Two Truths and a Lie

Even though I'm hella busy with school and all, I don't want this blog to turn into one of those "funny/weird picture/story of the day/week" blogs (can you handle that many slashes?). So don't worry, some original, extensive posts are in the works for this week (including the weekly restaurant review and a totally invented "conversation" with Jennifer Egan). However, I'm only human (of flesh and blood I'm made) and cannot, CANNOT!, resist pointing out three interesting titbits of fun from the news/blogosphere.

• I know that today's gay youth think they're so clever because they've invented/redefined a whole bunch of words that then function both as a secret language and as a semi-discreet identity signal. Although, sadly, the American Academy of Arts and Letters has yet to recognize and honor the originators of terms like "boi," "fierce," and "power bottom." Now it may come as a surprise (especially to anyone who regularly uses the term "power bottom") that there were gay men in England in the 1950s and 60s (to paraphrase Mary-Kate or Ashley: "Bummer, I didn't know people were gay in the past"). Even more interesting is that they had a slang all their own. It was called "Polari" and it is described here.
  
  Now just think... if I were to learn Polari, I could totally say things to my gay pals and you straight people wouldn't understand a word of it! That's awesome! Wouldn't you straight people feel totally left out!
  I'm going to try it:
  

  Fosco [to his personal assistant Geoffrey]: Did you see that bitch in drag? I would need a really strong bevvy before I would blow that trade.

  Wow, you straight people must be so confused right now. Don't worry, I won't use it too much around you.
  
  
• Two of my most beloved camp icons--oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to slip into Polari there, let me start over.
  
  Two of my most beloved effeminate and outrageous icons are Lady Miss Kier of Deee-Lite and the video game journalist/hottie/fabulon Ulala from Space Channel 5 (why don't they make more computer games for homosexuals?). But it never occurred to me that they were exactly the same person!
  
  At least that's what Lady Kier's lawsuit alleged. Unfortunately, Lady Miss Kier lost. Which makes me sad.
  
  But I can't stay sad when I watch Ulala dancing her way through space:

That girl is so bona... I mean fierce! I love you, Ulala! Write me!

• This last story is hilarious, but laughing at it makes me seem a bit cruel. Let's just file it under "Why It's Good that Fosco Will Never Have Kids." In my defense, it wouldn't be so funny if anyone had been seriously hurt. And, it's not like the getting hurt is the funny part anyway... Oh well, that's enough of an apologia. Okay.
  
  So there's this four-year-old kid in Mountain View, CA (the South Bay) who went to a park on a picnic with his mother. When his mother unwrapped her muffin, an extremely aggressive squirrel attacked the boy, scratching and biting him (this isn't the funny part).
  
  You can read the whole story here [San Jose Mercury News].
  
  Here's a funny part:
  

  As for Andrew, he's still trying to make sense of the assault. He declared he's never going into a park with trees ever again, his mother said, and he keeps telling everyone the squirrel was trying to eat him.

  
  In a dark and twisted way, this would have been great material for Bill Cosby and that goddamn "funny things kids say" show.
  
  Ah, but I've saved the best for last:
  

  "My mommy said the squirrel sneaked down behind me and he was hugging me, but when he kissed me it was really a scratch,'' he recalled Monday. "I fell down, and he fell on me, and . . . and he's still on, and yeah, he was crazy. I don't know what he was trying to do.''

  This is the reason that I feel justified in laughing at parts of this story. The woman told her son that the squirrel was trying to HUG HIM? And then she told him that the squirrel's bite was A KISS? WTF? Why on earth would the woman say that? Even if you felt like you had to lie to your child, is this the best lie you could come up with? And why would you lie in the first place? Can't you just explain that some squirrels are bad--in the same way that some dogs/birds/etc. are bad and you should be careful around them?
  
  Why would you try to map the domain of physical affection (hugs, kisses) onto an extremely traumatic and painful experience? Doesn't this seem like a bad idea? Shouldn't physical affection have positive associations? That lie is absurd.
  
  Yes, I know, I "don't understand what it's like to have a four-year-old." Thank goodness.
  

So Upsetting...

Just because it's Tuesday, here's a little something to freak you out:
That poor (though apparently quite slow) woman is actually a judge of the javelin contest. Read a little more about this mishap here.

How is it that Jarts are illegal and yet we let steroid-enraged He-Men launch these things?

Come to think of it, it's actually pretty remarkable that neither I nor any of my cousins lost an eye playing Jarts as children (because underhand is for sissies.)

