LOLtheorists: Refuses To Die!

Damn, this is fun! Fosco spent all last quarter with Marx, so how could he resist making this one?

I'm sorry kids--I just can't help myself.

LOLtheorists: Todd Strikes Again

LOLtheorists continues to spark creativity in some of you (hint: if you haven't tried one, see what you can do). Todd is rocking the Casbah. I'm glad we've finally gotten to Foucault, and this is a good one:

And at the risk of bending the rules of LOLtheorists, I can't help but add this additional Todd effort (especially since Kathy Griffin is a friend of this blog).

As far as I'm concerned, there is never a bad time to say: Suck it, Jesus. Kudos to Todd for his work!

LOLtheorists: Kung Fu Theorizing

kungfuramone, as I have learned from his blog, is a sharp and witty historian of the mid-20C philosophical Left in France. As such, he is the perfect person to provide us with an LOLtheorist riff on Sartre:

Thank you, KFR. I'm still giddy about this one.

LOLtheorists: The Power of Todd

Todd is one of my best friends ever. He's also a graphic designer. Neither of those facts is that relevant to his participation in the LOLtheorists thread. He sent these three submissions within hours of the original post. I love all three, and vacillate as to my favorite.

Kant:


Hobbes:


Socrates:


Actually, I think the Hobbes one is the most brilliant. More later!

Hegel Can Has Cheezburger?

No doubt, Fosco is behind the curve on this one but he's had some laughs this week at a thing called LOLcats. You make an LOLcat by taking a picture of a cat and adding a cute caption (using misspelled words and grammatical errors--just like real cats would!) This whole phenomenon is explained in detail at I Can Has Cheezburger? And it's spreading: I give you LOLbees and, merciful god, LOLbrarians (oh Mere, what's wrong with your people?).

You probably can guess what's coming...

Fosco Lives! presents... LOLtheorists!

Let's begin (as one always should) with Nietzsche...


Make your own. Send them to foscolives |at| gmail.com

Tall Buildings Make Me Hot

In order to increase the inevitable carnage from the almost-assuredly-
sometime-in-our-lifetime Hayward Earthquake, the Powers-That-Be in San Francisco have decided the skyline needs another very tall building. Ergo, the Transbay Terminal of the future: a transportation hub with attached skyscraper. As we've learned in recent years from the MoMA and Carnegie Hall, a building ain't shit anymore if it don't got a tower attached to it. (Hmmm... I wonder if it's an accident that the same firm that built those two towers is building the Transbay...) I'm pretty sure there's an elementary school being built down the street from me in Santa Cruz that has a tower attached. "First Class Residential Living, Within Reach of the First Grade." Anyway...

The Transbay winning design, as chosen today by the Transbay Joint Powers Authority, is the not-exactly-iconic glass dildo designed by Kelly Clarkson Kelly Pelli Clarke Pelli. Seriously, I think I've identified the inspiration for this building:

Yes, that's right. The new Transbay Tower is based on a "personal massager" (and no, not all skyscrapers look like one. Would you ever put this in your vagina? Not on purpose, that's for sure. Eek.)

Of course, Pelli Clarke Pelli aren't terrible architects. They are responsible for the Petronas Towers (which actually might resemble another kind of sex toy). There's also something to be said for the pagoda-meets-prison ambiance of their Humanities and Social Sciences Building at UC Riverside (Go Highlanders!). But damn, for a building that is supposed to become the anchor of the SF skyline, the Transdildo isn't very inspired.

It might be argued that the most important part of the design is not the tower, but the public spaces at street level: the park, the terminal, the promenades. Well maybe, but aren't all those spaces just going to be covered with urine and feces?

A Fosco Lives! Exclusive: Horowitz To Be Named UCSC Chancellor

The UC Regents will announce the appointment of a new UCSC chancellor tomorrow. Sources close to the Regents have revealed to Count Fosco that conservative agitator David Horowitz is the surprise choice to fill the vacancy opened by Denice Denton's suicide last summer.

