Echolalia

Here’s a linguistic memory of Santa Catalina that will stay with me forever.

You know how certain phrases become keynotes for a relationship or an event? For example, The Bride and I have developed our own language of metaphors that reflect certain moments in our lives. For example, one of them is “Learn, learn, learn. You can learn at the fair!” This came about during our first trip to the Kansas State Fair in Hutchinson, where we got a firsthand look at cattle restraints. (You don’t think they just stand there for branding, do you?) Another is the phrase, “Gee, maybe someone could made a two-dimensional graphic representation of that,” based on the time I got us lost in downtown St. Louis looking for the Bowling Hall of Fame because I refused to look at a map.

This happens outside of the marital bond as well. I was in Israel on a public health preparedness study tour about three years ago. What we found was that every speaker began their presentation by noting that “Israel is a small country, about the size of New Jersey.” It got to the point that even before a speaker would start, one of us would raise our hands and ask, “Is it true that Israel is a small country, about the size of New Jersey?”

(It was a great time, and I did indeed “learn, learn, learn” that for us, preparedness is a hobby. For Israelis, it’s a way of life.)

In Santa Catalina, one of the mad-made landmarks is the Casino, a strange hybrid of Renaissance and Art Deco that somehow manages to outshine both its parents. (However, just like a mule, I suppose it is unlikely to reproduce.) It sits on a rocky point just to the edge of town, and it’s one of those things that are always in view. This means that every bus driver, boat guide, kayak instructor, and street vendor reminds you that “Casino is an Italian word meaning gathering place.” I think there is probably something in the law of the island that says if you do not repeat this fact once every three hours, you will be deported to the mainland and given a choice of jobs as Lindsey Lohan’s probation officer or Head of Risk Management for BP.

While the phrases by themselves are amusing, the problem is that when you build up a repertoire they end to run together. So by the end of the trip, I would look out over the harbor of Avalon at this wonderful Mediterranean structure, and note that “Casino is an Italian word meaning ‘about the size of New Jersey.’ Learn, learn, learn. We can learn in New Jersey!”

If only there was a two-dimensional graphical representation of how to find it…now, wouldn’t that be something!

A Guessing Game

Yesterday I mentioned that I often feel like I was born at the wrong time. It turns out this isn’t all bad, and sometimes it has its’ benefits. For example, living out of time was how I was able to figure out where The Bride was taking me on the fifth anniversary of our life sentence. (The charge was first degree affection. I refused to plea bargain.)

I had planned the honeymoon in secret, and now it was her turn. She had arranged everything quite cleverly, even deciding to fly to Daytona to start our trip rather than meeting me in a more central airport for fear I would check in on my own and learn my destination.

I watch a lot of those PBS specials where they reunite old pop groups (at least the surviving members, which is in itself kind of sad). After the show, I go on-line and spend a foolish amount of money on CD’s to find 1) How many of the guys on the show were really in the group; 2) that the songs they did on television were not just their only hits, but that the rest of their songs really aren’t that good; and 3) that I was doing just fine when I supported my local PBS station and bought the DVD of the program. (That being said, I am grateful for knowledge of The Four Coins, whose rendition of “Shangri-La” is simply the best two-minute single of the entire decade.)

One of these programs was called “Magic Moments: The Best of 50’s Pop.” Apparently the number four was a big deal in that era…the Four Aces, The Four Lads, The Four Coins, and The Four Preps. (There were also four Ames brothers, and four Hi-Los, two His and two Los.) By the time they filmed the show, there were only two original Preps left (not to be confused with perps, although if a Prep became a perp that would easily explain their absence from the band). One replacement was the Jim Yeaster, the guy with the really high voice from The Association…you know, the one who hits the note, “…and gaze into your” – change key- “EYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYESSSS,” at the end of the bridge in “Cherish.” The other was Dave Sommerville, lead singer for the Diamonds (“Little Darlin’…bop, bop, badadadada.")