My stomach is a little woopsy now. I think I need a ginger ale.

From the Annals of Joss Whedon Studies

Now I love Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, and Firefly/Serenity as much as any English graduate student of my generation, but the thought has occasionally crossed my mind that their Creator, Joss Whedon, is not quite as brilliant as he would like to think. After all, he did have an (uncredited) hand in that ridiculous script for X-Men (although it is a matter of debate how much responsibility he had for the clunkiest line in the film).

But, even if he is brilliant (and I'm still not totally convinced), I still suspect he is kind of a jackass. Have you ever noticed how, in interviews, he's kind of full of himself? And now I present to you some further evidence.

The email below was passed on to me by my lone sibling (I'm being purposely vague here), who has a friend who applied for an internship with Whedon (his first mistake). The applicant was so excited about receiving this email that he forwarded it to tons of his friends (his second mistake). I've redacted his first and last name and one other name (presumably the name of Whedon's assistant), but left the rest of the email as I received it. I have no other means of convincing you of its authenticity other than to tell you that I believe it is real. My sibling thought it was clever. I disagree. See what you think:

Hello Mr. [surname redacted]. Do you mind if I call you [first name redacted]? I hope not, 'cause I'm gonna. I suppose if you don't like it, you could always put little sticky notes over the screen. Although I have to let you know that that makes scrolling exceedingly difficult. It can be done, now-- I know!-- but it is not for the faint of heart. Or faint of scrolling.

Mr. Whedon is unfortunately not looking for any more interns right now. He is looking for a house cleaner, because he has trouble with the concept that his messiness does make a wonderful home for all sorts of bugs, and eventually he won't be able to blame it all on his four year old son.

KAI: Honey...what happened in here?
JOSS: [(indifferently, and he's LAZY too!] What do you mean?
KAI: [unnaturally shrill--this happens a lot] There are pieces of at
least four sandwiches, a completely uneaten salad--
JOSS: Oops.
KAI: --thousands of crumpled pieces of paper--
JOSS: I'm an artist!
KAI: --and more than 5 porno magazines all over the floor!
[Long silence.]
JOSS: What was Arden thinking?!

However bleak the prospect seems of working with Mr. Whedon in the near future in a professional film industry capacity, do not fret, for fear is the path to the dark side. There are lots of learning internships out there that could eventually lead to directly working with the man himself. Universal Pictures, Lion's Gate, DreamWorks, Warner Bros. Movies, View Askew, New Line Cinemas, Revolution Studios, Paramount Pictures, Troma Entertainment, Miramax, and Fine Line Features all have headquarters in or near New York, and they'd probably love to have you, so long as you aren't very stupid, very ugly, or very much interested in working for FOX.

I DID NOT EVER SAY THAT.

If you email back your interests and preferences to this address (which forwards to both [redacted] and Joss Whedon), I would be happy to dig around and see if I can ferret out any good internships. When I say good, I mean terrible, but at least your clothes stay relatively clean; there is no such thing as a good internship. Once I know what you are looking for, perhaps I could set you up some meetings with important people whose cuff links are so expensive they make you rather uncomfortable. Also, congratulations on getting an internship for this summer! Most kids your age are not nearly so far into
the industry, unless their last name is Spelling or Coppola.

...Are you a Coppola? If so, I recommend changing your last name, at least until the opportune moment. If you're one of the Spellings, I'm terribly sorry for your loss, and terribly sorry about the rest of your relations.

I DID NOT EVER SAY THAT.

I hope you have a good evening sir, and do get back to me soon, as I have much procrastinating to do, and surprisingly little to fill my time that isn't my actual job. I look forward to hearing from you again!

--The Crazy People You Emailed

Does this email annoy you as much as it does me? I send my best wishes to all you potential Whedon interns out there--based on this email, working for him would make me tired.

It's Sunday...

...shouldn't you be at Church?

Denouement: 9/17-9/23

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Orlando: City on the Move

Over three weeks ago, travel blog Gridskipper (which, despite the fact that I never intend to stay in a luxury hotel in Buenos Aires, I find occasionally useful), announced a contest to assist the City of Orlando in choosing a new slogan. It seems that "You'll Never Outgrow It" isn't working anymore and Orlando needs something really snappy in order to compete with Vegas (as if there is any possibility of competing with "I joined a threesome").

But then Gridskipper apparently forgot about this contest... (or decided to postpone it in favor of their "World's Sexiest City" contest--in which, strangely, Orlando doesn't figure...).

