27 December 2007

Thought of the day

Why can't cat shit smell like freshly baked cookies?

09 December 2007

Sunday outtake

"And then we vacuumed the dog."

04 December 2007

Posting, Lack of

I haven't written much lately but I have a good excuse. Honest.

16 November 2007


Originally uploaded by vrai the dotty prof.
Cause in 'merika freedom ain't free!

Apparently it costs about $60,000 and comes in black, white, gun metal grey, cobalt blue, red or navy blue.

Mileage: 8-10 mpg or 18-24 km/L

Gross weight: 8,600 pounds / 3629 kg

Approximate amount of iron ore dug up (not including all the waste) to make a single H2:
19.8 tons or 39,600 lbs / 16,700 kg

I won't even begin to mention all the plastics and other materials in this thing.


10 November 2007

The Stirke was Unconscionable and Swift, Revenge Sweet

The strike was unconscionable and swift, revenge sweet.

CJ, ah my dear CJ "picked a marker up from the floor" this evening and took it upon herself to color Miss Bailey (my dog) while I was pouring a fresh batch of chicken broth from its pan. As I cleaned up I looked back towards the floor to see an excited Miss Bailey painted like some mad circus clown on his 6th bottle of malt liquor. Soon the shock and awe of the attack subsided and Miss Bailey sought revenge against the terrorist forces.

Even now, two hours after battle, as I type this AAR (After Action Report) blood pours from my many wounds and splatters the keyboard below. The pain is very real, but I must admit revenge is sweet.

A green zone has been clearly designated, a provisional government installed and battle has completely subsided. Mission accomplished folks.

GALLERY - Battle of Marker Provence

The damage is done.

Shock and awe sets in.

Miss Bailey pleads for revenge in a congressional hearing.

Bailey forces strike the elite Red Pant Brigade.

Miss Bailey suffers a direct hit to the head.

Battle subsides after hours of arduous fighting. Green zone established by Bailey forces.

A reader shared his recent experience on the battlefield.
My poor old Byron suffered blue ear and white tail tip damage recently defending the hallway from invasion by a painter and decorator (admittedly his defending involves wagging tail and subduing the invading forces by licking them, not quite water-boarding but certainly effective at preventing any enemy action). Is poor old Miss B still marked or did you send in a team to dismantle all trace of chemical warfare?
Thank you Mr. Wit for taking the time to share your story with us. The clean-up team has been reluctant to approach with water for fear it will kick up noxious fumes in the Dogwet territory. I suspect the team will calm local citizens and complete the cleanup some time this afternoon.

The Catwet territory is another matter. Though suppressed, the reigning militia's Red Pant Brigade is still on high alert and has been brandishing swords and other implements of destruction in the streets. The counter-insurgency coalition met last evening and decided it may be best to let nature do the clean up work. "We want to wait and see what happens," General Dogder explained in a press meeting earlier this morning. This was in fact his response to every question posed by the press.

Fortunately the expected half-life of the chemistry used in the revenge attack is a mere two days though crews are keeping a close eye on the situation in case a cleanup opportunity arises sooner.

smoking cat
Brigadier General Stinkzlot of the Red Pant Brigade is still on the loose. An anonymous official released this top secret photo.

catwet leader still on the loose
The mood in the Catwet territory is tense as militia troops still roam the streets. We are told no shots have been fired. Photo courtesy of Greenwater, LLC.

30 October 2007


She thought that one day she'd make something of herself. Little did she realize she was already a well spun mass of tissue, liquids and minerals. Little did she realize her family had always thought she was something. But was she the right something? That is the question.

10 October 2007

Quandary, abridged

So yesterday I was excited to hear from my publisher that my novel, Quandary, would be published. As it turns out the selected editor is a real prick and has decimated nearly 75% of my text. Not one to just let such a travesty fly I've demanded the novel be published with the proper title suffix: "abridged."

All that muck aside, being the gent that I am, I happily publish it for you here, dear readers, at no cost whatsoever. Grab a drink, your oral fixation of choice and sit back for a nice cozy read:

Alfred is a real asshole.

09 October 2007

Quandary - My newest novel released!

Originally uploaded by vrai the dotty prof.
I've just written a novel and am pleased to publish the ebook version for you here in all its glory. I'll shut my yapper and let it speak for itself:

Phil waited patiently for Alfred nearly every day. This is not the day Phil would choose to continue without him.

See what people are saying about my novel!

