It was a beautiful day today. Perfect. One in a million. Literally. So I jumped into the convertible for a joyride. OK the convertible is a tractor and the joyride is mowing the lawn, but still, it was a fantastic day. There I was, cutting around the old tangerine tree, hitting old, moldy fruits that had fallen to the ground, hearing the thud as the blades whacked the dense blobs hiding in the grass. Fuzzy and nasty as they are, they smell great when you whir over them. So great, it inspired me to sing, and of course, what else would I croon but that age old masterpiece from the 60s, Hey Mister Tangerine Man. "Hey mister tangerine man, make some juice for me. I'm not normal and, there ain't no place I'm going to (except the assylum).... Hey mister tangerine man, splat some fruit for me, in the jingle jangle morning I'll be co-mitted soon." Yes, it's a classic.
So there I was, mowing away, cutting grass, grinding up sticks and anything in my path, when I came upon a toad cowering between a bag of potting soil and the wall of Ron's new compost pile.
"Don't worry little critter," I said. "I am Toni Toad and would never harm a hapless creature such as yourself, never mind that you are a poisonous, invasive species. That's not your fault. That's our fault. Humans. But this human would never grind you into amphibious fertilizer. Never on purpose anyway. There are oodles toads in and around the yard and even more tiny lizards. Lizards are not amphibians, of course. They are reptiles. I remember that from elementary school. I see these small fry hop or slither away, darting this way and that, taking refuge under trees or hunkering into holes. I like to think they all get away, they all escape the blades, but I suspect that's not true. I suspect it, but I don't want to think about it. For you little guys pulverized into mulch, I am truly sorry. For the lawn must be mowed. Why, I don't know. It's something we humans are compelled to do. We are driven to, "develop" the world.
Earlier, I went to the Volcano farmers' market to pick up some coffee, a sticky bun, some chicken-veggie curry, lettuce, tomatoes, zucchini, a packet of tea and the big score; fish. There was a guy selling something from the back of his truck. His sign said, "Fresh Fish." I asked what it was, fully expecting him to say, "Ahi." That's what they always say. It's all tuna, all the time here in Hawaii, the population with the highest concentration of mercury in the bloodstream of any state in the union. I am a little sick of Ahi (unless it's tucked with some wasabi and a tiny slice of cucumber into a sushi roll), and tuna in general, never mind that it's not good for you to eat more than once a week. So when he said, "Ono," I was pleasantly surprised.
"How much?" I asked.
"Six dollars a pound," he said and opened his cooler. I expected to see whole fish; head, fins, tail, silently screaming, "Gut me. Clean me." Instead, I saw big, fat filets, wrapped in plastic.
"Sold," I said, and bought enough to feed myself tonight and stock the freezer for several meals. Ono is, well ono, as in onolicious; a nice, flakey, slightly dense white fish. It's also known as wahoo. Good stuff. Less mercury. Ono.
Ron has flown away to Las Vegas. He will be there a couple of days, then travel on to visit clients in Arizona and California. He is in Vegas, but his luggage is in Seattle. That's inconvenient. Hawaiian Airlines' Seattle baggage center called me this morning and I have called them back three times since, only to get their answering service. They have yet to return my call to confirm that they got my message and the bags are en-route to the Golden Nugget, downtown Sin City. Ron said they don't even give you a toothbrush and a comb like they used to when they lost your luggage. They charged him $15 to check it this time, which makes it all the more infuriating. You pay them to take your suitcase far, far away. It's a mad world.
And speaking of Mad World, I downloaded Adam Lambert's version of that song. That boy is gifted. I'll buy his records, for sure. I swear, if I were twenty-five years younger, I'd become a groupy.
Lucy just slunk into the room as only Lucy can do. For a mostly blind kitty, she's smooth. That means, of course, that I've got to pet the queen, so must free my hands from this keyboard to do so.
A hui hou. Aloha!
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