g r o t t o 1 1

Peeve Farm
Breeding peeves for show, not just to keep as pets
Brian Tiemann
Silicon ValleyNew York-based purveyor of a confusing mixture of Apple punditry, political bile, and sports car rentals.

btman at grotto11 dot com

Read These Too:

InstaPundit
Steven Den Beste
James Lileks
Little Green Footballs
As the Apple Turns
Entropicana
Cold Fury
Capitalist Lion
Red Letter Day
Eric S. Raymond
Tal G in Jerusalem
Aziz Poonawalla
Corsair the Rational Pirate
.clue
Ravishing Light
Rosenblog
Cartago Delenda Est



Cars without compromise.



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Sunday, March 15, 2009
19:09 - Let's hear it for cognitive dissonance

(top)
Having in past years devoured the prior tomes by William Least Heat-Moon, River-Horse (which chronicles his traversal of the continental U.S. by water, retracing the steps of Lewis and Clark), and more recently his better-known work Blue Highways (which follows his peregrinations by beat-up van around the perimeter of the country via lightly traveled back roads), I'm now immersed in his most recent book, Roads to Quoz—more a successor in spirit to Blue Highways than anything else, essentially more of the same. Visits to off-the-beaten-path towns encountered in the process of exploring oddities like the source of a minor river or an old Indian legend, dotted with portraits of colorful characters met along the way with unnerving regularity, as though every town trots out its best storytellers, most prolific artists, most keenly philosophical musers, most avid historians, and most fascinatingly-supportive-of-the-author's-stance-on-this-or-that-issue examples of humanity right on cue, right when he rolls into town. It's amazing how these people turn up just in time to bear lucid witness to some point or other that Least Heat-Moon wishes at a given time to make about the country and its nature.

For my part, I'm devouring this book the same way I did his previous two, with Google Earth in one hand and Wikipedia in the other, tracing along every step of the journey, right down to the motels he and his companion purport to have slept in and the restaurants where they likely ate. I want to be able to recreate the vistas they saw, the twists and turns of the highways, the sun beating through the windshield of the car, the interplay of the topography they describe and the history it has dictated over centuries. I love this stuff: there are a million untold stories in the small towns of America, in the unpopulated wastes and in the alpine ridges and in the coastal redwood mists and in the moist heat of the South, to say nothing of course of all the big-city stories that tend to get all the attention in other, better funded venues. There's so much nonfictional history out there, so readily transformed into a compelling narrative, that it hardly seems necessary to bother creating fiction. There are few chroniclers as avid as Least Heat-Moon at uncovering these tales and presenting them in just the way I want to consume them: well illustrated by human actors that bring this rich history to life as though they were paid to. I've taken two trips around the country with this guy already, and this third one looks to be just as much fun.

And this time it's with one more purpose: to corroborate the stories he tells. It's not that I disbelieve him; it's that I want to know all the sides of the narrative, not just the ones he's presenting. I found during my reading of River-Horse that there's a great deal lurking under the surface of his simultaneously grim and glib and florid assertions, often in direct contradiction to his claims. Some of this I can chalk up to the fact that his earlier books are from decades past, and much has changed in the interim. But Roads to Quoz is from 2008.

I'm only 70-some pages into it, but already there's one bit that I couldn't help laughing at, and ultimately deciding to record for posterity. Stopping in at Camden, Arkansas, Least Heat-Moon comes upon the artist responsible for a sprawling mural downtown, which he spends many pages describing, in between bouts of bitter lamentation over the grinding homogenization of the United States' ancient vaunted regional culture (as embodied by its restaurants and its mom-and-pop shops and its local boutique brands) by the ever-increasing encroachment of McDonald's and Wal-Mart, the inevitable freeway-exit entities whose names he cannot bring himself to even commit to ink, sniffing only that the slogan "Billions and Billions Served" illustrates that "in American corporate logic, quantity is quality".

Maybe it's the intervening years talking, but he seems at least aware of a few inherent contradictions in his thesis, one of which is that the mural-painter's work is only now in this benighted age possible thanks to the march of evil-corporation-borne technology:

[The artist] mentioned how communities across the country were answering the megalomaniacal supercenters rising on their fringes by giving new reasons to come downtown, and murals were part of that rebirth, a change assisted by the development of inexpensive acrylic paint. A few years ago, who'd have thought an emulsion of thermoplastic globules could be a weapon against behemoth sprawl*marts?

