Bottle Service: How Snapple Took Over the 1990s

David Paul Morris, Getty Images
David Paul Morris, Getty Images

For many consumer brands, the ultimate sign of success is being the subject of an urban legend. In 1985, Procter & Gamble had to refute accusations that their moon and stars logo was somehow representative of Satan worship. In the 1990s, Kentucky Fried Chicken’s publicity department fielded questions about raising eight-legged chickens with no beaks in order to satisfy product demand. In the trifecta of brand disparagement, a rumor circulated in the early 1970s that “Mikey,” the spokes-kid for Life Cereal, had died after mixing Pop Rocks candy with Coca-Cola to produce a combustible blend that blew up his stomach.

In 1993, it was Snapple’s turn. For months, word had circulated in California's Bay Area that the massively popular iced tea and fruit drink brand was secretly funneling money to the Ku Klux Klan organization. The reason? A small “K” appeared on the product label. The rumor persisted to the point that Snapple took out ads in California newspapers to declare they had no involvement with the group.

That such a rumor existed was a kind of testament to the brand's market dominance. Originally founded in Long Island as a regional manufacturer of alternative drinks, Snapple had grown from $13.3 million in revenue in 1988 to $774 million in 1994. Positioned as a healthy alternative to soft drinks, the company used clever marketing, homespun consumer relations, and a relatable spokeswoman to become one of the biggest consumer success stories of the 1990s.

Unfortunately, Snapple’s problems went beyond being falsely affiliated with a racist hate group. Despite their raging success and a $1.7 billion valuation, the company lost sight of the marketing strategy that had catapulted them to a leading position in the beverage market. By 1997, consumers were losing their taste for the “best stuff on earth."

 
 

Arnold Greenberg was running a health food store in 1972 when two old friends joined him in a new venture. Leonard Marsh and Hyman Golden were brothers-in-law and owned a window washing business. On the side, they partnered with Greenberg to create Unadulterated Food Products, Inc., peddling fruit juices, eggs, and produce to other health food stores in and around New York City.

The men intended for their flagship product to be a carbonated fruit juice, combining the fizz of a soft drink with natural ingredients. Their first try, apple juice, fermented in the bottle and exploded, popping off caps and ruining their inventory. The drink was abandoned, but the name—Snapple, a mix of “snappy” and “apple”—stuck. (A company in Texas happened to have already trademarked the name. The three men bought it for $500.)

A bottle of Snapple sits on a table
chrisjtse, Flickr // CC BY-ND 2.0

Unadulterated Food Products did steady business for much of the 1980s selling to bodegas, delis, and other food service locations where people could pick up a bottle to go along with their lunch. In 1987, they had a breakthrough with their approach to iced tea. By bottling it hot, the company was able to avoid adding preservatives, which bolstered their all-natural claims. And by offering it year-round instead of just in the summer, they appealed to consumers who enjoyed the drink in cooler weather.

Snapple embraced their homemade identity. Sipping tea from their wide-mouth bottles was not unlike sipping from a piece of glassware on a porch somewhere; their labels were haphazard in design, the graphics a little lopsided. Compared to the corporate perfection of Coca-Cola, Snapple seemed scrappy.

 
 

Despite the company’s commitment to a casual aesthetic, Greenberg and his partners were taken aback in 1993, when advertising firm Kirshenbaum Bond presented their newest idea for a national ad campaign. They wanted to film the company’s mailroom lady, Wendy Kaufman.

Kaufman had arrived at Snapple in 1991 after getting a referral from a friend’s father who also happened to be a close friend of Greenberg’s. Working in the shipping department, Kaufman took notice of the many letters that were pouring in to the company’s Valley Stream, Long Island headquarters. She asked a supervisor if she could begin responding to them. From there, Kaufman’s job developed into more of a public relations representative.

The ad firm’s idea was to maintain both Snapple’s simplicity and Kaufman’s unrehearsed appeal by shooting a series of television spots that would feature her reading real letters from behind a desk and then following up with the correspondent. One kid wrote in saying he’d make a good mascot; Kaufman showed up with a film crew and took him to mascot school. Another asked Kaufman to be his prom date; she accepted.

