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.

Subjected To Spam

I know spammers use weird subject lines to smuggle their messages through filters, but do they really think I'm going to be interested in the non-sequitor result, or not see it as spam from 15 light years away? I must admit, though, I am sometimes intrigued. Here are a few random e-spams I received lately, and how I might respond.

No Name 584590627 X 650
Not only do you not have my name, but you got my social security number wrong. What’s with the binocular focal length?

We selling branded watches
Me ignoring sale try. But me report you to PETA for crueling watches.

With go acampo
No time for acamping. I am going aboating this weekend, though.

For Lighty
Sorry, don’t know who that is. But he sounds gay. BTW, if you remove the “or” you get “flighty.” Kind of like “by night.”

Go till lampasas
I can go till about 2 a.m., then I’m pooped. And kiss my lampasas.

A grimesland is chesnee
Yes. Yes he is.

re:Healthy life is your dream?
Re: Merrily, merrily, merrily.

ƒAƒiƒ^‚ɐç‰À‚³‚ñ‚©‚犮‘SFree‚Ì‘ål‚̏µ‘Ò...
I don’t know what you want, but cussing at me ain’t gonna help.

Merry Christmas
And a Happy May Hannukah to you!

URGENT RESPONDS
Urgent responds to what?

Is which corriganville
I dunno. But Wrongwaytown is thataway --->

Drugs worldwide at low price
Thanks, but I really don’t want to travel that far for aspirin and prozac.

I branchville he novato
Me Tarzan, you Jane.

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.

Nigger

There. I said it. And 99.9% of us, including me, are offended.

You know what? Fuck you.

"Looking back on when I
Was a little nappy headed boy..." Stevie Wonder

"Cant turn a ho into a housewife

Hos dont act right...Cmon, nigga why..." Ludacris

"That's some nappy headed hos there..." Don Imus

Don Imus is a jackass. And so are you.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

As sure as I live and breathe there is a supreme human right: The right of free speech, the right to express thought, the right to make our ideas heard, the right to be heretical, the right to listen to ideas and learn from or discard them, and THE OBLIGATION TO IGNORE ANY IDEA EXPRESSED.

You may be offended. You may agree. You may not care. But my words are MY WORDS. You have no right to censor me, no matter what I say.

I'm willing to bet all of us have a list of 100 words that offend us, or would rather not hear. Does that mean those words are patently offensive? Does that mean those words should not be used? Does that mean those words are heresy?

Nigger.

Is that word more offensive than faggot? or cunt? or kike? or cracker? or Satan? or Nazi? or asshole?

If you believe "Yes, there is a difference. 'Nigger' is an abomination of a word, a reminder of hundreds of years of degradation, dehumanization, evil!" You are correct. But it is still a legitimate word.

Does that mean "Christ Killer!" should not be used? After all, the history of Jewish subjugation out-performs African slavery by thousand of years. If you disagree, then you have imposed your indignation and elevated your perceived sense of wrongdoing above everyone else's experience. And that makes you as wrong as the words you rail against.

Words are powerful.

And that is the beauty and wonder and aggravation of human communication.

BUT THE WORD IS NOT THE THING.

Words are only as powerful as you allow them to be. The more you invest energy in decrying a word, the more power that word has.

Listen all you faggots, cunts, niggers, and motherfuckers: turn down the sensitivity knob, and grow the fuck up.

Jesus, Mohammed, Confucius, Galileo, Aristotle, Hitler, Shakespeare, Machiavelli, Rand, Dante, Falwell, Sharpton, YOU. They all said controversial and perhaps heinous things. But their WORDS made us THINK.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

The rest of us are waiting.

When you evolve, so will the HUMAN race.

Jenny

He was a high school senior, alternating between vociferous and pensive, always memorable, always utterly annoying. After graduation, we all remembered him as the first flaming queer we ever knew at close quarters.

No one remembered Jenny. She had braces, thick glasses, anemic blonde hair, and was skinnier than a hard winter's coyote. As a freshman, she lived in the long surreal shadow cast by her flamboyant brother.