Ha! Take that, corporations! Betcha didn't count on that! In your mad rush to sell people more stuff they don't need, you've engineered your own downfall by giving people the means to make murals!

Similarly, in the same chapter, he muses in an aside that in some ways there may be certain upsides to the spread of national chain restaurants: the demise of the "greasy spoon", for example ("It's easy to romanticize the food of yesteryear while forgetting Ptomaine Ptom's Ptamale Wagon"). And he allows that there may be such a thing as "a good chain". Yet this is a fleeting and grudging thought, after which he dives right back into fretting that the presence of KFC and Burger King will soon mean the end of genuine barbecue places and burger joints and any establishment that knows how to make food that doesn't come out of a freezer carton complete with microwave instructions. Sigh, I say: Old people these days.

What amused me particularly about this segment of the story, though, has to do with the erstwhile 20th-century soft drink Grapette, which Least Heat-Moon reminisces about during his stay in Camden, in the house of the artist, a nephew of the drink's local-dwelling inventor, Benjamin Fooks. An extra bottle of Grapette in 1949 cheated the author of the victory in a childhood footrace, he relates. It was made from real grape juice and real cane sugar. Accompanied by its stablemates Orangette, Lemonette, and Limette, it spread from Camden throughout the country in the mid-century, until it was cruelly brought low after its creator's death:

After the family sold the company, Grapette eventually ended up in the hands of a rival that let it decline until yet another group brought it back and returned it in a small way to certain areas, one of them its natal town where once again you can find it in the little clear bottles.

Fascinating, sad, and true, so true. Oh, if there were only a way to learn more about the tragic story of Grapette:
Ozark Farms

In 1989, nearly three years after the initial meeting, Grapette International began producing a line of soft drinks for Wal-Mart under the Ozark Farms name. The flavors available were cola, lemon-lime, grape, and orange. Each flavor used Fooks' original formulas. Thus Grapette had returned to American shelves, albeit under a new name. However, sales were disappointing, and the Ozark Farms line of soft drinks was discontinued.

Sam's Choice

When Sam Walton died in 1992, Wal-Mart CEO David Glass felt it would be a fitting tribute to Walton to rename Wal-Mart's private label as "Sam's Choice". In 1993, Rice again began manufacturing soft drinks for Wal-Mart, this time under the Sam's Choice brand. Wal-Mart was given exclusive rights to the flavors in the United States. Grapette was relaunched at this time as well, under the name "Sam's Choice Grape". Sam's Choice Grape soon became one of the best-selling grape sodas in the nation, seemingly proving Rice's claim that the flavor was what had made Grapette so popular, and not the drink's famous name.

Revival of Grapette name

In 2000, Rice walked into the Wal-Mart Home Office in Bentonville, Arkansas, in order to personally deliver the news to David Glass: Monarch was finally selling the Grapette name. Rice told Glass, "This is a tribute to you and Sam for having the vision on this product."

By late 2004, the Grapette and Orangette names (and original logotypes) had been incorporated into the Sam's Choice line of soft drinks, and had completely replaced the Sam's Choice Grape and Sam's Choice Orange brands in Wal-Mart stores.

Huh. Heh. Hhhehhheh. <snort>

'Scuse me a second.




Okay, I'm back. Sorry. Sometimes you just gotta take a giggle break.

Now, I'm not saying Least Heat-Moon has deliberately obscured this little detail. I mean, hey: maybe he honestly didn't know. Maybe the Camdenites hid it from him as a matter of civic pride (it's safe to assume he wouldn't have ever gone voluntarily into the local Wal-Mart and stumbled upon an inexplicable, damning display of Grapette for sale there). Maybe he didn't feel as compelled as I did to research this curious bit of history himself by means other than first-hand word-of-mouth from directly invested parties. Maybe, indeed, nobody knew about it at the time this happened: it's only been, what, five years?

But, hey: this book is from 2008. And if the author hasn't yet learned that Google is his friend, his credibility hinges on his readers not having learned it either. Or being too beguiled by his whimsical, flatteringly literary, Garrison Keillor-wannabe sorrowing puckishness to care.

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© Brian Tiemann