For Kaufman, it was an opportunity to distance herself from a self-admitted coke addiction (not the carbonated kind) that had started in 1980. For Snapple, it represented a chance to further their brand identity by passing up the kind of rock star endorsements common in the beverage industry. The 37 commercial spots, shot between 1993 and 1995, were enormously popular, and Kaufman became a mascot on par with Tony the Tiger. She made personal appearances, storming dorm rooms with cases of Snapple. She sifted through 2000 letters a week. Sales jumped from $232 million in 1992 to $774 million in 1994. Snapple was on Seinfeld, on the lips of radio personality Howard Stern, and celebrated for its unique marketing approach.

Then “Crapple” happened.

 
 

In 1992, Greenberg, Marsh, and Golden agreed to sell a majority stake in Snapple to the Thomas H. Lee investment firm, with Marsh remaining on as CEO. Then, in 1994, Snapple was sold to the Quaker Oats Company. As successful as Snapple had been, industry observers were excited to see what a global conglomerate could do to carry the brand further.

As the Harvard Business Review would later point out, fostering an already-successful brand is not as easy as it appears. Quaker Oats had enjoyed an explosion of support for its Gatorade sports drink brand and believed it could apply some of those same strategies to Snapple. Bottles got bigger, from the standard 16 ounces to 32 and even 64-ounce containers. Gone was Kaufman, no longer a good fit for Quaker’s polished promotional plans. They also cut ties with Stern, believing the controversial entertainer didn't reflect Snapple’s growing maturity in the market.

Bottles of Snapple line a store shelf
David Paul Morris, Getty Images

In retrospect, Quaker had erred on all counts. Consumers had little interest in vats of iced tea in 64-ounce containers, preferring to sip smaller bottles at work. They missed Kaufman, who was synonymous with the brand’s irreverence and homegrown feel. And Stern, who could be caustic when he felt minimized by sponsors, began using his considerable airtime to roast Snapple, calling it “Crapple.” The rants were beamed to millions of his listeners at stations around the country.

Quaker had, in effect, misjudged or mistimed Snapple’s graduation from plucky beverage upstart to a dignified institution. The company sold the brand to Triarc for $300 million in 1997. They had paid $1.4 billion for it just three years earlier. Following the sale, Quaker CEO Bill Smithburg resigned from his post.

 
 

Though Snapple’s heyday may have passed, there was still considerable consumer enthusiasm for its more adventurous flavors (like Diet Kiwi Strawberry Cocktail, which was allegedly a favorite among some horses at a Seattle stable) and for a return to less aggressive marketing. In 1997, Triarc invited Kaufman not only to come back and shoot a new commercial but to allow her face to be stamped on every bottle of Wendy’s Tropical Inspiration. And instead of limiting distributors to certain flavors, they shipped out more varied assortments and let consumers decide what they liked.

Triarc’s success was as notable as Quaker’s failure. The company sold Snapple to Cadbury Schweppes in 2000 for $1.45 billion. As part of the Dr Pepper Snapple Group, the brand changed hands once more early in 2018, selling to coffee cup giant Keurig, part of the JAB Holdings investment group, in exchange for $18.7 billion to shareholders.

It’s been a roller coaster of a ride for Snapple, which started in a small health food store, became a part of popular culture, was nearly done in by a misguided marketing plan, and was finally restored to its former glory by a company willing to get back to the basics.

As for that hate group involvement: The “K” on the label never had any connection with Klan activity. It stood for “kosher.”

Overall Charm: Remembering Hasbro's My Buddy Doll

Kendrick Shackleford, Flickr // CC BY 2.0
Kendrick Shackleford, Flickr // CC BY 2.0

If your toy company's boy-oriented doll doesn’t set the world on fire, you might take comfort in the fact it partially inspired a series of slasher movies. That was the case for My Buddy, an oversized doll first introduced by Hasbro in 1985 that failed to make waves on store shelves but informed the creation of the carrot-topped spree killer doll Chucky in writer Don Mancini and director Tom Holland’s 1988 film Child’s Play.

