—Sean Donlon
“Honolulu” is Hawaiian for “sheltered harbor.”
LET THERE BE LITE
At first glance, it seems incredible that the “lite” phenomenon—a 1980s diet food craze—started with beer. But after you read this two-part BRI report, it should make more sense. We can’t help wondering if the whole notion of “diet food” isn’t essentially a fraud. What do you think?
AN UNLIKELY BEGINNING
According to beer industry studies, 30% of American beer drinkers—mostly blue-collar males between the ages of 18 and 49—drink 80% of the beer produced in the country. That means that every major U.S. brewery is trying to attract the same customers.
Traditionally, it meant that “diet beer” was a recipe for losing money. Heavy beer drinkers weren’t interested in dieting, and dieters weren’t very interested in drinking beer. Why make a beer for people who won’t drink it?
Those few breweries gutsy (or stupid) enough to brew a low-calorie beer were sorry they tried. In 1964, for example, the Piels Brewing Co. introduced Trommer’s Red Letter, “the world’s first diet beer.” It lasted about a month and a half. Three years later, Rheingold Brewing Co. of New York introduced a low-cal brew called Gablinger’s—described by critics as “piss with a head.” One company exec lamented: “Everyone tried it—once.” At about the same time, the Meister Brau Brewing Co. of Chicago came out with Meister Brau Lite. For some reason, they targeted it at calorie-conscious women. “It failed so badly,” said one report, “that it practically took the entire Meister Brau Co. down with it.”
LUCKY STRIKE
In the early 1970s, Miller Brewing Co. bought the rights to Meister Brau’s brands. They got Lite Beer (which was still in limited distribution in the Midwest) as part of the deal, but no one at Miller paid much attention.
In fact, Lite Beer probably would have been quietly dumped right away if company executives hadn’t stumbled on something surprising in Meister Brau’s sales reports: Lite was actually popular in Anderson, Indiana, a steel town dominated by the same blue-collar workers who were supposed to hate “diet beer.” Why did they like Lite? Nobody knew. Curious, the company sent representatives to find out. As Miller advertising executive Jeff Palmer recalls:
On average, people who have asthma hear better than people who don’t. Nobody knows why.
The workers drank Lite, they said, because it didn’t fill them up as much as regular beers. As a result, they felt they could drink more. And drinking more beer without having to pay more penalty in feeling filled up, is beer drinker heaven.
According to Palmer, the company did more research, and found that male beer drinkers were interested in a good tasting “light” beer but were “clear, if not vehement, that the concept of a low-calorie beer was definitely feminine and negative.”
So if Miller could figure out how to make Lite taste better, and at the same time think of a way to get rid of the beer’s “sissy” image, the company just might find a market for the brew.
LITE CHANGES
Miller president John Murphy decided it was worth a try. He ordered his brewmasters to come up with a beer that tasted like other Miller brands, but still cut the calories per can from around 150 to 96. It took them a little over a year.
Meanwhile, ad people went to work on positioning Lite as a “manly” brew that beer-lovers could drink without being ashamed. They decided to build an advertising campaign around “regular guy” celebrities, famous people with whom beer drinkers would be comfortable having a beer in their neighborhood bars. The first guy they picked was Eddie Egan, the detective whose life was portrayed in The French Connection. “Unfortunately,” one ad exec remembers, “he was under indictment at the time so we couldn’t use him.” Their next choice: journalist Jimmy Breslin. But he wasn’t available either. The executives’ third option: a few professional athletes…But Miller had a problem there, too—federal law prohibits using professional athletes in beer ads.
Miller was stuck. Who could they use?—who was left? While riding on a New York City bus, Bob Lenz, the ad executive in charge of Miller’s account, came up with the answer. He noticed a poster of former New York Jet star Matt Snell, and it occurred to him that although advertising codes prohibited Miller from using active athletes to sell beer, there was no reason they couldn’t employ retired ones. He called Snell.
The average cigar smoker can smoke an average cigar in about an hour and a half.