Horowitz's appointment is particularly interesting given that he has recently called UCSC "the Worst School in America." His lengthy indictment of the humanities division UCSC can be read secondhand via the liberal Canadian Dimension (in good conscience, I just can't link directly to Horowitz's website). Horowitz expanded his critique of UCSC in an interview on FoxNews. Horowitz singles out noted professors Angela Davis, Bettina Aptheker, and Donna Haraway as particularly threatening.

Horowitz could not be reached for comment, but sources close to the Regents suggest to Fosco that Horowitz's tenure at UCSC is likely to marked by a return to traditional principles of academic freedom. Horowitz is expected to insist that students have the opportunity to learn the benefits of free and open markets. Additionally, Horowitz has publicly pledged to allow students freedom from professors with vaginas (one of the most dangerous threats to academic excellence).

Horowitz and his partner Jason will host an inaugural reception this weekend at the Chancellor's residence.

Cotton Candy + Pig Feces

[Partial Transcript from the Santa Cruz County Fair Planning Meeting, March 2007]

Board Member #1: Does anyone have suggestions for the Fair's theme this year?
Board Member #2: We need a pun.
Board Member #3: Let's pun on a song about the U.S. Government failure in Vietnam and its subsequent betrayal of its veterans. That would be both funny and appropriate.
Board Members (all): Hooray!

Ergo, we have...

Clearly, this Fair is going to be full of cool rocking daddies.

As much as you might think the Fair sounds lame, don't judge until you hear about the musical entertainment. From the Palo Alto Daily News:

Just off the main promenade, through a pair of dark doors, are the twanging replies of Big Mama Sue and the Banjo Man. Red-cheeked kids walking in from the afternoon sun pause and peer at the duo's strange instruments: a metal kazoo, a gravy whisk grating on a washboard, a skinny-necked banjo. Something about these strange sounds has them on the verge of dancing.

Sue Kroninger of Santa Cruz and Andy Norbin of San Jose say they have been getting this sort of attention from kids since they started playing the fair 20 years ago - even though "Americana" music, as Kroninger calls it, is no longer in style.

"Kids don't hear this kind of stuff in the schools anymore," Kroninger said. "There's nothing produced about it."

Right, because kids just don't have any experience with improvised musical instruments now that the schools are encouraging experimentation with Moogs. Kids just never see anyone playing a kazoo now that they just use the "electric kazoo" function in Pro Tools. Sigh. The world is changing. I will diminish, and go into the West and remain Galadriel.

Any plans for the weekend? Want to meet me at the SC County Fair?

Self-Knowledge Can Be Troubling

But am I too boringly perfect? Apparently not.

Recent Discoveries in Loathsome

How's this for a new feature at Fosco Lives? Every week I do the legwork to find someone/something loathsome. Then I tell you about him/her/it. I call it "Recent Discoveries in Loathsome."

This week, let's give it up for the loathsome Norris Church Mailer. As per a review in the September 9th NYTimes Book Review,

Mailer, who was a Wilhelmina model for several years, also worked as a soap opera actress, and the plot is as sudsy as they come. (Mailer, the wife of Norman Mailer, is also from Arkansas.)

Great. As if Norman Mailer isn't loathsome enough, now the readers of the NYTBR have to deal with his former-model/actress wife and her novels about a model who grew up in Arkansas.

Why We Were Scared of the 1980s

Fosco's boyfriend Oz had an eventful week at work. I can't tell you all the details, but I can reveal that it involved an angry and complaining phone call from an eighties celebuteen. Which one?

Here's a hint: her initials are D.G.

Here's another hint: she was an early supporter of teen electrification.

Here'a photographic hint:

That's right! Oz talked to Tiffany!

