The Vivaldi Brothers (and the unresolved Issue of the Peni$)

Giovanni Battista Vivaldi ran a barber shop in the late sixteen hundreds Venice, he was also a talented amateur violinist. He had two sons and three daughters who, by a strange twist of genetics, all had flaming red hair and great talent for music. This story is about his sons: Antonio Lucio and Francesco Gaetano. The boys learned to play various instruments but also received advanced musical education: composition, counterpoint, harmony, orchestration and were actively composing music since they were teenagers. Antonio, a gregarious extrovert, easily made friends and enemies. Francesco was shy and spoke very little. Antonio managed to get a publisher to sell his music earning money and a growing recognition. His brother, who was also a barber, wrote mostly for woodwind, and had Antonio sign and sell his works for him. One of  Francesco's oboe pieces, the Largo movement from his Concerto in C Major, was lifted by Ann Ronell  in 1932 to become the jazz standard "Willow Weep for Me".

Antonio became music director at the Ospedale della Pieta which he turned into a center of musical excellence. Early in the eighteenth century, the  Opera craze hit Venice and Antonio couldn't pass-up the chance of making serious coin. Dozens of theatres were staging opera to satisfy the public's growing appetite and Antonio ended up composing more than fifty operas (almost all of them crap). He joined up with the other Venetian giant of the time, Carlo Goldoni, for a sure hit: the opera "Griselda", but when they submitted it to the censors, it was rejected for moral turpitude (Goldoni overdid it and had Constanza, a woman, fall in love with Griselda, another woman). Goldoni and Vivaldi had a horrible fight blaming each other and never spoke again. 

About 1740 Antonio was invited to Vienna by Emperor Charles VI to become his Court Composer. Alas, shortly after his arrival Charles died and Antonio found himself without a job, without a sponsor and without much money. He fell ill an died a year later almost destitute (the money he left barely covered the cost of a decent funeral).

Back home, brother Francesco was cutting hair and  still composing. Every now and then he would take his pieces to Antonio's publisher pretending that he found more music left behind by his bro. When Francesco found the "Griselda" manuscript, he took it to Goldoni to change it so it will pass censorship. Goldoni resolved the issue: Griselda was disguised as a man which proved good enough for the censors. "Griselda" was staged at Teatro Sant'Angelo at a huge success. The interest was helped along by somebody who wrote in bright red paint on the poster "Has Griselda a Penis?" Everybody suddenly wanted to see the Griselda Penis Opera. It ran for astonishing fifty-six weeks.

Francesco made money of it but still maintained the barber shop. He was composing small oboe pieces to play them with family and friends. Sometimes asked  himself if Griselda was really a man after all, and did it have a penis. 

The Composer as an Uncle

What I am about to tell you happened a long time ago in France. If you're preoccupied with how I know what I am about to tell you, you're asking the wrong question ... just try to focus on what I am about to tell you, ok? Here goes:

Jean Phillipe Rameau, 1760 

Jean Phillipe Rameau (hereunder simply called Rameau) was born in Dijon into a family of musicians and, naturally, became a musician himself. He had brothers and sisters of which only one brother plays a (minor) role in what I am about to tell you. 

Rameau had his first sexual experience after he turned twenty-four (which was about ten years later than the average age of the French males of his time) and was so deeply and utterly disgusted by the act that he remained celibate for the rest of his life. 

While Rameau was busy composing operas and writing treaties on musical theory, his younger brother Jean Christophe Rameau, a prosperous rice merchant, married the charming young German soprano Amanda Chloe Sturz. They had a son whom they named Jean Francois. The boy just turned sixteen when his parents died in a house fire and Rameau, the ever avuncular, took him in to try to raise him into a useful member of society. Jean Francois was more interested in nice clothes, fine dining and women and less in making France great for  Bourbon Louis #fourteen and #fifteen.

Rameau knew what the nephew was like, but being busy, he didn't do much about it. He was thinking and hoping that it was just a stage that the youngster would soon outgrow. Uncle and nephew shared the house, the habit of smoking tabaco and the pleasure of taking long baths in fragrant, soapy, hot water. One mild October evening in 1752, after a long and luxurious bath, the nephew went to the dining room for a snack and a smoke. He was wearing his uncle's bathrobe and his new wig when a masked intruder climbed through a window and stabbed Jean Francois in the neck. The blade severed the internal carotid and he bled out in four minutes. Monsieur Nicolas Rene Berryer, Lieutenant General of Paris Police, personally conducted a vigorous investigation. A large number of suspects were arrested and questioned but still, the case remained unsolved ... which is exactly what I said that I am about to tell you and now, I did. Pauvre neveu!

