“What’s this?” you ask. “Drum’s on aisle three?”. Yes indeed. Right there at Tom’s Liquors in Prunedale, aka “Prunetucky”, every saturday night, the boys get together and jam. Two drummers, three guitarists, a singer, bongo drums resting on a cooler, amps and cords up and down different aisles, cases of beer flying out the door, and I just stopped in for some turkey jerky.

Stop by some time, in the minimall at the junction of San Miguel Canyon Road and Prunedale North Road. Tom’s Liquors Rocks!

Lisa was so helpful. She loved answering emails and the phone. If I spent five minutes on the phone with the forty or so calls a day, that would be 3 and one third hours a day. Then, if I spent five minutes a day responding to 200 emails, that would be another 16 and a half hours. That would be about 20 hours a day replying. Thanks to Lisa, I was able to eat dinner with my hosts instead of doing all that.

Real soon I will have a bit of her writing here. It is lost on my computer right now.

666 is hell, 777 is heaven. 555 5555 is the number that calls fantasy land. Even the phone companies play along. There is importance in numbers. 510 872 7326 has enough numbers that people know they can reach a very specific person. If I hadn’t added my area code, I would not have this dinner tour. By including the whole number, people were given an opportunity to spy on me in a way. They had something personal of mine. It is like finding a wallet, and enjoying the process of going through every fold and pocket for information. People call to find out who is on the other end. The telephone number becomes a wormhole people can crawl through and come out on my end of the line, in a whole new world.

I gave people something to be curious about, and I reward their curiosity positively. So often we are warned against curiosity. It kills cats, after all. But as an artist, curiosity is integral to my life, and I want to encourage it in others.

My phone number is what made this project possible. If I had put my website address on the message board, there would not be as much interest. A web site is removed from me in a way that a phone number is not. Especially being it is my cell phone. That is, in this culture, an extension of my body. It is closer to me than my home address. I am my cell phone number!

Ross, who works at Verizon, has called me to talk about getting me a good cell plan. He immediately picked up on the importance of my phone to this project. Conversation is Verizon’s bread and butter. Someone is making a profit every time I talk.

It can be depressing to see things that way, can’t it? But Verizon may become a sponsor, or donate a phone with email capability. I could post to the blog here right from my phone. The possibilities are endless. No more driving around looking for an internet cafe.

I began this post speaking philosophically about numbers and their human connection. I end with the realization numbers in some cases represent how much monetary power I have. My phone number versus my bank account, in a battle to the finish!

Back in October my story came out in the New York Post. That very day Barbara, who works at this talent agency, sent me a FedEx envelope with a letter inside that offered to buy my life rights to this project. I have talked to her on and off on the phone about that possibility, but I haven’t signed anything. So while I was in L.A., I called to ask if I could meet her face to face so I would know what she looks like.

Barbara meets me on the third floor, and she is nice. I have brought Jon Rolston along for spiritual advice, and Clark Caldwell can’t film me because ICM doesn’t allow that sort of creativity at their talent agency, but he comes along to help me because he has some experience with talent agents.

Barbara seems to be my age, and cute, and happy, and she invites us into her office and offers us drinks. She steps out to get them from somewhere down the hall and I whip out my little digital camera and take a picture. I’m not sure why Jon Rolston, my spiritual advisor, looks like a backwoods pig farmer who got into some moonshine, and I’m not sure why I thought he should come with me on this important talk, but I suppose this whole project is a learning experience for us all. Barbara comes back in the room with bottled waters, and we play nervously with the screw caps as she smiles and asks us how the trip is going.

It feels like she is genuine. Her eyes light up, she makes constant eye contact, she doesn’t try to push us in any direction. Then I begin to wonder if that is something they teach people. Actors are a dime a dozen in this town, right? But I feel good about it and her. It would be nice to bring the people’s stories out to the public. I really feel like I have met unsung heroes on this trip. Just absolutely amazing.

So here I am in Beverly Hills, ten blocks from Hollywood. I had dinner last night with a man who has just co-produced Brittany Spears movie “Crossroads”. He wants to work with me on turning my story into a romantic comedy.

