DAVID LESTER ART

Every Saturday, we’ll be posting a new illustration by David Lester. The Mecca Normal guitarist is visually documenting people, places and events from his band’s 26-year run, with text by vocalist Jean Smith.

“The Caribou And The Oil Pipeline” is the last download from The Observer album. It falls under the heading of political, and it brings up the idea that political art is difficult to make for a number of reasons, one of which is the feeling that it isn’t going to change anything—but, as the lyrics say—I didn’t think I could write a hit about the caribou and the oil pipeline, but I had to try.

I left this song until the end of the downloads because Dave doesn’t play guitar on it. I mean, he did play guitar in the studio and then I added piano, but when we went to mix it, we took the guitar out to get a sense of what was there, as a way to re-calibrate our listening, and Dave was pretty excited about leaving the guitar out. The piano was to be my usual sort of accent work. In a way, I kind of regret not having the guitar there, but as it stands, it is symbolic of one facet of the way we work as a creative team: responding, evaluating and removing framework. In this case, making the song even less likely to be “a hit” foists intention to the fore. It is our intention to get results from what we do, but what happens to a song once it is released is essentially unpredictable. Trying to accomplish one thing or another isn’t the only thing; being involved in the creative process with other people is where much of the satisfaction and pleasure come from. Take the lyrics “It’s easy if you try” and “All we are saying”: simple, direct and powerful. The words are directed at the listener, encouraging us to step out of the shadows, into the sphere of action and change.

After 25 years of releasing music, I can fairly accurately predict what will happen to Mecca Normal songs. That they are not gobbled up by loads of people turns out to be OK. I see this as stepping away from ego-driven consumer antics; the essence of what I do is hinged to a framework within which I exhibit, understand and evolve through various skills, emotions and proclivities. Less clamoring, more engagement with the ever-extending process—overlapping all aspects of funneling, filtering and ruminating.

I’m including a live version—one of the first times we played it—but Dave’s amp didn’t sound that great.

“The Caribou And The Oil Pipeline”
You’re in your car
You’re running out of gas
You pull in to get the gas

3,000 miles north of here
100,000 caribou are heading for the sea
Bears and ravens follow

This is where the U.S. wants to build an oil pipeline
It will disrupt the caribou migration

You see it on TV—there’s nothing you can do
You can’t change the world, so you change the channel
But in your mind, one fact stands alone:
A six-month supply of oil versus 20,000 years of migration

In a dream, you see the caribou crossing an icy river, exhaling steam
They dream themselves up and over steep and barren hills

I didn’t think I could write a hit
About the caribou and the oil pipeline, but I had to try

You’re in your car
You’re running out of gas
You pull in to get the gas

What if?
What if?

Every Saturday, we’ll be posting a new illustration by David Lester. The Mecca Normal guitarist is visually documenting people, places and events from his band’s 26-year run, with text by vocalist Jean Smith.

Fabricland/Curves: Wed 3 — 10:15-6:15; Thurs 4 — 9:30-5:30; Fri 5 — MN rehearsal; Sat 6 — 9-1 Curves; Sun 7 — 9:30-5:30; Mon 8 — 10:15-6:15; Tues 9 — 10:15-6:15; Wed 10 — OFF; Thurs 11 — 10:15-6:15; Fri 12 — 3-7 Curves; Sat 13 — 10:15-6:15; Sun 14 — 9:30-5:30; Mon 15 — 10:15-6:15; Tues 16 — 10:15-6:15; Wed 17 — OFF; Thurs 18 — 9:30-5:30; Fri 19 — 3-7 Curves; Sat 20 — 10:15-6:15

It takes about an hour each direction to get to FabLand. Gotta lose some of those hours and get a regular schedule. They want employees to be available seven days a week so they can cobble together seemingly random groupings of days to work. When I started, I wanted three days, but at $9 an hour, I needed to work four; then she put me at three days a week, so I took a couple of shifts at Curves, and then without saying anything, she put me at five days a week. I still want my Curves shifts. My life is in tatters. Shattered.

Each FabLand employee is expected to, on her own time, sew an apron to wear in the store during the Olympics. An apron made from fabric in the zany Canadiana section: beavers on ice skates, provincial tartans, hockey pucks and figure skaters. Do I need a fleece apron with Canadian flags all over it? No, I do not.

Me, I like a good plaid, more the Madras than the Scottish—even though I am Scottish and Welsh on my father’s side (and mystery history on my mother’s). I checked out (pardon the pun) some of the least offensive ones (PEI and BC) and settled on (pardon the attempt at a pun … settlers settling) a brown tartan that, damn, wasn’t part of the provincial collection. Giovanna cut it for me, and when she looked at the bolt end to see which province I’d chosen, of course it was revealed that I hadn’t followed the instructions. I’d picked an ineligible fabric for my Olympics apron project. “It’s Saint-Pierre and Miquelon,” I joked. She shrugged and wrote something on my receipt, and I am here now wondering when I’m going to sew this apron.

It is actually great to be back at Curves. I’ve only done a few four-hour shifts, but, my god, compared to the lugging and hauling at FabLand, it is paradise. FabLand customers are insane. Yesterday, first question, “Do you have any bag material?”

“Yes,” I replied and walked away.

Next question—and this is regular query—”Do you have any material for a table cloth?” What do they think? Are they concerned that some fabrics, if laid flat on a table, will slowly creep upwards to the ceiling?

As for the Olympics, Brian and I went over to the pool at Brit on Saturday and saw the ice rink behind three layers of metal fencing with about 15 street cops positioning themselves, hands on hips, to discuss logistics. It is very strange to see our little recreation centre—rink, gym and pool at the high school on The Drive—part of this crazy international event. It’s a practice facility for skaters. Ice time, man. It’s all about ice time.

At Curves, I’m two blocks from where they’ll be doing the figure-skating events. Streets are closed, Olympics lanes are open (closed to local traffic), parking is heavily restricted. Luckily I ride my bike to Curves: seven minutes. FabLand is a block and a half from one of the three bridges that go from Vancouver to Richmond, where they built the facility for speed skating, I think. I have no idea how long it will take me to get to work on the bus if there are events scheduled near my shift time. I’ve heard there will be hour long waits for trains. I don’t think anyone really knows what is going to happen.

Something about the fences and the cops standing around was very unsettling. I mean, this is an area between two buildings at a high school, an area the size of a Starbucks. This is the neighbourhood in which many potential Olympic protesters live, so I’m wondering if the security is related to that, or if this is standard Olympic security. Are all Olympics facilities behind three layers of fencing?

Saturday was a good day at Curves. Two older women on the circuit were talking about the Resistance in France. Judith (English) was asking Jeanne (French) if her husband (86) was part of the Resistance. “My father was supposed to be shot a 2 o’clock in the morning,” I heard Jeanne say. “He had to be out of the country … ” Her voice became inauible beneath the Black Eyed Peas. After her work-out, Jeanne used the phone to call her husband to come and get her. “Tout suite,” she said. I took the phone back and said, “Merci.”

“Do you speak French?” she asked.

“Mais non,” I accidentally replied.

Brian and I had a loose plan to bump into each other at Donald’s grocery after my shift at Curves, then carry on with our individual obligations like responsible citizens, but that didn’t quite work out. Brian got to Donald’s at 1 p.m. and hung around, waiting for me, but I couldn’t get there until 1:30. I’d sent an email that he didn’t get, saying I needed more time because I wanted to stop at the drug store on the way. I wanted to buy Brian a bath brush.

Earlier in the day, before work, he’d said he was going swimming at 2:30 and would I like to go. I thought I’d be too tired after work so I didn’t bring my swim suit. But I felt great, so I figured I’d buy a bathing suit at the Salvation Army and surprise him, ready to go for a swim, casual-like. I bought the bathing suit without trying it on, noting that the yellow top was maybe slightly too big and the non-matching brown bottoms were slightly too small. I checked again at Donald’s—no Brian. I unlocked my bike and rode over to his place about six blocks away. I don’t normally drop by people’s places, but it seemed OK since we had a basic plan to meet. I bumped down the lane of many potholes, put the bike on its kickstand on the path at the back of the building and walked up to the waist-high cinder-block wall of his patio. He was sitting at the computer. “Hello,” I said through the open door.

