Occupy Portland?


I decided to go down to the Portland waterfront to check out / be a part of the Occupy Portland protest this afternoon. I’m not activisty or agitatorish at all but it seemed like something fun to do. In a sea of nebulous agendas and questionable motivations, my goal was clear: to raise public awareness of me. I donned my trademark orange safety vest and headed out. As hard as I tried I couldn’t get any newsies to take my photo. I thought I stood out enough but without dreads, or a serious sign, my efforts were fruitless. I figured a “Hi Mom!” sign was a bit tasteless, so I made a sign with my signature phrase: “YAY!” along with the Burning Man logo, heh heh. I brought along a bag of bacon which virtually nobody was interested in except for one dog who ate two pieces before the hippie who enslaved it yanked it away saying it was on a strict vegan diet. Oppressor!

Here’s some random pics…

YAY for YAY!

You’re either with me or against me! Who can oppose YAY?

It’s just like Halloween but without the treats.

Powerbars for carnivores...

 Bacon: Part of a balanced protest.

Pluto is my favorite Disney character!

 Whatever… Total downer.

Well Dressed Longshoreman

I love his jacket!

This was my last photo before my camera’s batteries went dead.

The crowd was enormous! I’d estimate it to have been around 3,000. I was impressed with the organized labor showing. Their signs made the most sense out there and had no spelling errors at all. Other folks signs were not so good… “Eet the Rich!” “No Jobs for Oil!” “Nutere the Fat Cats”…

Don’t get me wrong. I’m giving this a pretty light treatment but it’s in accordance with one of my core principles of not taking myself too seriously. The folks there were for the most part very sincere and polite. The crowd was incredibly well-behaved as demonstrated by a group of citizens surrounding two anarchist agitators and making it clear that they weren’t going to let them pull off any shit that would damage the overall image of the protest. I wish it had been captured by a news crew!

The rally ended and the march began. The marchers were orderly and considerate, moving along and obeying the boundaries of the street as laid out by the Portland Police. The police were absolutely fantastic. Very helpful, friendly, and polite. My hat is off to them. They blocked traffic to let us pass through the streets unimpeded and returned waves with a smile. I love it!

I peeled off the march when I saw a food cart peddling chinese food. I ordered some General Tso’s chicken with rice and headed for my truck. Although I am used to footmarches in my combat boots, today was not the day for it. I had my protest experience and had fulfilled my duty under the social contract.

All in all it was a good time. If an Occupy movement comes to your city, participate! There were hippies, yippies, yuppies, and businessmen and women. All walks of life were represented. It may not make a difference, but then again it just might…

Brooklyn Badges – Inappropriate Merit Badges for Adults


Mish mentioned some kind of funny and improbable merit badges that were available somewhere. Our friend Elaine posted a link two weeks ago on her page that pointed me right to the source. Brooklyn Badges. Robert Marbury is the genius behind these extremely high quality embroidered patches. He has 21 different badges available. I’ll display some of them below. I’ve attached them to my Burning Man un-safety vest to show everyone just how accomplished I am in various improbable areas of dubious skills.  

Safety Third!

 Among the badges are:

 

Apple Bong Badge

 

Bacon Appreciation Badge

 

Crop Dusting Patch
 
Drunk Biking Badge

 

Drunk Showering Badge

 

Spanner in the Works Badge

Over the course of my life, I have demonstrated my proficiency in the skills necessary to truly earn these badges. Until now I had no means to share these accomplishments with the world. Robert has finally given me a way to show others just how damned good I am. Thanks Robert!

They are amazingly affordable at just four bucks each. They are of amazing quality and it appears they will stand the test of time. Robert’s customer service is second to none and he uses faster than light shipping technology. As far as I recall, they arrived the day before I ordered them! Now that’s fast.
 
Go see his entire line of badges at Brooklyn Badges.

