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Great. After sticking with it for years, after spending an entire season’s worth of Thursday nights whispering to myself, “Denny’s ridiculous and annoying reappearance is not shark-jumping, Denny’s ridiculous and annoying reappearance is not shark-jumping,” I decide to give up on Grey’s Anatomy two weeks ago. Now I can’t look at my computer screen without reading about the season finale, and it’s maddening because 1) I am furious that I missed it and 2) I kind of don’t care anymore.

The short version: Amazon.com has instituted a new policy whereby, if the company decides a book has “adult” content, for all intents and purposes it doesn’t come up in a search. LGBT books, including mine, are disproportionately represented in this group. If you’re as outraged and frightened by this de facto censorship as I am, go to http://www.minalhajratwala.com/blog/ to find out what you can do about it.

The longer version: Amazon.com’s new policy, as set forth in an e-mail from one of its customer service representatives, is to strip “adult” books of their sales rank, which means that the books in question no longer appear in a search. LGBT books seem to be especially subject to removal, including not just my own memoir SWISH: MY QUEST TO BECOME THE GAYEST PERSON EVER AND WHAT ENDED UP HAPPENING INSTEAD–the Kindle edition is available but neither the hardback nor the upcoming paperback can be found without great effort, which means that nobody without a Kindle can read the book–but also books like NOW THAT YOU KNOW: A PARENTS’ GUIDE TO UNDERSTANDING THEIR GAY AND LESBIAN CHILDREN, DEAD BOYS CAN’T DANCE: SEXUAL ORIENTATION, MASCULINITY, AND SUICIDE, and Foucault’s THE HISTORY OF SEXUALITY. “Adult” books with a more heterosexual slant seem to be much less affected–PLAYBOY: SIX DECADES OF CENTERFOLDS, for example. If you do a search for “homosexuality,” the first result on amazon.com is A PARENTS’ GUIDE TO PREVENTING HOMOSEXUALITY.

If you are as outraged and frightened by this as I am, here are some things you can do:

1) Sign the protest petition: http://www.thepetitionsite.com/1/in-protest-at-amazons-new-adult-policy.

2) Call Amazon customer service at 1-866-216-1072 or Amazon executive customer service at 1-800-201-7575.

3) Complain via an e-mail form at http://bit.ly/amazoncomplain or complain via e-mail to Amazon’s “executive customer service”:at ecr@amazon.com .

4) Twitter using the #amazonfail hashtag.

5) If you belong to a group that cares about books or rights, encourage your organization to make a public statement.

6) Close your account via an e-mail form at https://www.amazon.com/gp/help/contact-us/general-questions.html?ie=UTF8&browse_node_id=508510#csTop .

You can read more about the situation at http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/jacketcopy/2009/04/amazon-deranks-gayfriendly-books-the-twitterverse-notices.html .

Here, in case it’s helpful, is a copy of the e-mail I just sent.

Dear Mr. Bezos:

I am horrified at Amazon.com’s new policy of stripping books with “adult” content of their rankings and thereby of their appearance in searches. I’m astonished to find myself writing that the fact that books with lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transsexual themes are disproportionately likely to be among the deranked books is almost beside the point; the disgusting thing is that you’re deranking any books at all. Although Amazon.com is a private entity and entitled by law to sell the books it wishes to sell in the manner in which it wishes to sell them, it is also the first bookstore of choice for the plurality, if not the majority, of book buyers in the world, and for many of them it is also the last bookstore of choice. This policy, in other words, amounts to de facto worldwide censorship; and it’s simply impossible for me to patronize an establishment that operates in such a repulsive way. Over the years I have spent thousands of dollars at Amazon.com, but I have written to close my account; I’ll also be forwarding this e-mail to everyone with whom I’m in touch via e-mail, Facebook, and my blog–this is thousands of people–and encouraging them to cancel their accounts too.

If Amazon.com revokes this policy immediately and issues an abject apology for showing such astonishing scorn for the principle of free speech upon which this country has operated for hundreds of years, I will consider signing up again for a few months, to give you the chance to begin to rebuild the trust you have destroyed. Otherwise, I will never purchase anything from Amazon.com again.

Yours truly,

Joel Derfner

Update: Amazon is apparently now claiming that the disproportionate representation of LGBT books is a glitch. Whether you find that believable or not, what isn’t a glitch is that they’re deranking any books at all. And that’s much worse.

Okay, so I just watched the pilot of The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency on HBO, and of course it was as delightful as I was hoping it would be.

Most of it was a pretty faithful adaptation, and what changes they made all seemed very sensible to me. The addition of the swishy gay hairdresser friend, for example, in the person of Desmond Dube: in the novels there are innumerable passages representing Mma Ramotswe’s inner monologue; the only way to convey these thoughts on film is to give her somebody to speak them to. Or, I suppose, to have her speak them to herself, thereby making everybody around think she was a crazy person and cringe from her in fear, which was not I think what the show’s producers were going for, so the swishy gay hairdresser friend it is.

Except they seem to have left out the part about how in Botswana homosexual sex is punishable by up to seven years’ hard labor. Actual prosecutions are apparently rare, but, from what I can divine, Botswana isn’t the kind of place where a boy can flounce around talking about being uninterested in women and not risk getting beaten up, even in big cities like Gaborone. So what gives?

This represents my bank account. Can you find what is wrong?

My parents, as I’ve mentioned a few times, were civil rights workers in the 1960s—they were largely responsible for the twenty-year extension of the Voting Rights Act of 1965, which guarantees black people’s right to vote—and my father, in addition to continuing that work, has more recently also done a lot of work on behalf of labor unions (as would my mother be doing, I’m sure, were she still alive). So I grew up in an atmosphere in which working to make the world a better place (in Hebrew, tikkun olam—”the healing of the world”) wasn’t just a virtue; it was an imperative.