(By the way, the song “Little Darlin’” has the best spoken bass line in human history. As chanted by Bill Reed:

“My darlin', I NEED you
to call my own and NEVER do wrong.
To hold in mine
Your little hand.
I'll know too soon that ALL is so grand.
Please, hold my hand.”

Check it out on YouTube.com. Brilliant.)

So we’re on this plane to John Wayne Orange County Airport (“Check your baggage, pilgrim”) and I still have no idea where we’re going. All I know is that it’s somewhere around LA, and that the most obnoxious callers on the Jim Rome show, to which I am sometimes forced to listen in the vapid wasteland of midday radio, seem to live there and call it “The OC.” I have no idea why we would be going to a suburb of L.A. Going to Disneyland makes no sense, as just an hour down the road we have Disney World, and Disney Hollywood Studios, and EPCOT, and Universal Studios, and Sea World.

So we’re two hours in the air with another two to go, and I’m still clueless. This makes me happy. I’ve always been comfortable in my ignorance, and this is no exception. Besides, I really like surprises.

The Bride, however, HATES surprises, and so she’s been after me for a week for me to ask her for clues so I can guess. She would want to know, so why don’t I? So she asks again, “Do you want to know where we’re going?”

I smile at her. “No, not really. This is fun.”

“Can I give you a clue?”

I can hear see the tension rising in her voice, and while there’s little to fear, I know that if I continue to frustrate her she’ll finish off the airline peanuts before I even get a chance.

“Sure, I’d love a clue.”

I think this is a good solution. She can give a clue, and while she’s thinking of it I can reach over and snatch the peanuts. Besides, her clues are usually so obscure they mean nothing. For example, her last clue was “Where we’re going, Ricardo is doing the wine pairing for our anniversary dinner.” All that means to me is that it’s probably not going to be wine, roses, candlelight, and a night with The Colonel. So it was a perfect clue. She felt like she was giving away the surprise, I stayed in total ignorance of reality, and all’s well in the world.

“Okay, here’s the clue. The Four Preps.”

The Four Preps. I know them. What did they sing? There's one song with a mystery title, but the lyrics are "I was a big man yesterday, but boy you outta see me now." That doesn't make sense. But they did two songs on the PBS special, and the other one was...oh, that's right...

“Twenty-six miles across the sea.
Santa Catalina is a-watin’ for me.
Santa Catalina,
The island of romance, romance, romance, romance.”

And that’s where we wound up, a taxi ride (with a stop at Jack-in-the-Box for tacos) and a ferry trip later….on the Island of Romance. Romance. Romance. Romance.

Wrong Era, Wrong Coffee

I’ve previously alluded to the fact that in many ways, I think I was born into wrong era. I would have done great in the late 1930’s and early 40’s, because then I would have had a legitimate shot at wooing Barbara Stanwyck, Paulette Goddard, or even Vera-Ellen. Being born in time for the sexual revolution and the hazy crazy lazy days of the Summer of Love might have been fun as well. (I have this personal “bucket list” of things I want to do once I’m totally done working, my family is financially secure, and I have the liberty to totally fry my brain. This list includes taking selected drugs to see what happens. I realize I’m going about this the opposite of most folks, but I had a rather undistinguished drug and alcohol profile during college, so I’ve got to make it up on the back side.)

By the time I had my “intimate interpersonal relationship” coming of age, it was the early days of the AIDS epidemic and nearly every avenue of fun was completely shut down. And even now, I don’t understand much popular music, and popular culture is so far distant from me that I get more from “hard news” magazines like The National Enquirer than I do from People Magazine. (It’s a stark realization to know that you’re already a dozen years past the entertainment community’s mean target demographic of 18-35 years of age.)