 

The nicest megaphone on the playa


Bunny and I set out for the deep playa on Sunday afternoon. We were heading for the chill platforms, seven raised platforms with futon mattresses and cloth shades with a revolving mirrored heart in the center, to relax and kill some time. Upon arriving we found all were occupied… We rode further out into the playa and happened upon a tall triangular structure. As we rounded the corner to the open side we saw two gentlemen comfortably lying down, one with a megaphone. Just as I thought we were going to get a blast of abuse, the guy opens up with “Hello! We’ve been waiting for you…”. The volume of the megaphone was just barely audible. He said a few more very nice things that I cannot remember. We had a wonderful conversation exchanging light talk and compliments; me with my voice and him with his megaphone. I gave him his new name: The Nice Megaphone Man. I opened my backpack and dug around for something appropriate to give these fine people and came up with a chocolate pie. They accepted it warmly and almost disbelievingly. I dismounted my bicycle and went to sit with them. Sitting only feet away we continued our chat with him still talking barely above a whisper over his gentle megaphone. I couldn’t stop smiling. This encounter was one of the most memorable I’d had so far for its simple kindness and good humor. I sat and drank some water, nibbled on a snacky cake, and enjoyed the shade the structure provided. The nice magaphone man eventually curled up for a nap with his head on his companion’s belly. They looked so tranquil. It was contagious. As Bunny and I rode off, that tranquility stayed with me. We went back to the platforms, found one open, and curled up for our own nap.

My summer vacation: What I did at Burning Man


Burning Man 2011 was my first burn. I’ve been meaning to go for 15 years but work and caring for sweetpea had kept me away until this year. I retired a year and a half ago and Sweetpea said to just go and do it.

The desert is one of my favorite places to be. I was sent to many deserts while serving in the US Army, but the Black Rock Desert in northern Nevada is unique among them. No sand for starters. Just talcum powder fine alkali dust. No plants, no animals, no washes or dry streambeds. Just flat wide open expanses that stretch for 30 to 70 miles with only mere feet in elevation difference. It is truly one of the most beautiful environments that I have ever had the privelege to visit. I was there in late July, long before 55,00 other people were there to share it at the burn. It was quieter than anywhere else I’d ever been and totally empty of everything. Nothing but lots of nothing. That all changed in early August when advance crews began to build the world’s largest temporary city.

What I did at Burning Man…

I played with my fireball generator, AKA “Fire Poofer”. I design and build propane flame effects and built this one, “Grizelda MK IV”, to bring out to the desert.

Elder Wrong, Burning Man’s own PBR guzzling Mormon missionary, manifesting his own “burning bush” through the miracle of the fireball generator. You can follow Elder Wrong and his mission at: http://ElderWrong.wordpress.com

Directing traffic on ‘A’ street. DO NOT fuck with a man with a sign, a gun, and orange hair. It’s just not a good idea…

 

Hanging out with the pretty ladies of Burning Man. This is Piney. She is one of the founders of the Booby Bar, a bar featuring two giant domes with huge pink nipples on top. Sadly, 2011 was their last year of exsitence as supporting the boobies was just too tiring and didn’t allow enough time for the supporters to experience the burn. Piney is also a member of Reno’s “Controlled Burn”, a fire conclave that features fire spinners and very large flame effects including two liquid shooters firing 20 gallons of gasoline into columns of fire reaching altitudes of 100 feet into the night sky.

Firing sunset salutes with FOGBANK, the propane & oxygen fueled sound cannon built and operated by Espressodude. The sound of the cannon reaches 180 decibels, twice as loud as an F-16 with afterburners engaged. Espressodude also served up over 50 pounds worth of Starbucks coffee beans in the form of espresso to the citizens of Black Rock City. His espresso, made with one of his two commercial espresso machines, was provided free of charge to the citizenry. His name comes from the fact that he uses his machines at home to consume up to a dozen shots of espresso per day. He is a VERY high energy individual and I can’t even begin to keep up with him…

Brushing my teeth and having it documented by Ben tang of Ben Tang Photography.

Roasting and eating midgets in Terminal City. Here I have shrunken Elder Wrong and thrown him on the barbee. We ate of his flesh but, of course, he was raised from the dead with no complications. We saved some leftovers for him which he greatly enjoyed…

Hanging out with more of the beautiful ladies of Burning Man. Here is the exquisite Miss Savannah. She handmade a wonderful pendant for Sweetpea who was unable to attend. I am honored to count her as a friend and was privleged to be able to wrap my arms around her for hugs and photos.

The pendant Savannah made for Sweetpea. So many of my friends know and love Sweetpea from my frequent mentions of her. Notice the map cast under the resin and the words “Black Rock Desert”. Thank you so much Sav. The Sweet One and I love you very much!

Dressing up for nighttime adventure. I’ll let you use your imaginations… The skirt made from a pair of US Army paratroopers trousers was graciously given to me by Quick, the beautiful Chief Warrant Officer of MASH 4207, “The Best Care On The Playa”, a medical relief camp providing comfort to the afflicted of BRC.  The gold helmet is my genuine kevlar helmet brought home from my gig in the US Army.

