Sunday, August 27, 2006

Creepy Tales from Santa Cruz Past

Here are two spoooooooky things about Santa Cruz that I learned on exactly the same day...

1. In August of 1961, a large flock of sooty shearwaters ate tainted plankton, became aggressive and confused, then flew ashore in the dark, smashing into all obstacles in their way.


Here are some of the best parts of the story, as reported by the Santa Cruz Sentinel:

"A massive flight of sooty shearwaters, fresh from a feast of anchovies, collided with shoreside structures from Pleasure Point to Rio del Mar during the night.

Residents, especially in the Pleasure Point and Capitola area were awakened about 3 a.m. today by the rain of birds, slamming against their homes.

Dead, and stunned, seabirds littered the streets and roads in the foggy, early dawn. Startled by the invasion, residents rushed out on their lawns with flashlights, then rushed back inside, as the birds flew toward their light.

[...]

When the light of day made the area visible, residents found the streets covered with birds. The birds disgorged bits of fish and fish skeletons over the streets and lawns and housetops, leaving an overpowering fishy stench."


Of course, the best part of the story is this paragraph:

"The word of the bird invasion spread fast throughout the state. Cameramen from San Francisco papers were out in the early morning fog, and a phone call came to the Sentinel from Alfred Hitchcock from Hollywood, requesting that a Sentinel be sent to him. He has a home in the Santa Cruz mountains."


Two years later, Hitchcock made The Birds. It has been noted that the Santa Cruz incident caused Hitchcock to reconsider his earlier rejection of the eponymous Daphne du Maurier short story as a potential source for a movie.

A freaky story and a charming titbit of movie history, read the full Sentinel article here.

2. In the early 1970s, Santa Cruz became known as the "Murder Capital of the World," as three mass-murderers lived in the county. As the Sentinel rerports, one of them killed woman hitch-hikers because women caused him "grief," while the other two killers appear to have been driven by complete psychosis (one of them killed to "prevent earthquakes"--apparently unsuccessfully).

This story is really interesting for several reasons, especially in the ways that the whole thing was interpreted through the disconnect between hippies and the mainstream culture. In the light of 30 years of subsequent history, hippies have come to seem so harmless (although unpleasantly-scented)--for the most part, people no longer associate the extreme left with murder.

Read the full Sentinel piece here.

This is one of the most interesting aspects of Christopher Sorrentino's Trance, a fictionalization of the Patty Hearst kidnapping and a broader portrayal of that era in American history. The stoners and slackers in Sorrentino's novel are totally recognizable to anyone who has spent significant time on a contemporary college campus; however, instead of organizing drum circles, many of the burnouts of the 1960s/70s organized (using that word loosely) violent revolutionary plots. In our culture, the disaffected youths who don't go to college are no longer interested in politics; and the disaffected youths who do go to college, end up learning to express their political disaffection in diversity skits. While this is certainly to be preferred, aren't there some other options? Can't we be leftists without shooting people or performing activist theater?

Instant Karma

Remember yesterday's post, in which Fosco snottily disparaged less-pleasant climates and mentioned his perfect day at the beach? Well, all of the non-residents of Paradise can be pleased that Fosco has received his comeuppance for his weather-related haughtiness.

The picture below is not a photograph of two-thirds of a carton of curiously-hairy Neapolitan ice cream; rather, it is a picture of Fosco's upper thigh taken this morning:



Note the stark demarcation between the skin that was covered by Fosco's shorts yesterday (generally known as the groinal approach) and the skin a bit farther down (known today as ON FIRE!).

OWWWWW!!!

Fosco plans to spend the rest of the day as he did the morning: alternating between whimpering and smearing himself with aloe gel. Cooling aloe gel...

Saturday, August 26, 2006

It's Not Raining Men

When Fosco was a youth and he lived in Rust Belt, MI, what kind of summer weather was worth complaining about? Usually, like 93 degrees with 85% relative humidity.

And when Fosco lived on the East Coast? He remembers some summer days in the Mid-Atlantic in the high-90's that were complete murder.

But, as everyone knows, complaint weather is relative. Now, living in Coastal California, it seems that it is entirely appropriate to complain about a... cloudy day.

In fact, such a cloudy day is worthy of an article in the regional newspaper of record.

Of course, this is not to say that the weather in the Cruz isn't odd... There is this whole marine layer that sits on the coast most mornings before the sun burns it off around noon. And even then, it lurks over the MoBay, waiting to return that evening. Fosco has been told that this marine layer is what keeps the coastal temps low, for which he is thankful.

It turns out, however, that the Santa Cruz area is something of a climatological curiosity. Fosco doesn't quite understand the science of it all, but it somehow involves a pressure inversion that produces a "Santa Cruz Eddy." You can read all about it in this journal article, written by Stanford researchers.

Oh, and incidentally, the forecast was correct: today was a beautifully sunny day and Fosco spent the afternoon on the beach.

And in the interests of full disclosure:

Fosco's friend is meteorologist Norm Sprouse with whom he is very close and whose advice he cherishes.

Friday, August 25, 2006

From the Annals of Why Wikipedia Is Lame

I know Wikipedia is useful and all (I use it more than I'd like to admit). But don't you ever get suspicious about the anonymous webcyclopediasts who are writing the entries? I know that the assumption is that multiple iterations of editing by multiple users will result in a more accurate entry (and here is an assumption begging for a debunking--but not by me, not today). But what about those obscure entries with very limited traffic? What's to prevent some lone nut from writing something very odd and untrustworthy?

