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The Day Baby Ruths Rained Down on Pittsburgh

Competition in the confectionary industry has always been fierce, and in the early 1900s, when the first candy bars were bursting onto the scene, it was particularly so. The success of Hershey’s milk chocolate bar, introduced in 1900, spawned numerous imitators as well as bars like Oh Henry! and Goo Goo Clusters that upped the ante by adding ingredients like peanuts, caramel and nougat. By the 1920s, the candy bar industry had become a sweet, delicious free-for-all.

To stand out in a crowded field required a good idea, good execution—and no small amount of showmanship. Nobody understood this better than Otto Schnering, founder of Chicago’s Curtiss Candy Company. In 1916, Schnering started his company, which borrowed his mother’s maiden name, and within a few years had found success with a nut-topped chocolate bar called Kandy Kake. While local sales were promising, Schnering had king-size ambitions for himself and for Curtiss. So in 1921, he reformulated the Kandy Kake bar by adding peanuts and nougat, and renamed it Baby Ruth (supposedly after President Grover Cleveland’s daughter, which, in an era when Babe Ruth ruled the baseball diamond, was probably baloney. Ruth sought royalties at one point and lost, and later the candy company actually sued Ruth for trademark infringement, and won).

Babe Ruth ad from the 1950s. Pieces of the Past via Flickr // CC BY 2.0

To compete with the popular Oh Henry! bar, which cost 10 cents, Schnering streamlined production and began offering Baby Ruths for five cents apiece. “Everything you want for a nickel!” proclaimed the brand’s slogan. An advertising mind clearly ahead of his time, Schnering also plastered the Baby Ruth logo on consumer products—everything from matchbooks to pocketknives and beach balls—and sponsored events like circuses and hot-air balloon shows.

Schnering’s greatest bit of showmanship, arguably, came in 1923. This was at a time when aerial stunt shows called “barnstormers” were popular, with the likes of Charles Lindbergh dazzling crowds with loops, rolls and other high-flying tricks. Inspired by their popularity, Schnering contacted an Atlanta pilot named Doug Davis and proposed his own stunt. Davis agreed, and one afternoon (the exact date isn’t clear) took to the skies over Pittsburgh in a Waco biplane emblazoned with the Baby Ruth logo. According to promotional material distributed by Curtiss (and cited by Aviation Quarterly), Davis brought his plane down to just a few dozen feet over the city and began performing various tricks, including flying between buildings. After he had everyone’s attention, Davis ascended and completed the most crucial step in his mission: dumping hundreds of Baby Ruth bars, each attached to a tiny rice paper parachute, out over the city.

So what happens when candy actually falls from the sky? The Curtiss publication describes the scene: “People risked falls from windows reaching for the parachutes. Children ran out into the streets (without danger—traffic was hopelessly snarled) and adults fought for the free candy.” There could be some embellishments here, but the event clearly made an impact. Pittsburgh officials met shortly after Davis’s flight and passed an ordinance requiring planes to fly above several hundred feet over the city. They also specifically outlawed distributing candy bars from the air.

For Schnering and the Curtiss Candy Company, the stunt was a huge success. He established the Baby Ruth Flying Circus and commissioned pilots across the country to drop candy bar payloads over beaches, fairgrounds, and racetracks. To meet growing demand, Curtiss expanded its manufacturing facilities to incorporate nationwide distribution, and by 1928, Baby Ruth was the country’s best-selling candy bar.

Doug Davis, meanwhile, continued to fly in Schnering’s circus, and even ferried himself and his wife to their honeymoon in a Baby Ruth plane. Before performing his runs, Davis would often pick out a volunteer to ride with him and dump out the candy. In Miami, he enlisted a 12-year-old boy whose father was the principal distributor of Baby Ruth candy in southern Florida. The boy’s name was Paul Tibbets, and it was his first ride in an airplane. Twenty years later, as the commander and pilot of the Enola Gay, he would drop the atomic bomb on Hiroshima.

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Hey, Vern: It's the Ernest P. Worrell Story
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Mill Creek Entertainment

In her review of the 1991 children’s comedy Ernest Scared Stupid, The Washington Post film critic Rita Kempley described the titular character, the dim-witted but well-meaning Ernest P. Worrell, as “the global village idiot.” As portrayed by Kentucky native Jim Varney, Ernest was in the middle of a 10-film franchise that would see him mistakenly incarcerated (Ernest Goes to Jail), enlisting in the military (Ernest in the Army), substituting for an injured Santa (Ernest Saves Christmas), and returning to formal education in order to receive his high school diploma (Ernest Goes to School).

Unlike slapstick contemporaries Yahoo Serious and Pauly Shore, Varney took a far more unusual route to film stardom. With advertising executive John Cherry III, Varney originated the Ernest character in a series of regional television commercials. By one estimate, Ernest appeared in over 6000 spots, hawking everything from ice cream to used cars. They grew so popular that the pitchman had a 20,000-member fan club before his first movie, 1987’s Ernest Goes to Camp, was even released.

Varney and Ernest became synonymous, so much so that the actor would dread going on dates for fear Ernest fans would approach him; he sometimes wore disguises to discourage recognition. Though he could recite Shakespeare on a whim, Varney was rarely afforded the opportunity to expand his resume beyond the denim-jacketed character. It was for this reason that Varney, though grateful for Ernest’s popularity, would sometimes describe his notoriety as a “mixed blessing,” one that would come to a poignant end foreshadowed by one of his earliest commercials.

Born in Lexington, Kentucky in 1949, Varney spent his youth being reprimanded by teachers who thought his interest in theater shouldn’t replace attention paid to math or science. Varney disagreed, leaving high school just two weeks shy of graduation (he returned in the fall for his diploma) to head for New York with $65 in cash and a plan to perform.

