For Mature Peeple Only
First Printing
CANDY AND CIGARETTES Jonny Etcetera Sydni Honey Whitney Jardine Bradley Oliver Bill Jefferey Dale Wallain Rahman Doodles Maseman Yasmin, SF Ian Orth Zay Schaefer Zach mcdonald Reynard S. Ann S. Stevens William Cardini
#2
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Dear Readers, I’m sorry about last time when I called you all philistines. I was just joshing with you. It’s just that, well, some people are really fucking stupid. For instance, most men were really stupid for not allowing women to participate in the wacky experiment that is humanity for literally thousands of years, among other things. No doubt you’ve heard of feminism. Surely you have feelings about it, whether you know about it or not. By knowing about it, I mean having actually read a little about the history of women’s suffrage and the three waves of feminism, not to mention post-feminism, Judith Butler’s postmodern feminism, and anarcafeminism—to name but a few offshoots; things not a lot of people don’t know much about. If you haven’t, I hope that you do. Wikipedia is a good start. So I dedicate this the second issue of Candy & Cigarettes to Voltairine de Cleyre, the little-known mother of anarcha-feminism who unfortunately died far too young. While others were fighting for equality of man in the late nineteenth century, she pointed out a bit of etymological significance in snarky poems like the following:
Bear it aloft, O roaring flame! Skyward aloft, where all may see. Slaves of the world! Our cause is the same; One is the immemorial shame; One is the struggle, and in one name— MANHOOD—we battle to set men free.
I planned to write this essay in which I was gonna incorporate all of these oft-overlooked female writers and theorists (including the zinester Lisa Crystal Carver) and what they mean to the way the world is today, what we all take for granted—especially women—but, sadly, I didn’t have time. Anyway, I tried to gear this issue toward the general topic of feminism, discussed from a number of angles. It also is about dreams in some ways, and Superman. There was a lot I wanted to do that did not get done, but that’s okay because this is what it is now, and let’s face it, that’s how life works. The next quarterly issue will sort of be about war and pedophiles: what’s the deal? Thank you for reading. If you wish to submit something (please do, this isn’t meant to be a vanity project) or if you want to say anything or whatevs, email CandCmagazine@gmail.com. And please visit CandyandCigarettes.com for weekly blogs, Pyrite Radio mixes, and the first issue of this zine. Or add us on myspace: myspace.com/candyncigarettes. Keep yr head up, Reynard Seifert Editer-in-cheef
Wimmin’s Libation Liberation
W
by Whitney Jardine hen I hear the phrase “Girly Drink” two things come to my mind. The first being a shot with some stupid name (buttery nipple, sex on the beach, dumb cunt, whatever), which is deceptively loaded with alcohol while tasting like some bargain store candy and similarly colored. This high content of sugar, food coloring, and alcohol are sure to produce desensitized taste buds, a significant hangover, and, if you and the guy that bought the shot for you are lucky, a black out. The second apparition summoned forth by this term is something with an umbrella, possibly frozen, again we are talking brightly colored, high sugar content, served in some outrageous glassware, again with deceptively large amounts of alcohol. The Purple Margaritas at Baby Acapulco’s or that ridiculous drink at Jackalope requiring several Red River hardened ladies and large straws come to mind. For more information on these beverages please consult my good friends Carly and Julie.
If my pleasant and complimentary tone does not lead to the assumption that I am not a fan of these drinks, may I share a little nickname I seem to have picked up: “Whisquila.” This nickname was derived from my preference of “Tequila or Whisky straight, water back, no salt.” Now why on Earth, when I am ever so much the “girl” as Carly, Julie, and whoever takes those stupid nasty shots (strippers and Miguel’s male cousins are the only people that come to mind), are my whisky and tequila shots not “girly” drinks? Why do the above drinks come to mind, not just to me but to most who hear the label “Girly Drinks.” Well the answer(s) seem obvious enough—Victorianism and Machismo—but I will go ahead and present some possibilities, and a new definition. The obvious answer is that there is nothing “girly” or “ladylike” about slamming back half a bottle of Jack Daniels, Jameson, Patron, or Don Julio. Now as I say obvious I am referring to the “obvious” judgment of an elder generation, one before Girls Gone Wild and Tila Tequila, before porn stars were discussed in public, let alone “idolized,” and femininity was wrapped up in your virginal public persona. For this time and set of standards only the brightly colored, seemingly harmless beverages—those sure to match or at the very least compliment your cocktail gown—would do.
