A Bend in the Road
Posted on September 30, 2007
In Jack Kerouac’s On the Road, Sal Paradise trundles off to San Francisco with $50 in his pocket and just about nothing else. The trip is doomed from the start. Sal’s caught flat-footed in a rainstorm, then blows much of his scratch on a bus ticket to Chicago. A bizarre ride on a dynamite truck follows, his clothes are jacked by another hitchhiker, all of this leading to the inevitable destination–back home with tail square between his legs, though at least with seminal lessons learned for his future travels.
When I set out from LA on my own trip this summer, it wasn’t with a predisposition to mirror Kerouac’s trek. But in effect, I hit my own shit storm once I arrived in Lake Tahoe; one that left me just as flat-footed, and like Sal Paradise, prematurely haunted and tired of travel. In my first entry, I alluded to a serious medical condition, one that sapped me of my strength and made me question my very future. I didn’t delve into specifics. Sometimes the past is left behind for good reason. But as my trip moved into gear, I began to notice a resurfacing of many of the same symptoms that have plagued my life in recent years. Extreme exhaustion, an inability to concentrate and mood swings teetering toward depression became a daily exercise. A trip to a new doctor confirmed my worst suspicions. The physical and mental toll of my travels had contributed to a medical relapse.
I suffer from something that is little understood but is becoming increasingly common. It’s caused andropause, and the suffixal similarity to menopause isn’t accidental. Have you ever seen an old man cry? Then you’ve seen what happens when a man gets hormonal. Just as women experience a drastic reduction of hormones as they age, men lose power too. The average man loses roughly 10% of his body’s ability to make testosterone every ten years. Often, a seventy-year old man has less than half what he had when he was twenty. But some of us lose our stash even faster. Chemicals in food, free estrogens in the air, and a surfeit of other ills are exacerbating the problem. Estimates suggest that 20 million men could suffer andropause-like symptoms in the United States within the next twenty years. Read more
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“No Princess, you can’t eat a pony.”
Posted on September 22, 2007
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Bear xing, Incline Village,Nevada
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Our Second Reader Submission
Posted on September 20, 2007
Some Golden Daybreak
Photo by Joyce Smith: Here’s our second reader photograph. The west coast is known for its awesome sunsets, but head east if you want an ocean sunrise. Shot at dawn on Florida’s Jensen Beach, the bait shop sits on the Atlantic seaboard’s Intercoastal Waterway. Off in the distance is Hurricane Wilma, one of the strongest hurricanes to ever hit the area. Just goes to show that even danger can be beautiful from a distance.
Wanna share a picture from your own Walkabout Jones? Send your pictures to walkaboutjones@gmail.com
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Where’s My Laptop?
Posted on September 17, 2007
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Walden’s Coffeehouse, Reno, Nevada
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Don’t Trip
Posted on September 13, 2007
WJ will return on Monday
One of the challenges of running a one man, one computer operation is that the smallest of bumps can cause big problems. Or, in our case, the smallest of cracks. A tiny crack on the motherboard of our one and only computer means that our entire “technical infrastructure” has to be sent to the manufacturer. We’ve been very fortunate to receive multiple temporary laptop offers and for this we’re surprised and incredibly grateful. Thanks to everyone who didn’t want to see Walkabout Jones die just because our laptop did.
Walkabout Jones will be back on Monday, September 17th, with new content as we wrap up our time in Lake Tahoe.
Peace,
Dann
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Good Santa
Posted on September 9, 2007
Santa Claus is getting serious. His summer workshop is thin on toys but stocking-stuffed with legislation and government reports. Yes, Virginia, Santa is a policy wonk. But considering Mr. Claus’ career before donning “the uniform” it isn’t so surprising. Mr. Claus, who legally changed his name to Santa Claus a few years ago, was Director of the Terrorism Research and Communications Center, served as Assistant Deputy Police Commissioner for the New York City Police Department, and as a law enforcement administrator in the Virgin Islands. Long story short: If Rudolf’s nose is red for any of the wrong reasons, we have a problem.
But closest to Santa’s heart is children. From his home in a Lake Tahoe church (this Santa is also a monk) Santa is spearheading a national push to put children’s issues back on the political radar. Mr. Claus recently finished a 50 state “Bless the Children” tour, where he met with governors and lawmakers to discuss the plight of millions of America’s poorest and most vulnerable kids. The country’s methamphetamine epidemic, Santa says, has led to thousands more being taken into foster care. Child suicides are on the rise and child obesity is epidemic. It sounds like a job for Superman but this Santa says he’s up for the challenge.
WJ: So we hear you’ve got a gig for the other 11 months.
I do. My work is helping the 2 million children across the United States who are abused, neglected, exploited, abandoned, homeless or institutionalized. That represents one out of every 37 children in America. I’m also very concerned about the 400,000 American children who are already in the foster care system. More than 100,000 are ready to be adopted right now—if anyone was there to.
WJ: C’mon. Angelina Jolie can’t adopt everybody.
Ho, ho, ho. True. (Editors note: Santa didn’t actually say “Ho, ho, ho” but we think it adds something.) It’s wonderful when anybody is willing to step up and adopt. But considering that we have 114,000 ready for adoption in the United States, it’s a concern when a quarter of that figure is annual adoptions from overseas. By adopting American kids, we can take a lot of pressure off of our social services system. Read more
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Reno Riverwalk District, Sunset
Posted on September 7, 2007
What is beauty? A sunset over easy waters? A comely display of hair and teeth? Or is it when everything’s askew but somehow melds together in ways we find surprising? Is it humble? A Mona Lisa smile? Or is it a bold flourish in the face of lengthy odds? It could be all of the above. That’s the beauty of beauty. It’s alternative and conventional, accidental and hard-fought. It’s the Freya floating through our dreams, but it’s also hard luck Cendrillon—the servant girl whose clothes are rags and hair is splintered, who somehow finds a midnight miracle and becomes belle of the ball. You probably know her Disney story, that sad house girl named Cinderella.
Reno isn’t beautiful. It lacks the grit of Virginia City or the brilliance of Lake Tahoe. Reno is the homely child, the one neither exciting nor arresting to the eye. It sits in the center of a high desert pan, surrounded by brown and thirsty mountains. During the summer, the heat index scorches and when those desert hills flare up, the temperature, dryness, and smokestack brume of swirling fires is enough to make you feel like you’ve approached the mouth of hell itself.
It would be easy to give up on Reno, to view it as little more than a way station between Lake Tahoe and Salt Lake City. Most of its historic buildings are gone, its old time saloons and general stores faded from its urban story. First, they were replaced by casinos, and when those old hulls started crumbling, the land was filled with big box stores. On Virginia Street, I begin to see why postcards here are all shot after dark. The casinos are bunkers during the day, and there’s little but pawn shops and rag motels to hastily fill the margins. I’m ready to call it a day on Reno. I’ve come to take pictures but who wants to mythologize parking lots? I walk down the 1st Street Riverwalk as it seems within these few small blocks are the last of the city’s old-time charms. As the sun begins to set, neon lights infuse the air with a staid and weary electricity. The Truckee River runs through the center.  I cross a bridge and look back toward Virginia Street, searching for something, anything, to improbably catch my eye.
That’s when I see this, enmeshed in the center of all that is ordinary. Birds congregate on small gray rocks as though having one last conversation before retreating into the dark. A zephyr blows off of the mountains, cooling the air and rippling the water. The sun—so merciless during the day—reaches a point in the tangerine sky where it fills the river with flecks of gold. For a moment, Reno is breathtakingly beautiful. Briefly, around seven o’clock.
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