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One thing many of us have in common is the memories steeped in historic moments, which remain crystal clear throughout our lives.

If you were alive before 1969, you will remember where you were when Man first walked on the moon. You’ll remember the television set (your father probably yelling at you to stand still as you held the rabbit ears aloft), the color of the den carpet, and your mother’s blue cornflower Corning Ware casserole dish.

As a first-generation American, my family was visiting my English aunt, uncle and cousin in the West London district of Maida Vale. In their cavernous Victorian home, which had been acquired very cheaply due to bomb damage during the Blitz, my memories are as black and white as the small screen showing the fuzzy depiction of Neil Armstrong slowly descending from their lunar model to the moon’s chalky surface.

“Do you realize what you’re watching?” asked my Uncle Sterling, somewhat gruffly. I nodded and looked back at the screen. “Has no one ever told you it’s rude to look away from someone who is speaking to you?’ he then growled. He and my aunt despaired of our American habits, believing our lives to be void of any sort of classical pursuits and, instead, rife with Westerns, chewing gum, and a shocking lack of manners. He wasn’t far wrong.

When John Lennon was murdered, I was twenty and driving back to my boyfriend’s apartment with two Philly cheesesteak hoagies that served as a Friday night treat after picking up our end-of-week paychecks. I remember how the grease would drip inside the brown paper bags and how I would put them on the floor of my VW’s passenger side so as not to stain the upholstery—which was plastic, so there was no point. Nevertheless, it was nearly midnight, and I was stopped at a red light when the radio DJ from 96 Rock made the shocking announcement after playing “Imagine,” his voice choked with emotion. Utterly stunned, I delivered the news to my boyfriend, was unable to eat, and we both wept. Until years later, on September 11th, it remained the most startling gut punch of my young life.

By comparison, this week marks the forty-year anniversary of, I believe, the biggest pop culture outrage of all time. An utter marketing flop. Fans were incensed, took up boycotts and Johnny Carson had new punchlines that lasted for weeks in his nightly monologue. 

That’s right: this is the anniversary of New Coke. And to this day, people wonder if this ‘new, improved’—and downright nasty flavor—had been a ruse to shake up the public, who had begun to have flings with Mr. Pibb and Dr. Pepper, not to mention its bitter rival, Pepsi, to come running back to their beloved Coca-Cola after the company admitted defeat and returned to the original formula.

Funnily enough, as epic as that entire catastrophe was, I can’t tell you the date or time it happened or any meaningful memory tied around it. I think it did, however, drive me to drinking beer because no Southerner who has grown up drinking Coke is going to be satisfied with any other drink for their long-term favorite soda. Or pop. In fact, I don’t recall ever using the words ‘soda’ or ‘pop’ to describe any soft drink. We called them all Coke: ‘You want a Coke?’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘What kind?’ ‘Fanta.’ Coke, over ice, with its syrupy, caffeinated, carbonated liquid that burned down your throat on a sweltering summer day, was like family. You’d always come home to it after dabbling with others.

It shook up our lives for weeks but clearly had no lasting impact. I expect many will have the same vague memories around Bud Light. 

Let’s not even mention Tesla…