Crystal Pepsi

Are you sick of delicious, well-known sodas? Do you find the comforting and familiar to be generally repugnant? Do you need a new soda Right Now, and would prefer to drink it accompanied by the Van Halen song of the same name?

Well, you're in luck! Or at least, you would have been had you expressed these concerns somewhere between 1992 and 1993.

In 1992, Pepsi executives sat down and thought, "Sure, our product is delicious and thirst-quenching...but is it pure?" You may have thought they had learned a key and important lesson in not-tampering-with-a-successful-formula from the 1985 "New Coke" debacle, but you would be wrong. In an ever-ongoing battle for one-upmanship between Pepsico and the Coca Cola Company, no product launch was too ridiculous.

Thankfully, they had an equally absurd ad campaign to accompany the product. Although Crystal Pepsi was indeed clear in color, it tasted pretty much like original Pepsi. I may be going out on a limb here, but I assume that if it tastes the same, there were not major recipe changes for the beverage outside of altering the color of the syrup. This did not stop our friends over at Pepsi from making the supposed "clarity=purity" concept the major cornerstone of their advertising campaigns. The concept in itself was ridiculous; no one was claiming Sprite or 7UP to be particularly pure in comparison to its darker-syruped soda peers. Regardless of the obvious fallibility of this advertising claim, PepsiCo pushed ahead with quintessential 90s commercials like this:



So, what did you learn? Nothing? What? You mean to tell me that despite all of those definitive statements splashed across my screen, not a single one of them tells us anything at all about the product itself aside from its clear color? Well, at least the music drops some heavy hints on when I can expect to find this beverages in stores. I'll give you a hint: it's not later.

Clearly (sorry, I had to), Pepsi was piggybacking on other marketing trends at the time and aiming to portray a product that was simultaneously familiar and improved. Researchers at the time were uncovering some mildly convincing evidence that people's perception of taste or quality is heavily impacted by its color. However, what the Pepsi R&D people failed to take into account was that people's expectations for taste also change significantly with a color shift. While people were expecting Crystal Pepsi to have a lighter taste and lower caloric content (after all, it's not a huge leap from how they market it in the above ad), their tastebuds were in uproar over the eye-to-brain miscommunication.

While Crystal Pepsi had done well in initial test markets, the actual substance of the product failed to live up to the hype. People tasted the cola and were generally unimpressed from its near indistinguishability from the original. In an effort to counterbalance popular public opinion, PepsiCo released the following commercial:


So, what did they think? They claimed it have a "nice lemony-zing taste!" and a "clear" flavor. None of those things were particularly true about the initial Crystal Pepsi formula, but the folks over at Pepsi were desperate to convince us they were so. Confronted with a backlash from loyal Pepsi drinkers, Pepsi continued backpedaling in an effort to extricate themselves from this sticky (though supposedly "less syrupy!") situation.

Suddenly, it was like the Clinton impeachment hearing of soda marketing as the Pepsi people really took it down to semantics. "What do you mean we called it Crystal Pepsi? It's called Crystal from Pepsi!" That's right. Pepsi realized that their staunch classic soda adherents were in a huff over the fact that they tried to pass off this colorless impostor as their old favorite Pepsi. Why, this wasn't Pepsi at all! It's as if their fanbase got together and put out a statement saying, "We don't care if you make it. We don't even care if people know it's from Pepsi. But for God's sake, we can't have people thinking this is Pepsi! Blasphemy!"

And so it was:



At least this ad shows the corporation is able to poke some fun at itself. Pepsi recognized how ridiculous the addition of this meaningless preposition was to the name of their product. They also knew it was absurd that they were forced to add a citrus flavor based on people's perceptions of how a clear soda should taste.

After all of that, I think we can all agree: no more messing with the original. Is that clear?

Crystal.

Number/Word Munchers

There were two words every 90s child eagerly anticipated in their elementary school classrooms. No, they weren't "No Homework" or even "Snow Day".

They were "Computer Lab".

Hearken back to a day when computer use was a novelty and not a supposedly integral part of our day-to-day existence. In the 90s, elementary schools began installing state-of-the-art computer labs bursting with educational games galore. It was the ultimate educational experience, as both kids and teachers felt like they were getting away with something illicit; as kids, we couldn't believe we were out there playing games during the middle of our school day with no one vetoing our enjoyment, and teachers couldn't believe that we were actually buying into this emphatically educational experience. Everyone was a winner at computer lab time.

That is, unless you were bad with prime numbers.

