Soda Pop Review #2: Judge Wapner Root Beer

The second bottle of soda pop that I opened following my birthday extravaganza was a Judge Wapner Root Beer that was selected by my friend Matthew. As was the case with my first selection, the packaging plays a large role in the appeal of the beverage: an older gentlemen points and proclaims "I Sentence You to Drink my Root Beer!"

In preparation for this review, my research revealed that the actual Judge Joseph Albert Wapner was the original host of the original real courtroom television program "The People's Court." From what I can ascertain, his cousin (or nephew?) borrowed the name for his own root beer; it must be pointed out that this is Judge Wapner Root Beer and not Judge Wapner's Root Beer.

And what we have in this particular entry is a solid root beer, if not particularly distinct. It has all the hallmarks of a good hand-crafted RB, with a foundation of caramelized sweetness, punctuated by the zippy melange of flavors that give RB its typical kick. But in a blind taste test, I think it would be easy to confuse it with any number of other root beers.

I have paired Judge Wapner Root Beer with Neil Diamond's 1969 LP "Brother Love's Traveling Salvation Show/Sweet Caroline." Just as Judge Wapner poured out his exaggerated televisual judgments onto the citizens in his courtroom, so do some people spew their exaggerated judgments onto the unfairly maligned and under-appreciated Neil Diamond. The mention of his name is less likely to bring up his excellent songwriting and fine showmanship, and more likely to conjure references to "What About Bob?"

Soda Pop Review #1: Trader Joe's Vintage Orange Cream Soda

Well this space is getting dusty so I might as well put some new knick-knacks on the shelves. So what if soda pop reviews don't fit into my finely-tuned theme of documenting the meaningless breakthroughs of everyday life? S'my 'blog I'll do what I want.

You see, I recently had a birthday party (featuring music) that had an admission price of (at least) one unique bottle of soda pop. I fielded some suggestions that I should keep everyone appraised of my carbonated conquests; I seek to honor those requests, so here is the first of these.

Also, in fine beverage reviews, it is often the case that the beverage is paired with some sort of complementary selection. I have chosen to pair my soda pops with vinyl.

My first selection was the winner of the completely subjective competition for the right to be called my favorite (pre-taste, of course): a four-pack of Trader Joe's Vintage Orange Cream Soda. The primary reason for my choice was the careful adornment of each bottle by my friend Cathy. Two bottles featured my likeness on them, one with a musical theme and the other cinematic, while the remaining two bottles (and the cardboard 4-pack sleeve) display a parade of famous persons who share my name, although some of them spell it incorrectly.

So the Trader Joe's Vintage Orange Cream Soda earns major points for after-market modifications. The beverage itself lives up to its name, a rich blend of velvety citrus that goes down easy. It has that sort of blandly unobjectionable quality that many Contemporary Christian musicians also possess. Speaking of which, Michael W. Smith.

I have selected his debut album "The Michael W. Smith Project" to go along with this soda pop. His lightly granular voice corresponds well to the tartness of the orange, while his smooth style on the keys is a perfect match for the creaminess. The cover artwork features Mr. Smith's smiling bust floating through an orange-hued 3-dimensional grid; one can only assume that he is excited to escape his primitive Cartesian prison and adorn a Michael-themed Orange Cream soda pop bottle.

The First Time I Got a Severe Discount on Breakfast Items

I have something of an interest in the clearance section at my local Fresh & Easy Neighborhood Market™. An interest, or perhaps, a rapacious appetite for discountery which knows no limits or boundaries.

A brief primer: Owned by the British Super-Market consortium Tesco, Fresh & Easy Neighborhood Market™ is a mid-sized grocer and provider of meals that embody the company's title: youthful and portable repasts designed to favor straightforward preparation. And in the name of freshness, the large variety of sandwiches, salads, and microwavable entrées available for purchase are fabricated without the inclusion of preservatives. This noble pursuit necessitates earlier expiration dates and a shorter shelf life, and gives birth to the remarkable markdowns aisle with which I am infatuated.