Living with Music: A Playlist by Count Fosco

In spite of himself, Fosco has been intrigued by the weekly NYTimes bookblog Paper Cuts. Especially fascinating is the Wednesday feature called "Living with Music," in which a "a writer or some other kind of book-world personage" is asked to provide a playlist of songs for that month. Sure, it's kinda annoying, like when Miranda July used it to establish her indie cred or when Daniel Handler decided to demonstrate his breadth of musical knowledge (settle down, Lemony... You've impressed us all. You have remarkably catholic taste. We get it.). But then you read a list like Tom Perrotta's and you think, "Those are some good songs. Good work, Book-World Personage!" I must say I like Tom Perrotta a lot more this evening than I did this morning (a fact that's already registered on my Tom Perrotta Q Meter).

Well, let's see if Count Fosco can get his Q Score a bit higher by providing his own September 2007 Playlist.

Count Fosco's September 2007 Playlist

September is that month when it's still kind of summer (especially here in California) and suddenly kind of not. The beaches are sunny, but almost empty. School is about to start, even though you didn't make a serious dent in your summer reading list. Hello September...

1. For The Actor, Mates of State. I'm digging the Mates of State right now. There's no guitar, but I don't really miss it. The imperfect harmony is ridiculously appealing. This is a good end-of-summer song: not too fluffy, but still upbeat and optimistic. When it slows down for the coda, you can feel autumn in the air.
   
2. Don't Stop Believin', Petra Haden. The original version of this song is one of the five best songs ever. EVER. This cover is thrilling, even though it's like a capella (which is evil). She sings all the parts herself, including the guitar solos... Is it good? Is it funny? It's both.
   
3. Racing in the Street / I'll Work for Your Love, Bruce Springsteen. A double-header from Uncle Bruce. "Racing in the Street" is probably my favorite Bruce song. It's full of regrets and recriminations--just like September. "I'll Work for Your Love" is brand new. It's from Bruce's album "Magic" (due out October 2). There's kind of a "Thunder Road" vibe going on here in the piano line. The first line, "Pour me a drink Theresa / in one of the glasses you dust off," takes us exactly where we need to be for September. Let's pour a drink and think about stuff.
   
4. Yours to Keep, Teddybears (featuring Neneh Cherry and Annie). Just because summer is over, it doesn't mean we can't listen to one more great road trip song. This song is perfect for driving in a convertible (Psst Todd). And yes, that is Neneh Cherry singing! The Neneh Cherry. Her voice is so damn shmoove.
   
5. This Woman's Work, Kate Bush. Hmmm. It's harder than it looks to write a paragraph about each of these songs. This is the only Kate Bush song I like, but I really like it. I'm pretty sure she's not related to the Connecticut Bushes, but I can't guarantee that. The best part of the song is when she hesitates before singing "hand" (as in "Give me your... hand.")--that's gold, baby. I just wish they weren't using this song in the new CSI: promos. Is crime scene investigation women's work? Huh? That doesn't make any sense.
   
6. Big Casino / If You Don't, Don't, Jimmy Eat World. A twofer by one of Fosco's five favorite bands. "Big Casino" is the first single from their upcoming album. This lyric is irresistible: "I'll accept with poise, with grace / When they draw my name from the lottery / And they'll say, 'All the sun in the world couldn't melt that ice.'" Who hasn't had that fantasy? "If You Don't, Don't" is a ridiculously good song that relies on a strange stuttered chorus. Whenever I hear this song I think of driving home alone late at night on empty streets at the end of summer; it's starting to get cool and there's condensation on the rear window. I just hooked up with someone I want to love me and I'm singing (to that person): "Would you mean this please if it happens?" At least that's how I imagine it.
   
7. The Only Moment We Were Alone, Explosions in the Sky. Lyrics are totally unnecessary when you write songs like this. Chiming guitars manage to be plenty expressive here. This song still gives me chills every time I hear it. It's the most beautiful song I've heard this year.
   
