SFMOMA, Part 2: "Hey, there's art in here!"

Now that we've tasted the crust of the pie that is the SFMOMA (in Part 1), we can fork the creamy, creamy filling inside.

Fosco loves contemporary art--loves it! So naturally, he enjoys lurking (with notebook) in the galleries at the SFMOMA, winking at sexy strangers, and hastening together to the bathroom for a quickie... Oh wait, or maybe that was an episode of Queer As Folk. But, anyway, Fosco still loves the art. Here are the highlights from several of the exhibits that he saw during his three(!) recent trips to the SFMOMA.

The exhibition "Between Art and Life" is designed to show off the permanent collection of the museum, including some gorgeous new acquisitions. It's small, but packed with flava. Some highlights:

• Gerhard Richter's "Lesende (Reading)" 1994. Richter's slightly blurry photorealist paintings are so beautiful, and this is one of the best. That shockingly attractive woman is his wife, the stud. This painting makes regular appearances on Fosco's laptop as the deskpicture. It is worth visiting Richter's website to see more.
  
• Fosco was not familiar with the work of Marilyn Minter but he should have been. Minter's art is feminist, sure, but it's also voluptuous and enticing. The SFMOMA is showing "Strut" (2004-05), a painting on enamel of a dirty and sweaty heel in rhinestone-encrusted Dior stilettos. The message is obvious, but it's sooo pretty to look at. See it here. As I was researching Minter, I found another of her works that I adore. It's called "Treasure Trail" (2003) and you can see it below:I think this is a remarkably sexy painting, and that response is destabilized (at the same time that it occurs) by questions of the sex of the owner of the navel as well as by questions about objectification and voyeurism. Fosco likes a painting that makes him horny and uncomfortable at the same time.
  
• Jenny Holzer has been one of Fosco's favorite artists for years. In fact, he even has one of her "truisms" tattooed on his shoulderblade. (Which one? Discover for yourself and receive a complimentary t-shirt.) On display at SFMOMA was Holzer's "I AM A MAN" (1987), a ten foot tall vertical LED board with red and green messages (in all CAPS and with no punctuation) scrolling rapidly upward. Fosco managed to read
  
  • WHY I FIGHT IS NOT YOUR BUSINESS
    
  • THERE IS PLEASURE IN STOPPING MY FLESH WHEN IT DOES WRONG
    
  • I NEED PERFECTION BUT WHEN I IMPLEMENT IT HALF OF EVERYONE DIES
    
  before he had to look away. The scrolling speed and light colors are designed to produce a sense of vertigo, disorientation, and maybe even motion sickness (all of which Fosco felt). This is powerful stuff, kids.
  
• The last highlight I will mention in this exhibit was a painting by Julie Mehretu, Fosco's homegirl from Michigan (reprazent!). Mehretu has (justifiably) become an art star in the last few years (since Fosco saw her coming-out party at the 2004 Whitney Biennial), even receiving a 2005 MacArthur Foundation Grant (Fosco thinks they're nicknamed "genial grants" because the recipients are typically quite friendly). At any rate, Mehretu's compositions are usually quite stunning. They are composed in ink and acrylic paint, but they fool the eye into perceiving several layers of depth, typically including: grids (or askew grids) in ink, lines of movement/force, and brightly-colored almost-recognizable shapes and symbols. The effect is kinetic, but in an energizing (not tiring) way. The SFMOMA recently acquired "Stadia I" (2004), but, unfortunately, I wasn't able to find an image on the web. You can get the idea, at least, from "Stadia III," a painting from the same series: "Stadia I" is a little bit less easily identifiable as a stadium (the flags aren't quite as obvious), but it is essentially similar.

Some representative highlights from several of the other exhibitions (this is turning into a long post and splitting them up doesn't seem worthwhile):

• Charles Sheeler's "Aerial Gyrations" (1953) was really fascinating to me. I wrote a long paper on Sheeler in college and thought I had his "precisionist" style pegged (check out some representative work here), but then this little painting shows up as a nifty surprise. The reproduction here isn't great, so you can't tell that those are pastel colors (not usually associated with Sheeler). And it's so cubist! This isn't the "precisionist" Sheeler. Consequently, this is a really interesting painting and were Fosco an art historian, he would want to spend some time thinking about it. But, as he is only a blogger, he is moving on.
  
• Creepy architecture from the FUTURE! That's what is designed by Xefirotarch. They do some kind of thing with biological processes that produces shapes that don't exactly occur regularly in geometry. It all looks pretty complicated and math-based to me. Also, as far as I can tell, nothing they have designed has been built. I'm sure that "theoretical architecture" is important and all, but I especially like it when architects build things.
  
• How can anyone not love Wayne Thiebaud? I love his "Display Cakes" (1963) so much. Thiebaud is brilliant at making food seem otherwordly, comforting yet strange. What planet did these cakes arrive from? And why do they still look so delicious? Fosco once spent an incredibly romantic date strolling through the Thiebaud retrospective at the Phillips Collection in DC with a charming young man named Henry. Unfortunately, the object of Fosco's affection later turned out to prefer to date less interesting and less entertaining people... De gustibus non est disputandum. But that date was still bliss, and Fosco has transferred a portion of that affection to Wayne Thiebaud.
  
• Graphic designer Rex Ray creates posters for concerts and, as a small exhibit in the SFMOMA's Design Collection suggests, they are beautiful. I love this poster for a Radiohead show:

Aren't you impressed that I made it this far and didn't once mention the most famous work in SFMOMA's contemporary collection? Enjoy...

SFMOMA, Part 1: Building Trouble

The SFMOMA (picture at right) has resided at its current location south of Market St. for over ten years now. I visited for the first time a year after it opened and, caught up in the local excitement, was impressed by the building, designed by Swiss architect Mario Botta.

Now that the shine has worn off, I have to suggest that the Botta building hasn't really aged that well. Part of the problem, I think is that really tall and shiny buildings have sprung up around it--it makes the SFMOMA look, well, squat. On the inside, the space is still quite lovely and light-filled. However, on the outside, the horizontal stripes don't exactly soar. It's clearly not the architectual icon that San Francisco definitely needs. Of course, I'm not the only person who thinks so.

Speaking of architectural icons in San Francisco, what are the possibilities for the immediate future?

• the new deYoung Museum, designed by Herzog and de Meuron. Despite the exceptional reviews (read Paul Goldberger's New Yorker review--about halfway down in the column), a sustained low-speed driveby by Fosco on Thursday made it look unimpressive. I wanted to like it, but it just didn't do anything for me. I'll give it another chance, sure (and go inside as well), but I'm not optimistic.
  
• the (recently-deceased?) Prada building designed by Rem Koolhaas. Critics desctibed it as a "giant cheese grater" and it looks like the project is dead. Alas--this is one building I would have liked to see.
  
• the Contemporary Jewish Museum, designed by Daniel Libeskind. Visit the website and view the images here.
  
• I'm really curious to see this one: the "Federal Complex" and Seventh and Mission. The problem, of course, is that no city wants its most iconic building to be a government office building.
  

Or perhaps SF needs to turn to the homegrown-Californian architect Mike Brady (of Phillips Brady LLC).

The News from Paraguay: "Continued mortgaging the country" is a problem.

We are approaching the season of some of the serious literary awards and Fosco has a confession to make: he likes the big literary prizes. There is no easier way to snag his interest in a book than to mention that it won the Pulitzer, the National Book Award, or the Booker Prize. Er... I mean the Man Booker Prize. Even some of those oddly-named PEN awards can be worthy of notice.

Fosco is also immediately interested in any book that receives more than "three paws up" from Piper. Be warned: fewer than three paws up is just a waste of your time.

