Saturday, December 12, 2015

Frosted Flakes

Frosted Flakes
By Dave Woehrle

The Kellogg company introduced Frosted Flakes to the market in 1951. The sugar-coated corn product is one of the bestselling cereals of all time. The marketing team was tasked with selling the new cereal and they had to compete with General Mills, the geniuses behind Cheerios, Wheaties, and Chex.
            Kellogg’s last big hit was Rice Krispies, which came out in 1927. These Frosted Flakes had to be the company’s comeback album.
Tony the Tiger is the beloved mascot. Voiced first by Dallas McKennon, and then Thurl Ravenscroft, the catchphrase “They’re grrreatt!” is a nod to fine cereal and American exceptionalism. It’s a Saturday morning cartoon staple. Frankly, it’s difficult to imagine a world without Tony the Tiger and Frosted Flakes.
But all great things, including marketing campaigns, have to start somewhere.
The following is the transcription of Tony the Tiger's creation:
(Sound of cereal chewing, pleased grunts)
“Man, these are great.”
“Yes, they are. Fine flakes.”
“No, I mean, they’re really great. They’re great.”
“Yes. I agree. This is truly tasty cereal.”
“That should be the slogan.”
“What?”
“They’re great.”
“They’re great? That’s it?”
“Yeah.”
“You could say that about anything. Chrysler Cars…they’re great. French fries…they’re also great. Pat Boone’s Christmas Specials…they’re great. There’s just no meaning in it.”
“But Frosted Flakes are great.”
“Be that as it may, it can’t be the slogan.”
“People, we need to think big here. General Mills is wiping the floor with us. (Sighs) Cheerios.”
“Fucking Cheerios.”
“Cheerios aren’t all that good.”
“Cheerios aren’t all that bad, either. I mean, I know it’s our competition and all, but Cheerios are dependable. Eating circles of oats at dawn is pretty goddamn comforting.”
“Cheerios? Give me a fucking break. That’s old hat. And they look like tiny assholes. I don’t want tiny assholes in my milk. It’s a bland and vulgar breakfast product.”
“I hear General Mills is gonna introduce a cereal with marshmallows soon. They have a leprechaun character actor set up and everything.”
“No one’s going to put marshmallows in cereal, okay? That’s just too much of a good thing. That’s like putting LSD in your whiskey.”
“Okay okay. Let’s not lose sight of our goal here. Frost Flakes needs something new to carry it. Now, mascots could be the way to do that. Does anyone have any ideas?”
“What about a cow?”
“What about it?”
“Well, Frosted Flakes are corn-based. And cows eat corn.”
“Some do, yeah, but most cows eat grass.”
“Depends on the cow, I guess.”
“Do farmers decide that? Do they have grass in one bucket and corn in another and just kinda wing it?”
“Cows don’t eat out of buckets. They eat out of troughs, man. Their milk goes in the bucket.”
“Guys! Stop it. Now, what about the cow is appealing other than the fact that it eats corn?”
“It’ll fly. It’ll wear a cape and it’ll drop down boxes of Frosted Flakes onto happy American children.”
“No. That’s too weak. We need to be aggressive here. Remember, people, Cheerios.”
“Fucking Cheerios.”
“How about a wolf? 
“Man, I love this cereal. These flakes, man, they’re great. They’re really fucking great.”
“Hmm, I like the wolf in a patriotic jumpsuit, sans the lamb attack.”
“But wolves don’t eat corn, or any cereal, for that matter.”
“And I don’t eat pussy. But I still like having it around, okay?”
“Seriously? You don’t muff dive? You don’t tickle the bean of the southern beard? You gay?”
“Guys! Focus! Let’s all…let’s all just take five and write some notes. We need vision.
(Sound of silence. Scribbling notes. Some more cereal chewing.)
“They’re great.”
“Yes, you’ve made that clear, buddy. No one’s arguing.”
“I got it. Ready? A tiger. Just a big ass tiger.”
“Yeah. Yeah! Tigers are fucking awesome.”
“But it has to be a hip tiger.”
“Yes!”
“Okay okay…I’m liking it. A friendly tiger.”
“It’ll be bi-pedal.”
“Don’t throw those big SAT words at us, fucker.”
“The tiger will walk on his hind legs, okay?”
“Yeah! That way he can surf and downhill ski and shit. Be all adventurous. Like Superman.”
“And it should definitely be wearing a red banana around his neck.”
“Obviously.”
“Duh.”
“A no-brainer.”
“Name?”
“Magnus!”
“Larry!”
“Andrew!”
“No, no. It has to be alliterative.”
“Stop tossing out your ten-dollar words!”
“A name that starts with a T, genius. Jesus, how do you keep this job?”
“Timothy.”
“Timothy? No. Timothy sounds like a fat choir boy.”
“Tom!”
“Tobias!”
“Tyrone!”
“Not that hip of a tiger.”
“Terrence!”
“No. It has to a name that sounds like a guy who’s really big and kind, but if you crossed him, he’d really mess you up.”
“Tony!”
“Tony.”
“Tony. Definitely.”
(More cereal-chewing)
“Tigers growl.”
“Well done. So what?”
“What if Tony the Tiger said, “They’re great!” but he really laid into the “r” part of the word?”
“Are we really going with “They’re great” as our slogan? It’s just that you could say that – ”
“Shut it! It could just work. So he’ll say, “They’re grrreat!?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know. That just makes Tony sound challenged. Like he’s stuttering in the middle of a word.”
“It’s a growl! It would all depend on the voice actor.”
“Clark Gable?”
“Too classy.”
“Jackie Gleason?”
“Too goofy.”
“My buddy Dallas McKennon could do it.”
“That guy looks like a child molester.”
“He is a child molester.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, but he’s got that voice, a true bad ass bass. And it’s not like they have to see his weird, pervy face.”
“True. Okay, so we’re set. A bi-pedal predatory cat, naked except for a red bandana, saying “They’re Grrreat!” while surfing with children.”
“It seems so obvious now.”
“American as apple pie.”
“That’s what they said about Cheerios.”
“Fucking Cheerios.”
            The first Kellogg’s Frosted Flakes commercial premiered on the Adventures of Superman in the late 1950s. The rest is delicious history.