So, I'm thinking that because
A) I spent a few minutes coming up with some suggestions, and
B) One of my best friends lived in Orlando for five years (he worked for Sodomy Camp!), and
C) I have spent a surprising amount of time there,
this contest should be revived here on "Fosco Lives!"

So, here are my suggestions for Orlando's new slogan:

• Orlando: Come for the casinos, stay for the beaches.
  
• Orlando: Orange you glad to be here?
  
• Orlando: Visit Grandma.
  
• Orlando: Ride Kills Woman at Epcot

Commenters, post your own and let's see if we can save Orangetown USA!

Words of Wisdom for Jordan Catalano

Ok, so I'm a little late on this one...

So there's this Jared Leto who used to play a hunk on "My So Called Life" and who now has a band and who, possibly, has experienced Lindsay Lohan's vagina.

On the one hand, he wears eyeliner, which I like. On the other hand, as a serious artiste, he has a beef against blogs:

The blog is yesterday’s parachute pants. It’s here now but it’s gone tomorrow.

Oh Jordan, blogging may be a fad, but remember Fosco's First Rule of Fads (with apologies to Fight Club):

On a long enough timeline, everything is a fad.

The crucial question then becomes: will blogging outlast 30 Seconds to Mars? I think we all know the answer to that one.

Good News / Bad News

Today was the first day of classes at the U, which means there is good news and bad news.

The good news is that Fosco now, for the first time in five years, has health insurance! Hooray! When I woke up this morning, I could already feel an invisible forcefield of protection around me. But although I am now protected (and, luckily, I did not get cancer in the last five years. Whew.), I still can't believe that a civilized country can allow large numbers of its citizens to go without health insurance. It is SHAMEFUL.

Also, now I can go ask a doctor about these suppurating sores. [That's a joke, my friends.]

The bad news is that now Fosco has real responsibilities and schoolwork to occupy his time. This could mean that my communication with you here at "Fosco Lives!" will become a bit less frequent.

No, I didn't say that I'm leaving you--I just won't be here as much.

Well, that's because I don't really know what "as much" means. I'm not trying to be evasive--I just don't know yet how much time I'll be able to spend with you. We'll have a better idea after a couple of weeks.

I know that you'll miss me, Champ, but I have to go to work. I just can't spend all day here talking to you--as much as I would love to. Somebody has to pay the bills around here.

Yes, but did it occur to you that Caleb's favorite blogger may be independently wealthy? I can't afford to spend all day blogging, even if Caleb's favorite blogger can.

Well, why don't you just go read someone else's blog then? How about that? Maybe they'll be "there for you." Jesus Christ...

I'm sorry. No, don't cry--I shouldn't have said that. I didn't mean it. It's just that... well, I wish I could give you all of my time but I can't.

I know it's not fair, but that's how the world works.

C'mon, let's go get some ice cream. You'll feel better after you eat some ice cream and get a good night's sleep. Gimme a hug, Buddy.

[Seriously though, if you need to find other things to read while I'm unavailable, I would recommend you head over to John Mackey's Osti Music and read his Journal/Blog. His "Talk Like A Pirate Day" post has the most remarkable pictures of Lego pirate battles. Yar.]

Chow: Comfort food for homosexuals (and their admirers).

[The latest of Fosco's weekly restaurant reviews.]

As Fosco spent a not inconsiderable portion of last week in San Francisco, it is only right that he would review another San Francisco eatery. This time it's Chow near the heart of San Francisco's gayborhood, The Castro.

I must admit there was an ulterior motive in my selection of Chow. After Fosco reviewed Bocadillos last week, an influx of Rachael Ray-loving visitors appeared on the site (thanks to Everything Rachael Ray, which does a weekly "RR in the Blogosphere" wrapup). I've already explained my feelings about RR (see the "Bocadillos" post above) and have enjoyed the two previous SF restaurants that she has guided me to and, well, I like to have new readers, and so I decided to try another of her recommendations (as per this episode of "Tasty Travels").

I really liked Chow. It's actually surprisingly large (the storefront is deceptive), but extremely intimate and cozy. There is a gorgeous back patio (with heaters, if necessary) that seems like a secret garden in the middle of the city. My dinner companion JennyT (see previous post) and I sat on the patio on a (surprisingly) nice afternoon and it was grand.

In remarkable contrast to last week's restaurant, the service was so friendly. We were greeted by three or four different waiters/bartenders/busboys on the way to our table. What a nice atmosphere! Our waiter was friendly and helpful, but in no way pushy or inappropriate. Good work, Chow staff.

