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On the April 2026 Monthly Update I talk about what’s been going on with the site and podcast, but also some other things going on in my life and some random thoughts I have. They include:

• Atari Computer Camps

• Club Med and Atari

• The Living Unicorn

• Back to the Future the Animated Series

• The DeLorean

• Car Podcasts?

• Bonus Scan thoughts

• Back to the Future: The Ride a…

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A few times in my life, I had the chance to go to Universal Studios, and every time I somehow talked myself out of spending much time there. I was a Disney person, probably to a fault, and when I was anywhere near Orlando or Southern California, my attention went straight to Disney. At the time that made sense to me. Now it feels a little foolish, becau…

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A lot of automotive history moves through eBay, from old license plates to oil company memorabilia, and everything in-between. But car brochures are some of my favorite. This brochure was produced when the DeLorean was still a new car and still had promise, still something you might actually walk into a showroom and buy. My uncle wanted one. He never go…

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Club Med always sounded like a place for relaxation and adult activity (certainly that’s what commercials hinted at). Sunny, relaxed, a little European, and just far enough outside my world that I had to imagine most of it. The name made me think of beaches, drinks, people with good tans, and long afternoons where nobody seemed to be looking at a clock. It did not make me think of an Atari 800 sitting under a palm tree. But for a strange and interesting stretch in the early 1980s, that was part of the story too, and before getting to the computers, it helps to talk a little about what Club Med actually was.

It all started in 1950 with a Belgian water polo champion named Gérard Blitz, who was fresh out of the WWII French Resistance and looking for a way to help people shake off the weight of postwar Europe. His idea was simple. Let’s gather people together in a beautiful place, take away the usual pressures of money and status, and let them rediscover the pleasure of being alive. Blitz officially founded Club Méditerranée on April 27, 1950, bringing the first group of vacationers to the northern coast of Majorca in the Balearic Islands. They slept in tents. They cooked together. Nobody wore a tie. Groundbreaking vacation stuff for 1950.

A better entertainer than businessman, Blitz went bankrupt in 1953. His main creditor was his tent supplier Gilbert Trigano, known as the French “King of Camping,” who took control of the club. Trigano was a builder. Under his leadership, the tents gave way to straw huts, the straw huts gave way to actual rooms, and Club Med grew into something no one had quite seen before. Guests paid one price covering transportation, lodging, three meals a day, wine and beer with lunch and dinner, most sports and leisure activities with instruction, and evening entertainment. No tipping. No extra charges. No decisions about money once you arrived.

The staff were called G.O.s, short for Gentils Organisateurs, or “gracious organizers.” The guests were G.M.s, Gentils Membres. Everyone was on a first-name basis. The whole thing was designed to feel like the best version of a vacation you had ever taken with as little friction as possible. By the time the 1980s arrived, Club Med operated 92 villages across 26 countries. It was one of the most recognized vacation brands on the planet. Club Med was thriving and they were about to make an unexpected partnership with the computer company, Atari.

In 1982, the home computer was breaking through. Atari, then a division of Warner Communications, was one of the biggest names in the business. The company had built its reputation in arcades and living rooms with games, but it had also released the Atari 400 and 800 home computers, machines capable of real work like word processing, spreadsheets, programming and music composition. Atari wanted people to think of these machines as more than just game consoles with keyboards. The problem was that a lot of adults were genuinely afraid of computers. They had heard about the computer revolution and were not sure they wanted any part of it.

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Club Med had noticed the same anxiety from a different angle. The resort reasoned that many people could overcome their fear of computers if instruction were offered in a non-threatening environment, without the intrusion of everyday urban life. The two companies found each other and discovered they were solving the same problem from opposite ends.

The partnership was announced publicly in late 1982. Serge Trigano, chairman and CEO of Club Med, Inc., said at the time that the home computer would become a major force in society, and that by offering workshops to members, the club would help demystify computers for its guests. Ray Kassar, chairman and CEO of Atari, added that Club Med villages offered a perfect setting for young people and adults to be introduced to microcomputers. The announcement came at a Warner Communications press event, and Atari projected at the time that 5.5 million home computers would be sold by the end of 1983 alone.

The idea was not invented from scratch. The first computer workshop had been held at Club Med’s Kamarina village in Sicily, using Honeywell, French PTT, Thomson, and IBM equipment, and it proved popular enough that Club Med expanded the concept to villages in the Caribbean. By the time the Atari deal was formalized, workshops were already running at Ixtapa in Mexico, Caravelle in Guadeloupe, and Eleuthera in the Bahamas. Atari secured the exclusive right to supply computers for all Club Med villages in the Western Hemisphere.

The early results from the Kamarina pilot were remarkable. During a ten-week period there, 12,000 vacationers participated in the computer program. Of those, 3,200 became proficient at using computers, and 1,500 went far enough to write their own programs. For a crowd that had rarely touched a keyboard before arriving at a beach resort, that was impressive.

The flagship of the whole operation would be Club Med’s Punta Cana village in the Dominican Republic. This was where the collaboration really got serious.

Starting June 11, 1983, and running thirteen weeks through September 10, Atari and Club Med launched what their brochure called a “21st century experiment.” The setup at Punta Cana was unlike anything else in computer education at the time. Atari installed 57 computers throughout the village, not locked away in a classroom but distributed across the resort, with a total of 83 computers and terminals in use when you counted every kiosk and station. Workshops ran from 11 in the morning until 5 in the afternoon, with free time built in at the end of each day for practice. Instructors were available to answer questions and help guests go further with anything covered in the sessions.

What did you do while there? Mini-workshop topics covered everything from an introduction to microcomputers to budgeting and planning with VisiCalc. In addition to computer staples like BASIC language programming, word processing, and games, Atari provided things like painting, music, astronomy, astrology, and weaving software. That weaving program was particularly inventive. In it guests could blend 256 colors on screen as they would yarn on a loom, and when the mix was right, a printout would show them how to actually weave the design into a headband, belt, or carrying strap.

Atari also developed a tennis tournament organizer that operated in English, Spanish, and French, so players of different nationalities could be matched and compete together. Snorkelers had access to an interactive computerized slide show that identified the marine life they were likely to see on the reefs. Sailors could brush up on their rigging and knot-tying at a terminal. A computer bulletin board, the first at any Club Med village, displayed daily events and special messages for all guests on screens around the resort.

The kids were not left out. Computer instructors were assigned to the Mini-Club for children ages four to seven, and to the Kid’s Club for ages eight to twelve. The whole program was folded into Club Med’s all-inclusive price. Nobody paid extra to sit down at an Atari 800 and learn to compose music or design graphics. It was just part of what you got.

Bob Kahn, Director of Special Projects at Atari from 1982 to 1984, was responsible for the entire computer portion of the summer program, including curriculum, staffing, equipment, and materials. He had previously run the Atari Computer Camps that operated across the United States, and the Club Med collaboration was an extension of that educational mission into a very different setting.

What makes the Punta Cana program so interesting in retrospect is how much original work went into it. Atari did not simply drop off a box of machines and walk away. For example, the music curriculum was developed by Sterling Beckwith, a music consultant who wrote to Kahn from his home in North Salem, New York, in the spring of 1983 describing his frustration at not being able to find existing software that did what he needed. There was nothing on the market that addressed rhythm in a way accessible to complete beginners. So he wrote something himself.

The result was a program called RUMDRUMS, built specifically for the Atari/Club Med project and written in Atari Logo. The curriculum materials described it as a rhythmic exercise for novice composers. Users could input rhythm patterns using a simple letter code, hear them played back, build sequences, and eventually have the computer generate a semi-random melody to layer over their rhythms. Beckwith’s letters to Kahn show a genuine creative collaboration, complete with bug reports, debugging notes, and a closing wish that Kahn had survived his trip into what Beckwith cheerfully called “the wilds of Hispaniola.”

The music workshop also included demonstrations using the Atari Music Composer cartridge, lesson plans by educator Carolyn Pugh covering composition forms like ternary and rondo, and a note from Battlezone creator Ed Rotberg, who sent over sound synthesis disks he had personally developed. It was a more ambitious educational effort than the vacation branding suggested.

Linda Gordon, Atari’s vice president of special projects, called the Club Med experience a milestone in human relations for both companies, observing that places where people need computers the least are probably the best places for them to discover the technology.

The Miami Herald sent writer John Robson to the Caravelle village in Guadeloupe in 1984 to find out what the experience was actually like. He arrived as a committed skeptic. Not really seeming to realize that a computer was different from a typewriter, he described himself as a poor typist who spent 40 percent of his time typing and 40 percent correcting errors. What he found surprised him.

Classes were small, typically eight people, meeting in front of Atari 800s for one hour a day. His group’s instructor that week was someone called B.J., a blond refugee from Gulf Oil, filling in for the regular computer guru “Aladdin.” The first day was devoted to demonstrating that the computer was not an all-knowing machine but a fairly limited tool, which was a key part of the demystification strategy both companies were aiming for. Day two moved into Basic programming. Day three opened up graphics, where Robson watched the basic structure of video game design unfold in minutes. By day four the group was working with the Atari as a filing and note-card system. The final day brought AtariWriter, the word processing program.

By the end, Robson found himself staying after class to write, his speed increasing, misspellings flagged automatically. He left Guadeloupe a reluctant convert. His article ran under the headline “A Balmy Island Computer Class.”

The regular guru “Aladdin” at Caravelle was a Frenchman who had stumbled into the job almost by accident. His initial visit to Club Med’s Paris headquarters was simply to accompany a friend applying for a position. Overhearing a conversation about computer education, he stepped in to correct some misconceptions and walked away with the job of developing the computer program for the Club’s American operations. That was 1982. By 1983, the program had spread to Eleuthera, Ixtapa, Caravelle, and Punta Cana, with Copper Mountain, Colorado also in the mix.

The chef de village at Punta Cana, Gerard Barouh, framed the whole project in terms of communication rather than technology. He pointed out that people who do not learn about computers may eventually find it impossible to speak to their own children. The tennis and sailing programs that ran in multiple languages reflected his broader vision: computers as a social tool, not just a vocational one. He described the whole setup as a buffet. You choose what you want.

In 1983, a week at Punta Cana with computer instruction included cost $499 per person for the land portion, based on double occupancy. Children ages four to seven stayed free. Children eight to eleven paid half price. A full package from New York including air and transfers ran $879. From Miami, it was $719.

By 1984, a week at Caravelle in Guadeloupe with roundtrip Air France transportation came to $839. Land-only rates were $500 at Eleuthera, $530 at Punta Cana, and $490 at Ixtapa. Computer instruction was included in all of those prices, alongside meals, wine with dinner, sports, and evening entertainment. The Miami Herald noted that with the exception of excursions and bar drinks, everything, including computer instruction, was covered by the package price.

For context, an Atari 800 retailed for around $500 on its own in 1982. A week at one of the most celebrated vacation resorts in the world, with a dedicated instructor and a machine waiting for you on the beach, was not unreasonable.

The San Francisco Chronicle covered the Punta Cana program in August 1983, noting that while most Club Med villages had only a handful of computers, usually about 12, Atari had installed 57 at Punta Cana because the program there was serious about making computer training the major attraction. The ratio of instructors to computers made it possible to get as much training as you wanted.

The timing for the Club Med-Atari partnership was perfect. The home computer had arrived in living rooms and offices, but it still felt alien to most people. Making a mistake at a computer terminal at work had real consequences. Making one on a beach in the Dominican Republic, with a rum drink nearby and nothing on the schedule until dinner, felt like a completely different proposition. People find it easier to learn when they are relaxed, and Club Med had spent three decades building an environment engineered specifically for that. Atari brought the machines.

The program continued and expanded after 1983. By the time the Miami Herald article ran in the summer of 1984, computer workshops were operating at Punta Cana, Caravelle, Ixtapa, Eleuthera, and Copper Mountain. The Caravelle workshop had grown to 25 Atari computers. Club Med hoped to have computers in 45 villages within a couple of years. The Atari 400, with its easily cleaned membrane keyboard, was preferred for children. The 800 with its standard keyboard was used for adults. Instructors trained at Atari headquarters in California before arriving at their villages, and according to Serge Trigano, they were selected by computer.

Atari’s own fortunes shifted dramatically in the years that followed. Warner Communications sold the consumer division in 1984, the same year Atari’s losses nearly brought the company down. Even if the company itself lingered, the Club Med partnership did not. Which makes this product of a very specific window in Atari’s history, one in which the company had both the resources and the vision to pursue something this genuinely unusual.