The reason that Fosco enjoys these awards is that he doesn't take them too seriously. It seems silly to believe that the National Book Award could really mean that the winning book was the best book of that year. What would that even mean? Rather, Fosco takes these awards as saying something like this: "We, a committee of well-educated, well-read people who pay attention to the world of letters, would like to suggest that the following book or books is probably worth your time." If you think about the awards in this way, it frees up a lot of potential anger and resentment that can then be applied elsewhere (ideally, towards the elderly).

Speaking of anger and resentment, remember all that nastiness over the 2004 National Book Award? That was the year that love-him-or-hate-him author Rick Moody was the chair of the panel and the nominees were 5 women who

• all lived in NYC
  
• had sold less than 2500 copies each
  
• no one had ever heard of (and by no one, I mean: anyone who subsequently wrote a resentful criticism of Moody's choices).
  

In the end, I felt bad for eventual winner Lily Tuck and her novel, The News from Paraguay. After all, I imagine that she felt like she hit the lottery even to be nominated over heavy hitters like Philip Roth (considered by Fosco to be our greatest living writer). And then, to actually win the award, only to have her book remembered as "that undeserving book that Rick Moody promoted because of his own weird literary agenda." The whole thing has the flavor of a "your wish has been granted, but with an unpleasantly ironic loophole--ha ha!" and that makes me feel a bit sorry for Lily Tuck.

But, even though I felt sorry for her, I had no intention of reading the book. After all, it's about Paraguay--an afterthought of a country on an afterthought of a continent. And even worse: it's about Paraguay in the 19th Century! I would have bet a large amount of money that Paraguay didn't even exist in the 19th Century (and I would have lost...) Maybe this makes me a First-World Chauvinist (although, I have read historial novels about India, China, and Africa--so maybe my chauvinism is limited to South America).

But then, several months ago, I came across a sad sight: an entire stack of hardcover copies of The News from Paraguay (first printing!) on remainder at a bargain bookstore. No National Book Award winner should suffer this fate, no matter its shortcomings (isn't there something the National Book Foundation can do to prevent this?). I was moved to purchase a copy, just to make the pain go away. And then, last week, mainly because it was there (and it did win a National Book Award), I picked it up and read it.

And you know what? It's actually really good. Luckily, the novel doesn't require you to learn much about historical Paraguay or even to care much about Paraguay (which is good, because I wasn't going to do either). Rather, by recounting brief vignettes (kaleidoscopically, I think the reviews said) with a gently irony (reminiscent of my beloved Penelope Fitzgerald), Tuck illuminates everyday emotional life, with its mixture of venal absurdity and pitiful sincerity. It's sweet and sad and occasionally sexy and I was moved by it. Was this the best novel of 2004? I don't care--I'm just glad that I finally got around to reading it.

And as for the news from Paraguay, according to a Babel Fish translation of one of the stories in today's Ultimo Hora:

"IT IS NOT POSSIBLE TO BE CONTINUED MORTGAGING the COUNTRY", INDICATES the PRESIDENT Of the CONGRESS We rejected the orders of the Executive authority because the guarantee sufficient does not exist to administer that money, the holder of the National Congress declared. The oviedista senator Enrique González Quintana made these declarations during a meeting of leaders of large stone benches of the Senate, occasion in which the reasons were explained that motivated the decisions taken yesterday in the Legislative Power.

All I know is that I would lurve to see all those "leaders of large stone benches." Do you think they're animate? Even if not, Paraguay still probably has a better democracy than we do.

Drawing Restraint 9: Eight things NOT overheard on the way out of the theater...

It's 9 pm, and Fosco just returned from another day trip to San Francisco to see yet again Matthew Barney's film Drawing Restraint at the SFMOMA. (It turns out that the film is just like Miss E...so addictive!)

Fosco is exhausted (and stuffed with Nanking scallops). He is (finally) ready to write his full review of the film and exhibit--look for it tomorrow. Until then, do two things:
1. Watch the trailer.
2. Enjoy the following bit of silliness.
(N.B., if you don't know much about the film, some of these will be funnier after you read Fosco's full review tomorrow).

Eight Things that Fosco did NOT overhear on the way out of the theater:

• "My favorite part was the dialogue."
  
• "I wish it had been longer."
  
• "Now I'm hungry for sushi!"
  
• "I don't understand what he sees in Bjork..."
  
• "I hear there were script problems from day one."
  
• "I still don't understand why Gene Shalit hated it."
  
• "What do you think Bjork will wear to the Oscars this time?
  
• "Who did the music?"
  

It's bedtime for Fosco. Until tomorrow, I remain
FOSCO.

Bocadillos: Alas, "tapas" is not Spanish for "topless."

[The most recent of Fosco's weekly restaurant reviews.]

This week, Fosco ventures even further afield from Santa Cruz in order to consider Basque tapas in San Francisco.

The regular reader may recall Fosco's earlier foray into Basque cuisine in Elko, Nevada. Fosco recalls fondly that hearty meal, but would expect few similarities between that food and the tapas at Bocadillos. After all, to Fosco, "tapas" might as well be translated as "too small to be filling" (which is the reason he typically avoids tapas restaurants). However, he did have one good reason to give Bocadillos a chance: "chef hot" (according to the Gawker Professional Hotness Scale) Rachael Ray.

Now Fosco doesn't quite understand why there is so much hatred of Rachel Ray. As television chef/personalities go, she seems to be one of the most likeable and inoffensive. She doesn't pretend to be a culinary genius (a la Bobby Flay, who should probably be flayed alive. HA!). She doesn't have an infernal catchphrase. She doesn't use a fake Chinese accent. At worst, sometimes her taste is a little middlebrow, but... so what? She's not trying to fool anyone. And how can you fault her for being enthusiastic about food? Isn't that, um, part of her job?

But anyway. I happened to catch Ray's recommendations for San Francisco and thought that Bocadillos looked enjoyable. Additional research confirmed its reputation and so, yesterday evening (after another afternoon at the SFMOMA-that place is addictive), I dropped in for an early dinner.

Because tapas must be accompanied by a drink, Bocadillos has a long, strange list of signature cocktails (in addition to many, many types of wine). I ordered the appropriately-named Euskadi cocktail: a blend of nigori-sake, cranberry juice, and lime juice. The presence of sake in a Basque-themed cocktail is somewhat inexplicable to me and, alas, I do not recommend it.

I'm afraid that this question may cause Fosco some difficulties in the "cultural sensitivity" department, but why are Basque cocktails so bad? The picon punch that I had in Nevada was also really unappetizing. Think I'm exaggerating? Here are two of the other cocktails offered at Bocadillos:

• half sprite, half lager.
  
• half Coke, half red wine.
  

The next thing you know, they'll be mixing milk and orange juice!

Luckily, the food at Bocadillos is better than the cocktails. The menu is long and there are so many appealing choices that settling on a few is difficult--truly, it would be best to bring several friends and share. However, as Fosco was alone yesterday (his personal assistant Geoffrey was still in Seattle, presenting his entry in the HUMP Amateur Porn Festival). Fosco (heroically) ate

• a "bocadillo" (small sandwich) of house-made catalan sausage and manchego
  
• marinated Moroccan beets: Fosco loves beets, especially as the marinade contained cardamom. Yum!
  
• patatas bravas: twice cooked steak fries, tossed in red pepper and served with a delicious romesco sauce
  

Fortunately, the patatas in particular were quite filling, as Fosco was meter-parked and had to skip dessert.