As for the food, it is good. Not exceptional, but good. They have an excellent menu of what might be considered "comfort food" but with metropolitan style: spaghetti and meat balls, wood-fired pizza, pork chops, burger royale. It was pretty difficult to choose from the excellent menu, but I ended up choosing the fennel sausage pizza. The wood fired crust was mostly good, but was a bit soggy in the middle. The homemade sausage was good, though. JennyT had a delicious bowl of fusilli with a tomato cream sauce and sausage. The portions were large, but not overwhelming. I will return to Chow again as soon as I can and I will post an update on future entrees I try.

Thanks, Rachael, I will keep trying your recs!

Yarr. San Francisco. Yarrr.

I thought maybe I was done driving to San Francisco for a while, but then I got an email from my most delicious friend from grad school at UVa, JennyT. (N.B., she finished her PhD and so she is "Dr." JennyT. I did not, and so I remain "Count" Fosco.) She works for a company that designs space-age parachutes or something and was going to be in San Francisco on business this week. How could I resist hanging in SF with one of my main hags? I couldn't, and so I drove to SF on Monday afternoon.

And did I have a treat for JennyT... When we were in grad school together, we used to enjoy all things piratical (and this was before Johnny Depp made it sexy). So, naturally, I surprised JennyT with a visit to the Pirate Supply Store at 826 Valencia (which I had also been wanting to visit since, like, forever).

Although it is small, the Pirate Supply Store at 826 Valencia is now my favorite place in San Francisco. It made me feel like a small child, filled with excitement and wonder! They carry all of the typical pirate supplies (lard, message bottles, eyepatches, glass eyes, flags), as well as some more exotic items ("Sea Loaf" canned bread, beard trimmings, back issues of McSweeney's). Fosco bought a little bit of everything, including the sign that you see to the left. It will live above Fosco's desk at school to remind him (and his students) about the importance of goal-setting and plundering.

JennyT and I then had a lovely mid-afternoon lunch in the Castro at "Chow." Look for the separate lunch review right here, baby.

JennyT always has wonderful ideas and after lunch, she suggested that we should have cupcakes and coffee. So we headed up Market St to the shopping district and climbed to the top floor of the Virgin Megastore to get dessert at Citizen Cupcake. I had a Mocha Roka cupcake (with buttercream filling!) and JennyT had the signature Citizen cupcake. (See pic at right.) Thrillingly, our lattes were served in big bowls--the increased surface area allows for so much more delicious foam! The space is actually pretty cool, too, with big windows looking out on the street on on parts of the skyline. As JennyT and I talked, I contemplated the crown of the (previously-discussed in this blog) Federal Complex. It turns out to be quite compelling, at least the top of it.

It was so comforting to see JennyT again (I hadn't seen her in over and year and our best conversations are always face-to-face). It turns out that we are both starting to become sensitive to the small betrayals of our friends vis-a-vis their youthful ideals. Sadly, our friend who said she would never drive anything but a Civic has bought an SUV. And the friend who promised to limit herself to two kids is now expecting her third. And so on and so on. JennyT and I have pledged to remain true to our ideals: she and her husband will not have kids, and I will never earn more than $100,000. Oh, and I won't have kids either. We're going to do it, even if no one else does.

"My truth is that I am a gay American."

Ah, those famous words. Words that will be someday be etched onto the walls of the James McGreevey Monument in Trenton. Or, at the very least, scribbled on the wall of a bathroom stall at Rest Stop 59 (maybe with a phone number?).

Former New Jersey Governor James McGreevey's book is out today. It's titled The Confession and, judging for the excerpts printed in the Sunday Times, it is indeed chock full of confessing.

Here's a naughty bit:

I visited bookstores in New York and New Jersey and had sex in the small booths there until I became too famous to risk discovery. I lurked around parkway rest stops, exchanging false names and intimacies with strangers.

And here's another:

Moonlight squinted through the stained-glass windows into our garden, catching an inviting eye or a face stretched in ecstasy. I looked forward to my visits there, sometimes two or three a week. I quickly learned whom to approach and whose advance to wait for, when to move quickly, which posture said “no thanks” and which said “please.”

Oh yeah... now who's bringing sexy back?

[By the way, did anyone actually edit this book? "Moonlight squinted?" Ugh.]