Still, the partnership proved something that seems obvious in retrospect but wasn’t in 1982. People learn better when they are comfortable, and comfort is not incompatible with education.

Club Med eventually moved upmarket and away from experiments like this one. Atari eventually became something else entirely. But for thirteen weeks in the summer of 1983, on a beach in the Dominican Republic, you could sit down at an Atari 800 between windsurfing sessions and learn to program in BASIC, compose a piece of music, or weave a headband from a design you made yourself on a computer with 256 colors to choose from. Nobody made you. It was just there if you wanted it, which is very Club Med.

There were a few cars that could stop me in my tracks when I was a kid, and the DeLorean was near the top of the list. We had one in my town, parked outside a dentist’s office, and just knowing it was amazing. It was not something you expected to see in everyday life. It looked like it had landed from somewhere else, all sharp lines and brushed metal, like the future had somehow ended up next to where I got scolded for not brushing properly.

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On this episode of the Retroist Podcast, I talk about what it was like to grow up with that kind of local landmark, a car that felt larger than life before I knew much at all about how it came to be. Back then, the DeLorean was just the DeLorean to me, a machine that stood apart from every other car on the road. Later on, of course, I came to understand that behind it was John DeLorean himself, a figure who was just as unusual, ambitious, and complicated as the car that carried his name. That is part of what makes this story so interesting to revisit. You cannot really separate the man from the machine.

From there I get into both sides of that story. I talk about the car itself, why it looked the way it did, why it made such an impression, and how it managed to become iconic even though its actual time on the market was so short. I also get into John DeLorean, his rise in the auto industry, the image he built around himself, and the strange and sometimes messy path that led to the creation of the company. It is one of those stories where big ideas, personality, timing, and unexpected trouble.

What makes the DeLorean worth talking about now is that it carries two stories at once. There is the car people remember, and then there is the man who willed it into existence. One became a symbol, helped along by pop culture and memory, while the other remains a much harder figure to pin down. Bringing them together in one episode felt like the right way to do it, because the DeLorean was never just a car. It was a dream, a gamble, and for some of us, one of those unforgettable sights from childhood.

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Production Notes

• This is the 363rd episode of the Retroist Podcast and episode 14 of Season 18.

• This might be the longest episode I have ever done.

• While we would get used to seeing a DeLorean in our town. I never got jaded seeing it. I sometimes think about how many towns exist in the world vs. how many DeLoreans were actually sold and how amazing we had one in our town.

• I could not pull the door down on my own when I was in the car.

• I have never done an episode about a car before and I am not super knowledgeable about cars naturally, so this was a lot of fun to do while a bit challenging. Please forgive any detail misunderstanding.

• I suggest a nickname for myself in this episode, but Bunky would also be a cool nickname.

• Being a celebrity version of anything must be addicting, but it seems to always lead to trouble.

• The National Alliance of Businessmen’s messaging doesn’t quite land nowadays.

• The term ethical or words like it were being use a lot in 1970s.

• Banshee really is an an amazing car name. I like mythological creatures as car names. Some other names that would be fun? The Ford Unicorn. The Chevy Cylcops. Honda Goblin. Toyota Hydra.

• Had to do a lot of cuts to get this under an hour. First cut was close to 75 minutes. So I took out parts on options, modifications, time machine versions, “other appearances,” merchandise, toys, and more.

• I sometimes like to think about “what ifs” around products. What if DeLorean had been a success? Could it have lasted longer? What might the newer models look like?

• Its not clear what DeLorean could have been done differently once he started to make a car like this at scale.

• So many movies from the time I haven’t seen.

• See you at Moonrakers.

• My first and only NY Giants Deep Cut.

• Mellow Cheese!

• I think one more episode in the BTTF coverage. It will be a Supporter Episode.

• Bonus clippings can be found over on Patreon for Supporters.

• Music on the show is, as always, by Peachy.

Thanks for listening to the show and I hope you have a great weekend.

When Ringling Bros. and Barnum and Bailey Circus started hyping its newest attraction for the 1985 season, I was exactly the right age to fall for it completely. I was a kid in New Jersey, and the ads were everywhere. A beautiful white creature with a single horn rising from its forehead, standing in a spotlight like something that had wandered in from another century. “Seeing Is Believing,” the posters said. My mother took me. I believed.

What I did not know then was that before long people would be arguing over what, exactly, they were looking at. The Living Unicorn had a creator, a backstory, and even a patent behind it. Beneath the spotlight and the circus language was something much stranger and much more earthly, with a goat named Lancelot at the center of the story.

To understand Lancelot, you have to go back a few decades before he was born, and a few miles north of anywhere the circus ever pitched a tent.

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In 1933, a biologist at the University of Maine named W. Franklin Dove decided to find out if a unicorn could be made rather than imagined. Dove’s research had revealed that at birth, the horn buds of animals were not yet connected to the skull but were independent, floating beneath the skin. That small anatomical fact opened a window. He took a day-old Ayrshire bull calf, removed the two horn buds, trimmed them flat so they would fit together, and repositioned them at the center of the animal’s forehead. As the calf grew, the buds fused. The experiment was successful: a single, massive horn grew from the skull, molded directly into the frontal bone. Dove published his findings in 1936 in a paper with the wonderfully earnest title “Artificial Production of the Fabulous Unicorn.” The bull became the leader of its herd and with his centered and very dangerous horn, he was rarely challenged.

Dove’s work sat largely in the scientific literature for decades. It might have stayed there, too, if not for a self-described wizard living on a commune in northern California.

Oberon Zell, born Timothy Zell in St. Louis in 1942, seemed almost destined to end up behind one of the stranger circus stories of the 1980s. He was a Neopagan religious leader, co founder of the Church of All Worlds, an early advocate of what would later be called polyamory, and founding editor of a publication called Green Egg. He and his partner, Morning Glory, were operating far outside the mainstream, but that only made them more likely to take the idea of a unicorn seriously.

In the 1970s, the two of them were researching a book on legendary animals when they came across Dove’s old paper. The idea lit something up in Zell. He studied the technique and using angora goats for their luxurious coats and cross-breeding them with Saanen goats to get slightly higher legs, he was able to successfully get his bleating patients to grow a single horn without complication. The procedure, just like with Dove’s bull, was done within the first week of a kid’s life while the horn buds were still loose under the skin. This left the animal with a single fused horn growing from the center of its forehead (again, just like with the bull). Lancelot was born in the spring of 1980. He was the first to get the procedure.

By 1982, Zell had five living unicorns and was taking them to Renaissance fairs, county fairs, pagan festivals, and schools. The 1982 Kilgore News Herald described Lancelot as “about three feet high and 150 pounds,” small enough to be handled easily, with a “white, bearded” appearance and a single horn growing from the center of his head. Zell told interviewers that he was convinced the real medieval unicorns of legend had come from the goat family, not horses, which is why they were described as small enough to rest in the laps of maidens. He carried a reproduction of the famous Unicorn Tapestries with him so people could compare the “real thing” to his animals.

In 1981, the Governor of Texas, Bill Clements, officially named Lancelot the State Unicorn of Texas. By 1984, Zell had produced nine unicorns total. He was granted US Patent #4,429,685, described as “a method of growing unicorns in a manner that enhances the overall development of the animal.”

That same year, a manager named Jeffrey Siegel, a graduate of the Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Clown College, negotiated a four-year licensing deal for four of Zell’s animals worth around $500,000. The four chosen were Lancelot, Galahad, Avalon, and Percival. The deal came with a condition that suited the circus perfectly. Zell was prohibited from discussing publicly how the animals were made.

The circus opened its 1985 season at Madison Square Garden in April. Lancelot made his entrance to the Rocky theme, parading through the arena on a hydraulic float trimmed in gold, a handler in sequins waving beside him. According to the official circus story, he had simply wandered up to the tent in Houston the previous July, his origin unknown. The circus had taken him in and given him a home. His keeper was a former dancer named Heather Harris, who was assigned the title Keeper of the Unicorn and who, to her credit, played the role with total conviction.

“He just appeared to us six months ago,” she told reporters. “I think it was in Houston. I don’t know whether it flew here, or walked or took a train.”

The circus programs were full of this kind of delightful mythology. He had appeared out of the blue and joined up with the Greatest Show on Earth because it felt like the right place for him. For kids, it worked beautifully. The program had a pullout poster. There were fact sheets answering questions like where unicorns come from and how old they were. The answer to age was “ageless.” The answer to origin was “from beyond myth and legend.” His favorite food was “rose petals.” The circus had trademarked the name “The Living Unicorn” and was not about to let a little thing like biological reality get in the way of a good show. Behind the scenes, Lancelot traveled with three understudies who were kept out of sight. Only one unicorn appeared in the actual show, but four were part of the touring troop.

With all this hype and news coverage, it took about five minutes for the ASPCA to get involved.

When the circus hit New York, animal welfare groups went to see for themselves what was going on. ASPCA president John Kullberg assumed they would find a prop. A chin strap. Something rigged. What they found instead was an animal with a horn that appeared to be part of its skull, which concerned them even more. If the horn was real, it meant something had been done to the animal while it was still very young.

Kullberg called the procedure “cruel and severely unethical” and urged a public boycott. The New Jersey SPCA threatened to block the circus from performing west of the Hudson (where I saw it). The Humane Society went on record. “I can’t believe Ringling Bros. has the nerve to insist it is a real unicorn,” said spokesperson Nancy Blaney.

Circus vice president Allen Bloom called the charges ludicrous and the boycott an “unfair and ill-conceived effort by Grinches to steal the kind of wholesome fantasy all too rare in today’s entertainment.” In the New York Times, the circus ran a full-page ad: “Don’t Let the Grinches Steal the Fantasy.”

The U.S. Department of Agriculture sent veterinarians. Their conclusion was that Lancelot was a goat, and that he seemed fine. USDA chief veterinarian Dr. Gerald Toms speculated that a simple grafting procedure had been performed when the animal was very young, and that if anesthesia had been used, the animal would have felt no pain and suffered no lasting effects.

Ringling went even further with a press conference at Madison Square Garden. Circus president Kenneth Feld brought in two professors from the University of Pennsylvania. Dr. Charles Reid, a radiologist, held up X-rays showing clearly that the horn was fused to the skull. It was not an implant. It was not attached to anything. Dr. William Donawick, a professor of surgery at the university’s animal hospital, examined Lancelot and announced his verdict to the assembled press: “I am pleased to tell you this animal is a content, healthy, living unicorn. It’s a unicorn. That’s what you call an animal with one horn.”

Reporters were invited to pull on the horn. It did not come off. Lancelot ate some rose petals. Just like they said he would!

Mayor Ed Koch weighed in, saying that while he believed in unicorns, that “doesn’t mean they exist.” The New York Consumer Protection Board opened an inquiry into whether calling the animal a unicorn constituted false advertising.

None of it slowed the ticket sales. Circus attendance and revenue at Madison Square Garden soared. Siegel later claimed it was the largest publicity event in the history of American circus. Saturday Night Live brought it up on Weekend Update and even Johnny Carson mentioned it. Andy Warhol, according to Siegel, wrote about Lancelot visiting Studio 54.

The controversy quieted after New York, but it didn’t disappear. In February 1986, Lancelot was seized by sheriff’s deputies in Daytona Beach, Florida. The legal basis was a 1921 state law that prohibited the public display of malformed or disfigured animals for profit. The Florida chapter of the Humane Society had filed the complaint. Lancelot was X-rayed again. Another veterinarian examined him. He was found to be healthy. No charges were filed. He was returned in time for that evening’s performance.

The Knoxville News-Sentinel, covering a local stop on the tour in March 1986, ran a long feature asking the question directly: if the circus goat has one horn, is it a unicorn? The answer from local doctors was essentially the same one the New York doctors had given. It was a goat. The horn had probably been produced by moving the horn buds together in infancy. The animal was healthy and probably experiencing no pain.

The circus maintained throughout that the unicorn was exactly as advertised. “The Living Unicorn arrived at the circus exactly as it is seen today,” Bloom said. “The only difference in it now is that its horn has grown several inches since it joined the circus.”

Through all of this, Oberon Zell was largely absent. The contract with Ringling required his silence, and he honored it, retreating from public view while the media frenzy played out without him. He and Morning Glory had wanted to be part of the story, to explain the science behind the animals and share what they had discovered. Instead, they were cut out entirely.

“They wanted to control the publicity,” Zell later said. “We just assumed we’d be in on it. We were completely cut out of the picture.”