It seems inevitable that the definition of “girly drinks” will change in our ever-present date rape oriented culture to become whatever gets you the most fucked up, or as we say on 7th Street, “Creek-sided.” For this reason, I consider it highly possible that my whisky and tequila shots are the new, post-feminist, nihilist, escapist and self-destructive “girly drinks.” Then again, if you asked my grandmother who had a scotch on the rocks by lunch everyday what a “lady” is supposed to drink, well, she would have kicked anyone out of her house who added anything more than ice to their liquor. There is a very important and notable difference though, between my grandmother’s scotch on the rocks and my ability to spend over $50 on tequila shots at Creekside (that is a lot of tequila). Whereas my grandmother was classy and controlled, and with a husband to cart her home if utterly necessary, the young women of today go out and get plastered without appropriate self-consideration. We are a bevy of Little Red Riding Hoods forgetting how barely beyond that little red cloak we really are, and we’re just stepping into the den of wolves. Now I am not trying to victimize us, nor vilify men, I am simply saying... why do we get so drunk, in public no less?
What used to simply be a tactic for men to slip into our panties, thanks to the nature of feminism, has become a shared activity in self-destruction, consumerism, and escapism. Part of equality is our ability to share in the same poisonous and negative behavior without being carted off to a mental institution or put in jail— depending upon the person. Men used to feel better, more secure in their masculinity (and a lady’s virtue), to see a woman sipping a dainty Cosmopolitan or an umbrella-clad Mai Tai, but thanks to equality, they can now get off on by our ability to suffer the same fate, and inflict the same torment upon our bodies, that they find so entertaining. In a way this is advancement for us ladies, no longer do we need to hide our drunkenness or drink nasty sugary, poorly named bullshit with umbrellas. Like so many other forms of advancement though, there are downsides, like the fact that we were probably better off not feeling inclined or interested in out-drinking our male friends. We have become equal to men, victims of the alcohol industry. So forget talking shit about sorority girls who drink “Ritas” and “Sex on the Beaches” like they’re going out of style, because it’s time to realize the new girly drink is whatever gets you that much closer to the floor, and pointless debt.
Camoflauge camo kids played with swords and knives cut the sky in two hit the water’s edge shot the demons down we kilt the church. teens in tees shot the breeze smoked the trees did not care knew not one was there had the town alone we were not a’scared. camo tweens played with swords and knives cut the sky in two hit the water’s edge shot the demons down we kilt the church. yuppified in ties went to work thought our bosses jerks told all sorts of lies knew the sun would have to die we hit the dirt and cried.
by Reynard Seifert
camo crises played with swords and knives cut the sky in two hit the water’s edge shot the demons down we kilt the church. retired men in cardigans thinking the sky would fall thinking the water would quake thinking the demons would stop they never did. so here we are yes here we are knives and swords drawn they kilt the church. dead men in coffee tins. now we can do anything. ?
Art by Jesse Balmer
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by Ian Orth
Superman vs. the Layoffs by Rahman Doodles “Kent? In my office, please.” Shit. Shit, shit, shit, thought Clark. Everyone in the office quietly, guiltily relaxed after not hearing their name. They all tried not to look at Clark Kent as he shuffled toward Perry White’s office but somehow every single one of them did, and saw the same thing: a half-shaven man in his mid-forties clutching a folder with papers falling from both sides, walking toward his doomsday. Clark sat down in the chair he’s sat in so many times, pitching stories and showing pictures to his editorin-chief, a man he revered so much he didn’t hesitate to call his friend-in-chief. But this sit, they both knew, would be different. White sat behind his desk with Hubert Spurlock at his flank, the media mogul who made his riches by betting that cable news would become more popular than network news; he now spent his fortunes buying television stations and newspapers for his media goliath LockNews (taunted in the little press he doesn’t own as The Locknews Monster). The vener-
able, nationally-run Daily Planet was his most recent and (for the moment) most prized acquisition. And with every purchase, of course, comes the… “Clark,” White started, searching for the words to end his thought. The stifling silence stood still as the three men profanely wondered why no one had rehearsed this yet. “This is never easy.” White wrote something down on his pad. Clark used his x-ray vision to see that he was writing gibberish, merely pretending. “Listen, Kent,” Spurlock blurted. “White and I are trying to calibrate the new message of the Daily Planet and we feel some changes need to be made. We need to be edgier, younger, more media integration, something you’ve—” “Clark, we have to let you go,” White interrupted, afraid of what the notoriously foul-mouthed Spurlock had to say. “But…I’ve been with the paper for so long…I...I don’t see what I’ve done.” “Well, it’s just that we can pay two younger kids with your salary. And they’ll know how to use the technology better than you. We pay Jimmy half the money we pay you, yet he’s running most of our paper’s website.”