Here's an example I just came across--a pretty funny one, actually. This is how the Wikipedia entry for Timothy C. Draper ends (and please don't ask why I was reading this entry...):

As an advocate for entrepreneurs and free markets, Mr. Draper is regularly featured as a keynote speaker in entrepreneurial conferences throughout the world, has been recognized as a leader in his field through numerous awards and honors, and has frequent TV radio, and headline appearances.

Mr. Draper is the course creator and Chairman of BizWorld, a 501c3 organization built around simulated teaching of entrepreneurship and business to children.

Mr. Draper served on the California State Board of Education in 1998-9. He launched a statewide cyber-initiative on school choice for the California General Election in November of 2000.

He has a BS in Electrical Engineering from Stanford University, and an MBA from Harvard Business School.

His sister is Becky Draper with whom he is very close and whose advice he cherishes.

Hmmm. The last sentence just kills me. I'm still giggling about it. I wonder which member of Timothy C. Draper's immediate family wrote this entry? Was it... Becky?

Thursday, August 24, 2006

Stalking Betty White

I awoke this morning with an urgent desire to touch a Golden Girl, so my personal assistant Geoffrey and I took an afternoon drive down the coast to the charming seaside village of Carmel-by-the-Sea, home of notable figures such as Daytime Emmy winner Jennifer Aniston, National Book Award winner Beverly Cleary, and women's boxing promoter Clint Eastwood.

Not to mention: the lovely and talented Betty White. Wait, I meant this Betty White.

"And did we see Betty White?"

Carmel is, at the same time, absolutely adorable and totally insufferable. The downtown is so cute you could eat it up with a spork: quaint houses, beautiful flowers, and hundreds of art/antique galleries. And dogs! Tons of them, eating on the patios at the delightful restaurants. Wow, what a charming town!

But then you notice the double-parked Mercedes, the Tiffany and Sharper Image storefronts, and the women in pantsuits and sunglasses carrying jumbo Coach shopping bags in each hand... And then, if you're a good liberal, you start to feel a little nauseous. In Carmel, obscenely rich people have managed to create the perfect village for themselves. But should I be enjoying it as much as I am? Isn't it all a bit like, well... Nero?

"Enough of your liberal pieties. Did you see Betty White?"

I had promised a cousin-in-law that I would have lunch at the Hog's Breath Inn, formerly owned by film composer Clint Eastwood. In a way, I'm glad we ate there--it's probably important to get it out of the way so that one move on to the better-looking restaurants in town:



"Damn you, what of Betty White?"

The cottages are in town are actually quite lovely:

And, as far as I can tell (after all, I could only peer into the windows so long before the police arrived), almost no dwarves live inside.

So, while Geoffrey and I were a bit put-off by the conspicuous wealth and whiteness of the town, I expect we will return to try some of the other restaurants--especially if I find a steady boyfriend who might enjoy a romantic dinner...

Oh yeah, we didn't see Betty White.

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

Yes, I'm still making this joke.

I bought some more furniture this week. I also read Judith Butler glossing Foucault:

"The soul is precisely what the body lacks; hence, the body presents itself as a signifying lack. That lack which is the body signifies the soul as that which cannot show." (Gender Trouble, Chapter 3)

Now, allow me to introduce you to that LACK which is my coffee table.


What does it signify that cannot show? I don't know, but I hope all of my guests remember to use coasters.

Sexy Summer Reading

The regular reader may remember Fosco's amusement at new research that suggests Charles Dickens and Emily Bronte are the best beach reading for picking up hotties.

Clearly, Melannco, maker of the picture-frame bookends that you see in the picture below, is familiar with this research.



While he won't question why one needs bookends to keep only two books upright, Fosco does wonder if the lovely (though pale) couple in the pictures actually met on the beach--or is it possible that the aphrodisiac power of these authors works in other public spaces? And what is the name of their sparkly-eyed offspring?

Saturn Cafe: Bohemian Like You

[This is the first of a series of regular restaurant reviews that will usually appear on Sundays.]

But if you dig on vegan food
Well, come over to my work
I'll have 'em cook you something
That you'll really love

'Cause I like you
Yeah I like you
And I'm feeling so bohemian like you


The Dandy Warhols, "Bohemian Like You"

Fosco is not a vegetarian, but he's generally sympathetic to the idea. After all, there is something extremely unappetizing about meat when it's raw. And slaughterhouses sure don't look like fun for anyone (or anything) involved. But then, there is bacon--surely the most glorious food on earth. How could Fosco give it up?

Of course, this doesn't mean that Fosco is unwilling to eat vegetarian food--he loves hummus, vegetarian super burritos, and the incomparable Vegetable Menu at Charlie Trotter's. So, last weekend, he made a visit to the restaurant that the locals describe as "so very Santa Cruz": the Saturn Cafe.

As Fosco sees it, there are two conflicting impulses in vegetarian food: the assimilationist and the separatist. The motivation behind the assimilationist vegetarian chefs is to reproduce all of the glories of meaty cuisine (the cheeseburger, spaghetti and meatballs, buffalo wings) with no meat. This is the impulse that leads to the creation of things like fake bacon, meat-flavored soy patties, and, god help us, Tuno.

The separatist camp of vegetarians is willing to give up traditional meat dishes in favor of foods based on the natural flavors of vegetables and legumes (and their interplay). The separatist vegetarian chef is not interested in finding a vegetarian approximation to the cheeseburger; rather, she wants to create a vegetarian lunch option with its own, distinct flavor. The separatist impulse is responsible for, at the most basic level, foods like the grilled portabello sandwich. At the most advanced level, this impulse will produce something like the "squash and corn ragout with chanterelle mushrooms and fried squash blossoms" at Chez Panisse.

