Reinvention

Princefisher II graduated high school this month, a milestone barely achieved. Where he's going, or what he'll do, is anybody's guess. His beliefs and life trajectory are things I cannot fathom. He doesn't need me at all any more. I doubt he ever really did.

I am the eldest of four boys, and had two sons first. Princessfisher might as well be a giraffe; that's how much I understand my 16 year old daughter. In her eyes, I am a rigid and irrelevant anachronism. She doesn't need me, either.

Princefisher I, although not totally self sufficient, is far away and more independent every passing month. He is fine without me as well.

The past 12 months or so have been the most stressful I've ever experienced. I have been accosted on personal, professional, family, belief, financial, emotional, and geographic levels. I am exhausted. My depression, dormant for years now, has threatened to overwhelm me on many more than one occasion, sometimes in very, very dark places with ugly thoughts best left unspoken. Only my stubborness and fuck-you attitude have kept it at bay so far, the toughest internal battle I've yet experienced.

My life is not . . . I don't know. It's far from undesirable. As a matter of fact, parts of it are down right delicious, most notably my angelic wife. But it isn't what I want. Why, I don't know.

My family history is rife with miserable and unhappy individuals who did not, or do not, or refuse(d) to, understand themselves. I will not be one of them. Why this still plagues me, I don't know. But the simple act of questioning all this makes me better. Yes, I said BETTER.

What I do know is that you cannot change what life throws at you, but you can change how you react to it. Sometimes that reaction is immediate, sometimes it is a "sleep on it," sometimes it is an excruciating period of doubt and ennui. I am done with enduring the latter. Life has happened to me. It's time I happened.

Therefore, I am resolved to reinvent myself. There are many anecdotes of people changing and thriving after their youth, a late blossoming of worth, contribution, and contentment. Grandma Moses is an example to emulate.

But how does one do it? Meditation? Volunteering? Career change? Move? Sell everything you own? New hobby? Communing with a pine cone on top of the mountain? Getting off yer ass and writing that novel you've threatened yourself with for years? I don't know. I really don't.

It's easy to give up, which I am ashamed to admit I thought about doing many times during this period, closer than I have ever come to that purgatory of doubt and despair and disillusionment. But I never have done that in my entire life. When the chips were down, I always gave the finger to fate and refused to play with a deck handed to me, made my own rules, and trampled the grass before me, damn courtesy, convention, or anything else in the way. My hands are capable of gentleness, creation, battle, murder. At least I have discovered that again. That is a hopeful sign.

Reinvention. It may be throwing opinion, philosophy, psychology, and security to the crows. It may also be investing in forgotten confidence, plus equal parts intuition, creativity, arrogance, incaution, exploration, and remembering who you were in the first place.

I don't know. But I think I might.

Facebook Lesson

So I took the plunge and got a Facebook account. Within three days I was being hooked up with old friends I hadn't seen in 25 years or more. But I don't advise you sign up right away unless you want to learn the following things:

- almost everyone looks younger and more beautiful than you
- almost everyone is doing more fun things than you
- almost everyone is more successful than you
- almost everyone seems to have more money than you
- almost everyone has traveled to more exciting locations than you
- almost everyone looks happier than you
- you a re a big fat loser and your life has amounted to squat

Q: What Do You Do...

...when someone you love needs help and won't take it?

A: Not a damn thing. And it sucks.

Where The Hell Is Kingfisher?

2008 has been booooooring so far. I haven't had much to write about. Besides which, I've been working my butt off. So to show that I am, in fact, still alive, I present some pictures of recent Kingfisher life in a lame imitation of a post.

This is my office at the radio stations. Kinda cool, huh? The amount of energy spent here this year gets most of the blame for my absence in the blogosphere.

Here is the nerve center where I preside over numbers and pretend to be a manager. The screen saver shows a picture of one of my favorite joints on the Santa Cruz municipal pier. Note the coffee cup with a picture of the Pupfish, the nifty Las Vegas 51's baseball (yes, our local team is actually called that), and the aquarium in the back, which my boss calls "a stroke of genius." Why, I don't know. I think he was surprised with my decorating scheme.

Here's a close up of some of the fishies in said aquarium. They're the smartest occupants in the office.

This is the dead animal head across from my desk. He creeps out the hippie chick who hosts our weekly adpot a pet segment on the rock station. The creeping out makes me laugh. He is also a target for practical jokes. He has been decorated at various times with cigarettes, a fake mustache, a sign promoting pot smoking, and training bras.

Princefisher II was asked to the prom. Here he is in his best Men in Black impersonation. Note the young man expression of nonchalant cool while clutching a corsage. Heh.

After a winter and spring of atrocious winds that has everybody in Las Vegas wheezing, complaining, and hornking out a bloody nose in the shower every morning, we were finally able to spend a day on the Pupfish. Here is my daughter with the newest addition to our family. Aren't they cute?

She's a 1-year-old shepherd/chow mix (the dog, not my daughter.) She was the featured dog on the rock station 2 weeks ago. She was rescued from a drug house, had been at the shelter for almost 2 months, and was slated for euthanasia. I saw her in the lobby, she licked my face, and another sucker was born. I named her Poppy. She is learning about family life for the very first time. Boy, is she smart.

That's about it. We're going to the boat for a relaxing Mother's Day. Maybe I'll write some more at my watering hole tomorrow.

Be nice and send Mom some flowers on Sunday. Or at least call her and let her know you're wearing clean underwear.

Now, for no reason at all, here's a picture of frogs playing poker.

The Incredible Multiplying Teenagers

Princefisher II turned 17 last week. We planned a party for Friday, and told him to invite some friends. I arrived home after work at about 5:30 that day. From the street it looked like my backyard was on fire.

"Hi, guys." I said as I walked out the back door. "What are you doing?"

"We're having a campfire." said Princefisher. Sure enough, a crowd of eight or so teenage boys were gathered around a fire ring, their fuzzy facial hair attempts flickering in the firelight, poking the embers with whatever pieces of wood they could scrounge up. Princefisher was in his favorite tribal man get-up, jeans and nothing else, and was pulling on the garden hose toward the fire. I made a mental thank you to the gods that he wasn't wearing the revealing loin cloth he also liked to wear when he and his regular buddies went caveman. I also made a mental note that is was 40 degrees outside.

"Fill my aquarium bucket with water and keep it handy." I said. "And all of you be careful."

