Banned book banter and other digressions

I just found out that September 25 begins 'banned books week'. I have copied an interesting list of books that have, at one point or another, been banned from somewhere in the US, if not from the US itself (as with Ulysses). The only one I would agree with banning from below would have to be 'A Separate Peace'--not because it challenges convention or tradition or anything. It just sucked. Grapes of Wrath is a close second in the suck department, but I suspect I'm fighting a much bigger wave with that one. My guess is, this is a tiny fraction of the list. It doesn't even get into Rushdie or the like. Of course, what we have are people banning Harry Potter, which is a shame, because it's very literate and entertaining and imaginitive, and it threatens the dumming down that our children receive through the traditional soul-squelching processes of education and socialization in this country. I was actually reading some information about home-schooling the other day. I can't help but admit it appeals. Who knows? Whether we want them to or not, our children will stand up and say 'this is who I am'. It would behoove us to be there to hear it, respond properly. Please enjoy seeing the books our countrymen have decided should not be...

A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess
A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle
Annie on My Mind by Nancy Garden
As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner
Blubber by Judy Blume
Brave New World by Aldous Huxley
Bridge to Terabithia by Katherine Paterson
Canterbury Tales by Chaucer
Carrie by Stephen King
Catch-22 by Joseph Heller
Christine by Stephen King
Confessions by Jean-Jacques Rousseau
Cujo by Stephen King
Curses, Hexes, and Spells by Daniel Cohen
Daddy's Roommate by Michael Willhoite
Day No Pigs Would Die by Robert Peck
Death of a Salesman by Arthur Miller
Decameron by Boccaccio
East of Eden by John Steinbeck
Fallen Angels by Walter Myers
Fanny Hill (Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure) by John Cleland
Flowers For Algernon by Daniel Keyes
Forever by Judy Blume
Grendel by John Champlin Gardner
Halloween ABC by Eve Merriam
Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone by J.K. Rowling
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets by J.K. Rowling
Harry Potter and the Prizoner of Azkaban by J.K. Rowling
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire by J.K. Rowling
Have to Go by Robert Munsch
Heather Has Two Mommies by Leslea Newman
How to Eat Fried Worms by Thomas Rockwell
Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain
I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou
Impressions edited by Jack Booth
In the Night Kitchen by Maurice Sendak
It's Okay if You Don't Love Me by Norma Klein
James and the Giant Peach by Roald Dahl
Lady Chatterley's Lover by D.H. Lawrence
Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman
Little Red Riding Hood by Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm
Lord of the Flies by William Golding
Love is One of the Choices by Norma Klein
Lysistrata by Aristophanes
More Scary Stories in the Dark by Alvin Schwartz
My Brother Sam Is Dead by James Lincoln Collier and Christopher Collier
My House by Nikki Giovanni
My Friend Flicka by Mary O'Hara
Night Chills by Dean Koontz
Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck
On My Honor by Marion Dane Bauer
One Day in The Life of Ivan Denisovich by Alexander Solzhenitsyn
One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest by Ken Kesey
One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Ordinary People by Judith Guest
Our Bodies, Ourselves by Boston Women's Health Collective
Prince of Tides by Pat Conroy
Revolting Rhymes by Roald Dahl
Scary Stories 3: More Tales to Chill Your Bones by Alvin Schwartz
Scary Stories in the Dark by Alvin Schwartz
Separate Peace by John Knowles
Silas Marner by George Eliot
Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.
Tarzan of the Apes by Edgar Rice Burroughs
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain
The Bastard by John Jakes
The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger
The Chocolate War by Robert Cormier
The Color Purple by Alice Walker
The Devil's Alternative by Frederick Forsyth
The Figure in the Shadows by John Bellairs
The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck
The Great Gilly Hopkins by Katherine Paterson
The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood
The Headless Cupid by Zilpha Snyder
The Learning Tree by Gordon Parks
The Living Bible by William C. Bower
The Merchant of Venice by William Shakespeare
The New Teenage Body Book by Kathy McCoy and Charles Wibbelsman
The Pigman by Paul Zindel
The Seduction of Peter S. by Lawrence Sanders
The Shining by Stephen King
The Witches by Roald Dahl
The Witches of Worm by Zilpha Snyder
Then Again, Maybe I Won't by Judy Blume
To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee
Twelfth Night by William Shakespeare
Webster's Ninth New Collegiate Dictionary by the Merriam-Webster Editorial Staff
Witches, Pumpkins, and Grinning Ghosts: The Story of the Halloween Symbols by Edna Barth

Imagine...