The off-Broadway plays Varney appeared in were not lucrative, and he began to bounce back and forth between Kentucky and California, driving a truck when times were lean and appearing in TV shows like Petticoat Junction when his luck improved. During one of his sabbaticals from Hollywood, he met Cherry, who cast him as an aggressive military instructor named Sergeant Glory in an ad for a car dealer in Nashville, Tennessee.

In 1981, Varney was asked back to film a new spot for Cherry, this one for a dilapidated amusement park in Bowling Green, Kentucky, that Cherry considered so unimpressive he didn’t want to show it on camera. Instead, he created the character of Ernest P. Worrell, a fast-talking, often imbecilic local who is constantly harassing his neighbor Vern. (“Know what I mean, Vern?” became Ernest’s catchphrase.)

The spot was a hit, and soon Varney and Cherry were being asked to film spots for Purity Dairies, pizza parlors, convenience stores, and other local businesses. In the spots, Ernest would usually look into the camera—the audience shared Vern’s point of view—and endorse whatever business had enlisted his services, usually stopping only when Vern devised a way to get him out of sight.

Although the Purity commercials initially drew complaints—the wide-angle lens created a looming Ernest that scared some children—his fame grew, and Varney became a rarity in the ad business: a mascot without a permanent corporate home. He and Cherry would film up to 26 spots in a day, all targeted for a specific region of the country. In some areas, people would call television stations asking when the next Ernest spot was due to air. A Fairfax, Virginia Toyota dealership saw a 50 percent spike in sales after Varney began appearing in ads.

Logging thousands of spots in hundreds of markets, Varney once said that if they had all been national, he and Cherry would have been wealthy beyond belief. But local spots had local budgets, and the occasions where Ernest was recruited for a major campaign were sometimes prohibited by exclusivity contracts: He and Cherry had to turn down Chevrolet due to agreements with local, competing car dealers.

Still, Varney made enough to buy a 10-acre home in Kentucky, expressing satisfaction with the reception of the Ernest character and happily agreeing to a four-picture deal with Disney’s Touchstone Pictures for a series of Ernest features. Released on a near-constant basis between 1987 and 1998, the films were modest hits (Ernest Goes to Camp made $28 million) before Cherry—who directed several of them—and Varney decided to strike out on their own, settling into a direct-to-video distribution model.

“It's like Oz, and the Wizard ain't home," Varney told the Sun Sentinel in 1985, anticipating his desire for autonomy. “Hollywood is a place where everything begins but nothing originates. It's this big bunch of egos slamming into each other.”

Varney was sometimes reticent to admit he had ambitions beyond Ernest, believing his love of Shakespeare and desire to perform Hamlet would be perceived as the cliched story of a clown longing to be serious. He appeared in 1994’s The Beverly Hillbillies and as the voice of Slinky Dog in 1995’s Toy Story. But Ernest would continue to be his trademark.

The movies continued through 1998, at which point Varney noticed a nagging cough. It turned out to be lung cancer. As Ernest, Varney had filmed an anti-smoking public service announcement in the 1980s. In his private life, he was a chain smoker. He succumbed to cancer in 2000 at the age of 50, halting a series of planned Ernest projects that included Ernest Goes to Space and Ernest and the Voodoo Curse.

Varney may never have gotten an opportunity to perform in a wider variety of roles, but he did receive some acknowledgment for the one he had mastered. In 1989, Varney took home an Emmy for Outstanding Performer in a children’s series, a CBS Saturday morning show titled Hey, Vern: It’s Ernest!

“It’s a blessing and a curse,” he told the Orlando Sentinel in 1991, “because it's as hard to escape from it as it is to get into it.''

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The iMac Was Almost Called the MacMan
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After breaking out with its Macintosh line of personal computers in the 1980s, Apple was in a slump. Sales had flagged as Microsoft's Windows operating system made waves. In 1998, the company was set to unveil a product that it hoped would reinvigorate its brand.

And they almost blew it.

According to Ken Segall, the advertising genius behind their "Think Different" campaign, Apple founder Steve Jobs was expecting the iMac to reverse the company's ailing fortunes. Where older Macs had been boxy, beige, and bland, the iMac came in an assortment of colors and had a transparent chassis that showed off its circuitry. The problem, as Segall writes in his new book, Insanely Simple, was that Jobs didn't want to call it the iMac. He wanted to call it the MacMan.

"While that frightening name is banging around in your head, I'd like you to think for a moment about the art of product naming," Segall writes. "Because of all the things in this world that cry out for simplicity, product naming probably contains the most glaring examples of right and wrong. From some companies, you see names like 'iPhone.' From others you see names like ‘Casio G'zOne Commando' or the ‘Sony DVP SR200P/B' DVD player."

According to Segall, Jobs liked the fact that MacMan was slightly reminiscent of Sony's Walkman branding concept for its line of cassette players. (Later, Sony had a Discman, Pressman, and Talkman.) But Segall, who named products for a living, feared the name would take away from Apple's identity as being original. It was also gender-biased, and alienating an entire demographic of consumers was never a good thing.

Instead, Segall suggested "iMac," with the "i" for internet, because the unit was designed to connect easily to the web. Jobs "hated" the idea, along with other suggestions, even though Segall felt the iMac could provide a foundation to name other devices, just as Sony's Walkman had. Segall kept suggesting it, and Jobs eventually had it printed on a prototype model to see how it would look. After encouragement from his staff, he dropped MacMan. With this key contribution, Segall made sure no one would be lining up to buy a PhoneMan 10 years later. 

[h/t FastCoDesign]

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