"Yeah!" said Teen A, who shoved Teen B, who bumped into Teen C, who proclaimed "Ow!" and slapped Teen A in the head, starting a whole round of "yeah's" and manly pansy slaps.

"Happy Birthday!" I said. Princefisher came at me with a grand gesture of arms flung wide, pummeled me, and crushed me with a hug meant to impress upon his friends that he wasn't a Daddy's boy. "Thanks." he said. I walked back inside while a Three Stooges episode started up outside.

"Hi," said Queenfisher, looking tired. "They've been here two hours already." She pointed to the kitchen table laden with bowls either empty or containing the crumbs of chips and cheese doodles. The counter was lined with dead bottles of soda. The cake was still whole, but it did have some finger pokes in it.

"Next!" Queenfisher's visiting sister bent over the oven and pulled out a pizza. "Number six!" she yelled. Queenfisher popped another into the oven and both stepped aside. The back door opened and a stampede of Teen Stooges trampled me to the ground. By the time I picked myself up, every molecule of cheese and pepperoni had disappeared. I checked to be sure I still retained all my digits.

"Holy crap!" I said. "There's more of them!"

"Yup, that's been happening since it started. I don't know where they're coming from." Queenfisher plopped into a chair. "Why don't you go get changed?" I started down the hall to the bedroom. When I heard Sisterfisher yell "Next!" I ran like hell.

During the two minutes I was indisposed, the fire in the yard went out and I heard thumps coming from the family room. The sound couldn't mean anything good. I walked down the hall to investigate. There were at least a dozen kids now, including a Teenette, who were playing audience to Princefisher and a friend wearing cardboard boxes on their heads, chest, and groin, and aluminum clothes dryer ducting on their arms. They flailed away at each other to no purpose.

"What are you doing?"

"Robot fights." said Princefisher.

"Is the fire out? Did you use the bucket?"

"Yeah. Sean had to pee."

"Next! Number eight!" yelled Sisterfisher. I ran for cover into the living room. I sat down to watch TV, a futile effort, since the sound of a group of teens echoes like coyote banshees in the Grand Canyon. I settled for watching Animal Planet. It wasn't much different from my house.

"We're going to go get more snacks." Queenfisher and Sisterfisher were putting on their jackets.

"What! Are you crazy? You're leaving me alone with them?"

"Yup." The two women dashed out the door, leaving me to my fate. I had a vision of their return, driving by the house and throwing hunks of raw meat from the car for the wild things under my roof. My vision was interrupted by hooting and scuffling from the next room.

"What's going on in here?" I demanded. The robots had shed their skins. Two teens were holding electronic gear and flailing for some other strange purpose. There must have been twenty of them now, although males still far outnumbered females.

"Wii boxing." said Princefisher.

"Well, be careful. Don't knock anything over."

"Yeah!" said Teen J, who tickled Teenette K, who spilled soda on Teen L, who yelled "Jerk!" and butt-kicked Teen J, who knocked over a bowl of popcorn.

"I'm going into my room. You guys can watch TV in the living room if you want." I retreated to some semblance of peace, if rumbles and raucous laughter and thuds and belches can be peaceful. After a while the front door slammed several times in a few minutes. I went to investigate again.

"What's going on out here?"

"Next! Number nine!" I leapt for the shelter of my daughter's bedroom down the hall. Apparently, the snack run had been successful.

"Number ten!" I closed my daughter's door.

"Number eleven!" I fell to my knees and prayed.

!SLAM!

I decided I had no choice but to return to the carnage. I peered out the door. All was relatively peaceful. "Hello?" I ventured. An unfamiliar voice returned "They went out front."

I walked out the front door in time to see the Sisters pulling out of the driveway. I ran to stop them, and Queenfisher rolled down her window, but just a crack.

"Where are you going now?"

"To the little casino down the street."

"What about all these kids?" I gestured to the fifty or so soulless entities milling about on the front lawn, playing teentag and whoopwhoop and spitfar and grabass.

"Hey, we watched 'em before you got home and made the food. It's your turn. Just stay in the room, they'll be fine. They don't care about you anyway."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

On my way back I saw a man standing at a podium. He was wearing a straw hat, waving a cane, and unwinding a spool of tickets. "Hurry, hurry, hurry, folks!" he said. "Step right up! Only fifty cents! See the Incredible Multiplying Teenagers! Thrill to the beat of Scream Music! Test your courage against the Hormone Cyclone!"

I pushed my way through the front door. A tide of muscled shoulders and perky bosoms crashed against the walls of my house. thwack whack crack! Even over two-hundred voices I heard the sickening sound of something breaking. "Princefisher!" I yelled, drowning in a fog of Axe spray and Avon's Something. I finally found him and asked what was so loud. It took four tries for me to hear him. "They brought me a pinata!"

Desperately, I clawed my way to the bedroom, pushing a camel and a tapir out of the way.

Within five minutes weird sounds forced me out again. I collected rope, pitons, and carabiners from the closet to scale the mountain of candy wrappers, robot skin, and pizza crusts outside my bedroom door. At the end of the hallway I stood in stunned disbelief. My house had somehow transformed into a stadium full of high-schoolers. Ignoring the jugglers, monster trucks, and trained seals, I screamed "PLEASE KEEP IT DOWN AND BE CAREFUL!"

"Yeah!" said Teen Q, who jabbed Teen R, who backed into Teenette S, who whined "Stop it!" and whacked Teen Q, who fell into a kiddie pool of sand sharks.

I spent the following hours with the bedroom door locked, cell phone at my side.

Thump.

!SLAM!

whack!

"Number sixty-three!"

Some hours later, Queenfisher found me sitting in the corner of my bedroom, a blanket over my head, surrounded by fearful and quivering dogs, rocking back and forth, muttering "It's only teens. It's only teens. It's only teens."

Queenfisher assured me that they were gone. The clock told me it was 9:30 pm. Had it really been only four hours?

"Where are they?"

"They went out for breakfast." The sheer illogic of it all was just too much. I fainted.

The next morning, I discovered only 2 beers missing from my fridge.

Way to go, Princefisher. I'm proud of you. Now put some clothes on.

What I Want To Be When I Grow Up

I want to be the man who takes care of the aquarium. It would be fun to scuba dive in the giant tanks and feed the fish. I would have a trained octopus who would eat out of my hand. There would be a big laboratory where I could learn all about fish when I wasn't taking care of them.