The food at Bocadillos is good (if you avoid the cocktails), but, on the whole, I don't plan to return. The problem is the service, which was pretty obnoxious, actually. I was made to feel as if I were not quite hip enough to be there (especially strange as I was one of only two patrons there at the early hour--it's not like I was filling a chair that would otherwise have been occupied by Lindsay Lohan's vagina. Would they rather my chair be completely empty? Odd.)

Is it possible that Fosco just isn't cool enough to live in San Francisco? Hmmm.

Field Trip Week: San Francisco Treat, Part 2

[Read Part 1 here.]

After the spending spree at City Lights, Fosco and his personal assistant Geoffrey window-shopped their way through the Market St shopping area (why does the H&M at 150 Post St only have women's apparel? Women's clothes don't fit Fosco.)

Looking up, we were discomfited to see the spooky wraiths crowning the mansard roof of 580 California St. (see pic at right). Later research reveals that:

• the building was designed by Philip Johnson.
  
• the statues are "corporate goddesses" and were designed by Muriel Castanis.
  
• they are twelve feet high and HAVE NO FACES (note the hint of rising panic in Fosco's voice).
  

With due respect to Ms. Castanis, Fosco prefers to disregard the artistic intention (corporate goddesses? whatever.) in favor of a much more sinister reading of these figures. Clearly these figures mean harm (and are eerily reminiscent of Peter Jackson's Ringwraiths in his LotR trilogy).

Fosco has but one request for the 580 California wraiths: "Please don't kill me."

Fosco and Geoffrey decided that the best place to hide from the wraiths was inside the SFMOMA. Fosco will have a separate entry on this visit (including a full review of the Matthew Barney film and installation in an upcoming post).

After the museum, we decided to play tourist for a bit, with a visit to the sea lions at Pier 39. Despite the frigid grey weather, the sea lions were out in force and they were spunky.

I must admit that I'm quite fascinated by sea lions. I like that they sleep in big piles of bodies. I also think it is cute when they scratch themselves with their hindflippers--like they had fingers or something. And did you know that they are evolutionarily related to bears? And who doesn't like bears?

And then something weird happened at Pier 39: I walked right past my freshman-year roommate Chuck Kapelke, who was pushing a stroller. I hadn't seen Chuck in almost ten years, but I recognized him easily (as he did me). We hadn't been in touch, but it turns out that he lives in the Bay Area and has an adorable daughter named Dahlia. He's a freelance writer, and it seems he has co-written a book, which is exciting. Even more exciting, according to the amazon.com text stats, is that his book is written at a much more advanced level than is Rick Moody's Garden State (for example). Awesome work, Chuck!

Watching all those sea lions made me hungry, so it was time to head to Chinatown for dinner at the famous dive, House of Nanking. Yes, there are no frills and no atmosphere (and you can be in-and-out in under 30 minutes), but it is still worth a visit. Surprisingly, the executive chef, Peter Fang, (dressed casually in a rugby shirt) was actually taking the orders himself when we were there. Maybe he needed a break from the kitchen. He was not exactly "friendly"--in fact, he arched an eyebrow at one of the dinner selections we made, for reasons which we don't understand (nor probably ever will).

The food was exceptional:

• Steamed potstickers in a red peanut sauce.
  
• Nanking scallops were crispy on the outside and smooth on the inside, each one served on a bed of lemon and eggplant.
  
• Stuffed mushrooms (listed in the vegetable section of the menu, but don't be fooled): filled with ground beef and pan-fried, then covered with a brown sauce. These were addictive--I will order them every time I return.
  

As we were finishing, I looked toward the cash register and spotted football star Warren Sapp waiting impatiently for a takeout order. In spite of my better judgment, I like Sapp a lot--I think he gives an extremely entertaining interview. He's actually not as big as I would have thought (I didn't realize he is only 6'2" and 300). He was dressed in blue/white Nike Jordan shorts and sweatshirt, large white leather soccer sandals, and some nice bling (big gold watch, chain, bracelet). He was chewing on a toothpick and seemed a bit peeved that he had to stand in front of the whole restaurant for 10 minutes while he waited for his food. He kept checking his cell and his pager. I'm pretty sure that I'm the only person eating there that recognized him (this wasn't exactly a sports-loving crowd).

And no, I didn't say anything to him--I just smiled, nodded and went back to my mushrooms. I would love for him to be gay, though. Sigh.

All-in-all, a full day in San Francisco, no? On the drive back, it became apparent that the South Bay had enjoyed a beautifully sunny day. As we drove, it was quite cool to watch the fog return to slide down the Eastern slopes of the mountains:

The fog here is certainly like no weather I've encountered before. It's actually a bit like that "nothing" from The Neverending Story. Great, now I'm hearing Limahl in my head. See you in hell, Limahl!

Field Trip Week: San Francisco Treat, Part 1

I was going to title this post "Homotown USA," but then I realized that I've seen more homosexuals on a Saturday afternoon at the East Palo Alto IKEA than my personal assistant Geoffrey and I did in San Francisco on Friday. But, that's mainly the fault of our itinerary: we went nowhere near the Castro, staying mainly in the FiDi, SoMa, and NoBe (wow, that's annoying).

Even without homos, it was still a perfect day in San Francisco. Well, except for the weather, which was cold, windy and drizzly. I thought we were going to be on the sunny side of the city (at least in the afternoon), but the fog never lifted. It was actually pretty miserable. I had planned for cool weather, but hadn't realized that I would need a hat and gloves. Oh well.

The drive from San Francisco from Santa Cruz was even pleasurable, thanks to I-280, sometimes called "the most beautiful freeway in the world." It is a lovely freeway, winding beneath the slopes of the Santa Cruz mountains, avoiding the urban/suburban sprawl just a few miles to the East, and flirting with the San Andreas Fault. However, as a connaisseur of interstates, I would suggest several other stretches that are more scenic:

• I-70 between Denver and Vail: a spectacular ascent into the Rockies.
  
• I-80 between SLC and Wendover: the Wasatch range, the Great Salt Lake, and the Bonneville Salt Flats.
  
• I-64/77 between Charleston and Beckley, West Virginia: a high-speed curvefest along a winding creekbed
  

But I digress...

We started our San Francisco adventure with a retro lunch at swinging supper club Bix. It's located in this hard-to-find alley in an upscale furniture/antiques neighborhood near the Transamerica Pyramid. I felt like I was in a speakeasy, but with much better alcohol (did you know that Prohibition booze was yucky? It's true.) My lunch:

• the Bix Strawberry Rickey (Skyy 90, strawberry puree, sweet & sour, and soda): so fresh and crisp! I could have had three.
  
• roasted tomato soup with a basil-ricotta crouton: competent and hearty-perfect for fighting the chill weather.
  
• shallot crusted albacore tuna with butter beans, gypsy peppers, and lemon-smoked paprika sauce: divine! The sauce just made everything melt in your mouth.
  
• chocolate brioche bread pudding: topped with a fist-size dollop of thick-whipped cream, this was rich, hot, and smooth. Another great course for a cold and dreary day.
  

The service and atmosphere were almost pitch-perfect (right down to the white-coated waiters), with one troubling exception: the restaurant's location in the FiDi (Financial District) means that, at lunch, it's filled with businesspeople and lawyers. Yuck. The high-powered commercial real estate go-getter at the next table kept talking about how she was going to make a "shitload of money." I hadn't realized how well I've managed to structure my life to avoid these kind of people on a regular basis.

After lunch, we made a pilgrimage to the greatest bookstore on the planet: City Lights. I love this place! It was founded by beat poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti! They published Allen Ginsburg's Howl (someday, ask Uncle Fosco to tell you the story of how he played a reading of Howl on the radio and got into serious obscenity toruble...). And how can you not love their new banners? (pic below)I kinda bought a bunch of books, including a collection of essays on Howl, selections from Paul Valery, and the book that started it all: Pictures of the Gone World.