And about all that corruption (you know, that non-gay reason he had to resign)? Well, that's mostly his staff's fault:

I tried to stay as naïve about this horse trading as possible. But I allowed my staff to intimate things to donors.

Intimate things? Like what, Jim? That you could get them Streisand tickets?

Strangest of all, it seems that the book doesn't even acknowledge that McGreevey picked up and killed all those teen vagrants. [Hint: follow the link, read the story, laugh at the joke.]

Seriously, though, isn't it amazing that the Oates story appeared only one month after McGreevey resigned? That woman works fast.

The Constitution is bringing sexy back.

It is a sad commentary on our times that Congress can pass a law requiring Constitution education for college students and I would want to make fun of it. What could be wrong with compelling universities to teach the Constitution on this day? I don't know yet, but I suspect the execrable David Horowitz is involved somehow. And as for making fun of Constitution education, according to yesterday's Times Magazine, it's the Way We Live Now.

Of course, I would never deny that there is widespread ignorance about (and apathy toward) the basic principles of the Constitution. Or, as UCSC Acting Chancellor George Blumenthal so laconically writes:

More students have greater knowledge of pop culture versus the United States Constitution.

I'm no expert on the students of today (because, goodness knows, I certainly don't understand this whole shaved pubes thing), but I have to wonder if students don't pay attention to the Constitution because it's a bit... well... dry.

And so, what if we were to "punch it up a bit"? We could do a bit of amending to make it a much more interesting document. After all, if we're going to amend it every time homosexuals get a little too uppity, then why not spice it up in other ways? Just a suggestion.

As Fosco is dedicated to the education of the today's youth, he would like to offer four things you may or may not know about the US Constitution:

• Sections of the Constitution (also called "Articles") are allowed to have "groupies" and sometimes these groupies blog.
  
• The 12th Amendment is the source of most of the lyrics to the recent hit song "Sexyback."
  
• Although the Constitution provides for "checks and balances" on the power of each of the three branches of government, one of them is actually intended to be a lot cooler than the others (hint: they wear black muumuus).
  
• The opening word of the Constitution are often confused with other important texts in American history. Let's clear up this confusion now:
  
  • The first words of the Contitution are "We the people..."
    
  • The first words of the Declaration of Independence are "When, in the course of human events..."
    
  • The first words of the Gettysburg Address are "Fourscore and seven years ago..."
    
  • The first words of Lolita are "Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins."
  
  Don't miss this on the exam.
  

Happy Constitution Day everyone!

"Mom, Dad, I shaved off my pubic hair!"

When Fosco was in college, Playboy did a pictorial feature of the "Girls of the Ivy League." My organic chemistry lab partner ended up being one of the two featured models from the Big H (and she's a doctor now). One day I ran into her in the Science Center and she crowed the news (and showed me the polaroids from her session). I never quite understood why she wanted to do it (and her quotes in this Crimson article make it seem even more confusing--posing nude isn't that much different from posing semi-nude). But it was actually fascinating to see a person that you see everyday (and who doesn't actually look that much like a model, although she's cute) airbrushed into full pinup glory.

I think there are a number of interesting questions when college students pose for skinmags. How can you not be fascinated by the idea of generally enlightened and intelligent college women lining up to pose for Playboy? What is life on campus like for these women? What do their parents think? And, ten years from now, do you worry that it will come back to affect your professional reputation? So interesting!

So let us consider Playboy's "Girls of the Big 12"(link SO not safe for work) pictorial (I don't follow these things, truly, but there's this thing called Fleshbot...). What can we learn from this?
[N.B., I used to have direct links to the individual pix below, but they get redirected. The curious reader will have to go to the "Girls of the Big 12" link above and figure out which picture is being referred to in the items below (it's not too hard).]

• If you pose wearing only a cowboy hat and chaps, it's important to do it tastefully, according to Texas A&M student Tasia Bauman:
  

  Bauman said she thinks the photo is "tastefully done," and her parents and grandparents agree.

  You can tell it's a tasteful photo because she's wearing her dress thong. Read the rest of the story in the local newspaper.
  
• And what if haven't exactly told your parents that you posed? Oh, and what if you're so worried about their reactions that you don't want to reveal their names? Well, then you probably shouldn't do an interview with the local paper.
  
• It seems that future playmates should probably major in kinesiology or exercise physiology. Apparently, knowledge of the physical limitations of the human body is useful when you want to sit in a sink (she's the one from UTexas who is posing with a huge jug of popcorn).
  