“But, I e-mail you all the—” “It’s more than just e-mail, Clark,” White said, sympathetic. “HTML, Java, streaming, blogging…” White paused to chuckle, “Hell, I barely know what these things are myself!” “Plus, there’s your erratic behavior,” he continued, shifting to a serious tone. “It just isn’t professional. Sometimes you just leave the office for days at a time and you come back tired and weak. We’ve caught you sleeping at your desk at least twice this quarter.” “But my Superman coverage…it’s won Pulitzers.” “A decade ago,” Spurlock chimed in. “It seems the nation is less captivated by Superman’s antics today. Actually, it seems that Superman is the only thing you’re decent at covering, and no one cares anymore. Shit, it’s like covering the police commissioner—boring.” Spurlock made a weird gesture, apparently resembling boredom. “In fact, we should just move that capewearing idiot to the police blotter. Write that down, White—police blotter. Besides, any 12-year-old kid can take a picture of Superman on his camera phone—we don’t need to pay someone dusty salaries to do so.” “I’m sorry, Clark. I wish you the best of luck.” “It’s okay, Perry. It was an honor to work under you. Goodbye.”
Clark reached out to shake the hands of both men and walked out of the office. White and Spurlock looked at one another for a few seconds. “Perry, him and Superman gotta be fags together.” White looked down and continued to scribble nonsense into his pad.
Clark was slouching on the couch, watching the Lock News Network. The channel, like most of Spurlock’s media outlets, was staunchly anti-Superman, preferring the will and might of the American citizen to the presumptuous actions of an extraterrestrial. Clark was eating a bowl of candy-coated cereal, watching as contentious anchor Heath Aldermann lectured at his audience. “Both presidential candidates have made clear that we need to decrease American dependence on Superman, and I agree. The real problems our world and our nation faces today—poverty, hunger, Middle East conflict, rising oil prices, genocide—can’t be fixed by any one man, and definitely not an attention-starved otherworldly alien!” The television turned off. A surprised Clark turned around to find Lois pointing the remote.
“Hey, Lois. When did you get home?” “Just now,” Lois said, setting her things (keys, Blackberry, Metrocard) down on the counter. She kissed Clark on the forehead. “Why do you watch that trash? Don’t you have any real news to report?” “Yeah, about that...” “Oh, Clark, I almost forgot—we got a new correspondent at the blog...” Lois, once the Daily Planet’s most well-respected journalist, left print media some years ago to start the online venture Lanette, a newsblog that examined the innerworkings of Metropolis politics. She wanted Clark to join her, but he estimated then that online news was a passing fad. Her connections and media-savvy led her site to become a preeminent source of insider news and gossip, as well as the preeminent source of income for the household. “It’s Ronnie!” Great, Clark thought. Clark’s brother-in-law, Ron Troupe, was the Ivy League-educated husband of Lois’ sister, Lucy. He was the first black editor-in-chief of his college’s paper, became the most popular op-ed columnist for the Metropolitan when Clark was still sharing desk space with Jimmy, and left when he was drafted by one of the non-Spurlock cable news networks to host his own
newshour, “The Troupe Group.” Ron was everything Clark was not: modern (Clark was stuck in a past generation), hip (he was generally considered a square), academic (and was the result of a multi-directional public college), liberal (Clark had increasingly unfashionable heartland patriotism), and urbane (that came from his Smallville roots). “What’ll happen to his show?” Clark asked, milk spittle flying from his mouth. “Oh, he’ll keep it, of course,” Lois continued, checking her e-mail in the kitchen. “He’s going to contribute to the campaign aspect of the blog, which will fall in line with his show. But the exciting thing is that he’ll tell his viewers to check the site on every show. Isn’t that great?” “Sure.” Clark didn’t want to talk, and turned the television back on. Aldermann was now declaring that Superman be held accountable for war crimes, calling him a fraud. Clark decided, from now on he would only watch the Lock News Network.
