There’s this wonderful Hobbit hole of a used bookstore in Santa Rosa and it is a bibliophile’s dream. When I walk into Treehorn Books I feel as if I’m entering one of those archaic shops in the Diagon Alley of Harry Potter novels. There are books piled on top of books, books behind books, books on the floor, it’s a veritable cacophony of books!  Wheeled metal ladders provide access to the top of the ten foot high shelves that line the walls. At Treehorn you’ll find books on every subject imaginable; from UFO’s to Metaphysics, the Kennedy assassination to rafting down the Yang Tse River. Romance novel maven Danielle Steele is represented here as well as classic authors like Faulkner, Hemingway and all points in between. You name it, Treehorn’s got it. I once found a book there written by a woman who travelled around France with her family on a quest to find the source of the ingredients in the baguettes she and her family enjoyed while on holiday there. Not exactly best seller stuff but quirky, original and a good read; in other words the typical book tucked away in the stacks here.

The dim, yellow cast lighting at Treehorn Books adds an extra layer of mystery to the place. There’s just enough light to read by but it’s low enough to where I feel like I can hide in plain sight among the stacks. And the smell! For me there’s something so comforting and familiar about that universal used bookstore smell. I’m sure there’s a scientific explanation as to what chemical compounds make up that smell but I like to think that it’s equal parts age, wisdom and wonder.

I rarely enter Treehorn with a specific title or author in mind. With no plan I have no expectations; I just open my mind and browse. I never know what I’m going to find here so it’s kind of like hunting for buried treasure. I read the book spines, check out the cover art, read the synopsis on the dust jacket. If it moves me, I usually buy it. I occasionally find interesting things inside of the books. On a book I recently purchased someone had written this Serbian proverb on the inside back cover: Be noble for you are made of stars. Be humble for you are made of earth. I thought that was so neat, a message out of the blue reminding me that life should be lived with grace and humility.

I have a particular fondness for a used book. The creases in the cover are like wrinkles. The yellowed and dog-eared pages are all telltale signs that this book has passed through many hands. In some way, reading a used book is like having a shared experience with someone whom I’ve never meet.

The price of each book here is written in pencil on the title page. If there are multiple copies of a book that I’m interested in, I’ll check the prices on all of them. Occasionally the same two books in the exact same condition will have two different prices! The human touch, it’s all over this bookstore. When I’m inside, I can feel the deep sense of love and respect that the  owners have for books and how much they value reading.

When the COVID lockdown happened last March, Treehorn was one of the first places I thought of. Would they survive? A world without used bookshops seemed unimaginable to me. Initially, bookshops were closed because they were not considered “essential”. Can you believe that? To me reading is essential! As a grade school teacher, I’d always tell my students, “Reading is the most important thing you’ll do in school.” Before they were allowed to reopen, I called Treehorn a couple of times with a list of books that I wanted to buy. Even though he wasn’t supposed to, the owner took my order over the phone and arranged to meet me out front with my books in a plain brown paper bag. I felt like we were co-conspirators in a drug deal or something.

Books are essential. You can stare at a Kindle until you fry your retinas, but in my mind there’s no substitute for a real book. Technology has improved many things in our world but books are not one of them. I love the feel of a book in my hands and that rustling leaves sound the pages make as I turn them. With anticipation I open the cover, eager to unlock the secrets within.

In the late 90’s I was in the midst of a major career change. I’d reached the end of the road in non-profit management and began to look for something more fulfilling. I decided to become and elementary school teacher. Since I had graduated college nearly 20 years ago, I was required to pass the MSAT (Multi-Subject Assessment for Teachers) as a prerequisite for acceptance into the teaching credential program at Cal State Monterey Bay.  The MSAT is a massive test covering math, science, english and all points in between. The night before the exam, I stood on the bluffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean in Santa Cruz and said a silent prayer to the universe asking for strength and guidance. The next day I arrived at the test site armed with my sharpened #2 pencils, nervous but confident and determined to succeed.

About halfway through the exam, I came to the section on music. The first question read: “What is the primary function of the electric guitar solo in rock music?” It was at that moment that I knew I would pass the test, I knew I was going to be a teacher. The universe lobbed one over the plate and I hit it out of the ballpark! (The answer incidentally was “to highlight the guitarist’s technical prowess”, or something to that effect).