I’m also not good with technology. I don’t mind the cell phone or texting, but I like it on my own time. There’s something to be said for not being available and not needing an excuse to prove it. And while I like what computers can do, operationally I’m pretty much still working with my first new computer, a 40 MB hard drive monstrosity I bought in 1986 for the tidy sum of $900. It had a word processor and a spreadsheet, and that’s still mostly what I use. (Kind of miss the orange and black CRT screen and the dot matrix printer, but what can you do?) I also believe that, with the possible exception of Beatles Rock Band, the Atari 2600 is the most complex game system anyone could ever want.

(This reminds me of the time that there was an exhibition on the history of toys at the Children’s Museum of Indianapolis. I took The Child, and after endless displays full of things that caused me to point and say, “I had that! I had that!” there were two TV screens with Pong. Pong! I was in heaven. Nobody born after 1980 has an idea how cool that is, but at the time this was a major league deal. I still remember 1978, when my father went to Sears and spent $150.00…about four million in today’s money…to get a Pong game. He was the best Dad EVER. Actually, still is. (Happy Father’s Day in advance.)

Excitedly, I talked The Child into a game. After a shaky start…it had been thirty years or so since my wrist was in prime Pong condition…I’m having an absolute blast. I’ve remembered how to get the ball to come off the paddle at a crazy angle to give it spin, and how, if you are moving the paddle just right when you hit the ball, it’ll actually go faster accorss the screen. Of course, with his quicker reflexes and better vision…I was still too vain to wear my glasses back then, even for distance…he was kicking my posterior. But this was fun! And it was a bonding activity. Daddy and Boy quality time. So I’m standing up, then sitting down, leaning left, then careening right, twisting my body in all kinds of pain-inducing ways to put some English of the ball, when I hear this little voice off to my left asking, “Dad, what else does it do?”

I’m focused on the screen, so I don’t realize what I’m stumbling into.

“That’s it. You hit the ball back and forth until the other guy misses. Isn’t this GREAT?”

Another minute or two, and he scores three more points.

“You sure it doesn’t do anything else?”

“No. Now serve.” (I’m six points down and the “let him win to build his self-confidence” parent is losing ground to the Hypercompetitive Dad.)

Forty seconds, another point. There’s a sigh from below. “I’m done now. Can we look at dinosaurs?”

And so the video game torch is passed.)

My taste in movies is also somewhat out of date. I’m a big fan of old movies, and one of my favorite actors in the late Danny Kaye. Most people know him now from the children’s movie “Hans Christian Andersen” or the comic “The Court Jester.” (I also highly recommend “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty,’ especially the doctor scene. Pocketa-pocketa-pocketa.) Kaye was a master of convoluted language, which led to the most quoted outtake from his films. In brief, he’s trying to poison another knight, and he doesn’t know which cup is tainted. So he has to repeat to himself:

“The vessel with the pestle holds the pellet with the poison.
The chalice from the palace holds the brew that is true.”

This is later complicated by some additional business with a flagon. (The one with the picture of a dragon.)

This all comes together because last week in the Atlanta airport, The Bride asked me to stand in line at Starbuck’s while she went to check on the gate.

“Why do I have to get the coffee all the time?” I asked.

“Because it’s in the bible.”

This was a new one. “Where?”

She smiled. “You know, the Book of He-brews.”

This got me thinking about other comical chapter titles in scripture. Aside from guys with funny names (and who doesn’t smile when they think of Habakkuk?), I’ve always thought the chapters in the Christian New Testament whose titles start with “The Epistle of Paul the Apostle” just sounded funny. (It occurs to me that this may only be funny only in English translation. The Spanish “Epistolos de Pablo” sounds maybe more like a children’s television show, especially if you say, ”Ninos! Es el tiempo de Epistolos de Pablo!” using the deep voice and cadence of the guy on Univision who does the promos for Sabado Gigante. No theological insult intended, to be sure.)

So as these various strains of though wander about in my brain, I started to wonder how Danny Kaye would handle the issue of biblical alliteration and coffee:

“The Epistle of the Apostle has the pellet with the poison.
The Bible without libel holds the brew that is true.”

Some mornings I really need to get more sleep.
 