Lookout for the next installment in Candy & Cigarettes #3, when Clark Kent battles a biased media, the onslaught of the information age, a wife’s expectations, and the ruthlessness of job interviews!
by Sydni Honey, Hermit and Knot Maker, Self-professed Fixie Punx Laundry Lady
by the incorrigible Jonny Nonemoblack
by Bill Jeffery
Holy Guapa by Whitney Jardine
I
have been in Spain for almost two months now. During my time here I have become incredibly aware of my vagina; in fact, I would be willing to say I have not been so aware of my sex since I began menstruating. The difference of gender roles and acceptable and inappropriate standards of behavior has been a curious and at times excruciating adjustment. To walk down the street, fully covered, as I always was the first month, it is very peculiar to have men yelling at you and making disgusting gestures. Go to a disco where they have been drinking and they are intolerable. In fact, a girl recently went back to the United States three weeks early; she felt so uncomfortable and unsafe here, she went home. She only lasted two weeks in Barcelona. Maybe because I cannot recall a single time I walked away from a fight or idly allowed a man to accost me I am foolishly confident of not being harmed, or maybe I am just more used to being objectified, it’s a coin toss. The attention I receive is in large part due to my blonde hair...something I would not have brought with me if Jordan
Dudley had not gone out drinking with his boss instead of keeping his hair appointment with me—thanks, Jordan. Coming from Texas, or the Southern United States in general, being blonde is an incredibly common thing. Here I am seen as either an exotic zebra or some dumb celebutante whore with homemade porno videos; either way, I seem to lose. Having people think I am German, Swedish or French has been a relief, but then a lot of them get buttsore about all those years of losing in the Euro Cup. Generally speaking, to be a blonde woman cerca de Mediterranean is no easy task, especially if you have decently sized breasts. If I had a Euro for every person who has asked me or one of my friends if I had a boob job, I would be out eating at a very nice restaurant right now, but that is not the case. One guy even said to me, “You look like the kind of girl who would have a boob job.” I’m not sure if he was saying I looked like I had already undergone surgery or that I looked like the kind of
Art by Maseman
woman who would feel compelled to do so…either way, it made me shudder. The lack of female solidarity I’m accustomed to in the United States has been multiplied here. Women seem very close to each other, but if you’re an outsider, look out. To say there is no Southern Hospitality in the south of Europe would be a gross understatement. The only time other women have even so much spoken to me directly is when their (gay) male friends introduce me. German and Swedish women have talked to me... Spanish women, not so much; it’s as if I am some poisonous formless colorless substance, a gas leak in their presence. One of the most interesting things about all this is the only place where people behave decently (according to my white upper middle class American standards) is the beach. I have not worn a bikini top since I arrived here, and tomorrow I plan on buying a new pair of bathing suit bottoms, no top, why waste the Euros? On the beach I can lay on the sand or swim, alone or with friends, for hours on end and no one bothers me. Men do not stare, they do not bother me, for some reason the sand makes them treat us like humans. Maybe the natural environment
makes the confines of Spanish gender roles loosen and people can simply be people, but I never in my life thought being topless on a beach could lead to such liberation. Recently a new crop of students came and several of the girls went with me to the beach. As we soaked up the sun on our towels enjoying our Estrella Dam (the Lonestar of Spain) they noticed several guys paying attention to us. Later that evening we were out with our friend Erich who has lived here for several years, when they told Erich they didn’t want to sunbathe topless because of all the guys staring at me on the beach he corrected them. “Oh no honeys,” he said “no one was staring at Faustine (that’s me), they were staring at you weirdos for being so covered at the beach.” This was hard for them to digest, and the obviousness of his statement made me realize I might officially be culturally adjusted, at the beach anyway.
Cover of the first dime novel, Malaeska by Ann S. Stephens Reprinted from a reprint without permission because that would seem redundant don’t you think?
