Monday, Monday
I wish I could say I was surprised by this nypost.com headline: “Eric Adams campaign volunteer stabbed in South Bronx.” Or this snippet from an article by Stephanie Pagones at foxnews.com: “At least eight people were fatally shot and dozens were injured during parties or gatherings on or related to the Juneteenth holiday in seven parts of the country.”
Another NYP headline: “NYC progressives are going to lose the Dem primary to soaring crime.” In my mind they’re all progressives. They would lose only if Curtis Sliwa, running as a Republican, wins in November.
What a story at the 121st U.S. Open. Two weeks ago Spain’s John Rahm had a six-shot lead after three rounds of the Memorial tournament in Ohio. He then tested positive for Covid and had to withdraw. Yesterday he won his first major with a birdie-birdie finish, six under par, edging out South Africa’s Louis Oosthuizen. Only twelve players finished below par, two at even. The dad of a newborn wins on Father’s Day — love it!
Contagion is a common theme in sci-fi. It is the basis of The Chameleon Variant by Carol K. Mack and David Ehrenfeld, the latter an MD and PhD. An effective thriller set in 1980, before cell phones and PCs, it would play well even at present. The story is simple. A group of teens in a small, affluent Connecticut town break into a lab where a secret experiment is underway. Infection occurs, resulting in odd behavior that soon begins spreading to others. The local doctor, new to the community, investigates and meets roadblocks. The writing is solid and fast paced, the 256 pages reading like considerably less. Although the body count is not high, some may be turned off by the death of kids. The science seems plausible and is occasionally technical. There are too many exclamation points. Still, this is a good read. Curiously, it is Ehrenfeld’s only book. Mack has a collaboration of non-fiction and a collection of three plays to her credit. The Chameleon Variant’s ranking at Amazon is 23 million+. It’s mindboggling that the site offers so many titles — a wonder of modern life appreciated by those of us at the bottom of the literary totem pole.
For the first time in many moons I did not play guitar this morning. I’d awakened at four-thirty and felt so groggy by nine I thought it best to take an early nap before going out to do the book shop. Although it was muggy, the clouds and breeze took the bite out of the heat. Dave delivered the last of his DVD satchels. When he asked how many books I’ve written, I gave him a copy of my novella, Class of ’67, as a thank you. That satchel and the one that had remained were both bought by Wolf, who also took home six of the DVDs Ann had donated during the weekend. Lou purchased three more of those, and a young man selected two novels with spiritual themes: The Shack by William P. Young and The Tenth Insight: Holding the Vision by James Redfield; and my constant benefactress insisted on paying for How to Stop Worrying and Start Living by Dale Carnegie; and a woman came along as I was packing up and selected three hardcovers in Russian; and a young woman gave me ice cream. My thanks to all those kind folks. Despite all that, the highlight of the session was what Nell revealed about her brother’s 15-year struggle with heroin. She didn’t speak to him the last five. Finally, he was admitted, after a six-month wait, to rehab in London, where he worked in antiques. He spent 18 months kicking the habit. Whenever he was allowed to leave the facility he was accompanied by a chaperone. His wife, a teacher, kicked the habit on her own. Nell said: “Truth is stranger than fiction.” It often is.
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