Cooking Spam with my 1.5 million BTU liquid propane fueled flamethrower. Knowmad provided the heat while I held my meat. Nom nom nom…

Sunset over the Flaming Lotus Girls 2011 fire art installation, Tympani Lambada.

Burning Man, something to do before you die.

The Foxfur Nebula?


It Exists!

The Foxfur Nebula

Details: This nebula is about 2,700 light years away, and is a red emission nebula, although it contains some blue sections.  I’m hoping to add color data to this later, this is a narrowband Hydrogen Alpha image.  Notice the Cone Nebula on the left side, made famous by the Hubble picture of it.  I’ll have to take a closer up view of the Cone with the C11 at a later time.

From the Buena Vista Observatory

Some blogs that I enjoy


I still haven’t figured out how to post links to my favorite blogs on the homepage so I’ll do it here…

I’m Going to Burning Man, whatever shall I wear? A blog by a friend who is a crafting queen, awesome outfitter, and funny girl. Not to mention hot, mreow…

DustyCouture.com By Dusty Bacon, Burning Man’s fashion authority! See my earlier post “Dusty Bacon on Foxfur”. Visit his site if you have no idea what Burning Man is or what outfits one could possibly wear in the middle of the desert.

Redneck Fag An interesting gentleman. His description of himself: “Calling this blog “Redneck Fag” is meant as a joke in reaction to the sanctimonious Leftists. I’m not a real redneck. I’m really just a middle-aged, middle-class, middle-brow, middle-of-the-road, “don’t tread on me”, “don’t fence me in” classical liberal Republican farmer and businessman who just so happens to be a fag.” Recent posts include topics such as astronomy, philosophy, lady pirates (with guns, hot!), and literature.

Big Gay Al’s Big Gay (Gun) Blog “From the Coordinator of the Michigan Pink Pistols, a GLBT and Kink friendly, shooting sports group. It’s called “Big Gay Al’s Big Gay (Gun) Blog,” as it’s mostly about guns and gun rights, Open and Concealed carry, and sometimes about other things, and it’s so GAY!” What is it? It’s super, thanks for asking! Again, this is not another single issue blog (Boring!). His status updates at the end of each post crack me the hell up…  “Current Mood: Calm
 Current Music: Rocky Horror Picture Show – Sweet Transvestite
My Carry Pistol: RIA M1911-A1 .45ACP 100 years old and still going strong”

More to come…

Favorite quotes


These are some quotes that just tickle me…

“You go into any men’s section and it’s all blacks and browns, walk over to the women’s area and it’s like getting a blow job from a rainbow.”

Her: I’d totally make out with you!
Me: What??!!?!
Her: Sorry, I was talking to her (points at the girl working next to her).
Last time I was at the Dairy Queen drive thru…

“I need a platonic sugar daddy.”

“Telling a guy I work with to try a sandwich shop down the street,
His response:
“Na, I want something smothered in something” ”

“Embrace your freedom to be angry and eat junk food.”

“Larry says to bring him a toothbrush. And some Crest whitening formula! He’ll gift you a Pall Mall nonfilter…”  Me to another person when I told them I was camping with Larry Harvey at Burning Man.

 

Dusty Bacon on Foxfur


Last month I was fortunate enough to attend Controlled Burn’s Compression Fire & Arts Festival in Reno, Nevada. I had a blast meeting, in person, so many people from the Burning Man community that I’ve met in various online forums.

I brought with me some of what I will be wearing at Burning Man including the infamous shoulder armor rig. It began as a 3 dollar second thought at a thrift store and soon took on a life of its own and consumed over 100 hours of my time bringing it to its present form. I was hanging out around Espressodude’s up-armored Xterra and Kernul Killbuck’s Urban Assault Vehicle on the bridge when I was approached by Dusty Bacon. Yeah, THE Dusty Bacon. Burning Man’s fashion expert himself asked if he could take a photograph of me wearing the armor. You know me. I’m rather shy, hesitant to share, and bashful, but he coaxed me into it… He took three photos that I have been dying to see. Today I found them. He wove them into a wonderful video highlighting the burner fashion that was all about on that beautiful summer day in downtown Reno. I won’t tell you where I appear in it as you really need to watch the entire video to appreciate the day’s fashions and Dusty’s photography. Three minutes of bliss…

Compression! A Fine Example of Reno’s Burner Styles 

I have not embedded Dusty’s video or screencaps here because they are his, not mine, and you need to see his burner fashion site to believe it.

