As 2009 frantically ticks itself into soap opera eternity – good riddance, Butch! – I'm having a pleasant wind-down dinner with artist Jon Strand at Pete's Place, Ferndale.
Well-known restauranteur Peter Mel's popular spot is near enough to be accessible by main thoroughfares; far-out enough to be Broadway-musical cozy. Hollywood private. See and be seen. Reasonable prices. Menu varied. Very us.
Jon, 61, is a pointillist. A dotter. He also punctuates his gossip about movies, figure skating, the social registry, the tell-all personal journals he's been keeping for nearly 40 years, his sage dog Fabrazzio, rescued two years ago from owner abuse, at much ongoing expense and commitment.
It's a richly spangled dessert to listen to Jon, while allowing myself to be blissfully distracted over chai latte by waiters who make dining a visual treat. Danny. Michael. John. Oh, to be young and virginal again! Just kidding. At least the former.
(Danny's 23. Kicked out for being gay. Joyful. Blond eye-candy. Michael, 25. Serious. An actor, with films to his credit. John, who says he reads BTL "to pick my brain," is 24. A ceramics major. Survived a freak, ultimately life-affirming, auto accident.)
But back to the ever-loquacious Strand, who once waited on customers at Detroit's legendary Tiffany's in the '70s.
It's no exaggeration to say that in the course of his successful career, including four DIA exhibits, Jon's dotted three, four million – possibly five million – dots. He's now working on "Waiting for An Answer" – 1,500 hours of patience, seven, eight, 10 layers of concentration – since June, while watching "I Love Lucy" reruns and outsmarting Vanna White.
I call his dotting mental masturbation. The end result – his artistic "money shot" – 20K-plus – is a mystical masterpiece that will be a continuing legacy. (Longer, one hopes, than zany Lucy's Year 3010 reruns with Little Ricky.)
Jon makes it a practice of verbally paying whomever he chances to meet in his day – say, while biking or swimming at the downtown Y – a gentle compliment. As a result, he has many friends: straight, gay, four legged. (In conversation, he likes to repeat first names a lot.)
Jon often lights a Virgin of Guadeloupe votive candle for the success of his work. (She hasn't failed him yet.) Now and then he prays to Archangel St. Michael for favors. (Once at an ATM machine he received a twenty. Hand lettered. Succinctly. "Archangel Michael".)
Sitting across from us, beneath the Julie Andrew's black tie-and-tails poster, is a group of women. All smartly dressed. The eldest wears a blue-spangled designer outfit. She gets up to go to the Ladies' Room. (Excuse us: powder room.) "My God," comments Jon. "Doesn't she look like Roz Russell? Very Auntie Mame!"
As the women seem to be celebrating some non-holiday hijinks, and are just putting on their winter coats, I speak to the last to depart. "Excuse me, Miss. You're all so beautifully attired. Is there some very special event that brought you to Pete's Place tonight?"
The Roz Russell looker comes closer. All friendly smiles. Her friends gather round her. "Why, thank you. That's sweet. Actually, we've just come from our Watch Tower midweek service. We're Jehovah's Witnesses. May I give you one of our helpful magazines? It's free."
"That's kind. But no thanks," I reply gaily, as Jon triple taps my shoe firmly. "I'd wish you a Merry Christmas," I add with a hint of campy chagrin. "But I know you folks don't celebrate Christmas. Or, Hanukkah. Or Kwanzaa. Or, Pridefest. Anyway, do have a blessed day."
"Oh, well," sighs Jon. "There goes the neighborhood. God knows, they're everywhere."