The circus had purchased the narrative along with the animals. They never publicly confirmed they had bought the animals from Zell at all, and several sources suggested the sale price was a six-figure sum. The circus stuck with the tale that the unicorn had simply shown up on its own, and that was the story they kept selling.

Zell’s patent, granted in 1984, technically gave him the sole legal right to the method until 1992 when it expired. After that, the technique was available to anyone willing to try it on a newborn goat within the first week of its life.

Ringling had negotiated a four-year contract, but Lancelot’s circus career lasted only two. Circus president Kenneth Feld had a philosophy of rotating attractions regularly, specifically to keep audiences from assuming they could always catch the same show next year. By 1987, the Living Unicorn was retired, replaced in the promotional spotlight by King Tusk, a twelve-foot-tall elephant. Lancelot went home.

The adjustment was not easy. “He was generally pretty depressed, because he loved being a show animal,” Zell later recalled. “I built a barn and corral just for him that we dubbed Fort Unicorn.” Zell cared for Lancelot until his death in 1991, at the age of eleven. By this time, Zell had stopped producing new unicorns. The last animal from his stock died in 2005. He kept the skull of his first creation in his home.

I remember standing in that arena in New Jersey as a kid and believing it. I do not feel foolish for that. I was a child, and the whole point was to make children believe.

What sits differently with me now is not the fact that the circus sold an illusion. It is that the illusion depended on surgery, secrecy, and a great many adults agreeing not to look too closely once the spotlight was on.

A lot of people decided Lancelot was a unicorn. I did too. What once felt magical now feels harder to separate from the work that went into making it.

I grew up in New Jersey, which means I grew up in pizza country. Every town had its place and in my town we had five, sometimes six. Every family had their spot. The idea of getting pizza from McDonald’s was not acceptable, like buying a hot dog at a French restaurant. Living in a pizza paradise, I rebelled and would try to go places like Pizza Hut or get Domino’s with my friends whenever I could. I am nut sure why. I think I just wanted to be plugged into the national pizza movement that everyone else was having. Even if the product was inferior. So when McDonald’s started testing pizza through the mid to late 1980s, I was aware of it and even wanted to try, but I never lived anywhere that had it. The nearest location was states away from me, and it stayed that way. That absence had a way of making me even more curious and decades later, I am still thinking about it.

This is the story of how the world’s largest fast food chain spent the better part of fifteen years trying to make pizza work, and why it mostly did not. By the early 1980s, McDonald’s had pretty much wrapped up the “Burger Wars” despite was advertising might make you think and was operating at a scale that is genuinely hard to comprehend. The chain controlled nearly 40 percent of the American burger market and was roughly twice the size of its nearest competitor. Chicken McNuggets had proven the company could move beyond burgers and Happy Meals were a massive success. They were even making inroads into breakfast. Wall Street analysts were bullish. But there was one persistent problem for the company, dinner.

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McDonald’s customers were not coming in to eat it. Burgers were a lunch proposition, something grabbed on the go. When families sat down together at night, they wanted a table, a slower pace, something that felt like a meal rather than a pit stop. McDonald’s had solved breakfast in 1973 with the Egg McMuffin, a product critics dismissed until it became a phenomenon. The company was convinced the same logic applied to dinner. They just needed the right product.

But what product to choose? Pizza was the obvious answer. Through the 1980s, Pizza Hut and Domino’s were both growing at around 10 percent annually. Americans were eating more pizza than ever, and McDonald’s looked at those numbers and saw an opening. The company just needed to figure out how to make it work.

Some online sources claim McDonald’s experimented with pizza before its better documented tests of the late 1980s, including reports that personal pizzas were tried in Wisconsin in the late 1970s. But those details are difficult to verify, and I have not found contemporary reporting that clearly confirms them. Because of that, I would treat the story cautiously rather than as established fact (if you know of a source, please let me know). What can be said with confidence is that McDonald’s interest in pizza surfaced more clearly years later, when the idea entered a much better documented testing phase.

By 1984, trade publications were already noting that McDonald’s had developed something called a McPizza. It was being described as a pizza for one, though it had not yet reached test locations. USA Today mentioned it in October of that year alongside Chicken McNuggets as evidence that the company was serious about innovation beyond burgers.

What emerged in late summer of 1985 was something quite different from a traditional pizza. The product being quietly sold at about ten McDonald’s locations in the Philadelphia area was an oval, hand held pocket of dough, 3.5 ounces, filled with provolone and mozzarella cheese, ground beef, pepperoni, and pizza sauce. It sold for 99 cents. The Morning News in Wilmington, Delaware ran a front page item on it in September 1985, noting that the McDonald’s on Concord Pike north of Wilmington had a sign out front reading “First restaurant in country to serve McPizza,” while simultaneously being forbidden by corporate from advertising it anywhere else. The franchise owners, Les and Alan Dukart, wanted to put a billboard on the interstate. McDonald’s killed that idea immediately.

The product looked, as the Morning News put it, a bit like an egg roll. Others compared it to a cross between a calzone and a stromboli. McDonald’s own media relations head, Bob Kaiser, was careful with his language. “This is part of an operational test,” he said. “We want to make ourselves aware of our operational capabilities.” The company was not even calling it an official test product yet. They were watching to see if their kitchens could handle it.

They could, more or less. Inside sources told the Morning News that the McPizza had presented very few problems for staff and that the frozen product, fried several at a time, was not coming out greasy. The biggest customer complaint was that it was only available in one flavor. People wanted variety. The Dukarts, who owned five McDonald’s franchises in the Philadelphia area, were optimistic, and there was talk of rolling it to their other locations. Corporate wouldn’t confirm nor deny that plan.

By October 1985, the Associated Press was reporting on the pocket McPizza, confirming that McDonald’s was conducting operational tests in roughly 10 stores nationwide. The Indianapolis Star that same month was reporting that the company was trying the next level, individualized pizzas in a handful of East Coast restaurants. Corporate spokeswoman Lana Ehrsam told the paper, “People love pizza. It’s a very popular item right now.” But full consumer testing would be at least a year away.

The pocket McPizza was a first attempt, a product shaped to fit the McDonald’s system. You could eat it like an apple pie. You didn’t need a box, a table, special equipment, or the 10+ minutes it takes to bake a pizza. But as the mid 1980s became the late 1980s, it became clear that a hand held snack was not going to win dinner business away from Pizza Hut. If McDonald’s wanted to compete seriously, it needed to serve actual pizza.

By February 1987, the Capital Times in Madison, Wisconsin reported that the chain had moved into full pizza testing at 24 locations across Madison, Wisconsin Dells, Baraboo, Sun Prairie, and Stoughton. This version was a recognizable pizza, arriving frozen at the store. A plain cheese pizza cost 89 cents. A pizza with pepperoni, sausage, green pepper, and onion cost 99 cents. Store managers were selling quite a few of them, and one manager noted the only real negative feedback was about the name. “Some people have commented that McPizza is just too cute,” he said.

That name, it turned out, would not stick much longer. By the time McDonald’s moved into its most ambitious phase of pizza development, the product, a round, 14 inch traditional pie, had been rebranded as McDonald’s Pizza.

The company spent years developing a proprietary quick cook oven, which it eventually patented, capable of taking frozen dough to a finished pizza in under six minutes. The ovens worked, but they required significant kitchen renovation at each franchise. Drive through windows at many older locations were not wide enough to pass a pizza box through and had to be enlarged. McDonald’s planned to offer table service for family sized pies indoors, which meant training staff in a service model entirely unlike anything else on the menu. The whole operation was pulling against the grain of everything that had made McDonald’s successful.

A February 1988 item in The Daily Record in New Jersey, cited an analyst endorsements from the securities firm Donaldson, Lufkin and Jenrette, noting that McDonald’s was doing small scale testing pizza in Salt Lake City, Utah and Charleston, South Carolina. The goal, the piece noted, was to boost the chain’s “comparatively weak dinner sales, a part of the day McDonald’s considers its most underdeveloped.” The company had taken about seven years and sampled 145 different types of pepperoni before settling on a recipe it liked, a fact that appeared in a 1992 advertisement and said something about how seriously McDonald’s took this particular project.

Full scale testing of the round pizza began in 1989 in and around Evansville, Indiana and Owensboro, Kentucky, with roughly 24 locations. The pizzas came in four varieties: Cheese, Pepperoni, Sausage, and Deluxe. They were made with crushed tomatoes, fresh garlic, basil, oregano, 100 percent mozzarella, and aged Romano and Parmesan. The advertising pushed hard on quality, promising pizza “made fresh and served hot from the oven.” A two for one deal was offered after 4 p.m.

Pizza Hut did not take the threat lightly. Their response was swift and pointed. “Don’t make a McStake,” read one Pizza Hut advertisement in the Illinois market. The chain offered two for one deals and took public shots at what they called McDonald’s “McFrozen” dough. Ad man Jack Levy told the New York Times in 1989, “Every place you see a McDonald’s pizza, you’re going to see a war.”

By 1991, McDonald’s pizza had expanded to more than 500 locations across the United States. In Canada, the chain launched it around 1992, with Howie Mandel appearing in commercials. The Canadian version initially came as a full family sized pie, delivered to the table on a raised rack by a staff member, a genuinely unusual sight inside a McDonald’s. It later scaled down to personal size.

At its peak, some estimates put pizza in roughly 40 percent of American McDonald’s locations. The chain was also testing it internationally, with an 8 inch version in the United Kingdom available in cheese, pepperoni and cheese, and a deluxe variety.

For a moment, it seemed like it might actually work.

The problem was time. A pizza took roughly 11 minutes to prepare. That number became the defining fact of McDonald’s pizza’s existence, referenced in nearly every account of its rise and fall. In a restaurant built around the premise that food arrives in seconds, 11 minutes was not just slow, it was a philosophical contradiction. Customers ordering burgers would sit watching their food go cold while waiting for a friend’s pizza to finish baking. People ordering at the drive through were asked to pull forward and wait in the parking lot. The company’s own advertisements occasionally featured a customer reading a newspaper while waiting, which did not exactly help the pitch.

Speed was not the only issue. Pricing was also a problem. Pizza in the age of value meals didn’t always land well with customers who expected a more bargain-priced pizza. Their pizza wasn’t expensive, but it was more than customers had come to expect from a McDonald’s visit. It also put the chain in direct competition with dedicated pizza restaurants that had more experience, better ovens, and an established reputation.

McDonald’s Canada put it plainly in a 2012 response to a customer question posted on their website. “The preparation time was about 11 minutes, which was way too long for us. Every McDonald’s has a busy kitchen and the pizza slowed down our game. And since speed of service is a top priority and expected by our customers, we thought it best to remove this menu item.”

By the late 1990s, pizza had quietly disappeared from most American locations. Canada held on until about 1999. The experiment was over, officially if not entirely. with some exceptions.

Two McDonald’s locations kept serving pizza long after everyone else had stopped. The restaurants in Pomeroy, Ohio and Spencer, West Virginia were owned by the same franchisee, Greg Mills, and for roughly 15 years they remained the only places in the United States where you could still order a McDonald’s pizza. People drove considerable distances to do exactly that, sometimes from hundreds of miles away. One family who ate at the Pomeroy location told a local television station they came in every day, sometimes twice, because their young son refused to eat pizza anywhere else.

That ended on August 31, 2017. McDonald’s corporate issued a directive to streamline menus, and the pizza was removed. Mills posted a sign in the Pomeroy store that read in part: “Effective August 31st we will no longer be allowed to sell McPizza. This decision was made by McDonald’s Corporate office, Not your local staff. It was our Pleasure and Honor to be one of only two McDonalds in The USA to carry this Great product for the past 15 years.” The store’s last two pizzas sold to a couple who had flown in from Vancouver for the occasion. This was supposed to be the end of the story, but it’s not.

The World’s Largest McDonald’s sits on Sand Lake Road in Orlando, Florida, not far from the theme park corridor that makes Orlando one of the most visited places in the country. The building spans 19,000 square feet across multiple floors, with an arcade, a play area, and an open kitchen that contains something you will not find in any other McDonald’s in America, a wood fired pizza oven. The location, operated by franchisees Gregg and Dorothy Oerther, serves pizza year round, with multiple varieties including cheese, meat lover’s, and veggie lover’s. A reviewer from Tasting Table who visited in July 2025 described the cheese pizza’s crust as neither pan nor cracker style, a little floppy, with a fresh made sauce that carried a slight sweetness. Recent visitor accounts from early 2026 confirm the pizza is still very much available and selling well. The manager on duty told one visitor it sells in considerable volume every day.