“We taped him,” Lenz recalls, “and once we saw the result, we knew we were onto something.” Miller ultimately signed up dozens of ex-athletes for their ad campaign—from baseball players like Boog Powell and Mickey Mantle to bruisers like football’s Deacon Jones and hockey’s Boom-Boom Geoffrion.
SELLING THE BEER
As it turned out, using ex-jocks was a master stroke. Because they were a little older (and paunchier) than their contemporaries, they were easier for beer drinkers to relate to. Plus, they had nothing to prove—they were established heroes. If they said it was okay to drink “sissy” beer, no one was going to argue. “When Joe Frazier, Buck Buchanan, or Bubba Smith stroll into the bar and order Lite,” wrote Esquire magazine in 1978, “you know you can too.”
Every spot ended with the celebrities heatedly arguing about Lite’s best quality—was it that it’s “less filling” or that it “tastes great?”—followed by the tag line: “Everything you always wanted in a beer. And less.”
When test marketing of Lite exceeded sales projections by an unprecedented 40%, it was attributed largely to the advertising campaign. Blue-collar workers not only felt comfortable drinking a “diet” beer, they also understood that “a third fewer calories” meant that drinking three Lites was only as filling as drinking two regular beers. So rather than cut calories, most Lite drinkers drank more beer, and the sales figures showed it.
LITE BONANZA
Lite was introduced nationally in 1975, and had an astounding effect on the Miller Brewing Co.
• In 1972, the company was the eighth-largest brewer, selling 5.4 million barrels of beer—compared to #l Anheuser-Busch’s 26.5 million barrels.
• By 1978—three years after the introduction of Lite—Miller was in second place and gaining, selling approximately 32 million barrels to Anheuser-Busch’s 41 million. Schlitz, Pabst, Coors, and other brewers were left in the dust.
A “cremnophobe” is someone who is afraid of falling down the stairs.
As Business Week put it, Lite became “the most successful new beer introduced in the United States in this century.” Its ads became as well known as the most popular television shows. Some of its spokesmen became better known for their work with Lite than for their sports accomplishments.
THE LIGHT REVOLUTION
It was only a matter of time before other beer makers got into the act. In 1977, Anheuser-Busch brought its muscle “to light” when it introduced Natural Light beer.
Miller fought back, suing to keep any brewers from using the words Lite or Light in their brand names. But the company only won a partial victory. The court’s verdict: Miller’s competitors couldn’t use the term Lite, but were free to use Light—since it’s a standard English word and can’t be trademarked.
Enthusiastic brewers started bottling their own light beers, and “light” became the hottest product in the beer business. By 1985, it made up 20% of the overall market. By 1994, it was a $16 billion business and comprised 35% of the market.
BACK TO THE FUTURE
Ironically, as the “light” category grew, Lite’s revolutionary ad campaign began to look out of date. The market had changed, and new light brews were aimed at young, health-conscious Americans—not blue-collar beer-guzzlers. “Light” had gone full circle; it was essentially being sold as a “diet” beer again.
The term “light” gradually took on a life of its own, too. It became a buzzword for any food that was lower in calories, or better for you, than the usual fare. This set the stage for an even big
ger “lite” fad.
For Part II of Let There Be Lite, turn to page 410.
***
Sad but true: “If you’re in jazz and more than ten people like you, you’re labeled ‘commercial.’”
—Wally Stott
“Chili” comes from an Aztec word that means “bowl of red.”
YIDDISH-AMERICAN SLANG
A handful of Yiddish words have become common in the U.S. If you’ve been wondering what they mean, here’s the answer.
Chutzpa (hootz-pah): Clever audacity. Classic definition: “A child who kills both parents, then pleads for mercy because he’s an orphan.”
Drek: Junk. The bottom of the barrel.
Shtick: An act or a routine. (Usually associated with show business.)
Tchatchke (chotch-key): Toy, knick-knack, worthless gizmo.
Shiksa: A non-Jewish woman.
Schmuck: A fool; sometimes refers to an obnoxious person.
