13. January 2018 · Comments Off on On the occasion of our 39th anniversary · Categories: Olio

My Not-So-Modern Kalooki Love

I was thirteen, short the way a lot of thirteen year old boys are. Shy around girls, but interested, the way a lot of thirteen year old boys are. I was also unhappy. We’d moved to the suburbs when I was eleven and I hated it. We’d overstretched and couldn’t afford to live there the first few years. Money was a tense issue in the family. Plus I’d had my niche in the city. I was the good student – the top student in my class in Milwaukee’s lone brainy kid school – who could also take and throw a hard punch. When I wasn’t wrestling with and slugging kids in my neighborhood, I was helping them with their homework.

In the suburbs, that all got undone. I spent the first six months sitting on my hands in school, waiting for them to catch up to me. I was told explicitly by my mom and dad that in the suburbs I couldn’t slug other kids, that I had to settle differences by talking. I was too shy and laconic to do that effectively. What’s Dirty Harry without his .44 Magnum? There were no immigrants like us, no Orthodox Jews like us. If we’d been living in Roswell, NM, we’d have been taken as proof of alien life.

I did manage to find a few friends. I also managed to find pot to self-medicate my unhappiness. I was high on New Year’s Eve. My friends and I had nothing to do. One of us knew that there were some parties in the neighborhood with girls. We decided to crash a few. This effort hadn’t gone well. The friend with the party knowledge mentioned one outside our neighborhood and we biked there. This party was good. Lots of girls and they were high school freshmen, not middle school kids like us. Older women! That sounded hot to me.

It turned out the girls at this party were brainy, too. One of them, petite, was showing three of the others how to play a card game with two decks of cards. Kalooki. Probably every Jewish kid with Polish war survivor parents knows how to play this game. It’s what you played on Shabbas, even though you’re not supposed to play cards, to pass the time. How did this petite girl with big hazel eyes know how to play a game that no one in the suburbs played? The pot I was on enhanced the mystery of this girl.

I wanted to stay and talk to the kalooki girl, but my friends were intimidated being around “older women” so we left. We smoked more pot. I was so high biking home that I crashed into a flashing barrier and ended up with the front wheel of my bike in a six foot deep pit before I managed to stop. Whoa! I decided I needed to avoid biking when I was high.

I didn’t forget the kalooki girl. We met the next year in high school choir. She’d learned how to play kalooki from her grandmother. She could understand Yiddish fairly well, but couldn’t speak it. We became pretty good friends, but then I left high school a year early because I was miserable, bored and wanted adventure. I travelled. First I hitchhiked across Canada. I went to Israel to help out during the Yom Kippur War. I wanted to leave my memories of the suburbs behind and that included all my friends from that time. I even wrote a letter to one of them explaining this desire and saying good bye forever. That severing included the kalooki girl.

I’d go out with girls when I could overcome my shyness. One of them was, like me, a child of survivors. I liked the fact that we shared an upbringing, but when I found out that her father had proposed to my mom in Germany after the war, I got spooked. That was too close for me, almost like incest as far as I was concerned. I was off Jewish women for a couple of years.

My older brother was living with a non-Jewish girl off campus at the University of Wisconsin. He was desperately trying to get my parents and grandparents to accept the love of his life. I’d watch the mighty battles between them. I knew my family was never going to accept this girl.

I never brought a non-Jewish girl to my parents’ home. It was more than fear of their anger. I felt that none of the girls I went out with would understand what my parents were about. What would have happened if I had brought a girl home who wasn’t Jewish or was Jewish but wasn’t well-versed in immigrant culture? My parents would have spoken in a mix of English, Yiddish and Polish at dinner because that’s what they always did. My parents wouldn’t ever come to you, you had to come to them. Plus I was never in love with these girls. What was the point of bringing them home?

I met another child of survivors in college. It felt comforting to be with a girl with that shared experience again. Plus this one’s father hadn’t proposed to my mother in Europe. Much better! My father hadn’t proposed to her mother. Even better! But I felt she was getting too serious and I wasn’t ready to be serious with anyone.

