The other day someone asked me to name ten candy bars as fast as I could(!) This taxing request to usurp time was followed with my abrupt and mute disregard. As high up the ladder as car games, compiling an 'it' list of confectionary branding is a horrible expenditure of time. Next time I hear someone talk about candy bars, I can only hope that it is in allusion to the little number out of Tampa Bay, Florida.
In Tampa, I picture popsicles melting before people get to them, the populous weary from the thickness of humidity. I picture the beaches far from the human equivalent of a bee colony, as the civilians surely douse in modest appreciation for being anything but Miami.
With some kind of extrordinary buoyancy, Candy Bars sit on the cusp between the surrealism of heat exhaustion and the tight slap of sunstroke. Trapsing like a caravan salivating for air, one of their limbs always manages to bask carefree in the sunlight.
Candy Bars - Violets
Buy it [New Granada Records] or ride it [My Space].
-Tara
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