Fosco doesn't want to denigrate too much the assimilationist impulse. After all, strict vegetarians probably do miss cheeseburgers quite a bit. However, as a omnivore who can eat a real cheeseburger when he so chooses, Fosco would rather not bother with a second-rate soyburger. Rather, he is more interested in a vegetarian entree that tastes like the vegetables/legumes/&c from which it is created (and no, salads don't count).

Fosco tends to enjoy most vegetarian restaurants, because most vegetarian restaurants tend to draw from both assimilationist and separatist traditions on their menus. Even in places that serve fake bacon, Fosco can typically find a delicious polenta cake or something. Except, it turns out, at the Saturn Cafe.

The Saturn Cafe is the WalMart for assimilationist vegetarians. Everything they could possibly want is there: burgers, chicken sandwiches, tacos, tuna melts--all made with meat-flavored soy protein (including that satanic Tuno). And, just like WalMart, the interior is a bit cruddy and the employees really don't want to be there.

Unbelievably, there were no separatist vegetarian entrees on the menu! Not even one portabello sandwich or falafel! This is inexplicable to Fosco, just inexplicable.

On his recent visit, Fosco ordered the "grill-flavored" soy patty as a pesto burger. Fosco's personal assistant, Geoffrey, likened the burger's flavor to a "bouillon cube"--the description that an assimilationist vegetarian chef might take as a compliment (although Fosco does not consider this a compliment). The tomato on the burger was underripe and tasteless. The pesto on the burger tasted bottled (a vegetarian restaurant that does not make it's own pesto! Inexplicable!). The fries were fine.

The best praise that Fosco can manage for this place is that they serve the delightfully grapefruity soft drink Squirt--a decision that I'm told is due to a (laudable) desire not to enrich the giant corporations like Coca-Cola and Pepsi. Consequently, Fosco presumes that the owner of Squirt, Cadbury Schweppes PLC, is some sort of Mom-and-Pop operation. (They probably carbonate the soda in their bathtub...)

In conclusion, Fosco can only wonder what makes the Saturn Cafe "so Santa Cruz." Are the residents of his new home really so flaky? Is this what Bohemian life has come to? It is with trepidation that Fosco looks ahead to his second month here.

Tuesday, August 22, 2006

On being an artist in "The Afterthought"

Did you know that [gasp!] sometimes artists can live outside of NYC? But, of course, when you're an artist living in Slackerville USA, you don't want to take art too seriously... Aren't Californians so... exotic?

NYTimes Magazine article on Santa Cruz artist Thomas Campbell

Do you think the local artists in Miami are all salsa dancers?

He ain't heavy, Father, he's my neighbor.


Who doesn't love car-dust graffiti? Living so close to the beach (with the near-constant salty breeze) makes every car that hasn't been washed in the last week a potential tabula rasa for fingertip doodling.

Although Fosco tends to appreciate the classics of car-dust graffiti (and he never disobeys a truck-window command to show his tits), he is not opposed to innovation. Like, for example, the graffito that Fosco encountered in his apartment complex parking lot this afternoon: 100% Boys Town. What could this mean? Is one of Fosco's neighbors a graduate of the famous Omaha-based training academy for male hustlers? Is the owner of the truck, like Fosco, an aficianado of troubled (but legal!) youth? Or is this the tag of an extremely unartistic local gang with an ironic sense of humor?

Ooooh. I hope it's choice number three.

Read Fosco on Father Flanagan's Sodomy Camp.

Bite me.


From the Santa Cruz Sentinel, August 22, 2006:

"Two lifeguards at Manresa responded to a report of a shark thrashing in the water about 75 yards offshore about 12:40 p.m. Saturday, according to Perry. Because there was blood in the area, lifeguards think the shark attacked a sea lion. The Seascape sighting was reported about 2:20 p.m.; lifeguards were unable to say whether it was the same shark."

AWESOME! Fosco is on his way to the beach right now...

Actually, one of Fosco's old pals has been bitten by a shark. Read about it here. It kinda sounds like fun, no?

Sunday, August 20, 2006

Bravo! Bra-a-a-a!

[This review is about a week late, because of... uh, sloth?. Sorry.]

At the more refined passages of the singing, at the more delicate phrases of the music, which passed unapplauded by others, [Fosco's] fat hands adorned with perfectly-fitting black kid gloves, softly patted each other, in token of the cultivated appreciation of a musical man. At such times, his oily murmur of approval, 'Bravo! Bra-a-a-a!' hummed through the silence, like the purring of a great cat.

Wilkie Collins, The Woman in White

While there is little reason to expect an accurate description of Fosco from the narration of a cardboard "hero" such as Walter Hartright, Mr. Hartright does indeed capture Fosco's appreciation for fine music. Fosco has been a devotee of contemporary classical music for some years, even, while living on the East Coast, hosting a weekly classical radio show dedicated to the 20th century on a community station.


Imagine Fosco's surprise and delight to find that, by relocating to Santa Cruz, he had unwittingly moved to the home of the premier festival of contemporary orchestral music in the country--the Cabrillo Festival of Contemporary Music!