He came out onto his tiny patio and said, “I just hit send on an email to you when you said hello.” He was happy and very surprised to see me standing outside his apartment.

I could feel heat on my back through my down jacket. I gave him the bath brush with a nice long handle—part of Valentine’s Week. He had a new haircut and a story to go with it. “Noon. Nancy not available. New girl. Too long. Too short.” A haircut story. I was happy standing there in the sun. It was very nice to be there, even if there was a wall between us.

I brought the bike inside and tried on the bathing suit in the bathroom. I came out, and Brian said, “That’s a bit revealing isn’t it?” which resulted in me going to another thrift store on the way to the pool to look for something less revealing. I figured “hubba-hubba” would have been a better response. The thrift store didn’t have any bathing suits, so I wore the revealing one, and it was basically fine.

Brian swims lengths—something I’ve never done, but I thought I’d give it a try. Man, that’s hard work. Crikey. I mean, I was tired—I’d worked out in the gym upstairs before the swim, worked-out at Curves, ridden my bike here and there. I was tired when I started and very surprised at the intensity of the cardio and the general sense of sinking like a stone as my energy rapidly decreased.

I think the top of the bathing suit did come off my left breast as I crossed the whirlpool heading for a better set of jets. I’m actually very modest, but somehow I didn’t really care if anyone saw my left breast or not. I’m just a female human. Being.

Every Saturday, we’ll be posting a new illustration by David Lester. The Mecca Normal guitarist is visually documenting people, places and events from his band’s 26-year run, with text by vocalist Jean Smith.

FADE IN:

EXT. A 1975 BABY-BLUE FORD PICKUP TRUCK IS AT A STOPLIGHT AT A DESERTED INTERSECTION IN A QUIET INDUSTRIAL AREA—NIGHT

The driver of the truck—CHAD, a well-built, 40-year-old man with curly blonde hair sticking out beneath his cowboy hat—reaches in front of VERONICA—an unhappy-looking woman in her 40s with long straight brown hair—and tosses an empty Budweiser beer can out the passenger side window. CHAD impatiently turns left before the light turns green. He pulls up in front of VERONICA’s building, beside an orange-juice factory, slams the truck into park and continues to look straight ahead, engine running.

CLOSEUP OF VERONICA LOOKING AT CHAD.

VERONICA
(tentatively)
It’s late so I’m not going to invite you in.

CLOSEUP OF CHAD LOOKING STRAIGHT AHEAD.

CHAD
(hands gripping the steering wheel tightly)
OK. It’s late. Fine.

CLOSEUP OF VERONICA LOOKING AT CHAD. Two beats. VERONICA opens the truck door, gets out, closes the door and looks at CHAD through the open passenger window.

VERONICA’s POV. CHAD keeps looking straight ahead.

VERONICA
(softly)
Good night.

VERONICA’s POV. CHAD pulls a U-turn, tires chirp.

SHOT OF VERONICA walking across the parking lot. VERONICA stops and turns.

VERONICA’s POV. SHOT OF THE TRUCK SITTING AT THE STOPLIGHT.

CLOSEUP OF VERONICA.

CHAD
(VOICE OVER with echo)|
A gentleman doesn’t just drop a lady off my dear; he walks her to her door.

BACK TO VERONICA’s POV. SHOT OF THE TRUCK GOING DOWN THE STREET AND OUT OF SIGHT.

VERONICA
(under her breath)
What an asshole.

SHOT OF VERONICA walking to the door of her building.

FADE OUT.

If you want to say that you don’t drive a baby-blue truck, that you don’t wear a cowboy hat, that I don’t live in a warehouse district—that it wasn’t like that, that you weren’t irritated when you dropped me off—you would be right, but some tiny part of you dropping me off after the opera on that icy winter night informs this scene. I know you were concerned about driving slippery streets in your sports car, and that you were pre-occupied with getting home—that’s why you didn’t wait to make sure I was safely to my door. You were thinking about getting yourself home safely, but I can twist and turn that incident however I want and make it part of a whole other scope of meaning.

Are you beginning to accept that I can write a screenplay that is not simply a thinly veiled version of me? It is insulting that you persist in assuming that I simply change “I” to “Veronica” and call it fiction.

Every Saturday, we’ll be posting a new illustration by David Lester. The Mecca Normal guitarist is visually documenting people, places and events from his band’s 26-year run, with text by vocalist Jean Smith.

Song slivers arrive in shipping and receiving, between photo-cutter roar and dry-mounting rumble. With my mind, I add the sounds together and turn the nearly inaudible music from Eileen’s radio into Marvin Gaye—regardless of what’s playing, I hear “Sexual Healing.” Sexual, sexual healing.

Paul, a young guy from the digital department, comes to look out the window. Wincing at the brightness, he fingers the paper-white orchid. I turn away. He asks me, “What’s your favourite movie?”

“Harold And Maude,” I say. “It’s about a suicidal young guy who falls in love with an eccentric old woman.”

“OK. What’s your second favourite movie?”

“Picnic At Hanging Rock,” I say. “It’s about Australian school girls who get lost in the outback.”

Paul lays his head on the postage scale.

“Ten pounds, 10 ounces,” I say.

On our morning coffee break, Zoila is eating three pieces of thickly sliced white bread stacked together.

“Wow,” I say to Zoila. “It’s a bread sandwich.”

Maria talks about her new roommate. “He’s white. He’s single. He’s 50, but he’s circumcised.” She looks at me. I’m the only Caucasian in the room. “Do you prefer cut or uncut?”

In my mind, I see the penises of recent dalliances, dicks and cocks of old relationships—cut, uncut. Cut, uncut. Maria and the other Filipinas are waiting for my answer, for my preference.

Maria says, “Uncut is ugly.”

Eileen says, “How do you know?”

Maria says, “I’ve seen a photo.”

The dark side of Maria. We are nibbling on Mike Dean’s banana bread. Mike is the Jethro Bodine handyman of the photo lab. He’s been phoning his mother across three time zones to get her recipes. He brings baked goods to work, on the bus, triple plastic-wrapped. Pies, cookies, biscuits—he wants a reaction. He wants a reaction from the dark side of Maria.

Every Saturday, we’ll be posting a new illustration by David Lester. The Mecca Normal guitarist is visually documenting people, places and events from his band’s 26-year run, with text by vocalist Jean Smith.

Ann
The sun is setting and the sea is sparkling. Billy Idol is singing “Dancing With Myself.” Ann, a 60-something former world-class ballerina, is doing classic moves between the hydraulic gym equipment. I’m dancing around in front of her saying, “There is no place I rather be than dancing with you Ann—it doesn’t get any better than this.” This or maybe watching Gertrude Stein run through a huge rose garden with electric clippers while the song” I Never Promised You A Rose Garden” plays, Gertrude saying, “A rose is a rose is a rose,” which is often misinterpreted as “things are what they are,” but, by which she meant simply using the name of a thing invokes imagery and emotions associated with it. Which is why I prefer to be around people who don’t toss noun-petals at my feet, in my path, in my way. I like my experiences without roses.

“Anything new with the online dating?” Ann asks.

“The last two guys I started something with had Rottweilers. I’m not a Rottweiler fancier at all.”

Ann laughs, and looks at me over the top of her glasses. “Oh dear,” she says with her now-faint English accent.

“Guy One’s dog was young, dumb,” I say. “It jumped up and got its nose between my legs—and it ate the sleeve of Guy One’s wool sweater.”

Ann shakes her head. “Why would a dog eat a sweater?”

“It think it was passive aggressive. Guy One wanted to control the way the dog behaved. Actually, Guy One wanted to control everyone. He was starting a new religion—a new religion without a god.”

“I guess Guy One wanted to be the number-one guy.”

“Yes, that sums it up perfectly,” I say, dancing around.

“Oh Jean—you are finding some very odd men in this online dating,” says Ann, doing lovely kicks and twists.