The kalooki girl went to my college as well. I’d run into her now and then and we’d have pleasant words on the street. Then she disappeared. I didn’t know she’d left college and gone to travel around Europe on her own. I saw her on the street about nine months later. She seemed like a different person. More confident. Still shy like me, but self-assured like she never was before. I was smitten.

We went out a few times. I’d never been so at ease around a girl. We’d talk for hours on end. I was in love for the first time. One winter night we talked so much that before I knew it, it was two AM. I was hungry. We walked to a donut shop that was already making donuts for the next morning. The donuts, still warm, were delicious. Then I started to walk her home, but it was icy on the sidewalks and she was wearing slippery-soled boots. She kept falling down. I kept picking her up off the ground. Finally, I figured out that if I just held her close every step of the way, she wouldn’t fall down anymore. I walked her to my house instead of hers. We moved in together a year later.

Early in our living together I invited my parents, who lived an hour and a half away, to our place for dinner. My girlfriend announced that she was going to make borscht. This idea sounded crazy. Serving my Polish Jewish mother borscht was bringing coals to Newcastle. My girlfriend insisted. Borscht. OK, I said.

My parents sat down at our dinner table. My girlfriend served the borscht. I saw the look of indignation on my mother’s face. This girl is serving the queen of borscht, borscht? Who does she think she is? But then my mother got hold of her emotions. She took a sip with a spoon. She tasted it. “It’s good,” she said. She sounded surprised about this fact. But she was doing more than commenting about the soup, I knew. She was giving her approval of my girlfriend. My parents spoke in a mixture of Yiddish and English at the table. My girlfriend understood almost every word.

We’ve been together for over forty years, married for thirty nine years. I haven’t played kalooki with my wife or anyone else in over twenty years. But it’s a game I remember fondly.

20. December 2017 · Comments Off on An unforgettable night, transcripts from The Stueys · Categories: Olio

The 2017 Stueys
Denny’s Ballroom, Redwood City (climate best by government test), CA

What a night! It’s an evening overflowing with glamour. The electricity in the air is palpable. Our host is the always elegant, always intelligent, always charming, Liberacha.

(Meryl Streep walks by)

Liberacha: Ms. Streep, we know you’re the greatest actress of our age, but you’re not even nominated this year. Why are you here?

Streep: Dahling, there must be some sort of mistake.

Liberacha: We’re not like those Awards That Shall Not Be Named. The Stueys don’t ever make mistakes. Ms. Streep, you’re not even on our guest list. Ruldofo, show Ms. Streep the door!

(Rudolfo picks up Ms. Streep like she’s a toothpick and carries her, kicking and screaming, away)

Liberacha: Sorry about that. And now it’s time for the Stuey awards!

Best use of pop music: Baby Driver
Accepting the award for Baby Driver, Paul Simon

Simon: I really didn’t have anything to do with this movie. Why am I here?

Liberacha: Two words. Kevin Spacey.

Simon: Ohhhh.

Best comedy: Get Out
Accepting the award for Get Out, Jordan Peele

Peele: This movie isn’t a comedy! It’s a serious movie.

Liberacha: It was serious until you were forced to tack on a new ending to keep white people like me from getting nervous and depressed. That ending was hilarious although the original ending was right on the nose. Do you want us to give this award to The Big Sick instead? That one was pretty good.

Peele: Nooo. I want to thank The Stueys for this prestigious award.

Most beautiful to watch: The Shape of Water
Accepting the award, the aquatic creature from The Shape of Water

Creature (signs his speech): This award is kind of cool, but do you have any eggs? I’m hungry!

Best supporting actor, Bill Nighy, Their Finest
(this is Bill Nighy’s first nomination and first Stuey)
Accepting the award, Bill Nighy

Nighy: Thanks, but why am I being put up in a Motel 6?

Liberacha: The Fairmont was overbooked. Sorrrry.

Best foreign film: One Week and a Day (Israel)
Accepting the award for One Week and a Day, Japanese director Hirokazu Kore-eda

Kore-eda: I liked this movie, too, but what am I, chopped sashimi?

Liberacha: Baby, we love your movies, too. That’s why we invited you. You’re the perpetual foreign film runner up in the Stueys. Chances are you’ll win a prestigious Stuey next year.