Enter a little game that went by the name of "Number Munchers". It sounded innocent enough, but it was enough to boil your blood with rage when those pesky Troggles came to gobble up answers and stymie our most earnest of munching efforts. For those of you unfamiliar with the Troggle genus and/or phylum, they came in a variety of kooky colors, shapes, and sizes. Our friends at the Minnesota Educational Computing Consortium (the company that produced the software) used their ultimate computer nerdiness to develop complex scientific names and traits for the respective Troggles. Our software designer (dorkius maximus) provided us with a virtual rainbow of Troggolicious nemeses.

My favorite were the fuschia Reggies, or Trogglus Normalus. Sure, they tried to eat me and scramble my equations, but by God were they adorable. The most irritating Troggle had to be the game-foiling Helpers, Trogglus Assistus. They would appear innocently enough, looking like an adorable clone of my green munching self. "Oh!" I thought to myself. "Another little Math Muncher incarnate here to partner amicably with me and win me truckloads of munch-earned points!" Not so, childhood self. These malevolent munchers were up to no good, stealing my correct answers and taking my potential high-scoring points with them. How was I supposed to immortalize myself in the game's Hall of Fame? What good was this game unless kids who had Computer Lab time later in the day could bask in the radiating glow of my newly canonized position amongst the greats?

Number Munchers was essentially a school-sanctioned version of beloved classic Pacman game, but with an underlying element of solving math problems to avoid sudden death. Sure, every once in awhile a "safety square" would appear, but they were pretty fickle. It was all about finding the correct answers and dodging the ever quickening omnipresent Troggles and collecting a great bounty of points along the way. However, it wasn't all just fun and games; there were periods of passive entertainment as well! Imagine, Troggles and Munchers alike would gather round the screen to entertain you with their crudely animated antics. During these short scenes, our mainstay muncher would somehow elude the colassal but dim-witted Troggle's plan for our demise. Think you can light my muncher mansion on fire? Think again, Trogglus Smarticus. My muncher's got a fire extinguisher.



If this account has yet to jog your memory, perhaps this illustrative video will put it in running gear. Though it depicts a slightly earlier version than the one I played at school and eventually begged my way to owning at home, you will probably get the general idea:




We loved this game with a near religious fervor. The only problem was, I was terrible at math. I still am. In fact, I was dabbling in the free online version of the game here and I just realized I don't even know what a prime number is. How am I supposed to confound Troggles without a basic grounding in elementary math? Fortunately, the good people at MECC software came up with an alternative perfect for those of us dorky enough to adore playing Number Munchers, but not smart enough to derive multiples of 16 without consulting some sort of a chart.

All hail the mighty Word Munchers, redeemer of self esteem for right-brained children everywhere. Word Munchers was essentially the same concept and game construct, but addressing English class standards such as phonics, grammar, and parts of speech. Do I know what part of speech "she" is? You bet I do! Can I identify rhyming words? Absolutely! Recognize antonyms? Piece of cake! Whew, for a second there I thought I was doomed to Apple II excommunication for lack of math ability.

Number Munchers or Word, one thing was for certain. In the ultimate battle of Muncher vs. Troggle, you would give anything for Muncher to be the triumphant victor. Just to see that venerable animated sequence of me, the once lowly Muncher, beating the once all-powerful reigning Troggle to the top of the Math or Word mountain to plan my victory flag (conveniently marked "M" for Muncher). We put that flag in, it's a done deal.

Hall of fame, here we come.




Oh how the mighty have fallen:
View the world's most frightening computer game illustration on the cover the current version of the renamed "Math Munchers" It appears that our old friend Muncher has morphed into a frenzied math addict, eager to get his hands on a quick division-sign fix.

Magic Eye

It's a well-known fact that all children enjoy staring at a two dimensional image for so long that their eyes begin to glaze over and water uncontrollably. Their heads may ache, their eyes may lose focus, and their patience may wear paper thin, but nothing will impede them from their ultimate visual goal. Though usually it is near impossible to force a child to stay still, set one in front of a Magic Eye book or poster and prepare to be amazed: not by the Magic we were promised, but rather by the level of maddening concentration associated with capturing it.

There was nothing worse than being the one kid who couldn't see the hidden image. If you were ocularly challenged in a manner that hindered your useless ability to view a supposedly three dimensional image amongst a repetitive sea of two-dimensional images, you were relegated to endless ridicule and social alienation. God help you if you suffered from the curse of poor binocular disparity, as you were likely headed for a sad and lonely existence devoid of exciting jump-from-the-page imagery. A seemingly pointless skill of blank staring suddenly set apart the Haves from the Have Nots.