Clopin is cool. He's the smartest guy in all Paris and leader of the bad guys who are really good guys. He knows ventriloquism and does puppet shows. He has cool clown clothes. Plus he sings really high at the beginning of Hunchback of Notre Dame. And he knows magic.



I'd like to be an astronaut. You can jump real high on the moon. You might even be able to go to Mars. It would be super cool to ride in a rocket and watch Earth get real small. I would eat my dinner through a straw. Then I would fart and laugh at the other astronauts because they can't get away. I'd bring back some moon rocks for my Mom.




If you had gorillas for friends you would be awesome. Tarzan is awesome. He can kill a huge snake underwater with a knife. He lives in a tree and swings on vines and yells a lot. He plays with grown-up girls in leopard bikinis. All the jungle animals do what he says. Awesome.



Being a writer would be fun. You could write stories about robots and lasers. Or you could write about animals that talk. You can write about anything in your imagination! Then people would see your book in the store and you would be famous. Or maybe I would write for TV. I would write cartoons and then me and my friends could watch them after school. That would be fun, too.




Mr. Spock. He's a Vulcan. They don't feel stuff. He's really strong and smarter than anybody, even Captain Kirk. He gets to fly around in outer space and meet neat looking aliens and stuff. If I was Mr. Spock I would probably get all A's in math and science. And he does that cool neck pinch thing that can put bullies to sleep.



A bear is the baddest animal ever. He's so mean that none of the other animals will mess with him, even the girl bears. But he is also nice sometimes. He gets to eat salmon and berries and ants and gets to sleep all winter when it's cold. Bears live in a forest in the mountains where I went camping one time. Except polar bears. I don't want to be a polar bear.




Paleontologists look for dinosaur bones. I would like to find a dinosaur nobody ever saw before. Maybe even the biggest dinosaur ever! This guy named Jack Horner found a lady T-rex. I think her name was Susan. He also found some other mother dinosaurs and their eggs with babies inside. I wish I could go back and see real dinosaurs. Stegosaurus is my favorite.


My friend says ninjas are way cooler than pirates. As if. Pirates would sail their ship and blow up the ninja village with a cannon before the ninjas knew they were coming. Ninjas don't have parrots or treasure. They wear black pajamas. Pirates wear big boots and big hats with feathers in they took from some dead guy. Pirates get to live on the ocean and drink rum and climb ropes. Pirates have gnarly beards and bigger swords.


Let's play tag!
- Tiff
- Rennratt
- Shari
- Wordnerd

Hands

Look at my hands
They grow older than I
Grip span diminishes
Life span increases

Flesh grows thin above
Joints grow wide within
A caress means more
Even if touch means less

Scars of invincible youth
Creases of skills learned
Pains of injury and repetition
Wonders of newborns held

Father did you ever
See me in your hands?

Kingfisher The Schmuck

There's no two ways about it. Firing someone sucks. Even if they deserve it. Whether or not they grasp the fact that performance, or lack of, is their fault, you will always be "the schmuck who fired me." But beyond that, for a moment, you have control over a part of someone's life, and you are responsible for pulling the rug from under them. I always feel rotten for hours after doing it.

Time for a beer. And a Cazadores. And a Jamesons. And a Goldschlager. And a wuttuvyagot, bartender.

I'll forget for a while, but I will still feel rotten tomorrow for something that isn't my fault.

Kingfisher The Awesome

My brother and I talked last night over beer, Jameson's, and trivia games about the states of our respective lives. We came to the conclusion, as evidenced by recent posts, that we are in the middle of a high douchebag tide. The moon's pull seems to have collected all manner of boors and idiots, various and sundry irritants, and piled them against us like so much driftwood. So it's no wonder I have been in a FOUL mood lately.

Then comes this post on Berate My Blog, which proves how totally freaking awesome I am. It makes me want to slap myself, say "get over it!" and take up the e-pen more often.

Sometimes the universe does love you (even if you do have neuroses.)

I feel so much better.

Big Thanks to Unica and Fiona, two ladies of exceptional taste, brilliant insight, and refined beauty.

The Answers None Of Us Have

I went to a funeral today.

My new (seven months) job has placed me smack in the middle of a business family, some with very tight relationships going back 15 years or so. My skills, personality, and outsider status have, so far, proven to be a catalyst for change this company needs. I am respected, I think, despite my "new" ideas, unintended faux pas, and have become an accepted member of this culture. When a long-time employee and respected sales person's spouse died a rather untimely, but not unexpected, death from cancer, the passionate and compassionate circle that is my workplace surrounded the widow. I have not made friends with, nor do I care for, the surviving employee in question. I do not know, have never met, her late husband.

I am, according to our social chieftan and progressive boss, a member of an elite managerial team, the missing leg of a table that has been heretofore unstable. Therefore, despite my begrudged respect in some quarters, I was expected to attend one of the most important and sacred events of someone's life, and by extension, his family, in-laws, and others with whom I am not worthy to participate. To not attend the service would be political suicide.

It was an ignoble endeavor on my part, in what should be a man's most noble day.

I am ashamed.

I drove, alone, to the service. I stood in the long line of friends, family, coworkers, and other well wishers. All of them knew the deceased, or the persons "he is survived by." The congregation was composed of so many, from so many parts of the world he so obviously loved. His grieving widow. His proud younger brother. His in-laws. Step relatives. Black friends. Hispanic friends. Jewish friends. Gay and lesbian friends. Workaday folks dressed in dirty construction uniforms, taking a rare unpaid half day to show their respects. A young man in an ill-fitting suit. A pregnant woman days away from delivery. Like Joseph's coat, the congregation was a beautiful mishmash of everything under God's benevolent gaze.

Except for me. I listened to the simple hymns, simple so that everyone could participate, but I did not know the melodies. I longed to recite the simple prayers, simple so that everyone could participate, but I did not know the words. I stumbled through the congregation's responses to the priest, murmured The Lord's Prayer, the only one I knew by heart. But I did not belong, did not know the Communion of Faith.

Throughout the Catholic funeral mass and Eucharist I did not fully understand, I was the outsider. As an atheist, I could not comprehend the community, the surety, the comfort of faith. I wondered why they believed. I wondered why it was important. I wondered why we fight over it. I marvelled; I cried. I saw comfort in the sharing of belief, of solace in knowing a truth I don't understand. I am ignorant, jealous, unworthy. I am a sinner, if there is such a thing.