Fifty-Four (and counting)

A few days after his fifty-fourth wedding anniversary, he sat in the backyard with a book open in his lap and thought of all the things he'd learned 

1. There are things we know and things we don' t know; between them, there's the Doors.
2. Never wear green on Wednesday
3. Best day to go on a trip: Tuesday
4. Best day to return from a trip: Thursday 
5. All his dogs are called Lola
6. All his cats are called other names
7. You regret more the things you didn't (do) than the things you did (do)
8. Never put your bag on the floor
9. Never put your hat on the bed
10. Always use Arial
11. Never use Arial
12. Say as little as possible, mostly "Yes"
13. It is not only Flight or Fight, there is also Freeze
14. If you lose something, it is OK. You will never have to lose it again
15. Always add more garlic
16. If you don't like it, don't eat it, but if you must eat it, eat it
17. Buy two of everything
18. You did a whole lot better than they thought you would
19. Old hearts break just like young hearts, but hurt less
20. The past is truth, the future is lies
21. What goes up must come down, spinning wheel go aroun'
22. Look to the right and to the left, but also, o-c-c-c-casionally, look up
23. Only remember ideas and sensations
24. You can leave your hat on
25. Yes, you can steal time
26. There are clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right, and here I am, stuck in the middle with you
27. No! You cannot put everything back where you found it
28. When you say "never," you probably mean "always".
29. When you say "always," you probably mean "never."
30. There is always something, as there was never nothing
31. They invented time so that everything wouldn't happen at once 
32. Tried to trade in all tomorrows for a single yesterday ... it didn't go well
33. It starts with love, and it ends in hate, and in between it is mostly fear
34. There ain't no particular sign I'm more compatible with
35. Boredom chews up your soul
36. If they ask "how many?"  just say "approximately six." and you'll be usually correct
37. Don't be the canary in the minefield
38. Don't be like the bull in the Chinese shop
39. Don't be the escape goat
40. When you know they know, deny, deny, deny, and run away 
41. No set density is safe
42. No set density is dangerous
43. Zed's dead, baby, Zed's dead!
44. Turns out that the love you take is equal to the love you make
45. Fibonacci was right, but he was also an idiot 
46. There's nothing I'm wishing to be owning
47. Always hold hands when you cross the road
48. It was always me and Julio down by the schoolyard
49. Don't ask "Are you breaking up with me?" They'll tell you when they are
50. The romantic perception is the reflection of an erection
51. Always pick the tallest, blondest
52. Fixing past screw-ups in the future often screws it up more ... so just do your thing in the present
53. If you think that the world in your head is the real world, you're in trouble
54. And so, castles made of sand fall in the sea, eventualleee 

Later, he also learned to rap:

She liked nectarines

And the mandareens

And theatre scenes

And necklace beans

And Wednesday greens

And Voodoo queens

Of New Orleans

Where they play slot machines

In submarines

With ugly teens

In dirty jeans

They never cleans

Oh, worldly spleens!

Errare Humanum Est ...

This ancient dialog holds true to this day. Read on, my friends, and think on it.

She/Her: You're late!
He/Him: It is three twenty nine.
She/Her: We said three o'clock.
He/Him: No, we said three thirty.
She/Her: We said three o'clock!
He/Him: Sorry, I made a mistake.
She/Her: You make many mistakes
He/Him: You don't understand, because you don't make mistakes.
She/Her: You are my biggest mistake.

The Ringleader

The very pretty village of Lourmarin in Provence-Alpes-Côte d'Azur is about an hour south-east of Avignon. It has a sumptuous Renaissance castle which is booked for the glamorous and extravagant annual grand-fête of the Anonymous Association of Ornament Removal (AAOOR). That weekend, the number of Rolls-Royces, Bentleys and Maybachs parked locally rivals Monaco, Qatar or Knightsbridge in London. Originally, the local council was against hosting the world's most famous jewel thieves, but seeing how much money came in, they quickly changed their mind and welcomed them warmly. 

