On the Cessation of the Perpetual Toaster

His name was Curtis Loew, but everybody called him Rats. He was born in Famagusta to a local teenage prostitute and a captain in the Soviet Army. He was of medium height and slim build, with a round head and a pointed nose; his hair and sparse mustache were an undefined sandy color. He used to hang out with us at the coffee shop and tell stories of his many girlfriends, how much money he won at www.betterbets.com, and his various schemes (all of them unethical, some of them illegal). Rats was mostly ignored.

One day, he told us that he bought a toaster that stopped working after about two months. When he went back to the store, they told him that Walmart was happy to refund or exchange within thirty days with the original sales bill, but since it was past the date, he could call the 1-800 number on the product box for the one year manufacturer's warranty. There was nothing he could do, so he bought another toaster of the same make and model (on sale for $19.99). He got home, inserted two slices of bread into the new toaster, and another of his schemes suddenly coagulated in his devious mind. He put the old toaster in the new box, taped the sale bill to the box, and marked the calendar three weeks from the current date.

Three weeks later Rats went to customer service and said that the toaster stopped working. The agent checked the bill, looked into the box, and asked if he wanted another toaster or a cash refund. Rats took the money. In the next year and a half, due to the dubious quality of toasters made in that large, industrialized, far-away republic where most toasters come from these days Rats repeated the scheme three times: free toasters, yey! He looked to us for comments. Only George reacted: “They'll catch you, Rats, and they'll punish you bad.”

Rats stopped coming to the coffee shop—not that anybody missed him much. One day, George found a news item on the back pages of The Star and read it to us: “Police were called to 313 Duckworth to find the body of Curtis Loew, 48. The cause of death was determined to be strangulation. It appeared that the power cord of a cheap toaster was used as a weapon. Anybody with information is asked to contact 52 Division.” George said “Didn’t I tell you? They always catch the Rats.”

Mary-Jo Vollrath

This is Mary-Jo Vollrath from Sheboygan, Wisconsin (pop. 49,929), she is 5'11" and weighs 120 pounds. As a young child, her grandfather taught her to work with tools and fix stuff, her grandmother taught her to knit and sew. When she finished high-school she realized that small town USA wasn't for her and she's ready for big city, Canada, so she moved to Toronto. She loved the city and made an OK living running a bike repair shop, working as a part time model and, at nights, as a bouncer in a downtown gay bar. All was fine until it wasn't and the thing what was going to happen, happened. Mary-Jo was in hospital for weeks and, when she was released, learned that she had irreparable damage to her neck and can only look downwards (some type of bad-ass stenosis). Nowadays she rarely leaves her studio and survives on Momofuku noodles (https://momofuku.com/toronto/) and Chablis. I go to see her about once a month and bring the "Extra Spicy Chili" flavor, family size and a bottle of Chablis. She doesn't let me take her picture, so here is a sketch I made.

A while ago, a friend went to a really fancy party and asked Mary-Jo to make her a dress. She killed! Everybody at the party asked "Girl, who you wearing?" and they beat a path to Mary-Jo's door. She  now makes 40 - 50 very expensive dresses a year, all hand made, all from high quality materials and has an order book extending months. A fashion writer for the "New York Thursday Supplement" gave her a fabulous review, here is a quote: "When you see a really beautiful dress floating rather than walking down the street, it must be a Mary-Jo Vee. Often, there is a gorgeous girl inside".

When I visit, I sit on a rug drinking her wine, biding my time and often talk turns to her life before and after. Mary-Jo shrugs and says "I am lucky to look down on the sky above"

As Many as it Takes

Of the mother and her child

Upon whom she warmly smiled

The child will truly need a hand

To walk a life that's straight, not bent

A mother's hand, may need one each

To teach them speech and and help them reach

So what's the mother then to do

When her duty's clear and true?

With mother's magic, shakes and bakes

She grows hands, as many as it takes 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

* original art (16X13, Oil on board) sold recently at a charity auction in Toronto

Dorothea Grainne Georgette (Geta) O'Clarcke

My friend Grainne (everybody called her Geta) died last week in circumstances currently unclear. She was a remarkable person of great talent, profound intellect, and incontrollable wit. She was born and grew up in Letterkenny, County Donegal, Ireland. After high school, she enrolled in the Atlantic Technological University earning an MSc. in General Technology. At the 2002 Irish Open, she met and fell in love with the Italian player Adriano Ferroferma. 