8. Something More, Aly & AJ. I've already admitted that I'm a tween at heart. But this song is such a (guilty) pleasure. Who doesn't love remembering the beginning of a summer romance? "And I remember the night you said / 'Lets go for a ride.' I didn't want the night to end. / Would we be more than friends?" It totally takes you back to your youth, doesn't it? Excuse me, I have to go put on eyeliner and lip gloss.
   
9. The Trapeze Swinger, Iron & Wine. Reasons to love this song: the vulnerability in Sam Beam's voice, the regular addition/subtraction of instruments in an essentially repetitive musical structure, the heart-breaking incantation to "please remember me," the makeout session at the circus, the sense that the entire history of a life-long relationship has been condensed into a ten minute song.
   
10. Ocean Breathes Salty, Sun Kil Moon. It's originally a song by Modest Mouse, but their version always leaves me cold; it's like they (purposefully?) refused to express the emotional resonance of the lyrics. Mark Kozelek performs this song as it was meant to be performed: with a sad earnestness that makes the wry lyrics all the more dangerous. "I hope heaven and hell are really there, but I wouldn't hold my breath. / You wasted life, why wouldn't you waste death?" And the earnest lyrics? Oh yeah, those are good too. "Your body may be gone / I'm gonna carry you in / In my head, in my heart, in my soul." Summer is over, my friends, but we can still carry it in our head, heart, and soul.

Suck It, Jesus.

Fosco is one gin and tonic away from renaming this whole damn blog... Seriously, by tomorrow, you may find yourself reading "Suck It, Jesus!"

In related news, did you hear that the HI-larious Kathy Griffin won an Emmy and then said something wonderful? As per Reuters:

"A lot of people come up here and thank Jesus for this award. I want you to know that no one had less to do with this award than Jesus," an exultant Griffin said, holding up her statuette. "Suck it, Jesus. This award is my god now."

Can we just say that once more? Suck it, Jesus. Suck it, Jesus! SUCK. IT. JESUS.

It's like a beautiful dream.

[No matter what my boyfriend Oz thinks, I think KG is grand. GRAND.]

Anniversary

I've settled into a tradition for dealing with today. I plan to spend today with my favorite artistic responses to the tragedy. Art may not be an adequate response to something like this, but it's better than any of the other options. There are three works of art that I find most meaningful:

• John Adams, On the Transmigration of Souls. If you haven't listened to this requiem, you should do so today. It's amazing. John Adams is our greatest living American composer and this is one of his masterpieces (for which he won the Pulitzer Prize). The last four minutes are completely heartbreaking. Unfortunately, it's so powerful that I can only listen to it a few times a year.
  
• Deborah Eisenberg, "Twilight of the Superheroes." The title story in her collection of the same name. Eisenberg chronicles the aftermath of the disaster in New York through the lives of four privileged twenty-somethings and an older gallery owner. Her voice is light and sad and right on:
  

  Oh, that day! One kept waiting--as if a morning would arrive from before that day to take them all along a different track. One kept waiting for that shattering day to unhappen, so that the real--the intended--future, the one that had been implied by the past, could unfold. Hour after hour, month after month, waiting for that day to not have happened. But it had happened. And now it was always going to have happened.

• Bruce Springsteen, "The Rising." A remarkable achievement in popular music. Watching the shows on the "Rising" tour, raising my hands in the air along with Bruce and thousands of other people while singing "Rise Up!"--that is the closest I've come to a communal healing experience.

And of course art isn't just about consolation. Allow me to leave you today with a blistering poem by one of my favorite poets, Frank Bidart. Below is his curse on the terrorists. Take care of yourself on this day, my friends.



CURSE

May breath for a dead moment cease as jerking your

head upward you hear as if in slow motion floor

collapse evenly upon floor as one hundred and ten

floors descend upon you.

May what you have made descend upon you.
May the listening ears of your victims    their eyes    their

breath

enter you, and eat like acid
the bubble of rectitude that allowed you breath.

May their breath now, in eternity, be your breath.

                 *

Now, as you wished, you cannot for us
not be. May this be your single profit.

