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Normal History Vol. 75: The Art Of David Lester

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. "Cash only," says the waitress. Warren looks in his wallet: no cash. The waitress points across the street. "There's a cash machine at the 7-Eleven." Warren is staring into his empty wallet. "Here," I say, putting a 10 on the counter. We walk towards my place, past the 7-Eleven. I want to suggest that he go and get some money, that he pay me back, but I don't. Warren gets his guitar out of the trunk of his car, and we go upstairs. I bring out a small amp for him and we both set up. "I'll do a song by the Waterboys," he says, adjusting his harmonica. "I won't know it." "Oh, you'll recognize it." "I don't know any songs by the Waterboys." "Once you hear it, you'll recognize it." "I assure you that I won't." Warren plays guitar and sings, adding harmonica here and there, and I find a few notes to slide around on. The song ends. "I can't really hear you, Celia." "You could move closer to me, away from your amp," I say. "Let's do something instrumental." "OK, but I'll have to mouth the words to know where I am." I watch him making faces, eyes closed, silently singing to himself. The song ends. "I still can't hear you," he says. "Maybe you can sit a little closer," I say. "Let's try another instrumental: one without words." "Here's one of mine." Warren says, starting to play. "It's called 'Hot Surfer Girl.'" I accent some of the notes, bending and sliding until he starts singing loudly about drinking wine with his hot surfer girlfriend, spending the night together kissing in the moonlight. I stop playing and wish I could simply fly out the window. I put my guitar in its stand, wondering how I can get him out of my apartment without making an unpleasant scene. "Are we taking a break?" he asks. "I think we're done. This isn't really working." "Well, I can't hear what you're doing." I don't say anything about not singing or not playing as loud or moving closer. I don't say anything about the idea of trying to relate to me by listening—about the concept of creating balance. Warren puts his guitar down, pulls me into his lap and kisses me. The way he holds me makes me feel part of something that I'm not really part of. I am overwhelmingly a woman and he is undeniably a man, and I must accept that it is hopeless to attempt to transcend the established essence of what this means. I represent all women and he is only one man. I'm not sure which is worse or for whom. Warren strokes my thigh and says, "You have strong legs. I bet you can run fast." "Not fast, but far." "You have pretty feet. I like painted toenails." He kisses my neck and I tilt my head to give him more surface area to work with, thinking maybe guys like frilly things more than women, maybe women paint their nails pink because guys like pink. Maybe men express their femininity vicariously, through women. "Let's go lie down," he whispers in my ear. "OK." This time, when I don't have an orgasm, he doesn't mention it. He takes a little snooze and when he wakes up he wants to have sex again. Swinging his leg over me he says, "You don't have to worry about me getting you pregnant." "How so?" I ask closing my legs. "I've been snipped," he says. "Oh, and I'm a blood donor." "Settle down, Warren, and get off me." He freezes above me. I can feel him trying to think of some sort of smart remark. He makes the sound like air going out of a balloon, deflating. He gets off me and lies on his back for a few minutes before putting on his clothes and collecting up his things. On his way out. he accidentally bashes his guitar case into the sliding glass door.
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Normal History Vol. 74: The Art Of David Lester

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. OUTSIDE ON VERONICA'S PENTHOUSE APARTMENT PATIO—DAY VERONICA is snapping dead stems off the potted geraniums on her balcony. MUSIC is coming from inside—BRIAN ENO "BABY'S ON FIRE." The phone rings. VERONICA puts the small pile of geranium flowers on the patio table and steps inside through the open sliding door. INT. VERONICA'S PENTHOUSE APARTMENT—DAY VERONICA'S POV (point of view) from the DOORWAY—TELEPHONE AND MUSIC SOURCE—STUDIO SPEAKER—ON DESK CUT TO CLOSE UP OF VERONICA'S HAND TWISTING the VOL. KNOB on the SPEAKER—MUSIC STOPS—PICKING UP THE RECEIVER CLOSE UP OF VERONICA'S FACE, TELEPHONE RECEIVER PRESSED TO HER EAR

VERONICA (impatient, inquisitively into the receiver) Hello?

VOICE OVER—MALE (OS—off screen)

GUY ONE/MARCUS (very formal sounding, slow and round, caustic, taunting, direct) Hello, Veronica

CLOSE UP OF VERONICA'S FACE. Eyes widen in surprise, lips purse defensively (one beat) a frown—anger. CUT TO INT. LOUNGE AREA OF PSYCH WARD (1978) SIX PATIENTS STANDING SEPARATELY FROM EACH OTHER—CATATONIC—WEARING BLUE HOSPITAL GOWNS. VERONICA ENTERS THE WARD STOPS AND LOOKS AROUND VERONICA is 19 years old. Long hair. No make-up. Wearing her brother's hand-me-down brown Levi's cords, plaid button-down shirt, jean jacket and clunky orthopedic looking shoes. VERONICA'S POV OF MARCUS FROM BEHIND, ACROSS THE ROOM Unkempt, MARCUS is sitting apart from the other patients reading a section of newspaper. BACK TO SHOT OF PSYCH WARD. VERONICA having spotted MARCUS on the other side of the room, inhales deeply and starts walking timidly toward MARCUS VERONICA'S POV OF MARCUS MARCUS wearing a robe and pajamas, legs crossed, bouncing a dangling leather slipper on the raised foot. His hair is disheveled (two beats)—he sees VERONICA. BACK TO THE SHOT OF THE INT. WARD—LIGHT FADES TO BLACK THEATRICALLY, LEAVING VERONICA and MARCUS UNDER A SPOTLIGHT ON A LARGE THEATER STAGE. MARCUS crumples up the newspaper noisily (the sound is unnaturally amplified through speakers in the theater)—he drops the crumpled paper from arm's length (sounds like pots and pans crashing when it hits the floor, not a newspaper)—and folds his arms across his chest. STUDIO AUDIENCE (OS) MURMURS DISAPPROVINGLY

MARCUS (very formal sounding, slow and round, caustic, taunting, direct) Hello, Veronica. My psychiatrist says it's your fault that I'm in here.

MARCUS' POV CLOSE UP OF VERONICA'S FACE. Eyes widen, lips part in surprise (two beats) lips close and purse defensively (one beat) a frown—pain, fear. VOICE OVER WITH ECHO

MARCUS (OS) … your fault … your fault … your fault that I'm in here … in here … in here…

VOICE OVER (OS) WITH ECHO IMITATING THE ENGLISH GUY ORIGINALLY FROM HOGAN'S HEROES WHO MODERATED THE TV SHOW FAMILY FEUD—HIS BIG LINE WAS "SURVEY SAYS ... " SPINNING AROUND POINTING WITH THE QUESTION CARD AT THE SURVEY BOARD. BELL RINGS. ANSWER LIGHTS UP. "SURVEY SAYS... "

MODERATOR psychiatrist says (two beats) psychiatrist says … (two beats) … your fault Veronica … don't you remember? … it's your fault … it's your fault that Marcus is here, that Marcus is not well … Marcus is not a well man … psychiatrist says (two beats) psychiatrist says…

VERONICA'S POV—MARCUS SMILING, SINISTER, SATISFIED AT VERONICA'S REACTION. SLIPPER-CLAD FOOT BOUNCING FASTER and FASTER. MARCUS' POV—CLOSE UP OF VERONICA'S FACE FILMED in BLACK & WHITE –harsh geisha make-up very white face, black lips, hair crudely formed into geishas style, eyes made like ALICE COOPER circa mid-'70s—BLACK WET SMUDGES AROUND EACH EYE. CUT BACK TO SHOT OF VERONICA and MARCUS STANDING ON THE THEATER STAGE SOUND of VERONICA'S heart beat increasing, heart racing, AMPLIFIED through THEATER SPEAKERS. VERONICA, distracted by the sound, looks around her. VERONICA places her right hand over her heart and the heart beat SOUND is muffled, someone putting their hand over a microphone. The microphone begins to feedback. VERONICA takes her hand off her heart quickly. CUT TO CLOSE UP TATTERED LEATHER SLIPPER DANGLING, BOUNCING UP AND DOWN ON MARCUS' LEFT FOOT VOICE OVER STUDIO AUDIENCE (OS) LAUGHING (two beats) SAME SOUND (two beats of silence between) LOOP CUT TO SHOT OF VERONICA'S FACE FILMED in COLOR—harsh geisha make-up, very white face, bright red lips, eyes made up like ALICE COOPER circa mid-70s cover of SCHOOL'S OUT (google this image—album title)—BLACK TEARS RUNNING DOWN BOTH CHEEKS, DRIPPING OFF THE FACE TO FORM LARGE BLACK POOLS AROUND BOTH OF VERONICA'S ORTHOPEDIC SHOES CUT TO CLOSE UP OF VERONICA'S FEET in ORTHOPEDIC SHOES, TOES POINTED slightly INWARD, STANDING in a LARGE POOL of BLACK GOO that is expanding outward from an unseen source, covering an ever-increasing amount of the theater stage floor. Wooden floor. FADE TO BLUE. DARK MIDNIGHT BLUE. BLACK BLUE. DEEP BLUE MUSIC COMES UP IN THE THEATER—CHET BAKER "ALMOST BLUE" SOUND OF A NEEDLE BEING RIPPED ACROSS AN LP. THE MUSIC STOPS. STUDIO AUDIENCE GRUMBLES (OS). MUSIC COMES UP IN THE THEATER—EURYTHMICS "HERE COMES THE RAIN AGAIN" SOUND OF A NEEDLE BEING RIPPED ACROSS VINYL. MUSIC STOPS. MUSIC COMES UP IN THE THEATER—EURYTHMICS "WOULD I LIE TO YOU?" add the great guitar freak out in the middle of that NEIL YOUNG SONG on … what's the name of that album? … with "DON'T CRY" on it? "WOULD I LIE TO YOU?" SPEEDS UP, REPEATING THAT ONE LIE. LINE. "WOULD I LIE TO YOU?" "WOULD I LIE TO YOU?" intercut (between two beats) with NEIL YOUNG'S GUITAR FREAK OUT (google album title and song)
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Normal History Vol. 73: The Art Of David Lester

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 songs I heard online seem to mock erotic notions," Rueben says on the phone. "I'm sorry you interpreted them that way," I say. "I don't intend to mock erotic notions." "Can you elaborate more on the men you wrote those songs about? Are any of them rock stars that I'd know of?" "No, they're not rock stars," I laugh. "They're just guys from the general population—not musicians. The architect in the song 'Attraction Is Ephemeral' was not actually an architect, but he was one of several men I met with a performance issue. I think internet dating is a bit of a haven for impotent men. I think they want to see how they're doing with their problem, but they prefer to go outside their own social setting so word doesn't get around about them." "Poor guy." "Well, it isn't that great being the woman in the situation. I felt like I'd failed to arouse him. He was quite a superficial man, anyway. Not a particularly interesting person. He was all wrapped up in his divorce and he had his two tiny children in a bunk bed in his bedroom and he had a former lover stalking him, yet he was worried about me not wearing the right designer labels." Rueben giggles freakishly. "Well, there is something to be said for the well-dressed woman," he says. "I like nice things, but I couldn't really compete with him—he wore $1,600 suits." "That seems a bit steep for a suit," says Rueben. "What was it made out of? Mink?" "One night I was standing here, ready to go out to dinner, wearing a pair of vintage shoes and 100-percent pure silk dress and he made some crack about getting changed before we went out. We were going to an Indian restaurant. I was probably over-dressed as it was." "Maybe you took it the wrong way," Rueben says. "He was probably just teasing you." "I don't think so. Anyway, the other guy I wrote a couple of songs about owns a construction company. 'I'm Not Into Being The Woman You're With While You're Looking For The Woman You Want.'" "I love that title, by the way," says Rueben. "It pretty well sums up the experience I've had. Guys return to the dating website to keep looking after they've started something with me." I am looking at ferry and bus schedules online. It seems impractical to continue building something between us in phone conversations and the emotionally heightened terrain of email. Perhaps Rueben sees an advantage to making a stronger bond prior to meeting. I want to see him in person before such a bond begins. "Listen," I say. "I think I will come to visit you." "I am extremely flattered to think that you'd come all this way to meet me." "If we are going to continue communicating it's important that we meet, the sooner the better. And besides, it's not that far and it's a beautiful trip. I can get there late morning and catch an early-evening ferry back." "We'll have a picnic. I make a mean lemon chicken." "The meaner the better," I laugh. "Can I bring something? Maybe something you can't get over there. Something special from Vancouver." "Do they still make those Portuguese buns?" "Anyone who asks if they still make Portuguese buns definitely needs a delivery of Portuguese buns," I laugh. "You don't have to bring a whole dozen." "I'm a weight-lifter. I work at a gym. I think I can carry a dozen buns."
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Normal History Vol. 72: The Art Of David Lester

