Converse Turbo Ninjas
Todd Edwards
4-11-92
If there is one thing that really annoys me, it is the improper use of scientific terms. Maybe I have spent too many late nights doing physics problem sets, but when I see all those products, from tennis racquets, to computers, to Nerf footballs that claim to be "Turbo", I just want to dust off my chain saw and hockey mask and go give some constructive criticism to the person who came up with the idea of adding "Turbo" to their product's name. It is almost as annoying as stores with purposely misspelled names like "Kwick Kopy."
A typical example of an ill-named product came to my attention when my friend Dave was showing off his new Wilson Pro XT-7000 Turbo Oversized tennis racquet with Vibration Dampers. As I revved up the motor on my official Friday The 13th Fan Club chain saw, I asked him "Turbo? Really? So the exhaust drives a fan that helps inject fuel into the cylinders?" to which he responded with something to the effect of "Um, well, maybe it isn't Turbo after all." But I didn't hold it against him for buying something "Turbo", after all Dave takes his orders from the TV, just like the rest of America.
Dave is especially succeptible to athletic commercials, and he is fascinated with athletic shoes. He knows them all by name, a fact which I unfortunatly found out when I had him help me go shoe shopping last Winter break. While we were looking around, he would make comments like "these Reebok Phase IV Hexalite cross-trainers aren't as good as the Phase I's, but they are much better for tennis than the Annihilator Air by Nike. Why don't you try those Converse Turbo Ninjas with Advanced Gel Technology?" It was a long day. But finally, after two malls and about fifty athletic shoe stores that all looked the same, I was able to find a pair of tennis shoes that were comfortable and didn't have "air", "gel", "Turbo", or neon colors. I think he now has a pair of Nike "Blacktops" but I am afraid to ask.
But I knew that "Turbo" could last only so long. With all the rumors of the stealth fighters and bombers running around, I told my friends to keep an eye out for "Stealth" as the new buzz word amongst American advertisers. Sure enough, today I rock climb with shoes made of "Stealth" rubber (but with no neon. It was difficult, but I found a pair without the bright colors), or I can cruise around in my Dodge Stealth. (Or at least I could if I had lots of money. I guess I'll have to stick with my old Dodge Caravan with fake wood paneling, which would count as Stealth if I was driving in IKEA and didn't want to be noticed.)
But what could a guy like me do about the misuse of scientific terms? The extent of my reaction has been to become increasingly fascinated with the poison arrow frog, which is slick, black, and has neon green markings. These tiny denizens of tropical rainforests have achieved what companies like Nike and Reebok can only dream of; these frogs are both "Turbo" and "Stealth."
And lo, at last, hope and guidence loomed before me. James, my friend at the other east coast H school, showed me what I must do. He had written a letter to his school newspaper complaining about a cartoon. The cartoon character is apparently a large head with hands and feet, and a large tongue that is permanently hanging out of it's mouth. What bothered my friend was that at one point this creature said "oops" which, if you try to say it with your tongue sticking out is impossible...it comes out as "oopth." The newspaper merely thanked him and corrected the error, while I on the other hand, had found my mission (should I choose to accept it) in life.
With my newfound knowledge of the power of letter writing, I waited, biding my time, confident that a cause would come around. Sure enough, while waiting in line for the "Star Tours" attraction at Disneyland, I heard something that made my skin crawl . . . the misuse of the term light-year as a unit of time. Knowing that it really is a measurement of how far light travels in a year, and seeing the thousands of kids who would probably grow up thinking that a light-year was a sort of turbo-space-age measure of time, I knew that my quest for a new cause-du-jour had ended.
When I got home after vacation, I sat down and wrote my letter informing them of their mistake, and what light years really are. In hopes of a T-shirt or free tickets or something, I also added how much I enjoyed the ride otherwise. I sent my letter off to the address for ticket information (my other choice being the address for senior citizen discounts) and hoped that it would eventually get forwarded to the right department.
After about a month had gone by with no response, I figured that my letter had been put in the circular file. But then after another month, I got my reply! It was a letter from Jeff in the Imagineering dept. He thanked me and assured me that my criticism and compliments would "help us in our continuous effort to ensure a pleasant experience for our guests." He went on to agree with my definition of a light year, but said "in the context of a space fantasy, scientific accuracy sometimes falls victim to story." So there you have it, [Start the cheese-ball music here] this battle was lost, but the war has just begun!
And I didn't even get a T-shirt.