Of your rectitude at last disenthralled, you
seek the dead. Each time you enter them

they spit you out. The dead find you are not food.

Out of the great secret of morals, the imagination to enter
the skin of another, what I have made is a curse.



[from Frank Bidart, Stardust, 2005]

Life. Art. So on.

The NYTimes ramped up its 9/11 coverage today with an article about the photo at the right. It was taken by a woman from her Shanksville, PA farm after Flight 93 crashed into the field. Fosco had never seen this photograph, but apparently it's quite (in)famous. The main point of the article is that the unfortunate photographer is being harassed by 9/11 conspiracy theorists and general internet wackos. People are indeed annoying, but that's not the point of this post.

What's interesting for our purposes is that barn. It's owned by Mr. Robert Musser. According to the article:

To accommodate visitors who will show up on Sept. 11 to recreate the picture, and who eventually find their way to the Mussers’ 94-year-old barn, they’ve tried to spruce it up this past week, adding a touch of paint. They plan to spend thousands in the near future to shore up the foundation on one side so the barn will endure for years to come.

“Here this barn could fall down, and it’s in the picture that’s so famous,” said Mr. Musser’s wife, Phyllis. “We have to do something.”

And there it is. That tingling in your groin means we have now entered Don DeLillo territory. In DeLillo's best novel, White Noise, we find the "Most Photographed Barn in America":

Soon the signs started appearing. THE MOST PHOTOGRAPHED BARN IN AMERICA. We counted five signs before we reached the site. There were forty cars and a tour bus in the makeshift lot. We walked along a cowpath to the slightly elevated spot set aside for viewing and photographing. All the people had cameras; some had tripods, telephoto lenses, filter kits. A man in a booth sold postcards and slides--pictures of the barn taken from an elevated spot. We stood near a grove of trees and watched the photographers. Murray maintained a prolonged silence, occasionally scrawling some notes in a little book.
   "No one sees the barn," he said finally.
   A long silence followed.
   "Once you've seen the signs about the barn, it becomes impossible to see the barn."
   He fell silent once more. People with cameras left the elevated site, replaced at once by others.
   "We're not here to capture an image, we're here to maintain one. Every photograph reinforces the aura. Can you feel it, Jack? An accumulation of nameless energies."
   There was an extended silence. The man in the booth sold postcards and slides.
   "Being here is a kind of spiritual surrender. We see only what the others see. The thousands who were here in the past, those who will come in the future. We've agreed to be part of a collective perception. This literally colors our vision. A religious experience in a way, like all tourism."
   Another silence ensued.
   "They are taking pictures of taking pictures," he said.
   He did not speak for a while. We listened to the incessant clicking of shutter release buttons, the rustling crank of levers that advanced the film.
   "What was the barn like before it was photographed?" he said. "What did it look like, how was it different from other barns, how was it similar to other barns? We can't answer these questions because we've read the signs, seen the people snapping the pictures. We can't get outside the aura. We're part of the aura. We're here, we're now."
   He seemed immensely pleased by this.

And now, in Shanksville, PA, we have the actual Most Photographed Barn in America. Up for a road trip?

Denouement: 9/2-9/9

Last week, while you were celebrating Ann Beattie's 60th birthday, Fosco was

• continuing his long campaign to destroy the monster Orville Redenbacher.
  
• ironing out the wrinkles in time.
  
• sailing away, set[ting] an open course for the virgin sea.
  
• being a college freshman. In his MIND.
  
• having some laughs with found pictures.
  
• trying to see Zac Ephron's sixpack through the cloud of smoke.
  
• wondering how many millions make a billion.

I'm Kilroy! Kilroy! Kilroy! Kilroy!

Two Fridays ago, Fosco and his adorable boyfriend Oz devoted an evening to art at the rockin' Dennis DeYoung Museum. Did you know that, in the future, rock music will be outlawed? Luckily, "rock and roll misfit" Robert Orin Charles Kilroy will escape from the futuristic prison by pretending to be one of the robot guards. That's what happens when you try to outlaw rock and roll. Word.

