Everything You Love Is Trying to Kill You

Plus, patio-friendly white wine, movies I watched on a hot smelly plane, and looking back on the 1998 Godzilla soundtrack

This is going to open me up to a lot of criticism from multiple camps, but I go to the Starbucks by my house at least three times a week. I know, I should be going to one of those fair-trade coffee purveyors with the burlap bean sacks hanging from the walls and Esperanza Spalding vinyl spinning atop a bookshelf filled with Salinger, Ginsberg, and Kerouac. (I once went to a coffee shop in Logan Square and their wi-fi password was a tribute to Carl Sagan. You know the type.) That said, Starbucks is a mere two minutes from my front door, they know my order, and I get star points with every spinach feta wrap so I can buy more spinach feta wraps and have my innards reconstituted as a series of spinach feta wraps, which is honestly how I feel right now on the eve of my Not-So-Hot Girl Summer.

My drink of choice is an iced coffee, no classic, with coconut milk. The coconut milk is key – it doesn’t destroy my bowels like cow’s milk and it has just enough sweetness to counteract Starbucks’ infamously bitter brew so I can skip the sugary syrup, which I hate. I drink this stuff with enough frequency that it often occurs to me that if one day the Surgeon General announced that Starbucks’ coconut milk is a carcinogenic, I would be dead woman walking. As someone who considers daily the different avenues to my untimely demise, the potential lethality of my cold brew nags the brain. I’m like Billy Crystal in When Harry Met Sally:

“When I buy a new book, I always read the last page first. That way, in case I die before I finish, I know how it ends. That, my friend, is a dark side.”

So, for the purposes of your entertainment, I decided this would be a good time to see if my suspicions are correct. Right now, as I’m drafting this post, I’m going to look it up. See, I am not really an action-oriented neurotic. I like to belabor my anxiety in the annals of my twisted brain, but I very rarely act on those fears. But what the hell, let’s have some fun. Google: “Starbucks, coconut milk, health.”

Oh boy, first hit: “The Truth About Starbucks Coconut Milk.” Scanning… scanning...

You guys are going to love this. It’s not coconut milk. It’s just not. It’s water, coconut cream, coconut water concentrate, cane sugar, tricalcium phosphate, natural flavors, sea salt, carrageenan, gellan gum, corn dextrin, xanthan gum, guar gum, vitamin A palmitate, and vitamin D2.

“These ingredients might seem harmless at first, but when you look into some of them, it does raise some red flags. For example, corn dextrin, which is maltodextrin derived from corn, is known to welcome the growth of some dangerous bacteria such as salmonella and E. coli in the gut if consumed in large amounts.”

Of course, they don’t specify what counts as a large amount – three splishy splashies a week? Am I a walking vessel for salmonella and E. coli? More black marks on my Hot Girl Summer.

“Also, maltodextrin is a carbohydrate that's actually the same as table sugar on the glycemic index, so it could be detrimental to someone on a low-carb diet or people with diabetes or other conditions where blood sugar spikes negatively impact health.”

My familiarity around glycemic index comes from those random banner ads at the bottom of CNN and Fox News articles where there’s an illustration of a rotund torso and they’re like, here are three little-known secrets to fix your lard. So, no mention of cancer, but clearly these iced coffees are not fast-tracking me to the catwalk.

That said, the overarching truth of the mass-produced American diet is that everything you love is trying to kill you. What do I drink more than these E. coli bombs? Seltzer. So much seltzer. Cans and cans and cans of seltzer every day. La Croix, Polar, Bubbly, Pellegrino, Perrier, Topo Chico – I’ve never met a seltzer I haven’t loved. I want to bathe in it. And if my glycemic index wasn’t in the shitter because of my morning coffee, I’d writhe around in it like a Def Leppard video vixen.

Did you know that seltzer wants to kill us? I didn’t! But it does! Oh, you thought it was just water and bubbles? What a great way to stay hydrated, right? WRONG.

A new study from Consumer Reports found that some carbonated water brands have measurable amounts of so-called PFA chemicals, which are linked to adverse health effects. Seltzer scientists looked at more than 40 brands of bottled water and found that sparkling water was more likely to include higher levels of these chemicals than still water. PFAs aren’t federally regulated but have been linked to low birth weight, cancer, and thyroid hormone disruption.

Bonus: they don’t break down easily in the body or the environment, making them “forever chemicals.” Here I thought my muscles and sinew were turning into feta wraps when in reality, they’re permanently coated in bubbly thyroid killers!