Unemployment was certainly a factor in the development of my abnormality. At the peak of my obsession, I often visited 2 to 3 times a day, due to an abundance of free time and an obligation to thriftiness. Based on the data of my frequent surveillances, I was able to ascertain the basic timetable that the blessed markdown gnomes employed as they went about their work. A first round of sticker placement ("Today's Special!") occurred in the late morning hours, typically reducing foodstuff dues by one quarter or one third of their original value. Things really got rowdy in the early evening hours, when a second round of stickers appeared, proffering their wares at rates of one half, two thirds, and even three quarters less than would otherwise be anticipated.

Alas, a recent move has dampened my enthusiasm for Fresh & Easy Neighborhood Market™. The nearest outfit is now 0.9 Imperial statute miles from my default position, whereas the previous measurement was 0.3. In addition to a proximal degradation of threefold, the quantity and variety of merchandise available for clearance has declined by a similar margin.

But let us not dwell on the negative. Let us recall the good times.

One Saturday, many months ago, I ventured down to the grocery and was pleased to find the clearance department well-stocked. I aggregated a small, diverse stockpile in my shopping basket. Among my discoveries were a package of four banana bran muffins, and a compilation featuring eight of Lemon Pound Cake's greatest hits. Each capsule normally retailed for a price of $3.96; but earlier that evening the gnomes had convened a great council, and decided that $1.00 would satisfy their overlords. Happily, I brought forth my bounty to the automated checkout registers.

I've no doubt that at this point some of my readers have closed their browser windows. What more could there be to the story? Certainly, I was more than satisfied with the value I was acquiring and would have been content to wander home and plan the dispersement of sweet bread-like rations among the week's breakfasts.

Now we rejoin the author at the point of purchase. The machine had performed its calculations, and I expected a modest sum due to my good fortune with Lady Bargain, but the final tally was noticeably less than my best estimates. I studied my receipt to ascertain the anomaly, and stumbled across an additional discount.
There was an ongoing promotion regarding selected breakfast items, allowing savvy consumers to purchase a deuce of packages for $6.00. As the subtotal for those two bundles would normally equate to $7.98, the automated checkout register was on the lookout for charming pairs of applicable SKUs, and when the lucky bar codes were scanned, it applied a discount of $1.96.

I realized that the gadget had dutifully applied it's $1.96 discount as its software had dictated. But as the subtotal of my muffins and pound cake was only $2.00, I had paid all of $0.04 for 12 delectable treats.

I won't forget that day. Its legend and hold on my consciousness only grows, as I lazily sift through the mediocrity of the clearance aisle at my new Fresh & Easy Neighborhood Market™. I got some heat and serve dinner rolls the other day for pretty cheap, but I mean, c'mon, dinner rolls? What's the point? Without a closeout deal on their Chicken Primavera or Shepherd's Pie to accompany them, it just seems like they're teasing me.

The Third Time I Got a Voicemail from Putrina Donk

My apologies to those of you who have waited eleven months to experience the vicarious adventure of getting eccentric voicemails from a complete stranger. For the uninitiated, allow me to direct you to my first and second experiences with "That Particular Lady."

But before we get started, I would like to retire the moniker of "That Particular Lady" or "TPL" that was established in the previous edition of this serialized chronicle. In the period intermediating that second and this the third installment, I decided she deserved better than the generic designation which I had afforded her. Bearing this in mind, I turned to my friend Ken, a consummate artisan who works solely within the medium of silly names, and asked for his input. His consult provided the following candidate list:

Putrina Donk
Aquatic Mercury
Helgerpan, the Delightful Sardine
Voicemail McGee
Winnie Tunabox
Tortilla Sue
Ms. Issues
Ms. Voicemail
The Usual Suspect
Voicemail Woman
Strange Fruit (by Billie Holiday)
Tomato Snips (since tomato is a strange fruit)
Helga
Helga Tomato
Someone Elsie
Eggplant Elsie
Wilhelmina

My friends, it is always euphoric to see a virtuoso at work. I needed look no further than the first entry to find a sobriquet worthy of my cryptic voicemail interloper, but how could one resist savoring the entire catalogue? I offer my heartfelt thanks to Ken.

So now, let us rejoin the narrative. Turn back the dates on your imagination clock to March 15, 2010, the date upon which the world was exposed to Putrina's first voicemail, and the author's analysis of it. Except, the author of this here 'blog hadn't really told anyone about it yet, so worldwide saturation of this information was somewhat limited.