Writing With Scissors is on vacation from June 3rd to June 8th...we'll see you again soon!

What's in a Name?

One of my Facebook friends asked me the other day where I get the names for my patient stories on The Blog. This is a serious issue, as there are laws out there out for maintaining patient confidentiality. So I try to disguise the patients as best I can. I don’t write about patients the day I see them and I intentionally alter the clock, so the casual observer can’t figure out the timing of their ED visit even if they can get hold of my personal schedule. I also try to not to include racial or ethnic characteristics unless they’re vital to the story. Of course, the people who work directly with me often know exactly who I’m talking about, regardless of whatever name I use for the patient. After all, they were there the same as I was, and there’s not much I can do about that. But they’re bound by the same need to protect patient confidentiality as I am.

Names are important, as they make the patient in the story a tangible reality rather than a generic, made-up sample of the species. But coming up with a fictitious name for the patient, especially one that doesn’t sound anything like the actual name, doesn’t use the same initials, and doesn’t reflect ethnicity or culture is a lot harder than it sounds. I don’t know for use, but I think this is because there’s no way you can objectively select a new name for someone you know without the name reflecting something about them. Take five of your best friends and try to think of random names for them. I’ll bet you’ll find that in each case, the new name either reflects something about them (or at least you’ve excluded certain choices) because of what you know about the person’s race, religion, social background, or personality. That being said, you want to write the stories about Life in the ED, and you really can’t do so without having a patient at the center of it.

So avoiding name recognition is the biggest problem of patient privacy, and it’s really a much more difficult problem than you might think. That’s why I’m thankful for the internet-based Random Name Generator (http://www.kleimo.com/random/name.cfm). If I might quote from the introductory blurb:

“The random name generator uses data from the US Census to
randomly generate male and female names. Use it for screenplays,
fake id's, car rentals, pick-up lines, books, prank calls, movies.
Give a random name to that special someone you meet at the bar.”

(I’m not sure about giving random names to someone special from the bar. It makes it a lot more difficult to call them after you’ve got their number, and in my experience women seem to place a premium on you actually knowing their names. I am, however, comfortable with giving myself other names as the situation requires. For example, I always tell the folks at Starbuck’s that my name is Bob. While I try to imbue it with nobility, the fact is that in the waning years of the 20th century and the nascent years of the 21st, Howard is a dorky name. Bob is just easier. Then there was a night in Houston many years ago when a neurosurgeon from the University of Florida and I were on a NASA course and spent the evening drinking top shelf tequila shots at a Mexican café frequented by astronauts. I was the Chairman of the Department of Surgery and he was the Chair of Neurosurgery for the night because those were then names on the University credit cards in our pockets that night. There are also times when I’m discharging a patient and am asked my name. I’m Dr. Rodenberg if they say they liked the service; I could be any one of a number of different names if they don’t. Just kidding, risk management. Maybe.)

The Random Name Generator takes first and last names from Census data and ranks them in order of frequency. You put in the “obscurity factor” you desire…level 1 comprises the most common names, level 99 the least…and the computer matches them up, common first names with common last names at a setting of “1,” vice versa at the other extreme. (I usually use a setting of 20…a bit off the beaten track, but no too obscure as to be unbelievable.)

Here’s a sample of Level 1 names, both male and female:

1. Anthony Woody
2. Anita Silverman
3. Claire Palmieri
4. Frank Daly
5. Bruce Rhoden
6. Terri Braden
7. Hannah Hamner
8. Aaron Hadley
9. Theresa Sam
10. Grace Keeney

Here’s a list of Factor 99 monikers:

1. Ezequiel Bullert
2. Jenette Criton
3. Mure
4. Waylon Gheewala
5. Skye Hadson
6. Lenna Distance
7. Latoria Depietro
8. Letty Ladika
9. Benton Butel
10. Vincenzo Jingst

So that’s how it’s done. Random names keep patient identities private while still letting you tell the good stories. That being said, I am suddenly enamored with the name Vincenzo Jingst. Vincenzo Jingst Rodenberg. Now there’s a name for a kid. Or maybe a puppy. Vincenzo the Dog. My Dog Vinnie. Yeah, I like that.