Schlemiel: Hapless individual. A person who always has bad luck; a fool.
Shlep: To haul around.
Shlock: Something that’s poorly made, or made for low-class taste.
Kibitz: To offer unsolicited advice.
Klutz: Clumsy or inept person. From the German word for “wooden block.”
Shmooze: To chat.
Meshugah (me-shoo-ga): Crazy.
Mensch: Compassionate, decent person. Someone both strong and kind.
Noodge: A pest. As a verb, “to pester or coax.”
Putz: Dope, fool, schmuck.
Nosh: A snack. (As a verb, “to snack.”)
Nudnik (nood-nik): A boring pest. A nudnik can even bore himself.
Bupkis: Nothing.
Shmo: A fool; a dumbo.
Shnook: A meek fool; sad sack.
Shpritz: To squirt. As a noun, a squirt of something.
Goniff: Sneaky thief; someone who takes advantage of others when able to.
Shloomp: Sloppy—e.g., clothes.
Farblunget: Totally confused; roaming aimlessly.
Greps: Belch; burp.
Shmeikel (shmeh-kel): Flatter insincerely; con or fast-talk.
Yenta: Nosy, gossipy person.
One Swedish slang expression for “how are you” is “who stole the cash box?”
“THE TONIGHT SHOW” PART V: PAAR’S EXIT
By 1961, Jack Paar was one of the most celebrated stars in America. Who would have suspected that his job was making him sick?
END OF THE ROAD
One of the gifts of a skilled performer is the ability to make a difficult task seem effortless, to make it seem like anyone could do it.
So when Jack Paar announced in late 1961 that he was quitting “The Tonight Show” after only five years as host, viewers were surprised. Why would he give up such a great job? After all, he was such a natural at it.
But behind the scenes, it was a different story: people were amazed he’d lasted as long as he did.
BUTTERFLIES
Few people who watched Paar delivering his monologue and talking to guests understood how grueling an experience it was for him:
• Rather than just wing it through his monologues, Paar committed them to memory each night before going to bed by writing them out in longhand, over and over again, until he knew every word by heart. The process often took hours.
• He began to show serious signs of stress: he mumbled, washed his hands compulsively, and paced for hours worrying about the show.
• But the biggest secret was that, despite all his years as a performer, Paar had never gotten over his stage fright. “Jack used to duck under his desk in between commercials and throw up because he was so nervous,” recalls Lew Hunter, the director of programming at NBC in the early 1960s. “It was amazing to watch him. That man went through hell to entertain people, and he’d already been on the air over two years when he was still doing that.”
As Paar’s tenure neared its end, he described his feelings about leaving. “I can’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of relief that the ordeal is nearly over,” he said. “The end is in sight at last, a release from days of living on my nerve ends and nights of sheer terror, going out before an audience of millions of viewers armed with nothing but a few notes….There never was a moment when I wasn’t scared to death.”
Woodrow Wilson was the last president to type all of his own letters.
CHOOSING A REPLACEMENT
Two people were under serious consideration for Paar’s job: Merv Griffin, host of the NBC game show “Play Your Hunch,” and Johnny Carson, host of “Who Do You Trust?” on ABC.
In the end, of course, NBC chose Carson. They figured that like Paar, Carson was a strong ad-libber and would be able to keep the show moving. They had no idea how good a choice they’d made.
For Part VI, “He-e-ere’s Johnny,” turn to page 359.
***
RANDOM ORIGINS
The Jacuzzi
In 1943, Candido Jacuzzi’s fifteen-month-old son suddenly contracted rheumatoid arthritis. The boy was in constant pain; the only thing that made him feel better was hydrotherapy treatments he got in the hospital. Candido decided to build a device that would enable him to have treatments at home. At the time his company, Jacuzzi Bros, Inc., was one of the world’s largest manufacturers of submersible pumps. He adapted one so it would work in his bathtub. In 1955, they began manufacturing them as whirlpool baths. They were sold through drugstores at first—but when Hollywood discovered them, they became a symbol of luxury.