I have no answers. I ask for none, for none will suffice. I know only that I am somehow adrift, pondering eternal problems for which my belief, or lack thereof, has no solution. My belief, my understanding, my spririt, are unshaken, yet I find no solace. And I ask and ask and ask and ask, forgetting that is not about me, but about a man I don't know, who has left this world sure in his belief.

I went to a funeral today, and I am ashamed.

Pruning

Over the Memorial Day weekend, the family and I did some late spring cleaning. My wife and daughter worked on cleaning the garage. My younger son and his friend worked on raking up unwanted gravel, weeds, and lumber from the side yard. I worked on pruning two overgrown trees in the front yard. During our respective assignments we sometimes met at the huge dumpster we rented for the occasion, grousing about our chores, or helping one another, or joining together for a ten minute break of cool water and air conditioning.

At the end of the day we were sore, overheated, tired, slightly scratched and bruised. We spent the evening with hot showers, grilled burgers, video games, television, and lounging with iced soft drinks. My daughter, my son, and his friend were well compensated for their efforts, but the true reward was hard work, discipline, and the sharing of jobs well done with family in our home under our big desert sky. It was the wrong time of year for pruning, but mesquites are hardy and defiant trees. In the weeks since, the open crowns reach upward with renewed vigor, the gardens below bounce toward new sunshine.

No matter the time of year, it is always good to cut away unproductive growth. It makes us hardy and defiant, especially if those who share our lives also share in discarding dead wood.

Battle

Stress and I are old enemies. We have engaged each other in battles uncounted.

My enemy wears many faces. At times it is the face of a family member, other times it is the face of a coworker, many times it is the unrecognized face of the unkown. More often than not it is the familiar face that stares back at me while I am shaving.

In every battle I have been victorious: smug, raging, defiant. In every battle my enemy vows revenge.

It is inevitable that my enemy will win the endless war we wage.

Just not today.

The Dread Pirate Kingfisher

Sometimes a Captain sails his loyal crew into dangerous desert waters
during a squall with 1' waves, icebergs the size of ice cubes,
20 mph winds, 65° weather, vampire ducks, and cheap beer.

Don't we look happy in our safety vests/straight jackets?

From left to right these soaked bilge rats are Captain Kingfisher,
Deckhand Princefisher I, First Mate Queenfisher,
and hapless pleasure cruise passenger Grand Queenfisher.

Pupfish Pirates Of The Mojave

Welcome Aboard!

Nothing but fun ahead.

But what the heck is a pupfish?

It's a cute chubby fish, not flashy or spectacular, found in Mojave desert springs.

Most species are highly endangered.

Kingfisher loves fish. His family's new boat is slow, chubby, and cute. Climb aboard!

C dock.

We have the slip as long as we pay the rental fees.

General store? Check.

Fish cleaning station? Check.

Restrooms? Check.

Gas pumps? Check.

Cafe? Check.

Boat mechanic shop? Check.
Fun, either staying on the boat, or taking it out? Check, check. check.

Let's go!

Princefisher II watches Kingfisher apply registration numbers.

When do we leave???


Obey the orders of Captain Kingfisher!


First Mate Queenfisher takes over.

Brotherfisher revels in sun, waves, and relaxation.

Wheeeeeeeee!

Can you find the Princessfisher?

Ah, to be young and tired and growing and who cares!

Recipe for a perfect day:

Sandy cove.

Sandy wading.

Sandy underwear.

Sandy sandwiches.
Sandy sun.

Sandy daydreams.

Pupfish snuggles into one of 3,000 coves.

Kingfisher family ignores everything except the moment.

Driftwood in the desert?! Yup.

The greatest thing about ambling about in nature is you never know what you are going to find.

Princefisher II makes a discovery, and helps the local turkey vultures.

A perfect cove, a perfect day.

You are so jealous.

Five Questions

I don't usually participate in chain-questionnaire-linky-meme junk, but I like Tiff (who doesn't?), and she asked for participants (a week ago.) That and my muse was recently run over on Route 66 somewhere near Kingman, AZ.

The idea is to answer 5 questions of your host's choosing, then answer them in a post, creating 5 different questions for anyone who begs "interview me" in the comments. Apologies in advance for boring prick that is Kingfisher. (Heh, heh. Bore. Prick. Heh, heh.) (And for all these stupid-ass parantheses.)

1) What does the acronym IKWYDLS mean to you?
Normal answer: I Know What You Did Last Summer.
My answer: Incredible Knockers! Would You Dare Lemme See?

2) If you could rule the world, who would be the first three people in line for the guillotine?
Al Sharpton, Ann Coulter, and the Raider Nation (there's only one brain among them, so it counts as one).

3) Marshmallows and fire - crispy or barely cooked?
A perfect puffy squat cylinder of melty sweetness, poised on the tip of a found campground stick, rotated slowly 6" away from orange embers with no flame, toasted to a coppery crust, a warm viscous mantle, and a cool-warm core, transported between two halves of cinnamon graham crackers, married to four broken squares of a Hershey chocolate bar, consumed after a meal of Vienna sausages or Dinty Moore beef stew, while seated on a log under a starry sky after a long day of hiking, light sunburn, sore muscles, laughter, and mosquito bites.

Wait...maybe that's sex.

4) Of these smells, which one appeals to you the most, and why? freshly cut grass, coffee, a pile of new 2 x 4s, or clean hair.
Although a pile of new 2x4's is a tempting option: Freshly cut grass. Because I was born in April under Aries the Ram. The smell of growing things makes me happy, peaceful, antsy, contemplative, curious, awed, pensive, scholarly, carefree, melancholy, hopeful, friendly, anticipatory, giddy, and horny. Spring fever is my favorite emotional state. Especially with coffee.

5) Kingfisher is going on vacation, but the airline loses his luggage. What's in his carry-on to tide him over until it can be found?
The following documents: airline tickets, hotel and rental car confirmations, and Mapquest printouts. Plus my laptop, a book or two, reading glasses, pen and paper, a deck of cards, and Prozac (keeps me from including the fingers of the luggage loser.)

If you care to continue this lunacy, type "interview me" in the comments just like I did. You pathetic attention whore loser.

The Grand And The Ordinary

It was past time.

Work and school ceased to be important.

