Limited Edition Life

Why on earth would Pepsi pull the plug on a wildly successful product that sold 4.8 million units in just two weeks? Simple, really: "The value of Ice Cucumber is that it's gone already," says a Pepsi spokesperson. According to a recent BusinessWeek article, the move is part of a larger trend to limit the availability of products in order to increase their value. Apparently, the Japanese have a thing for being told you only get access to this very briefly:

"The warm reception the Japanese gave Ice Cucumber is just one manifestation of a national obsession with the ephemeral. Millions turn out every spring to view delicate cherry blossoms that open and then fall to the ground in just a week. And a word that sends consumers flocking to stores is gentei, Japanese for 'limited edition.'"

But I wonder how much of this attraction is a Japanese thing and how much of it is in response to the ubiquity of Stuff these days. When every experience and information byte and thing that can be purchased is there for the taking, it's not surprising that some people might begin to remember the beauty of the ephemeral.

I was thinking about this very idea a couple of weeks ago while reading about how digital photography has vastly altered the nature of the human experience. The SF Chronicle quotes artist J.D. Beltran:

"It's really changed the way we think of photography to have this literally instantaneous image of something that just happened, and it dramatically changes the way we experience things."

That we no longer live in the moment but in the technology is significant. I continue to be stunned by friends and colleagues who feel it's entirely appropriate to answer their cell phone in the midst of a face to face conversation. The sense that human contact should supercede technological experience seems to have been almost entirely lost.

Or has it? Is Pepsi's limited edition schtick a sign of new times, of new appreciation for fleeting moments and unrepeatable experiences? After all, what cell phone feature or computer algorithm can really beat that impermanent burst of flavor from a ripe strawberry just picked? We love the idea of capturing our fading memories, memorializing them in bits and bytes, but what about the warmth that spreads through you when you simply close your eyes and remember your loved ones who've passed on? Is it really possible for the sense of not-there to be so powerful that it trumps the need for constant access? The Japanese seem to think so, and I think they're onto something.