A Wisconsin Yankee in Walt Disney's Court

Some day I’m going to fulfill my intention of driving around and taking pictures of old or interesting signs in the Orlando area and posting them to the blog, but for now I have this video and some links about the Rotoshere, the king of the neon age mechanical signs.
Also known as Sputniks, over 200 were produced but only a handful survive. A product of the 1960s, they adorned car dealerships, liquor stores, bowling alleys, malls, hotels, and more. With more or less a car’s differential driving neon tubes in alternate directions, it’s no wonder they didn’t last very long, but how great would it be to still have things like this spinning all over town? If there was one near me, I’d probably be compelled to go park under it every night and fall asleep.
Beyond the wonder of the Rotosphere is the fact that people have compiled so much information and video on such things. Thank the magic of the internet that such esoteric subjects can reach their limited audience, in a way that couldn’t happen through books or magazines or libraries. There’s a pretty sweet Flicker pool of Rotospheres and related signs, and this page has, unbelievably, a checklist of every known example and it’s current condition. Amazing. Plus, there’s enough further footage on YouTube to make a grown man weep.

Thanks to our old pal Jimmy for pointing out a Canned Tamales group on MyFace or somesuch social website, but I’m not joining up with any of those anytime soon. I even avoid Facebook Scrabble. I’ve been sticking with the Hormel tamales, but I saw a bag of frozen corn-husk jobbers at the Costco that I may try someday.
On a similar note, back when I lived in the land of plenty, I still supported ChiliCheese.org, even though we were blessed with the fabulous Chili Cheese Burrito from Taco Bell. Now, of course, they’re nowhere to be found around Orlando. Arguably one of the most interesting items they sell, the chili sauce doesn’t seem to combine in any other products the way their 7 other main staples combine to form 140 different taco-like foodstuffs.
I don’t miss them like I do, say, White Castle (We have Krystal’s here, which have a similar “slyder” and may actually be affiliated with WC, but it doesn’t feel the same) but it seems an injustice when you can get it in one area and not another. And it’s not like I go there much, but when I do it’s be nice to get one, now that I think about it.
With the lonely, sad death of the disenfrachised Taco Bell Chihuahua looming over them, TB could use a better PR gimmick than adding bacon to everything for a couple of months. Bring the Chili Cheese Burrito to a national audience, and while you’re at it why not bring back the mysterious “Mexi-Fries” that had an even smaller regional distribution? How could Mexi-Fries have possibly been a failure? C’mon, TB, you’ve stagnated since the days of promising a free taco to all comers if a satellite crashes into a target in the middle of the ocean. Now that was genius.

In past incarnations I’ve written about Derby tamales, the anachronistic Mexican food in a jar that was a long-time favorite of mine. I never found them down here in Florida, and in my last couple of trips up north they were gone from the store shelves. I’ve confirmed the worst, now– they’ve been officially discontinued by whatever conglomerate owned the brand, no longer to be found anywhere.
The paper-wrapped treats surely weren’t “the real thing,” but really they weren’t that far off from the southern US type and in their processed goodness were way more consistent than the homemade tamales my dad would bring home from his Mexican buddies at work. Between biting into a big gob of fat in one once and the rumor that they were occasionally made from stray cats, I haven’t in years and may never again eat a corn husk-wrapped traditional tamale. The Derby tamales were always perfect, whatever kind of meat it was, whether it was really “meat” or not, I don’t care as long as I don’t have to know about it. As an aside, it’s not like I ever liked or ate crab much but I’ll never touch crab legs again after seeing that TV show with the smoking bums handling them and not getting washed overboard fast enough. I’ve got news for ya, you’re not a Great American Hero for taking a suicidal job in hopes of scoring a quick buck and loafing between fishing seasons, no matter what the Discovery Channel may think.
Anyway, there’s a Hormel canned version that’s probably not all that far off, but they’re just not the same. It’s hard to see how Derby Tamales weren’t a viable product, having no real competition and a long history of brand recognition. Other crazy antiquated products line the store shelves, like deviled ham in little paper-wrapped cans and weird jars of weiners and fish parts that I can’t identify. Lovers of those items may want to watch out; you know the cliché, “First they came for the tamales, and I said nothing…”

