Ghetto Candies, Vol. 1

My mom's visit to Los Angeles was therapeutic, I think, for us and for her. (She got to escape the T for a minute and I got to escape the j.o. Fair trade.) Holla @ me on Facebook if you trying to see all the pictures and stuff.

But I'd like to direct your attention to the San Pedro portion of our trip. The part when we went to go see this place.


Me and Tree had been there before, but stepping in was like a window into my childhood.


And it got me reminiscin' on the ghetto candies of 'hoodmas past. Like:



That's right. I come straight for the chest right out the gate. Never has fake citrus been so appreciated as when these ol' sour Lemon Heads hit the 'hood. I remember cats would get called stingy for like, half their childhood, if they had some of these on them and didn't share. (And you didn't want to get called stingy. It was like having leprosy.) I don't know why we was acting like times was so hard. The corner stores back in T-Town was charging like a quarter for these bad boys back in the '80s. They was straight golden, no pun intended.

The fundamental staple of any 'hood diet.

Plus, once you emptied the box, it made a nice harmonica.



Lemon Heads was the gateway "teeth rotter/on the way to diabetes already and a ni**a's only nine" candy. From the same evil monarchy that kept mad dentists in business came:






I almost fainted when I saw some of these candies, dog. Alexander the Grape? In the summer of '85, I saw Bill Armstrong get dropkicked in the larynx over some Alexander the Grape! Even now, as an adult, I considered holding the place up to get some Johnny Apple Treats. Boston Baked Beans was hit or miss. But I guess getting me to eat anything affliated with Boston while this guy was terrorizing my Bad Boys was akin to the Camp David Agreement.

You've gotta give it to those cutthroat capitalists over at Ferrara Pan. It was a nifty way to introduce kids to fruits without actually making want to eat actual fruits. Which leads me to my next ghetto candy:


Wrong wrong wrong wrong on so many levels. To my knowledge, there were two variations on this candy. There was the kind that was more prevalent in my hood, where it was a candy and the end of the tip was painted pink to suggest a lit cigarette. Then, there was the kind in San Pedro, which my wife said she grew up with.

1) Cigarette looking paper conceals the gum inside. Perfect for faux Don Johnson-look by Miami Vice watching nine-year-olds.

2) Blow the cigarette and real smoke comes out. Perfect for addicting small children to the real thing!

3) Peel off the paper and chew the gum inside. Fun for the whole family!

While we were talking about Philip Morris's feeder system, disguised as harmless childhood fun, my Mom told us that when she was a kid, they actually had the name of real cigarettes (Camel, etc.) on the candies. Where was the FDA when this was going on? They might've as well have just put real cigarettes in there, laced with cinnamon just to suck the kids in. Speaking of know better, do better:



I loved me some Cherry Sours, but damn. They might as well have just called 'em Jelly Junglebunnies and put Stepin' Fetchit on the cover. Got me looking at Ferrara Pan a little suspect.

Next time: The federal government introduces prostitution to the 'hood by releasing a candy called Sugar Daddy, Chick-O-Sticks as hide-and-go-get-it collateral, and the greatest 'hood candy of all time.