So Princefisher II and Kingfisher took a time out.

Small cabin. Small town. Small budget. Small weekend.

Big memories.

Our capacious quarters. Simple, relaxing, fun. Bring your sleeping bags!

Arizona elk. Bigger than they look in pictures. Cool.

No morning in the whole world beats this view.

Agave, pinion pine, juniper, and the greatest chasm this side of Mars.

King and Prince II share silence. Sometimes words just will not do.

Proof we were there.

Wise old Grand Canyon ravens are cool. This fat bastard isn't.

You cannot understand the impact of this photo.

My son.

The greatness of the natural world.

The two combined.

I want to cry.
One of the famous Grand Canyon long-eared taxis.

A trip astride this beauty should be on everyone's "Before I Die" list.

Oh my goodness, what a cute NEW car!

Time to go home.

We don't know what this all means.

But I am sure time will make it important.

January Dogs Me

I hate January.

No more cheery lights hanging from the neighbors' eaves. No more hot tasty smells from the kitchen. No more anticipation of lazy family mornings or travel to loved ones' homes.

It's all replaced with gargantomundo bills in the mail, the icy breath of the Winter Bastard, and the dumbfuckingest invention of human retardedness: New Year's resolutions. (You know what you need to change. If you figure it out on August 14th, do it then. What's so special about January 1st? January is bad enough without punishing us with unrealistic expectations and guilt.) Added to this annual slump are two realities of Kingfisher's world, one fiscal, the other mental.

I love my new job as a Business Manager for five radio stations. But January 1 always signals the start of 45 days of torture. Most people think of accountant types as bean counters (call me that to my face and I stab you.) The truth is accounting is less about math and more about expressing operational results in a numerical language. It is using that language to divine future performance. The layman's perception of accounting as opposed to the reality is similar to the difference between learning your ABC's and composing a symphony. The goal of a GOOD Business Manager (or Controller, or Finance Manager, or Head Chief Asshole In The Corner Office) is soliciting the advice and expertise of other department heads, controlling the assets of the company to avoid loss or misappropriation, using a proactive approach to determine future weaknesses and strengths, interpreting performance good, bad, or indifferent, and communicating these to management. It is far from the simplicity of 2 + 2 = 4. It is a multidimensional skill requiring experience, sound judgment, communication skills, grounding in theory versus practice, knowledge of industry regulations, human resource issues, organization, tactical and strategic planning, a diplomat's ability to mediate issues between opposing viewpoints while attempting impartiality, policing policy and procedure, and a little oracle divination thrown in from time to time.

Now that I've bored you, I hope you see that January is a bad time for someone in my position. Last year's results need to be explained via "the books." All errors, ommissions, and poor procedures need to be addressed. This affects every department, requiring the afore-mentioned diplomatic skills to correct substandard practice. The promise of better fiscal performance this year needs to be analyzed, discussed, and planned. After this nightmare of events, the auditors get their chance to slash you with their swords. It's a no win. The best you can hope for is the Chief Financial Officer saying "It ain't what it should be, but it's better than it was."

As anyone who has read some of my junk knows, I suffer from depression. For eleven years my doctor has had it under control, and I'm happier than at any time in my life. But with the stress, scrutiny, and blah of this time of year, the many-headed hydra of depression's self-loathing, uncertainty, anger, and ennui chases me night and day.

I hate January.

Yesterday, after working nine long days in a row, several of them with a fever, I took a rare lunch break. I indulged in the personal touch of a haircut, then drove to a nearby park. It felt wonderful to walk in the cool sunshine across dormant grass and empty softball fields, watching after-school teens use their young muscles and expanding bravado at the skate park. Eventually I strolled into a bit of previously undiscovered and delightful therapy surrounded by cyclone fence.

The dog park.

To say exhuberance and innocence and joy abounded unbounded would insult the scene. There was ball chasing and butt nosing and lawn digging and dry humping and tail wagging and tongue dripping and dirt rolling and bark barking and sniff sniffing and running just for the hell of it. It was nothing and everything. Just one day in the sun, alive and free and happy. All the junk that is human perception faded to insignificance. All my curmudgeon jerkiness shrank to a point of stupid nothingness. One cute little guy saw me and ran up panting and smiley faced. I talked to him in a sing-song voice, calling him "Buddy." I don't know if that was his name, but my eager-to-please furry new friend jumped against the fence, locked his eyes to mine, and yelped a welcome.

And peed on my shoe.

Suddenly, I didn't hate January so much any more.

In Search Of The Weasel Mage

or

Kingfisher Gets His Video Butt Kicked

"Princefisher?"

"What, Dad?"

"Is this video game hard?"

"Um, Magic Sword Army Wizards? Yeah, it's pretty hard, but I've beaten it twice."

I insert the little mirrored disc into the game box and switch it on. After the requisite save-file creation and the opening animation sequence, I become Jardel, Elf Warrior 3rd class. The screen shows a snow field, surrounded by a tumble-down wood fence. I toy with the buttons and toggles to no effect.

"What am I supposed to do?"

"This is just the training screen. You gotta break through the fence to get to the Monkey King."

"How do I do that?"

"See that bunch of dead grass? Cut it down with your sword and collect the gems."

I toggle forward and press the B button. Jardel's sword swishes through the frozen tufts. gling gling gling! Shiny rotating jewels bounce across the snowscape. With my mastery of the controls I have no difficulty in collecting them. When I do, the wealth meter goes up slightly. This is going to be easy.

Fifteen minutes later I am still stuck in the snow. The video fence sneers at me.

"Princefisher! How do I get out of here?"

"Do a lunge roll, and break the fence by the big rock."

"How do I do that?"

"You haven't figured that out yet? Okay. Go to the fence. No, the other way. Now target the crack in the fence. No, press the L button. No, you have to be facing the fence first. Now press the L button. Now press the A button. Press the Z button twice. Turn around and jump the fence. No, the jump button. No, that's the sword button. The jump button. No, the jump button. Too late, the fence closed up. Now you gotta start over."

Thirty minutes later I have learned the difference between the jump, hereinafter known as button A, and the sword, hereinafter referred to as button B. Unable to use them correctly, however, I rely on Princefisher to press them in the correct order to free me from the snow meadow. Now I can start the game.

Jardel leaves the snow behind and jogs through an endless mountain pass, occasionally swiping at evil crows. As they turn into ghostly mist, gems appear and the power meter increases slightly. Now I've got it!

