Mark Thomas Post Office Box 181 New York, NY 10185-0002 Kraft General Foods, Inc. Box SKC-C White Plains, NY 10625 April 4, 1993 Dear Kraft; I own an ordinary can opener. It is as useful as such gadgets usually are, and though the years of service it has bequeathed unto me are not worthy of silver or golden anniversary gifts, I have nevertheless had the opportunity to share with this all-American gizmo the pleasures and rewards of opening cans of milk, chili, soup, even tennis balls. I do not attempt to demonstrate here any level of intimacy between myself and this very wonderful can opener, but I only wish to show that I have found this can opener to be as utterly functional and dutiful a kitchen gadget as I can remember owning. With that said, I wanted to inform you of my recent experience with a 19 oz. (1 lb. 3 oz.) container of Kool-Aid (Makes 8 Quarts). I have not consumed Kool-Aid since I was very young. In fact, I can't remember ever actually having Kool-Aid in my house, but I do remember it being a central feature of many mid-afternoon siestas and lawn-mowing breaks at other people's houses throughout my sweltering youth. I really loved the big fat guy who I guess was supposed to look like a pitcher. At any rate, when I availed myself of the possibility of purchasing a rather large supply (i.e., the aforementioned 8 Quarts) of the childhood beverage, I did so knowing that my impulsive purchase would probably result in tremendous amounts of consumption, perhaps the whole container would be mixed and mixed in my 40 oz. pitcher several times within one uncommonly warm winter weekend until all the Kool-Aid was gone. I do not get this way too often (the last time I was like this was in the 8th grade when I suddenly NEEDED a kosher pickle), but I found myself running home from the A&P, giddy with anticipation that some tender shred of my youth could be revived with a single sip of this miraculous beverage. Once I arrived in the kitchen, I approached the Kool-Aid -- with can opener in hand this, I thought, would be a breeze. I even had the pitcher set up and ready to go. The can opener sunk in to the container with no remarkable circumstance, but when I tried to turn the can opener in a way not dissimilar to the way I open virtually every other canned food product, my trusty can opener came to a grinding, miserable stop. Could it be me? I thought. Could this can opener be on the non-electrical blink? I tried this common routine again, this time from a different spot on the cylindrical can. My mouth salivated when the sparkly, sweet smell of this astounding solution rose to my face. My lips pursed with tense excitement. My grip on the faithful can opener tightened, and I made a second dig into the lid. This time, when the result was virtually identical to the preceding attempt to execute the same procedure, I got a little tense. Maybe I mumbled an expletive, and if so, I apologize to the spirit of Kool-Aid and the millions of young children whose souls it imbues with good feelings and smiles every single day. Again, I tried to open the container, and again, the can opener scraped and puttered to a dismal finis. Again, I wondered if my can opener was to blame, and even though I doubted it, I decided to open some other canned food product and verify what I knew in my heart to be true, that being that this was a working, functional piece of household widgetry. Indeed, when I repeated the attempt upon an ordinary can of soup, the can opener seemingly slid around the perimeter of the can with the ease and grace of an Olympic ice skater. This needlessly opened can of soup did little to quell the growing excitement and aggravation I felt toward this otherwise unassuming Kool-Aid vessel. What was the problem? I asked it. Has Kool-Aid been around so long that modern can-opening technology has surpassed it? Am I being too "techy?" In what I now know was hopeless aggravation, I dug the can opener into the Kool-Aid can several more times, thinking that it would eventually come open if I simply perforated the edges of the circular lid with a series of very close indentations and/or penetrations. You can imagine the yips and yaps and grunts and snorts of frustration this caused, especially as the Kool-Aid substance itself gingerly littered itself not only across the slowly liberated lid, but also across the kitchen surface which played stage to this miserable choreography. Each time I dug the can opener in, it only slid muddily into the side of the container; and the side device of the can opener itself, I guess we can call it the "container-grip," was utterly incapable of gripping the blasted container or doing anything else to it except slowly chewing up the sides of the lid and spew the twisted carnage of metal shavings directly into the ever more tantalizing Kool-Aid matter that peeked so mercurially from behind the steadfastly connected lid. Blinded by aggravation and near-fury, I was only a little bit aware of just how much Kool-Aid was being lost with each Herculean push into the container. I now realize that, when the top of the container was finally dislodged, I had lost about half of what I had bought from the A&P only minutes earlier. And with the top finally wrenched loose, my satisfaction at having achieved what I had originally anticipated a pretty modest task was smothered by the humiliating visage that so much of the glittery near-spirit was strewn like mnemonic popcorn throughout my apartment (as if I would get lost in here!). When I was able to assess the results of this sugary-sweet blitzkrieg with slightly less virulent obsessions, my blood-headed rage returned with all the rage that had, in such a short time, become so remarkably familiar. Showing absolutely no respect to the great and childish gods of Kool-Aid, I let loose a ranting tirade, the text of which possessed an obscenity-ratio of nearly 100% (completely 100% if you count hyphenated words as single words). I hurled the container out the window, spilling what was left of the Kool-Aid substance all over my back and the floor behind me. And that was not all I threw through the window. In a putrid, griping fit of blind, ridiculous anger, I saw that my next door neighbor had just parked her car outside of the apartment building, and as she unassumedly prepared to cross Broadway and enter this building in which I sit right now at this second, I picked up my garbage can and hurled every empty soup can, every tattered ice cube tray, every wet and sticky piece of garbage at her suddenly terrified person; and when I used up all the garbage from that can, I ran to the freezer and propelled dozens of ice-cubes through the hovering night air at my very sweet next door neighbor. When she ran for cover, beneath an enormous 18-wheel truck, I grabbed that needlessly opened can of soup and dumped it, open-end first, as near to her as I could. When she looked up toward my window, I stopped this sky-is-falling terrorism and caught my breath, letting my apocalyptically thumping heart slow to its usual desultory rate. My entire apartment sparkled with Kool-Aid crystals, and they smelled as divine and tasty as I had imagined they might taste when mixed with water and ice. But who knows? If I unassumedly tried to create this simple mixture, maybe I would find that Kool-Aid crystals and water do not mix! Maybe I would have then learned that the powder congeals and forms a sickly, livid blob of gluey, viscous bile! Oh Yeah!!! The question, then, is not "Why is a grown man drinking Kool-Aid?" My question, then, is simple: Is there anything that can be done about my inability to open and enjoy a common can of Kool-Aid with a common can-opener? Was I not supposed to use said device? If not, what far more exotic tool will meet my needs? Please respond; as you can probably tell, I am very lonely and would love to hear from the big fat pitcher-looking guy, maybe if I could even get his autograph...Yours very truly,
