this morning. By 5pm, 3 of the 4 boxes were devoured. In accordance with the Laws of Free Office Food (a theorum involving the interplay of Entitlement complexes, Hoarding mentalities, My Fair Share worries and Old-fashioned Stress Eating), the rate of Thin Mint consumption will accelerate as the number of cookies decreases, meaning the Thin Mints will be gone at precisely 9:55am tomorrow morning… save one, because no one ever wants to be the pig who nullifies the Free Office Food. The lone remaining Thin Mint will sit in the kitchenette all morning, mocking our unfettered indulgence.

Not mine, though – I’ve ignored the cookies, except to note their rapid disappearance. It’s not that I’m a health-nut purist who doesn’t find fatty sweets to be pleasurable and even beneficial to one’s health, but I’m just not a cookie person. If the Girls Scouts sold cakes… oh, I’d be a-gorging.

As I prepared my afternoon cup of coffee, a co-worker walked by. “Leave some for the rest of us, won’t you?” he said jovially, grabbing a Thin Mint. I was outraged to be accused of hogging cookies when I hadn’t touched one, and almost announced my virtous abstinence. But in the office environment, it’s much safer to be perceived as a glutton than a bitch. “It’s for a good cause, right?” I called out.

Posted in Americana, The 9 to 5.

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By Meredith – March 5, 2007

Pizza Talk

[At surprise company pizza lunch party]

Co-worker [older male, new at company, never introduced]: Did you just say ‘hi’ to me?

Me [mouth full of pizza]: No.

Co-worker: It’s so noisy in here. I don’t normally hear things. Hope you don’t think I’m crazy.

Me: Not at all. (flashing grin, preparing to introduce myself)–

Co-worker: Although everyone at this company seems crazy! Even you, and I don’t even know you!

Me: (still smiling, preparing to introduce myself–)

Co-worker: But I have nothing against crazy people. Schizophrenics can be fun. And clowns too. We’re all either one or the other.

Me: (big bite of pizza)

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By Meredith – March 2, 2007

Hawking the Boston Metro

Metro is a free daily paper distributed in Boston and other urban areas around the world, typically ones that have public transportation hubs teeming with commuters too cheap to buy a real paper ( or “young and ambitious professionals” – here). It provides general news in easily-digestible tidbits (“fits into a 15-minute read”), sloppy copy-editing (“proudly urban attitude and style”), and cheap, finger-staining ink.

The Boston Metro is widely available in newstands, but during rush hours, strategically-placed human hawkers offer copies to the commuters pouring in and out of busy subway stations. Since the Metro is free, it relies heavily on the hawkers to keep those circulation numbers high for advertising revenue.

So how do the Metro hawkers convince people to take possession of such a crappy paper? Well, Metro hawkers are a pretty scruffy bunch. I’ve never seen one Metro hawker who doesn’t give the appearance of being flagrantly mentally incapicitated or homeless. Some of them act just batshit. The top five scary and/or obnoxious Metro hawkers who I come in contact are:

1. The man who repeatedly groans “Tro Tro Tro…” without even insinuating an M
2. The man who throws in the occasional mention of Jesus Christ
3. The woman who squawks “Metro it’s free!” in a hysterical monotone
4. The man who stares, stone-faced and mute
5. The man who kinda sings, kinda pleads “Get on the Metro, get on the Metro, get on the Metro…” as he bobs to and fro in an uneven cadence

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By Meredith – March 1, 2007

Nemo malus felix

“No one bad is happy,” or “No bad man is lucky,” or “No peace for the wicked.”
In a NY Times article (here) about Archduke Franz Ferdinand’s great-granddaughter, ‘Her Serene Highness Princess Sophie Hohenberg,’ and her quest to reclaim her lineage’s castle in Konopiste, it is noted that “the walls of the castle’s public halls are mounted with some of the roughly 300,000 animals that Franz Ferdinand shot during his lifetime. It is a phantasmagoric display of bison heads and dear antlers and boar tusks and wood grouse tail feathers, each mounted on a wooden plaque inscribed with the date and place where they were shot.”

Talk about aristocratic excesses. 300,000 animals. Legend has it that one of the more 5,000 deer killed by Ferdinand was a rare albino buck. White stags appear in numerous anglo-saxon myths and legends (here), and it is believed that killing them brings bad luck (unless you’re the president of the Saxony Hunting Federation, and you use yer huntin’ science to conclude “the white deer is a mutation. It does not belong in the wild; it should be shot” – here).

While we can never know if World War I was caused by bad luck wrought when an avid hunter threw superstition to the wind, the sheer amount of violent death associated with Ferdinand’s existence haunts me: 300,000 animals felled, him and his wife hunted themselves in Sarajevo, and the resulting monstrous folly of treaty that left 40 million people dead or wounded.

Some of us live our lives as if touring a castle, tip-toeing in awe, taking care not to touch anything. Others, well, they inherit the castle and decorate it as they see fit.

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By Meredith – February 22, 2007

Tom Brady, Failed Trojan Man

An English degree dooms a person to a lifetime of quixotic ideas and fits of fancy. After countless hours spent picking through archaic and classical texts, one does glean analytic skills, mental discipline, and linguistic prowess. Unfortunately the actual knowledge of, say, the plot of Love’s Labour’s Lost or the context of Beowulf has little practical application in today’s media-saturated market-driven world of disposable heroes and disparate belief systems.

Yet these little berries of scholarship refuse to lay dormant in my temporal cortex, causing some ‘crazy notions’ to come to fruit. Like on January 21 2007, when I extolled the chivalry and valor of Patriots quarterback Tom Brady and even likened him to the virtuous Trojan prince Hector. After news of his possible wedlock paternity with his ex-girlfriend (here), clearly, Tom Brady is no Hector.