Alas, while other commitments (many of them Dickens-related) prevented Fosco from attending most of the concerts and events at this year's festival, he did make it to the "Elevation" concert on Saturday, August 12. Here are his impressions:

The Venue: The composer Mel Powell once said that "Serious new music, like serious old music, isn't made to be dribbled around in a basketball arena." This is probably wrong--at least when it comes to the Santa Cruz Civic Auditorium. While the Civic isn't only a basketball arena (and, for all I know, hasn't been a basketball arena for decades), it does have the shellacked wooden floor of one, in addition to arena-style seating (surrounding the court). This description makes it sound like a terrible venue for orchestral music, but it's actually surprisingly congenial to it. The Festival blocks off one half of the arena (setting up a backdrop behind the orchestra) and covers most of the wooden floor with black tarps. There is no stage--the orchestra is seated on the floor (although there are some risers for the brass and percussion). The effect is extremely intimate and accessible--an effect that is rare in orchestral music. And the sound is really quite good considering the limitations of the space. Would a more traditional concert hall layout be preferable? Well probably, but there is something so appealingly democratic about listening to challenging contemporary music in a glorified gym that I'm just not willing to give up the Civic.

The Orchestra: Again, perhaps my expectations were a bit too low. This was a first-rate orchestra, composed primarily of players from various second-tier orchestras around the country. Maestra Alsop admitted, in a pre-concert address to the audience, that whenever she is asked her favorite orchestra to conduct, she has to resist saying "The Cabrillo Festival" in favor of a more diplomatic evasion. They are totally committed to this repertoire (and spending part of the summer in Santa Cruz is certainly a nice perk). Adding to the intimate atmostphere, the players dress in "business casual." The thing I love best is that all of the players are housed by Santa Cruz residents. Next year, I would love to have the pink-polo-shirt-wearing Assistant Concertmaster stay with me...


The Maestra: Marin Alsop, Intrepid Girl Conductor. How much do I love having a woman conductor (in a field that is still almost totally male-dominated)? And how much do I love that she is TOTALLY AWESOME? She has been the Music Director of the festival for fifteen years and, this fall, takes over as the Music Director of the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra, one of the better second-tier ensembles in the US. (And no, she is not responsible for that orchestra's "Czech It Out!" concert. Thank god.) Of course, she will continue to summer in Santa Cruz.

The best thing about Maestra Alsop? She has the jauntiest lesbian strut ever. It's like the coolest lesbian jazz is playing in her head while she's walking. Absolutely divine.

The Program:

  • Dark Angel (2003), by Daniel Brewbaker. The surprise of the evening--this piece is seductive and well-orchestrated, with both dark and light elements. Powerful, muscular writing for the brass and strings. And I love the subtitle: "Et in Arcadia Ego" [Trans.: "Even in earthly paradise I (death) exist"].
  • Elevation (2006), by Mark Grey. Soloist: Leila Josefowicz, violin. This is Grey's violin concerto, written entirely, according to the composer, on his guitar. Unfortunately, this limitation could be heard--some of the orchestral writing was a bit too thin. There were some very competent passages, but, overall, the work was a bit too similar to John Adams's violin concerto. As a soloist, Leila Josefowicz is charismatic and technically competent (and maybe a bit of a hottie--see above picture). As much as she might like to make this composition a signature piece, I'm afraid that it isn't quite substantial enough.
  • The Whispering Wind (2001), by Michael Gatonska (World Premiere). Primarily a master class for the percussionists. They even got to crumple gold foil!
  • America--A Prophecy (1999), by Thomas Ades. Soloist: Gale Fuller, mezzo-soprano. Clearly, this work was the heavyweight on the night's card. I was excited to hear Fuller, as her voice has been described as sultry and distinctive. Unfortunately, this piece was not the showcase for her voice--there is little room for sex appeal in a libretto that is a Mayan prophecy of the end of civilization. The libretto is powerful, though. I love the first line: "Oh my nation. Prepare." And the final two stanzas are searing:

    Burn, burn, burn
    On earth we shall burn
    We shall turn to ash
    Drift across the land, over the mountains
    out to sea

    Weep, weep, weep
    But know this well:
    Ash feels no pain.


    This was a seriously-skilled orchestral performance of this work, with an unfortunately mis-matched mezzo.


There was even a celebrity sighting: I spotted Pulitzer-Prize-winning composer Aaron Jay Kernis in attendance (wearing a clashing v-neck sweater/collared shirt combination).

And while I may have occasionally yelled "Bravo!" during the applause, let me assure you that I was not wearing black kid gloves. Walter Hartright can bite me.

Saturday, August 19, 2006

Comments for Some! Miniature American Flags for Others!


Fosco just realized that he had limited the "Comment" option to members of Blogger only. Oops. As with his sexuality, Fosco is against arbitrary restrictions, and he has now set it so that anyone can comment.

(The hands you see here belong to my personal assistant, Geoffrey. Aren't they smooth? We get mani/pedis together.)

Commence comments, non-Blogger-members!

I remain,
Fosco

Friday, August 18, 2006

California Semantics: A Plea for Linguistic Specificity


Whenever you move to a new city (or a new area of the country), part of the adjustment is learning the vocabulary of everyday life in that region. I've been a resident of California for almost a month now, and I'm starting to notice the words and names that will be necessary for me to function here (although I haven't yet managed to employ most of them convincingly).

Here are several examples of Santa Cruz words that are used rarely in other places I've lived:

  • pelagic: Of, relating to, or living in open oceans or seas rather than waters adjacent to land or inland waters (as in birds). You don't have to be a birder to run across this adjective in regular reading here on the coast.
  • tri-tip: A beef tri-tip roast is a boneless cut of meat from the bottom sirloin. It also is called "triangular" roast because of its shape. According to the Oregon Beef Council: "this flavorful beef cut has been one of the beef industry's best kept secrets."
  • freeway: It turns out that the "freeway" is actually just a... highway!