I see water and buildings...

Alas, it's been five years since September 11, 2001.

I'm not interested in writing a long post recalling painful memories, mourning the victims, praising heroism, or expressing my anger at what has happened in the US and the world ever since. I suspect that you can correctly guess what I would have to say on each of those topics.

Instead, I would rather take a moment to mention the most moving artistic responses to the events:

• On the Transmigration of Souls by John Adams.
  
• Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer.
  
• "Twilight of the Superheroes," the title story in the collection by Deborah Eisenberg.
  
• and how could I forget: Bruce Springsteen's The Rising
  

These works of art have made the last five years a little more bearable.

For a moving post on the personal aftermath of 9/11, visit The Gideonse Bible here.

N.B.: the title of this post is taken from the devastating libretto for Adams's "Transmigration."

Denouement: 9/3-9/10

This week, while you were creating your very own blog about masturbation, Fosco was

• discovering that he likes it "Animal Style."
  
• studying for a physics exam.
  
• looking at pictures of Bush.
  
• taking field trips to Pebble Beach and Redwood Country.
  
• wondering how to utilize the heat emitted by Latinos.
  
• writing filthy limericks while enjoying casual sex in Steinbeck country.
  
• wondering how some people can live with themselves.
  
• out on the run tonight, but there's no place left to hide.
  
• shaking his milk.
  
• imagining the future of the country.

Sex Baiting Alert!

I'm going to step outside of the fun-loving Fosco persona for a post in order to call your attention to this item:

Sex Baiting 'Prank' from waxy.org.

This is EVIL.

Basically, some self-promoting tool decided to post a sexually explicit ad on Craigslist Seattle pretending to be a woman seeking casual sex with men. Then this bacterium did the unthinkable: he posted all of the replies verbatim (including pictures) on the website Encyclopedia Dramatica.

Now granted, some of the people who responded to this ad should have been smarter than to use identifiable email addresses and pictures. However, should the punishment for that lapse really be getting fired? Or a divorce?

The waxy.org post discusses the chances of legal sanctions against the loser who started this (conclusion: slim-to-none). As someone who believes neither in an afterlife nor in karma, I hope there is some way for guy to get what is coming to him in this lifetime.

And for all of you who, like me, enjoy internet hookups, please USE A PSEUDONYMOUS EMAIL ACCOUNT. Don't make it easy for the idiotic and malicious.

Next Stop: The White House!

Or, perhaps, the White House II.

Either way...

The Kucinich Express stops in Santa Cruz.

Get on board now, or you're going to feel very silly later.

Ten things that will definitely be on your Calamity Physics midterm.

Last week, I read Marisha Pessl's Special Topics in Calamity Physics. With the adoring reviews this book is getting, the cynic in me would lurve to report that it is bad. But it's not. It's actually the best novel I've read this year (and this is an impressive list, see #5 below).

Here are ten things you to know about the novel (no real spoilers):

1. What is the novel like? Let's imagine the style expressed as an equation:
2. Who doesn't like to be flattered? Not me. I was pretty pleased with myself after 100 pages of the novel, as I caught allusion after allusion to canonical novels, Romantic poetry, and the 1980s. Of course, the novel is still readable if you miss the allusions, but I loved running into them.

3. I loved the invented books that the narrator regularly references, and no fake quotation more than this one:

as Yam Chestley wrote in Dixiecrats (1979), 'The South knows two things through and through: cornbread and Satan' (p. 166).

How I wish this book existed.

4. If Pessl wants to be an internet phenomenon, she's well on her way. The "Calamity Physics" website is beautifully designed and really interesting (especially the additional information about the novel, like the rejected first lines). I could have done without the snarky Cliffs Notes, though.

Even more interesting, one can add the main character of the novel (Blue van Meer) as a friend on MySpace.

And, because Pessl's allusions to literature in the novel suggest that she is a good reader, I wouldn't hesitate to take most of her advice on 10 great debut novels. Although I think her Stephen King pick looks a bit like flattering the middlebrow.

5. This book is better than all of the novels I have read in the past year, including several novels that I loved, such as

• Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close
  
• Lunar Park
  
• This Book Will Save Your Life
  
• In Persuasion Nation
  
• Twilight of the Superheroes
  
• Indecision
  
• Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell
  
• Sabbath's Theater
  
• and, of course, Atlanta Nights

6. Is Marisha Pessl hot? The jacket photo (right) suggests that she is.

But wait, not so fast, my friend. There are other pictures, and, it turns out, other standards that may need to be applied. Is Marisha Pessl hot or just "book hot"?

[One quibble with the linked table: Sarah Silverman isn't just "comedy hot"--I think she's legitimately hot.]

7. According to a writer-type friend of mine, one of the hardest things to do in fiction is to provide the reader with information that the first-person narrator does not know him or herself. Pessl does this really well in her novel.

8. A favorite passage (and an intriguing idea for university class-schedulers):

Dad once noted (somewhat morbidly, I thought at the time) that American institutions would be infinitely more successful in facilitating the pursuit of knowledge if they held classes at night, rather than in the daytime, from 8:00 P.M. to 4:00 or 5:00 in the morning. As I ran through the darkness, I understood what he meant. Frank red brick, sunny classrooms, symmetrical quads and courts--it was a setting that mislead [sic] kids to believe that Knowledge, that Life itself, was bright, clear and freshly mowed. Dad said a student would be infinitely better off going out into the world if he/she studied the periodic table of elements, Madame Bovary, the sexual reproduction of a sunflower, for example, with deformed shadows congregating on the classroom walls, silhouettes of fingers and pencils leaking onto the floor, gastric howls from unseen radiators and a teacher's face not flat and faded, not delicately pasteled by a golden late afternoon, but serpentine, gargoyled, Cyclopsed by the inky dark and feeble light from a candle. He/she would understand 'everything and nothing,' Dad said, if there was nothing discernible in the windows but a lamppost mobbed by blaze-crazy moths and darkness, reticent and unfeeling, as darkness always was.

9. The original title of the novel was "Hey Donna Tartt: Suck It!"

10. On a recent hike on a semi-deserted trail near Muir Woods, I found myself creeped out by the woods in a way that I've never been before reading this novel. For me, Pessl has managed to put a spookiness back into the forest.

It's not just Ewoks that lurk in the woods.

Field Trip Week: Casual Sex in Salinas, Foucault, Steinbeck, and Dirty Limericks

On Thursday night, Fosco gave his personal assistant, Geoffrey, the night off and headed south on Highway 1 into "Big Salad Country"--the Salinas Valley.

I was in Salinas for several reasons:

• to visit the largest city on the Central Coast
  
• to see the vast fields of lettuce and other greens--trust me, they are indeed vast
  
• to get a tossed salad

Oh yeah, and I had also recently heard about a "place" in Salinas where visitors can enjoy the company of Latino men--anonymously and for a short while. Naturally, I had to investigate and I was not disappointed--what a great idea! Latino men are so... spicy.

Casual sex between men--I am always reminded of an interview with Michel Foucault, conducted by James O'Higgins, in which Foucault explains why the prohibition on homosexuality has made it so that homosexuals prefer to focus entirely on the sex act itself, as opposed to the rituals of anticipation, courtship, and intimacy:

O'Higgins: I'm reminded of Cassanova's famous expression that 'the best moment in life is when one is climbing the stairs.' One can hardly imagine a homosexual today making such a remark.

Foucault: Exactly. Rather, he would say something like: 'the best moment of love is when the lover leaves in the taxi.'

