Whatever Happened to Pudding Pops? (18 page)

Since then, Pepsi's returned to the research lab again and again, offering such memorable and short-lived soft drink siblings as Crystal Pepsi, Pepsi Holiday Spice, and Windex look-alike Pepsi Blue. We eagerly await the eventual introduction of Plaid Pepsi, Jalapeño-Cilantro Pepsi, and that Christmastime specialty, Pepsi Pine.

 

X-TINCTION RATING:
Gone for good.

REPLACED BY:
In 2000 and 2001, Pepsi introduced new lemon colas, Pepsi Twist and Diet Pepsi Twist, which were gone by 2006. Pepsi has also offered the simply named Diet Pepsi Lemon, but only for a limited time. As long as life keeps giving Pepsi lemons, the company is bound and determined to keep making lemon cola.

L
OOK, we knew it wasn't real cheese. The “z” gave that away. But something about these orange-powdered spheres made junk-food junkies out of even health nuts. Who knew that Planters, a nut company, could slip in and beat Chester Cheetah at his own powdery orange game?

Their packaging was genius—they came in a tall blue tin with a peel-off lid. (Like pudding lids, it would cut you if you were careless. Mr. Peanut wasn't messin' around.) The cheese-powder-to-crunch ratio was impeccable, and the texture was perfect for sucking between your teeth, although too many could lead to a painful case of Cap'n Crunch Mouth. But best of all was the shape. They were small and round, like mothballs, perfect to huck across the junior-high cafeteria or to toss up in the air and catch in your mouth.

The original Cheez Balls came back as Cheez Mania in 1999, but the mania was short-lived. Kids must now return to whipping tuna sandwiches at each other.

W
E should have known it wouldn't end well. Stricken with model fever, we'd visit the hobby shop, mouth agape at the thousands of kits stacked to the ceiling and the World War II bombers dangling from fishing line.We'd agonize over which one to pick: A '57 Chevy or a tank? The Creature from the Black Lagoon or a glow-in-the-dark Frankenstein? The anticipation was always palpable.

We'd eventually make our choice, and when we got home, we'd meticulously lay everything out, carefully twist the little pieces off of their plastic trees, take a deep breath, and—like a ten-year-old brain surgeon—begin.

But there was a big difference between the finished model we'd built in our head and the soon-to-be-deformed thing on the table in front of us. Doing it right required patience, hand-eye coordination, and at least a semblance of skill, which we quickly realized we completely lacked. The tube of glue inevitably spurted all over everything, fusing the tiny model pieces to our fingers.

Still, we'd grind our teeth and forge through, all the while comparing the elaborate box art to our own pathetic effort. But no matter how hard we'd try, we always ended up with a lopsided plane, crooked decals, and a little glue-drenched pilot who couldn't see because of the giant thumbprint on the windshield.

O
NCE upon a time, before video games, activity-packed schedules, and news of abductions terrorized parents into handcuffing their kids to the house, children used to play outside.Yes, outside (Google it), with real air, bugs, weather, and other flesh-and-blood kids.

One step out the door, and we were gone. We would explore abandoned buildings, organize pickup games of touch football in a vacant lot, and play on piles of dirt that could easily pass for the dunes of Tatooine. We were unsupervised and on our own, and our imaginations thrived because of it.

We could be pirates or princesses, cowboys or Indians.We'd build elaborate forts with rusty nails and splintered boards. We'd catch salamanders in window wells.We'd make mud pies.We'd hop on our BMX bikes and pedal for miles, until we suddenly realized that we had an hour ride back home ahead of us. We'd play Spud, Capture the Flag, or Trench in the cul-de-sac for hours, until it got so dark we couldn't see one another anymore. We'd get bruises and bumps, grass stains, and scraped-up knees. Maybe someday they'll make a video game out of the idea.

I
T'S like the Mad Libs of urban legends. Pick a brand-name candy (Pop Rocks) and a popular beverage (Coke). Add in a semifamous person no one has seen in a while (how about Mikey, from the Life cereal commercials?) and invent a creative death (he exploded!). The details vary—it was a suicide attempt, or one of the other kids from the commercial challenged him to down a case of the candy followed by a six-pack of Coke. Either way, the end is the same—a gloriously gory eruption of entrails.