I am therefore somewhat ambivalent about having gone into the theater; in a way, the fact that I’m not in a third-world country working to create food distribution systems makes me feel like a moral failure. (When I’m at my most self-loathing, I say, “My parents secured black people the franchise, and I write pretty music that makes upper-middle-class white people feel nice.”)

But my self-loathing aside, the fact is that theater does have the power to inspire its audience to tikkun olam; actually, we seem to be getting closer to measurable evidence that it does.

I recently read an article on Slate.com about “elevation,” one of a group of self-transcendent emotions behavioral scientists have recently identified and begun to study.

Powerful moments of elevation sometimes seem to push a mental ‘reset button,’ wiping out feelings of cynicism and replacing them with feelings of hope, love, and optimism, and a sense of moral inspiration. . . . Elevation is good at provoking a desire to make a difference but not so good at motivating real action. But . . . the elevation effect is powerful nonetheless. . . . It does appear to change people cognitively; it opens hearts and minds to new possibilities.

Juxtapose this with the article in the New York Times Magazine a couple years ago about a scientific study showing that when people think about morals, religious or otherwise, they are more generous—4.33 times as generous, to be exact—than at other times.

We talk about how theater (and art in general) can make people better, but we’re talking about an abstract idea, immeasurable and unproven. Now, however, we seem to be discovering that moments of elevation—including, one presumes, elevation induced by art, music, theater, and the like—have the power to make people quantifiably more open-hearted.

Which to me means that we who write for the theater have an absolute responsibility to use that power. When I see theater that doesn’t seem to take this responsibility seriously, I find myself getting angry. Every season I see at least one musical that is brilliant and hysterically funny and through which I sit fuming more and more violently by the minute because, as I look at it, though the writers could have invested it with immense power for tikkun olam, without making it a jot less brilliant or a jot less hysterically funny—and very possibly more brilliant and funnier—they chose not to, which to me makes the show both a waste of their talent and a moral failure of its own.

I’m not saying that a show’s morality has to be Big and Serious and Important. Little Shop of Horrors is deeply moral. And I don’t mean that a show has to Have a Message or Enlighten the audience. I’ve sat through any number of shows about how Greed Is Bad (or Racism, or Intolerance of Others, or Whatever), and I’ve wanted to put my eyes out. They were turgid and sententious and ghastly, because the story and the characters were subordinate to the Message.

I’ve never been able to figure out how to express the difference between what makes a show elevating and what makes it ghastly—until now. The other day I came across an essay by D.H. Lawrence, an analysis of Walt Whitman in Studies in Classic American Literature, and he had this to say:

The essential function of art is moral. Not aesthetic, not decorative, not pastime and recreation. But moral. The essential function of art is moral. But a passionate, implicit morality, not didactic. A morality which changes the blood, rather than the mind. The mind follows later, in the wake.

The morality in a show needs to be passionate and implicit—a morality which changes the blood. If you write a show—or create any work of art—in which you’re trying to change people’s minds, you’re being a preacher first and a storyteller (a distant) second, and the story will ring false. But if the work’s morality is directed at the blood, if it communicates itself in how the characters treat each other and themselves, then its creators are simply storytellers, fulfilling the responsibility with which the power of art has invested them.

I’ve written before about the crack house a couple doors down from me. Since I last mentioned it, it’s been busted by the police several times, the last one apparently very effectively, and sold for an amount of money that made it clear there was fraud going on.

Well, earlier today it caught fire.

Nobody was inside.

It’s funny: As I write this I’m trying to figure out the funniest way to comment, and I find that I can’t. I mean, lots of funny things are occurring to me to say, but something about the raw, destructive, elemental power of fire leads me to hold my tongue.

I just watched Never Been Kissed, the movie in which Drew Barrymore plays a journalist who goes back to high school undercover to report on Today’s Teens.

Here is a shot from a scene in which the math club is having a bake sale.

Today’s Teens, indeed.

O tempora, o mores!

Last night I dreamed that E.S. and I were staying in an apartment not our own; the only appointment I can remember is a lame popcorn popper. Tamara Tunie from Law & Order: SVU walked in, and E.S. revealed to us that he had just jacked off.

Then we decided to go to the movies to see the new release of Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” video. We took separate cars (if I hadn’t already known it was a dream this would have tipped me off, since I am a terrible, terrible driver; when I was driving, back in high school, I caused nine or ten car accidents, though I feel I am owed a commendation because I swear that old lady and her granddaughter were up to something shady).

E.S. turned off the highway into the parking lot of a diner because he needed to look at a map. When I got out—somehow our two cars had magically become one by this point—I saw that the left front tire had melted. I went into the diner and called AAA, but I was connected to somebody in Wisconsin who couldn’t help me because we were in Virginia.

Finally a car repair service called ZZZ showed up unasked; I worried that they were con men but, since we had no other options if we wanted to see “Thriller,” we paid them to replace the tire. While they were working, Karl Rove tried to enter the diner, but with lightning speed I pushed the inner door open really wide and trapped him in between the door and the wall of the vestibule, whereupon I performed a one-act musical at him.

At that point his wife showed up, and unfortunately she was so nice that I let him go, at which point E.S. and I left for the movie theater. In two different lines for concessions I stood in front of two different men, the erection of each of whom I could feel against my ass through our pants. Neither of them was as attractive as E.S., though, so after buying a chocolate-chip-blueberry cookie I went with him into the theater.

From the always-delightful Fail Blog:

I love knitting things that are easy but look complicated.