The location draws visitors who are in town for Universal or Disney, but it also pulls in people who are specifically there for the pizza, which has developed its own category of devoted tourist. If you are going to Orlando and you have even a passing curiosity about what McDonald’s pizza tastes like, this is your only remaining opportunity to find out.

I still have not tried it. That feels like something I need to fix.

This weekend I was watching Friday the 13th the Series on Comet TV and afterwards I started looking at the stuff I had put together when I was doing the podcast I did a few years ago. One thing I meant to share at the time, but forgot about was an article from issue 80 of Fangoria magazine that ran after the first season. Its a fun article because it c…

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Back to the Future didn’t feel like a property that I expected to be turned into a cartoon, at least not to me at the time. By the time the animated series arrived, my interest in Saturday morning television was already starting to slip. I had not entirely left it behind, but I was no longer meeting it with the same excitement I had a few years earlier. That made this show an interesting one for me, because it landed right in that moment when a longtime habit was beginning to feel more like something I was outgrowing.

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On this episode of the Retroist Podcast, I talk about that stretch of time when Saturday morning cartoons were still part of the routine, but not quite the center of it anymore. I was still watching, still checking in, still curious when something tied to a movie or character I liked showed up on the schedule. But it was different. The feeling had changed. Back to the Future The Animated Series came along right in that space, where I still wanted one more visit with Marty and Doc. Even if the form it took was one I was slowly beginning to leave behind.

From there I get into the show itself, how it tried to carry the spirit of the films into a television format, and how it fit into that later period of Saturday morning programming. It was not trying to recreate the movies beat for beat. It was finding another way to keep the characters moving, with bigger concepts, broader comedy, and stories that could send the series anywhere each week. I also talk about the people behind it, the strange balancing act of turning a successful film trilogy into a cartoon, and the way the series now feels tied not just to Back to the Future, but to the last years when Saturday morning still had a real hold on popular culture.

What makes the show worth talking about now is not just that it extended a movie series people already loved. It also caught a very specific moment, both for the franchise and for the audience. For me, it arrived just as my own relationship with cartoons was changing, which gives it a feeling I probably would not have noticed otherwise. It was familiar, but also a sign that things were moving on. That makes the series more interesting to look back on, because it is not only about keeping Back to the Future alive a little longer. It is also about one of those points where childhood interests do not vanish all at once, but begin to loosen their grip.

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Production Notes

• This is the 362nd episode of the Retroist Podcast and episode 12 of Season 18.

• I watched Saturday Morning Cartoons regularly for another year or so after this. By the mid 90s.

• Yes, I was watching Saturday Morning Cartoons much longer than most.

• Marty is still a big part of the story, but the emphasis they put on the Brown family is definitely important. That bugged me more back when the show came out.

• I don’t watch the show much anymore so it was fun to revisit it.

• I think one more episode in the BTTF coverage. It will most likely be a Supporter Episode.

• Bonus clippings can be found over on Patreon for Supporters.

• Music on the show is, as always, by Peachy.

Thanks for listening to the show and I hope you have a great weekend.

I was the right age for Atari Computer Camp. I had been reading about computers in every magazine I could get my hands on, playing games whenever I could get near a machine, and trying to understand a technology that felt like it was going to change everything. When the ads for the camps started showing up, something in them clicked. This was a place where you could actually learn how the machine worked. Not just play with them, but make them do something.

I pleaded with my mom to go and I couldn’t believe it when she actually called them to get information. The price came back and that was the end of that.

It was somewhere in the neighborhood of $1,600 for a month, which at that point in our household would have been better spent on too many other things. My mother also had reservations about sleep-away camps in general, which was its own separate obstacle. So we made a different call that summer, one that turned out fine. We got a Commodore 64. I spent that summer and several more sitting in front of it, learning things my own way, on my own schedule.

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In retrospect there is something almost funny about it. I am the kind of person who gets loyal to things, and had I spent a summer immersed in Atari machines, who knows where that leads. Maybe I end up on a different path entirely, never making it from my VIC-20 to the Commodore 128, never becoming the person I turned out to be. I am genuinely fine with how things went. But I still think getting one of the camp t-shirts would have been incredible.

Despite my childhood want to go to one, I didn’t know too much about the camps themselves. What I learned was that they were ambitious, and for the kids who went, they appear to have been genuinely memorable.

The idea of a computer camp did not originate with Atari. In 1977, a physics and engineering professor at Fairfield University in Connecticut named Dr. Michael Zabinski did something no one had done before. He coined the phrase “computer camps” and founded National Computer Camps. It was the first of its kind in the country. Zabinski had been watching computers reshape how people worked and thought, and he believed children needed a structured place to engage with them beyond the arcade and the living room.

His first session was a day program for about fifty kids, run out of a junior high school in Orange, Connecticut. It worked well enough that he kept it going. Over the following decades, NCC would introduce thousands of students ages 8 to 18 to coding, robotics, and computer science. The High Point Enterprise reported in 1983 that Zabinski’s original inspiration came partly from summer institutes he conducted for the National Science Foundation, where he taught teachers how to bring computers into their classrooms. The camp format, he realized, was ideal for reaching students the same way.

Atari took that idea and scaled it up. In March of 1982, the company announced it would sponsor the first computer summer camp run by a major home computer manufacturer. Three locations opened that summer: East Stroudsburg State College in Pennsylvania’s Pocono Mountains, the Asheville School in North Carolina, and the University of California, San Diego. A fourth site at Lakeland College in Wisconsin was on the original plans but never came together.

The person who built the educational side of the program was Bob Kahn, Director of Special Projects at Atari from 1982 to 1984. Kahn developed the curriculum, hired the instructors, and assembled the equipment and software libraries that campers would use. He described his goal like this, Atari wanted students to have a romance with the computers. The overall program was overseen by Linda S. (Gordon) Brownstein, Atari’s Vice President of Special Projects. For the actual camp operations, Atari partnered with a company called Specialty Camps Corporation, and together they formed the subsidiary Atari Special Projects, Inc., operating out of 40 East 34th Street in New York (so close to where I was).

The first summer worked better than expected. By 1983 Atari had expanded to seven locations, adding New England at the Stoneleigh-Burnham School in Greenfield, Massachusetts; Chesapeake at Oldfields School in Glencoe, Maryland; Smokey Mountains at the University of North Carolina at Asheville; Midwest at the Shattuck School in Faribault, Minnesota; and Old West at the Athenian School in Danville, California. The Antic magazine reporter who visited Old West in August 1983 noted that demand at the Poconos site had doubled from one year to the next, with 160 kids seeking spots where 80 had come the year before. There were plans to add three more locations in 1984, bringing the total to ten.

The camps were genuinely designed to feel like traditional summer camps. The 1983 brochure describes gymnasiums, pools, tennis courts, playing fields, arts and crafts facilities, campfires, barbecues, and guest speakers. The activity grid across all seven sites covered swimming, tennis, soccer, softball, volleyball, basketball, aerobics, drama, hiking, and electronics workshops. The Midwest camp at Shattuck had a private lakefront with water skiing and a nine-hole golf course. Old West sat adjacent to Mount Diablo State Park. New England offered horseback riding at a slight additional charge and had access to a pottery studio with a kiln. The Pacific camp at the University of San Diego promised field trips to Sea World, the San Diego Zoo, and Pacific Ocean beaches. These were not stripped-down computer labs parked on a college campus. Atari was selling the full camp experience, just with keyboards.

The computer instruction itself took up roughly four to four and a half hours of each day, split into two formal sessions with free time in the evenings when at least two of the three computer rooms stayed open. Students could use that time to play games or keep working on their programs. That Antic reporter visiting Old West observed that newer campers tended to spend their free time on games initially, but by the second week most of them had shifted toward programming. Instructor Jim Brown gave each new arrival a short questionnaire to gauge their level so classes could be matched to ability. Beginners started from scratch. Advanced students were handed spec sheets and deadlines the way a working programmer might receive them.

The machines in those classrooms were Atari 400s and 800s, and each site had three rooms equipped with twelve systems each. At maximum enrollment there were two students per computer. The curriculum covered BASIC, LOGO, and PILOT programming languages, along with modules in assembly language, machine architecture, word processing, graphics, and more. Guest speakers came once a week, usually game designers or programmers. The week before Antic visited Old West, Chris Crawford, who wrote Atari’s Eastern Front, had come to talk about his work. The day they arrived, the designer of Donkey Kong was scheduled. The campers also took a field trip to see Tron, which was fitting since some of the film’s sound effects had been created using an Atari 800.

In the summer of 1982, Atari commissioned a documentary film about the camps. They hired filmmakers Bob Elfstrom and Lucy Hilmer of Robert Elfstrom Productions to shoot it at the University of California, San Diego campus. Three versions were created: a 26-minute version, an 18-minute version, and a 3-minute trailer. The film was released in 1983 under the title The Magic Room. It is an unguarded and often moving portrait of kids at the beginning of something, learning to make machines do what they asked. One camper named Enrique put it this way on camera: “I tell the computer what to do, and that comes from me, from inside, I think it comes. What’s up on the screen, it’s me.”

Head instructor Richard Pugh offered a prediction at the end of the film that holds up: “I think that, if they look back upon this summer, 10, 20, 30 years from now, they’re not going to remember all the commands, perhaps. Maybe this is the last time they even see a computer. But I bet you they never forget what they programmed.”

The longer version of the film circulated for years online. The 18-minute version was a substantially different edit, featuring more intimate perspectives on certain campers and entire scenes not in the longer cut. It was unclear for years whether it still existed. In August 2021, it was released publicly for the first time after the original tape was discovered and digitized.

The camps made the papers constantly from 1982 through 1984, and most of those articles had the same two preoccupations. The first was the price.

The original two-week session cost $890. Four weeks was $1,690. The full eight weeks came to $2,950 in 1982, rising slightly to around $2,990 by 1983 and 1984. The Morning Union out of Springfield, Massachusetts listed the 1984 New England prices as $990, $1,790, and $2,990. By any comparison, the number was hard to absorb. The Boston Globe noted that the monthly rate exceeded what a month at Harvard cost for tuition, room, and board. A local computer workshop in Elkhart, Indiana ran an ad in 1984 marketing itself as a four-week program similar to Atari Computer Camp but significantly cheaper. The camps had become the expensive benchmark that other programs positioned themselves against.

The second thing the press kept returning to was the girls at camp.

Atari made a deliberate effort to attract female campers and was very open about it. Linda Gordon told reporters that she visited girls schools regularly and found that when girls did not have to compete with boys, they were enthusiastic about computers. She called computer literacy the fourth R. She was also candid about her disappointment that more parents had not pushed their daughters toward computers the way they pushed their sons. The Chicago Tribune reported that girls had made up only about five percent of campers in 1982 but rose to fifteen percent by 1983. At the Asheville camp in its first summer, a visitor from the Winston-Salem Journal noted there were 37 boys and just 4 girls enrolled. The 1982 film features a female instructor, and Atari placed girls prominently in its advertising materials. The broader stereotype of the male computer whiz was already forming and proving hard to break. The percentage of women majoring in computer science peaked in 1984 and then dropped significantly.

By May 1982, the camps had become culturally visible enough that they appeared in Henry Martin’s syndicated newspaper cartoon strip Good News, Bad News. The punchline had a mother mentioning that her kids were off to a fat camp, a magic camp, and an Atari computer camp. That sort of secondary mention shows just how much the camps had spread through society.

The camps ran through the summer of 1984. That same year, Atari was sold by its parent company Warner Communications to Jack Tramiel, the founder of Commodore International, as the company absorbed the full force of the video game industry collapse that had been building since 1982. Atari was one of the companies most affected by the crash. By mid-1983 the company had lost significant revenue, was forced to lay off a large portion of its workforce, and moved manufacturing overseas. The camps, which had been an ambitious educational project from a company in expansion mode, did not survive. The Strong National Museum of Play’s records confirms the camps ran from 1982 to 1984, and that the decline of the video game industry was a factor in their end.

The camps were not really about producing a new generation of programmers (although they did). They were about putting kids in a room with machines that most of the world still found intimidating and letting them discover that the machines would do what they asked. That was not a small thing in 1982, and it is easier to forget now because computers no longer seem mysterious.

For three summers, Atari gave kids a chance to spend real time with computers right at the moment those machines were starting to move from curiosity to necessity. Then the company collapsed, the camps ended, and what remains is mostly what people held onto, brochures, clippings, a little film, and the memories that still surface online from people who were lucky enough to go.

I never got there. I got a Commodore 64 instead and I turned out fine. But I have spent enough time looking through what survives to understand what I missed, and I think it was something worth missing properly.