• Did you know that, in addition to cattle-rustling, naked women also enjoy making out with each other in the snow? Although such behavior is apparently noteworthy enough to merit a column in the Denver Post.
  

I feel like I've learned a lot from this exercise, but there is still a major unanswered question: why do none of these women have pubic hair? Granted, Fosco hasn't had sex with a woman in a number of years, but he's pretty sure he remembers some hair down there. When did shaving become so standard, so common, that every woman in this pictorial does it? How did this happen?

Heterosexual porn is so strange.

Vows

I don't normally read the "Weddings and Celebrations" section of the Sunday New York Times because, well, I don't like to read about happy people and when those happy people are also fabulously wealthy or quite successful... Well, let's just say that Fosco needs some extra happy pills to make it through the rest of the day.

But, despite the usual envy, I also was moved by today's article about the anniversary of Adam Berger and Stephen Frank.

One of the reasons for my emotion is that I was slightly acquainted with Steve Frank in college (although he knew my roommate much better). And, strangely enough, the fact that he came out after college never made it back to my ears in the last ten years (maybe because he wasn't actually in my class--he was a year or two ahead). As I recall, he was actually a bit conservative (although maybe only economically).

The years since college have been an especially interesting time for me, as I have watched classmate after classmate (including myself) come out as gay. In college, I lived with five other guys and all of us were supposedly straight. Now, at last count, three of us are out and, even though the remaining ones are married or seriously dating women, I'm not going to rule out another surprise (Dr. H****?)

I can't speak for Steve Frank (after all, things seem to have turned out well for him) or for my college roommates, but I still, after ten years, am envious of my peers who were out in college. I think one of the reasons for this envy is that (at least for me) high school and college were the periods of my life in which I had the closest relationships to other men. The college and high school friendships I had with men were really intense and very powerful. But, because I was closeted (and so were so many of my friends), we never got the chance to explore whether that intense friendship could admit/recognize an erotic element. I rarely develop friendships that intense anymore (after all, people in their late 20s/early 30s are busy and tend to be more isolated), and I doubt that any romantic relationship that I have in the future will develop out of a pre-existing friendship.

I think I could have had amazing romantic relationships with several of my male friends from the past, but (at this point) it's maybe kinda too late (although, to some extent, this blog is an extended love letter to one or two of them). The timing for Adam and Steve (*giggle*)seems to have been perfect and that makes me both happy and envious. Mazel tov to them!

Denouement: 9/11-9/17

Last week, while you were feeling betrayed by lonelygirl15, Fosco was

• seeking refuge in art.
  
• ogling Matthew Barney's penis; Bjork's not so much.
  
• eating lots of very small things.
  
• attempting Matthew Barney-related humor. Gee, that will play to the masses.
  
• wondering how to salvage the three cartons of contaminated spinach in his fridge.
  
• recounting his field trip to San and Francisco.
  
• learning absolutely everything about Paraguay. EVERYTHING, I say.
  
• pretending to be Paul Goldberger and then pretending to be Peter Schjeldahl.

If you see one Matthew Barney film this year...

[Finally, after a week and multiple promises, Fosco delivers his review of Matthew Barney's Drawing Restraint at the SFMOMA.]

I've seen more Matthew Barney than most people. We go back a long way. I saw the original exhibit of Cremaster 2 at the SFMOMA in 2000. I spent an entire afternoon at the Guggenheim New York in 2003 to see the Cremaster Cycle exhibit. That fall, I spent over seven hours in a theater (in Grand Rapids, MI), watching the complete Cremaster Cycle. I hope this solidly establishes my Matthew Barney credentials...

In all of my Matthew Barney contemplation, I have reached several conclusions:

• Only his films themselves are worthy of appreciation as art. Each film is generally accompanied by a physical exhibitions of sculpture, drawings, photographs and artifacts that relate to the film. This exhibition is never worthy of the film itself. Without the film, the sculptures are almost completely unevocative. His drawings tend to be either banal or incomprehensible. Sometimes the vitrines he designs for the display of drawings are pretty nifty, but come on--he just shouldn't be allowed to work in any medium besides film.
  
• Never has a Matthew Barney interview increased my understanding or enjoyment of one of his films. He is not to be listened to. Let the films speak for themselves.
  
• He needs an editor. Isn't it interesting how great writers are often improved by good editing? Do you ever read recent novels by famous writers and bemoan the fact that they are now too famous to admit editing? Art doesn't always spring forth from the mind of the artist in its most powerful form--sometimes the editor is necessary. Consequently, there are a few hours of Barney's Cremaster series that could be excised with no consequent diminishment of artistic merit.
  