It had been nearly a month since I received any calls from Ms. Donk, and I did not expect to ever be troubled by her ramblings again. But less than 24 hours after my post, my switchboard lit up with her number in the caller ID. At 3:30 AM. Multiple times. In my sleep-addled state, I was a bit unnerved. At first, I merely silenced my phone each time it rang. But by the third cycle of this routine, I decided bold action was necessary, and turned the device off. My best attempts to return to slumber produced no success, only visions of Putrina somehow discovering my essay and formulating a babbling, incoherent verbal evisceration for the ages.

And then at 4:04 AM on March 16th, there was an earthquake. A mild earthquake, only a 4.4 on the Richter scale, but it shook my bed more than mildly, and my already perturbed mind much harder than Mssr. Richter could have measured.

"Maybe she was trying to warn me about the earthquake!" suggested my brain.

I am not proud of having thought this thought. But I thunk it. And in my defense, I will inform those readers who may be snickering that this momentary hypothesis flashed across my cerebral cortex early on during the seismic boogie, before my brain moved on to more important matters: whether the shaking was proliferating or depreciating; and whether I was safer in my bunk or stumbling over the flotsam and jetsam of my darkened room in a vain attempt to find a more secure shelter.

I wisely remained recumbent for the 20 to 30 seconds of undulation. When I was confident that my life was not in mortal peril, I turned my phone on to see if Putrina Donk had left a voicemail that might help me ascertain her level of clairvoyance. She had left a message, but shed no light on any precognitive abilities. She just creeped me out.



For once, no transcript is necessary.

My agitated state of mind now took on the additional burden of genuine concern for Putrina. For the first time, I actually contemplated returning one of her calls. But I wondered, what kind of problem could she have, and what help could I really be? I also pondered that trying to explain who I was and why I was calling might be more upsetting than helpful.

As I paced about the apartment, my roommate emerged from his domicile, his sleep having been another casualty of the earthquake. We shared a few exciting moments discussing that event, and I unloaded upon him some frantic ravings concerning Ms. Donk. After verbal expulsion of that neurosis, I felt better, and decided that she was not my responsibility and eventually returned to bed.

But I did consider that if I never heard from her again, it would bother me. I even considered checking the obituaries in the local newspapers of her area code. Fortunately, that action would soon prove unnecessary.

The First Time I Taught Someone How to Use a Vending Machine

I can't say that I have a specific memory of the first time that I used a vending machine, or how it was that I came by the knowledge required to operate such a contraption. It's possible that in some forgotten grade school class, a teacher may have dedicated a day to highlight the basic fundamentals of vending machine patronization, emphasizing ideal postures for button pressing and dialectic principles of snack choice-making. But I do not remember this.

I just know that I am confident in my ability to finagle heavily-manufactured foodstuffs from the retrieval slots. In fact, I have been privy to advanced manipulation of vending machines. As a child, I honed my skills by obsessively pushing the coin return button on every available coin-operated device within an 8-mile radius, once yielding somewhere in the neighborhood of 60 to 70 cents from a newspaper dispensary in an Orlando Holiday Inn.  My prowess also once led me to a forgotten soft drink repository on the neglected fourth floor of a building at my university, an appliance that would offer Dr. Peppers for an unadvertised and paltry price of 75 cents, saving the informed student a whole, shiny quarter. And I don't think I've ever had the misfortune of a rotary coil retaining its grip on an item I purchased.

Upon further reflection, it seems most of this vending machine savvy was acquired in the following manner: by using vending machines.

So keeping this in mind, you might understand that if I was flagged down by an elderly Armenian man who required assistance purchasing bottled water from an automated vendor, I would react with a bit of confusion.

"You help me?" he suggested, waving several dollar bills in his hand, startling me out of the aimless stupor that characterizes my constitutionals through large shopping centers. With caution, I approached and accepted the assignment designated to my person. The gentleman offered further clarification.

"You help me buy it." He pointed to the vending machine. It was not a difficult device to use; it had very large buttons that clearly advertised the products the consumer had the opportunity to purchase, exactly like the one you see below.