I still think the t shirt would have been great.

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On the March 2026 Monthly Update I talk about what’s been going on with the site and podcast, but also some other things going on in my life and some random thoughts I have. They include:

• Back to the Future Part II

• Back to the Future Part III

• Time for another Back to the Future Cartoon?

• Joysticks (Retroist After Dark)

• Timely Soundtracks in Movies

• Singles Inco…

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My sister had a real talent for finding something about you and shining a spotlight on it. When we were kids, she decided that my laugh sounded exactly like Muttley. Not kind of like Muttley, but for a long time, exactly like Muttley. That wheezing, gasping, barely contained snicker that the cartoon dog did whenever Dick Dastardly fell out of a plane or got bonked on the head. She would demonstrate, doing her best impression of my laugh back at me, which was nothing like Muttley. This of course made here crack up. Now I had been in her crosshairs before and realized I had two choices. I could be embarrassed, or embrace it. I chose to embrace it, partly because I already loved Muttley, and partly because she wasn’t wrong.

I had been watching Muttley since I first started became addicted to Saturday morning cartoons. He was easy to love a dog with sense of humor and perfect comic timing. He just watched, waited, and when the moment arrived, he laughed. There was something deeply satisfying about that. Muttley was, depending on your perspective, either the worst sidekick in cartoon history or the best. I always thought he was the best.

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Muttley was created by Iwao Takamoto, one of the most important character designers in the history of American animation. Takamoto had an unusual path to that job. He learned to draw while incarcerated at the Manzanar internment camp during World War II, where an older artist took him under his wing. After the war he went to work at Disney, then moved to Hanna-Barbera, where he became the go-to designer for some of the studio’s most recognizable characters, including Scooby-Doo and Muttley.

Muttley first appeared in September 1968, in the premiere of Wacky Races on CBS. The show was inspired by the 1965 comedy film The Great Race, and Muttley was modeled on Max Meen, the henchman played in that film by Peter Falk. His partner Dick Dastardly was the cartoon equivalent of Professor Fate, the villain Jack Lemmon played in the same movie (more about Falk later). Wacky Races was a co-production between Hanna-Barbera and Heatter-Quigley Productions, a partnership that would have consequences for the character’s future.

As his name suggests, Muttley is a mixed breed. In a Wacky Races episode called “Dash to Delaware,” he is specifically identified as a mix of bloodhound, pointer, Airedale, and hunting dog. In the original series he wore only a collar. This would change in futured appearances. His primary job in the serious was to antagonize Dick Dastardly by snickering and occasionally muttering barely audible complaints about Dastardly under his breath. Things that sounded approximately like “snazza frazza rashin’ fashin’ Rick Rastardly.” It wasn’t a lot, but this dog had charisma and quickly became a fan favorite.

One of the things that made him unique was the voice and that laugh. The laugh did not begin with Muttley. It began with Don Messick, and Messick had been using versions of it for years before the character existed.

Messick was born in Buffalo in 1926 and raised in Baltimore, where he started doing radio at fifteen. He wanted to be a ventriloquist, which turned out to be good training for a career that would require him to produce an extraordinary range of sounds. By the time he arrived at Hanna-Barbera, he had already found the wheezing snicker and deployed it for a string of minor characters including a mischievous dog in Huckleberry Hound, a troublemaker named Snuggles in Quick Draw McGraw, and a character called Griswold in Top Cat. I like to think that each time he used it, the laugh got a little more refined, a little more specific. All leading up to the character who would own it.

When Muttley arrived, Messick finally had a character whose entire personality was wrapped up in this voice. The laugh wasn’t just a laugh, it was at the core of how Muttley would communicate. Muttley’s simple sounds conveyed a character who knew exactly how absurd the situation was and seemed to enjoy it.

Messick also voiced nearly everyone else in Dastardly and Muttley in Their Flying Machines (which I will talk about next), including the inventor Klunk, whose dialogue consisted entirely of mechanical noises and sound effects, and the pilot Zilly. He was doing most of the show by himself, with Paul Winchell handling Dick Dastardly and the General.

Messick stayed with the character until 1991, when a series of strokes sadly ended his career. He passed away in 1997. That laugh, though, kept going. Billy West, one of the most accomplished voice actors of his generation, took over the role and has continued it into the 2020s, including in the 2020 film Scoob!, which also used archival recordings of Messick for certain moments.

Wacky Races ended its original run in January 1969. By then, Fred Silverman, who oversaw children’s programming at CBS, had seen enough to know that Dick Dastardly and Muttley were the show’s breakout stars. He asked Hanna-Barbera to build a spinoff around them. The result premiered on September 13, 1969: Dastardly and Muttley in Their Flying Machines.

The title was a play on the 1965 British film Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines. The original working title had simply been “Stop That Pigeon,” which was also the name of the show’s theme song. On the show, Dick Dastardly commands the Vulture Squadron, a team of incompetent World War I-era aviators whose mission is to intercept a carrier pigeon named Yankee Doodle Pigeon before he can deliver his messages. They fail every single time. The pigeon wins. Dastardly rages. Muttley laughs.

The show’s connection to actual history was not accidental. Carrier pigeons were a an important part of World War I, used to carry messages when other communication lines were cut. The most famous American example was Cher Ami, who saved nearly 200 soldiers in 1918 by delivering a message despite being shot. Yankee Doodle Pigeon, painted red, white, and blue, was clearly a tribute to this heroic bird.

In the spinoff, Muttley picked up two important new traits. He could fly by spinning his tail like a helicopter. This is a skill that came in useful whenever Dastardly was in freefall and needed to be caught, which was often. He also became obsessed with medals. Before doing anything Dastardly asked of him, Muttley would demand a medal. Dastardly would either promise one and that would make Muttley very happy. Through his desire to be seen as a hero (with medals), we get a glimpse of how Muttley wants to be seen.

This is confirmed in each episode, which also included a segment called “Magnificent Muttley.” In them, Muttley daydreamed about himself as the hero of various adventures, with Dastardly cast as the villain. These segments appear to be a reference to the Secret Life of Walter Mitty, and they gave Muttley something rare for a cartoon character of the time, a fantasy life. I am fascinated that Muttley wasn’t satisfied with his life. That he wanted better, but the most effective way he could express this was through daydreaming. It makes him very relatable.

What made people love Muttley was not his competence. It was the thing a letter writer to the Kalamazoo Gazette identified in April 1970, pushing back against a neighbor who had complained about the show. The writer, a man named John Eastman, called himself “a sporadically intelligent adult” and made the case plainly: Muttley “chuckles up his sleeve when Dastardly invariably fails.” Eastman gets Muttley and understand that Muttley is a rare character, one that is self-aware. He is on the wrong side and he knows it, and every time the wrong side loses, he lets you know he knew it all along.

He is the one character on the show that the audience can properly identify with, his laugh is our laugh. When things go wrong for ol’ Dastardly and Muttley laughs, it almost functions as a laugh track, letting little kids know that what’s happening is something we should all be enjoying.

The show ran 17 episodes on CBS from September 1969 through January 1970, then moved into syndication from 1976 to 1982. That is where a whole new generation found it. William Hanna, in a September 1969 interview, noted that Hanna-Barbera programming was being seen in dozens of countries around the world. Dastardly and Muttley was part of that reach. In Japan, where Hanna-Barbera cartoons had been popular since the early 1960s, the show aired under a different set of names. Muttley became Ken-Ken. Dick Dastardly became “Sukaikido Buraku Maō,” which translates roughly as The Skykid, Black Devil. Dastardly’s Japanese voice actor was Chikao Otsuka, father of Akio Otsuka, who would go on to voice Solid Snake in the Metal Gear Solid video game series.

When Hayao Miyazaki made Howl’s Moving Castle in 2004, one of its characters, an adorable dog named Heen who could fly, was described by critics as having “the Muttley cough.” Whether that was an intentional tribute or simply a sign of how completely that sound had been absorbed into the shared vocabulary of animation, it is difficult to say. But the reference was immediately understood.

In 1976, Hanna-Barbera introduced a new character named Mumbly. To anyone who had watched Wacky Races or Flying Machines, the resemblance to Muttley was impossible to miss. The same look, a similar grumbling mumble, same Don Messick voice. But Mumbly was not Muttley.

The reason for the distinction came down to ownership. Wacky Races had been co-produced with Heatter-Quigley Productions, which meant the characters from that show, including Dastardly and Muttley, were jointly owned. When Hanna-Barbera wanted to use a similar dog character in new programming, they created a new one. Mumbly, in his original 1976 ABC series The Mumbly Cartoon Show, was a good guy, a detective in a trench coat who worked alongside a human partner named Chief Schnooker to catch criminals.

Now here is something interesting. Mumbly was a rumpled, mumbling, seemingly slow detective in a trench coat who turns out to be sharper than he looks. Sound familiar? Peter Falk had been playing Columbo since 1968. The parallel was not subtle. So Muttley had begun as a cartoon version of Peter Falk’s character Max Meen from The Great Race, and his near-twin Mumbly was modeled, at least in part, on Falk’s most famous role. Falk essentially helped to define both characters!

Mumbly’s detective series was not a ratings success and lasted only one season. He then resurfaced in Laff-A-Lympics in 1977, this time repositioned as a villain on the “Really Rottens” team, filling the role that Muttley could not fill because of the ownership issue. He was accompanied by a character called the Dread Baron, who strongly resembled Dick Dastardly. It was the same relationship, with different names. Its a shame, nothing against Mumbly, but it should have all been Muttley all along.

Muttley kept showing up. He appeared in Yogi’s Treasure Hunt in 1985, in Wake, Rattle, and Roll and the Fender Bender 500 segments in 1990 and 1991, in a teenage version in Yo Yogi!, and as a voice cameo in Duck Dodgers. The 2020 film Scoob! brought him back again. Each time, the character required almost no reintroduction. The laugh was enough.

What Muttley seems to understand is that the most interesting place in any story is usually not at the center of it, but just off to the side, watching it unfold. The hero is busy being heroic. The villain is busy with another bad plan. Muttley is there taking it all in, and finding the whole thing funny. He is not exactly cynical. He just sees the absurdity more clearly than anyone else around him. The plan is ridiculous. The chaos is inevitable. The pigeon is probably getting through. Muttley knows it, and he cannot help laughing.

That is part of what makes the laugh so memorable. It is not cruel, and it is not dismissive. It sounds like someone who already knows how this is going to go, and takes real pleasure in the gap between what people want to happen and what actually happens. Muttley is not outside the story, but he is never fully trapped inside its logic either. He is close enough to be part of the action, but far enough away to recognize how silly it all is.

My sister was not making some deeper observation when she said my laugh sounded like his. She just thought it was funny. But I was glad to hear it, because Muttley was my favorite character, and for a little while it felt like I shared something with him.

I grew out of the laugh, but not my affection for Muttley. If anything, I may like him more now. The laugh itself was a small thing, and it did not last, but for a little while it gave me a connection to a character I already loved. I am still glad I had that.

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Joysticks (or Joy Sticks) was never one of the big “video game” movies. It did not arrive with the reputation of Tron or WarGames, and even at the time it probably felt a little cheap and a little thrown together. But for kids who were completely locked in on video games, that almost did not matter. If it had cabinets in it, if it had an arcade, if it l…

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Back to the Future Part III had a different job to do. Part II had ended on a cliffhanger and sent everybody out of the theater with their heads spinning, but the third film had to bring everything back down to earth, or maybe more accurately, out to the Old West. It was ending a story people had gotten very attached to and it had to do that without losing the sense of fun and invention that made the series feel special in the first place. We didn’t go to the future with flying cars and flat screens. This time it was dust, horses, locomotives, and a version of the past that felt just as exciting.

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On this episode of the Retroist Podcast, I start with a memory from my time working at the mall. I spent a lot of lunched at the bookstore, where I kept running into a fan of the film who loved talking about where the series could go next. He was especially taken with the train at the end. He had no shortage of ideas about the sequels that could have followed if that machine had carried Doc and his family into one more adventure after another. These conversation say a lot about how Part III left people feeling. Even though it was the end, it still made us want to keep the story going.

From there I get into the movie itself, its release, and why it worked for people then and still holds up now. Part III does not try to top Part II by getting more tangled with time travel nonsense. Instead, it gets simpler, warmer, and more character driven. It gives Marty a chance to face something in himself, and it gives Doc a story that is not just about invention or danger, but about love, risk, and finally building a life outside his invention. It also has a very different look, taking Hill Valley and peeling it back into something rougher and more mythic.

