Stu News and Photos

From Wikipedia: "Who Stole the Kishka?" (originally spelled "Who Stole the Keeshka?") is a traditional polka tune, composed in the 1950s by Walter Solek and recorded and played by various bands. One popular version was familiar to American radio audiences from a 1963 recording by Grammy award-winning polka artist Frankie Yankovic.

Many years ago, too many for me to even want to consider, I was in high school. Sixteen years old and barely aware of what was possible in the world, cocooned in suburbia, adrift in my sheltered sea. The music I was listening to was on WPLJ (named after Frank Zappa's cover of a Four Deuces song) and WNEW, but even this Album-Oriented Rock was fairly new to me. You see, I was weaned on big band singers and, later, pop music, bubblegum of a severely limited variety of flavor. AM radio staples acted as my sonic wallpaper as I listened to the same sticky-sweet songs over and over, barely conscious of their meaning, or lack thereof. But I was new to teenager-dom and just didn't know any better. Eventually my brother had had enough and pulled me into his room one day, some time after my thirteenth birthday, and told me to stop listening to AM, that there was glory on the other side, the FM side. He pointed to his bedside table, where Blondie's "Heart Of Glass" was playing on his white clock radio and he said, "Listen, this is where it's at."

He was right.

A few years later, during the summer of my sixteenth year, my brother got married, and he gave me the honor of being his best man. Apparently there was work involved (including paying the judge, which my brother Ralph pointed out to me on that memorable day). As a reward, as a gift, my brother gave me three record albums, music that was important to him, close to his soul. The records were Tom Petty's "Damn The Torpedoes," Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here," and Bruce Springsteen's "Born To Run."

Later that summer, i immersed myself in these three albums, soaking in them, unraveling them, absorbing them. At first I did this because I missed my brother and because he had opened his heart to me. But then the albums started to reveal themselves to me, the magic unfolding like the slow bloom of adolescence. "Born To Run" took turns dancing with my dreams and tearing at my heart. The mixture of piano and saxophone, the warrior tones of the bass and drums, and the sincerity and depth of the poetry, all mixed together as though written just for me, a letter from Bruce to Stu, letting me know what life had in store for me, giving me great comfort and camaraderie.

I'll never forget that summer, nor the music of Bruce Springsteen and what it meant to me at that time in my life, and what it meant to me for years afterwards. Today is Mr. Springsteen's 60th birthday and I raise a glass to him, and to my brother Dave, who shared with me his heart.

I was at our local Starbucks one evening, after a stroll with Leslie, and as she was picking out some beans, I saw that the store was selling the new remasters of The Beatles' catalog. The price was pretty cheap for these days, so I bought "Abbey Road."

I finally got around to listening to it on the good stereo in the library and I was brought to new heights. The sound was better than any I had heard previously. The isolation/separation of each instrument, the clarity, all made the record a deep sensation. A magnificent feeling.

Also during the conversation with my dad, he mentioned that he had, on his Macintosh, gotten the pinwheel of doom (the colorful spinning icon that shows up when the Mac is stuck in deep thought)... As he was describing it, he said, "There it is, that wheel, spinning, spinning, spinning..." -- That automatically had me hear Kay Starr's hit record, "The Wheel Of Fortune" in my head.

And here's the version I know, performed by Bob Haggart and Ray Bauduc:

Had a great talk with my dad this morning. We talked music. One topic: Bob Crosby's "Big Noise From Winnetka." - Here's one version he remembers, which is from the Ann Miller film "Reveille With Beverly."

I am just a bit torn this morning. I found out that Jim Carroll died the other day. His influence on my writing/behavior is comparable to the influence of Hunter Thompson and William Burroughs. His candor is simultaneously scary and refreshing, like having a blind man give you a shave with a straight razor.

This evening I was reading bits of the journal of Henry Thoreau. I chanced upon this passage, which resonated with me:

"As I come over the hill, I hear the wood thrush singing his evening lay. This is the only bird whose note affects me like music, affects the flow and tenor of my thought, my fancy and imagination. It lifts and exhilerates me. It is inspiring. It is a meidcative draught to my soul. It is an elixir to my eyes and a fountain of youth to all my senses. It changes all hours to an eternal morning. It banishes all trivialness. It reinstates me in my dominion, makes me the lord of creation, is chief musician of my court.

I sing of my past,
Like a verse from an incedibly popular tune
That you've never heard.

I sing of my past
And not just to myself,
But to all who surround me.
All who know me
Know my song
And can hum along
As I belt out another chorus.

I sing
And do not feel.
As though it's a cabaret
And this is my fourth set.

I smoke my last cigarette
And wish for one more swallow of coffee
And glance in your direction
Pleading for a sign of comprehension.

The drive home is just long enough.

Just read this line from Sarah Silverman:

"I try to live each moment like my therapist can see everything I'm doing."

My friend Michael and I had a deep crush on the same girl in high school - Billy Bragg wrote a song that we both felt summed up our feelings perfectly - Here's Jonathan Coulton performing a sweet cover:

I wrote this as a revisionist memory of my wedding day. The video shows Lynda Bird Johnson marrying Captain Charles S. Robb.

At about 5pm tonight (Thursday), a car fire in a ritzy neighborhood of Palos Verdes turned into a brush fire. Nich and I were on our way back home and we saw the smoke. After we got home, I flipped on the local news and saw the coverage - the fire was right next to residences and a fancy private school. As I watched, Super Scoopers came into frame. Super Scoopers are those large planes that pick up water and drop it on forest fires. I watched them on tv for a bit, filling up in the Pacific Ocean and then dropping a razor line at the heart of the fire. -- But wait! It's fine to watch it on tv, but why not see it live?!? -- I grabbed Nich (Noe declined) and the two of us headed up the hill where, at the top, we could clearly make out the smoke coming from Palos Verdes. After a few minutes, the Super Scoopers came by and dropped their loads. Amazing. G-d bless those folks, brave, earnest, intelligent, sticking their necks out to protect our homes. G-d bless them all.

I composed this song in one session in the garage about three or four years ago as a studio test. It came up on shuffle on my iPod tonight and I decided to make a video for it:

Again, we're safe, but our neighbors to the north are experiencing a true conflagration.