How
Posted on December 31, 2008
It sounds straight out of Mad Men. Some enterprising creative director billed the Mars Company thousands to ogle old Playboy videos, and then, and this is the best part, itemized it as research. Where could I apply? I imagined a latter-day Don Draper equating a customer’s lust for milk chocolate with far more fundamental yearnings. Candy as porn, that was the concept, and all of the proper aesthetics were assembled: the backlit windows, glossy floors, the temptress in virginal white spiked heels strutting full-frontal toward the camera.The temptress was a giant green candy with legs. But wait, it gets better.Soon, she’s draped across a chaise, long leg dangling from the side as rose petals rain down. While bouncing on a satin bed, the accompanying music is best described as synthesizer porn. It ends with Green splayed on the floor, chocolate bosom heaving out, legs stretching up towards heaven.“Are we good?” she asks a leering crew. Only after we cut away does she reach for a bleezy and shot of Jack Daniels. All of which begs the question: How did Miss Green M&M become a candy porn star?In the 1980’s, M&M’s were a wholesome brand. They were the candy who took you on sleigh rides at Christmas. They melted in your mouth, not in your hand. In other words, not even eating them was dirty. Their jingle was sung by a children’s choir.But things changed in 1984, when Jesus’ chocolate rainbow of goodness became an arrow in sin’s arsenal. The devil came dressed as a little league commercial, two boys playing candy baseball: Brown is a single, yellow is a double, orange is a triple, and green, you guessed it, is a homerun.Eat green M&M’s and score, that was the lesson being imparted to boys approaching junior high. The thought of our carnal destiny realized thanks to the mojo of little green capsules filled us with anticipation. It was like we had discovered Viagra! The rules of the schoolyard were quietly known. Give green M&M’s to a girl if you wanted to hook up with her. If she ate them, she got horny. Read more
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With
Posted on December 30, 2008
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Sharing: Tobias Wolff
Posted on December 28, 2008
Anders couldn’t get to the bank until just before it closed, so of course the line was endless and he got stuck behind two women whose loud, stupid conversation put him in a murderous temper. He was never in the best of tempers anyway, Anders–a book critic known for the weary, elegant savagery with which he dispatched almost everything he reviewed.
With the line still doubled around the rope, one of the tellers stuck a “POSITION CLOSED” sign in her window and walked to the back of the bank, where she leaned against a desk and began to pass the time with a man shuffling papers. The women in front of Anders broke off their conversation and watched the teller with hatred. “Oh, that’s nice,” one of them said. She turned to Anders and added, confident of his accord, “One of those little human touches that keep us coming back for more.”
Anders had conceived his own towering hatred of the teller, but he immediately turned it on the presumptuous crybaby in front of him. “Damned unfair,” he said. “Tragic, really. If they’re not chopping off the wrong leg, or bombing your ancestral village, they’re closing their positions.”
She stood her ground. “I didn’t say it was tragic,” she said. “I just think it’s a pretty lousy way to treat your customers.”
“Unforgivable,” Anders said. “Heaven will take note.”
She sucked in her cheeks but stared past him and said nothing. Anders saw that the other woman, her friend, was looking in the same direction. And then the tellers stopped what they were doing, and the customers slowly turned, and silence came over the bank. Two men wearing black ski masks and blue business suits were standing to the side of the door. One of them had a pistol pressed against the guard’s neck. The guard’s eyes were closed, and his lips were moving. The other man had a sawed-off shotgun. “Keep your big mouth shut!” the man with the pistol said, though no one had spoken a word. “One of you tellers hits the alarm, you’re all dead meat. Got it?”
The tellers nodded.
“Oh, bravo, “Anders said. “Dead meat.” He turned to the woman in front of him. “Great script, eh? The stern, brass-knuckled poetry of the dangerous classes.” Read more
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Art Underground: Matt Theodhos
Posted on December 26, 2008
Walkabout Jones wants to feature artists of all kinds. Submit your paintings, graphic art, photography, drawings and other forms to “Art Underground” at walkaboutjones@gmail.com
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Twas The Night Before Kushmas
Posted on December 21, 2008
Twas the night before Kushmas and all through the house
Not a toker was smoking a gram, eighth or ounce
All of the glass had been washed with great care
With the hopes that old Santa Kush soon would be there.
The tokers were faded and watching TV
But were puffin on shake ’cause their bags were empty.
Mamma with her bubbler and I with my Roor
Wanted phat sticky nugs; Where’s the hookup, let’s go!
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter
I said, “Dude, is it cops? Damn man, what’s the matter?”
And I was going to hide my gear in a flash
But I was too faded to move off my ass.
Till down from the chimney who should appear
But Rah Santa Kush himself off his eight stoned reindeer.
Down the chimney old Santa Kush came with a sigh
He was dressed all in fur and damn man…he was high.
A big sack full of baggies he’d flung on his back
And he looked like a rasta when he opened that pack.
His eyes, they were glassy, and red as two cherries
And the rest of his mug was all ashy and hairy.
A nice fat green stem he kept stuck in his teeth
And the smoke of sleigh hits framed his head like a wreath.
And I laughed when I saw him and I said, “Hey mannnn….”
But he said not a word, he just held out his hand.