They were married in his hometown of  Rovigo. Her parents didn't like Adriano but were glad that Geta picked a Catholic. In Italy Geta observed women making tortellini and designed and built an AI tortellini maker that turned them out in mere minutes, always perfect. When she demonstrated it to her mother-in-law and all her neighbors there was a huge scandal and Adriano was told "Prendi la tua sporca puttana e vattene!". They moved back to Ireland, opened a tortellini shop, and built tortellini makers. Both sold extremely well, and they became rich. I kept in touch with Geta on video sessions and she used to tell me about her adventures with the three-and-a-half-minute egg. She was very particular about her breakfast egg,(see here how it is done properly:

Three and a half minute egg

Geta documented the outcome and comments. After her passing, Adriano sent me her notes to publish as an homage. Here are some of them:

"It is generally accepted that humans possess intelligence, the folks in your kitchen must be the exception if they cannot properly boil a three-and-a-half-minute egg"

"How stupid must you be to screw up a three-and-a-half-minute egg? THREE TIMES"

"Do they have a functioning brain? Maybe they can  then make a three-and-a-half-minute egg!"

"Can I see the chef? And ask him to bring his knife, I will teach him about a three-and-a-half-minute egg"

"What part of three and half minutes you don't get? Jump in the lake with this egg and take whoever made it with you"

"I hope whoever screwed up my egg has other redeeming qualities like a nice singing voice or is good in bed, otherwise I cannot see how they were hired in the kitchen"

"Whatever gave you the idea that I enjoy being the innocent victim of an incompetent kitchen that cannot even boil an egg?"

"Of course, I didn't eat it. I threw it on the floor to let everybody see the mess YOU made"

"Tell the imbecile who couldn't make a three-and-a-half minute egg that they are an imbecile who cannot make a three-and-a-half minute egg"

"I wonder if the person who cannot boil a decent egg was born a cretin or his mental state deteriorated due to repeated blows to the head?"   

"I have nerves of steel and an inexhaustible supply of sarcasm. I will send this abomination back and heap verbal vitriol on you until you get the egg boiled right. I just need more coffee.

Yara and Gora Previsibly Inverted Interaction

A little while earlier, I had heard a commotion next door and, worried about my neighbor, went to investigate. The door was ajar, and Belzy, his big black cat, ran out scared. I found Yara sitting on the floor, blood dripping from a gash above his right eye. I took this photo.

I asked "What up, Yara?",  he replied, "I have a cold faint fear thrills through my veins." Always the Shakespearean. Then he said that Gora had hit him with a bottle.

Twenty minutes before that, Gora had rung from downstairs, and Yara buzzed her in. "How are you?" he asked. "How do you think I am? Don’t pretend you care," she snapped. "I am concerned. Just asking. Do you want a drink? I have a nice Pinot Grigio." "You know I cannot drink red wine!" "Pinot Grigio is white!" "Don’t tell me! That’s how it is with you: you’re always right, and I’m always wrong." Yara took the bottle from the fridge and poured two glasses, making sure his hand covered the label. "Here you are: Za Mir!" She picked up the bottle, read the label, and her face distorted with fury as she swung it at his head. Yara stumbled and fell, Gora dropped the bottle and ran out.

Twenty minutes before that, Yara was reading an email from Dr. Foster. According to him, his sister had PPD, a pattern of distrust and suspicion, always on guard and believing that others are trying to demean, harm, or threaten her. He advised Yara to placate and not contradict her, but not in an obvious way. If she felt patronized or talked down to, she could become violent.

Twenty minutes before that, Yara had opened the door and let Belzy in from the cold.

Either Artifficially or Supernaturally

This is a picture of Hatti, who, with her partner Shaima, ran a small eatery in the East End on George Street. 

She was the victim of a brutal assault by a guest. The dining-room incident was famously (but incompletely) related by my friend Bob. The perpetrator was arrested and charged (he made bail the next morning). Hatti was taken to the hospital. A high-profile lawyer came to see her and they talked. The lawyer left and returned an hour later with a document and a check. Hatti signed the document and accepted the check. When two detectives took her statement later, she said that it all happened very quickly and that she didn't remember much.

Soon after Hatti and Shaima got married and, to everybody's surprise, sold up and moved to Lahore, Pakistan, where Shaima's father held an important government position. They opened "La Luna", the only Italian restaurant in the city, which turned out to be a great success. Due to family influence they didn't have to pay any bribes and open comments on their "unconventional" partnership were rare. Nevertheless, quiet rumors swirled and envy reared its ugly head.