Cancer

In The Blog, it would seem like everyone is a troublemaker, intoxicated, or both. It would also appear that the core of my job is to act as a wall between these folks and the rest of the world, to sort them out and send them back into their little corner of the world where they linger until their next trip to the ED. And from time to time, showing “tough love” (or at least “tough medicine”) is what some patients need. But there are some patients for whom I’m a total pushover. Patients with cancer can be rude, mean, and demanding, and I’ll do anything they want.

Truth be told, I really like caring for patients with cancer. I wish I could say it’s because I can empathize with their situation. But to be frank, empathy has never been a strong suit of mine; it’s not part of my wiring. I have great difficulty putting myself in the place of others. Even when I’m sick, I feel uncomfortable with the situation rather than empathetic towards other’s ills. (This is why I think that on days I’m feeling bad, there should be a sign in the ED that says “You must be sicker than me if you want me to care.”) I wish it weren’t so, and I try to make up for it with thought and reason. So rather than being able to sense someone’s pain or discomfort, I try to think how I would cope with a similar problem. It’s an exercise that sometimes works, but often fails as an ineffective rationalization.

Maybe I like cancer patients because, despite every possible reason to be angry at the world, most of them are incredibly polite and grateful. I’m not sure why. I would think my reaction to cancer would be to grow angry that I had to spend some of my limited time in the chaotic environment of the ED instead of comfortably at home. Perhaps their attitude is different because their perspective changes. When you know your time is limited, maybe you’re willing to spend a small amount of inconvenience in the ED to buy more quality time in the long run. (I do know that for me, the only time I become conscious of time is when it’s limited.)

Maybe it’s because they’re pretty easy to care for. You already have the diagnosis in hand, and most of the time your efforts in the ED are focused narrowly on one of three things. They may have pain, which is easy to treat. (There’s no argument over pain medications here). If the pain gets under control, you write them a prescription and they go home. If not, you admit them. The patient could have a fever, in which case you check their white blood cell count. If there are enough cells there to fight infection, you write them a prescription for antibiotics and they go home. If it’s too low, you admit them. If they feel weak, you check some basic labs to make sure there’s nothing too out of whack, and them let them decide if they want to be admitted or head home to rest.

Maybe it’s because the baldness caused by the chemotherapy makes them all look younger, with the fuzzy scalps of newborn babes hidden by a jaunty baseball cap.

Maybe it’s because I feel like my job is to do something to make them better, but they’re staring down the barrel of the gun and there’s not a silly thing I can do about it. So giving them what they want may be a way to assuage my own impotent guilt. And maybe, in treating myself, I’m able to make everybody happy.

The Soda Sampler

There was one other adventure in Las Vegas I forgot to mention. Toward the south end of The Strip there’s a Coca-Cola store. As you can guess, you can buy all kinds of Coca-Cola merchandise and even have your picture taken with the Coca-Cola polar bear. (No personal cameras, please.) So late one night as we were walking back from dinner we dropped in.

The star attraction was the soda fountain on the second floor, where you could order a “Taste of the World” platter featuring 4 ounces each of sixteen different sodas on trays stacked one on top of each other. At a cheap $7.00, it was like the carbonated version of a Las Vegas buffet. It would be wrong to walk by that. (I was hoping we would get bread cubes and a spit cup to cleanse our palates between samples, but apparently bread and spit are not Coca-Cola products.)

So here’s a list of what we tasted and what I thought, in no particular order:

Inka Kola (Peru)

I’ve actually had Inka Kola before. It’s a very sweet, syrupy, bright yellow-green drink, and tastes as if someone had taken the undiluted extract of lemon-lime Gatorade and added some fizz. I actually like Gatorade, so I’m okay with the drink. I’m also intrigued with the historical aspects of its use by the ancient Inca culture. Bottles have been found in the ruins of Macchu Piccu. Archaeological studies continue. I understand the Inka Kola plant is being considered for designation as a United Nations World Heritage site.