Extravagantly dressed people make their way to the castle's the ball room. A clever observer would notice that nobody wore jewelry, zero, not even wedding rings! How strangely bare the Balenciaga gowns of the ladies looked without their rings, bracelets and necklaces as did the gentlemen's Brioni,  Dormeuil and William Westmancott suits sans their usual Audemars-Piguet, Vacheron Constantin or Rolex President Edition watches. 

Jewel theft is an extremely lucrative business and these were its crème de la crème. The event was to award prizes for last year's individual haul with the dollar figures aggregated  by Meyer & Herzberger LLC from Universal Insurance Agents yearly reports and could not be contested.

After the opulent dinner, the chairman went to the front with the envelopes for the three categories: Most Necklaces (Necklaceleader), Most Rings (Ringleader), Most Overall (Mostleader). Drumroll ... Ayelle B, won for Necklaces, then, unexpectedly, the Mostleader was announced which went to Virginia X. The audience was stirring and whispering when the chairman announced that this year the Ringleader diploma will not be awarded. Rumors were that whoever won broke the AAOOR conduct code by returning loot.

Earlier there was a disturbance at the gate when an veteran member was not all. He was shouting that he was the legitimate Ringleader and he gave back one ring by mistake. When he was later asked by reporters how he felt about being disqualified, he said that he can only compare it with having an arm and a leg chopped off.     

How it really was and how it really happened

This happened long time ago when there were no people, there was no Dharma, there were only birds in the sky, animals on land and fish in the sea. It was decided that the world needed heart, soul and mind and a triumvirate was formed: the unicorns had the soul, the fish had the heart and the cats had the mind. Everybody was happy (it seemed). The cats, of course, weren't happy (they are above silly notions like happy/unhappy) but they had a plan (cats always have a plan). They figured out that the unicorns have a master unit, the holder of all unicorn knowledge and skills. All the others just mimic, imitate and copy what the master does. The cats tracked down the master, killed it and the unicorns quickly died out. Without their chief, they didn't know how to feed and reproduce. 

There was an inquest (there's always one when a species becomes extinct). Everybody figured that the cats must've done it but there was no proof and the decision was to move on. They just implanted the unicorn concept into the general consciousness, gave it a symbolic meaning and associated it with French Vanilla flavour. 

The fish thought they were safe. They were 6'4", weighed 250 lbs and were strong, built like props (a reference to a rugby player position). Cat hydrophobia was well known and it was thought that it was enough to keep them away from the fish environment.

At about that time people started showing up in greater numbers and in various places. When the cats noticed a handsome redhead walking on the beach, they killed her and cut her into two. The head of the fish patrol came to see what it was all about and the cats killed it too and cut it into two. The cats were under caution for things they had allegedly done, so they didn't want to press their luck and they glued two halves together and threw the new creature, half girl half fish, back into the sea. They sprayed the special dust that made anybody who saw this thing and talked about it  not to be believed. To animate it they used the S1 App release E version N. It was awkward to pronounce so everybody called them siren. The new fish, made from the pieces left, was also brought to life with the Sa App version D, release N and was rebooted as S1aRDn (awkward to pronounce so they dubbed sardine). It turned out to be a rather small, silvery fish, oily, delicious with no intention to be the keeper of the heart. 

After a while there were more and more people and the world started to look, sound and feel much like what you now see, hear and feel: a lot of mind, very little heart and even less soul. Meanwhile, the cats wait and watch ... the cats may have another plan.

M. De Kuyper

De Kuyper appeared, as he always did shiny and translucent at the same tine, sitting in the corner of my room. When he saw the look on my face, he quickly said, "Don't start again."

Everyone can see De Kuyper if they know how and where to look. He is the keeper of memories and everything remembered. Very few know that people don't have memories and that they don't remember anything. What they get is just what De Kuyper gives, according to his unknowable rules and his impenetrable algorithm.

From my many long talks with him, I still have only a vague idea. I know that when you die, all your memories die with you—and then, in that moment only, you get to see everything (ALL).

I always argued that it was too late, and useless, and cruel—bitter, brutal, and callous, but De Kuyper just smiled crookedly and shrugged.

De Kuyper doesn't admit it, but he clearly favors the young over the old. The young get a lot of stuff fast. The old get more stuff from childhood and youth, but not "what they had for breakfast the other day" or "why am I in this room?" When he is too busy and he doesn't get around to everybody in time, he gives a lapsus that some people physically perceive as on the tip of their tongue.