Topo Chico is the worst offender of these PFA counts. Like, off the charts. Incidentally, Topo Chico has the most delightful fizz out of all the seltzers. Well, goodbye fizz. Here are the other top offenders:

• Polar Natural Seltzer Water (6.41 ppt)

• Bubly Blackberry Sparkling Water (2.24 ppt)

• Poland Spring Zesty Lime Sparkling Water (1.66 ppt)

• Canada Dry Lemon Lime Sparkling Seltzer Water (1.24 ppt)

• LaCroix Natural Sparkling Water (1.16 ppt)

• Perrier Natural Sparkling Mineral Water (1.1 ppt)

The best options? Sparkling Ice Black Raspberry Sparkling Water, Spindrift Raspberry Lime Sparkling Water, San Pellegrino Natural Sparkling Mineral Water, Dasani Black Cherry Sparkling Water and Schweppes Lemon Lime Sparkling Water Beverage.

This is all so annoying, honestly. My takeaway is to just go back to still water, but then you’re supposed to buy a stupid little pitcher and do the whole filter thing because of fluoride in the tap water. Honestly, who am I to believe? Who is running this narrative? The lobbyists for Big Brita?

And if it’s not coconut cream or Topo Chico trying to take you out, it’s coffee, sugar, wine, MSG, red dye 40, and vegetable oils. That is, until they’re not – until the inevitable 180-degree narrative reversal when another set of opposing lobbyists are able to drive the doomsday du jour.

I don’t really know what I am going to do with this information. The likelihood of me giving up my iced coffee and seltzer regimen is slim-to-none. How would you describe a person who loves to read Consumer Reports and does nothing with the information? I don’t know how exactly I am going to die but I know I will. Until then, I’m intent on really living – even if it’s in a neurotic haze of PFA-inflicted guilt. As Harry said to Sally in that 18-hour car ride to New York:

“When the shit comes down, I’m gonna be prepared and you’re not, that’s all I’m saying.”

A few editions ago, I noted that practical imbibers in the Upper Midwest do not drink al fresco until the daytime temperature is consistently in the 70s for at least one week. I’m undermining my own rule because weather consistency has not existed here since last summer. Last night, I went to my son’s Little League game. It was 80 degrees in the first inning, and down to a very blustery low-60s by the fourth inning. I mean, Little League games can be appallingly long but a 15-degree drop in that period is absolutely ridiculous.

So, let us not be controlled by the fickle spirit of Mother Nature and focus this week’s pour on the most sophisticated of patio libations – a crisp, perfectly chilled white wine. It’s only been a few weeks since I recommended sparkling wine for such circumstances but given the dire state of seltzer in this country, I need a break from the bubbles.

Yesterday, I met up with a dear friend for a very salty vent fest. So salty, in fact, that we had to find the most refreshing wine on the menu to balance the palate. We landed on the Massey Dacta Sauvignon Blanc from Marlborough, New Zealand. Their website describes it as such: “The color of freshly cut hay, with notes of pithy lemon and lime fresh off the homestead trees. Tropical getaway flavors of rock melon and passionfruit brought back to earth with lemongrass and a generous weighty mouthfeel.”

My friend and I would describe it as: “Holy crap, this stuff is going down like water.” This could be because it was bright, cheery, and a touch citrusy, or because we were dissecting childhood traumas and needed a mood stabilizer. Either way, if you’re on the verge of a mental breakdown and want something light and lovely to take the edge off, this is a great option.

It’s kind of fun being a business traveler and discovering in casual conversation with other business travelers that you both watched the same in-flight movie that morning. So, if you traveled at any point in the last week or two, there’s a high likelihood that you also watched this week’s Screen Time features, “Whitney Houston: I Wanna Dance with Somebody” and “Air.”

Both were perfectly selected for United’s film lineup as they were inoffensive, mildly entertaining, and surface-level enough that you could be interrupted by an irritated flight attendant lobbing pretzels at your lap and not miss anything. YES, I FLY ECONOMY.

Here’s the thing, without going too deep into specific criticisms or praise for either movie, I offer the same overall feedback: Neither had much of a point of view. They were both basically accounts of real things that happened, in chronological order, with a cursory nod to the cultural climate in which they occurred but not much more than that.

