Dress Your Family in Fosco Couture

For you, my loyal readers and occasional sexual partners, I am delighted to offer a line of Fosco-Wear! Currently, I offer four distinctive T-shirts, but the line will expand as demand increases. Needless to say, I offer these sartorial creations to you AT COST. Please take a few moments to peruse Count Fosco's Haberdashery--where you will find surprisingly understated clothing to suit your every mood. For your convenience, a link to the Fosco Store has been added to the sidebar at the right. Thank you for shopping with Fosco!

From the Annals of Humorous Misspellings 1

I tried to use the bathroom at my favorite local taqueria today. Imagine my surprise when Edith Head walked out. But then I saw the sign and it all made sense...

Did You Know?

Dolphins are known as the "Spelunkers of the Sea" and spend most of their days toiling in their underwater kelp mines.

Pros and Cons of The Cruz...

I've been in Santa Cruz for six days and have discovered some things I like and don't like:

PROS

• Gayle's Bakery: especially the raspberry napoleons.
  
• Surfers at Pleasure Point (see above photo).
  
• Dolphins. I walk down to the beach every night, and two of the last three nights, there have been large groups?/herds?/pods? of dolphins frolicking right off the shore. I'm pretty sure they were chowing down on a colony of sea monkeys, but I can't confirm that.
  
• My new wetsuit booties, purchased at the Pleasure Point Billabong. (See photo below). Now I can walk the beach without stepping on jellyfish, sharp sticks, or eel-babies.
  
• The Vegetarian Super Burrito: a culinary masterpiece available at almost every taqueria I have stumbled upon. I like it best with shredded cabbage.
  

CONS

• PT (aka Pacific Time). I counted: in my thirty years on earth, I have been outside of the Eastern Time Zone for about 30 weeks total--the longest consecutive period was three weeks. Naturally, my body is not quite ready to give up Eastern Time for this upstart time zone. And how weird it is to find so many telecast sporting events starting in the morning--the United States clearly runs on ET. The problem of PT is driving home my Exile from the East Coast.
  
• Rolling blackouts. Just kidding--we haven't had any. Even if we did, I'm not that concerned: on Sunday, San Jose was 118 degrees, while Santa Cruz was 82. Sweet!
  

In Santa Cruz did Kubla Khan / A stately pleasure dome decree

Finally, I have arrived in Santa Cruz! Let the Exile begin!

The song I will sing for you now is no longer of travel, but of my new life on the Pacific Coast:

"And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise."

Samuel Taylor Coleridge, "Kubla Khan"

California: The Central Valley

Because I'm a Literature type, these types of things occur to me while I'm driving. I apologize in advance.

A paean to the agricultural marvel, the Central Valley of California:

"What wondrous life is this I lead!
Ripe apples drop about my head ;
The luscious clusters of the vine
Upon my mouth do crush their wine ;
The nectarine and curious peach
Into my hands themselves do reach ;
Stumbling on melons as I pass,
Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass.

[...]

Such was that happy garden-state,
While man there walked without a mate :
After a place so pure and sweet,
What other help could yet be meet!
But 'twas beyond a mortal's share
To wander solitary there :
Two paradises 'twere in one
To live in Paradise alone."

Andrew Marvell, "The Garden"


Clearly, because it was "beyond a mortal's share" to live in such a Paradise alone, the other 2.7 million people moved here.

Did You Know?

California is the only state which does not have a permanent governor's mansion. Rather, the governor of California must constantly tour the state in a motor home, never stopping for the night in the same place twice.

California: Sacramento... The Freshmaker!

Before I left, one of my friends (let's call him Little Bear) was telling me about how much fun he had on a business trip to Sacramento. He was telling me what a cool city it was and I kept rolling my eyes and thinking, "whatever." After all, Sacramento is located in the notoriously lame Central Valley--good for agriculture, clearly, but for adventure? And, secondly, how often are state capitals any fun at all? With the exceptions of Boston, Austin, and Montpelier, is there any state capital that you would want to spend more than 5 hours visiting? I think not.

So here is my official apology to Little Bear: MEA MAXIMA CULPA. Sacramento is... COOL. (Sigh).

But not literally so. When I arrived, the temperature was 106. True, it's a dry heat--but then so is sitting in an oven.

And, I don't recommend driving there during rush hour. I think Ron Artest cut me off on the freeway. I honked and gave him the finger because hey--what's he gonna do? Hit me or something?

The most enjoyable part of Sacramento was dinner at the amazing Lucca restaurant. The food was exceptional and the prices were extremely reasonable.

Mi companero for dinner was a Guatemalan named Miguel who was painting the exterior of the hotel where I stayed. He was quite dark--clearly had Indian blood--and had that beer gut that can be so attractive on Latino men. I think he was 35, but our communication wasn't very efficient.

At Lucca, I had

• Zucchini Chips: paper thin and lightly salted. These were EXTRAORDINARY--I am not normally a zucchini fan, but I could eat buckets of these every day.
  
• Golden Chicken Risotto with fontina and field mushrooms, topped with crispy pancetta.
  
