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.