Only in Oregon?

A sign standing sign on the walk outside of the mall that houses the Beaverton branch of Powell's Books reads thusly:

Warning! BIRD PROTECTING NEST ABOVE. Use caution! Bird tends to swoop down without warning!

This was a large, glossy sign that appeared to have been expensive to make. I love this part of the world.

Eegah! Fire Scare Thog! But Pretty Girl Soothe Thog's Wary Mind! Thog Buy Things from Her!

Blonde
The last four times I've gone into my bank, they have tried to sell me on this account upgrade and a virtually free credit report from all three agencies, and every time I've turned them down. Today, I went through with it, and now have a comprehensive (and scary) credit report. Why did I suddenly change my mind?

Easy: this time the person selling me was ridiculously cute. The photo above is not a photo of her, of course: it's just a random image I grabbed off the Internet. If anything, she was cuter than this, not just physically, but her whole attitude was just adorable as hell. She was so new in her job that she didn't even have business cards yet, and she sort of giggled at some of her flubs and was slightly nervous about the whole thing, possibly because she was unused to serving customers who possess such blistering sexual charisma (but probably just because she was new in her position).

And her last name, if I'm reading her handwriting correctly, is Hotya, which is maybe the best name ever for a cute blond woman.

Anyway, every time I think I'm some sort of "evolved gentleman" and above such things, along comes a pretty girl to remind me that I'm nothing more than a big, dumb male.

The Name Game

Most people on the Internet know me as Kevin Wolf, hence my twitter handle and Posterous blog name: Hungry Like Kevin. It's a Duran Duran joke. However, Wolf is merely the last name of my stepfather when I was in school. My name was never legally changed, hence my last name is actually "Stone".

Because of recent tightening of the ID laws in this country, this discrepancy caused me a lot of bureaucratic hassle recently. For awhile, I thought: "Cool. I have a private name and a 'professional' name." But it all got too confusing, so I'm officially coming out of the closet as Kevin Stone, and I'm slowly changing all of my on-line stuff to reflect that, but I'm not going to change my Twitter handle or Posterous blog title because I like those. They just won't be as clever now.

For awhile, I thought of going as Kevin Stone Wolf, and I must admit that combination still appeals to me on an aesthetic level if not a personal one (both last names can go to hell as far as I'm concerned, but it's too late in life for me to be coming up with new ones).

So, yeah, I'm Kevin Stone. Pleased to meet you.

Still the same boy you've always known.

Remember the Fish at the End of Faith No More's "Epic" Video? Yeah, Like That.

As I sit here, I can feel my heart thudding and fluttering in my chest. I have some sort of diastolic murmur or something, which the doctor says, "Always, 100% of the time, means something bad." I've concocted a visual representation of my murmuring heart. When I picture it, I see a perch flip-flopping on the bottom of my father's aluminum boat--terrified, suffocating--when I was a kid in grade school.

That's my heart: fighting for life in a hostile environment while stupid white people grin and congratulate themselves for murdering it.

I hated fishing, by the way, just in case that wasn't clear.

Don't Be Angry Because You Didn't Think of It First

If I'm going to be dying, which is looking more and more like a reality I have to start getting confortable with (the scary thing is exactly how so fucking comfortable I am with it already), I guess it's about time that I got started on that one searing, heart-rending work of stupefying beauty that will seal my posthumous reputation as one of the most gifted writers of the 21st century.

With that in mind, I'll grant you a sneak peak in the form of a premise and a title.

It's about a former professional escort and her best friend, and they solve mysteries as newly-minted private detectives. They are also shemales.

The title: Dicks with Dicks.

This shit is gonna make me immortal.

Die or Get off the Pot

My phone isn't working right now, so a friend got the call from the clinic that there's something unusual in my blood test results.

Something.

They don't have the authority to tell her what it is, and I'm still not capable of calling them back, so it looks like I just have to sit around for a couple days wondering what the hell is wrong with me now.

I'd much rather deal with something sudden and catastrophic than this fucking dying-by-inches.