Imagine a day when politicians speak the truth in love
Imagine if snow flakes were the harshest things falling from above
Imagine a time when bombs only burst in history books
Imagine a place where women are free from threatening or salacious looks
Imagine if your color had no bearing on your course
Imagine if all criminals felt genuine remorse
Imagine if hypocrisy were impossible to find
Imagine if the games were fair and the rules all well-defined
Imagine teaching children romance languages instead of hate
Imagine fat men feeding families who are used to empty plates
Imagine feelings being valued and your values having worth
Imagine this in space because you won't see it here on earth

Why do I always find myself so optimistic during election years? Or any years for that matter? could it be...the NEWS?! Turn off the tv. Put the paper in the cat box. Leave the magazine at the dentists. Exit the debate. Read a book. Feed a family. Use your privilege to someone else's advantage. Consciously try to value somebody that you haven't valued in the past. Plant a flower. Talk to God. I'm not a 'hippie', but I dig a little peace...

Supply and Demand...

Do you ever walk into a grocery store and get disgusted by the amount of 'stuff' we have access to here? Does it trouble you to pick up a tube of toothpaste, one of 15 varieties of that brand, one of 12 brands on the shelf, stocked at one of three pharmacies at that particular intersection? Do you look out at the world from a thin veil of high-density polyethylene? I feel your pain, your disgust, your sadness that a once lovely patch of shrubbery is now occupied by a completely unnecessary display of cheaply made housewares. There is a solution. Leave America. Leave now, and don't even think about going to another 1st world country, because you'll just find the same thing, only you won't be able to read the price because it will be in pounds or lira or guilders. Why am I bringing this up? I have just attempted to locate Broadway tickets for a show my wife wants to see on her birthday. The are going for roughly $175-$200 apiece. This is after 2 of the 3 'stars' of the original cast have left the show. Some of these are for seats listed as 'partial view'. I wonder how, when visibility is decreased %40, they arrive at a figure which is priced down only %12. But the answer is so simple: supply and demand. You're all buying them. You're buying $200 Broadway tickets, wearing foreign made clothing which you got on sale and still overpaid on, freshened up with $5 antiperspirant containing aluminum and other (un)natural deodorizers, and I won't even comment on the food you've chosen, or on the manner in which it was harvested and processed. Suffice it to say, the only people who are in business making nothing are running the family store, and it's more for sentimental purposes than for financial ones. Someone is buying all of these random products and services. The appetite for industry and production grew from a stench in the nostrils of a priviledged few to a robust and rampant hunger of the masses in our country, and it is still growing, and we are gorging ourselves.
But don't think I'm above all of it. I drive here, sit there, shop there, watch this, throw that away with the best of them. I'm simply a little...put off by it at times. I guess when you get right down to it, I'm still willing to settle for a wallet full of Georges rather than a pouch full of farthings. This has been another superficial dilemma faced by the cultureless megalith that is the United States. Thank you and good night.
Brought to you by Usum(c) brand acne shams. "Do you Usum?"

Why I'll never make Chief Justice...

