Art Underground

Posted on April 30, 2008

 History By Haley Klemm

Walkabout Jones wants to feature artists of all kinds. Submit your paintings, graphic art, photography and drawings to “Art Underground” at walkaboutjones@gmail.com

Going to Dr. Feelgood (part two)

Posted on April 27, 2008

Dr. Feelgood’s office is in Beverly Hills, housed within a sleek medical plaza a stone’s throw from Wilshire Boulevard. It’s a sprawling glass and steel building, accommodating every breed of doctor from clinical psychologist to pediatric pulmonologist to big pimpin’ plastic surgeon. Call it a Noah’s ark of medicine, doctors and surgeons stowed two-by-two, but otherwise it’s nothing special. His practice sits halfway down a long, carpeted hall, each entrance festooned with the same drab door and tidy monochrome nameplate. The joint blends seamlessly (aggressively docile) definitely not the sort of place you’d expect to be a golden arches for medical marijuana. The only difference I see between his entry and the rest is that most of his colleagues have one door while Dr. Feelgood boasts two. 

Getting an appointment was relatively basic. Far easier than booking a consultation with Dr. 90210. Earlier in the day, I’d talked with his assistant, a young girl with an easy way, who offered a friendly lay of the land. The doctor could see me mid-afternoon. I should bring any medications I was currently taking, hospital records if I had them, and a valid state i.d. The first two were suggestions, while the last was non-negotiable. The doctor would ask about my condition, review my health history, and if he believed I had a clinical need for medical marijuana, he’d write what amounted to a prescription. I’d then pay him $150. “It won’t take long, probably fifteen minutes,” his girl said cheerfully.

Eureka. Especially since I wasn’t worried about qualifying. I took hormone shots just to get out of bed, and while the side effects were serious, going without was like falling off a mountain. In the universe’s typically wacked-out way, I understood what it was like to feel eighty-five, and I was barely thirty. It was an insight into growing old that woke me up many nights in a sweat. Even worse since nobody knew how to cure me. I had an endlessly thickening hospital file, gorged with the scribblings of numerous doctors, and so many blood tests you’d think by now I was running on fumes.

I would guess some stoners go to their appointments wondering if they’ll pull it off. Will their reasons for medical marijuana seem veritable and sincere? And if not, will they still owe the money? This would be a double-burn for anyone coasting through the door with no pill bottles or paperwork, just their girl scout’s honor that they really, truly have anxiety. But the truth is, most had nothing to worry about. Patients pay for the prescription, not the consultation. And from this I’m sure you can do the math. Everything I’d been asked to bring had more to do with fulfilling various state legalities than embarking on any exhaustive exercise in modern alternative medicine. I was about to see how the law really worked. How it addressed the needs of thousands of sick people, many in wheelchairs, others with brain injuries, some in the final stages of cancer, while at the same time being straight-up gamed by the savvy, desperate and all-out greedy. Read more

“My church isn’t silver or gold”

Posted on April 23, 2008

19th Century Glass, Virginia City, NevadaPhoto by WJ

Coming This Week

Posted on April 20, 2008

You’ve been waiting. Too long. So buckle up Jonesians, this week brings Part Two of “Going to Dr. Feelgood.” For those who haven’t read the first, jump in your time capsule and head back to March 6th. Sorry it’s taken time, but such is the downside of being a one man band. Everything you see is done by me—and time (if not money, for once) has been scarce.

In the next week, you’ll have a new “First Person” telling the tale of California’s medical marijuana world. I’ve gotten a huge amount of art submissions and queries. Again, sorry for not getting back sooner, but a boy’s gotta sleep.

Expect to hear from me sometime in the near future.

Here at WJ, everything is going well. Jones is getting a big thumbs-up from readers around the world, our Myspace presence is growing, and there’s plenty more good to come.

So stick in. Turns out we’re not going anywhere.

Peace,
WJ

Star-Spangled Eyes

Posted on April 15, 2008

   Military Marketing: East Escondido, California

“Gimme…Gimme”

Posted on April 12, 2008

 By Katrina Elder

It’s decided. I’m banning Whole Foods. I’m tired of the abuse. Tired of feeling guilty after every shopping trip, or having to pretend I care when, really, I don’t. It’s not because their prices are astronomical or their claims are false. It’s not even because the tiny parking lot maze they created causes more problems than it solves. No, I’m banning Whole Foods because I’m tired of being attacked by the clipboard-wielding guilt mongers that plant themselves strategically outside the exit and play on your conscience as you walk to your hybrid armed only with one measly $50 bag of produce. It’s not a fair fight, I tell you!