And, of course, as I live only a mile or so from Pleasure Point, I am having to adjust to surfing terms as well. This is particularly difficult, since I still don't understand what a "Point Break" is (but it does make me think of Keanu, so that's not too bad).

But then there are two terms that are causing me some problems: "The Valley" and "The Bay Area."
  • The Valley: I have heard this used to refer to 1. the Central (i.e. San Joaquin) Valley (home of Sacramento, Fresno, grody things) and 2. Silicon Valley (just over the mountain from Santa Cruz--containing San Jose among other things).
  • The Bay Area: I always thought this meant 1. The San Francisco Bay Area (homosexual paradise!), but I have recently heard it used in Santa Cruz to mean 2. The Monterey Bay Area (sea lion paradise!).

I have a hard time with this kind of vagueness, especially since I am still too new to the area to fully appreciate the context clues (e.g., which "Valley" is Milpitas in?).

Could we agree on a solution? What if we called the Monterey Bay Area the "MoBay"? And what if we called Silicon Valley, well, "Silicon Valley"? Can we do this, people? Please?

Thursday, August 17, 2006

Butterfly in the sky...


I've been tagged by my blogopal Ted at The Gideonse Bible to join in the meme-a-go-round that is the following survey. I like this survey so much that I'll let the Fosco persona recede a little (otherwise it would all be so... meta) and offer some answers...

1. One book you have read more than once:

The Blue Flower by Penelope Fitzgerald. I read this book at least once a year. It is extremely short and entirely brilliant. I actually find my attraction to this novel to be somewhat peculiar as I've never read any poetry by Novalis and don't really care about German literature. And yet, this novel very gently produces in me a whole range of delicate and specific emotions. This is a very strange novel and a very beautiful one.

2. One book you would want on a desert island:

If I were going to be there a while, I would need an extremely well-constructed text--a work full of games, wordplay, codes, and jokes. At the same time, I would want this novel to be emotionally convincing. Of course, I am talking about Lolita--the annotated version would be preferable...

Although, wouldn't it be fun to be stranded with only Robinson Crusoe?

3. One book that made you laugh:

Since I don't want to turn this list into the Lolita show, I'll choose something else. The book that I most recently read aloud sections in order to elicit laughter from friends/lovers is Created in Darkness by Troubled Americans: The Best of McSweeney's Humor Category. I still regularly quote from the list of Cancelled Regional Morning TV Shows.

4. One book that made you cry:

Several books have made me tear up, especially when it comes to the the final pages: Lolita (aurochs and angels... sigh), A Tale of Two Cities (so beloved that it is currently hanging over my desk), or Villette (by far the best Bronte novel).

But when it comes to full-on bawling, there is one literary work that does it to me like no other: the Truman Capote short story, "A Christmas Memory." Why? I'm not sure. I don't think it's a particularly great story (and I don't care that much for Capote generally); however, it just manages to push all of my sentimental buttons. Actually, it's pretty manipulative. But I still cry every time I read it.

5. One book you wish you had written:

Once again, bracketing Lolita, I would love to have written Thomas Pynchon's Mason & Dixon. In my opinion, it's Pynchon's best work, but it's generally underrated (and under-read)--probably because of it's length and difficulty. But don't be discouraged--once you habituate to the dialect and orthography, the novel is extremely funny and moving.

6. One book you wish had never been written:

The correct answer, by far, is The Bible; however, it's not a very interesting answer. So I'll change the rules a bit and go with two books that I wish had never been written. In which the case, the answer is 1. The Bible and 2. The Lord of the Rings. (I guess I'm bending the rules a bit more by including a trilogy...). Now while it is true that Lord of the Rings isn't responsible for as much evil as is the Bible, it is responsible (entirely or in large part) for other execrable things, such as:



I also see the LotR as a symptom of a larger problem in American culture--the fact that most college-educated adults (based on their preferences listed on MySpace, Friendster, personal ads, etc.) identify as their favorite books novels that were written for thirteen-year-olds. Think about it: Lord of the Rings, To Kill A Mockingbird, Harry Potter, The Princess Bride. Have any of these college-educated adults read a novel since junior high?

Which is not to say that some of these books aren't quite good. I enjoy reading each installment of Harry Potter. And should I ever have a precocious niece, I plan to gift her "To Kill A Mockingbird." I even think LotR can be an enjoyable read for a weekend when you want to feel like a kid again (just skip the damn poetry). But come on people, hasn't your worldview gotten a little more complex since you read those books?

7. One book you are currently reading:

I'll bracket school-related books (like The Politics and Poetics of Transgression or Apartment Stories) and admit that I am currently stalled in the middle of Christopher Sorrentino's National Book Award Finalist Trance.

8. One book you've been meaning to read:

Dare I admit that I haven't read... Ulysses?

9. One book that changed your life:

The novel Middlemarch is a very beautiful, very moving essay in the ethical obligations that we have toward other people and how moral imagination can be used to improve our world in very small ways.

10: Now tag 5 bloggers: Todd, T. C., Article III Groupie, Jenny, and, uh... someone else.

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

Five Observations/Meditations on IKEA


Over the last two weeks, I have driven to the IKEA in East Palo Alto six times (86 miles, round-trip). These are my thoughts.

1. IKEA is a bonanza for people (like me) who enjoy coming up with new nicknames for friends and family. Whenever I go there with my sister, our conversation quickly degenerates into name-calling based on the ridiculous IKEA product names. It goes something like this:

ME: "What do you think of this table, BRATTBY?"
MY SISTER: "You're the BRATTBY."
ME: "No, you are. BRATTBY."
MY SISTER: "Well, then you're a JOKKMOKK."
ME: "No, you are."