I learned about Inka Kola on a hiking trip to South America in 1987. Even though I had read the warnings about eating food from street vendors, I was wise enough to not listen. So one night in Cuzco I bought some kind of meat-filled pastry and a bottle of Inka Cola from a very sincere-looking pushcart gourmet. The next day I was confined to my hotel room with a severe gastrointestinal illness and wound up spending quite a bit of time watching the Peruvian National Volleyball Team on television. (I also found out that Peru is pronounced Pey-ROO and not PA-roo as we gringos tend to do.) See the experiences I would have missed if I had followed sound travel advice?

That was also the trip where I learned to chew coca leaves, but that’s another tale. And I think the statute of limitations for the coca leaf tea I managed to sneak back through customs has expired. The tea itself is long gone, so don’t send the Department of Agriculture Beagle Brigade to the house. Thank you.

Sunfill Mint (India)

This drink had a very nice light green color that suggests the freshness of early spring, when there is just a touch of white still on the ground to lighten the air. It tastes like Scope mouthwash. This is probably not a bad thing if you eat a lot of Indian food, and I say this as someone who loves Indian food and who could happily eat it exclusively if confined to a single cuisine for the rest of my life. (I would undoubtedly feel some pangs for real Kansas City barbeque. But there’s got to be some way to turn a tandoori oven into a smoking pit). But I am also aware that after I eat Indian food, everyone knows it no matter how vigorously I brush my teeth. So I figure a good slug of soda with antibacterial qualities along with carbonation to dissolve any dental buildup can’t hurt. (That is what carbonation does…clean the teeth, like Dow Scrubbing Bubbles, right?)

Nestea Peach (France)

Nestea Peach didn’t look like tea and didn’t look like peach. It was clear in tone, tasting like tepid seltzer water with a twist of cardboard. Not awful, but very bland. It’s probably made that way so it doesn’t spoil the palate for real French dishes such as sautéed organ in sauce. I’m not making the organ thing up. When I was flying out of Paris on my first and only trip to the French capital, I stopped at an airport restaurant and ordered what I thought was a beef stew. I got what I asked for…just not the part of beef I anticipated. I think the taste buds…not mine, but those on the slice of tongue…is what gave it away. Judging by the size, cows must taste a lot.

Stoney Ginger Beer ( Africa)

I actually like ginger beer, and buy an Aussie version of it for myself at World Market. It’s not real beer, of course, but it tastes like spicy beer with the addition of ginger. Ginger is good for nausea, and I suspect that if we started to put ginger in our beers rather than slices of lime, we’d be a lot less prone to barf after drinking. I would like a government grant to explore this idea.

Smart Watermelon (China)

In the interest of full disclosure, I need to say that watermelon is my favorite fresh fruit of all time, followed closely by a perfectly ripe and juicy Jaffa orange. I’ll eat or drink just about anything with watermelon in it, like Midori liquor, or I’ll pair watermelon with just about any other foodstuff on the globe. (I’m probably the only guy in the history of the buffet at Paris Las Vegas who loaded up his plate with frutta della mare, macaroni and cheese, and watermelon.) So I loved this stuff. And to find that watermelon in also one of the more intellectual fruits? A bonus, to be sure. I feel bad for folks who have to drink Moronic Mango or Stupid Kumquat.

Kinley Lemon (England)

A clear soda that tasted like Spite with a bite. Not bad, but probably better as a mixer than a stand-alone. I think you could combine this with an English liquor called Pimm’s to make a drink called a Shandy, which is especially tasty when punting on the River Cam. (Just in case you were wondering where such a drink might be especially tasty. This blog strives to be a public service.)