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. David's illustration (July 2010) is of Mecca Normal's first performance (July 1984). The text is an excerpt from Love Wants You. Sex with Ryan feels stale, like reviewing the minutes of a meeting that adjourned after agreeing—on paper—how to have sex. This is how we do it. Lying beside him, my hand on his chest, Ryan says, "I have boundaries and I need space. I'm not into drama." Slowly, recalling that some people don't like to be touched after sex, I take my hand off his chest. I assess where else my body is touching his. At the hip. My left foot. The hair is still swinging on the TV. He's playing a shampoo commercial over and over. "Women tend to see me as a palette cleaner," says Ryan. "What does that mean?" I ask, turning onto my side to look at his face, elbow propping up my head. "When their main squeeze splits," Ryan says, staring at the ceiling. "They come to me for sex until they find another lover." "And that's OK with you?" I say, a set of nuances—physical and emotional—drop into my mind. Plump women with belly-button rings, Asian-themed tattoos and Bettie Page bangs—naked save for black garter belt and fishnet stockings with holes—are on top of Ryan who is flat on his back, a mere palette cleaner of a man. "In a way," says Ryan. "Hey, I need a smoke. Let's get up." We sit at the top of the stairs, above the alley. Ryan picks the other half of his cigarette out of the ashtray and stiffly strikes a wooden match. Sunlight illuminates the unfurling lines of blue-grey smoke as it pushes back into the apartment. Ryan inhales deeply. I turn the other way—embarrassed by his need to suckle the nipple-filter for toxic nourishment. He exhales an internal venom that mixes with acrid poisons off the tip—the slow ejaculation of excess in his self-gratification process. A garbage pail holds open the door—non-productive popcorn kernels, squeezed-out tea bags and coffee grounds give off a withering scent of lethargy. Small flies, too young to buzz, swivel, blue-winged in the sunlight. Ryan talks about his temper and his financial problems. "I don't stay in jobs long because I don't handle authority well." I look down into the alley, thinking about Ryan losing his temper on the job. Fingers pointing, raised voices, doors slamming. I can see this scene from above—Ryan is a Playdough figurine in a shoebox diorama. His Gumby-Pokey feet stuck to the floor. I get up and look around the kitchen. Counter-space covered in chipped thrift-store dishes, rusty cutlery, a badly-dented aluminum pot with a loose plastic handle. Guys I've chatted with online tell me I need to accept things for what they are—"Don't keep trying to figure out what it means, or what it might mean. Accept it for what it is in the moment." Guys instruct me to think this way because it suits their purposes. They assume that I'm thinking in some way that might impede their progress. I am in the moment more than I probably should be. In crisp white printing on Ryan's chalkboard: "2005 is the year to take care of myself." I open the fridge. A waft of sour milk from a crusty-spout of two-percent next to the Creamo. On the rack below, two scallop-shaped moulds of red Jell-O setting. Crimson dribblings splattered across the bottom shelf—otherwise empty. I close the fridge and go back to the sunny corner to find my packsack. "I think I'll go to the gym now," I say, swinging on my completely full packsack. Ryan looks out the window—a confused twitching between his eyebrows prompts me to ask, "What?" He doesn't say anything. I ask again. It's too early for either of us to be acting like this. Way too soon for me to be asking what. "I'm not sure what this is," Ryan says. "Well, there isn't much to go on." "I suppose not," he says. "Do you want to sit down again and talk?" I ask. "Yes," he says, all serious. "May I have another cup of tea?" I say. "Do you mean now or some other time?" "Both," I answer. Ryan smiles and goes to the kitchen. In the draggy slouch of his shoulders I think I see regret—for what? The sex? Or instigating this process. I don't have anything I need or want to say. I take off my packsack and sit down. Ryan puts the badly dented pot on the stove—no lid—he waits for it to boil. "Do you take milk in your tea?" he asks. "I do, but your milk is off," I say. "Had a look in my fridge, eh?" Ryan says. "Just doing a bit of research," I say. "How about Creamo?" "Sure," I say. "Creamo works." The fridge opens with the plastic against metal sucking sound we hear and ignore dozens of times a day. My mind creates the acrid smell of sour milk—I'm too far from the fridge to smell it, but there it is—perched like a hungry hawk at dawn in my short term memory. Waiting for light to hunt by. Ryan shuffles back with two very full mugs. "I was with someone earlier this week," he says, setting my mug down on a CD coaster. I pick up the mug and hold it with both hands. Ryan sips his tea noisily and says, "If you'd asked, I would have told you." In the sunlight, steam particles look like cubes of rainbow prismatics. I'm wondering what band I'm using for a coaster. Local? Major label? "What else should I have asked?" "I'm not going deny myself pleasure," he says. "In the '80s, we had sex with our friends, then we returned to being friends." "We're not friends, Ryan," I say, thinking, "I didn't have sex with my friends in the '80s. I had drunken one-night stands with guys who didn't speak English. I had inappropriate half-baked romances with lunatics. I had sex with guys I never wanted to see again." Ryan gets poetic, "I'm like a new shoot, growing. I'm on an upswing." I am being warned. I might thwart his upswing. Ryan is 37, tall, skinny, weird skin. I leave the tea, stand up and put my packsack on again. "You know a lot about my psycho-sexual background," he says. "So play nice." He is talking to me as if I'm someone else—someone he knows, understands—as if I'm part of the group that he represents. Didn't he notice that I don't have piercings and tattoos—that I'm not imitating a 1950s pin-up girl who's using him as palette cleaner? Going down the narrow backstairs and into the alley, all familiar territory, temporarily skewered by this re-shuffling. My hair is a mess. At the gym, I drop things on the locker room floor. My shampoo has leaked onto my towel. I can't do my full workout. Distracted. This disruption. I will return to what I need and utilize all new experiences. I am okay. He has not altered me.
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Buy ambien, Every Saturday, we’ll be posting a new illustration by David Lester. Idaho ID , The Mecca Normal guitarist is visually documenting people, places and events from his band’s 26-year run, acheter ambien bon marché, Ambien no prescription, with text by vocalist Jean Smith.

Celia is snapping dead stems off the potted geraniums on her balcony when the phone rings. The answering machine is not on, comprar ambien de descuento. Order ambien online, She picks up the receiver.

"Hello?" she says, cheapest ambien in the world.

"Hello, Celia."

The voice sounds like Marcus, buy ambien. Missouri MO Mo. , 1978. Marcus who ended up on the psych ward, Oklahoma OK Okla. . Ambien discount, Marcus who told Celia it was her fault he was there. Marcus who told Celia his psychiatrist said it was her fault, Alabama AL Ala. . Buy ambien, Celia doesn't remember not believing him. Buy ambien cod, She remembers watching him bounce his leather-slippered foot up and down as he spoke. He was sitting in a common area of the ward, order ambien no rx, Ostaa halvalla ambien, legs crossed, wearing his housecoat and pajamas in the middle of the day, Køb discount ambien. Kjøpe ambien online, Celia listened to him say that it was her fault that he was there. Marcus' mental illness was her fault, αγοράσετε ambien. She had caused it, buy ambien. Utah UT , "Who is this?" Celia asks.

"I heard you wrote a song about me."

It's Guy One, bestill ambien online. Buy ambien cheap, She hasn't heard from him for three years.

"That's what I do, Wisconsin WI Wis. . Buy ambien, I write songs about my experiences."

"Do I need to hear this song?"

"Need. Kopen goedkope ambien, No, probably not, Pennsylvania PA Penn. . Billige ambien Apotheke, What constitutes need?"

"Do I need to be concerned about being identifiable?"

"Ah ha," says Celia, Osta ambien online. Rhode Island RI R.I. , "You don't want to be identifiable. Well, as it happens, I am not seeking revenge, and I do not reveal identities because it is unnecessary."

"OK, so what's the song about?"

"You might catch something about yourself, but it would be mixed in with other stories about other people. Unless you wanted to stand up and say, 'Hey, I think part of that song might be sort of about me,' there isn't really much to identify you."

"So which part might I sort of hear about if I listened?"

"You might hear about a guy at the border between Mexico and the USA and a customs guy turns over a guitar and a peyote button falls out and it rolls under something and is not found."

"Really, buy ambien. That's the overall impression that you took away with you?"

"No. It isn't indicative of an overall anything. It's just part of a story, part of a song. What business is it of yours what I write about?"

"You're paranoid, Celia."

"I'm paranoid. You're the one calling me up all worried that I may have written a song called 'The Nasty Narcissist I Once Knew.'"

"Narcissist. You're the narcissist, Celia. Nothing I did or said was good enough for you."

"Look, you got your answer. This song isn't going to be causing you any problems, so I shall say goodbye and let you get on with your ridiculous interpretation of life."

Celia hangs up and returns to the balcony to pinch off enough Greek oregano for her scrambled eggs.

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

This week The Black Dot Museum of Political Art is asking performers at the inaugural Portland Folk Festival two questions:
1, buy diazepam without prescription. Ostaa halvalla diazepam, Do you consider your lyrics to be part of a folk tradition of political songwriting.
2, αγοράσετε diazepam. Buy diazepam online cheap, Do you have other creative projects that you describe as political.

Jim Page is the Seattle-based writer of the hit song "Hiroshima Nagasaki Russian Roulette," a cautionary tilt-a-whirl of a tale (power, militarism and glory) made famous by the Moving Hearts, buy diazepam cod. Page's lyrics, Hawaii HI , Acheter diazepam, written in 1974, talk about the future, Louisiana LA , Ordering diazepam online cheap, and that future is now:
"Our statesmen and leaders and politicians pay
Quick to heed the hand that feeds
They're careful what they say
They call out experts to assure us
To wave their magic wands
This is the power of the future
And the future marches on
And they call in their favors
All their political gains
While the spills fill the rivers and settle in the plains."

Jim Page answers the Black Dot Museum's questions:
"Yes I do. I define 'folk music' as that music that comes from the community and returns to it, cheapest diazepam online. Diazepam online, It doesn’t have to be played on guitars, fiddles and banjos, goedkope diazepam apotheek. Cheap diazepam overnight delivery, It doesn’t even have to be acoustic. Buy diazepam cod, But it needs to serve the community at the risk of falling out of favor with the main stream. Rap—back in the days when it passed from hand to hand through cassettes and ghetto blasters—was certainly folk music, osta alennus diazepam. Billige diazepam Apotheke, As was punk. And I think that all folk music is inherently political, kjøpe billig diazepam. Diazepam pedido en línea, You can’t sing the beauties of the people without chafing against power, can you, acheter diazepam discount. Life is an act of rebellion."

What's my role in this, buy diazepam cod. South Carolina SC S.C. , I'm going down a list of performers I've never heard of, sending out questions, comprar diazepam, Diazepam online kaufen,  after considering how to support a new folk festival. I'm not a folk-music fan, Iowa IA , Washington WA Wash. , no one asked me to do this, and I'm not getting paid. This is actually my idea of fun, purchase diazepam. What I did instead of a summer vacation. I'm also not a fan of political art—or political music—per se. What I am a big fan of is coming up with ways to promote the activities of artists and musicians whose intention it is to instigate progressive social change. Buy diazepam cod, Magic markers, banjos—the tools aren't as important as their intention to inspire.

Brian Cutean's email arrived next, at the end of a long day at work. He remembers Mecca Normal as a band from long ago. Fair enough.

Brian Cutean answers the Black Dot Museum’s questions:
"Music and lyrics have always been a part of the dialogue and necessarily includes poetry, literature, satire and folk songs (including rap, spoken word, etc.). Since I write in response to the world around me and came out of the culture of what Utah Phillips called 'the Great Folk Scare,' my work is part of the folk tradition even when it is stream of consciousness or oblique. The world's 'second oldest occupation' is that of the bard, the troubadour and too, the storyteller standing in front of the cave fire passing on how public affairs of every time affect us all. I believe it was Brecht who said 'art is not a mirror to reflect reality but a hammer with which to shape it.' As an extension of that, expression itself affects other expressions as we inspire, confound and perplex each other."

Brian signs-off saying, "I hope this helps, Jean. If there is anything else I can do, please let me know." My god, who says stuff like that.

As old as the hills, folk music and the responses I am getting are sounding as weirdly fresh as hot lava busting out of a Hawaiian volcano. And what is folk music if not molten rock rolling over the countryside to form new land—yet again—tenaciously pushing out into the sea of possibility.

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Buy modalert no prescription, Every Saturday, we’ll be posting a new illustration by David Lester. The Mecca Normal guitarist is visually documenting people, Buy modalert without prescription, places and events from his band’s 26-year run, with text by vocalist Jean Smith.

Continued from last week.

Veronica repeatedly encounters deception while she tentatively advances with men she needs to trust, purchase modalert online. She forcefully articulates what she requires in a partner, Order modalert no rx, but she is soon vacillating emotionally in short relationships with men who are arrogant and critical, more than encouraging and responsive. Regardless, cheap modalert, it is deception that halts the proceedings each time. It seems unlikely that she will meet a man she can trust enough to proceed, buy modalert no prescription. Billig modalert apotek, ***

Victor sends Celia a message acknowledging his interest in exploring similar terrain, and the pair commence with practical experience, even though they have different ideas about what sort of relationship it is, buy modalert without prescription. Celia wonders if Victor is actually treating her like a whore or if he is, Acheter en ligne modalert, as Celia has directed, pretending to treat her like a whore. The distinction is distracting Celia from what she wants to experience, Tennessee TN Tenn. , and there isn't really an opportunity to clarify as things become more intense. Buy generic modalert, Victor later reveals that he was having such a good time, that he wasn't considering Celia's experience before, during or after sex, buy modalert online without prescription. Buy modalert no prescription, The very brief experiment ends with Celia feeling used and deceived.

Celia halts her online exploration in favour of being happy alone—a state that friends insist is optimal for meeting men. Minnesota MN Minn. , When Celia meets Reggie, he admits that he's had emotional problems, but Celia knows she's strong; she can deal with Reggie's instability, ordering modalert online without prescription. She wants to help him. Where to buy modalert, Reggie appears to be very nice, in an anxious, self-deprecating way, köpa billiga modalert. Celia thinks Reggie will appreciate her, buy modalert no prescription. After all the deception she's experienced, Køb billige modalert, Celia really enjoys trusting Reggie. She trusts him because she wants to trust a man, but Reggie is "being nice" to protect himself—he is pretending to be someone he thinks Celia wants to be with, California CA Calif. . Reggie, Modalert over the counter, under pressure to live up to Celia's expectations, takes a cowardly approach and tries to get Celia to break up with him. He lies to Celia and blames her for making him lie, New Hampshire NH N.H. . Buy modalert no prescription, To Celia, it appears that the whole relationship has been deception from beginning to end.

Celia understands that she selects insecure, Delaware DE Del. , deceptive and emotionally unstable men and commences with helping them. That was her role when her parents fought, when her father yelled and drank, kjøpe modalert. It was Celia's responsibility to understand all the moods in the house; it was her job to fix all their problems. Cheapest modalert in the world, Celia fears that if she isn't helping men, they won't love her. Invariably the man is disappointed in himself, based on all the things Celia wants him to fix about himself—and he blames Celia, buy modalert no prescription.

Reggie breaks up with Celia in an email saying, Wyoming WY Wyo. , "How much abuse should I take?" Celia feels the familiar urge to help Reggie understand what is really happening, Jotta modalert verkossa, and this results in Reggie becoming belligerent. Celia ends communication.

Celia meets a brilliant screenwriter who admires her work, Koop korting modalert. On their second meeting, Ordering modalert, to avoid repeating the pattern she now recognizes, Celia asks Giorgio if he has ever been diagnosed with a mental illness or personality disorder—and yes, he has. Celia watches herself trying to justify continuing to see Giorgio, but quickly halts their association, returning to the matter at hand: finishing the screenplay.

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

Love Wants You
Celia, a 45-year-old singer in a punk band, modalert kopen, is uncomfortable making the transition from starving artist to working poor. Virginia VA Va. , With less frequent record releases and tours, Celia funnels her creativity into writing.

Using dating websites to find a man for an ongoing, Idaho ID , monogamous relationship, Acquistare a buon mercato modalert, Celia encounters deception, disrespect and manipulation. Her escalating frustration is reflected in updated versions of her online dating profile, Washington WA Wash. .

Celia gets a job as a fitness technician at a gym for women, who are always interested to hear about her dating adventures, modalert over the counter. Celia is writing a screenplay about her dating adventures. Discount modalert, Her main character, Veronica, appears to be having similar experiences, köpa modalert, but Veronica is much bolder and tends to get what both she and Celia want. Modalert prescription, Celia talks about her screenplay at the gym, and the women give their opinions about the men Celia is meeting. Celia ventures over to the Intimate Encounters section of the dating website and creates a profile using sexy self-portrait photos, order modalert no prescription. Modalert over the counter, Selecting male attributes from a drop-down menu—aggressive, will take control, knows what he wants—she is immediately swamped with messages from Doms assuming she's submissive. Celia is drawn into the intensity of communication with these men, Order modalert, who are talking about "24/7" and "the lifestyle": a subculture made visible through internet anonymity. Through chat, email and online research, Texas TX Tex. , Celia is compelled to delve deeper—she wants to understand her responses to questionable stimuli. Buy modalert online cheap, Celia writes a new synopsis for her screenplay and posts it as her online dating profile.