Foxfur in armor. Weapon and helmet courtesy of Kernul Killbuck.

A closeup shot of the armor showing a few of the message plates.

 You may notice that there are V’s where U’s should be. I lost the U stamp in my set so had to make do. Thanks ancient romans!

Each plate was beat to hell and dented up, stamped with messages, hammer contoured to fit the specific spot on the armor, riveted or bolted in place, chemically antiqued, buffed, and paint filled to enhance visibility of the messages. There are more than 30 plates.

Wheee!

Disabled Relationships


Today is Sweetpea’s 40th birthday. We were planning to go to a rock and gem show, to a lunch at a Japanese restaurant that we’ve not been to together in years, and then I planned to surprise her with a new car. This morning started off quite well. Her pain level was at a “dull roar” as she put it. I was very excited as that is sometimes a good sign that we will make it out the door together. As the morning went on I could tell that her pain was increasing by a number of signs. The amount of time she was able to move around without sitting to rest, the length of her shower, the length of her sentences or the timbre of her voice. Truthfully, I knew that it was most likely that we would not make it out today. But I had the hope that we would. As it turned out, she did not feel well enough to leave the house today.

13 years ago, less than a year after we were married, a careless driver in a large truck made a stupid decision that resulted in a broken neck, a spinal injury, a twisted back, a dislocated shoulder and various other smaller injuries. It robbed of her health and vitality and took from us all of the plans we had made for our future together. It took away the body that she had so proudly trained and disciplined in the United States Army. It took away choices that should have been ours to make. It changed both of our lives in a way that we had never imagined possible when we stood together in the rose garden under a blue sky, daffodils and trees in bloom, and pledged our love and lives to one another.

She suggested that I go out and enjoy the beautiful weather that we are fortunate enough to have today. She suggested that I perhaps go to my favorite spot in the park near our library and watch the ducks, watch the people, or sit and type on the notebook. She said that she would be fine curled up with her book and our kitty by her side. 

The park is beautiful today. The ducks are up to their usual ducky activities. The violets, pansies, ans alyssum are beaming at every passerby. The people are walking and talking, sitting and running doing their thing. At this very moment two ducks are busy making baby ducks less than fifty feet away(!). Of all this I am glad. I only wish that she were well enough to sit beside me and take all of this beauty in together. Her limitations are something that I have no control over and that is a very frustrating situation for one who can repair almost anything that almost anyone can break. She is the one intricate machine that I have no skills to restore of perfect. Acceptance of this, of her condition, of the limitations that it places upon our relationship, is a difficult proposition. Acceptance has been gradual over the past years and is a progressive process that cannot be accelerated or hurried. It is not always a forward and linear process. It will see ups and downs, progress and recess, but it does continue.

We are entirely dependent upon each other. She on me for emotional, physical, and financial support. I on her for strength and purpose. I am so very glad that that I can be here for her. in fact I am happy that I able to do so. I cannot imagine her on her own trying to deal with a life disarranged by chance and circumstance. We do the best we can with what we have. As she reminds me, it could have been worse. She is not paralyzed. She is not dead. We still have each other and she is my world. She is the reason I get up every morning. She is the reason that I do not give in to despair. She and her outlook are the reasons I keep on going.

She heals me.

It could always be worse...

Out of the mouths of babes


Miss Bee and I spent a great afternoon together recently. Gabbing up a storm and, surprise, went out for sushi. Sushi Mio is a new favorite of mine. The creamy scallops are out of this world…

After sushi we took a stroll through the park and saw that the kids had been writing with chalk on the walking path. The kids are alright

It made our day.

Little things like this remind us that we’re never too old to decide not to grow up.

Email from Adam Stennett


I emailed Adam to let him know that I had blogged him. This was his response:

“Thanks Steve!

It’s always nice to hear from people who really connect with my work. Thanks for sharing it on your blog.
I see you are going to Burning Man.
I have had many good times there.
Have fun!

Adam”

Why am I not surprised that he’s a burner?

Scroll down a few posts to see his art and a link to his website.

Dear seared albacore roll, I hate you!