There are issues of credibility to discuss. On the one hand, it would be very interesting to see Hollywood totally mangle my dream. I could step back and really watch the process of rape, of big budget destruction. Because this is a very simple idea I have. Dinner with strangers. And to hear a pitch is flattering. I explained to John that I needed to return to the art world. That that was the world interests me. He counters with the fact I could fund a lot of art with this money. I talk about the concept of selling out. He returns with the charge that I am afraid to take my idea to the next level. I am not a martyr, I do need money to see this project through. It costs money to drive an RV around. And I need to pay a astronomical cell phone bill. After all, my phone number is written all over the press. I like to drink coffee. What else? I eat breakfast, and lunch. Dinner is paid for now. But I smoke. Cigarettes don’t grow on trees, do they? Not the ones with filters. You get the picture. I’m not making money out here, I’m just living a dream. There is a difference.

If I could let Jonathon McHugh make a movie about a photo assistant who is looking for love, so he puts his name and number in a Victoria Secret’s catalogue, but eventually falls for the girl next door who feeds his fish while he is out on dates, I would. It would be an interesting study on media. I would love to have it be a single chapter in the life of this project.

Unfortunately, the majority of people would see the movie version first, and when and if they came into contact with me, I would be the cheap version. That’s a problem. That movie would become bigger than me, whether it was good or bad.

There is also the fact I told the AP reporter I was turning down offers to make it into a movie. Let me rephrase that the more fully explore my truth.

“I don’t want to think I am expressing myself one way, only to have it come out totally different.”

So, if someone wants to make a movie, I am willing to do so, as long as I have creative control. Agents, please take note.

Jonathon was looking tired when we came for dinner. We were an hour late, thanks to that famous LA traffic. What had taken 2 hours to drive after midnight took 4 hours in the daylight. We were graciously received regardless. Dinner was outstanding. I even have the recipe for you. This has been a dinner that has been on my mind. In the back of my mind for a while. When I picture a dinner with a movie producer, I think of an all white house. Very modern. In the hills. It was on a slight rise, not a hill. And only three blocks from a busy street with Chinese take out and fish tanks for sale, It was a very lovely home, with terra cotta colored walls lots of folk art hung on display, and their kids listening to music in a room down the hall. An old chocolate lab was wheezing around the dinner table, his hips creaking with displacia. For copyright purposes, Clark asked Jonathon to turn off the music so that he could film the dinner. (I don’t normally talk about this apect of the dinner tour, because I want this blog to be about the people I eat with, not about the process of making a documentary. I ought to start a separate blog for that.)

I felt like it was the clashing of two worlds. Hollywood versus San Francisco. Beatnik meets producer. It was a shiny and faulty offer, very confusing, and he is a genuinely nice guy. His wife was a great hostess, I met his kids, his friends, and that made it hard to understand. If you think of Pluto shaking Jupiter’s hand, you will understand two worlds colliding. That was my dinner in Hollywood. The whole dinner was a pitch, about where this project could go.

In the end, Jonathan came outside and took a look in the RV. He got a good laugh out of it, and congratulated our spirit. He recommended we go stay down by the beach with the other bums, and went back inside his beautiful Santa Monica home. I almost ran back after him.

Not a bad meal. In the morning, we met back up with Jonathan in Burbank, following he and his friend around L.A. freeways, heading to a special effects studio, where Jonathan was working out details on another project he is working on with Snoop Dog.

Here’s Vincent, a really cool guy originally from Jersey, who moved his studio to L.A. He showed us some of his creations. This place was a lot of fun to walk around inside of, but it smelled really strong of plastics. Vincent said it was dental acrylic. This part of the trip really made it feel like we did Hollywood right.

Clark is hidden in this picture. Try to find him:

These are the feet of the Pop Tart Yeti, a giant creature in a commercial.

Did you know blog is a shortened version of web logue? I know Blog is not in Microsoft Word’s spell check, so you may not know what it is either. Don’t feel bad! Perhaps you came here from a link, and don’t know you are able to reply directly to what I’ve said, simply by clicking on “comments” at the bottom of each post. Try it today! Imagine it to be like email, but you click “post” instead of “send”. Then everyone can read what you wrote. You now have an audience of millions! It’s the newest thing! You made it this far in cyber space, why are you stopping now? There’s no charge, no risk, and no problem!