***

Intimate Encounters
Sexullectual
Synopsis-in-progress

Veronica, a 45-year-old artist who frequently identifies herself as a feminist, Rabatt kaufen modalert, is exploring a strong desire to be controlled within a sexual relationship with a dominant partner.
Finding the realm of bdsm well-documented online, Modalert online kopen, Veronica recoils at the highly codified activities and conventional nature of the lingo. The costumes and repertoire of activities don't appeal to her aesthetically, modalert over the counter. She doesn't want to dress up as a Catholic school girl or re-enact a Patty Hearst kidnapping scene, as one of her potential suitors suggests, buy modalert cod. Veronica's interest is hinged to exploring how and why her physical and psychological responses are different from what she believes intellectually about power, Modalert without prescription, injustice and feminist concerns.
Exhibiting high levels of responsibility in her daily life, Veronica may be typical of people who seek to lose control in the psycho-sexual terrain of power exchange. Conversely, ordering modalert online legally, people who feel powerless may want a partner who needs to be controlled. Modalert online, Through Veronica's online research, she learns that the dynamic she seeks is based on trusting that the dominant partner will respect and adhere to the specifics they have negotiated. Modalert over the counter, While the dominant partner has the power, it is ultimately the submissive who controls what happens, how power is exhibited. The activities engaged in aim to satisfy the complementary needs of both people, buy modalert online legally.

In setting out to learn where fantasy meets reality, Indiana IN Ind. , Veronica posts a profile on a bdsm website:
I'm inexperienced within the dimension I want to explore. I don't respond well to deception. I am responsive to a romantic and intellectual pairing as part of a sexual bdsm relationship, buy modalert no rx. I'm interested in a highly communicative relationship based in honesty and respect, modalert over the counter. These aren't essentially moral concerns, New York NY N.Y. , but they are the areas that I'm interested in. Trust and respect.

While finding the wide variety of information available online helpful, comprar modalert, it is deeper analysis that resonates, Acheter modalert discount, drawing me towards the idea of a mutually agreed upon, ongoing exploration. An experienced partner would suit me, as I have found trying to educate both participants while in motion is rather frustrating and counter-productive. Modalert over the counter, It is my intention to understand my responsive nature as opposed to engage in "fun" and "play" and vapid one-night stands with liars who need to rush home to their wives and then tell me more lies about why they cannot see me again. I find this upsetting and damaging and somewhat soul-destroying, except that I don't believe in souls—or god, for that matter. I'm not compelled to replicate lingo and practices in any area of culture and society, and while I see conformity has a useful function in language-based and responsible interaction, I would prefer to find idiosyncratic forms of expression.

It is essential to communicate a groundwork of limits and preferences in advance. There is a very big chance that I will become attached, fall in love or otherwise be emotionally involved with the man I engage in sex with. This is desirable to me. The elements of bdsm that interest me—vulnerability, trust and respect—seem to bring an intensity of emotions and that is where I want to be, but not by way of deception, modalert over the counter. It is the intensity that I crave, not the hollow re-writing of a shared history after learning that so much of what happened wasn't real when a man decides that I am not allowed to see reality because he wants to use me for self-gratification.

It is, of course, the person in the submissive position who dictates the range of experience and it is the dominant partner who adheres to those parameters. Those who maintain that submissives must do whatever the dominant says are unaware of the entire dynamic in terms of its reciprocal nature. If you feel the urge to insult me, you only serve to advance the negative stereotypes of Doms being a bunch of losers who have no other way to deal with women than boss them around. Oh, and to the Doms who like to write long pompous essays informing where I have gone wrong—skip it. Not interested.

To be continued next week.

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NormalHistoryVol67Ever Order cheap lunesta online, y 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.

I was walking over to the candy store last night, feeling absolutely gleeful. I don't think I'd realized how much the last in a series of tests for cancer had been weighing on me, lunesta pedido en línea. My brain had been trying to get me to forget about the appointment the day before. I couldn't remember what time I was supposed to be there. I'd left myself notes and sent myself emails, unfolding and re-reading the info sheet in my purse for the directions to the hospital—some sort of block, order cheap lunesta online. An urge not to go to the appointment. Fear, Acheter en ligne lunesta, I suppose. And I don't cop to fear lightly.

At the hospital, I kept wanting to ask someone for an ativan. Order cheap lunesta online, The first person who called my name took me into a small room to do the intake paperwork. I waited for her to stop asking me questions about where I lived so I could ask her for an ativan. Panic rising, Kentucky KY Ky. , swirling—reducing clarity of thought. As she was asking me questions about where I lived, I realized she wasn't going to give me an ativan—she was a Kafkaesque clerk of sorts and I'd have to find a nurse to get an ativan and as I was thinking this, she was handing me a clipboard, Ordering lunesta online without prescription, pointing down the hall and saying, "Nurse's station."

I walked 20 paces, past an office area, into a room with lots of beds full of sleeping people. I stopped and watched a nurse trying to roll a big woman from her side onto her back, saying, ordering lunesta pills, "Let's turn you over doll, your blood pressure is dropping." The machine beside the bed was beeping, just like on House. The urge to flee was very strong—panic attack ahoy, order cheap lunesta online. A man's voice said, παραγγείλετε online lunesta, "Wait. Back up. Over here." I'd gone too far. Hospitals are their own weird world that I avoid, and a lot of what they do there doesn't seem obvious to me. Order cheap lunesta online, When I'd first arrived at the doors to the clinic, after following a red line through the hospital and, at one point, veering down a hallway to look at aerial photos of North America at night—major areas of population lit up—I started to look for the tiny island of Tobago off the coast of Venezuela, thinking about 1979, walking down a dark road with a guy named Cops who had never heard of the Rolling Stones, remembering the sensation of it being so dark that I couldn't see my feet on the road and I couldn't see Cops because he was black. He was just a deep voice to my right, cheap lunesta without prescription. At 19, I'd never been beyond the USA, and I was trying to fathom that there were people on earth who had never heard of the Rolling Stones.

Mecca Normal, Ordering lunesta online legally, having been asked to perform Fall songs at a tribute for the Fall, arrived at the El Mocambo in September 2001 [citation required] fully aware of the room's historic significance as they wandered around, trying to imagine the Rolling Stones playing such a tiny venue in 1977 [citation required]. Weirdly, Mecca Normal—who were not fans of the Fall—were confirmed to open for the Fall two months hence at the Knitting Factory in Hollywood [citation required], where singer and recovering alcoholic Jean Smith would opt not to say hello to Mark E, comprar lunesta. Smith, who spent much of his time slumped in a corner backstage [citation not required], and while onstage, he harangued his band [citation not required] to a degree that Smith [Jean] found uncomfortable to watch [citation not required], order cheap lunesta online. Fans of the Fall were not particularly enamored with Mecca Normal's set [citation not required], but after the show, the bass player from the Fall kissed Smith [Jean] [citation required]. Actually, Order lunesta online legally, Smith [Jean] can't remember exactly what happened because, at 50 years of age, some things have disappeared from her memory [can't recall if citation is not required]. Smith [Jean] recalls that the story of the bass player—or maybe it was a guitar player—ended up in an online article by Fred whose last name currently escapes Smith [Jean] [citation required]—a journalist she respected. Smith [Jean] contacted Fred and asked him about his source, and since she didn't mean for the kiss-thing to be a public statement, För lunesta online, could he please remove the reference in his article. Order cheap lunesta online, At that time, when all this happened, Smith [Jean] did remember the whole story because she'd quit drinking a year prior [citation not required], but it was not something that she ever would have said to a journalist—it was related by email to a friend, who, in his enthusiasm, wrote a review for a group of online Fall fans and included the part about the kiss [citation required], and it got onto some sort of forum [citation required]—all of which was fine until the journalist copied it [citation required].

While Smith [Jean] herself is not actually averse to kissing and telling, there tends to be a reason for it, and being kissed by a member of the Fall [citation required]—not a big wet kiss [citation not required]—didn't seem to have a purpose, Discount lunesta, until now, when the details are cloudy [citation not required].

I arrived at the clinic—double doors with a stop sign that said Do Not Pull. I looked through the window and saw people in beds with chrome railings, patients in blue gowns, nurses, Connecticut CT Conn. , drip bags on poles. I would have felt better if I'd seen House hobbling around in there. No House, order cheap lunesta online. That's bad, when seeing House would be comforting. Lunesta for sale, I stepped back from the door and looked at the chairs lining the walls. It seemed like I should check in somewhere. The people sitting didn't look half as nervous as I felt, so I figured they must be waiting for a patient. Order cheap lunesta online, I looked at the signs again, at the perfectly good door handles. Stop. Do Not Pull, Utah UT . Backing up again I saw the automatic door button and pushed it. I walked in, looked into the first room where there were people under blankets sitting in lazy-boy recliners reading newspapers—they had IV needles in their arms, like they were giving blood, αγοράζουν online lunesta, which I can't do because I was living in England in late '80s and there was a tainted blood scare and when I was living in Tucson in the early '90s and I needed money for rent and I'd heard about people selling plasma—mostly illegal aliens and alcoholic transients that hung out at the Tap Room in the Congress Hotel—and since I was basically an alcoholic alien hanging out in the Tap Room, I went to sell plasma, too, but they took a sample of my blood and told me it had too much protein in it.

It probably didn't help that I hadn't eaten for 36 hours and hadn't had coffee or water that morning, order cheap lunesta online. I was hungry, thirsty and had a headache, Um lunesta online. Once seated in the lazy-boy recliner unit, another intake clinician asked more questions. I checked that the name on my wrist-band was my own, and she asked me how much I weighed. Cheap lunesta no prescription, "After yesterday, about 105 pounds," I said. Order cheap lunesta online, She asked if I had any pain and I said I had a headache. She looked up from her clipboard and said, "Really?"

"Yes," I said, buy lunesta. "Really." I hardly ever get headaches. It was from no food and mostly, no coffee. I'd made a tiny cup at 4:30 a.m., Ordering lunesta, even though the instructions said nothing by mouth after midnight, I let a tiny amount of coffee dribble down my throat and held the remainder in my mouth, hoping to absorb caffeine that way, before spitting it out. It hadn't worked, order cheap lunesta online.

"On a scale of one to 10, how bad is the pain?" she asked, osta alennus lunesta.

I was in a hospital. Pain was everywhere. Did she mean on a scale of one-to-10 per square mile or based on my own experience with pain, which is thankfully very small. Order cheap lunesta online, "Six," I said. Kjøpe billig lunesta, "Five?" she asked, in response.

"OK, five," I said. "That's what I meant to say."

The other three lazy-boys were occupied by men, kjøpe lunesta online, two of whom had proudly answered, "My wife," when the clinician had asked who was coming to pick them up after. What kind of stupid answer is that, αγοράσετε lunesta, and why don't I have a wife. The guy sitting next to me seemed OK, but he was blinking rather a lot, order cheap lunesta online. The clinician asked him how he was feeling, and he said he was nervous. The clinician repeated the word as she wrote it down, and then he changed his mind and said, "Apprehensive."

The clinician chuckled, lunesta prescription, as she'd appreciated a variation on theme. A chance to write something other than nervous. The guy started blinking more rapidly as he noticed her entirely self-referential reaction to his plight. Order cheap lunesta online, She asked if he'd taken any meds that morning, and he said he hadn't taken his psychotropics, which I don't know what that means, but anything with the prefix psycho has me on edge these days. Maybe someone could get him an ativan, too. My doctor came in and spotted me. "Let's boogie," he said, and I began struggling to get out of the lazy-boy. "Bring your blanket with you," he added.

"I shall," I replied, feeling the urge to elevate the level of discourse in the room as I balled up my flannelette blankie and shuffled across the room in baby blue foot-encasers and doubled-up hospital gowns.

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Normal History Vol. 66: The Art Of David Lester