I also talk about the cast, the making of the film, the music, and the way Part III completes the trilogy with a lot more confidence than it sometimes gets credit for. The first movie may be the cleanest and Part II may be the complex, but Part III has its own place because it knows how to end things well. It turns the series into something bigger than a time travel gimmick. By the end, it feels like a story about growing up, letting go, and deciding that the future is not something you chase, but something you make.

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Production Notes

• This is the 361st episode of the Retroist Podcast and episode 10 of Season 18.

• The story you hear in this episode was originally included in my first recording of my Back to the Future Podcast. I think it makes a lot more sense as part of the 3rd film discussion.

• I like that this movie lets the series breathe a little. Part II is fun, but it is doing a lot. Part III feels more relaxed and confident. The old west setting, which is so familiar, probably helps with that.

• I always enjoy when a movie gives Christopher Lloyd more to do than just be frantic. This one lets Doc Brown feel like a real person.

• I like that Hill Valley is still becoming Hill Valley in this one. You are seeing the place before it turns into the town everyone knows. This feels like conformation hat they are treating it like a character.

• Thomas F. Wilson really gets to have fun here. Buford Tannen is such a good variation on the Tannen problem.

• Mary Steenburgen was a great addition. Clara does not feel like she wandered in from another movie. She fits right into this world.

• The train sequence is one of the best endings in the trilogy. The pacing is perfect. It big, practical, and loud. A perfect way to wrap the adventure.

• I like that the movie does not try to top Part II by being more complicated. It gets stronger by getting clearer.

• Last movie, but I ain’t done yet.

• Bonus clippings can be found over on Patreon for Supporters.

• Music on the show is, as always, by Peachy.

Thanks for listening to the show and I hope you have a great weekend.

I first saw the Panasonic Dynamite 8 in a catalog, probably sitting on the carpet of our living room with a pen, which was how I communicated the things I wanted for Christmas to my mom. I circled it. I may have circled it more than once. Also known as the Panasonic RQ 830S, the Dynamite 8 was a portable 8 track player with a TNT style plunger used to change tracks, but to me it looked like a toy. That was exactly the point, and probably exactly why it never made it under the tree. My mom was a sensible person, with a limited budget. If you wanted music, you got something that looked like it played music. A little yellow 8 track player with a fake dynamite plunger on top was a harder case to make.

I eventually forgot about it, the way you forget about most things you wanted badly as a kid. Then, a few years ago, after patiently trying to find an affordable one in good condition, I bought one online. Before I talk about it, lets talk a littler bit about the technology

The story of the Dynamite 8 begins with the 8-track format itself, which had a somewhat unlikely origin. The technology was developed in the 1960s by a consortium that included RCA Records, Lear Jet, and the Ford Motor Company. Bill Lear, best known for his work in aviation, developed the 8 track as an improvement on the earlier 4 track cartridge system. The goal was something more practical for consumers, specifically something you could play in a car without handling reels of tape. In 1966, Ford became the first automaker to offer the new Stereo 8 format across its entire model lineup, and the format took off from there.

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By the early 1970s, 8-track players were a fixture in American cars and living rooms. The tapes were chunky durable plastic bricks and you could find them everywhere. What the format never managed to shake was a fidelity problem. The sound was not great. Track changes happened mid-song, the tape hiss was real, and the whole experience was more convenience than quality. It was music you could take with you, and for a lot of people, that was enough.

By 1974, though, the 8-track format was aging. Cassette tapes were getting better and more widely available. The format needed something. What it got from Panasonic was one of the more imaginative product designs of the decade.

The Panasonic Dynamite 8, model RQ-830S, looked exactly like what its name suggested. The body was a squat, rounded square. The face was dominated by a large circular speaker grille with a track indicator. And rising from the top, on a thin metal stem, was a T-shaped plunger handle. The whole thing resembled a cartoon detonator, which was entirely deliberate. Panasonic’s own advertising made the comparison explicit: “It looks like a detonator. And sounds like dynamite.”

The plunger was not just decorative. Pushing it down changed the track and you would hear a different song. It was the only way to do it on this machine. Unlike other players on the market, the Dynamite 8 did not switch tracks automatically. You had to detonate it yourself. There was no headphone jack, no tone control, and it played in mono through its single 3-inch full-range dynamic speaker. It ran on batteries or AC current, and Panasonic sold an optional car adapter as well, model RP-913.

What it lacked in features it made up for in personality. The Dynamite 8 came in three colors at launch: Detonator Red, Bomb Blue, and Explosion Yellow. Panasonic was fully committed to the bit. Later versions added white and black to the lineup, and a clear version also appeared at some point in the production run. The color-coded, pyrotechnic naming was not an accident. This was a product aimed squarely at kids, teenagers and playful adults, and Panasonic’s marketing treated it as such from the beginning.

Advertising from the period leaned into the detonator concept. One consumer magazine ad opened with “Ka-boom!” and walked readers through the experience in the language of an explosion: “Slide in the tape. Out booms the music from an explosive-sounding dynamic speaker. Then push the plunger to change your channel and change your tune.” Another ad headline read “Sound Explosion.” A third said simply “Have a Blast.” The retail price held steady at $39.95 for most of the product’s life, with sales periodically dropping it into the high twenties. That was a real price for a kid’s item in the mid-1970s, roughly equivalent to $240 today, but the ads kept running, and the thing kept selling.

The retail price at launch of $39.95 in 1974 was consistent across newspaper ads from Sarasota to Santa Barbara through 1979, with promotional prices occasionally dipping to $28.88 or $29.95. For a device with this few features, that price held up remarkably well for five years. It was a testament to the attractiveness of the form rather than the quality of the audio itself.

To really move units, Panasonic went looking for a spokesperson, and they found the perfect one. Jimmie Walker was then starring as James “J.J.” Evans Jr. on Good Times, the Norman Lear sitcom that ran on CBS from 1974 to 1979. Walker’s character had a catchphrase that the writers leaned on heavily: “Dy-no-mite!” It was everywhere, the kind of phrase that got on t-shirts and into playgrounds and that every kid in America could do a passable impression of. Panasonic saw the connection immediately.

The resulting campaign was a marketer’s dream. A dealer-facing ad from around 1975 laid it out plainly for retailers: “When Jimmie Walker says ‘Dyn-o-mite,’ kids all over America listen.” Panasonic promised Walker would promote the Dynamite 8 on network and local TV, on radio, in magazines, and at point of sale. The ad copy called him “Kid Dyn-o-mite himself” and listed the publications where the campaign would run: Seventeen, Hot Rod, Senior Scholastic, and Motor Trend. There was a full in-store display package: wall banners, posters, streamers, window spots, counter cards. Panasonic even mentioned a singing group called, of all things, “The Dynamite 8,” tied to the promotion.

Walker’s television spots became a genuine part of the product’s identity. In one version he addressed the camera as “My fellow music lovers!” before walking through the features of the Dynamite 8 and the companion Take-N-Tape cassette player Panasonic had introduced. The campaign’s final notable push came during the 1979 holiday season, when the tagline became “put a little dy-no-mite under the tree.”

It worked. The Dynamite 8 became a genuine pop culture sensation, the kind of thing that showed up in Christmas wish lists and bedroom photographs and that a certain generation remembers with the specific warmth reserved for things that were cool.

The Dynamite 8 was not only a North American phenomenon. In Japan, Panasonic’s parent company Matsushita sold consumer electronics domestically under the National brand name, which it used until retiring it in 2008 in favor of a unified Panasonic identity. The same basic platform that became the Dynamite 8 in the US appeared in Japan as the National RQ-8, and it was adapted for something that was just beginning to find its audience there: karaoke.

The National RQ-8 came bundled with a dynamic microphone, instruction sheets, and catalogs for karaoke 8-track tapes. The box art showed the unit with the number “1” on the bull’s-eye indicator, and the product was positioned as a home karaoke system at a time when karaoke was still a novelty outside of bars and clubs. Karaoke emerged as a commercial product in Japan around the turn of the 1970s, and Daisuke Inoue is often credited with popularizing it in 1971 with a machine that played backing tracks for people to sing along to, though some later accounts credit Shigeichi Negishi with an earlier karaoke machine in 1967. The RQ-8 brought that same idea into the home in a package that was portable, colorful, and cheap enough to be a reasonable purchase. It is a strange and delightful that in its own home market this same-looking device could be used as a portable karaoke machine.

The The Panasonic Dynamite 8 I picked up was in reasonable shape, cosmetically. Functionally it needed work. The belt had degraded, which is the most common failure point on these machines after decades of storage. Replacing it is not a complicated job, but you need to know what you’re doing, and I had a useful guide: the YouTube channel Techmoan, run by British tech enthusiast Mat Taylor, who has made a long and well-regarded series of videos on obsolete audio formats and the machines that played them. His coverage of vintage portables like the Dynamite 8 has sent more than a few people down the same rabbit hole I fell into. A new belt, a replacement speaker, and the thing was playing again.

I think mine turned out pretty well. Here are some photos of it before I cleaned it up and nice photo of it all cleaned up.

And here is a video of Dynamite playing a K-Tel collection

Here’s the thing though. The Dynamite 8 sounds like what it is. It’s a mono device with a small speaker, playing a format that was never known for fidelity, on tape that is at least forty years old. If you upgrade the speaker, as I did, you will get a noticeable improvement. But you are not going to be bowled over. The warmth that people associate with analog formats, the quality that vinyl enthusiasts talk about, is not what you are getting here. What you are getting is something that sounds like the 1970s, which is its own thing entirely.

What strikes you more than the sound is the object itself. Holding the Dynamite 8, you understand immediately why kids wanted it. It has a confidence in style and form that modern devices have almost entirely given up on. It is solid, colorful, and hard to look away from. The plunger on top is genuinely satisfying to push. The track indicator is easy to read. For an audio player that reads almost as a toy, it has a presence that most consumer electronics never achieve. It looks exactly like what it was designed to look like, and that is rarer than it sounds.

The 8-track format faded quickly once cassettes became dominant in the late 1970s. Cassette tapes were smaller, sounded better, and did not interrupt songs at arbitrary intervals to change tracks. The Dynamite 8 continued appearing in newspaper sale ads into 1979, still at its stubborn $39.95 retail price, but the window was closing. The format that had ridden into American life on the back of the Ford Motor Company was being pushed out by a wave of Sony Walkmans.

The Dynamite 8 itself though, was never really about the format anyway. It was about the idea that a piece of audio equipment could be fun, could be designed with a sense of humor, could look like something other than a serious black rectangle. That idea did not survive the 1970s in any commercially meaningful way. Portable audio became about miniaturization and sound quality, and the personality got engineered out. The Walkman was a revolution, but you would never describe it as playful.

Today, working examples of the Dynamite 8 are not as easy to find as you might expect. Refurbished models in good condition have sold for several hundred dollars, and even Jimmie Walker print ads have their own market among collectors. There is a dedicated community of people who restore and collect them, and the repair information is out there if you go looking.

The one sitting on my shelf still plays. I put a tape in now and then, push the plunger, and listen to something that sounds that takes me back. It is not the sound I was hoping for as a kid circling it in a catalog. But the object is exactly what I imagined it would be. Sometimes that is enough.

By the time O’Boises reached the Acme Market in my town in 1988, I was ready for them. I had already been hearing about these extra crunchy Keebler chips, and I was the kind of kid who did not need much convincing when Keebler put out something new. I bought a bag, opened it, and knew right away this was not the same experience as a standard potato chip. O’Boises had a thicker crunch, a different look, and enough novelty to make a real impression.

O’Boises were a manufactured potato snack chip, which put them in the same technical category as Pringles rather than say a bag of Lay’s. They were made from a dough of potato material that was shaped and cooked instead of sliced from a whole potato. What came out of that process was a chip with noticeable thickness, a light airy interior full of small bubbles, and a crunch that was louder and more satisfying than a standard thin chip. Contemporary reviewers (and me) noted that they were thicker than expected, less oily than most chips, and especially good for dipping because they did not break apart easily. That thickness also meant fewer broken chips in the bag.

A 1988 consumer panel review in the Jacksonville Journal tested the Original flavor and found the response split but enthusiastic on texture. Several panelists specifically compared them to Pringles in terms of how they were built. One called them the closest thing to Pringles she had found. Another said the crunch and freshness were the selling point. A third noted they were less salty than most chips, which was either a virtue or a problem depending on who you asked.