I always thought he liked me, until one day he said he liked no one and hated no one. "You're all the same to me," he said, but he enjoys interacting with the few who could see him and talk to him.

One day I said something (I don't remember what) that upset him and made him sad. He clearly wanted to make up and offered, "C'mon, what do you want to see? August 1961?" When I said, "I don't care," he continued, "How about that goal you scored that put your team in the final?" "We lost the final. Don't remind me. I want to see ALL."

De Kuyper shook his head and told me that I will see it the day I die. 

"But ALL is a lot of stuff. How long do I have to look at it?"

De Kuyper said, "You have an eternity."

I got angry, "And how long is an eternity?"

He looked straight at me, as if I should have known: "Eternity is sometimes as long as one second."

And that's how I got the Painting

See the overprint "5 NOUVEAU FRANCS" on the original 500 Francs bill

I was last in Paris in June 1962, and everybody remembers that horrible summer: cold, windy, and raining almost every day, I rented rooms on a small street off Rue des Écoles, with cobblestones glistening wet—so much so that one day I slipped and hurt my ankle, most painfully but a kind neighbor called an ambulance, and we drove to Salpêtrière on Boulevard de l’Hôpital, assuring me it was the best hospital in Paris—probably in all of France, upon entering the emergency room, I saw Geneviève, the chief nurse, a tall, handsome woman in her mid-forties with dark hair and light-blue eyes who examined me and said that nothing was broken, likely a sprain, and that Monsieur le Docteur would come soon—Dr. Planchette, as we continued a very pleasant conversation, alas often interrupted when she had to do head-nurse stuff, always smiling, saying all would be fine, she told me her family history: her husband, Jean-Jacques, a painter, was born in a house on Rue Malebranche in le cinquième, where they still lived with la grand-mère (82), maman (68), and their son Claude-Pierre (9), who studied violin and the house was big, pleasant with a beautiful wrought-iron gate and a large backyard with three old black walnut trees and where Jean-Jacques kept his studio in the shed and every year in late May, they picked green walnuts for the excellent jam that la grand-mère and maman made using only three ingredients: walnuts, calcium chloride, and sugar (a lot of sugar) and they boiled it down until it was thick and dark  but the fruit still crunchy, they made 40–50 jars, carefully labeled with the year which they took, usually, in early July, to a stand they rented at Les Halles (still there then, until 1973) and the jam sold for 300 francs, upon seeing my face, Geneviève quickly added anciens francs—de Gaulle had stabilized the currency, introducing the franc nouveau, worth 100 old francs but people still spoke in anciens, so a jar went for three francs (about $1.35), just then, a tall, thin gentleman nearing sixty came to my gurney and introduced himself as Docteur Planchette and confirmed the sprain—entorse de la cheville, pas grave—then turned to the orderly holding a bucket with a chalky liquid from which he took soaked bandages to wrap my ankle, and sent the orderly for crutches, telling me to return in two weeks when he would remove the bandages.

Geneviève came by again and said I should come to their house for dinner as her husband picks her up with the car—proudly she added that it was a Citroën 2CV, she said that every Wednesday maman made cassoulet with haricots from Tarbes, l’Occitanie and she always made more than enough and Geneviève smiled as I accepted so I spent the next hour and a half reading day-old newspapers when, at seven, a tall, nice-looking guy—clearly Jean-Jacques—walked in, greeted everyone, kissed Geneviève who said something to him, so he came over smiling, shook my hand, and asked if I needed help to the car and when I asked if we could stop for flowers and a box of candy as a gift he said “Not a problem, I know just the spot” so, about half an hour later, we pushed open the heavy but splendid wrought-iron gate, once inside I met the two ladies and young boy, all very friendly, coming to kiss me on both cheeks (as it was the custom) and we were ushered into the dining room at the back of the house, with a view of the backyard through monumental French doors, the table was set, and light red wine was poured—even for young Claude-Pierre and maman, smiling proudly brought in, from the kitchen, a huge earthenware casserole (they also called it a toupin), which she set in the middle of the table and served us with a grand silver ladle: la grand-mère first, then me (as guest), then Jean-Jacques, Geneviève, Claude-Pierre, and finally herself, the cassoulet was superb—piping hot, dark brown, with chunks of shiny smoked duck, sausages, bacon, and white beans glistening like pearls and we dunked golden crusts of baguette in the thick sauce, a feast for all senses and for a long while  the only sounds were the clinking spoons, the slurping, and satisfied chewing, when finally the meal was crowned by the celebrated green walnut confiture, served in beautiful porcelain dishes and we sat in deep contentment as the table was cleared and coffee appeared, so Claude-Pierre was sent for his violin to “entertain the guest”, he laid down a barely recognizable allegretto of a Mozart sonata, then beamed as we applauded and retired for bed—school tomorrow.