NormalHistoryVol66Every 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. Characters In This Story Are Closer Than They Appear "Why don't you stop thinking about it?" her father says on the other end of the phone. "Thinking is kinda what I do, Dad," says Celia, thinking about why her father might want her to stop thinking. "Dwelling on it isn't going to change anything," he says, trying to sound like he knows what he's talking about. Fatherly advice. Celia isn't actually asking him for advice—she never has. She has another reason for talking to him about these things, these situations, at this time. She is assessing his reaction; he would prefer she wasn't thinking or talking about mental illness and personality disorders. *** Celia needs an ending and she's averse to endings—she doesn't like goodbyes, doesn't see why things have to end. Endings are consumer-based constructions; that's what she wants to say to the women at the gym when they tell her she needs to figure out the ending of the screenplay, but now they've stopped calling it a screenplay. They've started calling it a film—a movie—to indicate to Celia that it does need to end. And they are pushing and pulling on the equipment with more vigor—frustration really—because it does seem that Celia is digressing, finding men worse than the previous one. "Have you figured out the ending yet, Celia?" "I might just be getting started," Celia says, dancing to ABBA in the middle of the circuit. "Things are starting to get interesting." "You could have multiple endings and let the audience decide. You could have happily-ever-after or happy-on-her-own," says Vivian. "Or maybe she's just going to continue looking for Mr. Right." Endings are for Hollywood movies. One can only sit in a velvet chair in the dark for so long before one needs to go home and go to sleep. Satiation arrives by way of distraction from real life—the purpose of most movies. So long, daily concerns: I've gone trout fishing in an American movie theater. Celia has been telling the women about her dates and short romances for years, episode by episode—they sweat, working out, ABBA plays. When the women arrive, Celia finishes what she's doing on the computer, looking for possible ways to sell her screenplay. The women talk about the weather, and if Celia's busy, she might just let them get started on their workout, but before long they try to draw her out from behind the desk, calling out from the chest-back machine: "Anything new Celia? Been on any dates?" They remember where a story ended and ask about a specific guy. "What happened with the professor?" And Celia might say, for fun, "Which one?" as she turns down ABBA, spins out of the swivel chair and saunters out to tell them a story. *** "I think about these things because I'm trying to understand people, Dad." "People are difficult to understand, Celia. Why they do what they do is often beyond comprehension regardless of how long you think about it." "It isn't one thing, one thought, going around and around in my head all day," says Celia, wishing she'd been able to resist defending herself, thinking about how her father distances himself from the word "people": they do what they do. "I make progress in understanding what happened by thinking about it," she says, sounding wikipediatric. Limp. Celia wonders if he gets it, gets it—got it—if he's ever gonna get it at all. What she does. She wonders if he gets it on a subconscious level. What is she afraid would happen if she asked—would they stop talking again? For three years, Christmas cards arrived with only her mother's name on it. Love, Mom. It was as if he'd died. Celia woke up most mornings and slowly worked her way to this one thought: Her father hated her that much. She wasn't worth knowing. How would she feel if one of her parents died during the time of no communication? No communication. No communication. She'd been trying—awkwardly—to show him that she was responsible. She'd quit drinking. She wanted him to know she was concerned—she wanted to help make a plan for them in their old age. She'd simply asked him where they were going to live when they could no longer live where they were. He blew up. He took it personally. "Do you know how many pills I take, Celia?" She didn't answer. He asked it over and over : "Do you know? Do you know? Do you know?" Celia didn't answer. "I take one tiny pill," he finally said. "That's it." It was fear, she realized years later. When he was afraid, he got angry and yelled at everyone. That was what fear looked like. He was very frequently afraid, fearful, frightened. He yelled a lot. Celia still had the tape recorder attached to phone after interviewing Godspeed You Black Emperor! for Your Flesh. She'd been staring at it—the tape recorder—while he yelled. He was telling her if she was so bloody concerned about old people's homes, she could bloody well get herself on a list. She flipped on the tape recorder and watched the cassette fill with vitriolic bile—evidence! Eureka. Finally. "I wouldn't have your life for a million bucks," he said over and over, and Celia kept thinking that the statement defied logic. If he was given a million bucks to have her life, then her life wouldn't be her life. She was poor. End of story. How could he have her life and a million bucks? It didn't make sense, but he kept saying it. She doesn't want to defend herself. She forgets why she isn't supposed to defend herself. She wonders if not defending herself while not knowing why she shouldn’t defend herself has the same result as not defending herself and knowing why she isn't. Doesn't. Celia wants to say something more substantial about all this thinking. To convince her father. She knows she shouldn't try to impress him, to try to get him to understand her. Seeking male validation. This is the story that will not end unless she behaves differently. "By understanding what happened, I'm less likely to have the same thing happen again." This too sounds insubstantial without an example. Evidence is required. *** Celia writes in boxes on the screen, looking for boxes that feel good to her. She likes to write in email boxes—it starts out being to a specific someone. That's one way to get started; then she carefully highlights the recipient's name and deletes it, but it is during this process that the program has started crashing. Celia joins Facebook. She reads comments, but doesn't feel compelled to add anything. Yesterday, Rhonda took a poll: spiders—catch and release or kill? Approaching 24 hours later, 40 people have responded: "I'm the catch-and-release type." "I agree with James." "Ditto, Patty." Celia thinks about saying "Ditto the guy who said ditto Patty," but she wonders what that will say about her. She isn't part of their group. She isn't part of any group. In an email box she writes, "I can hurt a fly, but not the tenacious spider, creator of web across my open doorway. The web traps the inbound fly that I then don't have to kill—leaving me, yet again, happily on the outside of another equation in nature." She pastes it into the comment box, but she can't post it. She'll look like a pretentious something-or-other. *** "Men don't arrive in front of you blaring out all their flaws and misfortune," says Celia to the three women working out. "They don't just tell you what's wrong with them. It takes time to get to know them, to watch them in action." "I thought he did tell you there was something wrong with him. Isn't this the one who told you he had some problems on the first date?" asks Cynthia. "Well, at least I know you're paying attention," Celia says, laughing. "Yes he did, and I should have heeded those warnings." "Why didn't you?" asks Cynthia, from the leg-press machine. "This is where it starts to get complicated. Do you mean why doesn't Victoria heed the warnings or why didn't I heed the warnings?" "To tell you the truth Celia, I'm not sure which is which. You go out with these guys and then you write about what happened using the name Victoria as a character in a screenplay, but the screenplay seems autobiographical to me." *** "They're just stories, Celia," Darren says after Celia has interrupted to ask him why he's telling her about horrible people in his past—awful men without morals, reverse-Mohawk-mullets, a bunch of drug addicts living in a basement with rats-the-size-of-cats gnawing in the ceiling, having sex with underage girls, out of their minds on drugs, trying to flush stolen property down the toilet when the cops come knocking. Celia is trying to get to know Darren and she wonders why he's telling her these things, so she asks. "Why are you telling me these stock stories about crappy things? Is it because you didn't get enough sleep last night?" "They're just stories, Celia." "Stories are usually told for a reason. They have a purpose," says Celia, and Darren doesn't like this too much. She watches him go dim and empty inside, as he explained that he would if he felt hurt. Celia thinks it is very odd that she needs to tell an English professor that stories are told for a reason and she's trying to remember what he told her she'd need to do to bring him back. Leave him alone? Ask him a question? Do a little dance? Get down tonight? This is when he changes course and starts informing Celia that she needs to forget about screenplays and music to concentrate on painting, but not the paintings she's been doing recently. "You need to do murals. Really big murals. You need to do hundreds of sketches for many months, and the mural will tell a story." Celia puts ramen in her mouth, uneasy, not wanting to defend herself, trying not to say who she is. Who she was. She allows Darren to show how he gets when he's been offended. Hurt. She has hurt him. And now it's time to pay. Not for the ramen. The ramen she heaps between splintery chopsticks, shoving it in her mouth, biting off a clump, letting the rest fall back into the bowl of over overly salty broth and fatty chicken. "You need to get on with your career. Make a name for yourself. Re-invent yourself as a painter." "People know who Celia Sonar is," Celia says feeling idiotic, knowing it isn't really true—but enough people know. Enough for her. "Do you ever feel like you're waiting for something?" asks Darren, leaning toward her. "Waiting for the next thing to happen?" As if by asserting this construct—this question—across the ramen-splattered table he has introduced validity to his next statement. Celia looks at the ramen hieroglyphs strewn on the arborite surface. A fossilized seahorse. The profile of a Toulouse-Lautrec courtesan—the hair, the forehead, eyes downward. "What do you want most out of life right now?" Darren asks, intending to imply that he has the answer. The answer is forthcoming. He's asking if Celia has ever entered the state of mind of wondering what is going to be the next thing, who will be the next person, to arrive and change everything, to start the next phase. Celia's thoughts on this are complex. Not overly complicated, but unusual, and they are revealed when she answers, although she understands that Darren won't get it. He's not gonna get it, get it, get it—ever at all. Even with a Ph.D. and possibly because of his Ph.D. in English literature. Celia sees him as a guy on a TV infomercial or an evangelist, setting her up to see things his way. She wonders what he thinks she's going to say—sell my screenplay, get on Oprah, find a better job, be successful. Fall in love. Something superficial like that. And then he can correct her wayward thinking, her flawed goals and offer her direction in her rag-tag life of unfocused professional failures, not to mention her inability to find a man. "To feel content," Celia says, having made a decision to say feel it rather than be it. She decided to say to feel content instead of to be content. "To be" implies too much about time, amounts of time being replaced with other amounts of time, which is more what she was thinking, but for now, for the purpose of this interaction over bowls of ramen at a high-end Japanese restaurant in the middle of the day, "to feel content" is enough. For now. Darren's elbow slides out sideways on the table. He props his head up with his hand, eyes opening and closing separately from each other. "Is there anything else going on with you other than a lack of sleep, Darren?" "Nope." "No?" Celia asks, her heart-pounding in a most uncomfortable way. She wants to run away, but she needs to know. "There's nothing else going on with you?" "OK. I took two clonazepam because I was nervous about seeing you." *** Celia plays the tape for both her best friends. They stand and listen. "You see what I mean?" Celia says, arms crossed over her chest. The two friends look at each other, understanding that Celia must hear something else, something other than what they hear. "Celia, it just isn't as bad as you think it is." "Listen. He's screaming at me," Celia says. "You're kidding, right?" "Celia, you hear it based on your childhood experience—you were afraid of him. That's what you hear now." *** Cynthia wipes her face with a white towel and tosses it in the hamper on her way into the changing room. She stops in the doorway. Turns and asks, "Are you going to see him again?" "The professor? No," Celia says emphatically, standing near the computer with her arms folded over her chest, thinking about the spider and the fly. "Are you kidding?"
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Normal History Vol. 65: The Art Of David Lester

NormalHistoryVol65Every 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. Celia is sitting across from Mick at another Indian restaurant, a fancier, more expensive one on South Fraser. "I wrote a new song yesterday," Celia says. "You might like it, except that it's about you." "Really? What's it called. Or do I want to know?" "It's called 'I'm Not Into Being The Woman You're With While You're Looking For The Woman You Want.'" "Wow," says Mick. "Long title." "I wrote it while I was pondering what to say to you. I see you're still on the dating website, so I figure you're looking for more women to have sex with." "I established communication with a woman from the relationship section before I met you," Mick says. "I'm going to meet her on the weekend." "Oh, so I'm interfering with your relationship potential," Celia says, stabbing a crunchy pakora with her fork. "Meeting her is the logical conclusion," says Mick, as the butter chicken arrives. "OK. I'll step aside and let you get on with that conclusion. She's probably all excited about your future together," Celia says, putting down her pakora-laden fork. "By your definition, we aren't seeing each other anyway." "It's up to you how you want to look at it." "In my simple history of getting together with men," Celia says. "I feel like you and I have started seeing each other, but you seem to expect me to accept that I'm the little slut from the trashy town called Intimate Encounters and the nice lady from the classy town of Relationship is inherently more valuable." "I wasn't planning to start a relationship with someone off a sex website," says Mick. "But I guess stranger things have happened." "That's how you see me?" Celia says, picking up her fork and sliding the pakora into the mango chutney. "Someone from a sex site?" "Women from the Intimate Encounters section are totally separate from the women in the Relationship section." ••• Saturday morning, Celia wants to see him; she doesn't want him to meet Relationship Lady. She emails, "Would you like to come over for tea?" She means soon. She means now. But there's no reply. As she waits, her mind slips into assuming that he is with Relationship Lady. Maybe they got together last night and they're still together. Maybe they're having coffee at his place right now, talking and laughing. Yes, Mick would make coffee for Relationship Lady, but not for her. Mick doesn't email until late Sunday night: "Tea would be nice. How about Tuesday?" On Tuesday, Mick arrives all tired, talking about work and the dentist. He says he was in Oregon on the weekend. Working. Celia is leaning against the counter by the kitchen sink, arms over her chest, legs crossed. Mick is sitting on a folding metal chair, his back to the window. Out of the blue, he starts talking about what is going on between them. "Look, when I really like someone I start to feel I need distance," he says nervously. "It has caused me all sorts of problems in relationships." "OK," Celia says. "I think I understand what you're saying. So you do like me." Mick is more relaxed after explaining why he appears to be indifferent. "We should go out for dinner sometime soon," he says. "That's probably not a good idea." "Well, I guess we'll see how it goes then." "Mick, I don't want to get involved with someone who disappears every time we start to get close," says Celia.
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Normal History Vol. 64: The Art Of David Lester

NormalHistoryVol64Every 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. Hello T, David and I want to include you in The Black Dot Political Museum of Political Art. Inclusion, along with all other aspects of the project at this point, is being invented as it occurs. Right now, our home base is Facebook, where I would add a photo album: a selection of your work with captions and links back to your site. I would write a feature on you to post with a bio and artist photo. If you accept our invitation, I want you to like what we create so that you want to use it as an external reference point. As visual artists, it seems that we are frequently on our own sites, without a third party site to reference—one that presents an up-to-date, comprehensive, useful and objective overview. Kill Rock Stars founder Slim Moon is the manager of The Black Dot Political Museum of Political Art. He's really keen. Events so far: May 1 - 28, 2010 Political Artists From Vancouver: a four-person exhibit at Northern in Olympia. A printmaking teacher at Evergreen State College invited us to curate the show—to expose students to artwork from beyond their region. As part of the museum's gallery outreach program, Mecca Normal played in Portland at Sarah Utter's art opening at Land—and Land sounds keen to have The Black Dot Museum of Political Art exhibit there, maybe this time next year. Gallery outreach program: Basically anything we choose to say is an extension of the museum, whether it is officially sanctioned by the third-party gallery or not. For instance, Mecca Normal's appearance at Land was sponsored by the BDM, but I'm not sure anyone noticed. As far as "political" art goes, obviously David's work is very direct, whereas my work stretches towards a notion that everything is political. As things progress and we move to our own domain, I will create an online archive by theme where those looking for political art can search by artist or theme. Searchable archival themes might be Labor, Racism, Animal Rights, Housing, Poverty, Feminism, Pro Choice, Environmental—with artists updating us on topical concerns (responses to the disaster in the Gulf of Mexico). We aim to make ourselves known as a resource for various purposes. The bigger picture includes securing both academic and museum interest in the project. Ideally we would be represented on the websites of these institutions in the from of an ongoing podcast series, as part of their endeavor to host, sponsor, monitor and participate in the project. Videos of our "How Art & Music Can Change the World" lecture, art openings and artist portfolios would be archived on these external sites. I'm thinking big. What sets us apart from other online galleries and museums, besides our focus on political art as it is selected and promoted by the entity known as Mecca Normal, is that we are out there in the tactile world, too. We intend to navigate without renting space, by insisting that the organization of the project is the project, that it is reciprocal and visionary with Utopian sensibilities that challenge what is and isn't possible. It is our ambition to be useful to individual artists who have a history of being able to participate within communities, and by providing services and creating associations, I believe we can each benefit in many ways. I won't elaborate here on the importance and usefulness of political art in general. I feel like I am still thinking and formulating, and at every point of articulating what else we can do, there is a new thrill: to consider some new way to go further, using what we already have by applying it differently. Exhibitions: The idea for the touring exhibits is to find an artist in, for instance, L.A., and that person would assist in securing a gallery, promote, advise and contribute to the exhibit of maybe four or five artists, one of whom would be an artist from the next exhibition city—Chicago, for instance. The L.A. artist is then part of the Chicago exhibit and having done the work on the L.A. event now benefits from the association with the Chicago artist. Then it's on to Berlin, etc. This is my vision for creating a reciprocal touring experience for political artists—a replica of how indie touring bands originally functioned, finding allies in other cities and naturally tending towards reciprocal collaboration. It would be great if the L.A. artist could make it to the Chicago show; if not, they are represented by the Chicago artist. Mecca Normal would be the art-opening performance unit, using our resources to bring people out to events. Ideally, art would be shipped from L.A. to Chicago or stored until it is required; again, part of the L.A. artist's responsibility. The online project is currently across several web formats: Facebook, WordPress and FreeWebs. Each has its own attributes for social networking, promo, image gallery, ease of posting, etc. We will get a permanent domain at some point, but I sort of like it that we are a nebulous, non-rent-paying entity. I don't expect you to follow along with every twist and turn of our doings. You know us. We have a shared history. Let us put our philosophical extensions—our work and alliances—together in one place and consider this an identifiable unification, loosely speaking, in a way that doesn't put pressure on our friendship, but gives us a purpose, if and when we decide to rally around a possible project. It will be there when we need it. Infrastructure in place. That's what I meant to say!! I really enjoyed the interview you did with A Fog Of Ideas!! Yours, Jean
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Normal History Vol. 63: The Art Of David Lester