“Odd is a very good word, but I’m not sure the problem lies in the method. There are some odd men out there, maybe especially in this age bracket—the over-50 set.”

“I think if a man is starting a new religion you can safely delete him from your list of potential suitors,” says Ann.

“It can take a while for all the clues and hints to add up.”

“What were some of the clues?”

“Well, there was no door on the bedroom and the dog and his jumping ways and his cold wet nose were distracting during sex,” I say and Ann rolls her eyes while doing her graceful swan arms. I continue, “Guy One got up and took the door off the bathroom and hung it on the bedroom hinges, but the bathroom door was simply smaller and it did not close, so Guy One got a big chunk of coral from his collection to hold the door closed. He was a big guy—over six feet tall—and he picked a big piece of coral and for myself, when I went to the bathroom, I bent naked, naked and ticklish, lifting and carrying the large chunk of coral across the room. With the door now freely open—and Guy One’s dog with the cold wet nose—and me being naked, naked and ticklish—looking for where to set the coral down … ” My voice trails off when Ann begins shaking her head in dismay.

“No door on the bedroom would be enough for me,” Ann says. “You are meeting the wrong men, Jean.”

I laugh and say, “You may be right, but it’s hard to know until you let them behave for a little while.”

“You must have some way of finding out about them before you meet them.”

“Guy One looked good on paper.”

Ann finishes her work out, packs up and heads for the door. “I’ll ask you about the other Rottweiler’s owner next time I drop by the theatre of the absurd.”

“Yes, see you then,” I say, waving good-bye, imitating her very graceful swan arms, thinking about that version of the story and what her reaction says about her experiences beyond the footlights of London’s ballet stages into the bed sits of Earls Court in the 1950s, the 60s and then on into her married life with whom? Perhaps a very refined David Nivenesque character or a Sherlock Holmesian fellow (all tweed, mustache wax)—men with impeccably glossy veneers who hid, as men do and did, what is perhaps now more common to expose, to explore. Back when a man, on a whim, did not take the door off his bedroom.

Every Saturday, we’ll be posting a new illustration by David Lester. The Mecca Normal guitarist is visually documenting people, places and events from his band’s 25-year run, with text by vocalist Jean Smith.

The Good Painter
Dad is leaning on the kitchen table. He is old. I am light and graceful. I should float away—up the mountainside. I’m wearing my favourite dress: dirty pink and murky green smudges on white. I call it my good painter dress. The dress is like a simple painting—a landscape—when everything is working. A connection has been made between the painter and the viewer. Yes, that’s what this dress feels like—appreciating the of value simplicity. The good painter knows when to stop and leave it alone. The good painter knows when it is exactly the right time to stop.

Mom is leaning, even older than Dad, on the counter by the kitchen sink. I look past her, out the window. I can smell pinesap in the dry July heat.

Dad asks, “Do you know anything about selling diamonds?”

“Not really,” I answer. “Why?”

“Eighteen years ago, your brother walked in here after visiting your grandmother at the hospital. I had … ”

“Pneumonia,” I say. “You had pneumonia.”

“A nurse from the hospital kept phoning me to say I’d better visit my mother before she died. I told her that I couldn’t, that I had pneumonia. And do you know what she said to me? She said, ‘We’ve all heard about your pneumonia.’”

“Wow,” I say. “It seems incredible that Granny Belle died 18 years ago.”

It was Christmas, and we were having pancakes when Granny Belle said she felt odd. Mom told her it was indigestion, but the pain didn’t stop. They began to talk about taking her to the hospital. But which hospital? Should they drive or call an ambulance? Mom was worrying about leaving the oven on and locking the back door. I told them to go, that I’d stay and make sure everything was turned off and locked up.

It wasn’t indigestion. It was a heart attack. When I visited Granny Belle in the hospital, she said, “It’s too bad you couldn’t come with us, but you wanted to finish your pancakes.” I wanted to say, “I don’t even like pancakes.” I didn’t say anything.

Dad starts the story again. “So your brother arrived here in a real mood after visiting your grandmother in the hospital. He put an envelope on the table and said it was for you. It was your grandmother’s diamond rings. I put it in my safety deposit box. It’s still there, with your name on it.”

“OK,” I say, wondering why they didn’t give me these diamond rings 18 years ago.

“When you find out how to sell diamonds, I’ll give them to you.”

“OK,” I say again.

Granny Belle’s diamond rings. One would be her engagement ring.

“Where did your father ever get the money for a diamond ring anyway?” I ask.

Dad says what he always says: “Mac was quite a character.”

“Tell me about him,” I say. “What was he like?”

Dad puts down his fork and leans back in his chair. “He had a lot of ideas for how to make money. At one point, as a teenager, it was my job to sort through barrels of used bottles at the dump. I was looking for a particular square bottle that Mac wanted for his perfume business. Belle-Mac perfume. He made it in the bathtub.”

Mom says, “Belle-Mac sounds more like axle-grease than perfume. They always had something going on in that bathtub.”

“We stuck labels on the bottles,” Dad says, making a rectangle with his crooked fingers. “And Mac sold them in bulk to loggers. $100 for I forget how many bottles, but that was big money. The loggers came out of the woods with their pay, and Mac talked them into buying the perfume to sell door-to-door. Then they came and pounded on our door, yelling that they couldn’t get rid of the stuff.”

“What did this stuff smell like?”

“It was pretty rough stuff. Acrid is maybe the best word for it,” says Dad.

“What did you do when the loggers came back with the bottles?”

“We hid. All three of us hid behind the furniture.”

“How did Granny Belle feel about all of Mac’s enterprises?” I ask.

“Enterprises,” Mom says. “That’s a nice way of putting it. More like an endless list of crazy schemes.”

Dad looks at Mom patiently and continues, “Mac got a lot of his ideas into production. Things were always just about to work out. The future was bright. Success was always right around the corner.”

“I said almost the same thing yesterday. Do you ever see Mac in me?”

“All the time.”

“How come you’ve never told me that?” I ask.

“Well, he had his problems,” Dad says.

“Problems like not being able to keep food on the table or pay the rent,” says Mom. “He was a man who never lived up to his potential.”

“Here’s a question for you Mom. When I was a teenager, did you think I’d just get married and not have to worry about earning a living?”

“I don’t know what we thought you’d do,” Mom says. “I’m still hoping you’ll live up to your potential.”

“After the Belle-Mac perfume disaster it was Sea-Foam wall cleaner,” Dad says. “Also made in the bathtub.”

“Did you ever get a chance to take a bath?” I ask, laughing.

“Not very often.”

“Did the loggers sell the Sea-Foam, too?”

“No, I sold the Sea-Foam,” he says.

“Door-to-door?”

“Yes. The idea was to get a foot in the door, get inside the house and rub it on the wall as fast as possible. Once a patch of the wall had been Sea-Foamed, the sale was in the bag. I think Mac used the extra perfume for the Sea-Foam, so it had an acrid chemically smell.”

Changing the subject to her own childhood, Mom says, “The vegetable man came to our house in a horse-drawn cart. During the Depression, men came with trays of hairpins to sell. I guess your father could have been one of them.”

I look at Dad, “You sold hairpins on a tray?”

“No, I didn’t sell hairpins, but I did have a cookie route.”

“How did that get started?” I ask, thinking I’d better get as much as I can out of him while he was willing to talk about these things.

“I heard about a bakery on Commercial Drive where, if you knocked on the back door, they’d sell overly brown cookies at a discount. So I got out my Sea-Foam tray and went across town to your mother’s neighbourhood to sell cookies door-to-door to rich people. I told my customers that I’d be coming back regularly, that I’d invented the cookie route. But I shouldn’t have told anyone the name of the bakery.”

“Why not?” I ask.

“When I went back to buy more cookies, they slammed the door in my face. I guess word had gotten back to them about my unofficial cookie route.”

“Did you come up with this idea or was it one of Mac’s schemes?” I ask.

“I came up with it,” Dad replies, proudly. Mom is wincing. I think all these stories were supposed to be kept quiet.