• Sauteed Garlicky Spinach with grilled Meyer lemon.
  

Miguel had the Penne topped with roasted tomatoes, green olives, capers, chili flakes, and pangriata.

I wish we had saved room for desert, but, even without, this was the most exceptional meal of the drive. I will return to Sacramento again (and may even try to look up Miguel--I did enjoy him).

Nevada: Lock Your Love

In Lovelock, Nevada, some local government official has come up with a brilliant advertising campaign to promote the city. Apparently, all this time, my love has been locked in Lovelock--or else it should have been locked there. Actually, the more I think about this sign and slogan, the less sense it makes. It's actually pretty inexplicable, really.

Maybe this has something to do with all of the prisons that one passes along I-80 in Nevada? It certainly seems to be a very penal state (giggle). And near each one, is a sign warning not to pick up hitch-hikers. Why can't the government stay out of my sex life?

Did You Know?

At the Mustang Ranch, trannies cost extra.

Nevada: Baby Got Basque

Elko, Nevada: home of a considerable Basque immigrant population, who arrived in the late 19th century to assist in sheepherding.

Rejected titles for this post:
Basque to the Future
Basque in Baby's Arms
Taking Basque Sunday
Basque-in Robbins: 31 Flavors
Basque-ing in Reflected Glory
Basque-streets
Jean-Michel Basque-iat
I'm Glad to See Your Basque, Elaine. (Listen to this one--you'll be glad you did.)
You Scratch My Basque, I'll Scratch Yours

Other suggestions?

I met a swarthy Basque gentleman (not a sheepherder, but a day laborer) in a local lavatory and treated him to dinner at the traditionally Basque Star Hotel. (Scroll down for picture). A traditional Basque dinner is a treat that I would definitely recommend--especially for hearty appetites. The side dishes are all served family style and you are likely to be seated at a long table with complete strangers. The meal consisted of:

• A glass of picon punch, which really knocked me for a loop.
  
• A light vegetable soup, with cabbage, leeks, and celery.
  
• An iceberg salad with a creamy garlic dressing.
  
• Baked lamb--crispy and well-seasoned on the outside; moist and creamy on the inside.
  
• Basque red beans
  
• Green Beans
  
• Spaghetti
  
• French fries (in the traditional French frite style).
  

My companion had a fried chicken, which was also exceptionally delicious.

Overheard conversation while eating: (by a girl in her early twenties) "My life dream is to live over a bar." Fosco wishes you the best of luck, my dear!

Nevada: For One Night Only... Geechy Guy!

There is no mistaking the Utah-Nevada border. Within five feet of the border, the casinos begin: the first one you pass in Wendover (rhymes with: "Grab Your Ankles and Grit Your Teeth") is the exotic Montego Bay Resort. As you can see from the picture, it makes the Rio in Vegas look classy. The picture is a bit blurry, but that's appropriate, as my vision has been in a similar state ever since walking through this casino. I think my visual cortex has been addled.

Full disclosure: I lost $5 in 30 seconds in a slut--er, slot.

At least Celine Dion is not playing here.

Buy your tickets now: Three Dog Night is coming!

Utah: It's Salty...What Is It?

It's the Bonneville Salt Flats! A vast desert of pure NaCl. But, there is still water trapped in the crystals, creating a consistency something like a salty paste. If I was trying to pick up a trick in this part of the country, I'd be like: "Hey baby, can I smear a salty paste all over your body?" That would be a totally hot pickup line, I expect.

And yes, you can stand on it without sinking.


All along the interstate, people have pulled over and collected dark rocks which they used to spell their names (or other messages) on the white salt pallet. Of course, all of these names and messages are illegible when you're going 85.

All in all, this is a pretty trippy experience--it's the coolest thing I've seen on this drive. And I felt like I was in Cremaster 2. Except, of course, my penis is not topped with a beehive.

Did You Know?

The only creatures that can live in the water of the Great Salt Lake are brine shrimp, bacteria, and some algae. Oh, and Aquaman.

Utah: Lake Breathes Salty

Your body may be gone, I'm gonna carry you in.
In my head, in my heart, in my soul.
And maybe we'll get lucky and we'll both live again.
Well I don't know. I don't know. I don't think so.

[...]

And the ocean breathes salty, won't you carry it in?
In your head, in your mouth, in your soul.
And maybe we'll get lucky and we'll both grow old.
Well I don't know. I don't know. I hope so.

(Modest Mouse, "Ocean Breathes Salty")

As performed by Sun Kil Moon on their CD Tiny Cities, this is one of the best songs about loss and mourning.

The Great Salt Lake also breathes salty, or, to put it less nicely, smells unpleasantly brackish. It is also extremely shallow--I had to wade about 250 yards into it to get the water to mid-shin.


I entered the lake from a beach at Antelope Island, which is basically the summit of a mountain that is surrounded by the lake. Swimming in the lake is pretty nifty, if you can get over the smell. Because of the salt content, you float much more easily than you do in fresh water. Also, the views are magnificent--you are surrounded by gorgeous mountains.