Or, something more like: the best part is when I get back into my car and go to get a burger.

Which brings up another delight in Salinas: an In-N-Out Burger, Fosco's favorite!

Did you know that John Steinbeck was born in Salinas? I think there should be a sign at the city limits: "Birthplace of that Novelist You Liked When You Were in High School."

Unfortunately, there is some sort of National Steinbeck Center in Salinas, dedicated to "the exploration of Steinbeck's work and themes." God help us.

I can save everyone a lot of effort by performing an exhaustive exploration of Steinbeck's themes right here:

• Theme 1: People are still worthy of respect and dignity, even if they are stupid and gross and breast-feed grown men and stuff.
  
• Theme 2: Physical strength and retardation are a problematic combination.
  
• Theme 3: Sometimes there is a good brother and sometimes there is an evil brother; also, women cause a lot of trouble (see also Book of Genesis).

See, now I'm the National Steinbeck Center.

During my Foucaultian reverie on the drive back to Santa Cruz, it occurred to me that Salinas would be an excellent subject for a dirty limerick. Ergo:

There once was a man from Salinas
Who had an exceptional penis
He bragged: "On a night
When I wear my pants tight,
I score more than Gilbert Arenas."

What other California cities can be thus limericked? Modesto? Eureka? Milpitas? Commenters, consider yourself challenged.

Field Trip Week: Walking on Endor

On Wednesday, Fosco and Geoffrey drove north, over the Golden Shower, er, Golden Gate Bridge, through the Rainbow Tunnel into Marin County, up a curvy, curvy mountain road to Muir Woods National Monument.

If I hadn't been walking through the incredible redwoods on the UCSC campus for the last month, I would have been floored by Muir Woods. Even so, Muir Woods is still gorgeous--I could walk through redwoods all day.

But even though the redwoods aren't especially novel to someone who walks in redwoods every day, Muir Woods still has its attractions:

• In the spring, Pacific salmon swim up Redwood Creek to spawn.
  
• Muir Woods has hosted historic meetings, like the commemoration of FDR held in 1945 by the Charter delegates of the United Nations (held here) and the original summer camping trip of the Bohemian Club, a retreat known affectionately among attendees as "Sodomy Camp."
  
• Visitors to Muir Woods have the option of walking the trails, or of renting (at a reasonable rate) a speeder bike. Geoffrey and I chose to walk.

Although this isn't exactly the season for seeing interesting wildlife in Muir Woods, we did come within fifteen feet of some very tame black-tailed deer. However, one question haunted our entire visit:

Where are the goddamn Ewoks?

The rangers refused to answer this question, so I'm writing a letter to Dirk Kempthorne, Secretary of the Interior and former porn star. I'm glad to see that what he did to pay for college didn't affect his confirmation. Incidentally, he must be the first Secretary of the Interior that people want to dress up as for Halloween.

Wow. This post ended up somewhere weird, didn't it?

Latinos are so... spicy

I know I make tons of fun of Indiana governor Misti Daniels, the Dungeon Master of the Midwest. But Californians fare little better in the resident of the ceremonial Governor's Mansion. Here are some recent words of wisdom (caught on tape) of Governor Schwarzenegger:

I mean Cuban, Puerto-Rican, they are all very hot. They have the, you know, part of the black blood in them and part of the Latino blood in them that together makes it.

I'm no expert on "blood cocktails," but I'm pretty sure this was a stupid thing to say.

Read the full story here.

Who was Schwarzenegger talking about? Check out the zesty Latina spitfire here.

Field Trip Week: Seventeen Mile Drive

As the start of school nears, Fosco and his personal assistant Geoffrey have decided to wrap up the summer with a week full of fun California-related field trips.

On Tuesday, we headed south on Highway 1 to the world's most beautiful gated community: Pebble Beach. Luckily, hoi polloi are allowed to drive the main loop of the "village," 17-Mile Drive.

Of course, you have to pay $8.75 to do so.

Because this seems to me like a particularly ridiculous arrangement (why should I have to pay $9 to drive along the beach?), I would lurve to say that it's a scam. Unfortunately, it turns out that I would be willing to pay quite a bit more for this privilege. (Although the good liberal in me still wonders why we have to pay at all.)

The wildlife viewing was exceptional, despite unpleasant weather (and the late season). We saw

• pelicans
  
• Brandt's cormorants
  
• sea otters. So playful!
  
• a lone seal, lazily napping on a rock (see pic at right and use your imagination).
  

And, of course, no visit is complete without contemplation of the "signature cypress":

This icon of fortitude has inspired many and is revered as the eternal symbol of Pebble Beach Company.

Although, I would suggest that the "icon of fortitude" looks a little less inspiring now that it's surrounded by a stone and concrete planter. More like an "icon of landscaping" or something.

Fosco was so enamored of the views here that he's thinking about taking up golf. Oh, and he made an offer on a little beach house. He has a good feeling about this one... Keep your fingers crossed.

In-N-Out Burger: The first rule of the secret menu is, you do not talk about the secret menu.

[The most recent of Fosco's weekly restaurant reviews.]

It turns out there is this whole California fast-food phenomenon known as In-N-Out Burger. In my East Coast life, I had heard of the place, of course. I knew a couple of Stanford grads who had relocated east and who swore that it was what they missed the most about the West Coast. And, as my friend Todd has pointed out for years, the name does have a somewhat dirty sound to it. So naturally, when I passed one on the interstate two weeks ago, I thought it might be worth a try.

The first time I ate there, I was (truth-be-told) disappointed. The menu is extremely limited--only burgers, fries, and shakes/soft drinks. I definitely enjoy a burger, but I also enjoy a variety of potential toppings. The burger I had was fine. Good, even. But nothing that I would go out of my way to eat. The fries were, well, pretty dull. Definitely not McDonald's caliber. I began to write a post in my head: a skeptical Easterner debunks the In-N-Out myth. But then I decided to give them another chance.

On my second visit, the food was exactly the same: adequate yet uninspired. But (and I remember this vividly, with the clarity which life-changing moments sometimes demand), the guy who got his food in front of me had something different, something that was clearly not on the posted menu! It looked like fries, but they were cheesy! And there was some sort of sauce involved! I ate my boring meal and rushed home to do more research.

[This is the point in the narrative where you wonder why I didn't just ask the guy what he ordered. Or, perhaps, why I didn't ask one of the counter associates. These are valid questions. The answer is that I'm not like that.]

Apparently, the reason that the guy had something delicious-looking is that there is a SECRET MENU at In-N-Out Burger. (This isn't quite the same as Fight Club, so maybe I can talk about the secret menu.) The company tries to pretend that the menu isn't all-that-secret by posting it on their website (although you do have to be sharp-eyed to catch it). However, it turns out that the Secret Menu is actually quite a bit more extensive than they would have you believe.

Ever since discovering this secret menu, I have been enjoying my double cheeseburger "Animal Style," that is with

• mustard-cooked beef patties (What is mustard-cooked? I have no idea.)
  
• extra spread (very similar to Thousand Island)
  
• pickles
  
• grilled onions

Even better, I now order my fries "Animal Style" as well, which means they are smothered with

• melted cheese
  
• grilled onions
  
• spread

Gaze upon a miracle:

I am pretty sure this is what the Greeks meant by ambrosia.

The only thing that prevents me from eating every meal at In-N-Out Burger (well, besides a strong desire never to visit a cardiologist) is that the nearest one is over 30 miles from my apartment. (Although it is on the way to IKEA...)

My infatuation with In-N-Out is even more remarkable considering that the company is owned by religious nuts. However, do be assured that, as I gobble down my "Animal Style" fries, I am constantly thinking "Hail, Satan." That should even things out.