Oh wait. Oz and Fosco actually went to San Francisco's delightful de Young Museum (of art). You may recall the de Young's flashy new copper-clad Herzog and de Meuron building.

The building is gorgeous in pretty much every way. But what else does the de Young have going for it?

Well, for one thing, it's not afraid of some fun. Fosco and Oz went for the weekly Friday night cocktail party and it was great. The museum stays open until 8:45 and serves cocktails, offers children's activities, and has a live DJ spinning tunes in the main hall. The crowd was a great mix: arty yuppies in fancy clothes, families in casual dress, hip art students with clunky glasses, young professionals, old people, and tons of hippies. Check out the ensemble on this chubby guy in his fifties (it's hard to take a surreptitious photo of someone in a museum):

That's a purple and white leopard print fur jacket. With purple bell bottoms (with the embroidered pattern on the bells). What you can't see: the skintight purple stretch shirt over his potbelly and the black kufi hat. That is some kind of style!

The tower observation deck was great fun, although the fog was rolling in and obscuring the long view. Here's a pic of Oz taking a phone call in the tower:

See the fog? And the metal grate trim? Very cool.

Here are two views of the museum from the tower. The first is of the main entrance courtyard.

And here is the rest of the museum as seen from the tower.

But what of the art? The de Young has been criticized recently for booking mostly "fluffy" visiting shows (lots of fashion, etc.) at the expense of serious fine arts shows. To some extent, this criticism is probably fair; however, Fosco can think of some pretty fluffy fine arts shows at "serious museums" around the country (think of those blockbuster French Impressionist shows that the Art Institute of Chicago is always doing. Ugh.).

Not to mention that the de Young offered us a thrilling visiting retrospective of Hiroshi Sugimoto--the extremely-serious contemporary Japanese photographer. Fosco has loved Sugimoto for years, having seen an installation of his seascapes at the Met in NYC during Semester Break 1993 (on a trip with his college roommates). The de Young installation was breath-taking. The photos were spotlit in completely dark galleries: they took on the force of religious objects. The seascapes were remarkable as always:




I had always wanted to see his film photographs, in which he uses a long exposure to take a photograph of an entire movie. The result produces a bright and otherwordly movie screen, surrounded by a still (and often ornate) theater:


And how irresistible is the 50 foot long backlit photograph of 1000 Buddhas in Kyoto (excerpt below):
The Sugimoto show was brilliant and entirely satisfying. It was the highlight of the evening.

But what of the art in the de Young's permanent collection? As Fosco is unfit to judge anything but twentieth century European and American art, he cannot comment on the permanent collection as a whole. However, the parts he saw were not entirely distinguished.

The de Young has a beautiful collection of art glass, with attractive works by Chihuly, Bertil Vallien, and Jon Kuhn. Here's a picture of Kuhn's "Portals of Andromeda" (with Oz in the background):

The glass work is all very impressive and quite eye-catching, but what exactly is it saying? It's all a bit... decorative.

As for more meaningful art, the de Young isn't too stacked. They have some decent pieces by important artists, but very little that stands out. There is one gorgeous Diebenkorn from his "Ocean Park" series. Here is Ocean Park 116:

There's a charming Demuth (and Fosco does love Demuth). This is "From the Garden of the Chateau":

Oh, and there's one fun (though ultimately unsatisfying) Wayne Thiebaud:

Yum, bubblegum!

On the whole, it was a completely magical evening. Art (even less distinguished art) is fun. Oz is fun. An evening in Golden Gate Park is fun.

But then we had to ruin it by having an uncharacteristically bad meal at Fosco's beloved Chow.

"Hey little girl...

...have you ever seen a Mormon naked? Me neither."



[Picture of Mitt Romney from the Times.]