One evening, near closing time, there was a knock on the delivery door, and Hatti found a produce box with the label of their supplier. This was unusual, as deliveries arrived in the morning. When she opened the box, a medium-sized cobra jumped out, bit her on the upper arm, and then slithered off into the darkness. Twenty-eight minutes later the ambulance arrived with the snake-venom antidote which was immediately injected. After a few hours Shaima received a call from the emergency doctor, who informed her that Miss Carroll had passed away and expressed their condolences: "For now's the time for your tears". The inquest determined that the antidote (produced by Zanzinger Laboratories, MD, USA) had expired in May 2019.

On Fun and Funny

This is Elke, a lawyer specialized in contracts. She was born Elke Dagmarsdottir in Iceland. Her mother, Dagmar, met her father, a Nigerian bass player, when his band spent time in Reykjavik. He left behind three children from three different women. Elke never knew him; the only thing she received was an email from him when she was in the tenth grade. He wrote that he was a Nigerian prince fallen on hard times but could still send her 40,000 Euros. Elke deleted the email and blocked the sender. Elke and Dagmar settled in Toronto, where she excelled in school and university: always top of her class, A+.

Friends loved her but made fun of her absolute zero sense of humor. They used to say that she debated like a "bull in a Chinese store." Elke would correct them, you mean "Bull in a China shop", right? And let’s drop the racial stuff. They'd say that she didn't have a boyfriend because she was in "prophylactic shock." With a serious face, she'd say that it would be anaphylactic shock if she had any allergies, which she didn't.

Regarding contract law, they'd ask how to find an "escape goat." Elke would be puzzled for a moment and retort that the party not performing as promised must be held accountable, but this is not scapegoating. She was always helping everybody. Once, when she was donating eggs for IVF, she fixed the contract they made her sign, correcting a major loophole and a bunch of minor errors pro bono.

At her coffee shop each morning, a tall athletic guy was getting his latte when she got hers. He eventually spoke to her. His name was Bob, and he was a philosophy major, played rugby for varsity, and wrote jokes for his many stand-up comic friends. They started dating, and she went to his games, where she winced whenever he went down on a hard tackle. She also went to comedy shows where she couldn't figure out why everybody was laughing but took her cue and laughed with them. Bob explained about timing, pause, and punchlines in jokes. She'd listen and say, "I don't always understand what you're talking about." To which Bob replied, "If you always understood everything I said, you would be me." Elke, who had never heard of Miles Davis, didn't recognize the quote but noticed the pregnant pause, so she laughed: faked it.

Difficult Assignment of Had and Was

This is Julio-Marco Quispe from Egersund, Norway. We had coffee, and he told me this story.

The other day, he came home, grabbed the laptop, and started writing. He had seen this girl in the subway, and they started talking. She wasn’t pretty, but she was tall, blonde, and had big breasts. She told him that she got off at Wellesley and asked if he wanted to come with her. "Sure!" he replied.

They entered a building on Maitland Street where she lived in a one-bedroom apartment on the ninth floor. She fumbled a little with the keys while unlocking the door, turned to him, and smiled. When they got in, she asked him to stay and told him to sit anywhere. Julio-Marco sat on the rug. The girl came from the kitchen with a bottle of tequila and two glasses. First, they had a lot of tequila, and then they had a lot of sex and then they fell asleep.

When they woke up they had more tequila and more sex. The girl said she worked in the morning and started to laugh. He told her he didn’t and went to the bath. They left together and went back to Wellesley Station, where they said goodbye.

Julio-Marco looked at what he wrote for a long time, then he sighed and deleted the story: it was silly and downright bad and he still needed the 1,500 words for next week’s writing assignment.

I told him my opinion: the story was indeed silly and downright bad, then I added that I was certain that he would come up with something better.

What Really, Really Happened to the Realy Real Iva Zanicchi

Evidently a paraquel (please read the previous blog post)

Antonio came home and found the house empty and when he saw Iva's jewellery and money gone, he flew into a rage: broke dishes, smashed and threw furniture around. Eventually he settled down and phoned Giorgio, the head of Iva's record label. There was a standing order that if anything happens only Giorgio is to be called and nobody else. Giorgio listened and said "Be in front of the house in half an hour". 