In terms of the Whitney flick, the most compelling part of the story is the tender account of her best friend and business partner, Robyn Crawford. That, and Stanley Tucci’s portrayal of Clive Davis. But like I said, it’s like a series of vignettes of major moments in her life without a POV or analysis of what was going on inside of her, of what propelled her highs and lows. Without that level of intimacy, you’re better off mapping out all the great milestone performance portrayed in the film and watching the actual recordings, most of which you can find on YouTube.

“Air,” which tells the story of how Nike developed and pitched Air Jordan to Michael Jordan and his family, was exciting to me as a marketer. I loved the competitive spirit, the late-night sessions where they developed the pitch, and the message about risk taking and ingenuity. But again, I felt myself craving a more human story. I wanted to know more about these marketing guys on a personal level. Or, about Michael Jordan’s mom, played by the incomparable Viola Davis. You never even see Michael’s voice or hear his POV – they purposefully don’t even go there. I realized that’s really what I want. The big cinematic Michael Jordan biopic with the shoe pitch as just one of many magical moments in an unparalleled career.

Also, picky point regarding this one. It starts out with a killer soundtrack, featuring “Money for Nothing” by Dire Straits, which quickly pivots into “Blister in the Sun” by Violent Femmes. The whole film is chockful of great music, but it’s so crammed in and unrelenting that it starts to feel corny and ham-fisted. At a particularly morose point in the story, they actually play Cyndi Lauper’s “Time After Time.” Cheeseball City!

Speaking of soundtracks, I want to take this opportunity to remind you that the original soundtrack for the 1998 film “Godzilla” starring Matthew Broderick is fun to revisit every 25 years.

You’ll laugh. You’ll cry. You’ll wonder why its most successful single was a Puff Daddy song featuring Jimmy Page that no one needed or asked for. I really need to unpack this Puff Daddy thing but first, a quick look at the other songs:

• Heroes – The Wallflowers

• Deeper Underground – Jamiroquai

• A320 – Foo Fighters

• Air – Ben Folds Five

• No Shelter – Rage Against the Machine

• Running Knees – Days of the New

• Macy Day Parade – Michael Penn

• Walk the Sky – Fuel

• Brain Stew – Green Day

• Untitled – Silverchair

I mean, look at the lineup! How epic is it that Rage produced a song for the explicit purposes of a Godzilla movie starring Matthew Broderick? A song about mass media manipulation. In a blockbuster movie. Is it brilliant? Ironic? Hypocritical? Even at age 15 when this came out, I was confused and delighted because the song is so good and yet it’s absolutely bonkers that they participated in earnest. Anyway. Back to Puff Daddy.

I love saying Puff Daddy over and over because I know P. Diddy would hate it. It’s very funny to me that this bad ass hip-hop guru came up with a stupid nickname and then had the balls to make the whole world change it one day because he was probably embarrassed. But then, the new name wasn’t even better. You’d think he’d just revert to Sean Combs at that point, like… “Sorry guys, I know you’ve been calling me Puff Daddy for all these years but I think it’s time that we just go with Sean since I’m Mr. Manager now.” But no, he went with P. Diddy. Is this something he does when he’s super drunk? Just stumbles out of his gold-plated bathroom and declares a new name and then all his minions let out a big sigh and have to go work with all his strategic partners ONCE AGAIN to adjust the branding on literally everything? And you know his name is on everything because he is so obsessed with his moniker.

(WAIT, HOLD ON. I’m going to do the same thing I did with the coconut milk research and fact check The Artist Formerly Known as Puffy’s name situation real-time. Scanning… scanning… Okay, I don’t know if you missed this, because I definitely did – but he actually changed his legal name from Sean John Combs to Sean Love Combs in 2021. No, absolutely not. You’re always going to be Puff Daddy to me, Mr. Manager.)

Anyway, please carve out 6:17 to watch the music video for “Come with Me.” It’s pure chaos. You have Puff Daddy rapping over Led Zeppelin’s “Kashmir” while Godzilla destroys New York City. A bus en route to Tribeca comes careening through Puff Daddy’s office and suddenly he’s shooting to the sky in a futuristic elevator that operates like the one in Willy Wonka but looks like the inside of a boxed cheese grater, as were all music videos in the late 90s. Puff Daddy then floats through an apocalyptic city scape, lands next to a 120-piece orchestra, and stares down Godzilla.

Truly a magical time to be alive. Take me back!

(Which, incidentally, is exactly what I’m going to do next week when I celebrate my daughter’s forthcoming exit from middle school with a tribute to the 8^th grade experience. Have a gem of a photo from your 8^th grade year that I can share? Send to me at okaypokayblog@gmail.com – no later than EOD May 24!)