The Week in Pictures

Fosco will admit that, when he surfs the web, he likes to grab pictures--odd pictures, funny pictures, strange pictures. They are almost entirely useless, but he keeps them in a little folder on his computer desktop and looks at them occasionally for giggles. He's got one of a marmoset on a garden fence in Palo Alto. He's got one of NY Mets outfielder Lastings Milledge shirtless in a cowboy hat and a blazer. Fun stuff.

But this week... well, it's been a picture bonanza! What with

• Lindsay Lohan getting groped by her man candy
  
• Tom and Katie's pompadoured collection of babies
  
• and most fascinating of all, the potentially fake (but not very hard to suspend disbelief, regardless) picture of Lindsay Lohan's junk

But, I think Fosco's favorite still has to be

[Explanation here]

I don't know, but it seems kinda like looking in a crystal ball.

"It's better than yours."

I'm sorry to do this (for many, many reasons), but you should watch this commercial:

http://www.hardees.com/ontv/milkshake

[You will have to drag the "Cow Shake Off" video from the left-hand column to the viewer.]

There is something indecent about this whole thing. Which is maybe why it's so funny.

The interstate's choked with nomadic hordes

This summer marks the fiftieth anniversary of the U.S. Interstate System and I have a confession to make: I love interstates.

I recognize that there are many good reasons why the interstates are problematic, but I don't care--I still love them. To tell the complete truth, I am a total interstate geek. I am never happier in a car than when I am on the interstate. I collect interstate trivia. I read atlases and memorize the grid. I have driven through 41 US States-all on interstates. I consider the Interstate System to be the most awe-inspiring construction project in the history of civilization.

Yeah, I'm kinda weird about interstates.

Which is why I love this article in the San Jose Mercury News, which provides glimpses of the social history of California's interstates. And yes, I feel a kinship with Officer Izarras:

On a recent morning in Sacramento, the scene reflected in Felix Izarraras' sunglasses is a video clip of flannel-gray pavement and shiny guardrails. He's a California Highway Patrol officer and also an astute observer of the interstate network -"the most beautiful highway system in the world.''

"The interstates,'' he says, "represent America to me.''

All of which has led me to want to collect some thoughts about interstates:

1. My Interstate Achievements. There are two achivements that I am especially proud of:

• Over the course of my lifetime, I have driven the entire length of I-80, from San Francisco to New York City. I-80, to me, is the East-West backbone of the country--as John McPhee has pointed out, it is an ancient migration route for both humans and animals. It also reveals a fascinating geological cross-section of the country.
  
• I have driven almost all of I-95, from Daytona Beach to Portland (ME). All I am missing is the strip from Miami to Daytona and the section from Portland to Houlton, ME. I adore 95--it connects all of the power cities on the East Coast: Boston, New York, Baltimore, Washington, Miami. Even when I'm stuck in South Carolina on I-95, I can still feel the metropolitan excitement.

2. Interstate Phenomena. Without the interstate, we wouldn't have the totally-pointless billboard-driven tourist attractions/rest stops that are essential for hipsters to enjoy ironically.

• South of the Border, the racist theme park. In my travels along I-95, I think I've seen almost all of the billboards for this horrible, horrible place. One time I stopped and bought a shot glass--the logo came off in the dishwasher.
  
  Extra fun fact: in his 2001 novel Argall, William T. Vollmann refers to "South of the Border," calling it "Planet Mexico."
  
  
• Wall Drug
  
• Cafe Risque. A favorite activity when driving south to Florida: spot the first Cafe Risque billboard. Winner gets a lapdance.
  
• Little America
  
• The Great Platte River Road Archway National Monument
  
• or even, for that matter, that Mormony Temple Thingie

3. Why I Feel Safer on the Interstate. I have a friend from Sweden who refuses to drive on American insterstates. He finds the homogeneity offensive and prefers to take routes by which he can sample the "local color." This is all well and good, assuming that one has time for the local color.

But, sometimes the best part of the interstate is the homogeneity. It turns out that large portions of the country are filled with people who are actively unfriendly to people like me and I don't really want to give these unfriendly people access to me. Or, to put it simply, I don't want to get beat up. Especially in unfriendly territory, the interstate is the safest place for a number of reasons:

• State Police are less likely that local police (or sheriffs, yikes!) to be dangerously prejudiced.
  
• There are usually lots of other motorists nearby.
  
• Food and gasoline are usually readily available, without the possibility of getting lost.
  
• The locals that you interact with (at gas stations or fast food places) are more likely to be used to interacting with out-of-towners.
  
• You can drive really fast.

Do you really think I would have driven through rural Mississippi or Nevada without the interstate?

4. I-99 is evil and must be stopped. The numbering system is one of the things that I most admire about the interstates--it's so elegantly logical. But, then there is the abomination known as I-99. According to the system, such a road must be located to the east of I-95, and yet it is not. It's in Central Pennsylvania. This is unacceptable.

I know the explanation, but it still rankles.

5. The Best Song for Self-Conscious Driving on the Interstate. While there are many excellent songs for interstate driving, I'm going to recommend Bruce Springsteen's "Open All Night." Here's a representative verse:

Early north Jersey industrial skyline I'm a all-set cobra jet creepin' through the nighttime
Gotta find a gas station, gotta find a payphone this turnpike sure is spooky at night when you're all alone
Gotta hit the gas, baby. I'm running late, this New Jersey in the mornin' like a lunar landscape

Read the rest of the lyrics here.

6. The Problems with Interstates in Indiana. Regular readers know that I have little but contempt for the state of Indiana. Here are two good reasons why:

• I was born and raised in Rust Belt, Michigan, a town close to the Indiana border. Ever since I can remember, people have been complaining about the unconscionably long commute between South Bend and Indianapolis. The distance between these two cities (the largest and fourth largest in the state) is 138 miles, yet the drive usually takes in excess of 3 hours on the non-limited-access US 31:

  Ask nearly anyone around Indiana about the drive on U.S. 31. Without hesitation, most will recount how they dread driving between Indianapolis and South Bend. They generally are puzzled that such a busy highway includes unexpected obstacles such as railroad crossings without overpasses, side roads with stop sign access and most of all, those endless stop lights!

  The US 31 Coalition (source of the above quote) wants to do something about this, but, due to an incredibly corrupt and petrified political establishment (and, perhaps, due to the fact that South Bend is one of the few borderline Democratic areas in a very red state), there has been little progress in the last 25 years. Unbelievable.
  
  
• The Indiana portion of Interstate 80/90 aka the Indiana Toll Road has been sold to a private firm. Well, actually, it has been "leased"--but for 75 years (which makes the sold/leased distinction entirely irrelevant for those of us who plan to die sometime before then). This idea was the brainchild of Governor Mitzi Daniels (who is clearly that kid that everyone hated in high school--not because he was smart, but because he was super creepy). The private firm gets to collect (and raise!) tolls on the road for the next 75 years, and the State of Indiana gets 2.8 billion dollars up front.
  
  Now I'm no expert on public works financing, but does this seem like a ripoff to you? Was this really the only way for the Tiny Governor to raise 2.8 billion dollars? Don't states sell municipal bonds anymore?
  

7. Art and the Interstates.Are the interstates responsible for any really great art?

On the one hand, Lolita would be an entirely different (and definitely inferior) novel in the era of the interstate.

On the other hand, it would be hard to imagine the oeuvre of Bruce Springsteen without the influence of the interstate highway. In fact, as NPR has pointed out, rock and roll owes a great deal to the interstate.

But, on the one hand, the interstate must be held responsible for Sammy Hagar's "I Can't Drive 55."