So, just what is the function of the electric guitar solo? To blow our minds? To offer us regular folk a glimpse into the divine? To provide a vicarious experience of rock stardom? I’d say all of the above. In many ways, rock and roll is the guitar solo. Take a ride on starship Stratocaster, blast off into parts unknown and never be the same again. Every fan of rock and roll has their favorite guitarist and solo. Many a cannabis fueled discussion has been had on this very subject. Here are some of my favorites, not in any particular order.

George Harrison- My Sweet Lord

George was a trailblazing and underrated guitarist. He invented a sweet, melodic and often copied style of slide playing. Like most of his solos, this one is short but oh so sweet. Unlike many rock guitarists, George didn’t play like he was getting paid by the note. His solo on My Sweet Lord gives me the shivers every time.

Jerry Garcia- Stella Blue (live)

Picking a favorite Jerry Garcia solo is like trying to choose my favorite Hawaiian sunset; they are all subtle, sublime and achingly beautiful; bursting with colors yet to be named. However, if backed into a corner, I’d have to go with Stella Blue. Jerry obviously felt this song quite deeply as his solos on Stella Blue were consistently heartfelt and achingly beautiful.

Neil Young- Down By The River

Neil is from the “ragged but right” school of guitar playing. His grungy guitar work here predates the Seattle scene by 20 years and served as an inspiration to Nirvana, Pearl Jam and their like. The beginning of his solo on Down By The River is basically one note, but oh what a note it is! Avant grade guitarist Henry Kaiser once said, “Neil Young puts more feeling into playing one note than most guitarists put into their entire lives.”

Keith Richards- Can’t You Hear Me Knocking

While he occasionally solos, Keith’s primary function in the Rolling Stones is as the most distinctive sounding and innovative rhythm guitarist ever to strap on an axe. The best Stones tunes are all built around one of Keith’s riffs. On Can’t You Hear Me Knocking, he plays five different variations on the opening riff. I bet he had a few more up his sleeve.

Mick Taylor- Can’t You Hear Me Knocking

The golden era of the Rolling Stones was 1969-73 which coincided with Mick’s tenure in the band. On this tune, after Bobby Keyes incendiary sax solo, Mick keeps the train rolling with a sweet, emotive and bluesy solo of his own. When the two of them team up to duet at the end of the song, it’s almost too much to take.

Jimi Hendrix- All Along The Watchtower

Jimi makes this Bob Dylan tune his own. His screaming, wah-wah drenched solos conjure up the darker aspects of the Sixties. There were no fancy high tech effects in Jimi’s day, he did it all with volume, feedback and a generous use of the tremolo bar, making his Stratocaster speak in a language that we’re still trying to decipher.

Eric Clapton- Little Wing

Clapton does to Hendrix’s Little Wing, what Jimi did to ‘Watchtower”. Clapton never seems to run out of ideas here. With each note his soaring solos grow more intense and build on the previous one. At the end of the song, we’re left spent and in awe. “Clapton is God” was a popular saying in the Sixties. It’s hard to dispute this, as Clapton’s playing on Little Wing is simply transcendent.

David Gilmour- Money

The weird time signature, haunting bass line and gritty Roger Waters vocal are all fantastic, but what really makes this tune fly is David Gilmour’s searing guitar work. His solo has two, count ‘em, two crescendos!  His screaming high notes and masterful use of  sustain keeps me on the edge of my seat every time. The intensity of Gilmour’s playing here is truly inspired.

We’re all from somewhere. Being from someplace is being of that place. Where I’m from is as much a part of me as the color of my eyes and the bouncy way I walk that my friends can identify me by from 100 yards away. I am from the much maligned, often lampooned, grossly misunderstood home of Bruce Springsteen, Frank Sinatra and the absolute best pizza on the planet, one of the original thirteen colonies, The Garden State, New Jersey.

At the young age of 22, I decided to “go west young man” and seek fame and fortune in The Golden State. At first I was simply dazzled by California. All of those Beach Boys and Eagles songs that I had listened to incessantly all my life seemed to come alive daily right before my eyes. That and all of the girls looked like Joni Mitchell. California was everything that New Jersey wasn’t. I had made it to the promised land and was never going back.