Mrs. Ann S. Stephens Ann S. Stephens published zine-like pamphlets and edited ladies’ magazines in the mid-nineteenth century. She also wrote the first published dime novel, the cheap (i.e. low-brow) form of literature better known as pulp fiction. Ironically, what began with a sweet if tragically stereotypical romance set on the plains, and in the city, of New York would lead to the very epitomy of masculine writing for young adults in the age before comic books. In fact, the second dime novel published by Beadle & Co. was about a guy who slaughtered Native Amerians like nobody’s business. I planned to write a lengthy essay about Stepehens and this first pulp novel, but I didn’t have time. So, I’m just going to share with you the cover and two excerpts. I feel like these selections speak for themselves, not that they’re anthropomorphic, it’s just—well, you’ll see. —Reynard Seifert
Introduction to Malaeska by Erastus Beadle
Excerpt from Malaeska by Ann S. Stevens First Printed New York, June, 1860
by Yasmin, San Francisco MilkandTea@hotmail.com
Reprinted with Permission From her Zine, Pi単atas
The
Pathetic Phallacy by Reynard Seifert
I lost another one today. It’s too bad really. She was A-one, this one. Maybe I should keep the chain tighter round the ankles. The catches just get smaller and smaller and smaller and now they’re slipping through the locks. They used to play games and trick me into letting go and I guess I didn’t care because they weren’t really A-ones and I didn’t really luv them love them. But this gull was good, quick, clean, like my Swiffer brand WetJet©, with a bonny face ever so pleasant to chew upon in the starlight, sad.
So I’m wondering if I should even go round for her. It wouldn’t matter if I did; she doesn’t wanna be here. At some point you have to ask yourself: Do I feel luckless? If you answered yes, pass go. If no, collect $500 and a lifetime supply of expired Sriracha, the good kind, with the cock on it. Then again, maybe she only escaped to be chased, I think. Gulls do this all the time, like back in the old days—chaste—especially the A-ones, especially them. So I call my friend Donald who knows about these things. He gave me my first chain when I was just a wee lad. He said, “Hey kid, have a ball.” I was like, “This is a chain but okay.” I was thirteen, she was fifteen; it was glorious. Back then the chain was strong. It didn’t slip like now. I get Donald’s answering machine: “Howdy partner, you’ve reached Bart El Me Supply Company! We ain’t round to take your order, but if you leave a message, we’ll return yr call like so much spandex that doesn’t quite lend the bulge you’d like to see once yer in front of yr mirror at home, which is predictably more accurate than those goddamn bulge-enhancing mirrors at the store. Anyway, saddle on up little doggies!” It’s funny, because he’s
not really a company or a Texan but he does wear spandex all the time—he says it’s his thing. Donald’s machine allows for a thirty second message so I leave an hour-long voicemail over the course of maybe a hundred and twenty calls, explaining between choking and sobbing that I’ve lost another gull and now I’m sad so I’ve called him and where the hell is he, anyway?—I smash the phone against the receiver many, many times and curse him with things I’ve heard on the Discovery Channel© before resolving to WetJet© my house. You know: polish my chains, lube my locks, tighten my screws, wax my wood, choke my chicken. I try to remember there are plenty of gulls to be seen in the sea. Although I know deep down the number of A-ones is waning due to pollution and global warming and what not. Somehow I end up on the Myspace© doing, like, nothing for six hours. It’s a circle, my clicking: homepage, profile, Donald’s page who has me at the very bottom of his top forty, back to profile, homepage, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. I really hate Tom; he’s ruining my life. I should be out catching A-one gulls right now. I don’t even know anyone
on the Myspace© besides Donald and the few gulls who read my messages but never reply. For the first time I seriously consider using the “browse” feature and I’m like “Oh great, now I’m gonna spend countless hours on this thing, searching for little gulls to sodomize? I don’t think so, Tom.” And I smash my brain box into a thousand little pieces, which I place in my blender to texturize my 3:00 SlimFast© shake. It feels good, letting go. I turn on my blender—which I built myself, not to brag or anything—and get my shake a’ rocking. There’s a face in the glass. Of course, that’s impossible so I look away. But then I begin to hear this terrible moaning from, like, a thousand six-inch voices bitching and moaning at once and I think, not for the first time: maybe there were tiny people trapped in my brain box. Probably I should let them go but it’s like peeling that glue off shit they put in magazines—I just can’t help myself. I simply watch as they leap valiantly from building-tops rocking, smoking, burning in the blend; their little bodies becoming ash engulfed in my blades like diamond dust in a B-picture. Then I see her, the A-one, leaping valiantly from a skyscraper. She can’t be valiant! I try to stop the blender but it’s too late: She’s smoking, burning, crashing to the ground; I’m choking, sobbing, crying out to her.