Forty-five minutes later I haven't figured out the objective of this stage in the game.

"What do I do now?"

"Go through the Marsh of Mazes and find the Weasel Mage."

"Where's that?"

*sigh* "Do I have to tell you everything? You have to go by the Toadstool Tower."

"That tall castle thing? I tried to go inside, but it wouldn't let me."

"That's because you don't have the Ruby Key yet. You gotta get that from the Weasel Mage. Go through the hedges by the tower."

"I didn't know you could do that."

"You have to try different things. Not everything is what it looks like."

An hour later I have found the Marsh Maze. Jardel has died fifteen times by venomous mud worms, twelve times by fluorescent moon fog, eight times by vampire tree frogs, four times by invisible suction arrows, and twice by his own sword. And he is still hopelessly lost in the Marsh of Mazes. Princefisher takes the controls again, guiding my elf to the Weasel Mage. I memorize the route back out through the marsh.

"Now what?"

"Give the Weasel Mage your gems, and he gives you the Ruby Key."

I confront the Weasel Mage and press each button in turn. Eventually one of them induces the Weasel Mage to talk to Jardel. He wants 70 gems for the Ruby Key. Jardel has only 45.

"How do I get more gems?"

"You gotta kill more crows."

This isn't fun any more. But I will be damned if I get beaten at anything by a teenager.

Ninety minutes later I have found my way out of the maze, climbed back to the mountain pass, killed enough crows to release the gems I need, and mired Jardel in the Marsh of Mazes again.

"How come I can't find the Weasel Mage?"

"The maze changes every time. You have to figure it out."

Two hours later, Jardel finds the Weasel Mage, trades gems for the Ruby Key, backtracks through the maze, arrives at the Toadstool Tower, unlocks the drawbridge, enters the throne room, and greets the Monkey King. The Monkey King tells Jardel he may not pass without a gift.

"What's the gift he's talking about?"

"You need the purple coconut."

"Where do I get that?"

At the same instant Princefisher and I say "From the Weasel Mage." I put down the controller and turn off the infernal mocking box.

"Jeez, Dad. You didn't even make it halfway through the first level. You really suck."

"Oh, yeah? Well, I can still kick your butt at Super Ladybug Land 2!"

Princefisher smirks.

Kingfisher ages twenty years on the spot.

Kingfisher Days

Wednesday
9:00 a.m. - Ask HR when my final check will be ready. Says she forgot it was my last day.
9:10 a.m. - First expected visit of well-wishing by a co-worker hasn't happened.
9:12 a.m. - Nothing to do. Ask boss if he needs anything. He says "Oh, yeah. Last day, huh?"
9:55 a.m. - Finish the Excel file formulas and links for the boss that he asked be completed by the end of the day.
9:57 a.m. - First co-worker visit. It's the boss's boss, commanding me to let him know when the Excel file is finished. Tell him it's already done and e-mailed to boss. He looks surprised. No well wishing.
10:00 a.m. - Bored bored bored. Spend an hour playing games on the internet.
11:00 a.m. - Boss doesn't know where check is. Still no well wishers.
12:00 p.m. - Still playing games. Still no check. Still no well-wishers.
12:30 p.m. - Boss delivers check. No handshake. Still no well wishers.
12:32 p.m. - Leave a scrolling screen saver in big bright red letters "Welcome To The Clique - - - No Men Allowed"

12:35 p.m. - Check deposited, wallet full of money.
1:15 p.m. - Sipping the first ice cold beer of freedom at Buffalo Wild Wings.
7:00 p.m. - Finish nth ice cold beer of freedom after lurking on the web, watching sports, playing trivia and accepting congratulations from drinking acquaintances, and bartender friends who give me free beer.
7:15 p.m. - At home lounging on the bed.
7:30 p.m. - The Simpsons is on!
8:00 p.m. - Spongebob Squarepants is on!
8:30 p.m. - Brother in law arrives from California for visit.
10:30 p.m. - Futurama is on!

Thursday
2:17 a.m. - Dumb kitty scratches at the bedroom window to be let in. When did I fall asleep?
2:32 a.m. - Insane kitty starts a spit fight with dumb kitty.
2:45 a.m. - Girl kitty meows at the door to be let in.
2:46 a.m. - Dumb kitty meows at the door to be let out.
2:47 a.m. - I hate cats.
3:00 a.m. - Anime Title I Can't Remember is on!
6:30 a.m. - Wife and kids get up for school. Turn over and go back to sleep.
7:10 a.m. - Sun peeks throught the window. Notice I left the lights on in the 125 gallon aquarium. 8 shiny silver fishies begin swimming back and forth.
8:50 a.m. - Kiss from the wife wakes me up. She's off to work.
9:30 a.m. - Wake up again. Still 8 fishies.
10:00 a.m. - Crummy Western Movie is on!
10:03 a.m. - Meow.
1:00 p.m. - Thirsty.
1:15 p.m. - Buy a box of Macanudo cigarillos.
1:30 p.m. - Sipping nth+1 ice cold beer of freedom at Buffalo Wild Wings.
1:31 p.m. - Light up first incense cigar of freedom.
6:30 p.m. - Pack up laptop. Done with catching up with blog friends, planning future vacations, and working on budget with new job. Take last gulp of nth+n ice cold beer of freedom.
7:00 p.m. - Hello to family, talk with bro-in-law, plan tomorrow with wife. Simpsons, Spongebob, Discovery Channel, Futurama, and zzzzzzzzz.