That being said, I need also to note one more thing: despite all of his faults, I love him. The Cremaster Cycle was one of the most transcendent art experiences of my life and I will continue to contemplate it for decades. Some future Halloween, I even plan to attend a costume party dressed as the "Entered Apprentice" from Cremaster 3 (picture at left). So, consequently, I approached the Drawing Restraint exhibit at SFMOMA with a great deal of anticipation.

The physical exhibit itself can be dispensed with by repeating one of my conclusions from above: "only the films themselves are worthy of appreciation as art." Now let's talk about the film.

The most interesting new element in Matthew Barney's recent artistic milieu is the presence of his ladyfriend Bjork. As much as I hate to disagree with the dreamy Alex Ross (aka, Mr. "I'm hanging out at Carnaval in Brazil with Bjork and Matthew Barney, so SUCK IT, Anthony Tommasini!"), I'm not really a big fan of Bjork's music. In fact, apart from a song here or there (like "Bachelorette," which is an exceptional song), I think her best work was on Selmasongs, the soundtrack to Dancer in the Dark. In fact, as much as I love her whole "adorable Icelandic pixie" thing, I was beginning to think her a bit overrated. Her presence in the movie, therefore, worried me a bit.

I should not have feared. The film was phenomenal. Somehow, working together has allowed Barney and Bjork to do the best work of their careers. I've now seen it three times. Before we go further, go watch the trailer again.

Before we go too much further, it's time for a plot summary (such as it is...):

• the film opens with an exquisitely beautiful scene of a Japanese woman wrapping two halves of a krill fossil as gifts.
  
• we see sweeping helicopter shots of a Japanese port city and watch a crew of jumpsuited workers build a gleaming white dock on the water.
  
• a decorated tanker truck is pulled through a refinery, preceded by a parade of dancing Japanese dancers and children.
  
• the camera descends one of the smokestacks at the refinery, looking upward; we splash into a bath of golden petroleum and watch strands of bubbles flow toward the surface; a dark, whale-like shape passes over us and the titles, in bronze flensing-knife font, spread across the screen. This is probably the most beautiful shot in the film and it left me completely breathless. You can get a sense of it from the trailer.
  
• the tanker arrives at the whaling ship, the Nisshin Maru, on whose deck a large steel cast of Barney's "field symbol" (it's that lozenge-with-a-bar-through-it that you see all over his work) has been created. The field symbol is filled with liquid petroleum jelly. This is the third shot in the trailer.
  
• pearl divers put on makeup, prepare their equipment, and go diving. They come across a large floating chunk of ambergris.
  
• strung with colored paper, the Nisshin Maru pulls away from the dock and heads out to sea.
  
• the chef of the Nisshin Maru (in a very witty scene), cooks dinners of whale blubber (shaped like the "field symbol") with pomegranite seeds and prawns.
  
• Bjork, cute as a button in a red winter wrap and hiking boots, waits on the shore for a boat to pick her up. One does.
  
• Matthew Barney (as the other "Occidental Guest") waits on a pier for his motorboat, which arrives.
  
• Bjork arrives at the Nisshin Maru and is lifted on board in a basket; she is undressed and takes a bath. You see her naked from behind through a scrim--you just get a hint of public hair. Also, you see her remarkably pointy breasts underwater.
  
• MB arrives on board the boat, removes his furry, furry overcoat and has his beard shaved off.
  
• MB lays down to sleep on a tatami mat.
  
• during the night, the crew plays a mock game of whale-harpooning on the deck.
  
• as MB sleeps, a drunk crew-member slips into his quarters and shaves off MB's eyebrows and shaves a large bald swath on the top of his head from his forehead to his crown.
  
• the next morning, there is much unsuccessful whale hunting, but the ship does find and take onboard the large floating chunk of ambergris.
  
• Bjork has her hair done (with many sea anemones!) and is dressed in animal skins; MB awakes and is also dressed in strange clothing. MB does full frontal nudity in this scene (uncircumcised, it appears), but Bjork does not.
  