I grab my chain and jump in the blender, swinging casually through the streets like Spiderman©. You know, crashing through windows and setting off car alarms like piss and vinegar. Then I see her burning, crashing, about to hit the ground. She sees my face, and we’re given this moment where, like, every thing just slowsss…downnnnn…..and all of the light in the world is on she and I, only. I smile, she smiles. We smile together. I grab her, the chain slips. We fall together. I say, “I love you.” She says, “Me too.” And we love one another forever. At least that’s how I picture it going. Instead, she slaps me, and I’m like, “What’s that all about?” To which she replies, “Go fuck yrself.” Which I guess is fair enough; after all, I did sort of kidnap her. But I had the best intentions at heart, which is a pretty big deal to me because I don’t always have good intentions and—well, I guess I’ve said enough; I don’t want to incriminate myself or anything. Anyway, I’m not going to let her get away with that so I pick up a small car and throw it at her. But she surprises me with her verve, dodging the car at the last second with a little roll that reverses into like a forward summersault, coming down way hard on my unmentionables.
Pretty much this is the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me. She’s basically destroying my face with this big rock, really thrashing it like, you know, working it good. So I ask her if she wants to go back to my place and she’s all, “Oh sure, you bastard. I’m gonna go home with you after you tried to purée my beautiful body like one of those fucking SlimFast© shakes you made me drink.” I try to explain that I was only saving her from getting fat but she’s not having it. “Yer a dead man,” she says, all devoid of emotion and sarcastic like but in a not unnatural way. “Jesus, yer sexy,” I say. Then she leans her head back and from her throat pulls out this huge medieval sword, talking Conan©-style. I’m pretty much ready to blast her into outer space with my goodness if you know what I mean but I want to see where this is going. She reaches back and smiles—I smile too—and she plunges this goddamn fortypound blade down my throat with a blood-curdling scream not unlike when she climaxes.
She breathes out with wanton eyes aglitter; white dust settles in her hair; a spotlight illuminates her fucking spectacular visage with the quality of moonlight. “Cigarette?” she asks. But I can’t speak to decline, can’t spit in her face, can’t even move with this goddamn thing in me. I gurgle a bit and
she walks away. I look outside the blender to see my dog Watson wandering aimlessly about. He’s a bit of a dum-dum but so sweet I can’t bring myself to deep-six him for his innumerable faults. Finally he sees me and cocks his head. I motion for him to call 9-1-1 but he’s clueless so he calls 4-1-1 instead. Then he’s comparing my clock to the operator’s time. It’s no use trying, Watson’s a total gull once he gets to chatting. She’s coming back now, the A-one, smoking a cigarette with a shit-eating grin. She sits on my chest and blows a dagger in my face. I’m beginning to worry. She takes another drag, extinguishes the butt in my right eye then smashes her six-inch heel into the left. No biggie, I think, hard as nails I am. She laughs a bit and bids me adieu, “Later, dude.” Then tries to step off my face but stumbles and breaks her heel off in my eye, twisting her ankle. I’m in too much pain to laugh. I just feel sorry for her and for a second I think maybe she feels sorry for me too. Granted, I’m blind at this point, but I sense it. Just like Keanu Reeves in that god-awful finale to The Matrix©—if you haven’t seen it, don’t bother. Jeez, what a fucking disaster that was. Anyway.
