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.

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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

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