Some other interstate-inspired artistic creations:

• Death Cab for Cutie, "405"
  
• Beverly Cleary's Dear Mr. Henshaw
  
• John Mayer, "Why Georgia"
  
• several novels by Bret Easton Ellis

Any other thoughts, commenters?

8. The Future of the Interstate. What will interstates be like in the future? Well, for one thing, they'll be run by robots or something.

And when can you expect a new interstate to open near you? Find out here.

Denouement: 8/27-9/2

This week, while you were packing your Subaru for Burning Man, Fosco was

• meeting Jonathan Franzen
  
• discovering the Evil in Santa Cruz's past
  
• cruising the bathrooms of queer colleges
  
• eating falafel
  
• thinking (non-erotically) about Rick Moody
  
• suffering from sunburn
  
• buying antique opera glasses
  
• considering reactionary solutions to the crisis in higher education
  
• and, oh yeah, pretending to be at Burning Man

Happy Labor Day Weekend!

From the Annals of Excessive Packaging

Fosco has a thrilling opera season ahead of him, already having bought tickets to not just one but two (Tan Dun! Placido Domingo! Zhang Yimou! Ha Jin!) operas. Serendipitously, Fosco found a lovely pair of 19C French mother-of-pearl opera glasses on eBay.

The glasses are about 3x5x2, and you can see them in this picture:


They arrived today, wrapped in

• a sealed plastic envelope, packed with
  
• styrofoam peanuts, inside a
  
• small cardboard box, inside a
  
• sealed plastic envelope, inside another
  
• sealed plastic envelope, inside a
  
• larger cardboard box, paked with
  
• styrofoam peanuts, inside a
  
• larger cardboard box.

You can see the packaging below:

As happy as Fosco is to have received his lovely opera glasses intact, he does wonder if there was a better way

I'm on fire: Fosco at Burning Man

It's going to be a busy day here at Burning Man. As he writes this, Fosco is sitting inside a shade structure shaped like a giant patty pan squash. It is over 100 degrees and Fosco has a blistering case of sunburn. But it's all worth it: the MAN burns tonight!

Read some other blogs about Burning Man--Fosco is pretty sure that he made out with that Seth guy last night.

Oh wait...

Or maybe Fosco is laying on his couch with a tumbler of iced tea, watching College Football Kickoff Weekend.

As we embark on another school year...

In his peripatetic academic career, Fosco has taught at a range of academic institutions--from top liberal arts institutions to local commuter colleges. Consequently, he feels he has a pretty good grasp of the variance between the top and bottom tiers of college students. Even so, he was floored by this New York Times article. One of the most upsetting revelations was this:

California State set an ambitious goal to cut the proportion of unprepared freshmen to 10 percent by 2007, largely by testing them as high school juniors and having them make up for deficiencies in the 12th grade.

Cal State appears nowhere close to its goal. In reading alone, nearly half the high school juniors appear unprepared for college-level work.

Half of high school juniors are unprepared for college-level work? What in the name of Mavis Beacon is going on in high school? Is it now just a big four-year orgy?

Now, Fosco doesn't want to be a bad liberal or an elitist or anything, but is it possible that too many people are going to college? Of course, Fosco is in favor of everyone learning the necessary math and reading skills to negotiate everyday life. But what if that could be done in one or two-year trade schools? If we stopped requiring a bachelor's degree for entry-level employment, maybe our colleges wouldn't be overstuffed with unprepared students.

We're here, we're queer, and we're looking for Matt LeBlanc

When Fosco was choosing a college in the early 1990s, how was he to know which university would serve as the best incubator of his latent queerness? All he had to rely on were publications like the Spartacus Guide (pictured left), which strictly speaking, aren't even college guides at all (despite the potentially-misleading cover). Fosco feels for you, his deceived queer brethren, who embarked on a four-year course of study at Rim U, hoping to meet the handsome varsity athlete pictured on the cover of the 90/91 Spartacus Guide. Fosco can imagine your sense of betrayal when, a few years later, you finally find the missing cover boy on "Must See TV" and discover that he is probably not (?) gay.

But now, college-bound queers need not suffer for lack of information, thanks to the The Advocate College Guide for LGBT Students.

As Fosco is A) well past college age, B) no longer willing to date high school students (so stop calling, Casey), and C) on a budget, he has no intention of actually purchasing a copy of this guide. However, he is quite curious about its contents, especially concerning his current academic affiliation, his various previous academic pit stops, and his alma mater...

For understandable reasons, the promotional material for the guide is very tight-lipped about the rankings, although they do list the Top 20 (unranked in alphabetical order). Gratifyingly, UCSC is one of three UC schools to make the top 20. There are a few surprises, I would suggest: Duke? Princeton? Clearly the East Coast preppy establishment has changed a bit in the last decade or so (or has it?). I mean sure, Duke used to have an exceptional Queer Theory contingent, but (last time I checked) the school is located somewhere in North Carolina (the exact location is unavailable at press time).

Luckily, local broadsheet Metro Santa Cruz has revealed some of the rankings within the Top 20, and this is where things get interesting. Ranked higher than UC Santa Cruz is... El Ohio State University. WTF?

Now, Fosco is willing to do a little (a very little) research and he has discovered that the campus resources for LGBT students at OSU do appear to be excellent. There is also the fact that OSU boasts the best-funded scholarship program for LGBT students in the nation. Sounds good... maybe even better than UCSC, but what about when you want to leave campus?

When you're a young queer, would you really want to go to a college (even a very gay-friendly college) in a place with

• this organization?
  
• this lizard?
  
• or this law?
  

Case closed.

And what of Fosco's Crimsonish alma mater? According to Metro, the Big H

didn't make it into The Advocate's guide at all this time around, partially due to the absence of an anti-discrimination policy that applies to transgender students at the time the book went to press. Harvard has since changed its policy.

Well, that sounds about right.

Jonathan Franzen is incredibly... likeable?

Last night, Fosco attended a reading at the delightful independent bookstore Bookshop Santa Cruz. While Fosco is not usually an author groupie, he would have hated to miss an appearance in his town of that most feared literary monster... The Kraken!

Oh wait, not the Kraken. But a creature just as fearful: Jonathan Franzen!

That's right, children: shudder! Your old Uncle Fosco was actually in the same room with the unpredictably cranky bad boy of contemporary fiction. The man who is unafraid to share his unfriendly opinions about the current state of the art. The man who is guilty of the metaphorical equivalent of shooting Oprah in the face. The man whose most recent book has been described by book review empress Michiko Kakutani as "an odious self-portrait of the artist as a young jackass: petulant, pompous, obsessive, selfish and overwhelmingly self-absorbed" (read the whole sharp-clawed review here).

Naturally, Fosco was excited to see what would happen at a Jonathan Franzen reading. Would he become enraged by a photographer's flash and maul the front row? Would he petulantly storm from the podium the first time an elderly woman coughed into her handkerchief? Would he try to one-up Norman Mailer by doing racist impressions of Michiko Kakutani? Ooooh, Fosco was tingling with excitement.


So were nearly 150 other Santa Cruz residents: book-loving lesbians, UCSC types, the lifelong learning elderly, and some homeless people. The room was packed and the crowd was salivating. Would our thirst for spectacle be satisfied?

Ummm. No. Because the old "evil" Jonathan Franzen has been replaced with a new "extremely likeable" model.

It turns out that Franzen is a regular in the area--he spends three and a half months a year in a cabin in nearby Boulder Creek. Because of this, he knows a lot of people in Santa Cruz. Apparently, he was only expecting his acquaintances to attend the reading, because he seemed genuinely surprised that the room was filled with "people I don't know personally" and he thanked us for coming, calling it "heartwarming."