We continued conversing pleasantly while I looked at this handsomely painted landscape of a river bend with trees and houses and when Jean-Jacques saw me looking, he said it was the Seine, just outside Villeneuve-Saint-Georges and asked: “Are you interested in the piece?” and when I said that I was, he named his price, me blinking bewildered—then he laughed and said “anciens,” so I gave him the money and Geneviève brought brown packing paper and twine and made an elegant parcel upon which we moved to the complex choreography of taking leave—my praise for the meal, their appreciation, promises of future visits and they insisted I take a jar of jam—marked in blue ink, Mois de Mai 1961 and they phoned for a taxi, which arrived promptly with the meter already running—850 francs and the driver saying “anciens, tarif de nuit,” he proceeded maneuvering his Peugeot 403 through the empty past-midnight streets of Paris while smoking his pungent Gitanes Brune all the way to my place where I paid him and waved away the change—“c’est pour vous” so I huffed and puffed up the stairs on crutches to my room where I put the painting on the piano, leaning it against the wall and admired it and that's how I got the painting. Yes

LaviniaB5

Of all the girls I ever loved, Lavinia had the most beautiful eyes. She entered my life on a Wednesday slipping into the seat behind me in the auditorium. I turned to look. When Lavinia smiled, I was struck. My heart skipped a beat. The rest of the lecture became a blurr. I kept glancing back making sure she was still there. Finally class was over. I said something silly: "Did anyone tell you how most beautiful your eyes are?" Lavinia smiled again: "I was waiting for you to say it". I walked her home "Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky"‡, She said she studies French Literature, had no idea how she ended up in my Chemistry class. In front of her house we kissed and decided to see each other  every day until forever. "We sat together in the park, as the evening sky grew dark"‡‡. We both loved Dylan (Thomas) and T.S. Elliot and e. e. cummings and agreed that we knew nothing except that "children guessed(but only a few and down they forgot as up they grew ..."‡‡‡. We weren't together long "Wie lange sind sie schon beisammen? Seit kurzem. Und wann werden sie sich trennen? Bald."‡‡‡‡. Two Tuesdays later I run across the street rushing to catch a bus to meet Lavinia. A car came out of nowhere. I died instantly. Here, where I am now, the rules are strict: time does not exist and I can just watch her. Lavinia lives in Tours, Centre-Val de Loire, France in a house close to Pont Wilson. She teaches Yoga. Her husband owns a factory for water-proof ceramic objects. They have a daughter Michelle (whom she calls Mikki). Mikki is a model and an actress. I visit every Wednesday night. Every Tuesday I weep (or do what crying is here "unde nu sunt lacrimi")‡‡‡‡‡. 

_________________________________________________________________________

‡ T.S. Elliot, Prufrock  

‡‡ R. Zimmerman, A Simple Twist of Faith

‡‡‡ e.e. cummings,[anyone lived in a pretty how town]

‡‡‡‡ "How long have you been together? Short time. And when will you break up? Soon" Brecht, Die Liebenden

‡‡‡‡‡ "Where there are no tears", St. Serafin de Sarov

On Nature, Instincts, Aspirations and Incentives of Doings

We meet every second Tuesday of the month at El Chaveta on Olive to discuss, debate and declare on subjects of common and general interest.

The other day, our subject was "Boyfriend v. Husband"*, which dealt with females in a committed relationship having an external liaison (commonly known as cheating). Before the debate we had a show of hands to "I've cheated" and were satisfied that we have an expert panel. Most of us were familiar with the groundbreaking Sonntag, Cappellacci et al. research that found that about two thirds (sometimes as high as three quarters) of relationships have had cheating and that it is the leading cause  of breakdowns (or breakups). 