What did you do to me? Why? All I wanted to do was enjoy you. I’ve always loved you in a can. I even got with the times and adjusted to your new foil-pak outfit and discovered that it was still the same beautiful you inside. I have always savored your delicious flavor and incredible texture. You are simple and yet complex. What I’m trying to figure out is why you turned on me the other evening.

I caught a glimpse of you as you slid your way toward me in your smooth and practiced linear fashion. I saw you beckoning me and giving me that come hither look. You looked so fine and inviting, sweet and hot. Throwing all caution to the wind, I swept you up, placed you on the bar in front of me, and gently removed your top. You were so beautiful, so alluring, so inviting. Your nori corset held you as though the two of you were born as one. The grains of rice that adorned you were divine, glistening. Your green onions and red sriracha made you look as though you were the Christmas present I’d always wanted but never knew to ask for. I gazed down upon your delicate flesh and eagerly anticipated the moment that was to be ours. It was to be our first time together and the visions of ecstasy that awaited us momentarily obscured my vision. It seemed that I could taste you before you had even entered my moist, warm mouth. Oh the things I imagined doing to you my teeth, my tongue, my hard palate… I smeared you with wasabi and showered you with soy sauce and then lovingly guided you between my open lips in a slow, passionate, deliberate celebration of your form. I took you in deeply. I couldn’t imagine a more loving and tender moment between us as I began to manipulate you, to blend our flesh together, to become one with you and you with me. And then?

Then you shit in my mouth. I was aghast! At first I thought it must be some kind of synesthetic confusion brought on by the woman sitting across from us in the über busy red Ross Dress For Less pantsuit with the purple flowers, the green piping, and the gold fringe accents. I thought that her outfit must taste just like what you were doing to me at that moment, that once special moment. But it was not synesthesia. No. You were indeed shitting upon my tongue. The more I tried to deny that fact the more you shat upon my most delicate and sensitive organ. Its moistness sullied by your astringent tissues. Its sensitivity ruined by your acrid green onions. Its curiosity dashed by the sriracha that had adorned you and made you look like a goddess on that conveyor belt catwalk. I contemplated pushing you out of me immediately but I couldn’t bear the thought of squandering all of the desire that I had already invested in you. I believed that if I allowed myself to continue to completion with you that everything would be alright and that I would make you mine. After all, true love is about accepting the faults of others. I was in a profound state of denial, like an abused lover believing that if I just gave you another chance that everything could be the way it was before. That’s where I really fucked up.

 I should have rejected you as soon as the passion had turned to poison. I should have spat you upon your creator who was only mere feet away. But no, I just had to keep going. It was a huge mistake, like masturbating and crying at the same time, I should have pulled myself together and had the strength to say no. But alas, I did not do so and so you continued to torment me unrelentingly. I left the restaurant in tears clutching my take out tray tightly to my chest. I left your two awful companions sitting on the bar, the bar that was to be our gateway to a love bigger than you and I put together. I ran to my truck fumbling for my keys, desperate to climb into the womb-like safety of the cab where I could be alone and be far away from you. The next few minutes were a blur. I remember yelling, a lot. I remember shouting “WHY?”. Then I remember being on the open road trying to flee that awful rendezvous with you and your tongue-shitting ways. Oh dear, what was I to do? What could I do? I frantically searched the center console, the armrest, and the door pockets for a mint. Just one mint. That’s all I needed, all I wanted. I could find none. I greedily slurped down half of the contents of my 64 ounce insulated travel mug hoping that the soothing flavors of my carbonated beverage would rinse the taste of shame and humiliation from my mouth and move it closer towards my digestive tract. But it did not. Oh no. Not even close. You cunning little bitch. Did you, Satan, and the Pepsi Cola corporation sign a blood pact to intensify my oral and olfactory agony? I would argue in the affirmative.

The next logical action to take was at hand. A cigar. I lit it and drew so deeply that my forehead made a popping sound like a freshly opened jar of applesauce. But the relief, the relief that I expected, that I needed, was not to be had. No. No, you tenaciously held to my tongue like a barnacle holds to a whale’s adipose vent and ruining forever what once was good and clean and pure. I finished that cigar and immediately lit another. Again, I found no relief from your putrescence. Why oh why would you not leave me to my misery, allow me to be alone and ashamed of what I had done in the peace and privacy that I yearned for at that moment? I needed no further reminders from you of what a fool I had been, of what weakness I had displayed in accepting your advances, of my short-sighted decision made in the heat of the moment. My drive home was not a short one. In fact, it was rather long and made only longer by your continued insistence on fouling my palate with your disgusting residual ridicule. And when your filth finally started to fade and I thought that I might just make it out alive after all, you came back! I burped. I burped and there you were! It was as though our first congress had begun all over again. Each and every time I burped you came back to me. Each and every time I burped I shouted “FUCK!”. I will never be able to estimate just how many times I screamed “FUCK!” during that seemingly endless drive home but it sure as hell was a fuck of a lot. My world was simply full of fuck.