Try it today, let me know if I should make a Hollywood version of my story. Thanks for your input!

Poor John. I rushed him to the hospital last night after we got jumped for being “a bunch of San Francisco Pansies.” I think he’s going to be okay.

While at the hospital I feel asleep on an x-ray table and they started dressing me in lead, preparing me for an x-ray. Thank god Lisa jumped in and saved me.

Here you get to read the thoughts of Clark’s intern, who worked with us in San Francisco and down in San Diego. Both those handsome men have the name of John, or Jon, and both have mustaches. John the Intern with moustache refers to the John on the far right. Enjoy!

Last night at Brad’s house, after hauling some equipment in, Lisa (the intern), Jon and I had really no other responsibility than to keep out of Clark’s shot. So we stole ourselves away to the attic-cum-loft, visited by a black cat and, occasionally, by Brad’s very kind wife bearing snacks and wine. When she was up there, the four of us talked about all sorts of things – Things that she may never have said in front of a camera (one of the stickiest points of documentary).

As an intern, I’ve spent four or five hours some evenings hoisting a boom, a day organizing and securing gear. Mostly, though, I think my usefulness comes from being an extra set of hands and pockets at those rare moments when Clark would be well served by having been born part octopus.

Not everything gets on film. People say things, in a corner, upstairs, somewhere off camera, that are pretty damn interesting but decidedly private. So, one is left with scraps of conversation dying to be related but un-relatable. It’s a dangerous temptation sometimes.

Having dinner with the world, in front of the world, but intimately – it doesn’t seem possible unless one breaks bonds of trust. Often, people just don’t understand what’s going on with this tour, that there must be some ulterior motive. My most asked question has been ‘How do complete strangers determine that we’re legitimate?’ Why do people trust us to come into their homes? And moreover, why are they so incredibly generous? It’s not because they want to be movie stars, right?

So the big secret (or rather, The big thing-that-people-think-is-supposed-to-be-secret-but-everyone-almost-knows-to-be-true) is that when Marc answers the phone, it’s not always Marc who’s playing Marc. Sometimes Lisa answers. She can’t even pretend to be Marc – most people recognize her voice as feminine instantly. Sometimes I’m Marc, and sometimes Jon is. Could this cause controversy? Is this like the president pretending to care via form-letter plus stamped-signature? Is it a lie told to gain undue popularity?

This thing seems to be primarily about having authentic conversation with strangers, and people calling very often get that from Lisa, Marc, Jon, or me. If people feel screwed by not getting to talk to Marc, I would tell them that they’re missing the point. Why talk to Marc? Why not finally get to know your neighbor or satisfy your curiosity about that striking fellow you seem to be following? The other answer to this question is provided by Marc’s reference to Jeff Koons (For his recent paintings, he creates images using magazine cut-outs and then hires others to turn those images into a painting).

-John

The cubes were dropping in the ice maker, the pictures hung on the wall, painted by people who wanted to be artists. Breakfast had arrived, I swiveled on the stool as I held a strip of griddled bacon in my fingers. A coast line done in acrylics, poetry that rhymes rather than makes sense, and sad shitty websites, this stuff scares me sometimes. It is bad art. What good is bad art? Am I a part of the bad art scene?

Is this even an art project? Is it a good one, or just a song that shouldn’t be sung? I’m tired of meeting strangers, and it has only been three weeks. How am I building community?

Well, I have three thousand emails from people interested in talking to me. I get forty calls a day, at least, from strangers inviting me over. I need to take a minute and remind myself what this is about.

Highlight the importance of conversation.

Create community

What does that even mean? A woman called from USAToday and asked me what this was about, and I don’t think I explained myself very well.

It is important to talk to strangers. It is important because we learn so much this way. Especially about cultural perspective. The nation right now is very divided. People are upset about gay rights, they are divided on the war in Iraq, the religious right and fundamentalist Islam are clashing, there are lots of things pushing people to pick a side. That’s the first step in creating a battle: divide. Then someone can conquer. Which leaves someone else conquered. This is not what I want.