And inside was the stickiest, crunchiest bud
A freshly trimmed ounce hit my hands with a thud.
Then he gave me a nod and breathed smoke thru his nose
And with a stoney “420″ up the chimney he rose.
And up on the roof he called reindeer by name
Cause millions more tokers still wanted the same.
“On Reefer, on Keefer, on Blazer, on Hazy…”
“On Maui, on Waui, on Blitzed, and on Lazy…”
And I heard him exclaim as he pulled out of sight,
“Merry Kushmas to all, now pass me a light.”
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Now
Posted on December 19, 2008
Folsom City Blues– Johnny Cash
The Mudshark Interview – Frank Zappa
Islands in the Stream– Dolly Parton & Kenny Rodgers
I Love a Rainy Night – Eddie Rabbitt
Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer – Poe
Kwanza – Shirley Q. Liquor
Swingin Dreidel – Kenny Ellis
All I Want for Christmas – Dave Mellilo
Fare Thee Well, Miss Carousel – Townes Van Zandt
Lay Me Down – Crosby & Nash
Blackbird – Dave Matthews Band
Lonely Blue Boy – Conway Twitty
Galileo – The Indigo GirlsÂ
Danny Boy – Eva Cassidy
Van Helsing Boombox – Man Man
Avinu Malkeinu – Barbra Streisand
At the Christmas Ball (1925) – Bessie Smith
Black (live) – Pearl Jam
Dreamland – Peter Tosh
Dig our playlist? How many sites offer a mix of Cab Calloway and Temple of the Dog? Jim Croce and State Radio? Kenny Rogers, Etta James, Sam Cooke and Johnny Cash? Now it’s your turn to play music savant. Send us your top ten licks, and we’ll start adding your choices to the site. Whether it’s old, new, country, folk, jazz, rock, or straight-up funk, what matters is that it’s musical nirvana from the very first note. So dust off your records, maximize your music files, and send us your picks of legendary licks. Mail them to “MyTunes” at walkaboutjones@gmail.com
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Concrete Canvas
Posted on December 17, 2008
Axis
Posted on December 16, 2008
When Walter answered his phone, he was genial. “Whatever you need,” he told me casually. Walter was a congressman from North Carolina; he later coined the term freedom fries, then became the first Republican to change his mind about Iraq. This tells you a thing or two about Walter. My job was to ask semi-probing questions. I was a wire reporter for the Fayetteville Observer-Times, stationed in Washington—I’d never even been to North Carolina. My editor told me what to write, I was little more than his apple-cheeked mercenary. Military, tobacco, and the occasional soft piece were the usual items on my agenda.
I tried to pick my subjects wisely—or as shrewdly as a twenty-three year old could. I’d been pushing to write a story about the fifteen-or so folks in the state named after senator Jesse Helms. Helms was a modern political giant, loved by legions, hated by other legions, but nonetheless an historical figure. I sat in Foreign Relations hearings where Helms, the Tar Heel state’s senior senator, unfurled meaty adjectives at times when he could not abide. “Aw, that’s just plum baloney,” he’d say in his smoky mountain drawl. He tooled the marble halls of power in a sturdy, black, motorized Lark, though the Washington press corp kept this hush-hush, like Roosevelt in his wheelchair. Yes, there were better stories to chase, but I was enamored with Senator No. I wanted to ask him thoughtful questions about what he’d learned in his time in Washington, and what he hoped to do in his final years in office.
I filed numerous press requests while my editor laughed at me for trying. But I was determined to have supper with Jesse. It became my aim, my vision quest, my lonely crusade for historical journalism before moving onto baser assignments, of which there were always many. One morning, Ed said I was to interview the state’s congressional delegation about cum found on a blue dress. “See what Jesse has to say about that.” Read more
Short
Posted on December 15, 2008
Artists need encouragement. That’s the driving force behind Artists Collective. Now, in partnership with Walkabout Jones, Artists Collective will award $1,000 to the writer who pens the best short story. It’s as simple as that.
Deadline is February 28th*. The winning entry will appear in Walkabout Jones in Spring, 2009. Here are the rules:
1. Entry is free and anyone may enter. One entry per writer.
2. Short stories must be no longer than 2,000 words. Any submissions more than 2,000 words will not be considered.
3. Finalists will be chosen by Walkabout Jones. The winner will be selected by a published author, or authors, with no affiliation with Artists Collective or Walkabout Jones.
4. A short story is: A work of fiction. Non-fiction, essays, memoirs, etc. are not eligible.
5. Submissions should be emailed to “Short Story Contest” at artistsforaccess@gmail.com
Artists Collective is a licensed California non-profit delivering medical marijuana to verified patients in Los Angeles. Proceeds go toward creating opportunity grants for artists, writers, performers and musicians. Delivery is free throughout Los Angeles county. For contact information, go to www.artistsforaccess.org
Walkabout Jones is a web magazine, presently giving readers a front row seat to California’s medical marijuana world. Walkabout Jones features art, photography, music, politics, humor and experience-oriented essays.
* We’ve extended the deadline from January 31st to February 28th.
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Art Underground: Mike Frick
Posted on December 13, 2008
Walkabout Jones wants to feature artists of all kinds. Submit your paintings, graphic art, photography, drawings and other forms to “Art Underground” at walkaboutjones@gmail.com
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