“Once, when I was a lot older, I was working straight through the night late on a freelance art job,” says Dad. “It must have been three in the morning when an ad came on the radio: ‘Come down to Crazy Mac’s. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s practically giving things away. You’d be crazy not to come down to see Crazy Mac.’”

“Wow. Crazy Mac’s. Where was his store?”

“It was on Hastings, one block west of Main. Basically it was a bunch of junk: knick-knacks and novelty items. What remained of his big ideas.”

“Did people call him Crazy Mac?” I ask. “And what happened to the store?”

“No one called him Crazy Mac and what happened was, he died. He’d gotten very, very tired. I drove past the store before the funeral. Guys were loading all his junk into a truck. He was in debt all over the place. I didn’t want to get involved, so I kept driving.”

Granny Belle’s diamonds are presumably still in the safety deposit box, in the envelope with my name on it. From time to time, I think about asking for them, saying that I now know how to sell diamonds, but another part of me doesn’t want to take them and sell them. Call it potential. And they’re not really mine— they’re part of digging around at the dump collecting bottles and the loggers banging on the door and all the other crazy schemes I may never hear about.

Her diamonds are fine where they are, then, one day, I’ll use them to pay for my crazy schemes.

Every Saturday, we’ll be posting a new illustration by David Lester. The Mecca Normal guitarist is visually documenting people, places and events from his band’s 25-year run, with text by vocalist Jean Smith.

Winter, 2007. I am on my way to work, catching the 7 a.m. bus to West Vancouver, Canada’s wealthiest neighborhood. It is dark and cold out. I walk past a guy under a bunch of blankets sleeping on the sidewalk. A skinny guy holding a black cross asks me for money.

“No, sorry,” I say and walk part way down the block to wait for my bus. I look back and the guy is shivering, talking sweetly to himself, twisting the cross delicately in his long fingers. He has long dirty hair and a grey sweat suit on, no coat. He regards the item in his hands in such a way that it seems like it isn’t a cross to him. He’s twirling it, inspecting it. I look down and see one shoeless foot twitching in a thin black sock. I decide to go and talk to him. I walk toward him even though something in me is saying, “Don’t, don’t talk, don’t get involved.”

“Do you know where your other shoe is?” I ask.

“Oh,” he says, looking down. “No, I don’t know where it is.”

“I was hoping it was right around here somewhere,” I say.

He looks around, but there is no shoe. I sit down on an empty bench, and he sits beside me.

“Are people being generous with their spare change this morning?” I ask.

“No.”

“Where did you sleep last night?”

“In a doorway.”

“Isn’t there a shelter or some place you can go to?”

“Where?” he asks excitedly, as if I can help him.

“I don’t know. Downtown Eastside?”

He says nothing and twirls the black metal thing.

“Is that a cross? Like, a religious cross?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I just found it. What is it?”

“Some people might think it’s a cross. It might work to your advantage.”

“How do you mean?” he asks, holding it up to see it at arm’s length.

“Well, I don’t believe in god, but maybe some religious people will give you money if you’re holding that.”

“Really?”

“Maybe,” I say, starting to feel like do-gooder lady giving the guy advice. “How long have you been living on the street?”

“Six years.”

“Wow. How old are you?”

“Twenty-six,” he says and then, turning cheerfully to me, he asks, “How old are you?”

“Forty-eight.”

“Wow, you could be my mother. Do you have any sons?”

“No, I don’t have any kids. I’m a musician. I never wanted to have kids.”

“I could be your son,” he says hopefully. He extends his hand. “My name is Dennis.”

We shake and I think about his hand—when was it last washed, where has it been, what diseases does he have? I put my hand back in my pocket thinking, “Must wash hand when I get to work.”

“Do you play music?” I ask.

“Sometimes I play the piano. There’s a piano store in the next block. We could go there—you can sit in my lap, and I can play piano.”

“Not the worst idea, but they won’t be open and I have to go to work.” I open my packsack. “Let see if I have any change.” I find $2.60 and give it to him.

“Thanks,” he says.

“You’re a very charming guy Dennis and you have a wonderful smile,” I say, hoping to make him feel good, wondering if that might help him at all. “Can you get some food around here?” I ask.

“I might go to the safe-injection site.”

“They have food there?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have a plan for how to survive the winter?”

“I may go back to Winnipeg.”

“Winnipeg?” I say, thinking Winnipeg is about 12,000 times colder than here. I look past Dennis, down the dark street to see if my bus is coming. “Do you have friends there, a place to stay?”

“Not really. I might get some food, get high a couple more times and commit suicide,” he says, hands busy with the cross. “It’s too cold on this planet and I’m hungry all the time.”

“I hope you don’t kill yourself, Dennis. I hope something good happens to you soon,” I say, thinking about my warm clothes: the pink flowery Chinese sweater, down vest, rain jacket. I think about giving him the pink sweater, but he’d probably get the snot beat out of him if he went around wearing it. I need the down vest. I like my rain jacket. My bus pulls in. I stand up. Dennis stands up. “Will you take me for coffee?” he asks.

“I can’t,” I say. “I have to go to work.”

He takes a few dainty hopping steps towards me, saying, “Will you help me get on the bus to warm up?”

“It goes to Horseshoe Bay. You don’t want to go to Horseshoe Bay,” I say, moving to the bus stop. He really shouldn’t go to Horseshoe Bay. I don’t think I could recommend he go into West Vancouver with one shoe, matted hair and a filthy grey sweat-suit.

“Where’s that? Where’s Horseshoe Bay,” he asks, following after me.

“It’s where the ferries are,” I say, wondering if he thinks I mean fairies. “You can catch a city bus on Howe Street,” I say, pointing in the opposite direction. Pointing away from me, moving away from him, catching my bus, going to work in West Vancouver, Canada’s wealthiest neighborhood.

Dennis, shivering, one shoe, thinking about suicide because it’s too cold on this planet and he’s hungry all the time, goes back to the corner where I first saw him. The bus pulls out and moves past him.

I look out the window and cry without making a sound. I have cried on the bus before, for one reason or another, usually self-pity. It is starting to get light. I love to look out the window on the way through Stanley Park, but this morning the trees loom most sorrowfully. Dark and lonely silhouettes.

Every Saturday, we’ll be posting a new illustration by David Lester. The Mecca Normal guitarist is visually documenting people, places and events from his band’s 25-year run, with text by vocalist Jean Smith.

I pick the place for the date: a radical bookstore to which Zack, a 47-year-old English student, has never been, even though it’s only two blocks from where he lives on the downtown eastside.

Question and answer, we tell our life stories over dinner at a pizza place and go for a walk on the pier where cruise ships dock and American tourists meander.

Zack’s a party guy. A skier. A waiter. His favorite place to work was a Greek restaurant where the staff was encouraged to drink—half price—upon arriving for work. The coke dealer showed up, and the day began.

He owned three Chevy Impalas in a row. A self-described waiter/ski bum until he was 39, when his parents died. He didn’t handle it very well. He didn’t handle death very well. He took a room in the creepiest of the crappy skid-row hotels and lost his belongings when he couldn’t pay the rent. He claims he moved down there because that’s where the services are. “You got your rehab, your detox and counseling. You got your 12-step and your food bank.”

Warning warning warning. Red flag. No one moves to skid row to get clean. Will I be playing the part of the woman helping him get his life back on track?

Standing on the pier half-watching the sun go down, a cloud of mist is giving great definition to the trees, which should have been flat and invisible. I am thinking of saying something about how the mist is making things clear, but I decide to keep that thought to myself.

I feel I am with a boy, a very young boy—he’s only been away from home 27 years, he’s only had 27 summers and 27 winters of partying and skiing. I guess that’s why he hasn’t got anything together yet. I don’t think he realizes it, but his life has gotten away from him.

After quitting school in grade 11, he bought a van so he could go on ski trips to Whistler. He didn’t leave home until he was 22.

I ask about his plans. He might like to go backpacking in Europe—skiing in Switzerland, but not while he’s still a student. I cannot make him a 47-year-old man. He remains a boy: tall, skinny, boyish features with a faded, worried look.