NormalHistoryVol63Every 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. At my mother's 90th birthday party, I was telling my father that a woman I'd met used to go to The Cave, a long-running supper club in Vancouver, a venue my parents went to regularly to listen to jazz. This reminded me of a story my mother told me about my father dancing with Josephine Baker at The Cave, however unlikely that seemed. I wanted to know how this came to be. My mother hadn't wanted to talk about it. I was pretty sure alcohol was involved. My father was delighted to tell the story. Yes, he had in fact gotten onstage with Josephine Baker and started dancing. "Wow, onstage?" I said, having thought it was on the floor, in the audience, but no, my father went onstage to dance with Josephine Baker. "One minute I was dancing with Josephine Baker, and the next minute, with a flick of her wrist, I was no longer dancing with Josephine Baker." "What happened?" "She sent me on my way, that's what happened." We laughed about this, and I was reminded of a similar situation at another club in Vancouver many years later. I didn't mention the name of the band; I just couldn't bring myself to say Butthole Surfers at my mother's 90th birthday party, hosted by my gay brother and his partner. I walked through the club in a man's cream-colored, three-piece polyester suit—an all-access guest pass around my neck. During the Butthole's set, I went to the bar—yes, alcohol was involved—and the next time Dave saw me, I was walking quickly to the mic at center stage. I guess I'd been waiting to get served at the bar, checking out the band, noticing that Butthole singer Gibby was busy playing a synth at the side of the stage, facing the other way. It was perhaps somewhat tedious at that point in the show, and I started fiddling with my all-access pass. I looked over at the stairs leading up to the stage guarded by a smug-looking bouncer with a headset on, burly arms folded over his chest. My father was laughing pretty hard by this point. I took off the pass to show it to the bouncer, then, anticipating possible grabbing and yanking to come, I tucked it away in a pocket. I started singing a Mecca Normal song, "I Walk Alone,' and nothing happened. Gibby didn't seem to notice. The band continued playing. "This city's my home, and I'm not alone in my home. In my home. I'm not alone." Checking over my shoulder, I could see the bouncer on his headset, trying to figure out if I was supposed to be there or not. I sang on. "Because it's my right to walk in any city, at any time of day, wearing whatever the fuck I want to." Right about this time, two bouncers grabbed me by the arms. I went totally rigid and they carried me off horizontally, like a piece of lumber, down the stairs, detaining me near the bar. I told them I had an all-access pass, but with all the pockets in my suit, I couldn't find it. My father was really enjoying this. I searched through the suit pockets and when I finally found the plastic pass, I flipped it quickly, back and forth, across the bouncer's nose saying, "Seeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee? I told you I had a pass. "I think that's what got me thrown out," I said, basically to my father, who was still laughing. I wasn't too concerned about what my brother might think. My mother—a first-time wearer of hearing aids—basically missed it all. For years, she's simply tuned out because she hasn't been able to hear properly. Now I think she's entrenched in habitual non-listening mode, regardless of the settings on her new amplification equipment. Anyway, I don't think she would have liked these stories. At all. Without missing a beat, my brother says he has a story, too, and I'm thinking, "Oh, no—this won't cut it." Whatever his story is, this is not going to add to the exchange of drunken nights-on-the-town by Jean and John. My father and I are probably two peas in a pod when it comes to carousing. My brother starts telling a story of disco night on a cruise ship with his partner and his partner's family: a bunch of sisters and the mother and father. They are all dancing, doing the YMCA song, and then it's only my brother doing the YMCA song and everyone else is standing there looking at him. He carries on, having a great time, until people start to look uncomfortable. Finally he turns around and the Village People stage show has begun and basically he's the only one still dancing around like a jackass. In front of the stage, facing the audience. I thought his story was hilarious.
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Normal History Vol. 62: The Art Of David Lester

NormalHistoryVol62Every 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. In the kitchen I ask, "Can I help with dinner?" Rueben plunks two tomatoes on the butcher block and says, "We're having an Italian salad with the salmon." I'm trying not to drive my high heels into his hardwood floors. God only knows how many pounds of pressure per square inch there is on each of the heels. Rueben hasn't said anything about the dress I'm wearing, which I sense is how he has decided to let me know that it is not a "decent dress for dinner." "Fuck. I forgot to get lemons," Rueben says, looking as though he'd like it to be my fault that he didn't get lemons, but it isn't. I move toward the cutlery drawer on my tiptoes to get a knife. I bring out a sharpening steel with the knife. "Oh, so my knives aren't good enough for the starving artist?" Rueben mocks. "I take that as a challenge," I say playfully, taking off my high heels and tossing them onto a chair. The dress without the heels is probably even less what Rueben had in mind, but I think I've already failed the can-Celia-dress-decently-for-dinner test. I cut the tomatoes into wedges and Rueben freaks out. "It's an Italian salad, Celia. Have you ever seen an Italian salad with tomato wedges? God. They're supposed to be sliced. Here, give me the knife, I'll do it." "No problem boss," I say, putting down the knife and stepping away from the butcher block to let Rueben take over. "My goodness, woman," he teases. "One would hardly guess that you lived in Little Italy." Before he finishes slicing, he remembers the salmon on the grill outside. "Damn it all anyway—the salmon!" He rushes out the back door. I follow, grabbing the flashlight. "Hold the light over the grill," he says. "Grab the platter." "OK, just let me get in beside you here," I say, tripping over the propane tank. Rueben scrapes the salmon off the grill and onto the platter. "Some places charge extra for crispy skin," he giggles. His mood seems to lighten when we work together. I hold the flashlight and he carries the platter, laughing along the pathway to the house, reminding me of the first day we met for a picnic in the woods—how he dealt with the wasps and somehow that bit of adversity brought us closer. We eat dinner on stools at the counter facing the kitchen. I am wondering why we aren't eating in the dining room at a proper table, on comfortable chairs. "The salmon is excellent, Rueben," I say. "I let it cook too long. I ruined it," Rueben says. "Come on—it's perfect," I say, risking being a woman who can't tell perfect salmon from ruined salmon. The barefoot woman in a lousy dress who doesn't know a good fish from a bad one. I watch Rueben fretting over his dinner, enduring one of my tomato wedges, regretting the lack of lemon, and I wonder if he is ever completely happy with anything, with anyone. We talk about board games, tennis and going for a bike ride. "I have a helmet for you. Tomorrow, after lunch, we'll ride over to the tennis courts," he says stabbing an olive. He knows I don't play tennis or ride a bike. "I see how you manipulate things," I say, and he gives me a can't-talk-mouth-full-gesture in response. "You know what might be helpful to you?" Rueben says. "Getting your Executive MBA. Basically it's a two-year part-time program. You write a thesis, and then you get an MBA." "I'll look into it, but I don't think I need an MBA to be successful at what I'm doing. It's not actually my intention to create products that will appeal to a great many people and I think I've done OK doing what I want to do." "Yes, but one can't always just go along doing what they want to do, Celia." "Interesting philosophy, Rueben." "Granted, you seem to have caught the ear of a few people, but if you want to be in business, you need to use connections as they appear. Then again, maybe you already do that. Maybe this whole trip is research for your writing." I laugh and consider how my sudden arrival and willingness to stay a few days might strike Rueben as research. "I do tend to write about my experiences," I say. "You might see something you said in a story, but you'd be more likely to feel misrepresented than accurately portrayed, which is what fiction is, isn't it?" "So, to you fiction is the inaccurate portrayal of experiences and the misrepresentation of real people?" "At least I know you're listening," I say, setting my knife and fork correctly across the plate in a five-minutes-to-five position.
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Normal History Vol. 61: The Art Of David Lester

lesterNormalHistoryVol61Every 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. This is strange, but I think I understand it. In thinking about this type of guy, this guy in particular, my mind is processing unresolved drama from the past. When I think of this guy, the one I'm referring to, I notice I am thinking of him by the name of a guy from many years ago. That is to say, in wondering what it will be like to see him in the street—will we return to avoiding each other? Or will I say, "Hi Kevin" ... but wait, his name isn't Kevin. And no, I'm not going nuts. Actually, I think this is a very healthy function that my brain is performing, reminding me that I've done this before and I now have the skills to go back and put other situations in order in my mind. Kevin was 20 years ago. A tall, insecure white man, a painter who would not paint. He had crappy jobs: cab driver, dishwasher. He skulked around the neighborhood feeling hard done by. He felt entitled to stuff other people had. He'd had a kid who he hadn't become involved with—he'd left them, the mother and his child, early on, and that was a source of pain for him. He showed me a photo that his ex sent him years later—the little guy looked just like him. It was heartbreaking all around. He and I had a very dramatic three years together—back and forth between Vancouver and Tucson. Back and forth between fights and break-ups. Many of the songs on Dovetail—maybe Mecca Normal's most popular album—are about him. Trapped Against swing the wax cradle in the burning tree lay flat in rusted cage pale moon of a half-face waking yellowed up by fear he is the thing he hates he is the thing he hates I have been reviewing these songs because they are the upcoming free downloads. "Throw Silver" is probably Mecca Normal's most well-known song, yet when I'm asked what it's about, I draw a blank. I hate the "what's it about?" question when it comes to the novels I write. What's a song about? Who gives a shit, right? Hearing "Throw Silver" again, right now, I recall that it is about breaking up after returning home from a tour, in that unstable time when emotions are fractured by exhaustion, projects long-in-the-works completed, the possibility of disappointment—expectations not met. The return to normal life is depressing. Name five things musicians do when they get off tour. Survey says: drink, cut-the-fuck-loose, sleep, break-up, have a fucking bath. On May 2 and 3, Mecca Normal recorded with Calvin Johnson for the first time in more than 15 years—the seven-inch will be out on K Records in the fall. From 1989 to 1993, Mecca Normal recorded four studio albums with Calvin. In a dream I just woke up from, at the end, I was walking down a hallway in the house I grew up in, after many attempts to get up out of bed and being very disoriented, seeing my family members talking, strange cars in the driveway and I kept having to stagger back to bed and try again to wake up and in this final attempt to get up, I saw that was 3 p.m. and my family was acting strangely towards me—they didn't understand me and this created fears in them that they didn't question, they just reacted to me strangely and as I was walking down the hallway to see what they were doing, my old dog Jill, a black lab, was walking towards me and she sniffed me and then sniffed again because she could tell there was something different about me and she was very old and I bent down to run my hand over her back and I got the feeling she was going to start talking; she sort of licked her lips and clacked her jaw and I said, "Just don't start talking about art and anger"—then I woke up for real, and it felt like all the other times I woke up, but this time it was real and it was only 8:30 a.m. I went outside to clear my head. Snipping off the yellow leaves of the spinach I'm growing in a container, I said to myself, "I'll gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today."
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Normal History Vol. 60: The Art Of David Lester

LESTERNormalHistoryVol60Every 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. Held you'd be surprised alright where you could be held there pinned in an up-draft back against the clouds holding siren's rage on a tangle-pain you didn't know was there you didn't know it was there grid-work set up for your wing-on rise to a place where you will be held back against the light hammer on hammer on towards never getting back hammer on hammer on hammer on
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Normal History Vol. 59: The Art Of David Lester

LesterNormalHistoryVol59Every 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. "Blue Sky And Branches—Frederick" You're always saying that I am the one that's always saying whatever I think is true. Every time I'm telling you everything I always wanted to do— I'm wondering if you get it, get it, get it, get it got it—ever at all. If you ever got it—if you're ever gonna get it at all. Every time I show you what I'm working on and what I’m going to do—I get this feeling, this feeling, this feeling, this feeling and it worries me, and it makes me sad, but mostly I'm just glad that I'm not you. And I know what you want to see, what you always wanna see, how I see you and why I'm sitting here, still sitting here watching you react to me. And you're wondering, wondering, wondering what I'm thinking, thinking, thinking. What I'm wondering is why are you thinking about this over and over again. And this is where we're gonna put the silence that I think you manufacture to point out what it is I do to you—poor you, oh poor you— And everything I've turned you into that you say you never were before. It's me that this is about—not you. Never was. Frederick, it's me that this is about. Frederick, it's me that this is about —not you.
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Normal History Vol. 58: The Art Of David Lester

lesterNormalHistoryVol58Every 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. We are working on our Curves Newsletter. I must not gossip about Curves members or complain. Jean's Corner At the start of the Saturday morning shift, I decided to empty the vacuum cleaner. I got the very clearly marked dirt box out and released the yellow latch to dump its contents into a garbage bag. Easy. In a separate plastic box: the filter. It looked pretty bad. More simple directions, another yellow latch, and the filter was exposed. I removed the tangle of material from around the cylinder and tapped the unit against the side of the wastepaper basket, as per the instructions. But not much of the dirt came out. It was pounded deep into the filter crevices. I looked in the cupboard for a stiff brush: nothing. Meghan—the manager—may not like what happened next. I needed to clean the filter. I craved the surge of suction I knew I’d feel at the end of the hose pipe after de-clogging the accordion-style folds. I grabbed one of the cheap-o paint brushes that Meghan uses to make her very cheerful signs, and I started to dredge out rather a lot of debris. By 10 a.m., there were several members on the circuit, and I was attracting a certain amount of interest—fervent cleaning session with paintbrush. Man, that dirt was really packed in there tight. I put the vacuum back together and joined the ladies on the circuit. One lady said, “You’re a painter, aren’t you?” This was strange to me, because I am a painter and I was, on that day, rather frustrated with the painting I had been working on at home. I told the lady she was very observant. I started thinking about my painting and wondered if I was taking out my frustration on the vacuum-cleaner filter. Interesting. I have since finished the painting, and it turned out better than it looked at work. It’s called Discovering Utopia, and it will be part of an art exhibit called The Black Dot Museum: Political Artists From Vancouver. I was looking forward to a break in the action so I could see the result of my cleaning, but there was a constant stream of enthusiastic gym members coming and going. Soon it was 1 p.m.: closing time. I locked the door and switched on the vacuum cleaner. The change was noticeable immediately. The part that slides across the floor was actually more difficult to move; suction had been increased immensely. And now, at 4 p.m. Monday, the club is quiet, save for my tippity-tapping on these keys. Jollies. Thrills. Whatever you want to call it. I’m going to vacuum. Edited out: On her way out the door, Tina makes a snide comment about me being OCD for cleaning the filter. I don't take it personally, but various ladies on the circuit are outraged. "Don't listen to her!" "I wasn't. I didn't," I say. "She's struggling," says Sue. "You mean with her weight or life in general?" "Both." I represent something to Tina: the mythical being who can eat anything, not exercise and never gain weight. I am simply lucky. That I have been weight-lifting 30 years and that I eat carefully is not the story she applies to me. Tina is unlucky. Being unlucky makes life so much simpler.
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Normal History Vol. 57: The Art Of David Lester

