When you piss off a bridge into a snowstorm, it feels like you’re connecting with eternal things. Paying homage to something or someone. But who? The Druids? Walt Whitman? No, I pay homage to one person only, my brother, my twin.        In life. In death.        Telemachus. Since the death of his brother, Jonathan’s been losing his grip on reality. Last year’s Best Young Poet and gifted guitarist is now Taft High School’s resident tortured artist, when he bothers to show up. He's on track to repeat eleventh grade, but his English teacher, his principal, and his crew of Thicks (who refuse to be seniors without him) won’t sit back and let him fail. A 2011 ALA Best Fiction for Young Adults Book "Wesselhoeft offers a psychologically complex debut that will intrigue heavy-metal aficionados and drama junkies alike. Peopled with the elderly and infirm, crazy parents, caring educators, and poignant teens trying desperately to overcome death's pull, it mixes real and fictional musicians and historical events to create a moving picture of struggling adolescents and the adults who reach out with helping hands. Adios, Nirvana targets an audience of YAs who rarely see themselves in print."— Booklist " Adios, Nirvana  is a bit like road rash. It rakes you raw; gets under your skin; and leaves a few shards stuck permanently in your elbow. It is well worth the trip."—Richie Partington, RichiesPicks.com "Scribble its name on a wish list, type it into your PDA, or pre-order it...because to miss it would be shame. This was (without a doubt) the BEST book I have read in a year, and if I could give it 6 stars I would. Get it, live, it, love it...pass it on."—Misty Baker, Kindleobsessed.com blog "At heart, Adios, Nirvana is everything I'd hoped The Catcher in the Rye would be... Adios, Nirvana is fresh, it's impossible not to feel sympathy for Jonathan and I find myself really wanting to keep reading to see if he can successfully battle his demons. Laced with details into things teens are exposed to on a regular basis—drinking, suicidal thoughts, depression and music, most of all the music—I really loved every minute of Jonathan's coming-of-age tale."— Roundtable Reviews "Homage to poetry, music, friendship, and youth, this brash, hip story should attract its share of skater dudes and guitar jammers."— School Library Journal "Jonathan's narration is all about style, moving between clipped, one-line sentences and heavily imagistic rhapsodies influenced by his heroes Charles Bukowski and Walt Whitman, soaring often into descriptions of his music and the atmospheric West Seattle milieu that colors his sensibilities and returning frequently to Homeric allusion."— The Bulletin "A wonderful blend of contemporary, historical, and literary fiction. [Wesselhoeft's] use of figurative language makes each page dance with images of raw realism....This is a poignant piece for older teens."— VOYA Conrad Wesselhoeft lives with his three children and a big, grinning poodle named Django, in West Seattle. Chapter 1 "Hey, man, get down!" "Dude, don’t be an idiot!" It’s my thicks calling to me. They’re standing just off the bridge, in the little park with the totem pole. The one that looks out over Elliott Bay and downtown Seattle. But tonight you can’t see a thing. Tonight, the world is a giant shaken snow globe. Big flakes tumbling down. The size of potato chips. In this city of eternal rain—snow! Once-a-decade snow. Maybe even once-a-century. It’s piling fast. We’ve been tossing frozen grapes at each other’s open orifices. Kyle is extremely good at this—can catch a grape in his mouth at fifty feet. So can Javon. They dart and dive and roll, catching nearly every grape despite the swirly snow and patchy street light. Nick and I pretty much suck. I dig the grapes out of the snow. Eat them. They are Mimi’s little specialty, cored and filled with vodka. One or two or ten don’t do much, but thirty or forty— whoa! Kyle lifted the whole bag from my freezer. I’ve had . . . god knows. I lost count a long time ago. And now I’m feeling it. All of it. I’m spinning. Delirious. A little sick. Plus, I gotta pee. I’m standing on the rail of the bridge, midspan, grasping the light pole. It’s an old concrete bridge. The rail is waist high and just wide enough for me to perch on without slipping, as long as I hold on to the light pole. I gaze up into the blazing industrial bulb. See the flakes lingering in the little upswirl. Below, the ground is bathed in perfect white darkness. It’s not all that far down, twenty or thirty feet. Just enough to break a few bones—or kill you. It looks like a soft pillow. Dimpled by shrubs and bushes. "Dude, dude, dude . . ." "What’re ya doin’, man?" I unzip and explode, blast a twelve-foot rope of steaming piss into the night. When you piss off a bridge into a snowstorm, it feels like you’re connecting with eternal things. Paying homage to something or someone. But who? The Druids? Walt Whitman