Friday
2:17 a.m. - Stupid cats.
2:18 a.m. - Goddamn cats.
2:19 a.m. - Fucking cats.
2:30 a.m. - Anime.
6:20 a.m. - Wife wakes us all up. Kids prepare for school. Wife, bro-in-law, oldest son, and I prepare for Annual Big Mondo Church Rummage Sale.
7:00 a.m. - Waiting in line for rummage sale. Wife didn't tell me it opens at 8:00. No coffee being served.
7:10 a.m. - Joking with son and BIL. We giggle because Christ and a dove in the stained glass looks like he's choking a chicken. Ponder my first minute in Hell.
7:15 a.m. - Beautiful autumn small town morning. Except no coffee.
7:30 a.m. - Daughter calls. Missed the bus. Again. Can't get to her in time, so she stays home awaiting our return and her impending doom.
7:45 a.m. - Where's the friggin' coffee?
8:00 a.m. - Cattle call. Church grounds are flooded with greedy collectors and yard salers.
8:15 a.m. - The desk I saw isn't what I want. The chest I want has a sold sign on it. The toys are crap.
8:16 a.m. - Want to yell "Jesus Christ, Where the hell is the goddamn coffee!?" Remember it is a church rummage sale. Ponder my second minute in hell.
8:33 a.m. - Load up the car with our meager plunder. Son eyes my $2.00 grey wool blanket with envy. Says it will make a great cloak for Ren Faires. Invoke the Finders Keepers rule.
8:34 a.m. - Give son the blanket.
9:00 a.m. - Wife's awesome direction skills causes multiple u-turns and lane changes finding the first yard sale of the day.
9:10 a.m. - First yard sale has nothing. Tease son I wish I could find a nice wool blanket for my studio. He offers to give it back. Assure him I'm just kidding.
9:11 a.m. - Announce my wish to find a nice wool blanket at the next yard sale. They're hard to find y'know. Son looks guilty.
9:30 a.m. - Second yard sale has not much.
9:40 a.m. - Third yard sale. Drive by.
9:50 a.m. - Bingo! Fourth yard sale scores a cute dining table and four chairs for $40. Assorted other trinkets seal the deal. Ask loudly if they have any wool blankets.
9:51 a.m. - Back in the car. Son offers to give blanket back. Wife says "ignore your father."
10:50 a.m. - Back home. Parents scold daughter and confine her to her room. Daughter dons the "You always hated me!" expression of a 13-year-old girl.
10:52 a.m. - Set up table and chairs. Say how good it would look with a wool blanket table cloth. Son says "Shutup, Dad." Offer him $5.00 for the blanket.
10:58 a.m. - Coffee!
11:00 a.m. - In the back yard. Cool warm sunshine. Lots of flowers. A hummingbird. Stand in recently completed studio. Smells like fresh-cut wood.
11:15 a.m. - Four hours of video games, conversation, and lunch.
3:45 p.m. - In the bedroom to change for evening with brother S. Still 8 fishies.
4:00 p.m. - Take first sip of 2n+1 ice cold beer of freedom at Buffalo Wild Wings.
4:01 p.m. - Light up 8th and last incense cigar of freedom.
4:30 p.m. - Brother S arrives.
4:31 p.m. - Begin guy talk of new girlfriend, new job, and the rack on the girl at the end of the bar.
6:00 p.m. - Trivia sucks. Only we are playing. Bar change!
6:30 p.m. - $&!#%*F road construction. Finally arrive at Bar 2. Brother already got a beer and trivia box.
6: 32 p.m. - Beer tastes funny. Drink it anyway.
6:33 p.m. - Guy talk about family, future plans, and the rack on the girl at the end of the bar.
7:15 p.m. - Trivia, customers, and beer sucks. Bar change!
7:30 p.m. - Bar 3. Better beer, but no trivia.
7:31 p.m. - Bartender recognizes us. I haven't recognized her because the low cut of her shirt allows her cleavage to create its own gravity well.
7:32 p.m. - She worked at Bar 2 bar before it changed owners. Great bartender. We found the right place.
7:33 p.m. - We ponder shooting pool.
8:01 p.m. - We forget about pondering shooting pool.
8:30 p.m. - Guy talk about, um, stuff and other stuff, and the rack on the bartender.
9:00 p.m. - Think we've had enough. Finish 2n+? ice cold beer of freedom.
9:30 p.m. - Home and hungry. Score leftover meatloaf and potatoes. Mmmmmm.
9:45 p.m. - Get into t-shirt and lounge pants for bed. Still 8 fishies. I think. Maybe 10. 12?
10:00 p.m. - Wife comes home from outing with BIL. "You're home early." Yup.
10:01 p.m. - zzzzzzzzzz.

Saturday
2:17 a.m. - I really hate cats.
2:18 a.m. - Yes, there really are 8 fishies.
2:45 a.m. - Stomach hurts. Knew that one beer was bad.
3:00 a.m. - Please no food poisoning...
3:15 a.m. - Force myself to sleep.
7:00 p.m. - Sun peeks through the window. Wow, I feel better.
7:01 p.m. - Enjoy the early morning quiet and the wife's closeness.
7:30 a.m. - Wife and I play our favorite game, Hide the Hot Dog. We both win.
8:00 a.m. - Everybody gets ready for Saturday outings.
8:01 a.m. - Go back to sleep.
8:29 a.m. - Blaze the greyhound jumps into bed to cuddle with Daddy.
8:30 a.m. - Crummy Western Movie is on!
10:00 a.m. - Semi-Crummy Western Movie is on!
12:00 p.m. - Blaze jumps off the bed and stretches. Time to get up.
12:30 p.m. - Score 2 meatloaf sandwiches. Enjoy the flavor of home, love, and happiness.
1:30 p.m. - Sip 3n+1 ice cold beer of freedom at Buffalo Wild Wings.
4:30 p.m. - Good day of writing, and goofing on the internet. Finish 3n+6 ice cold beer of freedom.
4:45 p.m. - Younger son shows off almost-finished Halloween costume, Mario from Nintendo. It's perfect and freaking funny.
5:20 p.m. - Yum! Dinner of tacos on our new table and chairs!
5:55 p.m. - Where's the antacid?
9:58 p.m. - A whole buncha nuthin. TV, talk, video games, cold autumn seeping in.
9:59 p.m. - Inform son that it sure would be nice to have a warm wool blanket.
10:00 p.m. - Futurama is on.
10:30 p.m. - Futurama is on again!
11:00 p.m. - Snooze through two hours of cartoons.

Sunday
2:17 a.m. - I am gonna kill me some cats.
6:30 a.m. - Wake up to the sound of wife banging dishes in the kitchen.
6:31 a.m. - Still 8 fishies. Go back to sleep.
8:00 a.m. - Wife wakes me up.
8:01 a.m. - Round 2 of Hide the Hot Dog. Score still tied.
8:30 a.m. - Coffee with the wife on the couch. Watch gardening shows.
9:30 a.m. - BIL and kids shuffle out one by one. Mornings are funny.
9:31 a.m. - Son crunches on Corn Flakes. Tell him I was really cold last night. Could've used a wool blanket.
9:31:30 a.m. - Son's eyes give me the finger.
10:00 a.m. - Wife, BIL and kids go out for the day. Halloween costumes need to be finished.
10:15 a.m. - Hot coffee of freedom at Buffalo Wild Wings.
10:30 a.m. - Remember that the 49ers have a bye week. Realize they will probably lose anyway.
12:00 p.m. - First of the last ice cold beers of freedom.
1:00 p.m. - Start of afternoon football games.
Now O'clock: Looking forward to starting new job tomorrow. Not sure what's in store for the rest of today. But I'm pretty sure I'd like to play Hide the Hot Dog again.