Fallen skier, waiter, party guy slips into an anxious silence. I feel the urge to ask, “What’s wrong?” Oh god! Let me not start with that! We may have run out of things to say. I told my Readers Digest version of my life story over dinner. He gave no indication of being attracted to me—no compliments, no lingering looks across the table intending to reveal interest. We didn’t talk about relationships or dating expectations. It was like being stuck with a visiting friend of a friend getting rooked into going out to dinner. Our conversation was only kind of OK.

Near the end, out on the pier, after the sun has gone down, he asks me about this music of mine. “Is it ever all-out punk?”

He seems concerned that it might be hardcore punk. I stand, a small middle-aged woman in a fantastically subtle silk jacket all the way from Japan. Hush Puppies. Long brown hair blowing in the wind, and this guy is fretting over the possibility that I’m actually Henry Rollins. I try to explain punk, myself, but fail at making an impact here. He never did ask the name of my band. Never tried to touch me.

I ask what sort of music he listens to. He says his taste is eclectic. My least favorite answer to a question meant to increase understanding. Eclectic in this case means that music isn’t really important to him. He says his taste varies and he’s never been into the live-music scene. After eclectic comes techno. I’m still trying to make him 47—he’s stuck in my mind as a boy. A boy who might backpack around Europe once he finishes school.

Carefully, I ask if he does anything you might call creative—perhaps he finds creative expression making an espresso, a cappuccino. I don’t know. He thinks a minute and says, “I don’t play music or paint, if that’s what you mean, but I do watch TV.”

Free cable in his creepy-freaky hotel room.

“And,” he adds. “I like to go to the movies.”

I can only half-think about being so grey and dispassionate to call watching TV and going to the movies creative. I guess, to him, art is a hobby, and his hobby is being entertained.

The sun is down, and I blurt out, “I have to get back to the other side of town. I get up early to write.”

He walks me to my bus stop. He seems sad again. I ask if I can give him a hug, I mean a hug good-bye. We hug, and he cheers up. He decides to wait with me for the bus. By the time I get home, he’s emailed to ask me out again. I should have skipped the hug. I go to bed rather than hit reply.

Every Saturday, we’ll be posting a new illustration by David Lester. The Mecca Normal guitarist is visually documenting people, places and events from his band’s 25-year run, with text by vocalist Jean Smith.

He’s there, standing in the bamboo section of the garden store, heavier than I thought he’d be. He’s very nervous. We walk up to the Drive for a coffee at Calabria. Fred talks a lot, telling me about his childhood and things he did before he got married, had a kid and divorced. After an hour, I want to get going. I am sad about not being attracted to him. I try to recall how I came to have a different image of him.

I log on to Lavalife to look at his photos. I see how he has carefully cropped them, selecting poses that are most flattering—as we all do. He has ticked the box “fit” as opposed to “a few extra pounds.” I update my profile, ticking boxes “slim” and “muscular” rather than having no preference.

Thinking about successful relationships over the years, I add a comment to my written section: “Seeking someone who is actively involved in culture rather than passively waiting for a big break.”

Several days later, Fred arrives unannounced at a Mecca Normal performance: an art auction to benefit books for prisoners. I’m very surprised to see him since we didn’t really click over coffee. The place is full of punks and artists, Vancouver’s impressive crossover contingency of underground musicians and political activists. Fred looks out of place in his white button-down shirt and Dockers. He stays for our set and leaves without saying good-bye. The next day I am lying in the sun, thinking about the art auction; my painting was bought by a guitar player I really like. I step inside to get water and check the computer. Fred has sent an email:

Jean,
I am certainly a green light on this “relationship” thing. It was hard to get any signs from you in the weird atmosphere of a poorly ventilated room packed with prison activists. I was way more nervous at the art gallery than our first meeting. The few words I exchanged with you were delightful, and further cemented my promise that I shall like you no matter what.
I am sorely tempted, like some chump from Shakespeare, to win your heart. Thank god I am attracted by your talent. I really am. You recall an old fire in me. A punk thing. You meld your clear intellect with feet planted on the ground. No pyrotechnics, you are completely there in the moment. I would leap at the chance of directing you in a play. You are true and have a broad range of expression and skill. I could go on and on and on.
I’ve been writing on silk since meeting you. My project has a whole new energy. I haven’t felt this good in ten years. The timing of your arrival is significant. It won’t be a setback if you say the magic just ain’t there for you—I will be sad, but life will pick up again. Do let me know as soon as you can whether you wish to continue.
Meantime, great show, thanks so much, you rock.
Fred

Lying down in the sun again, eyes closed, thinking—I don’t feel like responding. I don’t have to tell him yes or no on demand. I don’t know. I wasn’t attracted to him physically last night, but I was in performance mode. One coffee meeting and him appearing unannounced at my show and he needs to know if I want to start a relationship with him? Crikey. I try to imagine him being romantic or sexy. How would that be? Do I want to see him again? I’m not sure. He’s not even asking me out. Why doesn’t he just ask me out for dinner?

10 p.m., email from Fred:

Jean,
So I deserve finding out how you feel by a revised Lavalife profile? Such hostility. I made a point of warning you I was stocky with a spare tire. Was I wrong to presume that a woman of your age would have grown beyond letting surfaces be quite so important? For the record—like you give a fuck—I fight the war constantly.
Re: passively waiting for a big break. I’ve had huge achievements working with major talent. So sorry I erred on the side of modesty in our Calabria meeting. I’m not waiting for a big break because I’ve had mine baby. The rest is gravy. You don’t know anything about me. I deserved a bit more investigation. I can tell you I sure as hell never sold my achievements in a ratty old suitcase at the end of any of my shows.
An established riot grlll? What a calling card. Riot grlls are expected to behave badly. You are only doing what you are expected to do.
You perpetuate the Lavalife disposable syndrome, judging me this way. Good luck with your shopping list. I was more than content overlooking your imperfections to instead explore your inner beauty. That short story you sent me was staggeringly incomplete—I could not understand how you would show that to anybody, let alone send it out to magazines. I was simply astonished at your idea of structure.
I came to your show in good faith. I even bought your CD knowing this might happen. Were you always such a drama queen?
Fred

Every Saturday, we’ll be posting a new illustration by David Lester. The Mecca Normal guitarist is visually documenting people, places and events from his band’s 25-year run, with text by vocalist Jean Smith.

There’s a lot going on in David’s illustration. A lot going on in my mind. I haven’t asked him about his drawing, but clearly it is me reaching an extra long way up to pluck a black wedge off the family tree before it turns into a poison apple and rolls not far.

In 1986 we organized the first Black Wedge tour with anti-authoritarian musicians and poets. Earlier that same year, we’d released the first Mecca Normal LP, which, like 2002’s The Family Swan CD, had songs on it about family. Writing—songs, novels, stories—is how I think and understand more. Creativity is the essence of the lecture David and I present. How Art & Music Can Change The World intends to inspire self-expression, and typically I add something about political content. Most of the writing I do is about human interactions between men and women and within the family structure. Like they used to say back in the ’60s, the personal is political.

When I quit drinking 10 years ago, I wanted to figure out why I drank, so I looked back into childhood and family concerns and wrote about them. One thing I learned about humans is that we can’t change anyone other than ourselves, but sometimes the changing of self will go a long way toward altering how others behave. For instance, I made all these great changes in myself and my dad didn’t speak to me for three years.

I was on the phone with him, instigating a conversation that intended to show him that I was helpful and responsible. I’d asked him what he was going to do when he and my mother got too old to live on their own. I hadn’t got to the part in my evolution of realizing that fear manifests as anger in some people. He yelled at me and we didn’t speak for three years. He’s a guy who yells and can’t apologize; he feels terrible for yelling, but he can’t do anything about it. I was no longer available to be yelled at. He has not yelled at me since. Everything has been fine for years.

I couldn’t speak when he yelled. My brother, as a little boy, wrote him a note: “Please stop yelling at Mom.” Poor little kid. Both of them—all of them.