- New York Herald Tribune raves, "A triumph in eloquent brevity!"
- LA Times relates, "We were too busy covering the riots in South L.A."
- The Denver Post shouts, "More! We want more!! This doesn't qualify as a novel."
- The New Yorker cannot be reached for comment at this time.
- Readers Digest blurts, "Thank you for your submission to Laughter is the Best Medicine!"
- The Oregonian trumpets this novel, "A refreshing read for my tired watery eyes!"
- Springfield, MO's Senior Living Newspaper wheezes, "Brilliant! Now where do I get my free pancakes?"

04 October 2007

lascivious cooking!

After sitting vacant for some time the other blog the missus and I run called lascivious cooking -- we love to spend time in the kitchen -- has been updated with some new decadent posts. Check it out if you get a spare moment! More will be posted very soon.


28 September 2007

we call her madam

Madam has been hanging around the house for well over a month now and is like a roommate at this point. We've held meetings with her to discuss the territory she had settled and how she would be fed. Madam's first plot, not at all ideal, was above the gate leading to and from our patio. "This certainly will not do," we said. We didn't want to catch our heads in her web, and she didn't seem to appreciate us shredding her home everyday. After me flailing in disgust a number of times, having run my face through her web, and her indignation at my lack of finesse we deliberated and came to a mutual understanding. Madam has moved about four feet from her previous location and has instead setup web near an outdoor light and above one of our garbage cans. You see, I used the garbage can 'benefit' to help soften the blow of her inevitable move. And after some time we've found the arrangement is actually quite beneficial to all parties concerned. We (myself and others in residence) agree to put smelly trash in our garbage can to attract flies and other insects. Her part of the bargain? Madam has agreed to catch and dispose of them as she sees fit.

Though rather large and creepy, I've enjoyed having her company and regret she will retire as winter approaches.

24 September 2007

what the.....

who comes up with this stuff anyway?

clone 'em?! really? *sigh* I've mentioned population dominance/control previously but I hadn't considered full-on cloning. of course they are speaking metaphorically. so far.

12 September 2007

If you feel it, peel it.

I generally hate posting tube videos (I've posted enough to give me a rash) but some are just too good to pass up. So for my second wang related post of the day I give you the 70's Dole banana.

stop it!

I just don't get it. Why after nearly 60 plus years of updated and nearly (not totally) reasonable doctrine regarding non-Roman Catholic churches would Mr. Popey Poopy Pants the Benedictry officially pronounce the non-Catholic churches of the world "not true churches" (to include some of the non-Roman variety of Catholic). This is the same church that has recently (relatively) apologized for their help with the slave trade, mistreatment of women, smashings and trashings of Protestants, sheer ignorance of the holocaust (at the time), condemning Galileo for his belief that the Earth was (gasp! get this) not the center of the Universe and other such "oddities." The Catholic entity has proven itself just as painfully ruthless (if not worse) as most any other religious denomination or group of spiritual people; one only need flip to any page of the grand history book.

Of course the other organized religions are not historically clean either. So look, I'm not going out of my way to poo poo Roman Catholicism in my day to day life, but in this case Mr. Benedict has put a big ol' red target on the churches ass end. Just as Sunni and Shi'a factions have put targets on their collective derrière to the point of factioning their own factions. Likewise, we saw the same idiocy during the Ariel Sharon I'm not gunna pull out, nuh uh! policy days. I won't even get started on the U.S. policy (only recently tossed aside with N. Korea) practice of not talking to evil, bah! Talk to each other you fucks! Ignorance is not bliss, it's dangerous.

Pull the curtains off the machine and one sees that the basic premise of any religious conflict is marketing. One big freakin' marketing campaign. Get your Nike hats on kids. Instead of increasing sales we're looking at an effort to increase like minded population until dominance is achieved. Be it videos, camps, 'missionarying', written propaganda, killing or good ol' natural population control. Wha?! Natural means of population control? It goes both ways. A few examples:
1. Catholics - no no, you can't have that birth control! Ever!
2. Mormons - Be fruitful you lovely young newly weds! A higher level of heaven awaits.
3. Quiverfulls - This movement freaks me out. The loh'rd'ha loves dem kids! Birth as many of the l'il loh'rdha's soldiers as you can, people!
4. Great Britain - Heard about the Irish potato blight? GB had a potato immune to the blight. The Irish didn't. Root of conflict: religion. And land. Rotting potato = population elimination.
5. Mongols - In their heyday they kicked everyone's ass! And impregnated them. Mmm, ya, make that the Holy Roman Empire too.

Can't you punks just learn to get along after all these centuries?! A lot of people out here would actually like to enjoy a peaceful, non-hate mongering religion. Or peaceful non-religion. