Whatever Happened to Pudding Pops? (3 page)

Banana Splits
was most remembered for its bizarre catchphrases (“Uh-oh, Chongo!”) and a seriously kick-ass theme song that was later covered by Liz Phair with Material Issue.

B
ETAMAX was better than VHS, but we all know who won the VCR war. In the battle of cookie wafer–based candy bars, a similar upset occurred. The deliciously chocolatey, crunchy Bar None was taken down by an inferior bar, boring old Twix.

If Augustus Gloop had been holding a box of cookies when he fell into Willy Wonka's chocolate river, he might have invented Bar None. Introduced by Hershey in 1987, this candy had it all—a double-decker bunk bed of chocolate wafers lavishly spread with chocolate cream and peanuts and then doused in more chocolate. The commercials went down a decidedly creepy road, showing Bar None as the only treat that could “tame the chocolate beasty.” In one, a zookeeper-like guy throws Bar None to a growling unseen monster; in another, an ordinary woman grows super-disturbing, lumpy hands and feet until Bar None's chocolate soothes her.

But whether or not it cured monster feet, Bar None just didn't catch on with humans. Late in its life, Hershey even tried injecting it with caramel, in a sure act of Twix envy, but to no avail. It's as extinct as the chocolate beasty.

N
O one ever said the tub of interconnecting chimps known as Barrel of Monkeys didn't live up to its blandly descriptive name. No fancy gimmicks, sounds, or complex rules. Do they dance? Do they chitter? Do they swing from trees? Nope.They hook arms, and that's it.

The little synthetic simians in Barrel of Monkeys are decidedly low-tech toys—and they live in a barrel, which probably smells. Their simplistic lifestyle is a little less exciting than that of real monkeys, who leap from tree branches, fling poo, and, at least on
B.J. and the Bear
, solve crimes.

The plastic primates' raison d'être is simple: to get you to try to hook together a chain of the little guys. (Instruction #1: “Dump monkeys on table.”) At least one researcher found a more advanced use: The National Institute for Medical Research in London used the monkeys to model “the geometry of multi–subunit protein structures.” Apparently, the toy monkeys mimic molecules. Uh, sure. And they're also fun to play with. Well, not really. But anyone who's given it a try knows there's something primal and strangely compelling about making a chain of monkeys. It's more fun than—oh, you know.

I
N the '70s, we didn't have
TMZ.com
,
US Weekly
, or
Extra
. Thank God for
Battle of the Network Stars
, which gave us a rare behind-the-scenes look at celebrities in their unguarded, natural setting. OK, not natural, exactly, unless kayak races are somehow part of Joan Van Ark's daily routine.

The two-hour specials pitted ABC vs. CBS vs. NBC in Olympic-like events. Kids would watch in slack-jawed awe, as much for the jiggly joggers, short shorts, and paper-thin swimsuits as for the surreal gathering of star power.Telly Savalas puffing a cigarette during an interview! Robert Conrad pitching a hissy fit! Gabe “Mis-tah KOT-TAH!” Kaplan running as fast as his little mustache could carry him!

The stars were obviously aware of the cameras, but weirdly, the competition felt real. Either it was an unguarded glimpse into who the celebs actually were as people, or these guys were much better actors than we thought. Either way, whoever invented this little gem deserves a gold medal.

F
ORTUNE cookies and cereal aren't the only foods that come with their own reading material. Thanks to Bazooka Joe, so does gum.

The little pink, tooth-shattering bricks of Bazooka are notoriously hard to chew, so having a nice reading diversion while you work the jaw is not a bad thing. But don't expect Shakespeare. Joe, who wears an eye patch for no discernible reason, travels through time and space with a cast of idiots, delivering groaner punch lines that weren't even funny in 1954 and “fortunes” (“A penny saved makes cents!”) that the artist apparently copied off a random bumper sticker.

Joe's eye patch may be odd, but he's got nothin' on his pal Mort, who usually wears a turtleneck pulled up well over his face. He's either a stagecoach robber from the 1800s or, as the
Onion
suggests, horribly disfigured from the mouth down. Hopefully not a gumrelated injury.

Some Joe comics are also mini-catalogs. For a small amount of cash and a pile of Bazooka Joe comics, you could buy yourself a perfumed heart necklace. Or you could just get some other toy out of the gumball machine for a few dollars less, and also get some better gum.

W
E don't generally save candy bar wrappers or milk cartons, so what in the name of Billy Carter was the appeal of collecting beer cans? Was it the sound: the substantive clink of the metal? Was it the feel: the heft of the older steel containers or the smooth slip of the aluminum ones? Was it the smell: yeast and, sometimes, desperation?

For most of us, it was can collecting's ability to let a kid brush up against adulthood without getting too close, like holding a used shell casing in your hand or peeking at a
Playboy
. A grade-schooler could inhale the beery goodness of a forbidden fruit while reveling in the sheer power of the packaging. There were flattop cans from when Dad was a kid, with rusty tops and triangle-shaped openings. Pulltab cans, with teardrop tops and discarded metal curls that could slice skin and insert drunken germs in a single, efficient motion. Schmidt's elaborate wildlife scenes. Hamm's keg-shaped can. Weird one-offs like J. R. Ewing's Private Stock. They were twelve-ounce works of pop art that launched a generation of graphic designers—and also budding alcoholics. Mmm . . . art. Hic.

E
VERY generation has a dog hero, but leave it to Generation X to eschew purebreds like Lassie and Rin Tin Tin and fall in love with a mutt. Benji was every kid's dream dog, from his melty chocolate eyes to his constantly wagging tail. In his eponymous 1974 film, the little pup foiled kidnappers, befriended cops, and even opened metal pudding cups.

Once the first Benji movies hit the big screen, every kid in the country wanted a Benji dog—or a Benji lunch box, record, coloring book, or paperback. The accessories were available, but since Benji was a shelter dog, no one knew how to replicate his floppy looks. A TV show tried, though: 1980's
Here's Boomer
took a similar pooch to the small screen for two sad seasons.

Sure, some mocked the five Benji movies for their sheer innocence. The pooch had none of the snarkiness of Snoopy or the slobbering doltishness of Scooby-Doo. But in a world of war and Watergate and R-rated everything, the family-friendly series was an oasis for grateful parents and easily scared kids. And they might not admit it, but even tougher-shelled viewers gave a relieved sniffle when the little mutt saved the day. Man's best friend indeed.

I
N 1976, bicentennial mania swept across America like a runaway Freedom Train. The star-spangled fervor was red, white, and blue, of course, but also green, as our parents shelled out plenty of dough to keep up with the Joneses in an escalating display of patriotism and one-upmanship.

People slapped patriotic patterns on mailboxes and fire hydrants and snapped up cheesy tchotchkes, like Liberty Bell ashtrays and ice buckets. For kids, it was an excuse to set off fireworks whenever we wanted and wear Uncle Sam shirts. For manufacturers, it was a license to print money. And nobody took that more literally than the Federal Reserve, churning out $2 bills and commemorative quarters, half-dollars, and dollars by the millions. We had never seen new-and-improved money before, and the cash was almost too cool to spend. Almost.

With that newly minted moola, even we kids bought a bunch of commemorative stuff we didn't need, like the KISS poster that imagined the rock group as the crew in the famous painting
The Spirit of '76
, complete with American flag, snare drum, and Peter Criss wearing a bloody bandage around his cat head. In the end, it was all about the merchandising. God bless America!

W
OE to any kid with a cowlick, apple cheeks, and a few extra pounds around his middle. Thanks to Big Boy restaurants and their fat little mascot, a chubby young man was destined to be dubbed “Big Boy” for life. Unfair? Probably. Although if you had a glandular condition, sported Ed Grimley hair, and wore a white shirt and checked red suspenders, well, then, you deserved what you got.

The food at Big Boy was as comforting as a mashed-potato bed with a gravy blanket, but the real draw was the mascot. When you were driving around looking for someplace to eat, his plump fiberglass figure drew you in like a siren's song. He looked like he could be the Campbell's Soup Kids' overweight cousin—and he obviously knew his way around a burger and an order of onion rings. The round little guy proudly held the restaurant's signature double-decker burger on a plate over his head, like a corpulent Statue of Liberty. But was he delivering it to a hungry customer or holding it just out of other people's reach so he could eat it himself?

I
N the 1970s, it wasn't uncommon to have a family of seven living next door to a family of eight, with two families of six across the street. Moms were notorious for blurting out all their kids' names before getting to the one they meant (“Maggie-Molly-Erin-Rob-Alison-WHATEVER your name is”), bedrooms were shared, and station wagons were standing-room only.

TV reflected reality: The Bradys had six; the Waltons, seven; and
Eight
Was
Enough
. Jan Brady was mocked for longing to be an only child, but was what she wanted so bad? Clothes that weren't pre-marinated in Marcia's Love's Baby Soft? Just one day to walk through their Astroturfed backyard without impaling her foot on Bobby's Legos?