In 1985, toy stores were stocked to the brim with some of the most indelible properties of the decade. Coleco’s Cabbage Patch Kids were a bona fide phenomenon, ringing up $540 million in sales the year prior. Masters of the Universe was Mattel’s hit, with both the action figures and ancillary products doubling the take of the Cabbage people.

Then there was My Buddy, which seemed to straddle the gender lines the other major toy companies had drawn. The Cabbage Patch dolls were highly desirable among young girls; boys gravitated toward the veiny, sword-wielding characters of the He-Man franchise. In marketing My Buddy, Hasbro hoped to pioneer a new toy category: a doll line for boys.

The idea was not totally alien to the market. As far back as the early 20th century, boys played with dolls regardless of whether the toys were marketed specifically toward them or not. The difference was that the dolls were often depicting adult men and women. As time went on and manufacturers began focusing on dolls resembling infants, interest on the part of young male consumers began to trail off.

Hasbro reversed that trend in 1964 with the introduction of G.I. Joe, a line of 12-inch, fabric-outfit military figures intended to do for boys what Mattel’s Barbie had done for the female demographic. Though Joe would go on to inhabit smaller, molded plastic sculpts in the 1980s, the idea of boys playing with plush toys was still of interest. With My Buddy, Hasbro banked on the doll’s heft—at an imposing 23 inches, it was a fair bit larger than the Cabbage Patch line—to ensnare juvenile consumers.

My Buddy was intended to be a companion for boys perceived as more active than girls, canvassing neighborhoods on Big Wheels, clutching My Buddy as they climbed into tree houses, and possibly making him an inadvertent object in a game of touch football. Clad in durable overalls, My Buddy seemed designed for extended trips through dirty terrain.

“My Buddy is positioned as macho,” Hasbro's senior vice president of marketing Stephen Schwartz told The Boston Globe in 1985. “It’s soft macho, but it’s still macho. We show them climbing up trees, riding their bikes. We didn’t position it like a girl doll, soft and sweet.”

Excited by the potential, Hasbro backed My Buddy with an effective ad campaign led by an infectious song:

Unlike other toys with complex personal narratives, My Buddy possessed no agency. He was simply there to accompany his human on adventures. Hasbro’s intent was easily discerned through ad copy: “A little boy’s special friend! Rough and tough, yet soft and cuddly.”

Amid a competitive toy year, the $25 My Buddy fared well in 1985. While Cabbage Patch Kids remained a goliath, Hasbro had four of the top 10 bestselling toys on the market: Transformers, G.I. Joe, My Little Pony, and My Buddy, which ranked eighth on the list.

That success would not last. If boys did not find fault with playing with dolls, some adults did, expressing puzzlement that My Buddy would hold appeal for the blood-and-guts dominion of the boys toys market. Los Angeles Times columnist Bevis Hillier called My Buddy “an unprepossessing creature who also has overalls and freckles but has managed to get his cap on the right way round. With his big, goggling eyes, he is half winsome, half bruiser.” Hillier went on to express doubt that a boy would find the prospect of dressing the doll in his own retired baby clothes enticing.

My Buddy and his various offshoots—there was a Kid Sister—hung on for a few years before disappearing from shelves. The doll market for boys was mostly relegated to Wrestling Buddies, a line of WWE-themed stuffed companions that encouraged boys to drop elbows and grapple them to the floor. My Buddy, with his largely pacifistic persona, invited no such confrontations. Despite Hasbro’s hopes, My Buddy failed to signal a breakdown in gender-specific toys. Mattel’s She-Ra line, an action figure spin-off of He-Man targeted toward girls, failed to take off. My Pet Monster, a plush toy for boys, came and went.

Hasbro subsidiary Playskool continued manufacturing My Buddy into the 1990s. Today, the overall-clad figure is mostly remembered as a model for the murderous Chucky, the doll villain at the center of the Child's Play franchise.