  
• Once they have been attired, they (eventually) enter the tea ceremony room. The tea master appears and MB speaks the first spoken line in the film (over an hour in at this point): "Please come in." A long ritualized tea ceremony follows, in which Bjork says her one line (in Icelandic): "Thank you for inviting me." After the tea, MB asks the tea master (in an extremely stilted manner): "Can you tell us something about the vessel?" This leads to a long monologue by the tea master about the history of the Nisshin Maru, about the special effects of the ambergris onboard, and about the psychological scars left by the Nisshin Maru's collision with a Greenpeace boat near Antarctica. Once this monologue is over, there are no remaining spoken words in the film (at least another hour at this point).
  
• as the tea ceremony goes on, the workers on the deck above have stowed the ambergris log in the hull and have cut the bar from the middle of the now-solid petroleum jelly field symbol. The bar is hoisted to a different part of the deck and is cut into blocks using flensing knives. The blocks of jelly are fed into the ships boiler and are melted.
  
• Night falls. Bjork and MB remain in the tea room alone. They begin to make out, animalistically. There is licking of faces and noses. It's hot. MB gets one of the anemone spines from her hair stuck into his forehead. She pulls it out. It's very hot. A storm blows up. The ship is now strangely deserted (except for the couple). The boiler begins to overflow with petroleum jelly and the jelly slowly begins to fill the tea room.
• This is where things get a little weird. A flensing knife floats into the room and MB picks it up and begins to cut Bjork's legs with it. Bjork picks up her dagger and cuts his legs in return. There is some blood, but not as much as there should be. The couple continues their cutting as the petroleum level rises. Eventually, they manage to cut off each other's feet. Then they keep cutting. They break for a moment to feed each other a delectable morsel from their own thighs--sashimi-style. "Mmmm... Delicious Bjork." This is upsetting, but their faces remain placid as they float in a "cloud" of hardening petroleum jelly. Eventually, they slice each other's legs off entirely. Somehow, their lower torsos transform into whale-like tails and blowholes appear in the backs of their necks. They dive into the oil.
  
• While MB and Bjork complete their transformation, the workers on the deck remove the sides of the field symbol mold and the unstable petroleum jelly begins to collapse on the deck.
  
• The Nisshin Maru is now surrounded by icebergs. We see two whales surface near the ship, blow, and dive again heading away from the ship. Is this MB and Bjork? Your guess is as good as mine.
• The "petrolatum" spirit, hiding belowdecks, begins to refill a mold with petroleum jelly.
  
• A pearl diver surfaces and spews pearls from her mouth. The pearls sink to the ocean floor and form two interlocking circles.
  
• A small concrete deck is pulled from the sea by a chain onto the dock next to the gleaming white one built early in the film. The concrete dock collapses under the weight of the model.
  

I think I've probably left something out but, as this plot is only vaguely linear, you probably wouldn't miss it.

What could all this mean?

Well, as you can tell, Barney's work is really more interesting for its images than for its stories. And you can tell which images made a serious impression on me. You can get a sense of many of these images from the trailer, luckily. As for the narrative, well, I wouldn't worry too much about it. Just consider it an opportunity to think for a while about ritual, social constraint, oil, and biological plasticity.

Why is this film so good (apart from the fact that it is so absolutely gorgeous)?

• Matthew Barney, finally, has learned to edit--at least to some extent. Granted, 145 minutes is not svelte, but five years ago this film would have been six hours long. In almost no scene does Barney let the action occur in real time. This is a significant improvement over several of the Cremaster films (especially 1, 4, and 5).
  
• Bjork's music is wonderful. She singlehandedly moves several slower scenes along with her music. Although Jonathan Bepler's music for several of the Cremaster films was interesting, it was never meant to be an equal partner to the visual images. I'm beginning to think that Bjork does her best work when she is contrained by having to write music for a film.
  
• It is such a thick text. You can spin so many interpretive webs from these dark materials. It's so allusive that many areas of knowledge are in play: Japanese culture, physics and chemistry, marine biology, whaling history and practice, and, of course, Barney's previous artistic work in both the Cremaster and Drawing Restraint series.
  
• It's totally sexy (and discomfiting at the same time). As Fosco has said recently: "I like things that make me horny and uncomfortable at the same time."
  

Sadly, the exhibit closes tomorrow... Let us hope that the film will be screened again somewhere in the future (or even better, maybe it could be released on DVD).

Tainted Spinach: An Unanswered Question

As Fosco has three packages of "Natural Selection Foods" fresh baby spinach languishing in his fridge, he has a personal interest in the ongoing tainted spinach debacle. According to the Times (and numerous other media outlets),

'Simply washing it is not enough to protect you,' Mr. Doyle said in a news conference in Milwaukee.

That's great, but what if you wash it in bleach?

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.