The fictional story of Mikey's's dreadful demise only added to the lore of Pop Rocks, the candy that made you feel like you were licking an electric fence. The magic reaction had something to do with pressurized carbon dioxide, but really, just as we don't want to know that Mexican jumping beans are actually moth larvae, the science of the sweet is secondary.

Pop Rocks were more than a candy—they were a challenge. Bullies would dare other kids to swallow them, foreshadowing how, a decade later, those same kids would dare fellow frat boys to do twenty-one shots of Jäger on their twenty-first birthday. Some kids squirmed at the ensuing snaps, crackles, and pops, but for most kids, the only thing better than candy was candy that fought back.

S
MART sugar junkies ignored all the hubbub about the Pepsi Challenge and teaching the world to sing and turned instead to the red-and-white, painted-on labels of Pop Shoppe pop for their super-sweet beverage fix.

The reusable, stubby glass bottles came in red plastic cases and were only available at stand-alone Pop Shoppe stores. Forget ordinary six-packs of soda tied together with duck-strangling plastic hoops. Who wanted a half dozen cans of the same flavor, anyway? Pop Shoppe patrons could mix and match from a flavor list of nearly thirty choices—old standbys like orange and grape, and far more exotic options like pineapple and bubble gum.

And while the flavors tickled the taste buds, the Pop Shoppe stores had giant, clanky conveyer belts that tickled the imagination. How in the name of Rube Goldberg did such an industrial factory produce even one drop of such delicately sweet, fruity nectar? Magic, duh.

I
N pre-VCR days, kids couldn't just pop in a movie whenever the mood struck. Book-and-record sets were the next best thing.You'd throw the record on your turntable and flop on your bedroom's orange shag carpet with the accompanying book spread out in front of you. Invisible Record Guy would set you up with some easy instructions that were oddly reminiscent of the A/V dorks at school: “When you hear this signal—
boop
—turn the page. All right?”You have yourself a deal, Invisible Record Guy!

Disneyland, Columbia, and other brands all offered the book-and-record combos. Some featured stand-alone books; others had giant books glued right inside a fold-out album sleeve. But the brand to beat all brands was Power Records, a division of famed kids' label Peter Pan. Aimed at slightly older kids than the other labels, Power featured comic-book and TV characters. We played
G.I. Joe: The Secret of the Mummy's Tomb
and
Spider-Man: Invasion of the Dragon Men
until the needle on our Fisher-Price record player was nothing but a nub.

Power also dramatized such literary classics as
The Last of the Mohicans
and
Robinson Crusoe
. It's entirely possible that one or two desperate kids tried to turn in an English 101 book report based purely on the Power Records version. Teachers always knew, of course.When you hear this signal—
boop
—you flunk.

I
N the 1980s, über TV dad Bill Cosby also served as a pitchman for Jell-O Pudding Pops.The Cos claimed Mom would approve of the frozen treats because they contained “all the goodness of real pudding.” Which might have made sense in Bizarro World, where kids who didn't choke down at least one bite of pudding were sent to bed without their broccoli, but never quite played in Actual World, in which pudding, frozen or otherwise, was just as much of a rare privilege as staying up to watch Johnny Carson's monologue.

Whether it was the avalanche of Cosby-fueled advertising or their own delicious cracklike creaminess, Pudding Pops became the must-have freezer filler of the 1980s. Forget Fudgsicles and Otter Pops, not to mention that suggested serving size of “one,” a bored and hungry kid could suck down a whole box of these things before the freezer door slammed shut.

Reportedly, Pudding Pops were dunked in water before being packaged, which left a gloriously thin coating of ice over each pop. Just like fish know from birth how to use their gills, kids knew instinctively how to dr-r-r-aaaag their incisors down the length of the pop, shattering the icy skin and shaving only a delicate layer of the chocolate, vanilla, or choco-vanilla swirl along with it. How's that for fine motor skills?