“I ran into to one of your old CFRB colleagues the other day,” Paddy said as I joined him on the coffee shop patio. “He suggested that I ask you about the time you refused to interview Pavarotti. Did you really refuse to interview one of the world’s all-time greatest opera singers?”
“Yes,” I replied.
After a few moments of silence, Paddy realized I wasn’t going to elaborate so he pushed on, “How the hell did that happen?”
“It’s a long story,” I said, continuing my evasion, even though I knew it wasn’t going to work.
“I’m retired,” Paddy said, “not only do I have all day, I’ve actually got the rest of my life to hear it.”
“OK,” I relented. But as that particular decision wasn’t one of my finer moments, I didn’t especially want to relive it, so I continued to stall by slowly sipping my coffee.
“Will you get on with it!” an exasperated Paddy exclaimed.
I began, “Betty Kennedy, who had a very popular afternoon show ....”
“I know who Betty Kennedy was,” Paddy crankily interrupted.
“…..was on vacation,” I continued as if he hadn’t, “and I was filling in for her.”
I took another couple of sips of coffee before going on. “Betty’s show was on from three to four in the afternoon. On my way downtown in the morning I would stop off at CFRB, which was then at Yonge and St. Clair, and, as you know, very close to my home. I’d go over our plans for that day’s show with Betty’s producer, a wonderfully talented woman by the name of Irene Wilson, and then tape an interview or two before continuing down to my office. I’d come back up to CFRB about two-thirty, do the show, including one or two live interviews, and then go home and work in my home office for the rest of the day.”
“Pretty damn slow-moving so far,” Paddy admonished.
“You said you had the rest of your life,” I reminded him before going on with the story.
“The first morning, Irene informed me there was a three-day international psychic symposium at the convention center and that she had lined up one of the world’s most well-known prognosticators, The Great Mario, for my first interview” (Editorial note: Not his real name, but he did have a distinctive Italian name.”)
I continued, “The ‘interview’ turned out to be a disaster. The Great Mario had nothing whatsoever interesting to say. For example, I asked him what some of his most famous prophecies had been and he said there were far too many to choose from. When I asked him what percentage of his predictions came true, he smugly replied ‘thirty-two percent.’ I told him I figured I had about a fifty-fifty chance of predicting the outcome most things, so I didn’t think thirty-two percent was anything to brag about. When the Great Mario asked me what time the interview would be broadcast I told him he should be able to tell me that and shut things down. We never did use the interview.”
“OK,” Paddy asked, “so what has all this got to do with Pavarotti, other than he was an Italian, like Mario.”
“That’s actually what caused the problem,” I told him.
“OK, you’re finally getting to the point,” Paddy grumped. “Go on.”
“The next morning when I arrived at CFRB, Irene was all agog, and clapping her hands together gushed, ‘I’ve lined up the great (emphasis mine) Pavarotti for a live interview this afternoon!’ I told her I wouldn’t do it. She protested that it was the only interview he agreed to do while in Toronto. I said I didn’t care. She begged, but I wouldn’t budge.”
“Good grief!” an incredulous Paddy blurted, “why in God’s name did you refuse to interview him?”
“I thought he was another psychic,” I answered.
“You didn’t know who Pavarotti was?” asked Paddy, even more incredulously.
“No,” I admitted, “but I sure found out that evening when I told Anne about my day.”