Sunday, October 25, 2015

I Don't Know It, And If I Did, I Wouldn't Show It That Way

I Don’t Know It, And If I Did, I Probably Wouldn’t Show It That Way
By Dave Woehrle

Like most people about to turn thirty, I’m trying to figure out where it all went wrong. In analyzing my childhood for possible wrong turns, I found the culprit: the song “If You’re Happy and You Know It.”
            This is no silly song. It’s a goddamn existential riddle. Why, you ask? Because the lyrics don’t go, “If you’re happy, clap your hands.” It goes, “If you’re happy, and you know it, clap your hands.”
Firstly, how does one know one is happy? It’s a difficult question, especially for a pre-school student. Adults spend lots of money in therapy answering such questions.
Secondly, the first word of the song (“if”) makes it a conditional tune. Yet the alternative is unknown. It doesn’t go, “If you’re happy, and you know it, clap your hands; if not, the Play-Doh is over there.” That would certainly be a better song. How can it be true happiness when there’s no element of choice involved?
            Let’s take this song phrase by phrase as I give you my running commentary.

“If you’re happy…”

Sure. I’m a happy kid. I run through water sprinklers and enjoy juice boxes. My parents haven’t scalded me with acid or anything. My brother is kind of a dick but he’s fun to watch wrestling with. Yeah. I’m happy. Sure.

“...and you know it.”

Wait. What? How does one know it? I thought I knew it. Or maybe I felt it. Am I supposed to know everything I feel or feel everything I know? Is happiness just a good thought? What do I think about how I feel? And how do I feel about that thought? Damn. This shit’s heavy. Metacognition is not for five year olds.

“...clap your hands.”

Okay, slow down. I’m still grappling with self-aware happiness and you are all clapping like circus seals. It’s disorienting. Happiness is hand-clapping? Really? This is how you show happiness? That seems an abrasive, narrow view of such an emotion.

"…If you're happy and you know it, and you really want to show it…”

What if I don’t want to show it? What business is it of yours, anyway? How can anyone be happy around forced, non-consensual hand-clapping? This is nonsense. What if I show my happiness by leaning on a maple tree at dusk, eating dinosaur-shaped fruit snacks in my backyard alone while I have weird sexual fantasies about April from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles? Where’s that song?
           
The song gives two more actions for happiness-showing.

“...stomp your feet.”

Jesus. Really? If I’m going to move my feet, it’s to travel about as I please, not to perform some obligatory military stomp.

“…shout hooray!”

I’ll shout when I want to shout, thank you very much. I’m still thinking about this happiness business. Can’t we just finger paint and forget this enigmatic tune?

The song ends in a trifecta: “…do all three!”

No. I’m not doing all three. What happened to “Old MacDonald”? There was a song and a man I could respect. No one questioned if he was happy. He had farm chores. He had animals with their fine hilarious noises. Old MacDonald didn’t need to clap.

So there it was. My first taste of happiness: it’s something you do loudly in unison in public with predetermined actions. It was a sick, joyous cacophony of non-thinking. It seemed like bullshit.
My lack of participation in this song made me an instant outcast in school. I got invitations to birthday parties, sure, but my peers feared my lack of hand-clapping, foot-stomping, and hooray-ing. At the Chuck-E-Cheese, while my friends played Top Gun and Mario in the arcade, I escaped to the room with the sea of plastic balls, sank to the bottom, and quietly pissed my pants.
The song haunts me to this day. How can it be happiness if you don’t have a choice? A big part of freedom is the freedom to be miserable. And that makes me pretty happy.
Here’s my revised version of “If You’re Happy And You Know It”
“If you’re tolerating existence with a sense of grace, then that’s a really good thing. You don’t have to do anything with your hands, feet, or voice. Unless you want to. Then go ahead. We’re gonna get through this, damn it.”