The technology behind O’Boises came from Miles Willard and his Idaho Falls firm, Miles Willard Technologies. Willard had spent years at the USDA before founding his own company, and he had become one of the primary figures in fabricated potato snacks. His portfolio included Tato Skins, Hula Hoops in the United Kingdom, Ripplin’s, and Chachos, among others. The specific construction used for O’Boises was a dual-sheeted process, meaning two thin potato layers were pressed together before cooking. That gave the chip its internal air pockets, its distinctive texture, and a notably stronger potato flavor than a single-sheet crisp would have delivered. The Bluffton, Indiana plant where O’Boises were eventually produced was described years later, when the brand changed hands, as the only facility in the country with that dual-sheeted capability.

Keebler introduced O’Boises in early 1988. A Chicago Tribune marketing column from February 26, 1988 reported that O’Boises and Suncheros, Keebler’s new tortilla chip, were both set to begin appearing in selected markets in mid-March, with national distribution to follow within a few months. The column confirmed that the O’Boises name was a direct reference to Boise, Idaho’s capital, and that the chips were manufactured from one hundred percent Idaho potatoes. The connection to Idaho potato country was not incidental. People’s association with Idaho was strong and the names made for a playful reference.

The Boise area introduction came on March 3, 1988. By March 9, a Hersh’s Markets circular in Allentown, Pennsylvania was already listing O’Boises Original Potato Chips as new at 89 cents for a 6.5-ounce bag. National rollout happened fast. The launch flavors were Original and Sour Cream and Onion. A Cheddar variety appeared in grocery advertising by 1993, and some store circulars also list a Barbecue option at various points. The Original was the baseline, and the Sour Cream and Onion became the one most people cite when they remember the brand.

O’Boises weren’t just a modest success. They were one of the most successful snack launches of the decade.

In their first year on the market, O’Boises and Suncheros together generated roughly one hundred million dollars in combined sales, according to Keebler’s own public relations statements cited in Prepared Foods in 1989. O’Boises was the bigger performer of the two. By May of 1989, a Chicago Tribune marketing column noted that O’Boises had done such strong business with grocery chains that retailers were unusually receptive to whatever Keebler brought them next. The column described O’Boises specifically as the product that had proven Keebler could move salty snacks the way it moved cookies.

By late 1988, Keebler’s total snack food sales, including Tato Skins, O’Boises, and Suncheros, had reached about two hundred million dollars annually after less than three years in the market, according to Crain’s Chicago Business. The company held roughly five percent of the total salty snack market, which was worth about four billion dollars a year at the time. A 1991 market share breakdown in the Orlando Sentinel still put Keebler at five percent, listing O’Boises alongside Ripplin’s and Tato Skins as its main brands. For context, Frito Lay held forty two percent and Borden held nine, which shows how much ground Keebler had managed to gain in a business it had entered from scratch only about eight years earlier. O’Boises was one of the clearest signs that the company’s push into salty snacks was working.

The sales figure that gets cited most often in later years comes from a 2009 Inventure Group earnings call, when CEO Terry McDaniel mentioned having been told O’Boises was a three hundred million dollar brand at its peak. He flagged that as secondhand information rather than confirmed fact. What is documented is that the Keebler Salty Snacks division as a whole reported about one hundred ninety-two million dollars in total sales in 1995, the year the division went up for sale.

The pricing trail from newspaper advertising tells a useful story about how the brand moved through its run. The 89 cent entry price in March 1988 was for a 6.5-ounce bag. By October 1991, the same size was still priced at 99 cents in some markets. A December 1991 ad introduced a family size of 14.5 ounces at $1.99, which suggests Keebler was confident enough in the brand by then to expand the format. A 1992 coupon offered buy-one-get-one-free on O’Boises at a retail value of $1.59 per bag. By 1993, sale pricing had dropped to 74 cents for 6 ounces. By 1998, after the brand had changed hands, a Pharos-Tribune circular listed a 6-ounce bag for 79 cents, which suggests the product was still moving but not at a premium.

Keebler was not operating in a quiet corner of the market. Frito-Lay was the dominant force in salty snacks throughout this period, and the competition was described repeatedly in trade coverage as intense. By March 1991, Keebler CEO Thomas Garvin was publicly declaring the company’s ambition to become the number two salty snack maker in the country, a position it was not yet holding despite the success of O’Boises and its companion brands.

The pressure from Frito-Lay was relentless and expensive. Anheuser-Busch’s Eagle Snacks had also entered the market aggressively, which compressed margins across the board. When the Eagle division was abruptly shut down in February 1996, it left a significant void, but by that point Keebler had already been moving toward exiting salty snacks entirely. Industry analysts in June 1995 attributed Keebler’s retreat to the difficulty of competing against Frito-Lay’s scale.

Also, a bigger trend was happening for the company. Keebler’s British parent, United Biscuits Holdings, had been selling off divisions through the mid-nineties. The cookie and cracker business was sold to Flowers Industries and the Invus Group. The salty snacks division, including the O’Boises and Ripplin’s brand names, the Haltom City, Texas factory, and a plant in Oxford, Pennsylvania, was put up for sale in mid-1995. The Haltom City facility had been a $25 million, 145,000-square-foot plant that began operations in 1987, the year before O’Boises launched. By late November 1995, workers were being sent home as the sale process played out.

The O’Boises line was ultimately sold. By 1997 Keebler had divested it. The brand and production technology passed through several hands before landing with Poore Brothers, which later became Inventure Foods, operating out of the Bluffton, Indiana facility.

A 1998 Capital Press article on Miles Willard Technologies noted that Wabash Foods in Bluffton, Indiana was trying to restart production at a former Keebler plant. In hindsight, that looks like an early sign that the O’Boises process and the plant built around it still had value. The line eventually passed through Poore Brothers and then Inventure, which was preparing a relaunch by early 2009 and still emphasizing the product’s unusual construction and the role of the Bluffton facility.

Whether that relaunch ever turned into a full scale return is less clear. But O’Boises were not just a paper plan. A December 3, 2009 ad in The LaFollette Press shows Terry’s Classic O’Boises back on sale in 8 ounce bags as part of a buy one get one free promotion. That is enough to show the brand made it back onto store shelves, even if the long term reach of the comeback is harder to measure. I could only find one other mention in 2010 and nothing after that.

A lot of late eighties snacks are remembered because of when we ate them, and there is nothing wrong with that. But O’Boises stuck with me for another reason. They really did stand out. The crunch was thicker and louder, the potato flavor came through more clearly, and the shape held together better than most chips in the snack aisle. The sales suggest plenty of other people noticed too. O’Boises moved in serious volume, earned national shelf space, and helped show that Keebler could do more than cookies and crackers. Even after Keebler left the brand behind, someone else saw enough value in it to bring it back. That is probably why it still lingers in memory. Not just because of the logo or the commercials, but because the chip itself was good enough to be remembered.

Back to the Future Part II had a lot to live up to. The first movie was already huge, and by the time the sequel showed up people were ready to see Marty and Doc again. This was not just another follow up. It felt like an event. Audiences had been waiting to find out what happened next, and the movie gave them a future full of flying cars, weird gadgets, and, most importantly to a lot of us, hoverboards.

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On this episode of the Retroist Podcast, I talk about Back to the Future Part II, starting with the fact that my friends and I really believed hoverboards were real. Or at least that they had been real for a minute and adults had ruined it for everybody. It did not help that Robert Zemeckis was willing to play along. When you are a kid, that kind of thing gets in your head fast, and this movie knew exactly how to make that future feel real enough to believe.

From there I get into the movie itself, its release, and why it hit people the way it did. Part II did not just try to do the first movie again. It went bigger, more complex, and a little darker. You got the shiny future, the nightmare version of 1985, and that great trick where the movie loops back into the first film from a different angle.

I also talk about the cast, the making of the sequel, the music, and how this became one of those movies people kept revisiting. Even if the first film is the one most people call perfect, Part II is one that really fired up your imagination and I believe might have been more influential to other filmmakers.

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Production Notes

• This is the 360th episode of the Retroist Podcast and episode 9 of Season 18.

• I can tell I have more patience for this movie now than I did when I was younger. I used to hold it against the first film too much. Now I give it more credit for trying to do something bigger.

• I spent a lot of time on the production history, maybe because with this movie it really does change how you see the finished thing.

• I kept circling back to how complicated Part II is, and I think that is probably why I like talking about it now more than I did years ago.

• The Crispin Glover situation is fascinating and a little uncomfortable. It is one of those behind the scenes stories that changes the whole feel of the movie once you know about it.

• I probably could have gone even longer on the future predictions. That is one of those subjects where you start with the hoverboard but they also got flat screens, video calls, and a few other things right

• We got the fake hoverboard name, but not the actual hoverboard anyone wanted.

• I spent a while on the soundtrack, and I still think the score was the right way to go, even if part of me wanted some giant 1989 pop tie in album just to see what that would have looked like.

• This movie is darker and more mechanical than the first one, and I still think that is true, but I am less bothered by it than I used to be.

• I keep coming back to the idea that Part II works better for me now because it is a little messy. It is not as clean as the first film, but it has more strange corners to poke around in.

• I could probably come back and do more with the music, the merch, or just the whole late 1989 backdrop around the release. This turned out to be one of those movies where every section feels like it could open into another episode.

• Bonus clippings can be found over on Patreon for Supporters.

• Music on the show is, as always, by Peachy.

Thanks for listening to the show and I hope you have a great weekend.

There is a certain kind of loss that comes not from forgetting something, but from having it taken away before you were ready. The AKAI VS-303U that sat in my family’s living room was like that for me. I was a kid when it arrived, and I had no framework for appreciating it more deeply. It was the VCR we happened to get and the one that changed everything.

Then one day it was gone. Donated, discarded, lost to the slow disappearance that eventually claims most electronics once their first owners move on. I eventually got a VCR of my own and moved on. I did not think much about that first machine again. Then for a while it was all I could think about.

It started while I was working on a Retroist podcast about VCRs. The VS-303U began pulling at me again. I mention it in my opening story and while recording it I started to realize that I couldn’t remember the name and model of the VCR. There was clearly something I needed to figure out. What I didn’t expect was how long it would take to track one down, or how much I would learn once I finally did.

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To understand why that particular VCR stuck with me, it helps to know where it came from. AKAI was not just another electronics brand in the early 1980s. The company had already spent decades building its reputation around one thing, tape.

Formally known as AKAI Electric Company Ltd., the firm was founded in Tokyo in 1929 and spent much of the twentieth century establishing itself as a serious name in audio equipment. Outside Japan the brand was especially associated with tape recorders. Reel to reel machines, cassette decks, and the company’s distinctive GX glass and crystal ferrite heads gave AKAI a reputation for durability and precision. By the time home video began to take shape, AKAI was already a trusted name among audio enthusiasts. When the company turned its attention to VCRs in the early 1980s, it brought that engineering mentality with it. It also brought something else, a desire to prove that it could innovate in a field that was quickly becoming crowded.

One of AKAI’s most important early contributions came in 1982 with the VS-2, the first VCR to feature an on screen display interface. Akai called it the Interactive Monitor System (IMS). Instead of forcing users to interpret blinking lights or cryptic front panel indicators, the machine could place programming and status information directly on the television screen. Timer settings, counters, and instructions appeared in plain language. The VS-303U, released in 1985, arrived as a consumer friendly descendant of that idea.

Here is a commercial for the VS-3, where you can hear the pitch for IMD and see it in action.

I have no idea how my family got this machine. It seemed high end for us. By the time the VS-303U appeared, the VCR market itself was changing quickly. When VHS machines first arrived in the late 1970s they were expensive appliances, often selling for between one thousand and fourteen hundred dollars. Ownership was limited largely to early adopters and well off households. Prices began to fall during the early 1980s, but the machines were still significant purchases. In 1980 a typical VCR might cost anywhere from seven hundred to fourteen hundred dollars depending on brand and features. By the middle of the decade competition was pushing those numbers downward.

The VS-303U entered that environment with a list price of around $349. That placed it near the middle of a market that had suddenly become very crowded. By the mid 1980s the format war between VHS and Betamax had effectively been decided, and manufacturers were now competing primarily on price and features rather than format. Korean manufacturers had begun producing lower priced models. Japanese companies were cutting prices to maintain their positions. Retailers were running aggressive promotions to move inventory.

The numbers reflected this surge in volume. Industry estimates suggested that about eleven and a half million VCRs would be sold in the United States in 1985 alone, roughly fifty percent more than the previous year. Demand was exploding. By the middle of the decade the VCR was rapidly shifting from a luxury appliance into a mainstream household device.

