...and yet another perfectly chilled day in paradise

When I came down this morning to get my espresso fix, I heard a rather loud emphatic voice outside. Peering through the front blinds, I saw the fellow who took on our wall repair in what seemed to be heated explication before his crew of hombres. I thought I heard the word "fucking" uttered a few times, but I decided I really didn't want to know what he was saying to them, and wandered back to the kitchen to get my coffee. Maybe he was just speaking loudly so they'd understand...
Had a bit of a climbing session at the gym, then a nice walk with my husband. We've been wondering what precipitated Hunter S. Thompson's self-destruction. The friend I climbed with this afternoon had never heard of him, which surprised me, since she's old enough to have done so. Another climbing associate there who's not yet 30 had read some of his books, and showed appreciation for Dr. Gonzo. "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" was so insane that I remember laughing until I hurt. "The Curse of Lono", while less frantic than "Fear," etc, was nutty, purporting to depict a family vacation Thompson and his longtime collaborator, Ralph Steadman, took on a godforsaken stretch of Hawaiian coast. According to one source, Thompson was in a fair amount of pain from various bodily ailments. Still, 67 seems young - well, young-ish - to me.
And off again to the race to the end of the book.