Kore-eda: Really? (breaks down in tears of joy)

Best score: The Shape of Water
Accepting the award for The Shape of Water, Guillermo del Toro

del Toro: So are we going to win all the technical stuff this year and get shut out of the big awards?

Liberacha: You’ll have to stick around to find out.

Best supporting actress, Holly Hunter, The Big Sick
Accepting the award, Holly Hunter

Hunter: I can’t even get arrested in Hollywood and here I am winning a prestigious Stuey. Don’t you think I deserve to get more good acting gigs like this one?

Liberacha: Definitely.

Best director: Aisling Walsh, Maudie
Accepting the award, Aisling Walsh

Walsh: Thank you! But how did you even know about our movie? It came and went faster than Trump’s love affair with Chuck and Nancy.

Liberacha: Baby, your movie is a huge, big budget blockbuster success by Stuey standards. Most of the movies we screen for awards have box office revenues lower than the cost of a trailer home in Kearney, Nebraska.

Best documentary: My Love, Don’t Cross That River

Liberacha: We’re going to be mailing this award to the movie’s Korean producers. Somehow they didn’t believe us when we said the Stueys were prestigious. They’d never even heard of the Stueys. Amazing, huh.

Best actor, Sam Rockwell, Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, MO
Accepting the award, Sam Rockwell

Rockwell: Shouldn’t I be winning the award for Best Supporting Actor?

Liberacha: You’ve been promoted!

Best Wise Negro: Octavia Spencer, The Shape of Water
Accepting the award, Octavia Spencer

Liberacha: You’re very talented. Aren’t you getting tired of being typecast in what, by definition, are racist roles? Don’t you want to spread your wings and fly always?

Spencer: Aren’t you nosy and holier than thou? It pays the bills, Baby.

Best actress: Sally Hawkins, Maudie
Accepting the award, Sally Hawkins

Hawkins: Thank you so much for this prestigious award. I was fabulous, wasn’t I?

Liberacha: You were, indeed. You made me sob like a baby and smile like I’d just won the lottery. I’m so happy to see that your terrible arthritis has vanished. A miracle!

Hawkins: I was acting, Dearie.

Liberacha: Oh. And now for the final award. Stay right here, Ms. Hawkins.

Best drama: Maudie

(the actors, producers and director of Maudie all storm the stage, grab their Stuey, and run to catch a Lyft to the airport just in case PricewaterhouseCoopers blew the envelope handoff like they did at last year’s Awards That Shall Not Be Named)

Liberacha: We ran a little long, as per usual, but it was worth it. I can’t wait to see you again in 2018. In the meantime, pleasant viewing!

08. November 2017 · Comments Off on Back from my hike · Categories: Olio

Last month I walked across Spain on the Camino de Santiago. Actually, I walked across about half of Spain. I took time off to rest my feet and see Bilbao. A week later I took some time off to see some art and listen to music in Madrid. But the rest of the time I was walking between 25 and 30 km a day.

It isn’t a pretty hike. It’s supposed to be a spiritual journey, especially so for Catholics. You walk, more or less, the same route that pilgrims began to take a thousand years ago to visit Santiago de Compostela’s shrine to St. James. Much of the time you walk on pavement or on gravel paths adjoining roads. You spend quite a bit of time dodging cars and inhaling diesel exhaust. About a third of the time, though, you get relief from the ugliness and experience some pleasant scenery or a soft path. The Basque countryside and towns and much of Galicia are particularly appealing.

300,000 people a year take this hike. I wouldn’t do it again and am hesitant to recommend it to others, but I’m glad I went. You spend a month at something completely outside your normal activity. If you’re artistically inclined like me, you take time off to see some outstanding art in both Bilbao and Madrid. It’s not a particularly hard hike, but it is mentally demanding because you do it day after day.

I’m not at all spiritual, but all that walking did put me in a contemplative mood. As I walked, I thought more about myself and my place in the world than any time since I was a teenager. I also found out that I can still be a decent hiker even at my advanced age. I can hike 35 km in a day if need be. The Camino made me excited about taking other hikes in the future, which I’ll make sure are consistently filled with pretty scenery.

