One year ago today: March 3, 2017, electric wiring anniversary, coincidence?
Five years ago today: March 3, 2013, milk & Italian cookies.
Nine years ago today: March 3, 2009, my nemesis.
Random years ago today: March 3, 2016, the new breed of criminals.
Where am I? All morning has been like walking around in a fog. Ah, this is central Florida. But wait, the fogs here are very light and burn off right after sunrise. So maybe I’m having a dozy day, which means head straight for the coffee pot, then find a good book. And “Chromosome 6” is finally meeting that standard. We have us a potential problem, a teller check cashed on January 26, but not cleared until the following month’s statement. Problem, I was not in Ft. Lauderdale on that date, making it impossible for me to have been in that bank. But I’m not going to pursue this until I get back on track here.
Meanwhile, “Chromosome 6” has developed a plot. The reader is supposed to think that a big corporation has set up a lab in the jungle, where bonobo apes, a close genetic relative of humans, are bred to be a “double” of some client who needs an organ transplant. The apes are kept on a private island until needed, when the matching animal is killed for the donor parts. But something is not adding up. The corporation set up the business like a multi-level marketing scheme. This works in that everybody keeps an eye on everybody else.
When one of their clients is murdered, the corporation panics. They had not anticipated an autopsy, and it turns out the dead mobster is not the only such glitch. It seems another transplant is a suicide risk, which are always examined after death. Now the corporation is doing business with the mob. Just bear in mind it takes over 100 pages before things get this interesting. The lab procedures had me looking up the odd fact, and it seems chromosome 6 is one of the ‘short’ shapes you see on DNA charts. There are X and Y chromosomes, but at least of the X type has one leg shorter than the other. According to the story, this one is more important than the others.
Don’t quote me on this, my research in this field is limited. But I think it may be the chromosome that determines if any foreign DNA is in an individual’s system. Turn it off, and you don’t get organ rejection? It’s not plain in the book, which has now taken a turn toward dramatics. The nerd scientist teams up with the two blondest babes in the middle of the jungle because they think the island of apes with the human genes have learned to use fire.
[Author’s note: bonobo apes are not the closest relative to mankind. That distinction goes to the chimpanzee. Much study has centered on these two groups for clues to human behavior. Sources vary, but the bonobos are very social and exist in large groups, while chimpanzees are more aggressive and split into smaller groups that will fight each other. The difference? Well, you might want to look that up on your own. You see, in bonobo colonies, all the females are constantly receptive to all males.
What the studies don’t tell you is that to make bonobos aggressive you only need to restrict the males from all that constant free sex. The males become very chimpanzee-like in possessiveness, competition, and you can draw the parallels with human monogamy and marriage to spot plenty of parallels in that department.]
Monaco.
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What’s this? Another cold front on the way? It’s Russian weather control, pure and simple. How else could Trump have been elected? Half this day was wasted on the usual chasing around. When your Florida business is closed for renovations, put a tiny sign in the window. But leave on the flashing highway sign. That way, people don’t know you are closed until they pull in, park, and walk up to the door. Right, Progressive Insurance? After all, you are insurance professionals, and your definition of professional has nothing to do with customer service. That’s a different department.
Later, I went downtown for a few. Hey, it’s Saturday. The situation was exactly as expected, but there was one thing I sure liked. While my diet is not shedding pounds, it has again made me lighter on my feet. Here’s one for you. Have you ever noticed how some people position themselves so that others have to bump into them or brush against them to get past? If not, you don’t know my brothers, but anyway, I developed an aversion to such types by the time I was eight years of age. If Taylor wants to smack into me, fine, but all others please keep your distance.
[Author’s note: this is not my imagination and I’ve documented it by video long ago. Strange as it sounds, people do bump or brush me more often than usual, particularly when I’m sitting down. It’s easy to say I must be imagining things or somehow contributing, but that can hardly explain how often it happens when my back is turned or I’m reading in a corner. These incidents are a real phenomenon for me.]
Well, I used to be very nimble at avoiding these little ‘collisions’ but I’ve been overweight so long I forgot. Now that I have the same body strength moving a lighter mass, I subconsciously am dodging such people again. Tonight, two or three groups of fatsos broads and bubbas were blocking the path to the Karaoke stage, so anybody who was called up had squeeze past. I surprised myself each time how I could glide right through such a crowd without touching anybody—and by their reaction, it surprised them, too. I guess it’s really nothing, but I’m light enough on my feet again that I’m subconsciously avoiding these contacts again.
Those who want to fun the gauntlet, fine, but not me. If it was attractive females, fine, but I don’t care for most sorts who socially press the flesh.
ADDENDUM
The club, I gleefully mention, is the same one around a year ago I grumbled about that idiot Karaoke dork who intentionally messed up the music whenever I did a country song. He was pushing his broadway material, a brand of music I just tune out. Anyway, over the past year I’ve watched how the crowd has totally turned Saturdays at that club into country music night whether he liked it or not. I wasn’t there to see it most of the time, but go in there on a weekend now, and there is nothing but classic country. Don’t worry, he remembers I’m the one that told him so.
The snag is that it is mostly men singing these mournful laments about lost love. C’mon guys, grow a pair. Take it like a man and keep it to yourselves. This is America, you know, John Wayne territory. This, you know, means I can get up there with any of my material and take the trophy. No comparison. A couple of regulars have picked up on my act, like memorizing the lyrics, but they have dud stage personalities. Everybody is just too polite when they try to tell a joke. Anyway, you might find it prophetic that I can read the crowd not only better, but a year in advance, too.
Think of it this way. These performers can understand that you would not play heavy metal at the old folk’s home on Sunday morning. Nor would they argue success because one or two old ladies who previously thought they were deaf suddenly applauded the show. Yet these same performers will play monotonous guitar ballads to a 35-plus bar on Saturday night and argue that one or two drunks were clapping. Why, if the Hippie was in town, I’d have him elaborate on this.
Last Laugh
(Some people need to be told.)
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