They are changing, too, going into survival mode as they subconsciously realize that they may need me at some point. I change in relation to how they change. They are old, and I hope I am here if they need me.

I phoned my mother on her 89th birthday. I was staying in a basement in the Bronx. The connection was terrible. I spoke loudly, repeating things slowly, very aware of the Colombian speech therapists who lived upstairs. I kept the call short and felt sad hanging up.

When I got back to Vancouver, I heard about her birthday dinner at my brother’s place. My father brought the cake and after dinner, my brother’s partner took charge of lighting the candles. Recently, my mother has decided that she would like to be called Isabella rather than Isabel, which doesn’t impact me because I call her Mom and I call my father Dad, although, for some time in childhood, I called him John, which I don’t think Isabella liked much, which is perhaps why I did it.

My brother’s partner brought the cake to the table and the singing began. “Happy birthday, Isabella,” sang my father and my brother’s partner stopped and looked down at the cake, at the icing he’d smoothed over to remove what he thought were extra letters, a mistake in the waves and curls of sweet lettering. I guess he hadn’t heard that Isabel was now Isabella. My dad, miffed that his good intentions had been erased, asked me, “Did they think I didn’t know what was written on the cake?”

On the phone, my mother tells a story about when she was a girl, how she made the chicken coop in the backyard into a playhouse, getting bits of wallpaper from the hardware store. One day her father decided to take down the chicken coop. “I came home and it was a shambles.” She’s had several lower teeth removed and some words now sound like she’s five years old. “Shambles” is all lispy, but she doesn’t seem to notice, in the way a five-year-old plows ahead with her story. “It was my playhouse,” she says and I can see her motioning with her hands—how my hands will look in 40 years and my hands now look like her hands did 40 years ago, when I was a little girl collecting up all that flew around, all that would go into songs and novels and paintings. Into trying to solve it all.

I’m thinking about the missing letters on the cake, the day I phoned her from the Bronx, the Colombian speech therapists. She’s telling me she wants to grow her hair long. “Down to my shoulders,” she lisps, and I see a little girl who looks very much like me, standing beside a busted down playhouse, singing the icing letters that were smoothed off her cake. “La la la la la la la la.” Isabel, Isabel, Isabella. Is this you needing me?

Every Saturday, we’ll be posting a new illustration by David Lester. The Mecca Normal guitarist is visually documenting people, places and events from his band’s 25-year run, with text by vocalist Jean Smith.

David’s painting The Colour Scheme Ruins It For Both Of Us makes me happy. I like to have a visual reference to the thought that neither part is easy in the awkward dance between men and women.

I found four VHS movies in a box in an alley. They had already been rained on. I guess they are chick flicks. In Mansfield Park, Fanny Price said this amazing thing. “He’s not without charm, but I do not trust him. I do not trust his nature. Like many charming people, he conceals an almost absolute dependence on the appreciation of others. His sole interest is being loved, not in loving.” Exactly. I don’t mean the guy on Sunday, but others who use manipulation and deception. Do you know what happened when Fanny Price told the guy she didn’t trust him? He got mad, blew up, stomped off. Of course.

The guy on Sunday, with whom there is a definite spark—we keep bumping into each other. I gave him my number last winter—he asked—back when I worked at The Store. We were going to go for coffee later that day—or soon. He didn’t call, and I had already reassessed things. I didn’t take it personally that he didn’t call. Next time I saw him, he apologized and clarified—and I was right; it wasn’t a good situation.

Since then, I’ve bumped into him more than anyone else. On the street, at the gym and on Sunday, outside a café, he asked if I’d join him for coffee. Beautiful sunny day, no seats outside, we decided to wander down to a small park. Talking, laughing, goofing around—soon he was touching my arm, rubbing my back. We were kissing and hugging in the sun. Hugging and kissing. Kissing and hugging. It was very, very nice. This went on for a very, very long time.

He’s a Leo, too. He said, “We need two spotlights.” And I made a gesture to block out his spotlight, saying, “No, we just need the one—on me.” He said I turn him on like two space shuttle engines, and I said, “Doesn’t the space shuttle lumber into the sky and drop its dead engines into the sea?” I told him he was maybe more like a Jekyll than a lion; I corrected myself, saying, “I mean a jackal.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” he said. “I’m a scavenger eating dead things?”

I told him my cheeks ached from laughing and that I wanted to laugh more. To keep laughing. He kissed my cheeks and I felt like a teenager. The sun was going down.

I started thinking. He was still avoiding thinking. I know this because I told him I was thinking and I asked him if he’d started thinking yet. He said, “No.” I was thinking about what words to use to sum things up. How to leave things. I was thinking about how to not say things that neither of us meant.

He asked, “Do you want to see me again?”

I said, “Yes.” I mean, I was sitting in his lap, kissing him. Am I going to say no? Or  I don’t know? Or maybe? In the moment—yes. I gave him my number—again—and he asked, “Do you want my number?”

“OK,” I said. I meant I don’t know. Maybe. I said, “Maybe we both just needed a hug today.” But he didn’t want to leave it like that—oh no, he told me all these things, things that felt very nice to hear, but really, not to be taken to have any action associated with them. Because he’s attracted to me, because he likes me and has been thinking about me—none of it needs to be acted on and that’s the trick.

We walked back to The Drive. He was going to catch a bus, and I was going grocery shopping. My mind was all screwy. I was very floaty. It was nice. The bus was coming along behind us as we reached the bus stop, and I said, “There’s a bus.” In a way, I thought he’d say, “Oh there will be another bus along momentarily. We need to say a proper farewell.” But he didn’t say that. He got on the bus. I looked at the bus at as it passed, thinking I might see him, thinking that I’d wave. I didn’t see him.

I felt good. It was a beautiful day. I floated up to the Super Value and got beef tenderloin and apples and walked home feeling good. This was carefully not attached to anything. I didn’t expect him to call, and I’m not calling him. That was Sunday, now it’s Thursday. Deep breath. Relief that he hasn’t called, because I don’t need to see him again and that day cannot really be repeated. Formulaically impossible. These things, attractions to people I know I shouldn’t be involved with, are tricky.

I am not in some weird state of having been rejected. It is easiest that he didn’t call. I’m not sure what we say though, when next we see each other. He will apologize. I will say it’s fine, I understand. I mean, I have his number too. Maybe he thinks I’ll call him. I could, but usually it’s better to not be moving forward with whatever has just happened. Really, it’s just that trick of enjoying the physical with a touch of the emotional, careful not to get caught up, swept into the machinery of language and pain, but I’m no expert. At all. He’s a handsome guy, mid-40s. I don’t think he knows how old I am. Maybe he does. Maybe this. Maybe that. I am very happy to have had that day and happy, too, that nothing else came from it.

It’s strange though, that the onus not to disappoint falls more on the man. The man doesn’t want the woman to be disappointed because he doesn’t want to feel like he’s disappointed a woman. The man makes references to things he thinks the woman wants: to see him again, to secure male validation, to be respected.

“I’ll call you,” he says, in part, because what the hell else is he going to say? For myself, I tend to go after what I want and usually once is enough with most of the fellows I’ve been with, but they tend to be back somewhere else, with the same end result, but yet they’re making excuses—wriggling—where there is no hook, no line, no sinker.

They say, “I’ll call you.”

And I say, “Good-bye.”

But I don’t think they notice that it is good-bye, because they have all these assumptions about my expectations.

Every Saturday, we’ll be posting a new illustration by David Lester. The Mecca Normal guitarist is visually documenting people, places and events from his band’s 25-year run, with text by vocalist Jean Smith.

David’s painting is called Fractured Glimpse. Attending an Evelyn Glennie concert at the Chan Centre For The Performing Arts, I was wondering what I might write about the event. Listening is different knowing that Evelyn Glennie is deaf. To sit quietly: hearing structure in waves, placement of sound and volume. To think about orchestration and listening: wood, architecture and Evelyn’s bare feet. Up early the next morning, I conjure several funny things with my entirely subjective mind’s eye. I start to write. David’s painting is very loose. It illustrates a sense of having been exposed to part of a thought, or a gesture, but before transmission is completed, comprehension is relegated to a glimpse. Writing can sometimes start as a glimpse that you want to explore further, so you turn the glimpse into something bigger, better defined, large enough to examine—to understand. Turning it over in your hands, in your mind, a different experience arrives for documentation. “Your papers please, Mr. Glimpse.” “Credentials be damned,” spits Mr. Glimpse and turns so forcefully on his boot heel that he spins a full 365 days and ends up facing the official again. They both laugh.