LesterNormalHistoryVol57Every 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. People tell me things. In my job as a fitness technician at Curves—the gym for women who hate gyms—I hear about size of gallstones, flaring bursitis and fallen arches. This week, a lot of information about shoulders. Ripped and torn. Frozen. I think the women assume that because I dance around to Lady Gaga in a hoodie with matching drawstring pants that I know something about damaged rotator cuffs. Not so; my very nice earth-tone bamboo ensembles are from a previous job at an organic clothing store. Here at the gym-for-women-who-hate-gyms, my flashy fitness garb extends the impression that I am some sort of an athlete. I’m not. I’m more of an entrepreneur. I want to start a small home business removing hoods from garments—a much-needed service for those of us who appreciate a waist-length zippered jacket, but are tired of saggy pouches of fabric bunched up around our shoulders—ripped or otherwise. I was at home preparing to paint number five in the "Discovering Utopia" series when the manager of Curves phoned: "I’m not feeling well. Can you come in and take over the morning shift?" I’m on deadline to finish, package and ship paintings for an upcoming exhibition. I looked at the paintbrush in my left hand and heard myself say, "OK. I’ll come in." After I hung up, I boldly decided to paint at work—and to make a video of my activities. I packed up paint, brushes, mini DVs, two blank canvases and two recently completed paintings. I strapped all this to the back of my bike and rode the seven minutes to work. My manager looked pretty raunchy; she’d been up late consoling a roommate who'd been dumped by a boyfriend. I believe this process traditionally requires tequila. Or is it rum? I explained, with much enthusiasm, that I would be painting in the gym and that I was keen to have art shows and other cultural events as a way to bring in new members. She indicated that this was fine by massaging her head with both hands and saying, "Whatever." The Black Dot Museum: Political Artists From Vancouver runs for the month of May at Northern: The Olympia All Ages Project, celebrating one year of art and music in downtown Olympia.
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Normal History Vol. 56: The Art Of David Lester

lesterNormalHistoryVol56Every 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. "I'm going to put on something warmer," I say, sliding off a tall chair in the kitchen. "I'll take my bag upstairs." It is strange to be back here. I'm about to change into a sweater and jeans when Rueben walks in. I don't really feel like having sex, but that doesn't seem to be why he's here. He goes into the bathroom. "Come in here for a minute." I go into the bathroom, and he's standing beside the scale. "Take off your clothes and step on. I want to see how much you weigh." I lay my tweed skirt, brown lace shirt, bra and panties over the edge of the Jacuzzi and step on the scale. "One hundred and 10 pounds," Rueben says. "I'm going to fatten you up this weekend and weigh you again before you go home." "I can't afford cheese and olives," I laugh. "I intend to take full advantage of their availability." I put on my bra and panties and go back into the bedroom to finish dressing. Rueben bounds downstairs to check the pizza. "It's ready," he calls up. "Coming right down," I reply, thinking that this is an awfully strange way to date someone. "What do you want to do today?" Rueben asks, serving me a huge breakfast. "I'd like to go to a beach." "A beach. OK, I'll try to think of some place we could go." "It's an island. Aren't beaches one of the main things about being on an island?" "This island doesn't have a lot of beaches, but I have a couple of ideas." We drive for about 20 minutes, park and take a trail into the woods. "How far is the beach?" "I'm not sure. Maybe 15 minutes." "OK, so this is more of a hike," I say. "Are you sure you know where you're going?" "I'm pretty sure there's some kind of a beach down here." "But you don't really know?" "I'm allergic to trees, so I don't spend a lot of time in the woods." We walk through a spooky forest of dead trees covered in hanging moss. Rueben is sniffling, blowing his nose. The trail takes us up and over a hill and eventually out to the water and a small rocky beach. I inspect a log with billions of wormholes in it while Rueben skips stones. Once. Twice. They sink. "We should head back soon," he says. "I have plans for lunch." "Plans?" I ask, thinking he means he has an appointment. "Yes, we're having lamb with fresh oregano and roasted potatoes. I need to marinate the lamb for about an hour before grilling it." "Sounds great. Well, thank you for the beach experience," I say. We head back into the forest. Rueben leads the way. "I hate to tell you this Rueben, but it looks like you've stepped in dog shit." "Oh my god," Rueben squeals, hopping around, scraping his shoe on tree roots and moss. Back at the car, he takes off the shoe and dips it in a stream at the side of the road—cursing, wiping it with a paper towel—making a really big deal out of the dog shit. He puts the shoe in a plastic bag in the trunk. I try to start a conversation with him, but the dog-shit thing is really bugging him. He's clenching the steering wheel with both hands, taking corners a bit faster than I am comfortable with. He backs the car into the garage, gets the bag with the shoe in it out of the trunk, takes off the other shoe and puts them both in the garbage can. He walks quickly to the house in his socks. I sit on the deck, giving him some time to cool down. Inside, I hear him shrieking, "A mouse! A mouse!" The door flies opens, and he stomps back to the garage in bedroom slippers to crash around, cursing. He returns to the house wearing a beekeeper's mask, holding long metal tongs and several plastic bags. "There's a mouse in the trap," Rueben says, sniffling. I close my eyes and think about olives, fancy cheese and lamb with fresh oregano. A raven lands on a cedar bough, making an almost human sound. Something like laughter.
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Normal History Vol. 55: The Art Of David Lester

LesterNormalHistoryVol55Every 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. "How'd it go at the no-show?" At the airport in Grenada wearing cowboy boots and a vintage nightgown—pink m-m-m-multiple machine guns pointed at me accidentally visiting Grenada, March 1979 The New Jewel Movement a Joint Endeavour for Welfare Education and Liberation was carrying-out a near-bloodless coup to establish a people's revolutionary government I was on vacation from my newspaper production job with my boyfriend—the newspaper's photographer two Nikons around his neck After a brief, but intense interview we were taken to a hotel of their choosing and told not to check-out check-out check-check-check until leaving the island when a driver would arrive to take us to the airport When the other tourists on our flight heard about the instability they all flew to other islands they all flew to other islands they all flew to other islands In the middle of the night we listened to Michael Manley Jamaica's then prime minister speaking in St George's Square Most of the town's population was there waiting for Peter Tosh who never did show up show-up, show-up, show-up It was rumored that Fidel Castro might speak —another no-show, no-show, no-show "How'd it go at the no-show?"
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Normal History Vol. 54: The Art Of David Lester

lesterNormalHistoryVol54bEvery 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. 1989. Mecca Normal's second album, Calico Kills The Cat, was due out any day. I was the driver of the 1972 Impala on a cross-country U.S. tour of K Records bands—Some Velvet Sidewalk (Robert Christie, Al Larsen, Jenny), Go Team (Calvin Johnson, Tobi Vail, Billy Karren) and Mecca Normal. We left Olympia and didn't actually play a show until Minneapolis. This gave us a chance to get to know each other. Dave and I had never met Billy, and I'm not so sure we knew Robert or Al yet, either. They were all in our car—Dave and me, Al, Robert and Billy. It was early spring, and there was still snow on the road in the mountains. Round about Pittsburgh, I started hearing a rolling around sound in the back end. We got to the Masonic Temple, where no doubt Manny had booked us—he's done almost all of our Pittsburgh shows. I remember that we spent some time looking for Al's contact lens during the Some Velvet Sidewalk set and that Robert walked around the room banging a drum. Dave has a photo of us looking for Al's contact lens, but I don't recall a photo of Robert with the drum. Actually, I see Al is wearing glasses in the photo, so I've remembered something wrong. A photo of Robert would be good to have. He was killed in 2001 in a car accident on a road between their small town in northern Oregon and Astoria, out on the coast. He and Denise and their two kids were driving to Robert's parents' for dinner. Dave and I had visited them not too long before that, a number of months. I remember standing with Robert in one of the kid's rooms. I was transfixed by a book that I'd had as kid: A Child's Garden Of Verses. The same edition. I wanted to pick it up and dive into it, to look at the illustrations I'd looked at when home from school with some minor ailment. The words "The Land of Counterpane" came into my head, and I was thinking about that word—counterpane—and how, as a kid, I didn't really know what that meant. I don't remember what Robert was saying, something philosophical about children, I think. Robert made us an excellent dinner: fresh tuna with a bit of teriyaki sauce. I kept saying how great it was, how the teriyaki was the X factor, on and on about how good the tuna was. Rich phoned to tell me. I found something online: "The crash occurred when the Christies' car made a sudden turn across the highway and was struck on the passenger side by a pickup, whose driver suffered minor injuries, authorities say." I started thinking, "Maybe he was trying to turn around on that stupid road, the road we'd just driven several months earlier, turning around to get the teriyaki sauce." Denise came with me, and Dave went with Robert. I forget why we had two cars, but we'd gone to Robert's parents' place and we were offered cookies and I think I probably wanted to say, "Mr. Christie, you make good cookies." Maybe I did, but I probably didn't. We bought the tuna for dinner and drove back to Robert and Denise's. I remember worrying about the road, the drive, and how weird it was to not have Dave in the car. When it started to sink in, that they were all dead—Robert, Denise, sweet little Ted and the baby—weird things started going through my head, like, "If I hadn't kept saying how great the teriyaki sauce was, maybe they would have skipped going back for it." I was nearly certain that, knowing Robert's parents didn't have teriyaki sauce, they'd turned around when they realized they'd forgotten it. I imagined the conversation in the car. "Jean said it was essential. We must go back for it." ... Sound of tires screeching ... crash ... In Pittsburgh, while everyone else was doing soundcheck, I was dealing with the car in the parking lot, in the dark. I jacked up each end of the car, put on a different tire and drove the car around trying to figure out where the noise was coming from. Not the tires. The next day I phoned a friend back in Vancouver and described the sound. He said it sounded like the CV joint: constant velocity joint. I'd never heard of it and therefore figured it couldn't be too important, maybe like the appendix, one of those take it or leave it parts, but he made a comment about the axel dropping and us pogo-ing across the highway to land upside down in a ditch. That image, those words, stuck with me. The next day it was snowing and I phoned around to find a garage and then I had to find the garage and I think I took a cab back to where we were staying and luckily it was with people who allowed us to stay an extra day—all eight of us. We had to cancel the show in Portland, Maine. I think that's where the next show was; with those people that did a song about a lawn dart in someone's head. Ed's Redeeming Qualities. It turned out that we could do the show the next night, so it wasn't a total disaster, but I recall people on the tour not liking it very much that I made the decision to fix the car. I recall someone suggested we just turn the music up louder. I think it was the following year, or maybe later that year, that Dave and I organized the cross-Canada—well, as far as Montreal, anyway; we call that cross-Canada—Black Wedge Tour on the D.O.A. bus with Nelly Bolt driving, Bryan James, Rhythm Activism, Mourning Sickness, Peter Plate and Mecca Normal. We were in Winnipeg after a show and Sylvain ordered pizza for everyone, but when the pizzas arrived, they cost basically what we had just earned that night. It was a sad moment, an error. We sat and ate over-priced pizza in the room we had just played to a decent-sized audience, now gone home. I thought we slept in the venue after sweeping the crap off the floor, I thought this was where I recall sleeping on the stage, but I have another memory of Winnipeg. I thought it was our host in Winnipeg who was driving past striking workers—she'd honked and waved at the folks on the picket line and managed to ram into the car in front of her. She was upset and we'd arrived and things were not good, but she wasn't hurt. Once, just when we arrived in NYC, Dave slipped on some stairs—I think we were going to Vickie and Dan's—Autotonic—which is where I first saw the idea of freezing stinky garbage until it can be thrown out—I still do this. I think we met Dame Darcy there, too. Dave slipped, his glasses went flying and broke. Dave is not an opt-out-of-glasses-kind-of-guy. He needs his glasses to see. Anything. I guided him to a glasses store and we got the lenses replaced in a very reasonable amount of time. This has always been a triumphant Mecca Normal success story. Some bands may boast of metallic interpretations of their albums worth—gold, platinum, sliver—or of sell out crowds and famous people attending their shows. We can say that certain famous people were at our shows, but I've never been very clear about why, so it isn't worth mentioning. And there's a very good chance that they came out of curiosity, were appalled and left. Like, I think the Smashing Pumpkins guy came to our show in Berlin. But I feel idiotic saying that, and he probably hated it. Us.
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Normal History Vol. 53: The Art Of David Lester

lesterNormal-HistoryVol-53Every 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 night before my visit, my mother had a dream that I didn't like the hot mustard she put on the turkey sandwiches she was going to make for lunch the next day. Unch-lay. I arrived a bit later than I'd planned—closer to noon. I made tea, and then my father put a paint-splattered drawing board on a foot stool in the living room and set the tray of sandwiches on it. Three turkey sandwiches cut diagonally, one with the crust trimmed off. On a separate plate: kalamata olives and kosher dill pickles. Fuck, they were good. I liked the hot mustard very much, but didn't say anything until my mother told me about her dream. "That's some kinda subtle dreamscape you're operating there," I said. "Pardon dear?" She is going to buy a hearing aid soon. We didn't really stop eating until about 2:30, and then my mother started talking about dinner, about a BBQ chicken that my father and I were supposed to go and get at the store. I said something about not wanting to stay for dinner, and my father didn't look too happy about not getting the BBQ chicken. We continued to sit in the living room and I forget how we got onto the subject of New York, but I asked my father the name of the photographer he used to work with when he was an ad-agency art director. John Rawlings. Right. A name from my childhood. Rawlings this and Rawlings that. Rawlings. It's a good name. This was in the '60s, when evidently Vancouver didn't have models. Seattle had models. Toronto had models, but it was my father's big idea to go to New York to work with Vogue cover photographer John Rawlings. My father, also named John, stayed at the Lexington, the Berkshire and the Pickwick Hotel. ("It was down by the United Nations, and the rooms were so small I had to step out into the hall while your mother changed for dinner.") Of course, I'd say "up near the U.N.," because I'm most frequently downtown—SoHo, the East Village—but he was a Midtown man so the U.N. was "down." My mother wanting privacy is not the definitive barometer of the size of a hotel room, but I guess he was left with that impression. These are the sorts of things that can be thought about and savoured, rather than issues to correct or clarify. I was enjoying the idea of my father in the hotel hallway while my mother changed into something fabulous for dinner on the other side of the door—an aerial cartoon view—when my mother asked me where I stayed when I went to New York and I said, "The Holland Tunnel Motor Lodge on the New Jersey side of the tunnel. Right by the last set of stop lights before you go into the tunnel." She didn't look very impressed. I don't recall asking my father how he found the Berkshire, but he told me that he'd discovered it while he was in Toronto. He'd picked up a card that read "While in New York, stay at the Berkshire." So he did. He said that he thought I'd once phoned from the spot the Lexington used to be. "When you were on tour with those girls." "The Indigo Girls," I said, trying to remember the name of that hotel. "It was either the same hotel renamed," said John. "Or maybe they took the building down and built a new hotel." He told me how he was walking along near his hotel and saw the Hickory House and he recognized it from an LP cover he had—maybe a Marian McPartland LP. Or maybe he discovered her by going there a lot, to the Hickory House: a steak house known for jazz. The first night he saw the place, he walked up to the door, but somehow felt that he couldn't go in, that he'd be thrown out if he went in. An image from 1981 popped into my head—walking east along Bleecker with CBGB at the end of the street, on Bowery. I was heading for an afternoon show and actually, I didn't know much about CBGB, but a guy I worked with (David Lester) told me a few things I might want to do while in New York. I'd been before, to New York, and I was going back for a second time, alone again, naturally. I mean, I was practically married, but I liked to travel alone. John went back to the Hickory House the next night, flung open the door and told the maître d', "A table for one near the music." He was taken to a table for one right near the music and ordered a steak and went back many times after that. My mother went on at least two of John's trips to New York, and he introduced her to the Hickory House and to Sydney the bartender, one of maybe six bartenders behind the huge horseshoe-shaped bar. One night John was sitting at the bar and Sydney introduced him to a member of the Modern Jazz Quartet. Sydney said, "John is an authority on jazz. You two will have lots to talk about." But my father didn't know much about the Modern Jazz Quartet. That's all he had to said about that story. This was one of those compounding free-association conversations that included me asking, "Didn't you see James Baldwin and Captain Kangaroo on the same day?" Back to Rawlings, the fashion photographer John worked with. As the art director, my father picked the models they used for various campaigns. Nabob Coffee was a big account, and photos of Lauren Hutton were included in the selection for the shoot. Rawlings said something about wanting to use her, this Lauren Hutton, because she was new and there was something he liked about her—so, if John wasn't opposed, he'd like to use her and my father picked her for the coffee ad, which was probably a national print media campaign in Canada and at that time anything national usually came out of Toronto and certainly not from an up-start art director from a Vancouver agency who went to New York to work with a Vogue cover photographer. Actually, I wanted to write about a woman at Curves, the gym for women who hate gyms, where I work, Curves. I want to write a story called The Control Leg. I told Ronnie I was going to write it. She laughed. I told her I'd change her name and everything. She didn't seem to care. She's in her forties, very nice and friendly, and she frequently tells me strange things after she's done her work-out. Good strange. She starts telling me about the self-tanning product she's thinking about using and it becomes clear that she has tested it out on one leg, so I asked to see and she pulled up her pant leg. She was concerned that it looked a bit orange. And, yes, it did. There were a few other women getting ready to leave and they started trying to listen to what we were talking about, trying to figure out why Ronnie and I were looking at her leg. I said, "Let's see the other leg." She pulled up the other pant leg and we compared—her one normal, fair skinned leg to a now even oranger-looking leg, by contrast. I told her I like her usual leg, regular colour. I asked, "What does Bob think?" "He hasn't seen it." "You're hiding your leg from him?" "Yes." "How much of your leg did you do?" "The whole thing." I see an impression of Ronnie with the one orange leg, here and there around their house, in bed, in the shower. A composite of images of Ronnie hiding the orange leg from Bob. "This is the control leg," Ronnie says, gesturing towards the regular leg. "If you decide to do it, what will he say?" "He'll wonder if I'm pulling away from him." "Really?" "I think when people change things about themselves, their partners wonder if they're trying to attract attention from elsewhere," says Ronnie. "I've never thought about that," I say. "He'll ask if there's anything we need to discuss." "Really? Wow. He knows how you feel about him, right?" I say, not really knowing how Ronnie feels about Bob, except that every time she mentions him, it is with such warmth that it seems certain that she loves him a lot. "He'll be wondering why I thought I needed to change anything about the legs he thinks are perfectly wonderful the way they are." "Do you know how long it'll take before it matches the control leg?" "No."
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Normal History Vol. 52: The Art Of David Lester