"Sure. You put the money there," I instructed my elderly pupil, directing his attention to the receptacle for paper currency.

He timidly submitted a dollar to the machine, as if to suggest that maybe it would like one. His thrusts were so limp that the bill slot refused to acknowledge the presence of legal tender.

"Here, let me try," I offered. I recall a slight hesitation on his part, like that of a skittish feline, but I slowly and steadily extended my hand, and he granted me use of his fiduciary resources. I quickly and confidently inserted one dollar, and then a second dollar, and from there my protégé sprang into action without further tutelage. He selected an Aquafina with a skillful press of the button, and had no difficulty with retrieval of his beverage or the 50 cents in change.

He thanked me, and I departed, accepting his thanks.

But my small good deed carried with it a terrible burden: endless speculation. Just who was this fellow, and why didn't he know how to use a vending machine? And why choose me as his instructor?

Why was this particular elderly Armenian man all alone? The described events unfolded in the city of Glendale, California, which has the highest concentration of Armenians of any American municipality. Furthermore, groups of elderly Armenian men are known to congregate in the public parks of Glendale. They huddle around picnic tables, angrily discussing Armenian politics (at least I imagine they're angrily discussing Armenian politics; I don't speak Armenian), and occasionally playing chess. The point I excise from these observations is that the presence of a lone elderly Armenian man is far more suspicious than a rowdy throng of them.

Could he be a very recent immigrant from Armenia? This might explain his lack of participation in communal conference with his peers, a result of unfamiliarity with the customs of Glendale. His inexperience with vending machines might be explained by growing up in Soviet Armenia, where the freedom of choice offered by such devices would certainly be frowned upon by the totalitarian regime.

Perhaps he had recently awoken from a lengthy coma? This could explain his unfamiliarity with the bill insertion slot, as well as his need for bottled water, as I would imagine one would wake up from a coma quite parched.

Was he a Terminator-style killbot, sent from the future to identify the future leader of the human resistance to a machine army, by collecting fingerprints on the dollar bills? Given that I'm still alive over six months later, we can only conclude that if this scenario is true, he is a very bad killbot, or I am not the future leader of the human resistance.

I fear the weight of insatiable inquisition is mine to bear until such a time as I can solve this puzzle.

The Second Time I Got A Weird Voicemail From That Particular Lady

Take note, as a new landmark is reached with this post: the first Pointless Milestone that is a second. Consider that the second occurrence of a Pointless Milestone is arguably more Pointless by its very nature.

When we last heard from TPL (That Particular Lady), she was sarcastically excited about going to church, and Terry had her computer. Let's find out where her life's at now, five days after her original call. As before, I will provide my best interpretation of her ramblings.



"Heyyyy, Helen.

Do you understand the importantcy of leaving or losing a wallet?

Your mother has to be contacted. I kid you not. I've tried (???) and your number is the most important one.

I do not have her number. And you wrote down the wrong address. Wrote down her rental home address.

(Indecipherable.) And my brother Terry is mad at me (what's new. Let's not ??? be to is??? ??!?!?!?)

My wallet is in your mother's vehicle's car. I need you to give me confirmation on that. I really do.

And will I keep calling? Yeah I will. Until I've received confirmation, you bet I will. Why? 'Cause it's important."

HERE'S WHERE I BREAK IT DOWN:

From the initial "Heyyy," you might expect the next words to be "...hey hey it's Fat Albert!" A truely bizarre beginning. Touché, TPL.

Next she launches right into the matter at hand, which is a wallet, and its importantcy. Having lost a wallet last summer, I can certainly empathize with the importantcy of her situation. I can't even tell you how well I understand the importantcy of leaving or losing one.

And now, a new player enters the fray: Helen's mother. Apparently she is a key figure in the case of the missing wallet, and if we skip ahead a bit, we can see that TPL's conjecture is that the wallet is in the mother's vehicle's car. Based on this wording, we are left with no choice but to assume that the mother has a vehicle which itself has a car. I would speculate that the vehicle is some sort of sentient, hovering personal transport pod that interlocks into a specifically designed compartment within the automobile. It's really the only logical conclusion.