So I am naïve. I am having dinner because I think talking and eating can help people understand one another. Community means a group of people rubbing up against each other, figuring out how to get along. With that in mind, I would like to invite all the different people who offered to have dinner with me meet in one location. Have one giant dinner party. Where strangers can meet and eat and greet, have a seat, take a stand, lend a hand, on and on.

Right now I am bringing attention to the adventure of it, creating awareness that it can be a positive experience to meet strangers. In Europe as a backpacker, I found countless people inviting me into their homes. That doesn’t happen in America. We live in fear of strangers. I want that to change.

Going to Sakae’s home, she brought her community out to meet me. It felt to me that I gave her a stronger sense of her own community. And the same is true for Grace Nutter’s family in San Juan Bautista. By having me come to them, they were forced to explain themselves, to put into words what is important to them. It was family, a sense of community. To make a bad example: when you dig your stamp collection out of its drawer and show it to a stranger, you realize how important it is to you, how big or how small it is. You see its strength and weakness. Does that make any sense? I’ve felt this effect at every single dinner I’ve been to. Community is important to these people, and it takes on all different shapes. Those who have not eaten dinner with me can read about each of these communities right here. They can take away inspiration, I hope. They can pay attention to the community they have around them, and strengthen it. Sorry I am naïve.

Here’s my political perspective on it…President Bush wants “faith based organizations” to help the needy. If that meant he was willing to fund the Black Panthers and all the great work they have done in Oakland, I would support that. But it doesn’t. It means giving lots of money to a few organizations that donated to his Inaugural Ball. It sounds good, because people understand “faith based” to be a compassionate community. More so than a government agency. People want a human touch.

Which brings me out of my original funk. We are a community of humans, and the shitty websites and bad art people want to share with me is as important as a really beautiful work of art. We are learning from each other, learning what is possible, what is powerful, what is healthy, what is harmful. I spent last night at a café, just talking to the café types that spend hours there. Some people just rattled on and on. But I could tell my listening to them was important.

And Clark loves me.

Dumpster Diver

Here was a fellow who was out recycling with a horse riding helmet on.

I asked to take his picture, and he said “Sure, can you email it to me?” He went on, saying he went to Southwestern College in Chula Vista. “I got a B in photography, black and white. I’m gonna recycle, get a camera, I’m planning on it.”

It is conversations like this that remind me it is important to talk to strangers, to not take things for granted.

Artist invades newsroom!

KFMB CBS Channel 8 – It was ten oclock this morning, before the rain got going again, when Marc horowitz and his attending documentary crew of four rushed the front desk, asking to see Shawn Styles, a news reporter that interviewed Marc yesterday about his National Dinner Tour. Sources say Marc was there to drop off footage to be included in the four o’clock broadcast concerning his invitation to all of San Diego to visit him at LeStats Coffee Shop on Adams Avenue at 7:30 this evening. An eye witness described the scene as “totally bizarre – one tall guy had an old fedora with “Blog” written on a card and shoved into the band. Shouldn’t that say “Press”? And a cute blonde girl went off wandering around by herself, while a young guy who looked like Capt. Morgan with his curly mustache and goatee leaned against a wall twisting his handlebars. Finally, another guy in a blue quilted jacket followed Marc with a video camera, while Marc held a silver hard drive in his hands, asking for an editing bay.”

What was supposed to be a simple fire wire transfer from his hard drive to the stations editing bays was confounded by the PC versus Mac platform conundrum. Marc, a self described “artist”, naturally chose the more creative Mac, while the cash conscious news room was outfitted with PC’s. A quick trip down the hall brought the travelling band of misfits into the Graphic design department. “The light is much softer in here”, Clark, the camera man following Marc, commented. Marc sat down and began a refresher course on the editing software Final Cut Pro, since the inhouse program was Avid. As Marc figured out how to supply a major news station with a story he produced, Shawn stood over his shoulder, reminding everyone that he had 45 minutes to write the voice over and then get on air.