Newspaper advertisements show how quickly the price of the VS-303U shifted as the market evolved. A December 1985 ad in The Record in NJ advertised the same model for $329. A January 1986 circular from Roses department stores showed it at $347.88. So not much changed, but by December 1987 a listing in the San Francisco Chronicle placed the price at $219.95.

This pattern was typical for consumer electronics of the era. New models launched as premium products, then rapidly dropped in price as competition intensified and manufacturing scaled up. Families that waited a year or two could often buy the same machine at a fraction of its original cost. My own family probably picked up the VS-303U somewhere along that downward slope.

What separated the VS-303U from many competing machines was not simply its price or its specifications. It was the way the machine helped the person using it. Many VCRs of the mid 1980s were notoriously difficult to program. Setting up a timer recording often required consulting the manual, pressing a series of buttons in the correct order, and hoping nothing went wrong. A mistake could send the entire process back to the beginning. As one Rogersound Labs advertisement from 1986 memorably put it, you could easily find yourself “back around the whole cycle.”

The Interactive Monitor System changed all that by putting those instructions directly on the television screen. Selecting a channel, entering the date, choosing the start and stop times, and saving the entry all appeared as prompts. If you made a mistake, you simply moved back through the menu and corrected it. Instead of memorizing button sequences, you followed instructions. It was something we take for granted now, but it felt cutting edge at the time.

The service manual reveals how elaborate the system actually was. The IMS interface displayed prompts such as “SELECT TIME” and “IF OK MEMORIZE,” with letters corresponding to specific buttons on the front panel or the remote control. The machine supported a four event timer that could be programmed well in advance. A built in sixteen year calendar accounted for leap years. Battery backup preserved the settings during power outages. Inside a machine less than four inches tall was a small but capable piece of consumer hardware.

That design philosophy extended beyond the front panel and onto the remote control. The RC-V603 remote included thirty two separate functions, unusually extensive for a mid 1980s VCR. It allowed users to perform nearly every task available on the front panel without leaving the couch. Transport controls were joined by counter reset, return to zero, fine tuning, adjustable tracking, and timer programming functions. The remote also included an auto mute feature that inserted several seconds of blank audio during recording, a useful tool when editing between segments.

At a time when some competing machines shipped with wired remotes or basic playback controls, the VS-303U allowed the entire programming process to take place from across the room. Which was amazing and the IMS menus worked exactly the same way whether you were using the front panel or the remote. The remote itself is worth a moment of attention. It was longer than many remotes and on the thin side. It also had tactile rubber buttons that made it enjoyable to use.

The service manual also hints at how much engineering went into the machine. The VS-303U was labeled as a three speed unit, though it actually recorded in only two speeds, Standard Play and Long Play. With longer tapes, those modes could push recording time close to eight hours. The three speed label likely carried over from related models that supported additional recording modes.

AKAI emphasized quiet operation in its advertising, and the internal design helps explain why. The transport used a microcomputer controlled direct drive system paired with a dedicated servo board. This configuration reduced the mechanical noise associated with belt driven transports that were common in cheaper machines. The tape path itself was designed with durability in mind. During fast forward and rewind operations the tape disengaged from the video head drum, reducing wear on both the tape and the heads. Not every machine in the lower price tiers took that precaution.

One of the most distinctive, but simple features, was the Tape View System. A small illuminated window in the cassette compartment allowed users to see the reels of the tape turning inside the cassette. Pressing the Tape View button activated the light, which shut off automatically during playback.

It was a small touch, but a memorable one.

The machine also included a physical guide block that prevented users from inserting a second cassette while one was already loaded. It was a simple mechanical solution to a problem that apparently occurred often enough to justify the design.

Around the back of the unit were the standard connections for the time. Composite video input and output, audio input and output, VHF and UHF antenna connections, and an RF output with a channel three or four selector switch. The unit itself was manufactured in Japan.

Many of us remember what it was like to get a VCR. Suddenly there were movies at the video store that we could bring home and my family could record television while we were out. The television was no longer a schedule you simply followed. It became something you could bend around your own time. These are memories we have in common from the device in all its forms.

But what I remember most about the VS-303U is the experience of it. The glow of the display in the living room. The soft mechanical whir as the tape threaded itself around the head drum. The moment the IMS screen appeared with its prompts, telling you what to do next. The confusion as my sisters and mom tried to figure it all out and how heroic I felt when I took the time to understand it all by studying the manual.

Looking back, the machine was doing something very little consumer electronics of the time bothered to attempt. It was making itself understandable, simple enough that a kid (me) could figure it out.

Decades later, when I started trying to find another VS-303U, I discovered the machine had settled into a strange kind of obscurity. It was not rare enough to command serious collector attention, but not common enough to appear regularly in the usual places. When one did surface it was often untested, incomplete, or priced weirdly high for reasons I couldn’t really understand.

That meant doing some research.

The service manual on the Internet Archive turned out to be essential. The complete document covers operating instructions, service procedures, schematics, and a full parts list. It also explains how the machine was designed to function and what tends to fail after decades of sitting in basements or garages. Some examples? The IMS display system relies on a character generator circuit that can degrade in specific ways. Rubber components in the tape transport eventually harden or break down with age. Armed with that information, I had a better sense of what to look for and what warning signs to watch for when a unit finally appeared.

When I eventually got my hands on a working VS-303U, the first thing I did was press the clock button. The IMS screen appeared exactly as the manual said it would. The display asked me to select the time. I followed the prompts, just as someone would have done forty years earlier. The machine responded without hesitation.

It worked.

For reasons that are difficult to explain, that small moment felt comforting. Like reuniting with a long lost friend after many years.

The VS-303U was not the rarest VCR ever built, and it was not the most elaborate machine of its time. What it represented instead was a particular way of thinking about consumer technology. The machine should help you use it.

At the core of that was that Interactive Monitor System. Within a few years, systems like it would appear across the industry. Once people experienced a machine that showed them what to do, there was little reason to return to the old blinking displays and cryptic controls.

The VS-303U is the machine that introduced my family to home video. The first trip to the video store (the very one I would work at a few years later). The illuminated window showing the reels turning (so cool). The feeling that the television in the living room had suddenly become a little more exciting than it had been the day before.

Decades later I ended up making a podcast about VCRs because of it. While I may have researched, recorded, and released that episode over the course of a week, the story behind it started much earlier in a living room in New Jersey. With a machine that properly showed you what it was doing and treated you like a human, not a robot.

Forty years later, that still sounds like a pretty good idea.

Growing up, the Yankees were not exactly welcome in my family's house, even though we lived so close to New York City. My family had been New York Giants fans, and when the team moved to San Francisco they shifted their loyalty to the Mets. Rooting for the Yankees was viewed as a personal failing and said something suspect about your character. Like maybe you thought you were better than everyone else.

And yet, sometime in the early 1980s, I found myself genuinely excited about something with Yankee Reggie Jackson’s name on it. The Reggie Bar slipped past my carefully maintained anti Yankee defenses, and I didn’t even feel guilty. There was something about the hype, the nerve of naming a candy bar after yourself, and the fact that it was actually good, that made it hard to resist. Even for a kid who was supposed to be rooting against everything that wrapper represented.

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The origin story for the bar is great. Reggie Jackson, then still with the Oakland Athletics, once remarked to reporters, “If I played in New York, they’d name a candy bar after me.” It was the kind of thing only someone with a high opinion of their own greatness (and media savvy) would say out loud. Jackson signed with the Yankees after the 1976 season for 2.96 million dollars over five years, and the candy wheels started spinning almost immediately. Curtiss Candy Company, a division of Standard Brands and the maker of Baby Ruth and Butterfinger reached out and suggested they do exactly that.

What followed involved plenty of anticipation before a single bar hit a shelf. AP correspondent Hugh A. Mulligan, writing his “Mulligan’s Stew” column in November 1977, described the development process in mock secretive terms, claiming the bar contained everything from marshmallow to rum butter. The ingredient list was a joke. Mulligan was having some fun. But the column ran in papers across the country and helped build national curiosity for a candy that did not yet exist in stores (or did it).

The bar’s actual composition was far more straightforward. At its core, it was just a repackaged Wayne Bun. Which is a delicious round disc of caramel and peanuts coated in milk chocolate that had been made at the Wayne Candy Company plant in Fort Wayne, Indiana since the 1920s. Curtiss acquired Wayne Candies through Standard Brands in 1973 and, a few years later saw an opportunity to give the old formula a new identity. They put Jackson’s image on a bright orange wrapper with REGGIE in bold blue letters and placed collector baseball cards inside each package. The bar sold for a quarter.

The official unveiling took place in February 1978 at the Plaza Hotel in New York, with club owner George Steinbrenner on hand and Jackson biting into the bar for the cameras. He admitted the commercials made him nervous, but he was characteristically unbothered about release. “This is serious, big business,” he told reporters. “It’s corporate planes and meetings and millions of dollars. It’s not going to spend all this money on a joke.” The bar was introduced in five cities, New York, Philadelphia, Chicago, Los Angeles, and San Francisco. These were identifies as markets where candy sold best. In other places, distribution lagged while machinery was still being tooled up, and local distributors were warned not to count on receiving stock immediately.

The thing about the Reggie Bar is that it didn’t need perfect day one distribution. It just needed Reggie doing his thing on Opening Day.

It was April 13, 1978 at Yankee Stadium. The Yankees were raising their championship banner, saluting Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris, and welcoming 44,667 fans who had each been handed a free Reggie Bar at the gate. The team had started the season 1 and 4 on the road, so the crowd was ready for something to celebrate. In the bottom of the first inning, Jackson took a couple of balls from the Chicago White Sox before sending a three run home run into the right center seats. The crowd exploded. Then, in one of those great live sports moments, fans began throwing their Reggie Bars onto the field. Hundreds of orange wrapped candy bars sailed through the air. The game stopped for several minutes while the grounds crew cleared them away. It made national news. That image did more for the Reggie Bar than any commercial.

Jackson later admitted that when fans threw the bars onto the field in 1978, he briefly worried that they didn’t like how they tasted. What he came to quickly understand was that the moment wasn’t really about flavor. It was a celebration of prowess.

When they did run commercials they showed Jackson hitting his three World Series home runs before turning to the camera to taste the candy. They worked. But candy raining down on Yankee Stadium was the kind of publicity that money can’t buy. Standard Brands’ public relations team later acknowledged that sales were meeting expectations in the initial markets, though specific numbers were not released. Jackson would later say the bar generated 11 million dollars in the New York area alone during its first year.

The bar expanded to additional cities through 1978 and into 1979. In Baltimore, where Jackson had once played briefly, it was reported to be doing surprisingly well. For a few years, the Reggie Bar was a real presence in ballparks, supermarkets, and candy stores across the country.

Then the pieces that had assembled it began to shift. Jackson signed with the California Angels after the 1980 season. Standard Brands merged with Nabisco in July 1981, becoming Nabisco Brands Inc. The Wayne Candy plant in Fort Wayne, the only facility producing Reggie Bars, was slated for closure that October. There was discussion of moving production, but it never materialized. A sizable inventory remained in warehouses for a time. Then it ran out. The bar was gone.

The first comeback attempt came in 1993, just in time for Jackson’s Hall of Fame induction. Clark Candy Company, operating out of the same Fort Wayne plant under new ownership, revived the Reggie Bar with a modified recipe that replaced the caramel center with peanut butter. It retailed for over 50 cents and returned briefly to shelves following Jackson’s induction and the retirement of his number 44 by the Yankees. The revival didn’t last.

The most recent return began in 2021. Crystal Westergard, a Canadian physiotherapist who had previously revived the discontinued Cuban Lunch bar, became interested in the Reggie Bar after seeing a television segment about it. Curtiss was long gone, and Jackson retained his likeness rights, which made a licensing deal possible.

Working with a chocolate manufacturer, Westergard developed prototypes and sought Jackson’s feedback. He wanted more peanuts. She insisted the caramel be gooey and amber colored, the way it appeared in the old commercials. Around six thousand bars were produced in the first 2023 run. Within a year, the candy was available in roughly two thousand locations nationwide and online. You can still buy them today!

Back in my family’s house, where rooting for the Yankees wasn’t acceptable, I didn’t know anything about mergers or Indiana factories. All I knew was that this man had hit three home runs in a single World Series game, that fans had showered him with candy, and that the bar with his name on it was everywhere. Reggie was bigger than life. You could dislike the Yankees all you wanted. The Reggie Bar didn’t care. It was loud, unsubtle, and surprisingly good. Just like the man himself.

Also Available on Patreon

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