Lift Apple ( Mexico)

It was a nice light apple soda. Pretty tasty. The Bride has some kind of allergy to processed apple products that makes her break into hives. So I can’t drink this and kiss her. (Well, I might as an experiment, but I think that would be a bad relationship moment. I’m good enough at creating those without carbonated help.)

Fanta Kolita (Costa Rica)

For years I’ve had a crush on Sophia Fanta, the grape member of the Fantanas. While she is lovely, to be certain, I’m sure that part of the appeal is that I just like the word “Fantana.” I also like the name of the group “Bananarama.” If they formed a septet they could be Fantanabananamrama.

How would you play The Name Game with Fanta?

Fanta fanta bo-anta
Banana-fana fo-anta
Fee-fi-mo-manta
Fanta!

It’s even better with Bananarama.

Bananarama Bananarama bo-ananarama
Banana-fana fo-ananarama
Fee-fi-mo mananarama
Bananarama!

The Wikipedia article on “The Name Game” indicates that if you use names such as Alice, Chuck, or Art, the result will contain “profanity or crude language.” Which it does. But it’s funny. Funny funny bo-unny. Banana-fana fo-unny. Fee-fi-mo-munny. Funny!

Bibo Kiwi Mango (South Africa)

I don’t recall exactly what it tasted like. I do know it tasted the same in English, Afrikaans, and Zulu. The Xhosa version had a little click to it.

Simba Guarana ( Paraguay)

This tasted like a heavier version of sarsaparilla. Sarsaparilla happens to be the best soda of all time. Afternoon Delight is the greatest composition in human history. If you do not agree with me, I will fight you. (Apologies to Ron Burgundy.)

Vegitabeta ( Japan)

I have no idea what this tastes like. By the time we got to this stuff, I was on my eleventh sample of sixteen, and was on some kind of sugar high. So all I could think of was Lucy doing the Vitaminavegamin commercial, and laughed so hard I almost spit the soda out my nose.

Sunfill Blackcurrant (Mauritius)

This is black cherry cola. It’s quite tasty. I wasn’t sure where Mauritius is, so I looked it up. Turns out it’s an island republic located east of Madagascar in the Indian Ocean. The Prime Minister is Dr. Navinchandra Ramgoolam GCKS FRCP MP. It was the only known habit of the dodo bird, extinct since 1681. They drive on the left. Ninety percent of the arable land is grown in sugar cane. Blackcurrant is not listed as one if it’s agricultural products. Part of me wants to say that its’ not right to have a drink you can’t raise in your own country. On the other hand, we don’t grow kola nuts in America.

It is also useful to note that I am convinced that a 4 ounce serving of soda named after a fruit is equivalent to a full serving within the fruit and vegetable food group. I also believe this to be true of Starbursts, Skittles, Gummy Bears, and Jolly Ranchers.

Bibo Pine Nut (South Africa)

If we’re supposed to eat pine nuts, why have I never gotten a can of Planter’s Mixed Nuts and found a pine nut in them?

Smart Apple (China)

Compare and contrast the Chinese concept of cognitive fruit with the Mexican idea of apples as a form of manual labor. You have fifteen minutes. Begin.

Beverly (Italy)

I’m not making this name up. It is a real soda, and a horrible one at that. It tastes like someone mixed tonic water with quinine and dropped in some mustard for good measure. I wonder if it’s used less for refreshment and more as a test of manhood, kind of like shots of cheap tequila. You think you’re a man? Drink a glass of Beverly and don’t flinch.

All I can think of is that someone must have really been dumped, and dumped hard, by someone named Beverly. It has the taste of a failed relationship, one so bad that not only did she take your money and break your heart, but probably even won over the love of the dog you’ve had for seventeen years. One also wonders if there is a whole Mediterranean cottage industry in bad sodas named after ex-girlfriends.

Mezzo Mix ( Germany)

Dull, tasteless. Kind of like German comedy. Name the last good German comedian. Can’t do it? Exactly.

(I’ve heard it said that Germans might laugh if it weren’t against the rules. But I doubt it.)