While it never gained iconic status beyond being a horror movie influence, My Buddy did offer a bit of foreshadowing in how toy companies market to consumers based on gender. In 2017, the first male American Girl doll, Logan, was released. Not long after, Mattel ran ads depicting boys playing with a Barbie Dream House and girls with Hot Wheels. My Buddy may not have been a raging success, but its attempts to deconstruct some of the persistent stereotypes in the toy world were ahead of their time.

Up in the Air: When 'Balloon Boy' Took Flight

John Moore, Getty Images
John Moore, Getty Images

It was like a Weekly World News cover come to life. On October 15, 2009, most of the major network and cable broadcasters interrupted their daytime programming to cover what appeared to be a silver flying saucer streaking through the air. Out of context, it was as though the world was getting its first sight of a genuine UFO.

Reading the scroll at the bottom, or listening to the somewhat frantic newscasters, provided an explanation: It was not alien craft but a homemade balloon that had inadvertently taken off from the backyard of a family home in Fort Collins, Colorado. That, of course, was not inherently newsworthy. What made this story must-see television was the fact that authorities believed a 6-year-old boy was somehow trapped inside.

As the helium-filled balloon careened through the air and toward Denver International Airport, millions of people watched and wondered if its passenger could survive the perilous trip. When the craft finally touched down after floating for some 60 miles, responders surrounded it, expecting the worst. The boy was nowhere to be seen. Had he already fallen out?

The brief saga that became known as the Balloon Boy incident was one of the biggest indictments of the burgeoning worlds of reality television and breathless 24/7 news coverage. It seemed to check off every box that observers associated with societal decline. There was the morbidity of a child speeding through the air without control; the unwavering gaze of news networks who cut away from reports on world affairs and even ignored their commercial breaks to obtain footage of an aircraft that measure around 20 feet wide and 5 feet high and resembled a bag of Jiffy Pop.

 

The boy in question was Falcon Heene, one of Richard and Mayumi Heene's three children. The couple had met in California and bonded over their mutual desire to get into the entertainment business. Richard dreamed of becoming a comedian; Mayumi played guitar. The couple married in 1997 and eventually relocated to Colorado; they got their first taste of Hollywood in 2008, when they made their first of two appearances on the reality series Wife Swap.

But Richard Heene wanted more. The avid tinkerer envisioned a show that followed his family around, while at the same time working on his new inventions—one of which was sitting in his backyard. It was essentially a Mylar balloon staked to the ground, which he would later describe as a very early prototype for a low-altitude commuter vehicle.

 sheriff's deputies seach a field for Falcon Heene before learning he had been found October 15, 2009 southeast of Ft. Collins, Colorado
Sheriff's deputies search a Colorado field for Falcon Heene before learning he had been found safe at home.
John Moore, Getty Images

It was this balloon, Bradford Heene told police in 2009, that his brother Falcon had climbed into just before it had taken flight. Earlier, Richard said, Falcon had been playing near the contraption and was scolded for potentially creating a dangerous situation. Now, Falcon was gone, the balloon was in the air, and Falcon's parents feared the worst. Mayumi called the authorities.

“My other son said that Falcon was at the bottom of the flying saucer,” Mayumi told the 911 dispatcher. “I can’t find him anywhere!”

As news cameras watched and the National Guard and U.S. Forest Service followed, the balloon reached an altitude of 7000 feet. Police made a painstaking search of the Heene household, looking for any sign of Falcon. After three passes, they determined it was possible he was inside the balloon.

Approximately one hour later, the balloon seemed to deflate. Authorities cleared the air space near Denver International Airport and greeted the craft as it landed, tethering it to the ground so no air current could hoist it back up and out of reach.

No one was inside the small cabin under the balloon, which left three possibilities: Falcon was hiding somewhere, he had run away ... or he had fallen out.

 

Not long after the craft had landed, a police officer at the Heene house decided to investigate an attic space above the garage. It had gone ignored because it didn’t seem possible Falcon could have reached the entrance on his own.