I couldn’t help but be thrilled by the recent story of the woman who tried to sue Cap’n Crunch because after 4 years of eating Crunchberries she realized they weren’t real fruit. A judge was forced to write a non-condescending opinion in dismissing the case that sounds like something from The Onion. My favorite line, from the Consumerist write up: “This Court is not aware of, nor has Plaintiff alleged the existence of, any actual fruit referred to as a ‘crunchberry.’”
Simply classic. But what could the mentality of the person who brought the lawsuit be? And how could any being who’s supposedly smart enough to pass a bar exam represent them? There’s apparently a legal precedent from another nutball who tried to sue Toucan Sam because Froot Loops don’t contain any real fruit. You’d think “Froot” would’ve nipped complaints like that in the bud, but you can’t be sure anymore. In a world where most people can’t spell “fruit” they must’ve seen it coming eventually. I knew a guy who didn’t learn how it was spelled until sometime in his forties, and went around pronouncing in “froo-itt” like everybody else in the world was an idiot.
It’s a personal favorite, the naive moron tale. The best may be the story of the numerous people who complained about one of those animatronic dinosaur exhibits at a zoo because the dinosaurs weren’t real. I’m pretty sure that was in Tennessee, but still. And Texas was beset by reports of giant flying pteradactyls after a famous find of a pteradon fossil in the 1970s. Bible belt anti-evolutionists thought they were under siege and mistook every small aircraft they saw for a monster chasing their car.
Anyway, the good Cap’n survived another hit. They took away his Jay Ward commercials, cool little plastic toys in the box, and made him look bad by making every other cereal on the planet “healthier.” They’re even adding fiber to Apple Jacks, the quintessential sugary emptiness for Saturday mornings. But Cap’n Crunch hasn’t given in, and the legal system and America’s morons won’t be the ones to take him down.

Gary & The Hornets predated the boy-band craze by a couple of decades, at least, and the three brothers may have pioneered the 1960s/early ’70s “family musical group” trend that included The Osmonds, The Jackson 5, and The Cowsills (apparently the inspiration for The Partridge Family).
All of their hits were covers, which you could get away with back then, but they had enough success to get this Oscar Mayer gig and at least one appearance on The Tonight Show:

You’ve got to admire that they’re not just some polished, choreographed dance troupe ala contemporaries like The Osmonds, or over-produced synthesized corporate product like whatever the kids have today, what, The Jonahs Brothers? These kids look and act like little kids putting on a show, especially in this, the earliest clip I could find:

I like a couple of their covers more than the more famous versions, even if they seem inappropriate for a 12-year-old to be singing in 1966. Hi Hi Hazel sounds almost like an ode to child molestation when The Trogs do it; with a pre-adolescent singing, it’s just quaint and weird.
Of course, the real appeal is the old Oscar Mayer ad itself. Between this and the famous B-O-L-O-G-N-A tune they have probably the two most recognizable jingles in television history. The ad is short and sweet– here’s somebody famous, they sing the jingle, the kid says “Groovy!” and the same announcer who must’ve done every commercial voice-over through the ’60s and ’70s names the product as it spins into view. And notice that the package of hot dogs looks just about like a package you’d buy today? A can of Pepsi or a box of Tide from that period is virtually unrecognizable to a kid today. With the jingles, the Wienermobile, and that dedication to brand recognition, Oscar Mayer must have one of the most successful marketing departments ever.
Through the magic of youtube, here are a couple of animated spots they did in the ’50s and ’60s:

I remember that second one, and siding with the kid who didn’t want to march off to the death camp with the other kids to become “all-meat wieners.” Even if it’s as catchy as all get-out, the lyrics to that jingle are a little creepy, especially when the kid adds his own “…there’d be nothing left of me” line at the end. Still, it’s a really cute Peanuts-inspired little spot. The first one has such masterful design– how do they get those geometric characters to be so expressive? And the voice work is so great. What do we have now? A wiseacre badly-CGIed talking baby hawking insurance or something? Sigh…