2. The combined weight of the faux-Scandinavian product names is so great that by the "Marketplace" section of the store, I find myself, totally unconsciuosly, saying "ja" instead of "yes."

3. In Fight Club, Edward Norton's character orders, from a store called "Furni," an Erika Pekkari dust ruffle. I always thought this was a funny line. Imagine my surprise to find an Erika Pekkari sheet set at IKEA last week--it turns out that she really exists!

She also finds that scene to be funny. Yay for Erika Pekkari!

4. IKEA offers a line of coffee tables called LACK.

As an occasional reader of Lacan, I find this product name to be hilarious. As Terry Eagleton glosses Lacan on desire: "All desire springs from a lack, which it strives continually to fill." Basically, the root of all desire (and of language, interestingly enough) is lack. Or, the way I like to think about it, LACK.

If I designed a coffee table, I would call it objet petit a.

5. IKEA online offers help to customers in the form of a "chatbot" named Anna. In my experience, she is totally unhelpful. I thought I would tell her this. This is how our conversation went:

ME: "You are unhelpful."
ANNA: "You are perfectly entitled to hold any opinion you want about me. Furthermore, your comments improve my knowledge base. Thank you!"

Those Swedes--even their chatbots have equanimity.

Chapter 34: In which Fosco laments his bachelorhood.


In the ongoing narrative that is Fosco's life, it is time to take a brief hiatus from the adventures to allow Fosco to reflect on his civil (i.e., marital) status.

As a devoted former student of the Queen of Singles Research, Fosco is surprised to find himself occasionally pining for a regular romantic presence in his life. True, he has the companionship of his loyal personal assistant Geoffrey. And, as the regular reader of this blog can attest, Fosco is no enemy of casual sexual relations (even in trees!). However, every once and a while, Fosco would like to be able to post a video of his own adorable queer wedding.

Last week, Fosco's marital wistfulness was in strange and full effect, just in time for the visit from the Cable Guy. (No, not this one. Nor this one--although I must admit that I'm curious about how he can be both a cable guy and a health inspector. Does the man never sleep?) No, the Cable Guy that Fosco speaks of was just an ordinary example of Comcast's Finest--although quite hunky in a tall and lanky way. On that morning, Fosco found himself swooning over "Scott" and wondering what it might be like to... be married to someone like "Scott"! Where would we live? What would we watch on TV? Would he let me decorate? In Fosco's imagination, it actually seemed like a pretty good relationship.

Fosco doesn't even know if "Scott" is gay (especially given Fosco's new system), but that's probably irrelevant anyway--the existence of the fantasy is what's important here. What does this mean? Does Fosco really want a hubby? Or has he been reading too many Jane Austen novels?

Does This Make You Uncomfortable, Too?


So I needed some tech support for a Dell computer (not mine, thank goodness--Fosco is a Mac user), and I found myself engaging in an online "chat" session with a Dell customer support representative named Shilpa. I know that Dell farms out most of its customer support to other countries (like India), and, as a good progressive liberal who doesn't understand anything about economics, I'm don't know how to feel about that.

But I do know that I was uncomfortable when Shilpa (at the end of a very helpful session--hats off to you, Shilpa!) responded to my thanks with "It is my duty to serve you."

Whoa. It's like most people's customer service fantasy come true, and it turns out to be EXTREMELY CREEPY.

Is it wrong for me to prefer the surly baristas at my local coffee shop? Does this make me a masochist? Or a good liberal?

Gaydar Malfunction

[Self-censored.]

Saturday, August 12, 2006

Being Stephen Colbert

The thing about Stephen Colbert is that I... well, I guess... it's just that I... I LOVE him.

And now you can make your own "On Notice" board here.

Here's mine for today. I may make another tomorrow.

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

Putting the Dick back in Dickens

[No more evidence here.]

Like Count Fosco, the lime is a very versatile fruit.


A new culinary discovery today: the BASIL LIMEADE at the Buttery Bakery. The perfect complementarity of the flavors in this cooler was unanticipated by Fosco.

Unfotunately, Fosco's visit to the much-touted bakery in Santa Cruz was marred by the mood of the waitstaff: they were extremely surly--an unexpected (and unpleasant) surprise given the gorgeous interior and the sumptuous pastries.

Fosco will attempt another visit, before he gives up and pledges his pastry allegiance solely to Gayle's.

As for the remarkable basil limeade, Fosco begins to consider how to produce it in his own kitchen. And can it be made with... vodka?

What to do with a degree in Feminist Studies.

[As much as I loved this post, it has been... redacted.]

Sunday, August 06, 2006

A Mystery for Inspector Bucket...

[So redacted.]

From the Annals of Culinary Experimentation 1

Part of Fosco's self-proclaimed mission in his Exile is to discover new and interesting types of food--food that is not easily available on the East Coast. To that end, this weekend, he sent his personal assistant Geoffrey through the drive-thru at Del Taco, a fast-food chain located primarily in the West.

While Fosco cannot approve of

  • the jaunty music played by the Del Taco website, nor
  • the spelling in the phrase "Ya Gotta Try Dan's Deal,"

he wholeheartedly approves of the "Jalapeno Bacon & Chicken Quesadilla." It is inspired.

Del Taco, you have captured Fosco's corazon.

Light from a Dead Star, OR "Buy Your Own Cherries!"

[Redacted.]

Saturday, August 05, 2006

I wish this joke had been mine.