Remember the code of Hammurabi? Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth (those were tough times for the Tooth Fairy). If you need a memory jog, just visit a well-pulicized murder trial, particularly one involving children. Segments of the code will bouncing around on picket signs and banners. Similarly, anti-gay demonstrations will inevitably give air to cuttings of ancient Hebrew law. I wonder how many of the latter are Jewish and/or thoroughly practice Judaism, or of the former, how many can realistically trace their ancestry to the Sumerians. Too many mildly-remotely educated people in this country have the right intentions, but the wrong methods and means. Too many highly educated law-makers, for that matter, have severly questionable intentions, and absolutely no creativity. For example--our justice system. We as a nation have certainly come a long way since good old Hammurabi's rather indifferent system of justice. I'm sure we congratulate ourselves on our humane and well-thought-out verdicts and judgements. My concern is that instead of moving closer to the 'let the punishment fit the crime' ideology, we have swung wildly in the other direction. For example--Martha Stewart. A 'white collar' criminal, an opportunist, a slightly annoying actress. Nothing more, I should guess. Last I heard, she was facing jail time. This is pointless. She hires great lawyers, she shows the prison guards how to spiff up the place, she's out in no time. There's nothing learned from it, except be more subtle next time you jump ship before the rest of us have seen the iceburg. You know what I think she should be sentenced to? Subsidized housing. For a good long time. See what she can do with supplies she finds at the dump site at the complex, because that's what the majority of Americans are using at best. Also, there's a local boy, 21, who just got drunk out of his mind and drove home. During the ride, he managed to go off the road and decapitate his best friend, who was likely vomiting at the time, by glancing past a telephone pole wire. When the police woke him up in the morning, he was covered in blood, still drunk, and unaware of what had happened. What is he facing? Life in prison--vehicular manslaughter. Okay--anyone who thinks this makes more sense than the code of Hammurabi probably either doesn't pay taxes (a healthy portion of the population, these days) or works for the ACLU. You know what should happen there? No license. Not for a good ten years at least. During that ten years, one full year of addiction counseling for the boy. For the next nine years, he must offer addiction counseling to young men and underage drinkers at juvenile centers and prisons. Life in prison is a sentence for someone who proves themselves unwilling or unable to exist within a particular society without continually harming or infringing upon the rights of their fellow citizens. It's not for a young man who has made a grotesquely irresponsible and horrific mistake. Such a person needs and owes an opportunity for their life to be used in service of a greater need. Or, we could let him go, monitor him to see when he drinks again, and from that, deduce whether in the end, his conscience was enough judge and jury to begin with. Or, we could just hang him from his ankles and drain all his blood slowly from him, thereby removing the alcohol and making a strong statement to irresponsible drinkers. But thankfully, we can't all be Nazi scientists.

11 years since he shot a man, 12 more since he shot the movie

Last night I watched 'The Unforgiven', a Clint Eastwood picture which earned Best Picture and Director in 1992. Interesting thing about that--I had been taken, along with the rest of my fellow students at running camp, to the theatre to see it shortly after it was released. We had been shipped up to Northern Michigan for seven days of uninterrupted brutality in the form of distance running, and this was to be our moment of relaxation. Well, being stubborn, I decided I did not want to go see it. As this was clearly not an option, I instead put my head between my legs and left it there for all 131 minutes of the picture plus previews. At the time it seemed like my only option, and if it was a bit ridiculous, it did allow me the pleasure of seeing, if not hearing, it for the first time yesterday evening. I don't know if I loved it, but then, I've never really been much of a Clint Eastwood fan. I guess in some way I ought to appreciate the ethos of the "Western" that he so readily channels. The movie actually reminds me of a poem I wrote in college. Blank verse, I believe it is (slightly edited now)...


It makes a lovely flower pot

There are no more stone cowboys in the West

No bulletholed pianos played half-tuned
against the drunken ramblings at the bar
can stir unshaven heroes to revenge

No carbines smoking endless flame and pitch
until the cloud of rage and death has passed
can resurrect this most familiar scene

The lynching tree is now a well-trimmed hedge;
art deco topiary near a pool
And so with every wide-eyed, youthful stab,
the horse of our invention turns up lame

The one that got away...