Yet there he was, hiding.

Elated, authorities explained to the media that they thought Falcon had untethered the balloon by accident and then hid because he knew his father would be upset with him.

Jim Alderden, the sheriff of Colorado's Larimer County, assured reporters that the Heenes had not done anything suspect. They demonstrated all the concern for their missing child that one would expect. Alderden stuck to that even after the Heenes were interviewed on CNN and Falcon appeared to slip up. When asked by Wolf Blitzer if he had heard his parents calling for him, the boy admitted that he had but was ignoring them “for a show.”

Though the Heenes seemed to scramble to cover up for their son's gaffe, Blitzer didn’t appear to register the comment at first. He came back around to it, though, insisting on clarification. Richard would later state that Falcon was referring to the news cameras who wanted to see where he had been hiding. That was the "show" he meant.

Alderden reiterated that he didn’t think the boy could remain still and quiet for five hours in an attic if he had been instructed to. But he admitted the CNN interview raised questions. After initially clearing the family of any wrongdoing, Alderden said he would sit down and speak to them again.

Within the week, Alderden was holding a press conference with an entirely different mood. He solemnly explained that the Heenes had perpetuated a hoax and speculated that they could be charged with up to three felonies, including conspiracy and contributing to the delinquency of a minor. Outlets had already tracked down an associate of Richard’s who detailed his reality series idea, with one episode devoted to the balloon.

 

Richard and Mayumi voluntarily turned themselves into authorities. They each pled guilty: Richard for attempting to influence a public servant and Mayumi for making a false report. In addition to paying $36,016 in restitution, Richard wound up with a 90-day jail sentence, 60 days of which was served on supervised work release. Mayumi got 20 days. Though they pled guilty, Richard maintained that he and his family had not perpetuated any kind of a hoax. In a 2010 video posted to YouTube, Richard said he only pled guilty because authorities were threatening to deport his wife.

Mayumi, meanwhile, reportedly told police it had all been an act (though critics of the prosecution argued that Mayumi's imperfect English made that confession open to interpretation). Mayumi later stated she had no firm understanding of the word "hoax."

Richard Heene and his wife, Mayumi Heene (R) are flanked by members of the media after they both plead guilty to charges related to the alleged hoax of the couple claiming that their son, Falcon Heene was last month onboard a helium balloon, at the Larime
Richard and Mayumi Heene surrounded by the media after they both plead guilty to charges related to the "Balloon Boy Hoax" on November 13, 2009.
Matt McClain, Getty Images

In addition to the fine and jail sentences, the judge also mandated that the family not seek to profit from the incident for a period of four years, which meant any potential for Richard to grab a reality show opportunity would be put on hold until long after the public had lost interest in the "Balloon Boy."

The Heenes moved to Florida in 2010, and soon after their three boys formed a heavy metal band—reputed to be the world’s youngest—dubbed the Heene Boyz. They’ve self-released several albums, and in 2014 even released a song called "Balloon Boy No Hoax."

Richard also peddles some of his inventions, including a wall-mounted back scratcher that allows users to alleviate itching by rubbing up against it. It’s called the Bear Scratch.

In October 2019, Robert Sanchez, a writer for 5280 magazine in Denver, profiled the Heenes and produced a smoking gun of sorts. Sanchez, who was allowed access to the Heene case file by Mayumi's defense attorney, discovered copies of Mayumi's notes about the events leading up to the flight. In one entry, she disclosed Richard had asked her about the possibility of letting the craft go off while Falcon remained in the basement, stirring up attention for the news networks. Later, when the saucer flew away, Richard was confused when Falcon wasn't downstairs. (He chose instead to hide in the attic.) That made the Heenes believe he might really be inside.

When confronted with the document, Mayumi told Sanchez she had made that story up in an attempt to "save" herself and her children, presumably from being separated in the ensuing legal struggle. In the Balloon Boy story, the saucer may have come crashing back to Earth, but the truth remains up in the air.

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