Sharing: David Sedaris

Posted on January 29, 2009

It was Easter Sunday in Chicago, and my sister Amy and I were attending an afternoon dinner at the home of our friend John. The weather was nice, and he’d set up a table in the backyard so that we might sit in the sun. Everyone had taken their places, when I excused myself to visit the bathroom, and there, in the toilet, was the absolute biggest turd I have ever seen in my life – no toilet paper or anything, just this long and coiled specimen, as thick as a burrito.I flushed the toilet, and the big turd trembled. It shifted position, but that was it. The thing wasn’t going anywhere. I thought briefly of leaving it behind for someone else to take care of, but it was too late for that. Too late, because before getting up from the table, I’d stupidly told everyone where I was going. “I’ll be back in a minute,” I’d said. “I’m just going to run to the bathroom.” My whereabouts were public knowledge. I should have said I was going to make a phone call. I’d planned to urinate and maybe run a little water over my face, but now I had this to deal with.The tank refilled, and I made a silent promise. The deal was that if this thing would go away, I’d repay the world by performing some unexpected act of kindness. I flushed the toilet a second time, and the big turd spun in a lazy circle. “Go on,” I whispered. “Scott! Shoo!” I turned away, ready to perform my good deed, but when I looked back down, there it was, bobbing to the surface in a fresh pool of water.Just then someone knocked on the door, and I started to panic.“Just a minute.”At an early age my mother sat me down and explained that everyone has bowel movements. “Everyone,” she’d said. “Even the president and his wife.” She’d mentioned our neighbors, the priest, and several of the actors we saw each week on television. I’d gotten the overall picture, but natural or not, there was no way I was going to take responsibility for this one.“Just a minute.”I seriously considered lifting this turd out of the toilet and tossing it out the window. It honestly crossed my mind, but John lived on the ground floor and a dozen people were seated at a picnic table ten feet away. They’d see the window open and notice something dropping to the ground. And these were people who would surely gather round and investigate. Then there I’d be with my unspeakably filthy hands, trying to explain that it wasn’t mine. Read more

Short Story Contest: Deadline Extended

Posted on January 26, 2009

Your response has been fantastic. With thanks to mega-sites like Stumbleupon, our contest has attracted more than one hundred entries and tens of thousands of visitors. Thank you! Artists Collective and Walkabout Jones look forward to awarding $1,000 to the writer who pens the best short story. And now, we’re giving you a little more time.The new deadline is February 28, 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.comArtists 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.orgWalkabout 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. Read more

Californicating

Posted on January 23, 2009

Fate is like a smart-mouthed waitress, hovering over, glaring down. I imagine her saying, Kiss my grits. “You think someone is gonna solve your problems? Sugar, let me tell you something. God helps those who help themself.” Yup. That’s how it runs sometimes. Pray all you like, but don’t expect an intervention. And should your full-of-faith friends invoke the above rationale as reason not to stick out their necks, that really narrows your options. You can either pray for the existence of a benevolent deity or solve the whole damn thing yourself. Are you fucked? Not completely. But you’re treading water wearing handcuffs.I remember my last day safely tucked in a corporate cubicle: September 2000. I was an account exec at a Santa Monica ad firm. The office was lousy, the job sucked, though they’d enticed me with verbal photographs of afternoons playing beach volleyball. Never take a job based on extracurriculars, but then again, I was twenty-five and living in Los Angeles. This can be hazardous to your health in any number of ways.As a firm, we lived in eternal hot water. We marveled at our clients’ apparent stupidity on an almost daily basis. Why did they keep us? We wouldn’t. We would have fired us long ago. We serviced high-technology companies. Not the cool ones—we were the last place that those outfits turned. Our clients made things like semiconductors, and required awesomely dull campaigns targeting very specific nerds. We persisted on ever-dwindling profits, even when Nasdaq was running strong. And when the dot.com’s suddenly flatlined, our group—hardly an industry leader in any brand of sunny adjective, was one of the first to commence shedding weight.One afternoon, my manager called me into the small conference room, gave me a miniature bottle of water, and told me they were laying me off. “Downsizing,” he shrugged. I sat doe eyed, staring at the table grain. I’d never been fired from anything before. A flood of questions ran through my mind. How much notice would I get? Would there be a severance package? I wondered why my boss wasn’t delivering the news. Bart was outside at his desk. His desk was twenty feet from my desk. It wasn’t like this was General Electric. I could see the idiot shuffling papers, wearing his usual shit-eating grin. Read more

Shades of Reflection

Posted on January 22, 2009

Vondel Park, AmsterdamBy Amy Rollo Read more

Left

Posted on January 20, 2009

Today’s Medicine

Posted on January 17, 2009

At Hollywood & HighlandPhoto by WJ Read more

Hollywood Reefer

Posted on January 14, 2009

“What do you do for a living?” she asks, in that droll, I-don’t-really-give-a-fuck way that sums up Hollywood so well.There are many ways that I could answer. I could say I’m a writer, flip a coin on whether or not she reads. Or tell her I work in medical supplies, if I want to kill the conversation. Or break it down legally: I’m the director of a licensed California non-profit, a caregiver to medical marijuana patients in accordance with state law. But often, should it get to the point where I choose to tell the humdrum truth, and it doesn’t happen everyday, I’ll say it softly, almost shrugging, as if my job is housed within parenthesis.(I run a marijuana delivery service.)Though it doesn’t matter how I say it—whether it’s a whisper or full-throated shout, the aftereffect is always the same: Heads square themselves on necks, as miniature bombs go off in both eyes, mouths working at every angle, as they try to wrap their heads around the news that I’ve just broken.It usually takes a minute or two before I am deluged with questions. How did I get into it? Is it really legal? Am I scared when I go places that I’ve never been before? Scared I’ll be arrested, or that somebody will rob me, or god forbid something worse?It’s awesome to be reminded of all your catastrophic scenarios while out for a quiet evening with friends, trying to be a regular joe. But the truth is—of course, I’m afraid. Though that probably isn’t the operative word. A better one would be aware. I’m aware of what could happen. I’ve heard stories ending badly, and in terms of handling such awareness, at least a journalism background offers the sense that I’ve been tested before. Am I out of my depth? Most likely. But no more than when the gunman opened fire in the Capitol, or the starlet tried to use me to get back at her cheating boyfriend. As a reporter, you learn to think on your feet. To watch and then work around the long knives. I wanted to bring this skill to deliveries, control borne out of concentration, if for no other reason than merely believing I still held some small hand in my destiny. Read more

Art Underground: Patrick Deignan

Posted on January 13, 2009

Emerging NovaBy Patrick Deignan

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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Now

Posted on January 12, 2009

7 Dirty Words – George CarlinSkinny Love – Bon IverEmpty – Ray LamontagneC’est Si Bon – Eartha KittTruck Driving Man – Buck OwensChampagne and Reefer– The Black CrowesSinnerman – Nina SimoneCall Me Irresponsible – Bobby DarinTake the Money and Run – Steve Miller BandSukiyaki – Kyu SakamotoStilletto– Billy JoelTime After Time  – Eva CassidyBrian Wilson – Bare Naked LadiesAlabama Song – The DoorsMore Than Words – ExtremeI Want a Man – Eartha KittCocktail – Dinah WashingtonDill Pickle Rag – Chet Atkins & Doc WilsonLights – JourneyDig our playlist? How many places 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 five songs of all time 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

Sharing:

Posted on January 9, 2009

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