In bookstores and classrooms across the nation, the same conversation was taking place between increasingly frustrated pairs of children:

Kid #1: Look at the picture.
Kid #2: Okay, I'm looking. (long pause) So, what's supposed to happen here?
Kid #1: You'll see something.
Kid #2: I'll see what?
Kid #1: Just look at it!
Kid #2: I am looking.
Kid #1: No, look past it.
Kid #2: Oh, I think I kind of...
Kid #1: Do you see it now?
Kid #2: Um, yeah, I think so.
Kid #1: So what is it?
Kid #2: A...whale?
Kid #1: Ugh, it's the Statue of Liberty. Man, you suck at these things.

(Kid #2 walks off with pounding eye strain-based headache and wounded pride)

And...scene.

Nobody really seemed to know how these things worked, and no one really seemed to care. The real test of 90s childhood street credibility was an uncanny capacity to descramble austereogramatic images. I know, it makes perfect sense. How else are we supposed to prioritize our social structure? Brains? Looks? Give me a break. It was Magic Eye or nothing.


The burning shame of not being one of the Chosen Ones was both crippling and inescapable. Living with the constant fear that our mothers' old adages of our crossed eyes forever sticking that way was not enough to deter us from staring intently until our brains were set to burst. We were determined that this would be the time that we would finally see what everyone was raving about. Those who were skilled in the ways of the Magic Eye were constantly coaching us, insisting that we were doing it wrong. Despite our protests of poor depth perception or an inability to visually construct convergent images, the Seers were neverendingly giving us all sorts of well-meaning contradictory viewing tips:

"Cross your eyes a little!"
"Eyeballs further apart!"

"Look to the left of it!"
"The other left!"

"Try to focus on one spot!"
"Don't focus your eyes on anything at all!"
"Try to look past it!"

That last one was always my favorite. Oh, you want me to look past it? I was foolishly looking at it. Alrighty, no problem. I knew this x-ray vision would eventually come in handy. I'll just gaze straight through the paper to the next page and I'll be set.

Unfortunately, this brand sarcasm was lost on our persistent Magic Eye instructors. After all, who cares about attitude when you've got magical pictures? Hopeful that their Magic Eye proteges may have finally blossomed into fully evolved viewers capable of perceiving 3D imagery, the Seers would eagerly ask, "Can you see it now?" Horribly embarrassed by our ineptitude, we would have to grudgingly admit time and time again that we still lacked the basic ogling skills necessary to deconstruct a series of seemingly meaningless colored dots. Try as we might, we would never be content to simply accept it as a moderately attractive example of pointilistic art. We knew it was so much more, and we wanted in.

Thankfully, our dear uploading friends over at YouTube have put together an instructional video of sorts. Don't let the soothing music and whimsical font fool you. This thing is serious. I followed the instructions to a T, but somewhere along the way my plan to see a glorious hidden three-dimensional image took a turn for the worst. It brought me right back to 1995, with all my Seeing friends telling me, "You're thinking about it too much. Just stare at it. Don't think about it at all." Right. Because telling me not to think too much about it leads me to think about it prominently and intently. Why don't you give it a try and see what you see:



Isn't that nice? They offer that little consolatory image at the end to offset the continued wrenching humiliation of those of us unable to see the 3D picture. If you can see it, congratulations. Your ocular capacity clearly exceeds mine, and I respect your visual superiority. However, if you failed to see the image, you are not alone; in fact, many of our celebrated television personalities faced the same issue, sometimes as a minor offshoot plotline!

On the original Ellen show, Ellen Degeneres desperately tried to hide her secret inability to Magic Eye. An episode of Seinfeld left George and others so transfixed by the Magic Eye task at hand that they were unable to complete the rudimentary functions of their everyday lives. And of course, we can't forget out beloved Friend Ross Gellar, who was chastised by the whole group for his incompetence at drawing out the 3D Statue of Liberty in one of the most popular Magic Eye pictures. US magazine has been right all along, they really are just like us! And they say there are no relatable characters in sitcoms.

Thus if you're feeling down about your lack of Magical Eyes, rest your weary sockets. You're among good company. For those of you who can see the mythical images, well, continue to bask in your transcendent ability. A skill you thought had been laid to rest years ago has briefly returned just long enough for you to reassert your superiority over the Blind. By tomorrow your so-called skill will reclaim its rightful place in obsolescence and your gloating rights will dissolve like the two dimensional dots from the three dimensional Statue of Liberty.

Enjoy it while it lasts, you lucky bastards.