Soda

In Atlanta, there is no soda. There's only Coke. A Sprite's a Coke. A Dr. Pepper's a Coke. A Pepsi, however, is not a Coke; it's the devil.

This is because Atlanta is Coca Cola's headquarters. In the South, Coke has the monopoly on everything.

These days, I don't drink much soda (sorry, out west this is what we call it), but I was kind of excited to try 66 Cokes on my World of Coke tour this past weekend. (Did I mention my brother works for Coke? However, he has just as much beer in his garage as he does cans of Coke.) But first, I had to endure a lot of propaganda.

At first I was skeptical of the cheerleader tour guide who made us shout our favorite Coke flavors. I even raised an eyebrow at the new slogan "Open happiness." But then, while watching their new seven-minute promotional video, I became mildly distracted from my cynicism. The commercial didn't have much of a plot, nor did it have much product placement other than Coke Classic (btw, my brother tells me they're doing away with the "Classic" part). It was surely a showcase for new, hip CGI animation. But all I saw was one sexual innuendo after another--in every movement of every round, curvy character with giant lips crossing and recrossing her legs and in every swing on the trapeze where some slimy glob with multiple nipple piercings moved back and forth, back and forth. Who knows...I could've just been horny. Still, I'm no dummy; getting me all worked up was surely part of the plan.

As I tried to shake the video, we went through a museum of memorabilia, followed by a 3D film where two researchers try to figure what makes a Coke a Coke. By this point, every time I'd hear the pop of the tab opening and the sound of fizz being poured from the can, I was ready to jump out of my seat. I needed a Coke NOW! I was horny, hot and thirsty dammit! (And awkwardly with my niece and brother.)

The tasting room ended up being 10 or so soda fountains, separated by continents. Only a few were atrocious (the Europeans suck, especially stogy old "Beverly"), while most were pretty good (the Latin Americans know what kind of sweet, fruity goodness can quench a thirst). I walked away with a slight buzz and surprisingly, not sugared out.

About an hour after we left, I felt an itch in the back of my throat. I was, again, craving some fizz. Next thing I knew, I had ordered a giant Diet Coke to go with my sushi over lunch.

Sure, I have an addictive personality (give me one shortbread cookie at Christmas, and I'll be needing one every hour by New Years.) But it's no mystery why one person can't name a single bad memory associated with Coke and why the Coca Cola logo practically sings off of signs and the back of delivery trucks. Marketing genius, I say. All they needed was to start piping in "It's a Small World," maybe give me a cigarette once I satisfied my Coke fix, and I'd almost buy into this "open happiness" crap.

Pop

I knew this would happen: Living a year and half without television has made me dumber. I felt like a complete imbecile last weekend when my brother, a 43-year-old executive with an MBA from Stanford, schooled me on the premise of Gossip Girl. Sure, I read US Weekly every now and then, but I practically have no context for Katy Perry and I'm not sure whether the Jonas Brothers are part of the High School Musical squad or if they're Menudo 2.9. 

So I enlisted the help of my aforementioned 13-year-old niece and my 10-year-old nephew to help me uncover the answer to every pop culture question I've been too lazy to Wikipedia.

This is what I learned:

Lil Wayne is the shit. Even when he raps with a white guy.

T.I. is not.

I see through Lady Gaga’s "poker face," i.e. her Cher mask, complete with a gay dance anthem, Vegas showgirl weave and leather bodysling (ala "If I Could Turn Back Time"). Underneath, she is a less interesting fame whore than Lily Allen in disco drag.

Mad TV can be funny, thanks to a lanky, blushing manchild named Stuart and a hood rat named Bon Qui Qui.

No one is actually watching TV anymore. Instead, they're on YouTube watching millionaire teenage web superstars like this guy:

Which brings me to my final lesson, or revelation, the one my niece and nephew were too kind to say aloud, but instead let me figure out on my own: I'm old. My pop culture ignorance has nothing to do with my cable TV disadvantage. I'm just out of touch. Which reminds me of something else I learned from my young gurus: Those damn annoying Facebook quizzes (What kind of moron are you? Which city should you be castrated in?) are indeed made for a middle school kids. Yup, the same people who dictate which country you should live in also tell you which Pokeman you should be. So may I be so bold as to ask my fellow old folks to pass on this knowledge to their own friends and high school acquaintances who need a misspelled quiz to tell them their aura color? Embarrass them and spare us all from the non-interesting updates, please. Thanks. Class dismissed. Now back to my antiquated playlist on iTunes and my admitted Facebook compulsion.  

Hope

Meet my 13-year-old niece Ali.

She is why I believe in the youth of America.

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Last year for English class, she wrote a research paper on the history of metal. (Her bibliography included a VH1 documentary.) In this paper, she referenced the term "sleaze metal." Having written numerous pieces about glam metal, hair metal, butt rock and the like, I was giddy to add sleaze metal to my vernacular (even ignoring my reflex to debate its authenticity) and was compelled to use it immediately, and in any and all pieces of future writing, whether appropriate or not. The cherry: According to VH1, my beloved Guns N' Roses falls into this genre. Sleazetastic!

May I present further evidence that Obama isn't the only bright light shining the way for our future generations...

Ali has a poster of Motorhead's Lemmy--in all his gnarly-mole glory--ripped out from Metal Edge and tacked to her wall.

She thinks "90s bands" like Pearl Jam and the Chili Peppers are overrated.

At an age when I was too chicken to dance to crap like "I Wanna Sex You Up" at a school dance (see here), she and her friends will perform a body rockin' routine to a Miley Cyrus song for the school talent show (she likes the beat and doesn't care if everyone thinks Hanna Montana is lame). Then, she'll pick up her guitar for an encore of "Paint It Black."  

She has a pair of everyday-wear Chuck Taylors and a dressy pair that she hasn't doodled on.

Her favorite guitarist is sleaze metalist Slash.

While all my girlfriends over the age of 30 are pining after Robert Pattinson in Twlight, citing that his character's intense devotion to his girlfriend is the stuff of teenage romantic fantasies, Ali tells me that he's a terrible actor.

We played Rock Band for two hours and she humored me when I belted "Hungry Like the Wolf."

Okay, sure, her biggest crush is Pete Wentz, but when I was 11, I made my mom take me to see George Michael when he came through town on his Faith tour. (I thought his five o'clock shadow was rugged. I also though Kip Winger's eight o'clock shadow was rugged. Hell, I still think Prince is the sexiest man alive.) I'm not one to judge androgynous elfkins.