I greatly enjoyed the food, wine and beer along the way. I ate and drank an enormous amount and somehow dropped 4 pounds over the month. I also was impressed with the vibrancy, good cheer and helpfulness of the Spanish people. They made me want to visit again, which I hope to do soon.

16. September 2017 · Comments Off on New review of TMS in the AMS and why I’m so tickled about it · Categories: Math Shiva News

Over four decades ago, I was a college science nerd who loved Russian and German novels. American authors did not often resonate with me at the time. But I found an American book, Gravity’s Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon, and I was struck by how it was possible to put real science and math in a novel.

Pynchon’s use of math was done so well that Science magazine reviewed Gravity’s Rainbow (maybe the only novel it has ever reviewed). I read that review and thought, “I want to do that. Write a literary novel that contains so much realistic science it gets reviewed in Science.” I thought I’d do it in my twenties. But my writing talent then was raw at best and at worst, nonexistent. I couldn’t write fiction worth beans until I was in my fifties.

As I wrote The Mathematician’s Shiva, I thought about Gravity’s Rainbow. The novel as an art form has lost its primacy in American culture. A magazine like Science won’t likely review a novel again. But I did have a fantasy that I kept to myself: TMS would get a review in an American Mathematical Society publication.

I knew the odds were next to zero. But it did happen. My little dream came true. I’m ecstatic. You can find the review here.

Of course, my next novel has some math in it. Write about what you know. But math isn’t its central focus. It’s mostly about the life of a family that owns a restaurant in Omaha. Maybe it will get reviewed by a National Restaurant Association publication. Who knows? I’ll keep my fingers crossed.

28. June 2017 · Comments Off on I’ll be on CNBC this Friday, June 30 · Categories: Uncategorized

Power Lunch, sometime between 1 and 3 PM EDT.

18. May 2017 · Comments Off on Advice from Uncle Stuey · Categories: Olio, Uncategorized

When Watergate started I was hitch hiking across Canada. Then I went to Israel. It was still going on. Then I hitch hiked around Europe. It was still going on. Then I went to Israel to help out during the Yom Kippur War. It was still going on. Then I went back home to keep my dad from going crazy while my mom had breast surgery (benign). It was still going on. Then I went to college for a semester to make my mom happy. It was still going on. Then I drove out to the Canadian Rockies and dodged grizzlies in the wilderness. It was still going on. Then I stopped in Wall SD to get some food and drink on the way home. Nixon resigned while I had a beer. That’s how I remember it.

Now we wait for the Trump impeachment. Go hitch hike somewhere. Dodge grizzlies in the wilderness. Be a mercenary in an overseas war. It’s going to be a while.

14. May 2017 · Comments Off on A building with a story · Categories: Uncategorized

A brag-filled story. Way too long a story, but true.

My father built this building. Designed it. He was in love with it, said he’d never sell it even though the rent he was getting was barely paying for the mortgage. He thought it was beautiful. My mom, who did the renting because she spoke far better English than my dad, thought so, too.

When I was 12, my dad dropped me off to repair a toilet. When I was done I waited outside for him to pick me up. I sat on the steps next to the street sidewalk. A middle-aged lady dressed to the nines walked by. “I love this building,” she said. “Do you know who owns it?” I told her my mom and dad did. “Do you think they would sell it?” “Maybe,” I said. “What do you think they’d want for it?” I knew what the place cost to build because I did the books for my mom and dad. I mentioned a ridiculous number, roughly double the price to build. She paused, then said. “I’m interested.” She gave me her card and told me to give it to my mom and dad.

My dad picked me up. I gave him the lady’s card. I told him the story of the possible sale. He was adamant that the lady dressed to the nines wouldn’t buy it for that price. “How did you come up with that number?” he asked. I told him that since he loved the building I thought that was about the price it would take for him to budge. I spent a half hour back home shouting and screaming back and forth with my dad to call the lady dressed to the nines. He kept saying it was a waste of time. This was normal for my family, the shouting and screaming back and forth. It was a sign that we were family and loved each other.