I made a lot of new friends back then and like me, they were mostly from somewhere else. None of them had ever been to New Jersey, let alone ever met anyone from there. I felt so exotic, like an indigenous tribesman from the Amazon Basin. I’d often be asked, “You’re from Joisey?” Joisey? Where the hell does that come from? I can honestly say that I’ve never, ever heard anyone who’s from New Jersey pronounce the state’s name like that. And how about that buffoon from Saturday Night Live back in the 80’s with his inane catch phrase, “You’re from Jersey? I’m from Jersey!”, spoken in a voice like Elmer Fudd on helium. Then there are the tried and true misconceptions that Jersey is an industrial wasteland overflowing with toxic waste. Of course none of this stuff is true. As a transplant to California, I suddenly found myself defending New Jersey’s honor against those who would dare take the birthplace of The Boss  in vain. It’s true that Jersey’s industrial corridor is ugly but if that’s your only impression of the state, well you’re missing the point. Northwest Jersey is filled with farms and forests. My sister lives up there and her yard is regularly visited by bears. The Jersey coastline ( “the shore”) is beautiful. The Pine Barrens in the central part of the state are vast and sparsely populated. My hometown of Caldwell is a quaint and peaceful place, reminiscent of the fictional Bedford Falls in the film It’s A Wonderful Life. Angelo’s Barber Shop occupies the same place on Bloomfield Ave. that it has for decades. My dad and older brother still get their haircuts there. Some of the tastiest corn and tomatoes you’ll ever eat are grown in New Jersey.  

Jersey people are “real”.  When I’m back there visiting, there’s something reassuring in the way folks ask, “Eh, how ya doin’?” It’s a refreshing change from the “have a nice day” nonsense that I hear too much of on the west coast. There’s no beating around the bush in New Jersey though, people will usually tell you exactly what’s on their mind. That brusqueness is often mistaken for rudeness, another Jersey misconception. However, you haven’t been told to “fuck off!” until you’ve been told by someone from Patterson.

For a while when I first relocated, I really wanted to be from California. I was so enchanted with my new home. I pushed my Jersey heritage into the background, not disavowing it but also not exactly boasting about it either. But the older I get, the further into the past my life in New Jersey recedes and the deeper my appreciation grows for being from there. My parents still live in the house that I was raised in. My siblings all live in the state. My roots there are deep. I was raised with a strong sense of pride in who I am; an Italian-American from New Jersey. That pride still lives in me. Through the years, things would come up from time to time to remind me just exactly where I was from.

Like millions of Americans, I was glued to my tv set while the tragedy of 911 was unfolding. I remember watching these two eyewitnesses being interviewed on the streets of Manhattan. Listening to their heavy east coast accents, it hit me hard; these guys could be my brothers! It was my people who were suffering. One of my actual brothers was working in Brooklyn that day, he watched in real time as smoke billowed from the Twin Towers.

After Hurricane Sandy devastated the Jersey coastline, one image that’s permanently burned into my psyche is that of a rollercoaster sitting in the Atlantic Ocean off of the amusement pier in Seaside Heights. One of the highlights of my family’s annual trip to the shore as a kid was to ride that very rollercoaster. Like I said, being from someplace is being of that place.

The Mafia and Jersey are synonymous in many peoples minds, and rightfully so. The Mob does have a rich and colorful history in the Garden State. The Sopranos was one of the most critically acclaimed tv series of the past 25 years. I loved that show mostly because while watching it I felt like I was hanging out with my Jersey pals. Listening to Tony and his crew talk  was like eavesdropping on one of my aunts and uncles conversations. The producers of that show really did their homework as every cuss word and slang term for food (mozzarella cheese is “mootzadell”) was absolutely spot on. If you lived in Jersey though, The Mob wasn’t just an abstraction. About ten years ago I sat around my younger brother’s swimming pool one summer day listening to my mom and two of her sisters nonchalantly tell the story of how my Aunt Lizzie and Uncle Sal wanted to have the abusive husband of their daughter “wacked”. Evidently my uncle knew a guy who knew a guy… That same uncle nearly got wacked himself once. As a younger man he was drunk at a wedding and mouthed off to a guy who, unbeknownst to him, was “connected”.  I think my aunt saved him from sleeping with the fishes.

New Jersey is often the butt of jokes and misconceptions. That just stiffens my resolve and makes me all the more want to defend it, to tell people what Jersey is really like. For starters, only someone from New Jersey knows that you never refer to taylor ham as pork roll, or for that matter even knows what taylor ham is. A whole pizza is a pie, and eating it with a knife and fork or asking for your pie to be topped with broccoli could get you wacked. A massive sandwich on a soft roll loaded with every type of unhealthy lunch meat (“cold cuts” thank you!) is a “hoagie”. New Jersey does not have a coast, it has “the shore”, and you never go to the shore, you always go down the shore. When you mention The Boss, everyone knows who you’re talking about. 

Being from someplace is being of that place and I’m proud to be from New Jersey.