Hector would not be romping around Paris with a nymph named Gisele after refusing to commit to Andromache and knocking her up with Astyanax. Of course, maybe Andromache purposely got pregnant because she sensed Hector and her were drifting apart… or maybe Zeus made one his infamous ‘divine interventions’ (wink wink nudge nudge). Regardless, Brady’s unchinked moral armor has been breached. He must now prepare to be strung behind a chariot and dragged through the mud by the tabloids.

Join me next time, when I’ll compare Hillary Clinton to Dido, Howard Stern to Ozymandias, Steve Jobs to King Midas, and the cast of Ocean’s 11, 12,and 13 to the Argonauts.

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By Meredith – February 20, 2007

Movie Review: Letters from Iwo Jima

I was swayed to go see Letters from Iwo Jima by a NYTimes review that called it “true to the durable tenets of the war-movie tradition, but it is also utterly original, even radical in its methods and insights.” My delicate constitution can’t cope with bloody schlock that typifies the war-movie genre, but Clint Eastwood is offering something akin to art that considers a timely yet age-old question: When the cause is futile, how do soldiers face the prospect of dying for it?

I didn’t see Flags of our Fathers, which is the battle of Iwo Jima from the American perspective. It was released last fall to tepid reviews and lousy box office. That Letters is embraced by movie-goers while Flags was ignored might indicate a war-weary public not keen on glamourized, patriotic, flag-waving movies. We don’t want triumphant cinematic allegory when a real-life war in the newspaper haunts us daily with tales of unwinnable skirmish. We want catharsis.

The central figure of Letters is a humble Japanese baker-turned-foot soldier named Saigo, who wants to survive the war to see his family rather than kill Americans for the Imperial Homeland. All of the Japanese soldiers know they will be killed (or kill themselves) in the battle, but Saigo is hopeful. He shares the audience’s horror over the fanatical self-sacrifice of Japanese soldiers. Our empathy for Saigo underscores the brutal machoism of the Japanese military code, and ultimately of war in general.

This is an intense movie. The battle scenes are not expansive, but intimate, dimly light in black and white, and often gruesome. But it’s not the grenade hara-kiri or the suicide missions that haunt me most. As Eastwood intends (laying it on a bit thick), it’s the letters, feverishly written by Saigo and several other characters, including the sympathetic Japanese commander General Kuribayashi (played by Ken Watanabe). The letters are the soldiers’ only means of comfort as they sit in their dark caves, caught in the grind of Imperial Japan’s war machine, awaiting their fate. The letters are the soldier’s only way to remain human. Yes, they were the enemy, but they were human, and perhaps the greatest tragedy of war is how easy it is to forget this.

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By Meredith – February 19, 2007

In The News

Guerilla Marketing

I arrived at South Station tonight to find total chaos: Hovering helicopters, bomb-sniffing dogs, dozens of MBTA policemen who milled about with their game faces on (when not a single MBTA cop is humming the A-Team theme song under his breath… it’s serious). The trains were being searched while repeated announcements forbade people from standing on the platforms before the boarding call. I was exhilirated! Terror-ifed! What in the world is happening in Boston?

Turns out it was a promotion-gone-awry for Aqua Teen Hunger Force, one of the Cartoon Network’s Adult Swim shows. Heh. Homeland Security, protecting us from Master Shake, Frylock and Meatwad.

School Nuding

Say what you will about the high school student in Ohio who slathered his naked body with grapeseed oil and then lasciviously terrorized the cafeteria, “screaming and flailing his arms until police twice used a stun gun on him.” Yes, he may have traumatized some virgins, but it’s so refreshing to see a school rampage that doesn’t involve weaponry and trenchcoats – so innocent, like a Porkys prank from the 1950s. I hope to see more boys expending testosterone like this greasy, naked young man.

Getting the Raw Prawn

The previous story almost qualified as headline of the day, until I read “Aussies to drink purified sewage.” With much of Australia in the grips of a severe drought, the state of Queensland will soon introduce “recycled, purified water” into the drinking supply, and the rest of Australia may soon follow suit. Though water planners swear the quality will be meticulously maintained, many Australians are understandably leery about drinking water that was once liquid (or semi-liquid) household and industry waste. Australia, if you’re okay drinking XXXX Beer (it’s called XXXX because you can’t put ‘shit’ on a beer label), then sewage should be quite refreshing.

Try to Run, Try to Hide

Unable to ignore increasingly freakish weather patterns, Americans are developing a consciousness about global warming, same as how an earthly appearance of Jesus Christ would pack churches and return the clergy to their former vaulted status. Who can we believe in during these unseasonably warm and hurricane-plagued hours? Must we resort to the dark art of science and its shadowy practioners, scientists?

This week, Congressional hearings are being held over the Bush Administration’s interference with the research of climate scientists at agencies such as NASA and the EPA. Out of 1600 scientists surveyed, 43% reported that their scientific work had been “revised in ways that altered the meaning of scientific findings,” while 38% had “direct knowledge of cases where scientific information on climate was stripped from websites and printed reports.”

Who knows the pervasiveness of this conspiracy? They could have known and actively censored global warming evidence for decades. The organization Global Cool, which works with rock stars to raise awareness about global warming, announced that they have uncovered a “secret poem” that was recorded by legend Jim Morrison shortly before his death that “seems so relevant to the environmental challenge we face”. The poem, called Woman in the Window, features the chorus “Just try to stop us, we’re going to love” – a shocking prophesy of the denial of carbon emissions and, um, our will to defiantly love. Take that, Bush! Cause you can suppress 1,600 government-funded scientists, but the Lizard King will not be silenced.

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By Meredith – January 31, 2007