Next

Those of you who have put up with my nonsense for a while may remember this post, in which I reflected on signs of change or omens not yet deciphered. I identified "some unnamable span." I think I have reached the end of that span. Life has many detours, some expected, but most not. Almost none are seen with the rare insight the Great All cares to give on accasion.

My eldest son approaches the important adulthood marker of 21, with the attendant perceptions of military, voting, drinking, gambling, etc. He has a serious girlfriend. He is dependable in a job he has had for two years. He is smart, honest, helpful, and kind, readily returning the hugs of his old man. He made an undefinable change this year, the crossing into adulthood. I still remember him as a toddler. Once, when running errands at Christmas time, he asked if I would buy him a toy. I said maybe, because Santa was coming. I didn't have much money, so maybe something a little bit cheap. All day he held my hand, helped push carts and carry bags, amiable and sweet. About dinnertime he asked, "Now Dad will you buy me something maybe a little bit cheap?" When I look at him now, I am torn between busting my buttons and squeezing tears.

My second son will soon be 16, and has his sights on the DMV. As a freshman, his academic career was far less than stellar. Now, as a sophomore, he seems to have found his rhythm and confidence. He has a quick wit and a a comic philospher's ability to amuse with an insightful observation or perplexing non-sequitor. With algebra, or biology, or politics, he asks questions and offers solutions. I feel stupid when my answer or opinion only supports what he thought in the first place. On Thanksgiving vacation last year, we took a trip, just Dad and Son. We hiked in the rain, crunched through the snow at Lake Tahoe, ate in diners, and purchased balsa wood gliders to play with. At the end of the trip, when I asked if he had a good time, he flashed a sarcastic grin and said "Not really. The tree ate my airplane." When I look at him now, I am torn between pride of a son and jealousy of a younger rival.

My youngest, my darling daughter, is 13, familiar and enigmatic. She is on the entrance ramp to womanhood, not quite up to speed, but not quite willing to yield either. At times uncertain in her maturation , there is a "JUST TRY IT" fire behind her eyes. She has discovered a love of writing, far surpassing any maudlin pukisms I wrote at her age. She is in drama class. She loves the Beatles and medical procedures. She snuggles during an old movie and dares to throw a football at my head. Not so long ago, she had simple and routine surgery. When I visited her in recovery, she was asleep, breathing with discomfort. Thin hospital blankets revealed curves of the woman she will become. I stroked her hair and cried because my heart couldn't contain all the stuff that was in it. When I look at her now, I can see the grandchildren I might have. Why I see this more in her than the boys, I don't know. But I do know there is much I cannot explain, mysteries of the universe that I am lucky enough to share, and one perfect adorable female that is mine to protect and learn from. Some things are not knowable.

My parents divorced after 23 years of marriage. My wife and I celebrated that milestone, minus one, this year. When I was in high school, I remember reading something like "the flush of young romantic love is eventually replaced with the constancy of adult love." Yuck, I thought, I hope I never get that old. Now I look at my wife, and words fail. She is better than me. She is far from perfect, but closer to it than I, and perfect for me. Prior to this year, I really didn't care if I died before 60. Now I want to live a long life, so I can spend as much time as possible with her. Love is the obsession of poets and artists, defying mere description. One look at her and I know what love is.

Fathers and sons are always a tricky business. My father and I were never close. Why, I am not sure. We are too different from each other. Perhaps it is me, or him, or both, but neither of us understands the other. We have parted ways. Permanently. It brands my soul, scorches my brain, salts the acre of identity. They say that forgiveness heals the soul. I'm not sure I believe it. Some things cannot be forgiven. Sometimes, no matter the cost, scars, and desires to the contrary, it is best to sever a limb than live with a disease. There is no lesson here. Only a huge vacant lot filled with questions and what-ifs, covered over with the bulldozer of moving forward. Only pain and self hatred endure. I have no answers.

This disconnect applies to brothers as well. I'd like to think sisters are better. In fact, I know they are.

I enjoy writing. In 1st grade I wrote about a frog. In 2nd grade I wrote about a pony. In 4th grade I wrote about my dog. In 8th grade I wrote a Star Trek script. In 10th grade I wrote a one act play. I wrote poetry in high school. I wrote dozens of short stories from junior high through college. With few exceptions, it sucked, although there were glimpses of talent. I never gave up until I became a father, when other concerns were paramount. (An aside: People who complain about parenting vs. career vs. avocation should be shot. If you decide, or happen, to be a parent, that is your first responsibility. Shoulder that most important of of all responsibilities to the best of your ability. There is plenty of time for your selfish interests after your children grow up.) This year I revisited my passion with a vengeance. It took a while to oil old rusty tools and relearn their uses. The wonderful surprise was that my ability had matured, despite years of disuse. I can set a piece aside, see it for the crap that it is, and not love it just because it came from my fingers. I can edit like a ninja. Strangely, my life long desire to write science fiction has morphed into a serious work about an adolescent girl (!), a plot that straddles 90 years, and addresses personal growth, an artist's sensibilities, defiance, and ideas that reveal themselves as work progresses. I have never been happier with my creative self.

I will, in a week or so, have a new job. I will be Business Manager of four radio stations broadcasting rock and sports. In a way, it is a revisiting of my roots. I was happiest working in the days of television before the explosion of cable, when creativity and business sense lived side by side. When I honed my ability to work with all sorts of people. When I discovered accounting is a language of numbers. In the years since those heady days, I earned a degree, learned management skills, studied strategy and flow. Now I am the elder mentor, abilities at their peak, applied to a cause I have loved since I was a pre-teen. I am not naive enough to think it's perfect, but it does feel like a return home, a closing of a circle. Not THE circle, but a mini-cycle within the greater circle.

The "unnamable span" is named. It is called Now. Another span will come, but for the present Now is sufficient.

Next.