Giorgio picked him up in his car and they headed South. Antonio was talking and swearing incessantly, Giorgio was quiet. They reached Naples just in time to catch the ferry to Palermo. Eight hours later they go off the boat. Giorgio drove to a leafy suburb and turned into the alley of a large villa. Giorgio said "You'll meet the real owner of the record label. Don't say a word!". Two men with shotguns opened the gate, they took them to the huge garden in the back where an old guy sat on a chair and a young woman stood next to him. They noticed that the woman bore an very strong resemblance to Iva. Giorgio said: "Baciamo le mani, Don Ciccio". Don Ciccio looked at them and said quietly "Use her, protect the investment. Va via!" Antonio, Giorgio and the woman they were told to call Iva, drove back home. They were to turn this Iva into that Iva. The next day the news papers wrote that Iva Zanicchi must take a break due to exhaustion and may need an operation to repair vocal cord damage. Her record sales hit a new high. They worked around the clock in Giorgio's countryside mansion teaching Iva her to sing, to walk, to speak, about family history and everything else she needed to know. Iva was clever and quick and a great cook. Antonio, eager for the concert money, kept pressing saying she's ready, Giorgio was cautious saying it is his decision and Don Ciccio put him in charge. One evening they fought again and Antonio furiously said that he sits on a sensational story that he can sell for millions to newspapers. Giorgio got very quiet and told him that they will decide the next evening, after that he went to his study and made a short long distance call. At breakfast Giorgio said that they'll take the afternoon off as he has to work on some contracts. Iva said she'll read more magazines and Antonio said he'll drive into town to see friends. That evening, waiting for Antonio, they heard the news on the radio that the husband of Iva Zanicchi has died in a car crash. Three weeks later Iva Zanicchi had a colossal success in her come-back tour (nobody could tell that she was lip-syncing). Record sales hit a new high (nobody knew that all new albums came from tapes recorded earlier). Two years later Iva had a colossal success with her farewell tour. Record sales hit a new high. A week later she announced her retirement and Giorgio, capitalizing on her popularity, told her that she'll go into politics. He phoned Don Ciccio who called his friend Silvio and told him to put Iva in his "Forza Italia" party. Today Iva, after serving seven terms in the European Parliament, lives a quiet retirement and sometimes makes arancini or caponata, the dishes of her youth.

Anam's Story of What Really Happened to Iva Zanicchi

I've met Anam at the check-out counter of my supermarket. In her basket were two stakes, a large bag of raisins and a small bottle of Gin. We went for coffee and she told me she is the grand-daughter of Iva Zanicchi and was very surprised when I said I knew who that is: she won the San Remo three times.

But do I know the real true story of Iva she asked. Here it goes: Iva's husband, Antonio, was abusive and when she couldn't take it anymore, on a Sunday when he and the entire male population of the country  were at the soccer stadium, she packed a suitcase, took her jewellery, all the money in the house and her daughter Rita (3) and went to the buss terminal. They boarded the bus to Cortina d'Ampezzo. Upon arrival, a kind young man whom they asked for directions to the church San Nicolò ad Ospitale, offered to take them there and even carried their suitcase. He said his name was Pietro. Three days later Pietro came to see how they were and took them for Gelato. Three weeks later they moved in with him into a big house that he shared with his old aunt Ilse, the local witch who did spells, curses and love potions for a fee and his uncle Hansi who belonged to the South Tyrolean Liberation Committee who wanted the area to belong to Austria. (Hansi was in jail for blowing up a carabinieri post, killing three). A week later, when Ilse heard Iva's story, she offered to put a death curse on Antonio for the minimal fee of 20,000 Lire (about twenty bucks). Five days later the newspapers wrote that the husband of Iva Zanicchi died in a car crash. Ilse said "Già fatto, e fatto". Four days later Pietro and Iva got married at San Nicolò, Iva became signora Ivona Ganser. Four days later an official letter told them that Hansi was shot and killed trying to escape. Four days later Ilse died peacefully in her sleep. Three weeks later they sold the house and four weeks later Ivona, Rita and Pietro landed in Toronto. Ivona taught canto and flute and Pietro was a successful mastication consultant who trained people how to chew food to lose weight. Rita studied the science of imaginary solutions and is a professor of Pataphysics. She married the local barber, a Hungarian by the name of István Szilágyi. He is Anam's father. Anam runs a Pilates studio and is the lead singer of the all-female band "Le Vampe". They play hip-hop versions of sixties and seventies Italian hits and always start with "Ciao cara, come stai?".

Anam set down her coffee cup and looked at me. I said "That's cool and all, but according to the internet Iva Zanicchi is 84 and lives in Brianza, northwest Lombardy". Anam said "Yes, there is that".