Upon arriving home, Sweetpea came running to my side. She had heard the wail of “FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!” as I tore ass up the mountain. She was crying, as was I, and pleading with me to tell her what had happened, what was wrong, what could she do for me. I brushed her aside and bolted for the one place that I knew that I could find reprieve: the bathroom. I ran to the sink, grabbed the toothbrush from its old and crazed plastic preschool juice and crackers cup, squirted gobs of red jellied toothpaste upon its bristles and jammed the salvation on a stick into my mouth. I went at it with a ferocity that I’d never imagined my vanilla whitebread ass to be capable of. I brushed and cried, cried and brushed, and brushed and brushed and brushed. At last, when the gums surrounding each and every tooth, facial and lingual, mesial and distal, were awash in the blood of my shattered heart, I decided that was enough. I spat the crimson mess into the sink and stared into the mirror at myself. I shall never forget the eyes that looked back at me. Hollow, empty, devoid of the spark of life that they once held. The face that I beheld was one that was lacking the humanity that it had once had in abundance. A defeated visage of the man I once was. A spectre. A lad insane.

Long into the night as I lay curled in a fetal position on the couch, alone and shaking, the only sound that could be heard to escape my lips was a low and moaning “fuuuuuck….”.

I will never, Never, NEVER again pollute my mouth or taint my soul with another seared albacore sushi roll. My last words to you are a haiku that I hope you will take to heart and remember.

Fuck you albacore

I will never be the same

Your taste lingers on

Adam Stennett – Artist


In 2005 I was stumbling around the internet when I happened upon this:

What an interesting photograph… I searched around and found more.

Stunning! How did he manage to get these mice posed let alone to hold still as he photographed them?

It was with this photo that I realized these were not photos. They were paintings! It was the reflection of the matches that revealed this marvelous fact to me. I decided it was time to track him down. I found his website and fell in love all over again.

His paintings are so incredibly detailed, so realistic, so vibrant. They grabbed my by the imagination and shook my perspective. I get lost in the detail. He is a gifted man whose art touches my soul. His subjects are many and his talent is deep.

Here’s the featured work on his homepage as of this morning:

Visit him at The Paintings of Adam Stennett

Share The Road!


I like bicycles. A bicycle was my first means of transportation and a dandy one at that. They’re neat. What’s not neat? A couple of Lance Armstrong wannabe’s on my two lane rural road. When I attempt to pass you, Mr. Tour de Farce, the last thing you should do is swerve to the left over the center of the road. I don’t know what it is that you were trying to do but I am big and hard and you are small and crunchy.
You have the right of way but I have a shaken can of Diet Pepsi with Lime.
You should not smack the passenger door of a truck as it attempts to pass you in a slow and safe manner. You should not shower a driver with profanity and throw your water bottle at him as he is contemplating your inexplicable behavior. You should not call a driver out of his truck in an attempt to instigate a violent confrontation. You should not run towards a driver who has just stepped out of his vehicle after an extremely dyspeptic dining experience and a frustrating day of rewiring his camping trailer. You should listen to your buddy when he tells you to cool it or you will get in trouble. Again. You should know that a can of any soda with a citrus product in it, even an artificial one, will sting your eyes. You should know that if you throw your water bottle at a truck that you will not have said water to rinse warm Diet Pepsi out of your eyes with. You should know that folks out here carry ax handles (or worse) but that some of them will show tremendous restraint and employ much funnier means of self defense. You should know that you cannot outrun the long arm of the law on a bicycle no matter whose logo you have on your shirt or whose tires are on your carbon fiber rims.
And finally, you should know that the driver has refused to press charges because he is still laughing his ass off.
Sharing the road. It goes both ways!

Forest Grove Sushi, Who Knew?