I catch a ride with Dave and Wendy (who are the band Horde Of Two). We talk about the event, then there is silence. Wendy, from the front seat, says, “Jean?”

“Yes?” I say, looking out the window at the pedestrial mayhem at Broadway and Commercial.

“I may introduce you to my boss, and she might say that she’s heard a lot about you.”

“OK,” I say, thinking that sounds reasonable.

“I just wanted you to know that”—how did she put it?—”I’ve told her good things about you.”

“Wendy,” I say. “I don’t like to assume things about people, but in this case, I assume that you are not griping to your boss about me.” This gets a few laugh, so I continue, “No, I cannot imagine you saying, “My partner is in a band with this woman who is totally annoying, utterly bonkers.”

More hilarity, the light changes to green, and I thank Wendy for giving me a polite warning of what her boss might say. We get to the Chan Centre, where Wendy is the programming manager. She greets some of her co-workers, and in some cases, she introduces me; Dave already knows some of them. This all falls into place as one might expect, standing around waiting to go into the concert hall. I go to the very interesting restroom: a round room with a round central sink station and mirrored walls. When I return, Wendy and Dave are standing with two women. Wendy does an introduction that somehow ends up with one woman departing quickly and the remaining woman saying to me, “Nice to meet you, Cindy. I’ve heard a lot about you.” I gather, from the introduction, that the departing woman is called Cindy. I nod and smile. Once seated, I ask Wendy about Cindy. “I was informed that your boss might say she’s heard a lot about me, but I wasn’t informed that I would be held accountable for all of Cindy’s doings. How, may I ask, is Cindy regarded?” Wendy, once she stops laughing (she is one who laughs a lot at the funny things I say, and I like this in a person) says, “Cindy is very highly regarded, and everyone aspires to be like Cindy.” Wendy says she’ll clear this up with the woman later, and I say there is no need.

After the concert, we attend a cheese-eating event with some of the event sponsors—they like to meet the artists, so this is the purpose of the reception. Various members of the orchestra stop by the cheese table on their way out to the tour bus. Evelyn attends and eats no cheese. I am introduced to a woman who, to me, looks exactly the same as the woman who thought I was Cindy, and this woman has a very similar name—Kristi to the other woman’s Christine. But before I am able to make this distinction, I lean and look rather too long at the name tag pinned to the bosom of her scoop-necked top. The name on the tag is hard to read—catching light—and so I’m leaning and looking at her bosom just long enough to feel weird, and since I am trying to eat a lot of cheese, I’m clutching a paper plate of crackers, a plastic knife and a crumpled napkin. “Oh,” I say. “Didn’t we meet already downstairs?” I thought Wendy was about to reconstruct the introduction to deal with the Cindy incident, but no, we had not met downstairs, so I re-apply myself to the eating of cheese without further comment, because there is no need. I am simply a cheese-eater; nothing is expected of me.

Leaving the room, we pass this close to Evelyn, and I thank the fellow who gave a speech about the new season at the Chan, during which everyone in the room except me stopped piling cheese onto crackers to stand still and listen. So I thank the guy who talked about memberships and the new series, thinking it’s likely that he supplies the cheese. “Thank you,” I say. “It was grand.” Proceeding along a rounded cinder-block corridor toward the stairs, I say, “I used a five-letter word all on my very own.” I don’t know why I say these things. Anyway, I got a few more laughs.

Every Saturday, we’ll be posting a new illustration by David Lester. The Mecca Normal guitarist is visually documenting people, places and events from his band’s 25-year run, with text by vocalist Jean Smith.

Back in the ’80s, David Greenberger used to send me copies of Duplex Planet, the publication he created about his interactions at the nursing home he worked at. Writes Greenberger, “In 1979 I took a job as activities director at a nursing home in Boston. I had just completed a degree in fine arts as a painter. On the day that I first met the residents of the nursing home, I abandoned painting. That is to say, I discarded the brushes and canvas, not the underlying desire to see something in the world around me and then communicate it to others. In this unexpected setting I found my medium. I wanted others to know these people as I did.” Greenberger’s questions resulted in vibrantly distorted haiku answers. I think he asked things like, “So, whadda think about storms, Marge?” and “Hey Frank, any thoughts on love?” Mecca Normal and Duplex Planet—two weirdo enterprises connecting in a specific time. I’m not sure why Greenberger sent me Duplex Planet. Maybe I’ll ask him, but what should the question be? Tomorrow marks the 40th anniversary of Live Peace In Toronto, where Yoko Ono performed an incredible version of “Don’t Worry Kyoko (Mummy’s Only Looking For Her Hand In The Snow).” You can watch it on YouTube or elsewhere online. When asked, a certain blogger suggests that the crowd’s lame response is attributable to Eric Clapton’s guitar being ever so slightly out of tune. “What was the question?” you may well ask. Last April, while making a documentary, I videoed friends answering my question: “What did you think when you first heard Mecca Normal?” Answers, as they added up, revealed to me that Mecca Normal was new and different and now we represent that point in time. I wish I’d asked a different question. So much depends upon an answer’s question.

Every Saturday, we’ll be posting a new illustration by David Lester. The Mecca Normal guitarist is visually documenting people, places and events from his band’s 25-year run, with text by vocalist Jean Smith.

Michael is really big for 16. He crosses the patio where his 14-year-old sister is frolicking with two friends in an above-ground pool. Michael shuffles through puddles in a black dressing gown and Chinese slippers, his greasy shoulder-length hair swinging. The girls ignore him. “We really hit a wall with him in the spring, but now he’s doing better,” says Wayne. Michael sits down at the patio table, gobbles a peach and wipes his mouth on his filthy T-shirt front. On each of his oddly dainty fingers, he’s wearing women’s wedding rings. “I’m well-known for being humourless,” he informs me in a Rainman monotone. “Nightmares & Dreamscapes. May 4, 2004. 704 pages.” “Michael retains a lot of information about Stephen King novels,” Wayne explains. In a slightly higher voice, Michael says, “Celia, I’m going to tell you something that may surprise you.” “OK,” I say. “I’m not like other 16-year-old boys. I don’t think about sex or perversions.” “That’s good Michael,” Wayne says. “But Celia doesn’t need to know that.” “Desperation. Aug. 1, 1997. 560 pages. I’m going to put my Band-Aid on now,” Michael says, sliding his patio chair back noisily. I watch him trudge back to the house through the puddles. Wayne says, “I’m proud of him. He’s done a lot of hard work. He has Asperger syndrome, which is a type of autism that means he has problems interacting socially and he has very limited interests.” “I don’t mean to be crass,” I say. “But that describes a lot of the men I’ve been meeting through online dating.” Wayne laughs and says, “Well, it does occur in men more than women.” Tiny garden lights come on automatically. Back from the house with a Band-Aid in the middle of his forehead, Michael sits down heavily, rubs his head with both hands and says, “I’ve decided not to go to bed until Celia leaves.” I laugh and ask, “Are you tired?” “Yes, I’m fairly tired.” I glance at Wayne and catch a flicker of irritation. “Why don’t you tell Celia about the book you’re writing, Michael?” “Can I have a sip of your beer, Wayne?” “Sure.” Michael sips and burps loudly. “Thanks, Wayne. That’s good, but it has a powerful aftertaste.” “A powerful aftertaste, eh?” Wayne laughs, and turns to me. “We had some problems with the beer. Michael thought he should be allowed to drink beer whenever he wanted.” Michael sticks out his chin and says, “I didn’t quit for you, Wayne.” “I know you didn’t, Michael. You quit for yourself.” “It’s great to meet another writer,” I say to Michael, changing the subject. “I’m going to go and see the next teenage girl movie that comes out,” Michael says. “I just hope it doesn’t ruin my reputation as a horror writer.” “Do you think Stephen King only goes to horror movies?” Wayne asks. “I like writing,” I say. “Because I’m in control of every little detail.” “I like that too,” says Michael in a clear sweet voice. I say, “You can find inspiration for stories in the most unlikely places.” “I don’t want to be in any unlucky places,” says Michael. “Unlikely,” I repeat, but the girls in the pool are screaming, drowning me out. Wayne looks at me to see how I’m coping with construction of interaction that defines his life. The screaming gets louder. “Unlikely,” I say again. “Not unlucky. Unlikely, meaning unusual.” Michael acts like he understands. “Unlucky places, right.” “Well,” I say. “It’s time for me to get going.” “The Long Walk. April 1, 1999,” says Michael. “384 pages.”