Gentle reader, please read the paraquel published as the next post
 

MAIM and the Careless Use of Social Graces

I met Eduardo Pontos (Eddy) years ago at a Rick Von Schmidt concert (friend of Bob Dylan). We kept in touch over the years. Anyone knew that Eddy was a genius of engineering but "pas de manières". He asked me to come visit him. I went and Raffaella (Raffa), his long suffering partner, opened the door: "Ciao bella!". "How is he?" Raffa just shook her head and rolled her eyes. She had long lost count of how many jobs, assignments, investors and opportunities they missed with Eddy's temper. He would make a brilliant new invention/gadget/method and Raffa would write and publish a technical summary. They always had many inquiries and requests for meetings and demos. Eddy would do the presentation but insult anyone who asked questions telling them that they were too stupid to understand. He would lose his temper and walk out. On his way home he would stop by La Senza to buy expensive lingerie to show he was sorry. Raffa would ask "Why can't you be nicer?" he'd always say "I'm not a nice man". They did OK with money from maintenance, royalties and the few clients who put up with him because whatever he built was exquisite. Raffa told me that eventually she convinced him to make a machine to enhance social graces, and he did.

He was on his way back from the first test run with live public. I noticed a copy of Dale Carnegie's "How to Win Friends and Influence People" on the desk and asked "AI based? Is this for training?". Raffa nodded just when the door flew open and Eddy rushed in. "How did it go?" he ignored us and connected the contraption he was carrying to the big screen on the back wall. I could see an array of cameras and microphones. "This is my Manners AI Monitor (MAIM). Watch!". Great name, I thought. The screen showed Eddy in a meeting room with an older man (a tag said Bob) and a younger woman (a tag said Tammy). A timeline ran at the bottom of the video and it would turn gray, green, amber or red as MAIM analyzed the conversation. Eddy pressed PLAY and clicked on a green portion, we heard the audio: "Thank you for taking this meeting" Eddy was beaming. He skipped some grays saying it's just technical stuff and played the next green "I like your tie, Bob". We couldn't believe our ears. Eddy would proudly play all the greens: "That is a very interesting comment" and "What great questions". Towards the end there was a green turning amber and then a huge red blob. Eddy went there and we heard him say: "Tammy, you have a very nice smile" Tammy mumbled "Thank you". Eddy quickly added "and really magnificent breasts". Tammy, white knuckles, red face walked out the door. Raffa and I looked at each other and Eddy said "She really had great boobs, I show social graces. WHAT?". That is when I noticed the bag by the door, it was pink with white stripes: the colors of La Senza.

 

It is All About the Big Man with the Little Dog

It was, undoubtedly, luck and not skill that brought me to Caltagirone. I didn't even know how lucky I was until I saw Don Bepo sitting smoking outside a bar, by the Scalinata di Santa Maria del Monte. I greeted him with the traditional "Baciamo le mani, Don Bepo!" to which he replied "Salve amico, ma hadash?" We talked about the weather and sipped espresso and I asked the courtesy question of how the rossoazzurri are doing this season. A young woman walked by and made Don Bepo freeze with his cup in midair ... she truly had a formidable ass. Finally he put his cup down and turned to me: "You know I have the last two last pieces, right?" I looked at him and said "right and left, right?" Don Bepo smiled and ordered more coffee and Amaro and we sat there watching people going by listening to their respectful greetings. It was late, maybe gone eleven, when he reached into his pocket and put the two segments in front of me: "Tanta merda, amico. Ora vai via!" 

I took them and left only wondering what the hell happened to the big man with the little dog.

The Unintended and Tragic Consequence of not Thinking it Through Thoroughly

He woke up, as usual just in time to stop the alarm from going off, and went to the bathroom to pee and brush his teeth. He decided to dress in the brown outfit today. He got his brown shoes out and bent down to tie his laces ... it somehow didn't work, his fingers didn't know what to do. He tried again and failed again. Panic set in, there was sweat on his forehead. He sat down and tried ujjayi breath ... it calmed him down enough to search on his phone "Tie Shoelaces". There were 680 hits of which the first two pages tried to sell him neckties and/or shoelaces. On the third page, he found  "Inability to Tie One's Shoelaces" and followed the link. It described exactly his symptoms and recommended brewing a tea from cumin seeds, turmeric, nutmeg shavings, black peppercorns, and white vinegar: boil it for three minutes and simmer it for twenty ... and drink it cold. He followed the instructions without any thought. About an hour later he put on his brown shoes and his fingers danced a precise ballet finishing in superb symmetrical bows on both shoes. 

"The last thing he remembered, was running for the door, had to find the passage back to the place he was before" He looked down and saw that all his fingers had fallen off.