Forest Grove Sushi

Sometimes I refer to Forest Grove, Oregon as a little shit-kicker town. For the most part it’s a sleepy town of about five thousand folks. It does, however, have a well-groomed downtown area centered around Pacific University, the Forest Grove library, and the city offices. It’s come along quite nicely in the 20 years in which I’ve been visiting.
For a couple of years I’ve been meaning to stop in and sample the cuisine at Forest Grove Sushi. Having done so tonight, my only regret is not having done so when I first thought of it. The design is half and half traditional and modern but with a true countertop glass sushi cooler. The sushi chef does the hand clap, always a good sign in my world. They offer a menu typical of many smaller japanese restaurants here in the states.
I ordered a Oregon roll; crab, avocado, cream cheese, cucumber, and topped with generous salmon and avocado slices that touch the plate on both sides of the roll. Absolutely delicious. The salmon was perfect. ~$8 / 8pcs.
I ordered red snapper nigiri at the same time and was surprised at the thickness of the pieces delivered. The size was impressive as well covering an area twice as large as the nigiri rice it is laid upon. ~$3.50 / 2pcs.
After demolishing the above I decided I needed to gather more intel. Next target: The FG roll. Tuna, salmon, crab, avocado, cream cheese, and cucumber in a roll with the nori on the outside. Again, highly delicious. ~$5 / 6pcs. All of the above were arranged artfully on traditional japanese plates and presented gracefully. The service was prompt and courteous and earned the server a handsome tip.
I ordered some rolls to take home to Sweetpea. An 8 piece California roll, $3.50, and an 8 piece inari roll, ~$3. The inari roll has strips of inari (fried sweet bean curd) with crab, avocado, and cucumber wrapped in nori with the rice on the outside. Sweetpea eagerly approved and promptly destroyed both.
If you’re on your way to Tillamook on Hwy 6, hop off at Banks and head south into Forest Grove to getcha some Forest Grove Sushi. After your meal you can either order some mochi right there or head out the back way from town, Hwy 8, and stop by Scotty’s for a soft-serve creamy cone or other frozen Americano fat bomb.
Damn. I could just kick myself for not having tried their sushi sooner.
Now I know.

www.facebook.com/FGSushi

A word to the wise…


The following will serve as a warning to you, the reader. It is a note sent to my brother prefacing a short story I had written. This post should be kept in mind if you decide to continue reading this blog.

Hey there mister,
    I couldn’t decide whether to begin my Quicksilver trilogy or my epic space opera, so instead I chose to excrete the offal that you will find below. The main reason I began writing it was in order to hear my writing spoken by the Kindle. Damn if it doesn’t sound just like a work by a famous author! Either I have to make a recording of it, or you have to get you some Kindle action going on, or you have to find a Kindled spirit and trick them into uploading it onto their device and then beat them into turning on the text-to-speech so you both may share in the agony that is my writing. Hearing my writing is actually one of the best motivators that I’ve ever had. In fact, I’m rather surprised that the Kindle emitted no sparks! Neither did it deign to release its factory smoke charge. It’s a fucking miracle of modern technology that my monitor didn’t implode after the first sentence, though it had every right to. Who knows, if my technology continues to accept this drivel without crapping its buffers, then I’ll keep writing like a ferret on crystal meth. Let me know what you think. I’m pretty damned glad there’s 700 miles separating us because there’s nothing worse that a literary critic demonstrating his disgust by hurling a Molotov cocktail from a speeding vehicle to drive home the point that I have diverged from the well worn path of Joyce and Frost. Somebody told me that I should take a writing class. I told him that he should consider taking a shutting-the-hell-up class and that he could reasonably expect to graduate as the valedictorian. Actually, I told him that I already know how to write, as well as read, although not at the same time but I can switch off rather quickly.
    The story is set in the future in a place that will become evident once you have read just a small portion, although I would truly appreciate it if you would continue reading, possibly to the end of the as yet unfinished story. I have taken the liberty of including a PDF of the same inane ramblings should you decide to share it with somebody in need of an intensely dysphoric experience. Please feel free to strip my name from the file and to tell the victim that you found this tract in a recycle bin or compost pile. I wouldn’t want to be the cause of any shame or humiliation that almost certainly would be directed against you in light of being related to the author (I use that term very loosely…). Seriously though, I had to wrap six or seven layers of duct tape around my bulbous torso to keep from splitting my sides so you may want to consider taking such prophylactic measures before reading. Perhaps a strip over the eyes wouldn’t hurt either. Please be sure to use plenty of Neosporin on your eyes after you’ve stabbed them with pencils, you wouldn’t want an infection.

With love,

Your brother