The Thimble
“The thimble was originally called a ‘thumb bell’ by the English, because it was worn on the thumb; then it was referred to as a thumble, and finally its present name. It was a Dutch invention, and was first brought to England in 1695.”
—from Origins, by J. Braude
69% of cake eaters eat the cake first, then the frosting.
LUCKY FINDS
Here are three more stories of people who found something valuable. It could happen to you…
A HIDDEN VALUE
The Find: An 1830 painting
Where It Was Found: At an auction
The Story: In the mid-1990s, Wanda Bell paid $25 for an old print depicting the signing of the Declaration of Independence. One day, as she was cleaning the print, she noticed something underneath it. She removed it…and found an oil painting of a man. Bell was curious to know more about it. In August 1997, she heard that an “antiques roadshow” was offering free appraisals with experts from Sotheby’s, so she took the painting there. Their assessment: It’s an early portrait painted by a famous New England artist named Sheldon Peck. Estimated value: $250,000.
A ROLL OF FILM
The Find: The pilot show of “I Love Lucy”
Where It Was Found: Under a bed
The Story: In 1949, CBS offered Lucille Ball her own TV show, to be based on her successful radio program, “My Favorite Husband.” She agreed…as long as they’d let her real-life husband, Desi Arnaz, co-star. CBS called the idea preposterous. “Who’d believe you were married to a Cuban bandleader?” they said.
Lucy was determined. She and Desi decided to create a live show and take it on the road to prove that audiences would accept them together. “Desi moved quickly to assemble a first-rate vaudeville act,” write Steven Coyne Sanders and Tom Gilbert in their book, Desilu.
He called in an old friend, the renowned international Spanish clown Pepito, to devise some physical-comedy sketch material. Pepito rigorously coached the couple, as Desi recalled, “eight to ten hours a day” at the Coronado Hotel in San Diego.
The stage show was a huge success, so CBS agreed to film a sitcom pilot. The synopsis: “Ricky goes to a TV audition. Pepito the Clown, due to an accident, fails to appear and Lucy takes his place for the show.” It was filmed on March 2,1951.
The Cambodian language has 72 letters in its alphabet, the most of any language.
“I Love Lucy,” of course, became one of the most successful TV programs in his
tory. But along the way, the pilot episode was lost. Fans and TV historians tried over the years to locate it, but it appeared to be gone for good. Then one day in 1989, Pepito’s 84-year-old widow (he’d died in 1975) looked under a bed in her Orange County home and came across a can of film labeled “Lucy-Desi-Pepito” audition. It was the long-lost “Lucy” pilot. Desi, it turns out, had given it to Pepito as a thank-you for his help. The film, with an estimated value of over $ 1 million, was quickly turned into a TV special and home video.
A LUCKY MISTAKE
The Find: A unique coin
Where It Was Found: At a flea market
The Story: In 1970, Guy Giamo came across an interesting 1969 penny at a Northern California flea market. “What made it intriguing,” reported the San Francisco Chronicle, “was that it seemed to be a ‘double die’ stamping, a Bureau of the Mint manufacturing error that gave the legends Liberty and In God We Trust a blurred, double-image look.”
There are a lot of double-dies from 1955, worth more than $500 apiece. But double-die coins are easy to fake, and many are counterfeit. Giamo bought it anyway. Cost: about $100.
In 1978, he sent it to the U.S. Mint to find out if it was real. A few months later a Secret Service agent called and said simply: “The Treasury Department has determined your coin to be counterfeit, and it will be confiscated and destroyed.” “That’s it?” Giamo asked. “Affirmative,” the agent replied, and hung up.
But that’s not the end. A year later, Giamo was surprised by another call from the Treasury Department. “What the hell do you want now?” he asked bitterly. “We have a coin for you,” he was told. Someone had re-examined his penny before it was melted down, and decided it was genuine. “We goofed,” they told him.
Giamo’s coin is the only double-die 1969-S penny in existence. Its estimated value: as much as $50,000.
Uncle John’s Giant 10th Anniversary Bathroom Reader Page 36