Every Saturday, we’ll be posting a new illustration by David Lester. The Mecca Normal guitarist is visually documenting people, places and events from his band’s 25-year run, with text by vocalist Jean Smith.

Howard Zinn is from Lester’s Inspired Agitators poster series. The song below, “This Is My Summer Vacation,” mentions Malcolm Lowry, author of Under The Volcano. The author drank himself to death near where the annual Under The Volcano Festival is held.

I saw Howard Zinn on TV a couple of years ago when we were in a motel room in Anacortes, Wash., for What The Heck Festival. I felt like jumping up and down on the bed listening to Zinn, whose opinion seemed to be that progressive social change will occur through a new social movement of small groups working independently and overlapping here and there. In a question-and-answer session, a young woman came up to the microphone to ask, in a frustrated tone, “How do I find these groups? Where do I find a group to work with? How do I begin?” This was a sentiment that resonated with me on August 10, National Prison Justice Day in Canada, when I attended a small rally in Vancouver. On this day, prisoners take action—not working, not eating—to protest prison conditions and to mark the lives of those who have died inside Canada’s prisons. Speakers talked about their work with prisoners and about specific situations: a mother-and-baby program has been cancelled at a regional facility. It used to be that if a woman delivered her baby while incarcerated, she could keep the baby with her. Now, if a woman delivers during her sentence—even if it’s only a month-long sentence—the baby is apprehended by social services. This situation is not good for the mother, the baby or society at large. It can take a lot of time and legal attention for the mother to get her baby back once she is released. Being released, I learned, can be very problematic. One speaker told a story about the release of a prisoner for whom he was an advocate. Basically the guy was let out the back door of the facility with four cardboard boxes of his stuff dumped beside him. No services were provided to assist him in any part of whatever was to happen next. Even with the advocate’s assistance, it was extremely difficult to find the guy a place to stay. Social services on the outside were no help; they required that he have a fixed address before they would become involved, and it was assistance in finding a fixed address that he required. The advocate ended up dropping the guy at a hotel one block from Hastings and Main on Vancouver’s infamous downtown eastside, Canada’s poorest neighborhood, rife with property crime and drug use: exactly where the guy requested he not be placed, to be tempted into negative behaviors that could propel him back to prison. Another speaker, a woman who works with prisoners in a legal capacity, pointed out that prison is the punishment. Having liberty taken away is the punishment. Prisoners are not there to be further punished by guards, wardens and administrators. I wanted to understand how we, as Canadians, as humans, tolerate cruelty in prisons. Like Zinn, I believe prisons should be abolished, but that is a less popular vision. I wanted to know how I could contribute to the process of reinstating the mother-and-baby program. I signed a petition and walked home at dusk, stopping at a gas station to buy a rice-crispy square. I was cold and damp after sitting outside for two hours listening to activists speak. I felt sort of useless. I could join a group or visit women in prison, but most likely I’ll write a song or a story. I walked home thinking I’d gone out for song ideas in the same way another person might go out for milk—not a particularly noble feeling. Mecca Normal had, the day before, performed at Under The Volcano, a political festival where I suspected my online-dating songs were deemed not political. I could defend my writing by saying, “The personal is political, man,” or I could illuminate class and gender issues within the lyrics. My songs seem imperfect at such events. I want to say everything the right way, to make a difference, to be seen as useful, but I feel like an interloper whose activities don’t measure up. This can be a debilitating position to work from. Because I don’t gravitate to collectives and roadblocks, I sometimes feel like I’m not political enough, but I accommodate this feeling by including inadequacy in my creative process—I don’t expect anything to be anything other than entirely uncomfortable. Howard Zinn’s comment gave me an impression that what I do might be of value, that we can respond in many ways and this is how progressive social change occurs. Perhaps it is his intention to encourage participation rather than thwart it by expressing the inadequacy of idiosyncratic activities. I can express enough inadequacy all on my own. Inventing methods to stay—or become—involved in is the challenge. At the very least, can we be less critical of individual attempts at political and cultural activism?

Every Saturday, we’ll be posting a new illustration by David Lester. The Mecca Normal guitarist is visually documenting people, places and events from his band’s 25-year run, with text by vocalist Jean Smith.

Love Wants You: a novel-in-progress about online dating. Chapter one:
1.) I am the kind of guy who at a moments notice might want to make love to you wherever we are, doesn’t matter where.I enjoy sudden acts of kindness and also a good home cooked meal that I could eat right off of your body. 2.) nice body& handsome, , clean cut , realy clean , you allways smell good from me, , , im orgonized, i treat you like a lady , hope i see the same in return, , , , , 3.) After you get to know me you will find me a person of many talants,Iwork hard and like to build things ,travel a little but mostly stay home with the company of a worm loving passonate women 4.) Hi — looking for a lady who likes sex . ( alot ) . I like a shorter wemon dont ask me why . And wemon who like to take care of themselfs . I consider myself to be a gentalman , but that does not mean I am tame in bed. I am a very clean person , and safe sex is a must . I am looking for a bit more then just sex , someone who does not mind to go out for a movie or maybe dinner now and again 5.) High standard man love many things in life like playing piani ,tennis ,sailing traveling ,movies,theatre, but also very sensual women how are also openminded 6.) I knwo I’m in Paris but today with fly is very easy 7.) i will tell uses later cause i am not sure how i want to say it in my owen words i no what i want to say it is just trying to fine all the words to tell use that’s all 8.) I’ve been bad. Can you help?

Every Saturday, we’ll be posting a new illustration by David Lester. The Mecca Normal guitarist is visually documenting people, places and events from his band’s 25-year run, with text by vocalist Jean Smith.

At the end of Jean-Luc Godard’s film In Praise Of Love, inside a car at night. Smeared windshield, rain, glare, city and traffic lights undulate through the murk and darkness. The guy driving says he’s going through a break-up. Some things—quelque choses—about the relationship are changing now, at the end. The woman says history is arriving: History with a capital “H.” I got an email this week from a guy who read a piece of my non-fiction in a new lit mag. He’d looked to see who I was, adding that listening to Mecca Normal was a time machine for him: taking him back to the past. I emailed back to say, “We didn’t stop making music. We aren’t from the past. We are in the present.” He didn’t reply. Perhaps he’d moved along to the future already. In 1987 we went to play with Beat Happening and the Screaming Trees in Bellingham, Wash., where we met Slim Moon for the first time. I thought he was retarded. Rich Jensen seemed to be his caregiver. We did an interview with Argon Steel for Maximum Rock ‘N Roll. Ten years ago (and about 10 years later), Argon moved to Honolulu to go deep into his Zen practice at a monastery in the mountains—he intended to stay seven months, but ended up staying three years as a temple keeper. Tall grass in a steep-sided, rainy valley. Solitude, silence, wearing black—Argon cut the grass. Argon is visiting Vancouver this week for a virology conference. David and I met him for coffee, and we talked for hours. Afterward, walking past a group of people in their 20s, I thought about expanses of memory at different ages and the profound endeavor of adding a new past to the more distant past—repeating this process, over and over, generating new versions of History. Histoire: the story. As Godard said, “A story should have a beginning, a middle, and an end—but not necessarily in that order.”