Mountains and Islands

I broke my own person treadmill record yesterday, jogging four miles in 45:30.  That's pretty slow by most standards, but it's Speedy Gonzales for me.  I ran to Michael Jackson as my version of a tribute, so maybe that's why the feet flew so fast.  I defy anyone to listen to Jam and not move.   What a day; Michael, Farrah and the incessant rain. Farrah Faucet lived life on her own terms.  She was beautiful and smart.  When faced with a terminal disease, she fought the good fight.   Cheers to you, Farrah. I remember where I was when Elvis died.  I had seen him in concert (with my parents, no less) just a month earlier.  I can also picture the exact moment when I heard the news about John Lennon.  My friend and soon-to-be-housemate Lori and I were moving a mattress on the top of my Volkswagon Beetle to our new digs.  We were holding onto the plastic handles through open windows in a futile attempt to keep the thing from catching air as we crept along.  The two of us gasped w

Not much has happened worth writing about the past week.  It's been a mixture of rain and sun, enough rain to make it squishy and enough sun to encourage the grass to grow and the blossoms to pop on the coffee trees.  There a bunch of fat apple bananas hanging from the rafters of the front lanai, waiting to ripen.  It's pretty much poured all day today, making the kitties stir crazy, wrestling on the couch, toppling the recycling bin full of soda cans on the back lanai.  The dogs are bored silly, lying around with forlorn expressions, their chins resting on the floor between their front paws.  I could have taken them for walks today in the torrent, but opted to stay dry for once.  Dry- er anyway. This morning I ventured to Kea'au, where I shot this photo of the giant lychee tree in the parking lot.  You can just make out the ripe, red fruits.  The lychee on the bottom of the tree always gets picked, but the trees grow so tall that most of the ripe juicy beauties at the top

They love each other like typical siblings.  One minute they're all cuddly, like this.  The next, their initiating body slams and chomping on each others' jugulars.  I had a bit of a start the other day.  It happened in the laundry room.  I say this like it's some far-away wing of my vast mansion.  It's a small offshoot from the kitchen.  Stooped over the edge of my top loader, I gripped and tugged at wet sheets that were wrung tight and smashed against the sidewalls inside the washer's basin, listening to Jack Johnson in the background, wondering, "Where'd all the good people go?" just like Jack, relishing the mindlessness of my chore.  Once the wad was free, I hurled it into the open dryer, slammed the door, set the timer and pushed the button.  At first tumble, I heard a loud thud and wondered if the dryer, like all my other appliances, was about to expire.  A few more bumps had me worried.  You can see where this is going, right?  I opened the door