How am I supposed to feel when you ask me if I have time for abused children or if I care about global warming? Of course, I don’t want bunnies to go blind or polar bears to become homeless, but seriously, how was I supposed to know about the dolphins becoming deaf? You’ve profiled me. You know by my choice of grocery stores that I have a conscience. You know that I put my money where my mouth is when it comes to finding solutions to the many problems our world faces. You have the advantage. What weapon do I have in this fight? I am forced to sign your stupid petition and put money into your already lined pockets.

Yeah, that’s right, I’m on to you. You with your PETA tee shirt and your leather Converse, your dread-locked hair and your gas-guzzling VW bus. I know you get paid per signature. I know you’re really just a “petition circulator” and not a volunteer. Wetlands. Global Warming. Net Neutrality. The Water Shortage. Black Holes. Plastic Bags. The Grey Wolf. The Boreal Forest. Nuclear Smuggling. What will my signature do for you tomorrow?

Please, just leave me in peace. Let my conscience have a rest for one night. Can’t you see I feel badly enough after spending twice what I would have at Ralph’s in order to feel better about the previous life of my skinless, boneless breast of chicken?

Really, all I want to do right now is get home to my pint of melting Häagen-Dazs Dolce de Leche and my bottle of Rhône red and forget. Forget about the hypocrisy that we’re both foolishly playing into and the lies I just can’t quite bring myself to believe.

Katrina Elder is a writer and performer in Hollywood, California. Check out her blog, Stages of Drudgery and Triumph at http://drudgeryandtriumph.blogspot.com/

Art Underground

Posted on April 9, 2008

PersephoneBy Teresa Moore

See more of Teresa’s work at www.teresamoore.com

Walkabout Jones wants to feature artists of all kinds. Submit your paintings, graphic art, photography and drawings to “Art Underground” at walkaboutjones@gmail.com

Sharing: Shel Silverstein

Posted on April 6, 2008

Now in the laid-back California town of sunny San Rafael
Lived a girl named Pearly Sweetcake - you probably knew her well.
She was stoned 15 of her 18 years, and her story was widely told
That she could smoke ‘em faster than anyone could roll.

Well, her legend finally reached New York, that Grove Street walk-up flat
Where dwelt the Calistoga Kid, a beatnik from the past.
He’d been rollin’ dope since time began, now he took a cultured toke
And said “Jim, I can roll ‘em faster than any chick can smoke.”

So a note gets sent to San Rafael for the championship of the world.
The Kid demands a smoke-off; “Well, bring him on!” says Pearl.
“I’ll grind his fingers off his hands! He’ll roll until he drops!”
Says Calistog, “I’ll smoke that chick till she blows up and pops.”

So they rent out Yankee Stadium, and the word is quickly spread
Come one, come all, who walk or crawl, tickets just two lids a head.
And from every town and hamlet, over land and sea they speed
The world’s greatest dopers, with the world’s greatest weed.

Hashishers from Morocco, hemp smokers from Peru
And the Shashniks from Bagun (who smoke the deadly Pu-ga-ru)
And those who call it “light of life”
And those that call it “boo”

See the dealers and their ladies, wearing turquoise, lace and leather.
See the narcos and the closet smokers, puffing all together.
From the teenies who smoke legal, to the ones who’ve done some time
To the old man who smoked “reefer” back before it was a crime.

And the grand old House That Ruth Built is filled with the smoke and cries
Of fifty thousand screaming heads, all stoned out of their minds.
And they play the national anthem, and the crowd lets out a roar
As the spotlight hits the Kid and Pearl, ready for their smoking war.

At a table piled high with grass, as high as a mountain peak.
Just tops and buds of the rarest flowers - not one stem, branch or seed.
I mean, Maui Wowie, Panama Red, Acapulco Gold
Kif from East Afghanistan, and that rare Alaska Cold.

And there’s sticks from Thailand, ganj from the island,
And Bangkok’s blooming best
(And some of that wet imported shit
That capsized off Key West.) Read more

America’s Hottest Statelines

Posted on April 2, 2008

California/Nevada Line, Lake Tahoe, NevadaPhoto by WJ

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