I was a lead in the band's brass section, a lead in the theatre group, a lead in the Honor Society. I was surrounded by likewise superior youths. We were aware of our priveleged position, but did not thrust it at others. We just knew we were the cream of the crop. The stoners hung out near auto shop. The gangers hung out in the parking lot. The other ne'er do wells hung out in their respective spots of choice. But we went everywhere. We were sometimes reviled, sometimes exalted, sometimes ignored, but we never stayed still, never feared to break barriers, never apologized for our talents, smarts, or abilities. We knew that high school was temporary, but character was forever. There were hangers-on in our elite circle of artistic intelligentsia. We accepted them all. Jenny was one.

I think she played clarinet, somewhere in the bottom third of a line of twenty or so. She was a good student, as I recall. I do have a clear picture of her huddled within her jacket, no matter the season, sitting at the end of the bench, or two seats ahead on the bus. She was quick to laugh at our jokes. She listened, attentive to our philosophical discussions. At parties, she agreed with our taste in music, movies, culture.

Somehow, I don't remember her brother's name. But I remember Jenny.

Years after high school, I saw her. She was making a business call at the television station where I worked. I was stunned.

Jenny was beautiful. Her teeth flashed a brilliant smile. Her face was intelligent, sans glasses, and burned with curiosity. Her hair was a cascade of luxurious sex. She was tall. Her figure was the envy of Hollywood starlets.

But she carried herself a little crouched, as if still huddling her blossoming womanhood in her jacket, unsure if her presence was worthy of those around her. Her words were assured, but her countenance timid. Jenny the woman had grown, but Jenny the girl still haunted her eyes.

I was filled with uncomfortable questions.

What is our Jenny?

Who made her?

Are we responsible?

There, But For The Grace Of God...

I do not know this man, but I understand his pain in a way you probably cannot. I feel his bewildering grief like a knife across my hands.

I came within inches of an ending like this.

Depression is a very serious, insidious, bastard illness. It unravels from the inside, then tries to unravel everything around it so it won't die alone.

Rest well, Richard; I know your pain. I hope it is ended now. I hope you find the simple things we all need, but are sometimes blinded to. Be free. Be happy.

If someone you know shows sudden changes in personality, flips moods in an instant, is always either high or low and never in between, or retreats far away from the world on occasion blaming fatigue or illness or just needing a rest, or just seems "off" somehow, do something. Do anything. Call a doctor, a clergyman, a help line, family members, friends. Google "depression." Do anything.

Prepare for a fight. A fight that may avoid writing an epitaph like this one.

Asshole, Or Not?

I used to be an asshole. Depression diagnosed, medication prescribed, soul searching completed, ability to "go with the flow" enhanced.

But sometimes, jerk offs just plain piss me off. I have spent so much time swallowing my pride, ignoring the boorish, trying to be nice. But not this time. I rejected the quiet acceptance of shitheads, and rediscovered my gonads.

Friday. Everyone wants to chill out. I picked a spot at the sports bar, signed in on the trivia box, settled in to genial converstation with other patrons. Then Jerkwad sat down.

Between the barstool I sat on and Jerkwad were three other barstools. He proceeded to push the empty stools in my direction, so that they touched each other, and propped his feet up on the one closest to him. Then he brought out his cell phone.

For 30 minutes I endured his phone conversations, punctuated by "dude" and "shit" and "see how important I am." For 30 minutes I endured his pounding of the bar, which sent vibrations my way, an annoyance to my ability to press the right buttons on the trivia box. For 30 minutes I endured his kicking of the nearest barstool, which trasmitted through the chain of barstools he had pushed my way, clunking at my ass in varous degrees. For 30 minutes I held my tongue. For 30 minutes I debated why I could be an absolute asshole. For 30 minutes, I hated myself and my culture that refuses to tar and feather the fuckers that have rights they don't deserve when we should be able to ride them out on the rail and put them in the stockade to humiliate them in front of the people they have insulted and oh oh oh arrrgh goddammit argggh ARRRGHHHHHH!!!

So I turned to the cretin and blew up like 2,000 Old Faithfuls.

"I AM HERE TO RELAX! DO I HAVE TO LISTEN TO EVERY PETTY PIECE OF CRAP IN YOUR LIFE?"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

The bar was silent. He made some lame comment. Ten minutes later he hung up, paid his bill, and left.

The regulars said, "Jeez, Kingfisher. I've never seen you wonk out like that."

So I leave it to you, dear readers. Asshole, or not?

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.