This past Saturday I spent a couple of hours at the guitar store with my wife "perusing". I use this in the proper sense of the word, meaning I spent a great deal of time examining different instruments, evaluating their playability, action, tone, and construction. I must say, I was very pleased with the Ovation 'Ballad' acoustic model--only $680.00 and you get the hardshell case with it. I currently own an Alvarez 12-string acoustic which I enjoy, but honestly, I don't play a 12-string for all it's worth. There's a good deal of subtlety needed, and I'm usually to0 focused on trying to play the chords properly or on remembering what I wrote to nail it down. What I'm looking for is a well-made, rich sounding 6-string upon which to create some timeless folk classics on par with 'Fire and Rain' and 'America'. I realize it is likely that no such instrument exists, and that no amount of money could be employed to create such a one, but you don't go after the grail like it was a bag of Tostitos...you vizualize it and spend your life trying to make it real. Oh, I also want a classical guitar, because they are just so darn soothing. I found a nice Yamaha for half the price of the Ovation that I may likely get. Sturdy, lightweight, easy action, perfect for late night practice when the wife is trying to sleep and only needs one tinny excuse to cut you off from your hobbies. Nylon strings being picked and strummed are like aural nyquil--they put you down. Every time I pick up a classical guitar, it reminds me of a story. Like to hear it? Here it go...
It was the summer after I left college (not the summer after I graduated; that was the year before. For whatever reason I just couldn't pull myself away). I took a road trip to Atlanta, and on the way, I stopped to visit a friend in Louisville. While there, I visited an instrument shop on Bardstown Road. In the back room, I found hanging on the wall a 1965 handmade Hermann Hauser classical guitar. This was something from Solomon's temple, you understand, like being a violin enthusiast and finding a Strad. Anyway, I can't say for sure if it was Hermann himself, as he may well have been dead or at least retired by that time, but it was quite possibly made by one of his children, or proteges, however he worked it out. Needless to say, I became great for the duration of time that I played that instrument. That's a good way to judge, incidentally, if an instrument is truly great--you will immediately begin composing new and fabulous melodies, struck with inspiration by the sheer magnificence of the piece. Well, long story short, it cost my savings, and I decided to take the road to Atlanta while I made my decision. Two or three weeks later, I started North on 75, having decided that I would in fact make the purchase. I'm terribly frugal, so this was a bit frightening, but I also felt empowered as I headed down Bardstown Road, feeling the nearness of both genius and poverty. I felt that way as I reached the shop, and I continued to feel that way as I depressed the brake pedal and continued at the same pace right past it. By the time I had coasted into an auto shop, I had begun to feel something different--the frustration of suddenly changed plans jabbed cruelly by the shards of my broken dream and shadowed, faintly, by the grim spectre of loss. The brake repair claimed a substantial portion of my savings, leaving very little left to play with. For all I know, that guitar still hangs on the wall on Bardstown, calling to young enthusiasts like a siren, luring them to automotive and financial ruin, never leaving her wood-paneled niche. It makes me think of something my grandmother wrote to me in a letter just the other day: 'You want to know how to make God laugh? Tell him your plans!". My guess is, that day, God's jaw ached.

The Donut Man Cometh...

There is a man, Mr. Bovis we'll call him, who works in an upper level management position at my company. Each Friday, he brings in two boxes of steaming Krispy Kreme donuts and leaves them on the table in the kitchen/staff room. We are all to varying degrees pleased with Mr. Bovis about this. Funny thing about Krispy Kremes, though--I thought they were from NY. That's the only place I had ever seen them by the time I moved there in my mid twenties. In fact, before I ever tried one, I went on a three year donut fast, which over time, began to include bagels, breakfast pastries, and ultimately grew to incorporate anything that could be classified under the dietary title 'bread alone'. So for years, I passed by the shops, smelled the sweet air from under the door, and restrained myself from purchase. It wasn't until I started living with a fellow who came from central Georgia that I learned these were a Southern phenomena. Well, as fate would have it, I broke the fast (once I couldn't remember why I had started it any longer) and began to experience the joy that is Krispy Kreme. Of course, in small doses, they are harmless, especially when you work three jobs, all physical, you rarely eat or sleep, and you walk about four miles a day on average. This is quite normal in Manhattan. But then I moved to Atlanta, I got married, I put on 15lbs., and I started working at a place that provides Krispy Kreme's all day on Fridays. At most, I walk 400 yards a day (and most of that is from my desk to the bathroom and back). I have two jobs, but the one that takes most of my time leaves me largely on my butt (hence, 'blogs'). The lesson here seems to be that even when we stick to our guns, they jam, because like us, they are created things, and can't hope to work perfectly. That reminds me--last Christmas I had a raspberry filled Krispy Kreme in Michigan (suddenly they put them in gas stations out there--news to me) and it was TERRIBLE. The jelly was sickly sweet and runny, and it got all over my cool wool overcoat. The donut itself tasted a bit too well traveled for me, which makes sense, when you think it had traveled just as far as I had, and I was darned near shot. The lesson here seems to be that pastry fasts make more sense in the South and the Midwest than in the Northeast. Keep these words and prosper...