“We’re glad the stopped by, but we are also glad they left,” a woman at the ffront desk was heard commenting.

Brad Dickson 31 “Sometimes people cancell reservatioons with wild excuses. ‘I can’t find my cat. He ran away.'”

Genoa Dickson 27 “It doesn’t matter if you wait or not, sex gets boring eventually. Make sure you really love the person you’re with.”

Native San Diegans, both, Brad and Genoa married last August, after four years a’courtin’. They met on the sandy beach in front of the hotel they bought as a fixer upper a few years later. They run the hotel together and live down the street.

The Ocean Beach Motel looks out onto the San Diego peir, and brown waves are crashing into the pilings out there, the water stirred up and dirty from this swirling storm front that hangs just off the coast. More rain than anyone can remember, but I’m a few blocks away, nice and dry on the second floor of Brad and Genoa’s, with a warm fire burning and two plates of fancy italian style hors de voures to snack on. We are drinking red wine from giant glasses that get my whole nose down in and we step out onto the balcony. Brad and Genoa are not artists. They are hard working and business minded, on the whole.
Genoa tells me, “Sometimes my husband and I talk abou the meaning of life, why we are working so hard. I’m 27, haven’t hit a bar in years, why aren’t we artists, out having fun?”

She talks about her younger brother being the artist, always taking off on a trip, not preparing for his future, which worries her. “I’m the business side, a math major, which is rare for a girl. I was like, one of two women in my classes.”
I am on my second glass of wine, so we are talking pretty philosophically all of a sudden. I begin a soliloquy.

“That’s the sad thing about our culture: we tell people to pursue their specialty, instead of trying to find a balance, or explore their weaknesses.” I may have a buzz, but that’s the truth. I was a business major, and worked in the corporate world. There was not a lot of encouragement in those worlds for “art”. One of the biggest unspoken divides is between art and business. We tend to start lining up at an early age, with future econmists looking down on artists as crazy and frivilous, while artists look at the business world sadly, wishing they could have a little money to buy some dinner and a new paintbrush.

Genoa was definitly a little hesitant about this whole process, she told me. It is Brad who called, when she gave him the Crate and Barrel catalogue to look through. It was part of their Wedding Registry! He was the 32nd person to call me, actually. I like that there is some resistance to this project. Not everyone understands what conceptual art is, and a lot of people who do understand it still think it is stupid. I really hope this changes Genoas mind about what art is, because I obviously think it is very important that people have a chance to release their wild ideas.
If joseph Buoys was right about everyone being an artist, then it is only a few who get paid for it. Wouldn’t it be nice if she could look at the work she has done on the hotel and see it as art? She hand picked all the mirrors in the bathrooms. That is an artistic statement. When she can be a bit of an artist, that allows her brother to become a bit of a business man. When people understand where the other is coming from, they are closer.

You might think I am still feeling the philosophical effects of red wine, with all that talk. So let’s get down to dinner. Brad was a cook for a lot of years before buying the Ocean Beach Hotel. He had a panini sandwhich maker, which is basically a waffle-iron type of machine that heats up a sandwhich and puts fun little corn rows across the bread. Here’s how he got started.

“I sear the chicken breasts, then bake it at 350 in a pan with olive oil, garlic, and salt and pepper. If the crowd gets talking like we did, hold it at 200 degrees. It won’t do anything at that temp. I sliced vedallia onions paper thin, dipped them in flour and fried em. Get these together with your chicken, then cut a foccachia loaf across, so it is in two thin pieces like a pan. Coat the insides with olive oil, then lay your ingredients on the already cooked side, so the grill can cook the soft centers that are on the outside now. Oh, don’t forget to add a little provalone and roasted red peppers, hand torn basil, endives… then you let the grill do the rest.”

They were delicious, and the foccachia has such a great texture in your mouth, with the toasted ridges from the grill. A green salad with pecans and golden raisons almost left no room for the cappachino mousse for desert. By then it was midnight, and we parted ways, agreeing to meet Brad in the afternoon for a tour of the Ocean Beach Hotel and a ride in his 1949 DeSoto down the strip.