[Alas, this post is no more.]

Sold...to the drunkest bidder!

[Removed by FOSCO.]

Practice Safe Horticulture

[Self-censored.]

Thursday, August 03, 2006

This lime-tree bower my balcony

Fosco is proud to announce a new addition to his sub-tropical balcony: an honest-to-goodness lime tree! The idea, of course, is to fill the balcony with as many plants as possible that would not be able to grow back in Michigan. At some point, Fosco should be able to garnish his Gin & Tonics with a lime picked off his very own tree.

And, of course, sitting under it will produce Romantic, Coleridgian, thoughts:

Nor in this bower,
This little lime-tree bower, have I not mark'd
Much that has sooth'd me. Pale beneath the blaze
Hung the transparent foliage ; and I watch'd
Some broad and sunny leaf, and lov'd to see
The shadow of the leaf and stem above
Dappling its sunshine!

Did You Know?

Pulitzer-prize-winning author Jane Smiley continues to remain silent on the subject of her brief (and, some speculate, abusive) first marriage to television personality Guy Smiley.

No, this is not where Beaches was filmed.

[Redacted because I want a job someday.]

With a face of pure demonic insanity...


No, you see. Here's the problem. You don't know the history of psychiatry. I do.

I made my first ever purchase on eBay last week, and yesterday my item arrived. Say hello to the "Tom Cruise Jumping on Oprah's Couch" bobblehead--given away by my new favorite sports team, the minor-league baseball Lake Elsinore Storm (located in SoCal, I'm told). In addition to the fabulous bobblehead, Tom Cruise night featured a number of other festivities, including a "silent inning" to celebrate the "silent birth" of potentially real baby Suri. Read about the night here. (All Cruise quotes in this post are from the transcript of Matt Lauer's interview with Cruise on the Today show, helpfully transcribed by blogger Michelle Collins. Thanks, Michelle.)

Matt. Matt, Matt, you don't even-- you're glib. You don't even know what Ritalin is. If you start talking about chemical imbalance, you have to evaluate and read the research papers on how they came up with these theories, Matt, okay? That's what I've done. Then you go and you say where's-- where's the medical test? Where's the blood test that says how much Ritalin you're supposed to get?

As someone who has dabbled in the psychological arts, I must say that it is exciting to be tutored about psychiatry from a funtionally illiterate cult puppet. Every time I look at my bobblehead, I can here an angry little voice squeaking "I've read the papers! I've read things! Where's the blood test?"

And then I thwack his head with my finger.

Did You Know?

The quality of a university's dining hall food is inversely proportional to its academic rigor.

Did I just receive... Le Fingre?

[Self-censored.]

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

Narrate Your Life

[Redacted.]

It's a Dickens Universe, We Just Camp in It...

[Redacted.]

Sunday, July 30, 2006

Did You Know?

"Children shouldn't be targets of war."

Wow, brilliant. Read about more similarities between Beirut and Santa Cruz--seriously.

Friday, July 28, 2006

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...

Wednesday, July 26, 2006

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.

Tuesday, July 25, 2006

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.

Friday, July 21, 2006

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!

Thursday, July 20, 2006

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!

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

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

Wednesday, July 19, 2006

Did You Know?

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

Wyoming: Cheney Country

You may think that Wyoming is a beautiful state. Not the Eastern part--bleak windswept plains dotted with dreary trailers and manufactured housing. This is not the mountains that you find in the North and West. This, mein freunden, is Cheney Country. No wonder his soul is black. This land is cruel and bitter--not much love here.

I see dead people.

Nebraska: Father Flanagan's Sodomy Camp

How could I write about Nebraska without mentioning Boys Town? Famous for the motto: "He ain't heavy, Father, he's my bottom."

I had wanted to drop in to ask if I could open a branch in Santa Cruz (to be named: "Count Fosco's Home for Wayward, Smooth, (and Legal) Youths"). Unfortunately, the organization requires girls to be admitted and, well, that seems a bit too complicated for me.

Not that I'm accusing Boys Town of running a network of Lord of the Flies-esque juvenile fight clubs in which the strongest and handsomest boys are recruited and funneled into the seedy underworld of gay porn and paid companionship. I've certainly never been told about this secret process by a high-ranking former employee of the organization. Keep up the good work, Boys Town.

Nebraska: Husker? I don't even know her.



What's your favorite song about Nebraska?

Here's a verse from mine:
"From the town of Lincoln Nebraska
With a sawed-off .410 on my lap
Through to the badlands of Wyoming
I killed everything in my path."
(Bruce Springsteen, "Nebraska")

I'm pretty sure that they adopted this as the the Nebraska state song.

Would you be worried if I told you that I listened to this song over and over through the whole 400+ miles of the state? Well, I didn't. I also listened to High School Musical, which is more than sufficient to calm the mad.

As I looked over the massive commercial farms of Nebraska, I kept thinking what the state would have looked like 300 years ago. The vast prairie has been entirely replaced with cows, corn, and beans. Thanks to Elizabeth Kolbert and President-in-Exile Al Gore, I wonder how soon this farmland will become desert. Probably not in my lifetime, but possibly within the lifetimes of my four illegitimate children. Unless, of course, they die of childhood diseases. Fingers crossed!

Iowa: Kum Here

Scattered across the state of Iowa are gas stations/convenience stores named Kum & Go. This name is so close to dirty that it might as well be--let's just be immature about it and giggle.