I will be your preacher teacher (Be your daddy)

Fosco was raised Catholic. Thank goodness that's all over. But sometimes Fosco thinks back to his days as an altar boy at St Linda's and how he was lucky to evade the romantic attentions of Father Fingers.

We all know that the Catholic Church's response to sexual molestation has been completely shameful. But you know what else is shameful? That millions of Catholics continue to give money to the Church every week at Mass. The Church took advantage of its members (and their young sons) for decades; now it continues to take advantage of the financial resources of its members to pay for the sins of its priests.

This is all old news, of course, but Fosco got angry again today as he was reminded of the scale of it all:

• Archdiocese of Los Angeles, 2007, agrees to pay $660 million to about 500 people.
  
• Diocese of San Diego, 2007, agrees to pay $198 million to 144 people.
  
• Diocese of Orange, Calif., 2004, $100 million for 90 abuse claims.
  
• Diocese of Covington, Ky., 2006, up to $84 million for more than 350 people.
  
• Archdiocese of Boston, 2003, $84 million for 552 claims.
  
• Diocese of Oakland, Calif., 2005, $56 million to 56 people.
  
• Archdiocese of Portland, Ore., 2007, agrees to pay about $52 million to 175 victims to emerge from bankruptcy protection; sets aside another $20 million for any future claims.
  
• Diocese of Spokane, Wash., 2007, agrees to pay $48 million for about 150 claims to emerge from bankruptcy protection.
  
• Diocese of Sacramento, Calif., 2005, pays $35 million to 33 people.
  
• Archdiocese of Louisville, Ky., 2003, $25.7 million to 243 victims.
  
• Diocese of Tucson, Ariz., 2005, agrees to fund a settlement trust worth about $22 million for more than 50 victims to emerge from bankruptcy protection.

[Source: NYTimes 9/8/07.]

This is all money that could have been spent on education or on charity. If you are Catholic and you care about educating children or alleviating suffering, maybe you should think about withholding your money from the Church and giving it to a non-religious charity.

Judy Blume Is Next

Although this news is not exclusive to Fosco Lives! (like our recent report of the death of Roberto "Len" Butler), we are sorry to note the passing of author Madeleine L'Engle. You can read the NYTimes obit.

Fosco recalls being thrilled by Ms. L'Engle's fiction, especially A Wrinkle in Time, as a seventh-grader. Fosco's English teacher Mrs. Eycleshymer (seriously!) assigned all of the L'Engle books to him for extra credit reading (yes, Young Fosco was just that obnoxious). It was even more thrilling when, a year or so later, Mrs. Eycleshymer and Young Fosco were able to attend a reading by Ms. L'Engle at a nearby community college. Young Fosco was selected by Mrs. Eycleshymer to be allowed publicly to ask Ms. L'Engle a question.

Young Fosco asked: "Which of your books is your favorite and why?"

Madeleine L'Engle answered: "You may as well ask me which of my children is my favorite."

To this day, Fosco considers this answer to be bullshit. Parents obviously have favorite children; there's no reason that authors shouldn't have favorite works. Fosco certainly knows which of his creative or academic endeavors he likes best. The nice thing about choosing the favorite of your textual progeny is that the other books don't get jealous and get pregnant to try to get your attention. Actually, come to think of it, Fosco still slightly resents her for that answer.

I would love to be able to say that Ms. L'Engle's books were important to the development of Young Fosco. Or that they somehow made Fosco who he is today. To tell the truth, Adult Fosco doesn't remember anything about any of her books. Was there time travel? That sounds about right. Precocious kids? Signs point to yes. Talking cartoon bats? Sure. Why not.

He does remember a diagram of a tesseract in one of the novels that completely blew his mind. There was this whole thing about trying to imagine the two-dimensional diagram in four dimensions. Fosco can honestly say that this was the last time he thought math was cool.

Actually, if you want to see a really nifty animated version of a tesseract, please check this out. But even so, math still isn't fun. Math: it's never fun. Oh, and it's completely useless.