Just as I see the candy-colored candlelight rush up from the far end of the tunnel, the world begins to commingle with the rumble tumble of the blender. Perhaps Watson isn’t such a meathead after all; he’s managed to turn the blender on, which’ll surely kill us all. I hear him bark that bark that means he’s happy and I smile—what a loveable idiot. I’m no longer afraid. I’m blind and dying and my unmentionables are all smashed up and I’m being sucked into exquisite blades of my own design but for some reason I’m not even thinking of myself. Nay, I’m thinking of her: hoping she makes it out okay, hoping her ankle is okay, hoping she might forgive me someday. But the truth is this gull and I, we’re about to become part of everything and everyone else, and I’m okay with that because she’ll be part of me and I’ll be part of her and maybe we’ll work it all out in years of therapy. And I think: Wow, this really is love, L-U-V.
by Johnny Blahk
OPEN LETTER TO PEOPLE OR ENTITIES WHO ARE UNLIKELY TO RESPOND, MET WITH NO RESPONSE FROM McSWEENEY’S, EDITED SLIGHTLY by Reynard Seifert
Dear Tupac Shakur, Let me just say that I am sure you’re a very nice man and I respect the fact that you are probably busy recording music and living the “thug life” and other such things. So thank you, sir, for taking the time to read this. A few months ago, my teenage daughter became interested in your music, and well, interested in you, really. I believe she has left Manhattan to find you—a feat I am certain she will accomplish. She’s an attractive girl, you see, and quite resourceful; and probably you will like her very much; but as a father, I am a bit concerned. Art by Zay Schaefer
I don’t know if you have children, sir, but being the creative person you are, you can no doubt imagine what it must be like to have your daughter go out in the world to find a soul mate and husband without the approval of her father. But such is life. Your song “Changes” conveys a tragic message about the hardships of the poor and the desire for change—something I know nothing of, but intuit through your music and the campaigning of Barack Obama. It is as though we have a connection of sorts, you and I; and I can only hope you will treat my daughter with the respect spoken of in that particular aria. But I wonder if you would consider lightening the aggressive timbre of other tracks, as they can be downright frightful. Not that you are frightening, it’s just—well. My wife and I ask only that we be invited to the wedding. And of course, if you need any money, Rachel has our black card; feel free to use it at your discretion. But I’m sure you’re doing fine for yourself, so if you don’t have to use it, that would be great, too. I don’t know much about you, as I’m a very busy man. Obviously, I haven’t had so much as the time to solicit your address. But judging from the cover of your recent album Pac’s Life, you are quite the snazzy dresser. It speaks volumes of your commitment to innovation that you forwent the tie on your tuxedo, and the excessive jewelry is quite intrepid; in fact, the whole James family—even our dog Skip (ha!)—anxiously awaits the wedding to see how you will outdo the stylish garb of that 2006 release. At some point I’d also like to discuss life insurance with you. Not that we morbidly foresee anything happening, but it’s important that Rachel be financially secure. And as her father I feel it my responsibility to ensure that everything is in order, were you to be struck by a car, say, or involved in a “gangland” assassination. In any case, I hope this letter finds you well. We look forward to hearing from you and Rachel soon. Oh, and let her know that her bunny, Fluffy McFlufferson, has sadly passed on; ironically, he ate a chocolate Easter Bunny. One love, Wendell James
A Note on the Types Text: Google’s Android project, an open platform for mobile devices, includes the Droid font family, which was designed by Ascender Fonts to provide optimal quality and comfort on a mobile handset when rendered in application menus, web browsers and for other screen text. The Droid family of fonts consists of Droid Sans, Droid Sans Mono and Droid Serif. The Android platform is a complete mobile phone software stack that will be made available under the Apache open source license. The fonts provided by Ascender ensure that users of handsets developed from the Android platform will enjoy highly legible text resulting in easy to use interfaces. That’s what the big boys at Ascender say about it in their bureaucratic mumble-speak. Mostly, I thought it would be funny to use a font called “Droid” that was designed for the iPhone by Google through some other fucking company, but it’s actually economical and readable. Not bad, corporate America. Not bad. Titles: Museo was designed by Jos Buivenga of the Netherlands after an uppercase “U” came to him as an image in a daydream, the top of both stems bent into semi-slab serifs. From this principle he worked out the rest of the font family. It’s an OpenType font with an open source license.
Candy and Cigarettes Vol. 1 No. 2 Cover art by Jonny B. Back cover art by Bradley Oliver Editing and Design by Reynard Seifert Distributed by Caleb Harmon Published by Noncents Media First Printed August, 2008