Lester-Normal-History-Vol-52Every 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. I get to the Vietnamese restaurant first, wearing a black lace dress, high heels and stockings. Sterling arrives in jeans and a sweatshirt. This is the second time we've met and our first real date. "You are very unique," Sterling says while we wait for menus. "You must know that." "And here I thought I was doing a good job at being normal," I say, joking, but feeling weird. Sterling has a union job that he will stay in until retirement. He doesn't do anything creative. "I'm envious of your life," he says. "I feel inferior to you." I have a sinking feeling, wondering what sort of consequences his feelings of inferiority will produce. "I respect you, your intellect," he says, as the waitress hands us menus. "I could learn a lot from you. You make me realize that my thoughts are mundane and that life is short. I don't want to have regrets." "You said something in email about wanting to talk about your situation in person," I say, changing the subject away from how crappy I am going to make him feel about himself. "Yes, I wanted to tell you about it in person because it's a bit unusual." "How so?" "I live with a woman that I'm not involved with. She's the co-owner of my house," he says, licking his lips, looking into his empty water glass. "You mean she's your ex?" I ask. "No, we're friends." Sterling puts his hands over his mouth, elbows resting on the table. "We bought the house together after we'd both ended long relationships. Neither of us thought we'd meet anyone again and we both wanted to own a house, so we bought it together when the market was in our favour." "So it's a mortgage-sharing arrangement," I say, wanting to see this as progressive. "Right. I haven't dated anyone since we bought the house, but we've both agreed to see other people." At my place, waiting for the water to boil for tea, Sterling says, "I told myself I wouldn't let anything happen between us tonight." "Really?" I say, wanting to ask why, wishing he had let me know about this. I would have appreciated not putting myself in this position: all dressed up, very unique, intellectual, available and everything. "It's getting late," he says. We're both standing. He awkwardly pats my arm. A hug. Another pat on the arm. A tiny kiss. Another hug, his hands move down my back. A longer kiss. "I really have to go," he says. Me thinking, "OK, so go." He puts on his coat, reaches into a pocket and pulls out a chocolate bar. "Here," he says. "Have this." I take it, glance at the ingredients and put it down on my drawing table. "Thanks," I say, looking up to see that he's crossed the room. He's at the sliding door, ready to pull it open. Was the chocolate supposed to distracted me, to facilitate his escape? Did I make him feel inferior? Does him thinking I'm smart make him feel stupid? Should I have arrived at the Vietnamese place in T-shirt and jeans? Is the woman he lives with seeing other people?
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Normal History Vol. 51: The Art Of David Lester

LesterNormalHistoryVol51Every 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. In discussing the Bugs Bunny song with Brian, we learned what each of us thought the lyrics were. Instead of "overture, curtains, lights," he thought it was "oh march on, calmful lights." Since childhood, I've thought it was "oui monsieur and candlelight." This discussion took place in email, yesterday, Day One of not having to go to that place—as Brian calls it. FabLand. I quit by fax. Sort of like death-by-chocolate or suicide-by-cop. Quit-by-fax. I may write about it—FabLand. Ideally, I would have been writing about it here, while I was there, but I didn't have time. New job, new romance, not enough time for my creative projects—it has been an out-of-whack three-month block of time that could have ended by getting the grant that I applied for back in October. But it didn't. Monday the letter came. I had a feeling it would be in my mailbox. Brian picked me up after work and we stopped by a "Mexican" restaurant on the Drive for chips and guacamole. ($7 for what a real Mexican place would just give you.) They were playing the Beatles—one song after another. I don't really like the Beatles. The place was full of bored-looking young people. There was nothing Mexican about the restaurant. Our waitress was a skinny blonde with an English accent who couldn't wait to say "no worries" after I'd said we only wanted chips and guac. I'm sure she would have soon said "awesome" if I'd allowed our interaction to continue. I had my work shoes in my packsack. I think I brought them home one other time. That is to say, I didn't have anything at FabLand. Nothing I'd need to return for. Brian had driven me to work that morning; we stopped at the Mayflower for breakfast—this is the first place we've gone together that neither of us has been to before. I wanted to ask Brain something. We were alone, sitting across from each other in a red-vinyl booth, waiting for our eggs, toast, potatoes. "Misty" was playing on the radio—slightly off-station—and I took Brian's hand and started to recall that awful movie Play Misty For Me about a woman stalker. I asked Brian if we could both change our Facebook status from "single" to "in a relationship." He liked this idea, and it was fun to ask and hear his response. Ah yes, we have an excellent romance-in-progress. The manager of FabLand seemed to be out of her office more than usual that day. Monday. Scowling, lumbering around making shitty comments to the staff. Typically, she stays in her office and eats McDonald's, 17-percent saturated fat donuts, microwave popcorn. She's working a-350-pounds-and-proud-of-it attitude. I was up a three-step ladder working with Alice, a very nice Chinese woman. We were doing inventory; she had a clipboard and I called out the name of the fucking fabric and code number. I had to wrench the bolts forward off their metal feet to pull back the cloth at the top to see the info stamped on the cardboard end. Extremely awkward and I did feel my shoulder sort of rip as I was wrestling with a bolt of organza above my head, twisting on the ladder to yank the thing around so I could read the fucking info: Rhapsody Couture Organza. Better me do the calling out and Alice do the writing down. Me trying to understand Alice's idea of what Rhapsody Couture Organza sounds like is another story. Like the day before when we spent several hours together in a broom closet counting curtain rods and she was saying AT48693—or whatever—and I thought she was saying 84blahblahblah and I was flipping through the pages of the inventory sheets without my reading glasses in the dimly lit closet looking for a code that started with 84. (The pages having been faxed and photocopied so many times that vertical lines run through the numbers, obliterating them, reducing the entire enterprise to guess work.) Monday was the day that while I was sweeping the store, I heard the manager call out. "Jean!! For some reason, people feel the need to close the door to receiving." This was delivered in her usual I-have-no-idea-how to-speak-to-anyone-in-a-civil-tone-nor-am-I-capable-of-saying-anything-without-sounding-like-a-total-bitch voice. I yelled back, "I closed the door because there is a sign on it that says 'Keep Door Closed.'" Fuck. Early in the day, after the door-closing incident, she called me over to tell me she had an interesting job for me. "Oh ya?" I said, without trying to hide my irritation. She explained that she wanted all the tall boxes of curtain rods to be set up in a display case. This required removing all the short curtain rods that were stuffed in the case—basically switch this stuff around. The motion required pulling the eight-foot-tall packages straight up out the display boxes—which is no big deal, but my arms hurt. Forearms, mostly. And my hands. Not stiffness, but pain—maybe like tendonitis. Or some sort of "itis." I switched some of the boxes, but most of the boxes she wanted in the display case were too big to fit into the holes. There was a trolley of stock sitting there, which looked like it was supposed to be unloaded, but I've been fooled before and gone ahead doing what looks obvious and been wrong. The day The Big Boss was supposed to come from Toronto to visit our store (one of 155 in his FabLand empire) and the manager was out of her office, in the store working, all day. Ah ha. This means she isn't supposed to be sitting in her office with the door closed eating and colouring. I stopped doing the "interesting" job of trying to shove tall boxes into holes too small and went on to do other stuff. "Jean!! Why didn't you do what I told you to do?" On one of my first days at FabLand, one of my co-workers asked me, "How long have you been in Canada?" "I was born here," I said, continuing to shove drapery rolls into the shelving unit. "Then why are you working at FabricLand?" Costina was hired the same day I was. She told me about her job back in Romania—some sort of admin position—and her husband was a policeman. On Monday, when Costina was doing her bossing-me-around-thing-because-she-can't-help-it, I told her she should apply for the ass. manager position. She said she's going to take a course to become an apartment-building manager. Last week I found out that, back in Romania, she was a lawyer. I couldn't believe it. Fuck. And here in Canada, she's scurrying around under-the-thumb of a woman who spells "safety" three different ways on one sign: safty, safety and saftey. I told the manager that the boxes didn't fit in the holes. She is the sort of person who, when being informed that she was wrong about something, lashes out. "Get those boxes off that trolley. They cannot just sit there like that.” Taking the boxes off the trolley was not part of her instructions in the very interesting job, but I wasn't surprised to hear her bark out her dissatisfaction with my performance. This is FabLand—I'm always doing something "wrong." I said nothing. Later in the day, I was helping a woman and her daughter match fabric for six bridesmaids' dresses—a sale worth giving some extra attention to, not like the usual one metre of flannelette for a receiving blanket. (What the fuck is that?) I was walking along, the customers a few paces behind me, looking at fabric, trying to find a burgundy satin. The manager lumbers past and says, "Help this customer." I look up and see another woman standing at the cutting table. The manager walks right by the customer, off to look out the front window. God, she thinks I'm just walking around doing nothing, ignoring customers. Great. Actually, there was a morning when I had been working on various projects in the store, and the manager came out of the office and told an ass. manager to give me something to do because I was "wandering around doing nothing." I almost quit that day. That ass. manager quit by the end of that week for a similar comment directed at him; she told a customer that he "didn't know anything". The manager doesn't usually deal usually with customers or do the cash register or lift anything; she just doesn't do much work. Staff have anonymously reported to the regional boss that she sits in her office snacking and making hundreds of signs for the lunchroom. While we eat lunch, we are supposed to be reading the signs: various concerns about the store, where we are in our sales goals, etc. A feast of misspelled words and conceptual problems: "Do not talk to suspected shoplifters" and then, on the same sign, "Say hello to suspected shoplifters and ask them if they need a basket." Alice is 60. She's been at FabLand five years and doesn't plan on leaving. I asked if her body ached, and she said yes. I said, "But you never show any pain or irritation." Alice is single and takes care of her very old mother. She can only leave the mother for four hours at a time. She must keep working at FabLand. She will stay until she can retire. Giovanna's husband has medical issues, and the FabLand health benefits cover his drugs. Giovanna stays on so that her husband can get the drugs he needs. The letter from the Canada Council—telling me my application had not been successful—was, at first, very bad news. Brian was here when I opened the letter. I'd hit play on my answering machine, ripped open the envelope while standing at my desk, listening to Big Brothers' automated message telling me that they'd be in my neighbourhood soon and they were looking for household appliances; would I be able to donate household appliances? I let the message play and felt very unhappy about not getting the money, not being awarded the time to write. Brian was very nice; he said that he knows I'm a good writer. This jarred me into a different awareness. That wasn't what I was upset about. I'm not insecure about my writing. I want the money so that I can have time. I'm not looking for the Canada Council's approval. I was immediately in problem-solving-mode. Brian was holding me, hugging me, and I was looking out at the city lights over his left shoulder, thinking about how to proceed. I felt like I was doomed, destined to work in shitty jobs until I retire. Retirement—that's a laugh. A whole other area of low potential to survive. Then I started to realize that knowing the results of my application was starting to feel good. Just to know after all the waiting. Plus, it doesn't solve anything in-the-bigger-picture. It's just a pile o'money that will run out. I don't really want to be one of these people who has a string of grants on their resume instead of actual successes—opportunities we create-out-of-nothing. Dave and I, as our way of being, have, over the years, maintained that we will do things regardless, in spite of and sometimes because, of a lack of funds, support, encouragement. We do things because we want to, because we believe they are important or valuable—to us or to some bigger-idea-picture we have about society, art and the act of defying obstacles and taking risks, knowing for absolute sure that the risks we take may leave us in worse positions financially and emotionally. We do stuff because that's what we do. Stuff. Do. Tuesday morning, I faxed in my resignation and went to have a nap from which I frequently flickered back to the surface thinking, "My arms hurt, my hands hurt, my legs hurt, my neck hurts, my back hurts. I-need-to-rest."
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Normal History Vol. 50: The Art Of David Lester

LesterNormalHistoryVol50Every 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. In celebration of the 50th volume of Normal History, instead this week here's a special video from Smith.

[vimeo]http://vimeo.com/9924856[/vimeo]
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Normal History Vol. 49: The Art Of David Lester

LesterNormalHistoryVol49Every 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?
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Normal History Vol. 48: The Art Of David Lester

LesterNormalHistoryVol48Every 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. I have watched Seth laugh and flirt at literary events for years. Women gravitate to him—I gravitate to him, and when I'm laughing and flirting with him I don't feel like I'm those other women, but I do wonder if somewhere in the room other women are watching me laughing and flirting with Seth thinking the same thing. Seth laughs at what women say, and women get funnier when men laugh. Seth, a publisher of ribald male-generated literature, is attending in a professional capacity. One of his authors is reading tonight. He's standing under a spotlight, holding a book, talking with three women wearing sundresses. I'm leaning on the bar—one foot on the brass foot rail—sipping tap water. I'm sure the conversation is very funny and witty. Seth is charming. I wait until one of the women drifts away and the other two are talking to each other. I walk over to Seth and set my glass on his table. "Jean, thank god you're here. How do you handle these things without a drink?" "It gets easier. I've been watching you. You're doing great." "I'm sweating like a wiener, and I'm having heart palpitations. I'm not doing great. I'm having a conniption fit." "Conniption fit—I haven't heard that expression for years," I say, giggling. "It's much like having a bird or a big hairy," Seth says. He is sexy in a weird way—very deep voice for a short guy. "Here," I say, sliding my water glass across the table. "Have some water." "Things have gone from bad to worse since I last saw you. I'm not allowed to drink on doctor's orders, and my wife has left me." "A single and sober Seth," I say. "How very interesting." "God Jean, sometimes you can be so ... " "So what?" I ask, laughing. "Yes, you're right—so what indeed. It doesn't matter." Seth takes a swig of water. "Actually, maybe you're just the person." "Maybe I am. Maybe you're right about that," I say, in a flirty way. "Let's hang out sometime. Catch a movie or something. Do something non-drinkers do. What do non-drinkers do anyway?" "We sit alone in our rooms and write novels." "And where are you at with it?" "Basically it's finished." "Are you going to show me?" "If you want to see it—sure." "Do you have a publisher?" "No." "You should submit it to us to publish," he says. "Let's meet tomorrow after work. Can you bring the manuscript?" Seth is already at the coffee shop on Main Street. He looks unhappier than the night before, and smaller. He has a fancy bottle of fizzy fruit drink and a half-eaten bran muffin in front of him—lots of crumbs. An inordinate amount of bran muffin crumbs—on the plate and all over the table. "The doctor says I have to get more fibre," he says. "Are you basically OK, Seth?" I ask, sitting down and hanging my bag with the manuscript over the back of my chair. I brush away some of the crumbs. "Basically no. Basically I'm all fucked-up. This is a nightmare. Basically." "This being what? The not drinking or your wife leaving?" Seth takes off his glasses, sets them gently on the table and rubs his eyes. He looks up and says, "Can we start again? I promised myself I wasn't going to whine to you." "Sure," I say laughing. "Shall I go back out and come back in?" "You know I think you're swell Jean. I don't want to blow this by suggesting anything before I'm ready, but I've always really liked you—you know that, right?" "Yes and you've always been extremely married and now you're extremely fucked up and you're right, now isn't the time to be thinking about starting anything with anyone." Seth reaches across the table and takes both my hands in his. "Gosh you're good looking." "Thanks, but maybe you should have your glasses on when you deliver that line." Seth laughs and lets go of my hands. He rubs his eyes again. "OK, you're right. I have to slow down. Let's change the subject—tell me about the novel." "It's about my experiences online dating," I say, reaching behind me to pull out the manuscript. "Great, so I'm going to have to read about you having sex with a million guys when you won't go out with me?" "Yes, I'm afraid you are. More like two million guys, but who's counting?"

