Floaters, third-culture kids, sojourners. David Brooks’ op-ed yesterday describes in succinct detail why Barack Obama’s status as all of these appeals to me.

Feeling particularly lonely today.

Two photos, separated by almost a year from my friends Lucia and Libby—both amazing, fearless climbers, one a scientist, one a nurse, both awesome. Both gonna save your life one day.

I like dim sum. Lots.

(via Jenny)

Hawaii Five-O! Being in Oahu, a child of the 80s, and subject to the constant onslaught of Lost theoreticians, a common inhabitant of The Internets, I’m constantly pricked by subtle reminders of television: Ferraris in Waikiki evoking Magnum, P.I., the pork-belly lava cliffs of Makapu‘u no-longer tread by Jack and Kate on a trip around the Island, and the North Shore and freeways, unable to speak for themselves find voice in every single guidebook we’ve brought. I’m unsure how to react to the assumption of the writers about their readers—not only familiar with Hawaii Five-O, but television being the zenith of common experience.

Speaking of bellies, mine is now well sunburnt from our trip to Diamond Head. Learned to surf! Yeah!

We rented surfboards from the very excellent Kimo’s Surf Hut in Kailua, and tomorrow we’re renting road bikes from The Bike Shop for a ride north, counterclockwise around the windward coast to Kaena Point. To pair with The Bike Shop, there’s also The Bus (warning: site crashes Safari).

I wish you could rent diesel or hybrid cars on the island. I also wish there was a diesel series hybrid car with all-wheel drive that got a million MPG. And while we’re at it, world peace and a pony.

The in-jokes have multiplied, variously contributed to via card games with Melody and Red Stripe and hypoglycemic drives to Waikiki. We found a better organic food store, their proprietor referring to The Other Place as having “old” items on the shelves, and “not so nice” produce. We concurred, and pillaged their stock of Aloe for The Sunburn before heading back to the ranch for dinner interleaved with episodes of Top Gear and Project Runway. Typographically speaking, Bravo’s interstitials were kind of pleasing, not unlike the Pepsi Slurpee I also had yesterday. Guilty pleasures, indeed.

I miss my track bike.

(via Zucket)

Franz von Holzhausen is moving to Tesla Motors to helm their design dept. Franz’ earlier work included the very hot Mazda Furai concept, running E100. Now he turns to ‘lectric vehicles. Nerdy car swoon, indeed.

(via AutoblogGreen)

Edit: Bonus ABG link: Audi TT TDi test drive!

Inevitably on vacation I’m injured. In Japan it was scarlet fever, this winter in New York I had The Cold, two summers ago in Kona I slashed my foot open on a rock the first time I stepped into the ocean. This time, I was stung by a Portuguese Man o’ War. Well, two of them. Babies.

These little fuckers are like tribbles on the Kailua beach near our house, constantly washing up on shore, leaving little prickly blue surprises for the unaware. Thought I was aware—I’d managed to dodge a few in the ocean already, and in the 3-mile walk we took down the beach yesterday a few dozen more. A mere 100 yards from home, the surf brought in a couple of baby Boy o’ Wars—I jumped to dodge most of them, and thought I was successful. Then the tingly cigarette-burn started and I noted a pair of them attached to my left foot.

Glad they were babies.

Yesterday we went to a farmers’ market, visited the Dole plantation, went to the north shore for breakfast burritos and coffee, and got soaked in a spontaneous downpour while simultaneously running out of gas. We visited Laie, saw a natural arch, Krissy practiced 5-minute headstands, David practiced being Judge & Jury and Beau found passion fruit and made cocktails. For dinner we ate poke, grilled and ate papaya salad and had a few good conversations about the US healthcare system. At one point I think we inadvertently committed some kapu interrupting a funeral on the beach.

Learning to surf today!

The leading edge of the weekend was about water, time spent in the Pacific, walking along the beach at night returning from dinner and drinks from the better half of a binary choice between Burger King and Pinky’s Pupus. It was about cruising the Nimitz highway, one of a few multilane concrete ribbons on the islands. It was about seeing a man hang-ten in the back of a pickup truck, holding a refrigerator upright with one arm, and the other on the rollcage, flying down H-3 toward the Tetsuo Harano tunnel.

It was about aikido rolls and cartwheels, hammocks and shots—rules: no shoes in the house and if you talk about work you have to do a shot. About $5 wagers and bickering. I can pinpoint the moment yesterday when the first in-joke relevant to just us was birthed, the mention of since cracks us up. I’m not sure how to articulate it, but I think it’s important, necessary for the success of a long group trip.

Number of Man o’ War swam with: 1. Number of tunnels passed through: 5. Number of interstate highways driven: 2. Number of times mistakenly driven up to the MCBH and had to turn around: 3. Number of friends picked up at the airport: 2. Number of hours spent in the ocean: 5.

The trailing edge of the weekend is about food and farmers’ markets, and hiking the Haiku Stairs.

Let’s get illegal.