About the new memoir, he was self-deprecating and humble, noting: "I don't know what to make of it and I'm trying not to apologize for it."

His reading was skillful and he came across as entirely genuine.

After he read, he offered to answer audience questions, which he did for an extended period of time (and quite good-naturedly). Some highlights from his answers:

• He started summering near Santa Cruz several years ago, because he "saw the pelicans and I was sold."
  
• He likes Santa Cruz because "something was bottled from the year I was in 8th or 9th grade and released in quantity here."
  
• He considered much of the flap about The Corrections to be "humiliating."
  
• His favorite local bird is the California towhee.
  

How can you not like this guy?

After the reading, he gamely signed books (even signing up to ten copies for some totally RUDE geeks). As he signed my book, we talked about the particular virtues of birding in Santa Cruz as opposed to birding in the Midwest. He was friendly, charming, and seemed to be enjoying the evening.



And now, Fosco is confused. If Jonathan Franzen isn't the monster we've been led to believe, what other conventional wisdom might be wrong?

• Will Thomas Pynchon give us a guided tour of his home on an upcoming very special episode of MTV's "Cribs"?
  
• Does Richard Ford paint his nails, just to feel "pretty"?
  
• What if Kaavya Viswanathan actually didn't mean to plagiarize chunks of her novel?
  

Ahhh! The world crumbles!

Falafel of Santa Cruz: Mondays without Falafel Always Get Me Down

[The most recent of Fosco's weekly restaurant reviews]

Yesterday, I suggested to my personal assistant Geoffrey that we have lunch at Falafel of Santa Cruz, one of my new favorite restaurants in the Cruz. When we pulled up, we realized that we've unintentionally done this exact same thing the last four Mondays (and only on Mondays).

For some reason, Fosco really craves falafel on Mondays--and not just any falafel.

The food at Falafel of Santa Cruz is excellent. It is probably the best falafel that I've ever eaten (although I've never been farther East than Poland). The gyros are exceptional. The dolmas are good. The tahini sauce is meh, but you can add hot sauce. (And actually, the falafel is so good it doesn't really need sauce).

Even better are the french fries--the best in Santa Cruz.

And how can you beat the Falafel Special?

• Large falafel sandwich
  
• Large fries
  
• Large soda
  

All for $6.75.

There's no atmosphere, but who cares? Take your falafel and go somewhere pretty--I hear there's a beach somewhere in town.

Books might be better than people: Some thoughts on Rick Moody

So there's the matter of Rick Moody. Last week, I was browsing at the exceptional Santa Cruz bookstore Logos when I noticed an attractively-designed paperback copy of Moody's first novel, Garden State. Because I have always meant to read Rick Moody and because I liked the cover design and because I can be a sucker for stories of slacker disaffection (especially right before school starts) and because I thought it might be enjoyable to picture Zach Braff as the novel's protagonist just as he was in the movie adaptation (more on this later) I bought the book (for $7.20 plus tax--an odd price now that I think about it). Now, having read only this novel in Moody's oeuvre, I offer some thoughts about Garden State and Rick Moody.

1. He can be a really good writer. There are some excellent sentences in this novel--epigrammatic sentences, like the one that I've quoted as the title of this post. It certainly encapsulates the question I've been weighing for years (but the "might be" leaves plenty of wiggle room).

And how can you not love a sentence like: "Ghosts were the New Jersey state bird."? Change that sentence to present tense and you have as perfect a sentence about New Jersey as has ever been written.

2. Sometimes good ideas get trapped in really bad sentences. For example:

"Human bonds all broke up, fragmented, shattered, exploded, she thought right then, resolution or no resolution, according to whatever explosives were at hand, and that was what she really wanted to tell Lane, but she didn’t see that it had much to do with him, especially since it was she, Alice, who was a breaker of bonds, a violator of families, a dead soul on the eternal Garden State Thruway of dead souls."

Now there are things I like about this sentence: "Garden State Thruway of dead souls" is a pretty good line. And I like the idea that, while the breaking of human bonds is inevitable, the means by which this process occurs are improvised and contingent ("according to whatever explosives were at hand"). This seems true to me.

However, "according to whatever explosives were at hand" is a pretty clunky phrase. Is "according to" really the right prepositional phrase here? Wouldn't "with" work better?

3. This book would have made a terrible movie. I haven't seen the movie, so as I read the novel, I kept asking myself questions like "how could this have been adapted into a coherent movie?" or "how did the director deal with that scene?" Luckily, as I discovered later, the movie Garden State is not based on the novel Garden State (although some inevitable similarities seem to exist).

However, I do think it is a worthwhile exercise for the reader of the novel to picture Natalie Portman and Zach Braff as the main characters in the book. This improves the likeability of said characters by a full standard deviation.

4. According to (note the appropriate use of the prepositional phrase!) the concordance for the novel compiled by Amazon.com, the word "fucking" occurs in the book more frequently than the word "home." That's hot.

5. I've been stalling, but finally I have to say it: sometimes Rick Moody is not a good writer. This is the paragraph that I hated most in the whole novel:

"She decided to take a sleeping pill. Before she had even finished making the decision she was in the bathroom, over the medicine cabinet. Maybe she liked the sleeping pills a little too much. She noticed how the paint was peeling in the bathroom, along the ceiling, as she swallowed. Back in her bedroom, a house fly made impossible right angles unable to find the inch of open window to freedom. Scarlett set the jar of sleeping pills on the floor beside her bed. Angels smiled on the well-rested. God loves sleepers and those who wake."

But then again, I could just as easily have chosen this paragraph:

"The buzzer sounded. Harsh and unexpected. Scarlett moved the bass and stepped over the television cord dangling between the table and the wall. But then she advised herself to stay put. She snatched up the martini, sipped it, replaced it on the table. She decided to establish the identity of the intruder. She stuck her head, again, out the window. Breezes blew."

[I'm going to ignore some obvious questions, like "was it really a 'jar' of sleeping pills?"]

I don't think that I've chosen uncharacteristic paragraphs to criticize: Moody's style is to write paragraphs like these, with a mix of indirect discourse, free indirect discourse, strangely out-of-place references to other styles of writing (such as the police-report tone of "establish the identity of the intruder" or the religious platitudes at the end of the first passage), plus some ambiguous declarative statements ("Breezes blew"--wtf?). However, he usually does it better. The problem is that when you're trying to manage so many types of discourses, it can be too easy to screw up the tone.

6. Novelist and critic Dale Peck hates Rick Moody a lot.

Peck's entertainingly vicious review begins with the infamous line "Rick Moody is the worst writer of his generation"--clearly an exaggeration, as Rick Moody's generation presumably includes Mitch Albom, Neil Gaiman, and (Saints preserve us!) Dan Brown. Hmmm, maybe even Ethan Hawke would qualify... Probably what Peck means is that Rick Moody is the worst good writer of his generation, which is still a pretty powerful statement.

But is Peck right? He does land some punches on Moody, but that's easy enough to do. One of his most accurate criticisms of Moody is that his prose is imprecise. Peck's close reading of the first paragraph of Moody's The Black Veil is like shooting fish in a barrel (although it's pretty funny).

Is linguistic imprecision really a valid criticism of a novel? Do we really want to hold contemporary novelists to that standard? The question that Peck never fully addresses to my satisfaction is the effect of Moody's imprecision: does it prevent meaning or does it actually produce a type of meaning? Or, to put it another way, is Moody linguistically careless or does he know exactly what he is doing? That Garden State managed to produce meaningful and specific emotional responses in this reader seems to suggest that Moody is doing something right, but I will reserve judgment until I read some of his other novels.

You can read the full review here.