"Way down in the hole..."

"The riptide is roaring and the lifeguard's away...but the ocean doesn't want me today."
I've been listening to Tom Waits. We should all be listening to Tom Waits. Right now. I'll wait. (Eric waits). Now, aren't you pleased with yourself? His words are to lyrics what Ray Bradbury's are to fiction. Manna--dark and a little crisp with something sweet and tangy spread on. "The captain is a one-armed dwarf, he's throwing dice along the wharf; in the land of the blind the one-eyed man is king". Did you ever wonder what store he buys his broccoli at? I do.
I had a nice weekend. It's the first two days back to back that I haven't had anything (well, much) to do since my honeymoon. This past Sunday my wife and I visited a local baptist church, just to check it out. It was a contemporary service, something they just began. My wife was a bit more at home there, whereas I grew up in a big cold expensive Presbyterian church (which is how I understand most Presybterians like things) where we spent a good deal of time not getting worked up, not listening to modern instrumentation, and most definitely not raising our palms above our heads. Only when someone pulls a gun does a Presbyterian raise their palms above there heads, and then only after it's been jabbed into their back a couple of times.
Anyway, I actually enjoyed it for the most part, but one thing struck me as really interesting. During the collection, they showed a collage of filmed scenes that were based upon the life of Jesus--him healing the blind, speaking to the lawyers, rubbing elbows with John and Peter. But what hit me was the way the man playing Jesus got such a kick out of healing people, smiling and laughing and carrying on. It makes sense that if God created everything, he also created the sense of humor, which would lead one to believe that Jesus would be as hilarious as any comedian you might have seen, only not vulgar or tactless, as most of them tend to be, because he always knew his audience. I can't imagine imagine Jesus getting booed off stage, at least not in the early part of his career. Later on, that's another story. Everyone loves you when you're not taking a stand that alienates them. I guess that would be human nature, obviously a creation which preceeded the sense of humor.

Inspired by my great-grandparents...

Father Marston
born silent, you came
prepared to listen
all soft and shiny like an
unattached earlobe
ready to be pierced by the lifesongs
of your fellow man
Childhood was a fire drill for you
Run, crouch, wonder a moment,
then gather your books and head
squarely into manhood
You went from heart to heart
learning its country
knowing its threats
leaving balm and bandage
or wide open wound
(whichever was more necessary)
without judgement of God
or guilt of you
You've spoken in tongues that have
yet to be written
You have walked through mudslips
that still bear your print
And you remember your mother
at odd times it seems
Red haired and weepy
wishing you well
trying to tell you that
the time she spent with you
made poetry rise up from the
folds of her throat
Do not, in your old age,
look back in doubt
as if your steps could be
windwashed or casually retraced
Men have died never having looked further than
the ends of their own noses
unaware of others
unable to understand
sacrificial living
Unwilling to live for
a truth that doesn't require them
whose thunderous meaning
your eyelights
now quietly compose
Breathe, Father Marston
and exhale sweet dust again
before you climb the golden stairs
to where the only word is Life
and you will speak it forever