Kum & Go joins my list of convenience stores with (apparently) dirty names:


  • The "Sac Shop" chain of Central Pennsylvania
  • The Hardee's "Skat Thru" restaurant near Elizabeth City, North Carolina

Have one of your own? Hit me up.

Did you know?

Resolving a longstanding dispute, extensive scientific research has determined that the corn side of the Crispix kernel is exactly as crispy as the rice side.

Iowa: Oh, there's nothing halfway...


about the Iowa way to treat you--
when we treat you
which we may not do at all.


The most important thing to know about Iowans is that they can be cold as a falling thermometer in December if you ask about their weather in July. Just warning you.

I want to provide you with a representative picture for each of the states I traverse. This is what Iowa looks like. Surprisingly, Iowa is not ugly--especially since it is sandwiched between Illinois and Nebraska. These two states are Iowa's ugly friends, which allow Iowa to look even hotter when she's out cruising the bars...

I stayed at a hotel in Metro Des Moines (has that phrase ever been written?). I got the proverbial Iowa cold shoulder from the greasy-haired twink at the front desk. I chalked it up to a combination of the proverbial Iowa reserve and the frustrations of being a sissy in farm country. He was a bit less standoffish later, however, when he dropped by my room after his shift to see if I "needed anything." It turns out that I did: I needed him to moan my name. And yes, his hair was as greasy as it looked.

The ghost of Humbert hovers near and compels me to explain: "it was he who seduced me."

The next morning, I drove through famous Madison County, but did not stop--the last thing I need is some sensitive poet-farmer mooning after me. If I'm going to live out a work of fiction, I would prefer something along the lines of American Psycho or Teddy the Terrier. Will I ever meet Miss Clarissa Wags?

Did You Know?

Truckers are hot.

Tuesday, July 18, 2006

Illinois: Now with a Sufjan Stevens soundtrack!


Until I left for college, I lived within two hours drive of Chicago. Consequently, the Second City has been the site of many of my most treasured memories:


  • One of the best dinners of my life: TRU
  • Walking along Frank Gehry's Bridge to Nowhere at Millenium Park.
  • A Cubs playoff run (the last one that will occur in my lifetime).
  • Making out with my girlfriend Sloane (a total ringer for Mia Sara) in front of the Chagall windows at the Art Institute.
  • The complete Wagner Ring cycle at the Lyric Opera.
  • A night of debauchery at Crobar.
  • And that time that I was soaked with Dave Matthews's feces. It still beats his music!


Oh, City of Broad Shoulders! Hog Butcher for the World!

But, at the most basic level, my most trenchant memories of Chicago will probably involve what we see in the picture above: road construction and traffic.

Go to hell, Illinois. I'm sick of you and I'm sick of your crap.

Did You Know?

Indiana Governor and "Combover King" Mitch Daniels has named every rest stop in the state after John Mellencamp.

Indiana: Is There More Than Corn?

Yes: Casinos and Tank Farms.

Interstate 80/90 was recently sold by the governor ("Myman" Mitch Daniels) to a group of foreign investors, an innovation in privatizing public infrastructure. How will this change your driving experience? Faster speed limits, higher tolls, and a two drink minimum.

Oh yeah, and ladies drive free after 10 pm.

In case the Indiana Bureau of Tourism is looking for a new slogan, I have a suggestion: The Best Part of Indiana Is Leaving It.

Queer Kid and Slug Take Road Trip


On Sunday morning (July 16), Fosco began his One-way Transcontinental Road Trip Extravaganza. From Michigan to California--all on Interstate 80 (which shadows the Union Pacific Railroad).

BUT HE IS NOT ALONE!

Fosco's carriage is crowded with entities (although none of them actually currently living), including:


  • A UC Santa Cruz banana slug named Wlad (see above picture). While Fosco provides witty observations about the countryside, Wlad will mostly provide secretions.
  • The immense geologic knowledge of essayist John McPhee, contained in his four books collected as Annals of the Former World. In these books, McPhee explores the geology of America along Interstate 80. Much of this drive will pass as a conversation between Fosco and McPhee.
  • The fictional shades of Humbert Humbert and his Lolita. As the ur-chronicler of the American Road Trip, Humbert will be present with Fosco at each outpost of Americana. And although Fosco has neither access to a sexually precocious pre-teen nor the inclination to fondle one, Lo will still haunt the drive as a reminder of the erotic energies that the open road can foment.
  • And, of course, the final phantom guest in the carriage is... you. And, as a reader separated from Fosco by distance and time, this blog becomes the record of our trip together...

"I am thinking of aurochs and angels, the secret of durable pigments, prophetic sonnets, the refuge of art. And this is the only immortality you and I may share, my Lolita."


So please check back here for Fosco's progress. You might also read some informative facts about our American Nation!

The Adventure Begins

"I want to have the same last dream again
The one where I wake up and I'm alive."

On Saturday afternoon, I finished packing and prepared to load all of my belongings into the moving truck. This was no small task, as my library numbers almost 2000 volumes. Naturally, I needed some big strong mens. This message is a shout-out of appreciation to the following moving helpers:

A-Bomb, Master of the Hand Truck
Dr. T(eeth), Loader Extraordinaire
Tattoo Phillip, Grand Champion of Moving Van Tetris
Uncle Workhorse, Consultant for All Recent Moves
Aunt Reclusia, Stronger Than She Looks

Thanks to these people, the truck was loaded and gone within an hour and a half. Of course, the loading would have gone faster with help from someone like Crystl Bustos, American softball player, but she was busy with the World Cup (of Softball). Call me, Crystl. Fosco needs a formidable woman like yourself.

In gratitude, I remain
FOSCO!