In addition to having trouble contacting Helen, seeing as how she keeps calling me instead, TPL seems to have trouble contacting her mother as well. What if Helen purposely wrote down the wrong address, to save her mother from the hassle of dealing with TPL? What if, and I'm about to blow your mind here, Helen also purposely gave TPL the wrong phone number (which happens to be mine), because she didn't want any calls from her???

If this was planned subterfuge, we can extrapolate two possible reasons for this behavior. First, they were tired of getting these weird messages, which is plausible, although I have to admit, I find them rather entertaining. Second, this was all an elaborate operation to steal TPL's wallet.

But let us move on to Terry. Now we know that he is TPL's brother. In the first voicemail, it was established that Terry was in possession of her computer, but now is in possession of anger at her. Given the passionate technological need she previously expressed, it is almost certain that this matter is related to the current familial tension. It seems that the continued absence of her beloved data machine, coupled with the lost wallet, have left TPL in an irritated and impatient state.

Finally, let us revisit the speculated location of the missing wallet. Just what would it be doing in Helen's mother's vehicle's car, anyway? Well, I propose that Helen and her mother gave TPL a ride to church, the day after the original voicemail. I mention this in order to revisit the age paradox, because once again she sounds much closer to retirement age than drinking age. But if Helen is an approximate peer of TPL, how old does that make the mother who is driving them all around? I need to understand.

And will I keep blogging about this? Yeah I will. Until I've finished the story, you bet I will. Why? 'Cause it's important.

The First Time Someone Recognized My Magma T-Shirt

Before I start this post, I feel compelled to mention that this might be the most meaningful occurrence yet shoehorned under the banner of "Pointless Milestones."

On September 16, 2009, someone recognized my Magma T-shirt. I have waited 7 long years for this to happen.

Here's what you need to know about Magma:
1. They're French.
2. Their heyday was the 1970s.
3. They sang in their own invented language, Kobaian. This usually involves chanting things over and over again, like "Wï wï Ëss Ëss wï wï üss üss."
4. They sang about their own invented sci-fi/fantasy mythology, which involved a bunch of Earthlings settling the planet of Kobaia, creating a utopian society, then reestablishing contact with Earth and telling them how they should do things Kobaia-style, and the people of Earth taking great offense at this suggestion, inevitably leading to all sorts of heated discussions and wars. That covers the "Theusz Hamtaahk" ("Time of Hate") trilogy, anyway. There's also some archaeologist who digs up this Pharaoh and learns about his superpowers, I think. I'm sure it all makes sense if you speak Kobaian.
5. Their music is a mix of jazz, rock, opera, and a bit of funk here and there.
6. I won't bother embedding any Youtube videos of them, as they would probably only serve to frighten you. But they're there if your curiosity proves too difficult to resist.
7. They are my favorite obscure band of all time.

To the best of my recollection, I discovered them via a web site called Audiogalaxy, in the spring of 2002. I was sufficiently enamored with them that within a matter of months, I ordered one of their albums and a t-shirt bearing their logo, direct from the artist's online store. And since the day my order arrived, I have waited for a glimmer of recognition to sparkle across the visage of a complete stranger when confronted with the Magma logo.

And that day came last September. I was returning from the post office, crossing the intersection of Toland Way and El Paso Drive, when I happened to notice that I was being noticed by a man on a motorcycle.

Here is a poorly-conceived and frighteningly-illustrated depiction of our chance meeting:

Figure A is an eerily accurate representation of the author and wearer of the Magma t-shirt. Figure B is the best picture of a guy on a motorcycle from behind that I could find.

My memory of our encounter is not perfect. But I believe that he first stated "Oh... Magma." and started to point at my shirt, but had to grab his handlebar to steady himself. It is also possible he raised his fist in the air in a show of solidarity. What he said next was inaudible, except for a more forceful "Magma!" that conluded his communiqué.

I turned around as he passed me, pointing to the logo, and asking "Yeah... you like that?" It was hardly the most articulate exchange, but what we shared in that moment was beyond what mere words could express anyway. Next time, though, I'm going to have to be certain to shout "Hortz fur dehn Štëkëhn Wešt!
Hortz zï wëhr dünt Da Ëhrtz!"