​THE BANNED BOOKS TOP TEN:

1. Have you actually read it?
2. You realize that banning a specific book, with all the attendant media coverage, immediately and dramatically increases its sales, right?
3. Has sanitizing any form of art, throughout the course of human history, ever solved whatever real or imagined problem it was meant to address?
4. Is it possible that your child has already been exposed to the Internet at some point, rendering your desire to shield them from dangerous sentences somewhat illogical, if not entirely counter-productive?
5. Is it a coincidence that banned books overwhelmingly tend to be those that cast characters reminiscent of pro-banning parent's politics, religion, and fear of cultural evolution in a negative light, and that taking offense at "bad language" is really an excuse not to confront the fact that conservative white southern Christians are not the hero of every story?
6. How exactly would you propose that a graphic novel about The Holocaust be handled so as not to have to deal with upsetting elements of The Holocaust?
7. Could it be that allowing your teenager to work through disturbing, transgressive, and historically difficult thoughts and ideas via literature is actually one of the safer ways of opening a genuine dialog with them, and if so, is it possible that what you really fear is your child's honest appraisal of your own belief system?
8. And how did it work out for Tipper Gore, Andrew Volstead, Just Say No, Rushdie's Fatwa, Guy Montague, hairy palms, Mapplethorpe Hysteria, William Jennings Bryan, 2 Live Crew, Midnight Cowboy, Elvis' pelvis, Name a Pope, or Naked Lunch?
9. Hey, look at it from a totally selfish, Ayn Rand/Libertarian slant: while you're busy innovating your Best Possible Life with no help from society at large, are your Objectivist goals more likely to be met surrounded by a younger generation that's increasingly intelligent, well-read, and exposed to complex ideas, or one that's sheltered, bowdlerized, seeped only in their parent's worldview, and afraid of confronting historical truths?
10. If your child wants to find it, they will find it. Delusions of control are exactly that. A society that allows MAUS to be read and taught and circulated with abandon is one that just might forestall the coming End Of Empire.

I think it can be agreed Jazz Street is her finest work, but the early stuff is pretty killer too, especially:

“That Van Hasn’t Moved In Over A Month, Someone Must Be Living In It”

“No, I Will Not Take Down My McCain/Palin Lawn Sign”

“Jeffrey Keeps Looking In The Wilson Girl’s Bedroom Window, It Might Be Time To Forcibly Remove His Crayons”

and
​
"Sure, You Picked Up After Your Dog Today But What About Tomorrow?"

Got up way too early, went for an espresso, slipped the barista a $20 for having to work, lit the fire, got the tree and lights and music going, heated up someone's special frosting drenched spare-tire-sized cinnamon roll, brought someone else coffee in bed, wrapped a few last presents, tuned into the Banff Yule Log channel, gave the dog double morning treat, turned Santa Klaus up VERY LOUD, sunk back into the sectional, ready for the mayhem to ensue.
​
Merry Christmas, friends.

It is indeed a strange sensation to randomly come across the exact 1979 Gibson Les Paul "The Paul" you once owned for sale on Reverb for a cool $1,899, as if it were some sort of rare bird or desired commodity. How do I know for sure that's my former guitar? Well, I was there the day in 1985 when my boy Mike Nesi bought it from Russ at Music Guild on Main Street in Danbury. I was also there the day we took it to East Coast Sound and had those exact EMG pickups installed. The bearded tweaker tech guy kept saying, hands full of discarded Humbucker, "Oh yeah, these will give it that crunchy sound. You guys want that crunchy sound, right? I can tell you want that crunchy sound. Oh yeah, you do." I bought The Paul from Mike in San Francisco in 1992 for $180. Like a tool, I talked him down from his asking of $200. What, so I could buy five more burritos? To be fair, my bookstore job at the time paid $4.25 an hour. Even so, I still feel bad about it. I hammered away at The Paul for ten years, carried it around town in a green spray-painted case that had a single word stenciled across the front, can't remember what it was. Some Dadaist non-sequitor, like INTERROGATORY or DIFFIDENT or BOWDLERIZE. I plugged it in to crappy amps and cranked it through crappy covers of "Welcome To The Jungle" and "Bitchin' Camaro". I'll tell you what, that guitar was a commitment, a seriously heavy chunk of walnut to sling around your neck with it's too-wide fretboard and sludgy, Muscle Shoals sound. I eventually traded The Paul in 2002 for a Taylor 414CE, which I still have. In any case, it's like seeing an old friend again, one who disappeared on that European backpacking trip without a word, as if you woke up in a Copenhagen hostel one brisk Dane morning and your traveling companion was just gone.

And now here that friend is again, smiling, older, abashed, a bit of hard-won wisdom in their eyes. You want to ask, "Hey, pal, what you been up to the last couple decades?"
​
Yes, it is tempting to buy The Paul again, just for nostalgia's sake. I might even go up to $200 this time.

​Oh, just that day eight years ago when we stopped at the pizza joint on the way home from school, our Friday tradition. Over many dozens of visits, she never once deviated from her standard order: two cheese slices, one chocolate milk. No oregano, no parsley, no parmesan. No toppings of any sort, ever. PLAIN. CHEESE. There were better and more convenient places around, less oily, more adventurous, thinner crust. But she liked this one. I never ordered anything myself, as a fatty grease bomb in any disguise --Quarter Pounder, Pad Thai, cheesesteak, pepperoni and onion, even if tasting good on the way down, always makes me slightly nauseated and needing to lie on the couch for an hour afterward. On this particular day I saw her staring at the poster on the wall above us, slice paused mid-shove, somewhere between intrigued and vaguely intruded upon.
"Know who that is?"
"Nope."
"John Lennon."
"So?"
"He was in the Beatles."
Shrug.
"Kind of the most famous band of all time."
Chewing, glazing over.
"What's weird is, it may also be the dumbest band name of all time."
Looks up, slight interest at the coming slight.
"Because it's a pun. Not spelled Beetles, but BEAT-LES. Like, a musical beat? Rhythmic notation? We all grew up with them as a given, as ever-present, and so no one questions it. That's just their name. But if you think about it, "The Beatles" has zero nuance or even marginal coolness. It doesn't represent them or the breadth of their music in any way. Sure, there were the Eagles and Buddy Holly's Crickets. There were the Monkees and the Turtles, Camel and Whitesnake and all the other animal names. Then other dumb puns like Def Leppard and Led Zeppelin. And even your slightly clever ones like Brian Jonestown Massacre and The Dandy Warhols, Camper Van Beethoven and Dead Kennedys. I mean, they would have been better off as The Mop Tops. Or Paul McCartney And The Liverpool Three."
"He seems sad."
"Who, Lennon? Yeah."
"Why?"
"Well, probably because someone shot him."
"Why?"
"The world, little peanut, is a crazy place. Sometimes there are no real answers. Even to important questions."
"Take a picture of me."
"Right now?"
"No, duh."
She got up and stood next to The Man, uncannily approximated his expression.
“You have sauce on your face.”
“So?”
I snapped the pic.
She nodded, satisfied, finished her milk.
We drove home.