*       *       *

I've suggested, somewhat timidly over the two months we've been seeing each other, that things escalate sexually. I'm attempting to be sensitive to his anxious nature. It feels like we've been a couple for years—not in a good way. He acts as though we are together—involved. I'm wondering if we really should be planning to go away together for the weekend. I keep feeling like I should break up with him. Seth phones from his car to ask, "Do you have anything other than water to drink?" "No." "OK. I'll pick something up. Something fizzy." "Great. See you soon." He arrives an hour later. The sun is down. I have changed out of the black dress with the plunging neckline into jeans and a T-shirt. I open the door and ask, "Did you walk from downtown?" "Oh. Did I take a long time?" "You phoned from your car an hour ago. It's a 15-minute drive." "I had to go to Safeway and I phoned my daughter. Sorry." Sitting on the deck after the sun has gone down, a seagull flies over us. "Strange to see a bird flying at night," Seth says. "Do you like birds?" I ask. "I do. Before I was separated, we used to watch a lot of documentaries on the nature channel. My favourite bird is the sparrow. We used to climb trees and look in their nests. Unfortunately, I had to kill a few of the babies to see how they worked." "My mother inadvertently taught me the names of all the local plants and birds," I say. The night air is cool on my bare arms. The mountains are purplish-black silhouettes like half a Rorschach ink blot. "Did you just say separated? Are going get back together?" I say, sitting up in my chair. "I don't foresee getting back together with her," Seth says calmly, savouring my agitation. "There haven't been any moves toward reconciliation, but I still have a place in my heart for her." In bed, after a long bath and no sex, I close my eyes, ready for sleep. Seth says, "You look like a baby sparrow." My mind returns from pre-sleep drifting to Seth's comment about sparrows. Sparrow, baby sparrow, kill it to see how it works.
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Normal History Vol. 47: The Art Of David Lester

LesterNormalHistoryVol47Every 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.
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Normal History Vol. 46: The Art Of David Lester

lestNormalHistoryVol46Every 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 host of the film festival is standing in front of the screen on opening night. There are only about 20 people in attendance, mostly art-student types and one older guy, a big fat guy with a beard and long slicked-back hair wearing a sweatshirt with a logo across the front. He looks like he got lost on his way to a tugboat captains' potluck. "We are very pleased to have one of our directors here tonight," the host says nervously into the microphone. "Jean Smith's film Attraction Is Ephemeral will be second in the program. Jean? Can you can give us a wave?" People turn to see where I am—at the very back. I wave and smile. Lights out. People laugh at my film and clap loudly at the end. Half way through the third film, I elbow David, and we start to move slowly from our back row seats as planned. We're sneaking out for a few hours before our performance. My glasses case drops and clunks on the wood floor, alerting anyone who cares to turn around that we are leaving. I'm giggling and David is shushing me. Returning well in advance of our one-hour set, the first band is holding off on playing until more people to arrive. David and I take turns sitting at our merch table: CDs, singles, LPs, books, t-shirts, postcards. I am taking a close look at the gallery's very old electrical outlets when the tugboat captain arrives. I guess he wasn't in the wrong place. I watch him looking very carefully at a short stack of our promotional postcards, which feature a rather scantily clad me. Intending to set the postcards back on the merch table, he accidentally drops them and they swish across the floor. He crouches to pick them up and, in this position, he opens his jacket and slides about a dozen postcards into his pocket. He stands up and puts the remaining postcards back on the table. I get a sort of creepy feeling, and I'm curious. I wander over to the table and listen to him joking around with one of the event organizers—he's flirting with her, teasing her. Maybe she's his girlfriend. His name is Glen. He's a painter. "When is the music going to start?" Glen asks me. "It's past my bedtime." "Mine too." I laugh. "I hope they start soon." "I want to buy this CD," he says. "How much is it?" "It's $10, but have you heard our music before?" "No." "Why don't you wait until after we play before you buy it?" "I may not be here then." "Maybe you won't like it," I say. "Well, then I'll return it. I live nearby. I'll go and listen. If I don't like it, I'll bring it back." "I've never had a return before," I say. "You should stay, listen to our set and then decide if you want to buy the CD." Glen buys the CD and sticks around. During our set, Glen is sitting with the organizers, positioned behind a post. As I'm singing, I'm wondering why he is hiding and what he thinks of these songs about guys I've gone out with. The audience laughs in all the right places—and in a few new places. After our performance, I make my way to our merch table where Glen is standing looking at the CDs. "So," I say. "Do you need to return the CD?" "No," he says. "Actually, I need to listen to your lyrics again. I missed some of the words when you were singing." "Some of the words to my dating adventures?" "Yes, I need to study more about the details of what was so wrong with each guy," Glen teases. "Ah ha. A little bit of research, eh?" I say. "Which dating website do you use?" he asks. "Lavalife." "A friend of mine suggested I try Lavalife. I looked at it, but I just felt very sad." "Sad?" "The photos of women revealing themselves to get a date. It just felt sad to me. Here's a question for you: When you meet these guys, are they worried that you might write a song about them?" I start to answer, but we are interrupted by a few people wanting to buy CDs. Glen waits a while, then waves good-bye and heads down the stairs. I wake up in my crisp, clean motel sheets thinking about Glen's question: Do guys I meet think I'm going to write about them? David and I go for coffee and pastries in a nearby café. We make a plan to pack up our stuff and go to a couple of festival events before heading home. I am happy to see Glen at the noon event in a small gallery. "Hey," I say. "Last night you asked me if guys are concerned that I might write a song about them." "Oh—I forgot about that. Has it ever come up?" "It has, in fact. I mean, after last night, after listening to my songs, would you go on a date with me?" "A date?" "Yes, a date," I say. "If I asked you out on a date." "If you asked me out on a date?" "Yes." "Are you asking me out on a date?" "Sure. We could go for steak and lobster at the Keg And Cleaver," I say. "Lobster?" "Yes. Steak and lobster." "Steak and lobster?" "Yes, steak and lobster," I say. He's a big guy. He probably doesn't want to go out for a salad. "At the Keg And Cleaver?" The woman Glen was joking around with last night is standing with us. "Just say yes Glen. Just say yes." I guess she's not his girlfriend. Glen looks confused—or maybe he's teasing me again. "It could just be steak," I say, starting to wish I hadn't said anything. "It doesn't have to be steak and lobster." "Now you're taking the lobster out of the deal?" he says. "No it can be steak and lobster, but it doesn't have to be a date." "Now it's not a date?" "It's two artists going out for dinner. We'll have a fun time," I say and move away to look at the photos in the gallery, wondering why Glen is making this into a bigger deal than it needs to be, wondering if he thinks this is funny. I'm wishing I hadn't said anything. Glen comes up beside me and says, "I'm not sure I know what a date is. What if the date part doesn't work out? Can we still be friends?" "I'm unclear on what a date means, too. I think we can be friends either way."
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Normal History Vol. 45: The Art Of David Lester

LesterNormalHistoryVol45Every 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.

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Normal History Vol. 44: The Art Of David Lester

lesterNormalHistoryVol44Every 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. “Political”: A song about me. John Mann (boyfriend circa 1985), singer in Spirit Of The West. I could respond, never have, as to why "every little thing had to be so political." And ya, I wrote a couple songs about him, too—on the first Mecca Normal LP (Smarten UP!, 1986). "Not With You" ("I won't live my life, no, not with you ... I've got my dreams, they're nothing to you ... I've got my dreams, I'll see them through ... I'm gonna see my dreams come true ... If you're not changing, well, that's OK, that's OK, too ... I've got my life, it's not with you") and "Sha La La la La" ("You vote Socred next time, instead of NDP, and I'm gonna have to wonder about you me ... Sha la la la la la") “When we started out [in 1983], we were quite folky,” Mann recalls. “We were trying to write as best as we could about things that were going on in British Columbia, hence the name. And around Expo 86, the band became more politicized.” It was a time of labour unrest, of Downtown Eastside hotel evictions, of Bills Vander Zalm and Bennett (Socred party leaders in British Columbia). It was also around that time that Mann became romantically involved with Mecca Normal singer Jean Smith, who remains an influential figure in the Vancouver rock underground. “She was—and still is—a really political person, a political being who really walks the talk,” Mann says of his former partner. “And the effect of her views on me in turn affected the band. We started looking at the world differently—and certainly from more of a left-of-centre viewpoint.” —Georgia Straight.com Jan. 20, 2010 Hi John, Popping up, out of the blue, to send powerful thoughts your way. Wishing you every form of strength you need to overcome this current health situation. Jean (so political) Smith Wait ... January 20 ... an anniversary. On the morning of Jan. 20, 1983, the Vancouver Five were captured on the road to their training area by an RCMP tactical unit disguised as a road crew. The five received sentences ranging from six years to life. —Wikipedia To avoid having any more songs written about how annoyingly political I was, I took up with someone even heavier than me. Gerry Hannah of the Subhumans and the Vancouver Five—someone even more "so political" than me, albeit, when I knew him, he'd served his time and was more in-tune with the great outdoors and freedom. The direct act of being free. Direct action in terms of, as Gerry put it in an interview—"The song ("Nowhere To Run") describes more of a personal struggle with depression, anger and a fear of failure. It’s a song about how easy it is to keep making the same mistakes over and over again when one is afraid to make the necessary changes in one’s life to become a whole person. It often seems easier to run away from the fear and pain one feels inside, but eventually (hopefully), one realizes that you can’t run away from something you’re carrying around inside of you. You have to deal with it. You have to understand it and to meet it face to face in order to eventually be free of it." —Culture Bully The Subhumans have been playing shows recently. John Mann is playing shows. Mecca Normal continues on. The politics are not obvious. The personal is political. Carry on, my wayward ones ( ... don't you cry no more —Kansas).
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Normal History Vol. 43: The Art Of David Lester

LesterNormalHistoryVol43Every 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.
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Normal History Vol. 42: The Art Of David Lester

LestrNormal-HistoryVol42Every 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. Hi Michael, Happy New Year. Contacting the gallery without a timeframe isn't the best way to proceed, but I know galleries require a lot of lead time. I need to figure out the when part of the puzzle before pitching our event. Actually, I'm wondering what the timeframe is for the end of classes this year. April into May potential. I am starting to formulate a possible plan—flying to Milwaukee for events in Racine, Evanston, Chicago and maybe Champaign-Urbana, as well as shows on the west coast. Vancouver, Seattle, Olympia, Portland. A two week rock show, lecture art exhibit tour. Flying SeaTac to Milwaukee is $94 each way, while Chicago is $149 (adding $200 to total airfare if we went in and out of Chicago). I am starting week four working at a fabric store—$9 an hour, part time on an ever-changing schedule that intends to make it impossible to secure employment elsewhere. Pure evil. They keep staff at part time, at their disposal, seven days a week. It almost pays my expenses. If I buy nothing. It's the sort of job that I will need to quit and while I'm in my preferred state of unemployment, I figure—why not do a rock tour? Sometimes people suggest that I work in arts administration, but it is part of a more stimulating process to be out in the general work force, challenging myself in this way. At the fabric store I haul around heavy rolls of cloth, measuring and cutting cloth for customers who are involved in creative projects. The clientele is 95% women—primarily East Indian and Chinese with about 30% Caucasian, quite a few of whom are Russian. Thanks for your comments on the MAGNET series—it has turned out to be a very good project between David and I. Applying our individual and collaborative strengths in forms other than Mecca Normal. Some of the writing comes from the novel I've been working on for about five years—Love Wants You. I hope to get it done this week and send out queries to literary agents. It's "about" online dating experiences, but more accurately—it shows human behaviour. I received a Canada Council for the Arts award to write it. And yes, I can see doing a tour of stories and paintings based on this material. In the illo, text and mp3 terrain—our long history of turning almost nothing into rather a lot is brought into focus by pushing the audience to interpret nearly-unrelated components. If the song, the text and the illo were all about the same thing, it would be a closed system without encouragement to grapple with their lack of noticeable connectivity. I love it that the three elements create a tension similar to the way Mecca Normal operates, where the music and the words aren't always complimentary—or even complementary. Mecca Normal listeners are invited to consider the "missing elements". I like including what isn't there by assertively foisting ourselves into inappropriate situations, placing ourselves where we shouldn't be. Non-academics presenting a lecture, the rock element at a poetry reading, the poetry at a punk rock show. I am least comfortable in front of like-minded supporters. If you have any ideas for either literary agents or publishers, I'd be very grateful for your input. We're getting some great unsolicited responses to the MAGNET series, although, in general, I think our audience and fans are not big on making comments—which, in a way, underscores our strange operating stance. We do things regardless of reaction and profit because this is how we want to live our lives—collaborating on projects, presenting work through means we make available to ourselves, making things happen without being high profile artists who require validation of our worth through positive reaction and profit. Don't get too choked about host anxiety. We did an event in April with less than a dozen students and then we stayed with the host for two days—everyone survived. I think we just raided her fridge extra hard in retaliation for the small turn-out, but then, weeks later, one of those students wrote to say that after the lecture she and friend talked about our ideas for hours. She said we'd had a profound impact on her creative output—she was still gliding along on our inspiration. I'm not going to make that cliché statement about the value of inspiring just one person—I do what I do because it is what I love to do. I'm selfish that way. If we could arrange to have the lecture videoed and archived—streamed—(jeez, two crappy verbs in one sentence... videoed and streamed... ) that increases the value of a visit. The questions here are—when do classes end? April, May. And—any ideas for literary agents and publishers. Jean
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Normal History Vol. 41: The Art Of David Lester

LesterNormalHistoryVol41Every 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.
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