We all agreed that males cheat more and are more likely to be repeat, frequent or chronic cheaters while females are more likely to "know" (as they possess female intuition and males are less careful, women are also more likely to go through the pockets, wallets, phones of partners and less likely to accept a perfectly logical and innocent explanation of "lipstick on shirt collar" instead jumping to conclusions, even confronted with the "but I can explain" or "it's not what you think"). We also conceded that males often feel less guilty (as they easier construct justifications and rationalizations) but females are more prone to forgive (as they are naturally wiser and kinder). Everybody concurred that sneaking around and the constant fear of  being found out is stressful and, in time, becomes a burden. It was agreed that there is no such thing as a "first offence pardon", once caught it is either curtains or radical acceptance. We could not agree if cheating weakens or strengthens the relationship, couldn't say if the boyfriend is entitled to be jealous of the husband, nor were we unanimous that a "voluntary reveal" is ever a good idea.

After a spirited deliberation, argumentation and cogitation, we still were at a loss to explain why, if logistics are horrendous and consequences disastrous, so we still do it? Probably closest to an answer is what Ivan Krylov, La Fontaine (and before them Aesop) told us about "The scorpion and the frog" yeah?
______________________________________________________________________________ 

* a  previous session's topic was "Wives v. Girlfriends?"

Of How the Roads lead North (or East)

Walking briskly, she caught up to me on that lovely early morning just outside Salamanca on the road to Zamora. I looked at her and thought I saw true Thracian traits*. 

I had my backpack and she had a bag slung over one shoulder.  I asked: "What's in the bag?" she smiled and said "Binoculars and jewels" so I asked: "And your name is Johanna, right?" She smiled and replied "No, I'm Kalina", that's when I knew she knew I knew. So, as confirmed hard-core Dylan fans, we walked on and talked about subjects of general interest: Chemistry, Physics, and, inevitably, Math. Eventually, we arrived at the controversial topic of the Nabla Operator and it quickly became apparent that we were on opposite sides of the dispute. Kalina firmly believed in the Arrosto-Zwiebelburg solution whereas I trusted the Jackson Lamb interpretation. We took turns quoting arguments that favored only our side, knowing fully well that we wouldn't change each other's minds. It was a friendly debate and we savored it. By this time the sun was quite high in the sky and we started looking for a suitable place for the midday break. We just passed Santiz and there was a huge black oak just at the fork in the road: ideal. I took from my backpack bread, some Manchego, and half a bottle of Rioja. Kalina contributed two great-looking apples. We had a very pleasant lunch. We were commenting on how, these days, so very few people embrace and enjoy our way of traveling per pedes apostolorum. Kalina was just saying she was planning to take the road to the right towards Zamora, I would continue left towards Miranda do Duoro to reach Santiago in a little over a week, when I wondered aloud if we would ever meet again. She said that it depends. "What does it depend on?" She replied, "I'll ask you a question. If you answered 'Yes' we'll meet one more time, if you said 'No' we'll meet twice more". We both laughed and rested a bit longer after which we packed up our stuff, said our goodbyes and went our ways waving at each other until out of sight. 

Suddenly I remembered that Kalina never got around to asking me her question ...  so I guess I'll never know!

________________________________________

* The author uses the tr-tr-tr construction to create the impression of a trepidation movement (n. ed.) 

One Takes Advice from Anywhere of Anything

This is Aina Rakotomanga, the sweetest kid you'll ever want to know. We met, went for coffee, and I asked her if she’d like to be featured in my blog. She said yes and shared her story with me. Her mom was pregnant when they came to Toronto from Madagascar and gave birth to Aina at Mount Sinai Hospital. They rented an apartment in St. Jamestown, where Aina's mom, Linah, cleaned and cooked for people.

More than 95% of women born in Madagascar and their direct female descendants share a curious physical trait: their hips are twice as wide as their shoulders. It’s an unexplained "gene thing." For as long as she can remember, Aina's nickname, was "Hips" and she didn’t mind. She did well in school, went on to study Social Sciences, graduated with a major in Communications, and found a job managing the busy office of a downtown software company.

 

I asked her what skill, talent, or quirky hobby she has that might make for an interesting blog entry, and her answer was intriguing: she can find a downtown public parking spot in under three minutes—every time. It’s uncanny! A TV producer, a sister of a friend, did a segment on Aina, taking her on the Channel 6 camera truck for a few days during peak hours. Following her instructions and directions, they found a public parking spot every time. It was nothing short of a miracle. When the segment aired, the TV station’s switchboard lit up as people called in for details, advice, and to ask for more drives.

Aina went on to create a booklet and a YouTube channel, both called Tips from Hips, and they were both huge successes.

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 

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* 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.