Finally, he picked up the card and called. For my father to do this, admit that a 12-year-old boy might be right, took a lot of swallowing of pride and my dad hated to swallow his pride. So did I. We’d battle all the time. He didn’t want a 12-year-old pseudo-equal, wanted a dutiful son.

The building was sold to the lady dressed to the nines in a cash sale in three weeks, with a little discount to account for the fact that no realtor was involved. I said to my dad, “What about me? Don’t I get a commission?” “You’re a kid. Kids don’t get commissions. You get food on the table.” I was pissed!

The other day, I spent an hour on the phone talking to my uncle as I drove up to San Francisco. He’s about 80 years old, probably 79. We talked about old times. I said, “You’re the last Mohican.” He said, “You are, too.” How can anyone explain this world in a palatable way, a way understandable to Americans? These people were fierce 24/7. They lived through hell in Europe. Their eyes were always open for any sign of potential danger. If threatened they became cornered wild animals. If presented with an opportunity for joy, they laughed and danced all night. How do you explain these people? Who knows?

05. May 2017 · Comments Off on Stu, The Movie (a romcom) · Categories: Uncategorized

I’ve been uploading 71K photos (and graphs) I’ve made over 40 plus years to the cloud. Here are a few. My life in one minute and fifty seconds. Get some popcorn and enjoy. https://mobile.twitter.com/StuartEtc/status/860604326628122624/video/1

13. April 2017 · Comments Off on From the music vault, It’s Not Paranoia (If It’s Real) · Categories: Olio

I’m cleaning up files that migrated to my new computer and found this ditty. Must have been recorded somewhere around 2009. Change the bridge and it could apply even more today.

04. April 2017 · Comments Off on Confessions of an Audra McDonald groupie · Categories: Olio

Because NC passed its bathroom law, I get to see Audra McDonald and the SF Symphony tonight. The symphony was supposed to be in NC, but has instead chosen to celebrate LGBT pride in SF with a gala concert. Thank you, NC legislators, I guess. It’s the only time, though, that you’ll get thanks from me.

This will be somewhere around the seventh time I’ve seen Audra. I guess I’m semi-officially an Audra groupie. My wife says Audra might be the only person I’d leave her for. She might be right! I used to feel the same way about Alfred Brendel, but my wife never worried about him.

FWIW here are my Audra chronicles.

1994, Lincoln Center, Carousel, I walk out of the theater and go on and on about, “Who was that?”

2000, w/San Francisco Symphony, I walk out of the concert hall and go on and on about how wonderful she is.

2004, w/Boston Pops, I walk past a symphony hall on my way to a business meeting and I hear her booming voice. I had no idea she was in town. I say screw the meeting and hear her rehearse. Then I go to the box office. Do you have any tickets? I ask. One at a table, I’m told. I buy the ticket. I sit next to a Boston Brahmin. Twenty minutes into the outstanding show, the Brahmin leans over and whispers to me, “If she wasn’t black, she’d be as good as Garland.” I think he’s intentionally trying to get me to strangle him.

2004, a sort of Audra meet. I run into a marvelous singer. I ask where she’s from. Fresno, she says. Oh, Audra’s town, I say. She turns bright red. Don’t ever say that name to me, she says. Why not? I ask. I was in high school with her, she says. “Do you have any idea what it would be like to audition for parts and compete against her? For years, I thought I had no talent.” I express condolences, but think, well, she’s good, but she’s no Audra.

2005, Mountain View. My wife says there’s a benefit for a charity she likes. Audra is performing. Do I want to go? I scream for joy. She expresses her opinion that I just might leave her for Audra if given a chance. I think she might be right. The concert is actually mediocre, but hey no one is perfect.

2015, Broadway, Lady Day at Emerson’s Bar and Grill. I love those recordings of Billie Holiday when her voice is shot and she has one foot in the grave. Poignant stuff. So this is a special night for me. Audra doing Billie in decline. I’m in town on business. No way am I not going to see this. But I’m worried. This could be a train wreck. It is in fact jaw droppingly good. The audience, I can tell, knows nothing about Billie Holiday or Audra. They have no idea Audra is singing poorly on purpose.

And now, tonight!