The only way I expected to hear Polisar’s voice again was in my own living room, maybe after buying an old record online somewhere. And yet, a few weeks ago, twenty years after last hearing "My Brother Thinks He’s a Banana," I was sitting in a coffee shop and I heard that voice. It was in the background, under the hiss of the espresso machine, but unmistakable. The song was as familiar to me as one sung in kindergarten, like the ABC’s. The teenage barista didn’t know who was singing, but we were listening to the soundtrack from "Juno." A quick Google search showed what I hoped — the song was "All I Want Is You," and it is from that very same record that was in constant rotation on our living room hi-fi.

[mp3] "All I Want Is You"

I downloaded the whole album for a mere eight bucks, and it was just as good as I remembered. Some of the songs were even funnier from the perspective of a "grown up" and a parent. Others seemed more edgy — even a little creepy. I convinced a friend to buy the album for his kids, but it was quickly banned in his home. It’s not hard to see why — lyrics about taking a little sister to the woods and tying her to a tree don’t sit well with parents. Others, such as "My Mommy Drives a Dumptruck," would seem to be in line with modern progressive values, until the song takes a turn for the absolutely ridiculous and, to some, offensive. I find it easier to overlook these slights to parental values when seen as part of the album’s overall tone of complete and unapologetic silliness. Children hear the gender-twisting "Mommy Drives a Dumptruck" just before "I Have a Dog and my Dog’s Name is Cat." For them it’s not progressive or postmodern — it’s just fun and funny. And good.

The simple tunes, carved out with a twelve string guitar and catchy melodies, come straight from the stripped down folk style pioneered by Pete Seeger and hipsterized by Bob Dylan. Those influences are apparent when listening to Polisar’s songs. His lyrics also have much in common with the innocently sinister poetry of Shel Silverstein. The guitar playing is nothing special, but provides the perfect platform for Polisar’s theatrical voice and expressive story-songs. The rhythm of each song is derived from the familiar "chung-chaka-chunk" heard in Johnny Cash’s "I Walk the Line," played either fast, medium or slow. And yet, after playing the album for several days straight on my laptop (On my wife’s insistence we burned a CD so our daughter could listen in her room), the songs haven’t grown old or any less hilarious.

Polisar seems to know exactly what kids want: good melodies, simple music, and lyrics they can relate to. To be sure, Ella doesn’t catch every phrase of every song. The brother who thinks he’s a banana, we are told, has read the Bhagavad Gita. But those details are overlooked. The unfortunate scenario in "My Brother Threw Up on my Stuffed Toy Bunny" is instantly recognizable to anyone in a family with children.

Will the classic recordings of Barry Louis Polisar be rediscovered as children’s music for our generation? Not likely. But for those who like their kid’s music raw and unrefined, these songs are a welcome alternative to the sweet, overproduced, unimaginative fare marketed for children. Even Raffi, who is always popular at our house, sounds like a Canadian milk-toast after listening to "My Brother Thinks He’s a Banana." And who knows? Maybe one day we’ll trust our kids enough to let them listen to songs that make us a little uncomfortable, which is probably how they feel when we listen to NPR. At the very least, the digitized version of Polisar’s record is a gaunlet thrown down for the twenty-first century. There is no excuse for lame children’s music.

At this time, I suspect the true genius of Barry Louis Polisar may be lost for a few generations. Parents who keep their toddlers on leashes are unlikely to see the educational benefit of the brief existential tune, "My Name is Hiram Lipschlitz and my Problem’s Pretty Clear." And the iPod generation, while temporarily infatuated with the sweet and unchallenging "All I Want is You," will not likely be making "One Day My Best Friend Barbara Turned Into a Frog" a staple on their playlist. Perhaps, however, Polisar’s legacy will be heard in other ways. For those of us inoculated in childhood with those irreverent songs, we know kid’s music doesn’t have to be boring, or dumbed down, or even safe. My own post-toddler anthem, "You’ve Got to Keep That Pee in Your Body," has quite a bit of Polisar influence, despite having been written before his rediscovery. The seed was sown long ago, with a scratchy record playing in our suburban townhouse.

At this point, my daughter has half the songs on the album memorized. When I played it for her for the very first time, she sat perfectly quiet beside the laptop with her hands in her lap. After the seventeen songs had finished, the play list instantly queued up the Beetle’s "Get Back." Ella sat upright and looked at me. "What is this? I want to hear the funny songs."

The concept of eating food grown in my hometown has always appealed to me simply for the quality and freshness of the produce. In the post 9/11, socially responsible age we inhabit, buying local has taken on importance far beyond that of the economically driven “Buy American” message of the 80′s: the new trend has the impact of reduced carbon emissions, better conditions for farm workers, less reliance on foreign oil, and a food supply less vulnerable to microbial outbreaks and acts of sabotage. How could anyone not want to buy local? Thinking of all those bottles crossing the wide Atlantic for our drinking pleasure, carried by fuel spilling, carbon-emitting cargo ships, I recently passed up a bottle of Jameson’s Irish whiskey and began cultivating a taste for Wild Turkey. Just don’t tell my Irish friends.

I’d like to think that all the benefits of buying local outweigh any downsides on a global scale. However, not being an economist, I’d be hard pressed to explain to the Brazilian banana farmer how my choices work out best for him. Furthermore, it seems that in the atmosphere of globalization and a “flat” world, the “buy local” message has an outdated feeling of isolationism, and even xenophobia. Try, for example, the Canadian couple who went a year without buying anything from China. While an interesting experiment, it could also be seen as a vigilante-style trade embargo.

Fortunately for our neighbors to the South, their climate offers them a rather safe insurance against zealous locavores in the three C’s: coffee, cocoa, and cocaine. Much as we Americans might want to, we simply can’t grow these in sufficient quantities on our homeland to satisfy our appetite (at least, not given the current rate of climate change). Still, the popularity of the 100 – mile diet continues to grow, especially among those consumers who consider themselves to be socially conscious global citizens. So, until someone smarter than myself can explain how this economic isolationism benefits farmers in developing countries through some trickle-down effect, try these on for size: some variations on the 100 – mile diet that don’t neglect foreign farmers – a compromise, if you will, between fair-trade and no-trade. At the very least, in the spirit of international brotherhood, we could start referring to it as the 160 – kilometer diet.

1. The One – Block Diet. In this variation, the consumer buys geographically unrestricted goods from stores one block away. The environmental benefit is derived from the fuel saved in the trip to the store.
2. The 100 – Mile Carbon Credit Donation Diet. Under this plan, the energy saved in transportation costs by buying locally is collected as “carbon credit,” which can be donated by the consumer to the farmer they have helped to become unemployed.
3. The 100 – Mile Guest Worker Program. The South American farmer, now unemployed due to a lack of demand for imported produce, is given a guest worker visa valid within a 100 mile radius of a socially conscious consumer.

For now, it appears strict locavorianism has only caught on in fertile, affluent parts of the West Coast. Such a diet during the winter in, say, Detroit would resemble the rations in a Siberian prison camp. As for me and my family here on the California Central coast, a quick audit of our kitchen will reveal eggs, cilantro, and carrots from less than an hour’s drive away; and beer, potatoes, milk, and garlic all from the nearby Bay Area. But even here in one of the richest agricultural regions on earth, I’d be hard pressed to live off those alone without my lentils from India, flour from Canada, and tahini from Lebanon. You would also find, in the freezer door, a half-pound of Nicaraguan organic fair-trade coffee that hasn’t been opened in a few months. Please don’t tell the Nicaraguans, but lately I’ve switched to tea.