However... getting into the lake is the ordeal. The ground between the road and the water was designed in HELL, especially for someone like Fosco who is used to smooth, sandy, clean beaches. Foolishly, Fosco left his sandals in the car and decided to try to walk to the water barefoot. This is what he encountered, in order:

• A band of soft golden sand, long enough to lull him into complacency (and to make going back to the car for shoes seem like too much of a hike).
  
• An area of golf-ball-sized stones buried in sand. A bit awkward to walk through, but not too bad yet.
  
• A ring of shards of those golf-ball-sized stones buried in the sand. These were sharp and quite painful.
  
• Wet, hard-packed sand--enough to make Fosco think the pain is over.
  
• A hard, salty crust on top of sand. With each step, the crust breaks into pointy fragments to attack the feet. Incidentally, in this zone, there are numerous footprints in sandals--Fosco now begins to feel stupid.
  
• A thick brown carpet of decaying brine shrip. At this point, even something this disgusting is a welcome relief from the foot pain..
  
• A swirling haze of brine flies. They circle Fosco in a cyclone about three feet in diameter. The sound is unnerving (have you ever been swarmed by anything?).
  
• An ankle-deep pool of water--a relief once again.
  
• A breakwater, before the lake gets deeper. Composed of softball-sized rocks, many of them sharp, some of them slippery. This part was the most unpleasant of all.
  

Once you make it into the water, you don't want to leave--primarily because you know all of the tortures that await between you and the car.

Fosco's Advice: BE-SHOE YOURSELF!

Did You Know?

Facts About Mormons:

• They worship a god named Mormo.
  
• A female Mormon is called a "Mormoness."
  
• You can read the Mormon scriptures only with a set of X-Ray Specs. These can be ordered from the back page of many comic books.
  
• They wear Holy Underwear or, in the case of Mormonesses, Holy Lingerie.
  

Utah: Salt Lake City, Punk!

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Wyoming: Under a Chemical Sky

The Western part of Wyoming on I-80 is dismal. There are refineries, mines, and mineral processing plants, as you can maybe see from this low-quality picture (I would have taken a better pic, but I was otherwise engaged. You see, I had picked up a sweaty oil worker as a hitch-hiker and, well, you know how those things go... No one rides for free in Fosco's car).

But anyway... Very large, very rich companies are stripping the natural resources out of the state. The air is actually quite polluted, no doubt with uranium dust and even nastier things. Enjoy the irony: one section of the road has been "adopted" (to be cleaned) by Halliburton.

From the interstate, there are few visible mountains--most of the major ranges are located to the north. What you see are mostly ridges and buttes (pronounced: butts).

I did see several antelope in the scrub. It turns out that antelope are easily identifiable from behind by their snowy-white hindquarters. Incidentally, so was my hitch-hiker.

My Laramie Project

"Perhaps the first thing to know about Laramie, Wyoming, is that it is beautiful."

This is the first sentence of the first chapter of Losing Matt Shepard by University of Wyoming English Professor Beth Loffreda. And perhaps the first thing you should know about Loffreda's book is that it, too, is beautiful. The book is a remarkable achievement--Loffreda manages to complicate all of the simple assumptions that people (including myself) made about Laramie and Wyoming in the wake of Matt Shepard's death (since most people know the story of Matt Shepard's murder, I won't describe it here). I return to this book every year or so, despite the emotional pain that it revives in me. Whether you are queer or not-queer, this is a necessary book to read--it demonstrates the ways in which a critically-trained mind can come to terms with something that is truly horrible.

So naturally, when I realized that my drive would take me through Laramie, I wanted to find a way to act on my feelings of anger, fear, and loss. In the absence of any real memorial to Matt, there is really only one place that makes sense to visit. I mean, of course, "The Fence"--the one to which Matt was tied overnight, left to die.

It turns out that the location of the fence is not very well-publicized. Luckily, blogger David Lohman recently made a similar pilgrimage and was able to provide directions to the site. In case his site disappears at some point in the future, I have reproduced his directions here:

All I would add to David's directions is that, as you head onto the open prairie, you should walk toward the large, expensive-looking brown wood house with the numerous picture windows. The fence is on a straight line between that house and Quarter Horse Drive (N.B.: it appears that they are adding another street or two perpendicular to Quarter Horse Drive--this will shorten the distance you will need to walk onto the prairie). Also: wear hiking boots.



This is the fence. As many commentators have suggested, it is not really as far from civilization as the pictures make it seem. However, it's still far enough.


There is a small gathering of stones in the shape of an arrow, pointing from the fence toward Laramie. Although this makes for an extremely understated memorial, I think it is perfect for several reasons:

• It is not a cross; a cross would be too easy, and in light of Christian condemnations of homosexuality, a tasteless joke.
  
• One way of reading the arrow is as an accusation: it points toward Laramie, the town that, at least in some ways, shares in the blame for his death.
  
• A second way of reading the arrow is as a command to the visitor: go back into the world and try to change it. Try to stop this from happening again.
  

I added a rock to the arrow and another "ghost" joined me on my journey

Did You Know?

During the Callipygian Age, much of present-day Wyoming was actually covered by a delicious crust of carmelized sugar.