Thursday nights…once a relaxing night nearing the end of the week, things to look forward to…now a tangled web of exhaustion and apprehension and tension. Lots of “sions” (no offense to any sion). I get notices for lots of local art stuff…often blow it off and delete it. Occasionally go to some of them. During the week is harder…I’m lucky to get done with the Have-To’s early enough to feel like doing anything, but getting my sad self out of the house is a priority (well, sort of). So I got a notice for a So Say We All Vamp called Mob Rules (I just figured out what VAMP stands for…duh…”video art, music, performance”). There’s a lot of words there. I didn’t really know what to expect, except it had something to do with storytelling, and honestly, that’s what it turned out to be: a bar full of people quietly listening to storytellers tell…

I find myself standing in a bar with a million young things and about three people my age (art professors or pedophiles, take your chances). They’re videotaping and the bar is all beer and hard alcohol, which is bad for the diabetic in me. So when do I ditch this place and head next door to the Station Tavern for some tots and a glass of lonely whine errr wine with my sketchbook? I guess I should give it a minute…maybe if they actually start? They start late.

Apparently to get a chair I had to be here much earlier. Like noon. Starting!

Nathan Young is hosting; he’s the So Say We All production director. As I’m typing all this AND listening, my WordPress app keeps randomly deleting shit. Seriously. I type, I save frequently. It decides not to save. I guess it could be the connection, but it seemed random. So I would type impressions and quotes, and then it would delete them. Frustrating to say the least. Nathan says the world of a writer can be lonely…he wants us to feel a little less crazy and a little more connected. He asks us to turn around and introduce ourselves to someone around us. AACK. I wave at the lovely young thing next to me. She manages a “Hi.”

There are seven storytellers…starting with Jennifer Corley. OK, it’s even harder to find writers online to link to than it is to find artists. I tried. She tells a story of an old friend (male) who is getting married and invites her to be his new love’s bridesmaid. Sounds like a problem already. The new love paints the Virgin Mary holding kittens and talks about mixing spit into her paint. Everyone tells Jennifer that she has to stop this wedding. There’s the quote “poo gradient topped with hair posies” describing the bridesmaids’ dresses, while the groomsmen had black armbands. All in all a good story, well read.

Story number 2 is Erin Peterson. She tells the story of sibling rivalry and support and her first teen love, Blake, who wrote Primus on his backpack with Whiteout. He had shimmering hair, but his brother went on a machete rampage and ruined her chances with Blake, because Erin’s younger brother was the snitch who told their mom about the machete. The phrase “chubby bitch” was thrown around and an 8th-grade chubby girl punched Mr. Shimmering Hair for going after her 5th-grade brother. “I’d fallen for a jerk, but at least I saw it now.”

Story number 3, who might have been Alexandra Schlein (they didn’t announce names really well, and then my app deleted stuff) started with a strange tale of Bob eating a tuna fish sandwich over a chest open for surgery, and continued with stories of scientific experiments confusing our pleasure and pain centers. Apparently the pleasure center is easily stimulated by rubbing a BBQ brush on the arm, who knew? She tells of Rhonda, with a barbed-wire tat on her biceps, and gently basting her arm with the brush and then showing her pictures while she decided “like,” “neutral,” or “dislike.” Meth equipment was instantly dislike. She was “confounding her pains and pleasures,” showing vulnerability to the dislikes.

Story number 4 is a preschool teacher who prefers her name is not used. She starts with a profanity-laden rant from a 5-yr old frat boy pointed at a honeybee (“Shut the fuck up, asshole!”) and continues into the depths of preschool from there. She calls one group of boys her League of Villains, and after a trying time of reading The Giving Tree and surviving a possible gun on campus, she says, “Dylan was right. That boy did kill the fucking giving tree.” She should teach middle school. There’s less urine on the floors.

They take a break. I should have eaten…more. They should announce names more obviously. Now I notice there are other older people here, even older than me. They’re in the seats in front; that’s why I couldn’t see them. It’s the in-between moments that suck, that drag me down, can’t afford a drink, empty stomach bad anyway. I donated $5 because I’m old and I know art groups need money,. I’m standing by myself, no one to connect to; the stories are good though. Is that enough?

The next batch of storytellers stands by the sound booth, nervously rolling their stories or reading through them, anticipating. Reading in front of people. “I swear to God, I have a boyfriend who lives in Canada.” I’m totally stealing that line. The 10- to 15-minute break seems like an hour.

Story number 5 is Julia Evans, stay-at-home mom, talking about “feeling peaceful, alone, and not needed” while her daughter is at a playdate, but after she goes to pick her up, gone for maybe 45 minutes, her house has an attempted break-in. She doesn’t clean off the forensic dust-covered handprints. They get washed off by the rain.

Story number 6 is Laura Condi buying a David Sedaris book in Target. She talks about having to move back home, hipsters shopping, and the torture of small talk. Rosa, the nonthreatening young Latina who is checking her items out at Target, challenges her about the book (I’m wondering why you would be embarrassed to buy a Sedaris book at all?). Condi claims she is buying it for a friend, so she won’t have to explain herself, but Rosa throws a gift-receipt curve ball. Condi says, “Everyone in San Diego has nothing in common with me.” I feel that way sometimes about El Cajon.

Story number 7, the last one, is Craig Oliver, who announces he is there to offset all the estrogen. He tells a local mob story, something to do with the Gardner art heist, and who might have been involved, which someone got him into videotaping people who might kill him. He claims, “I’m a whore for experience.” I don’t follow his story, but his method of telling it is engrossing.

Many of the storytellers (most?) have pictures on the screens behind them that change as they speak…the pictures add to the stories, giving them humor and depth.

Here’s the story on the Vamps from the So Say We All website: A highly produced multimedia variety showcase, VAMP (visual art, music, performance) presents artists and their workshopped material in a polished monthly show.All participants are chosen by blind online submission, all pieces are given a free workshop to further improve the material, and then the final product is curated in a featured capacity. Currently hosted at The Whistle Stop bar in Southpark, VAMP has been likened by Pacific Magazine to a, “This American Life without begging for money,” and has been packing the house and treating writers like rockstars since 2009.

Was it good? Yes. I didn’t realize two hours had gone by. Will I go again? Yeah, I think I will. I wish it wasn’t in a bar; I’d drag the kids along. Watching this reminded me that I am actually a writer as well as an artist. Certainly writing 1000 to 1500 words a day is writing. Would I get up and speak it in front of people? Yeah, I probably would.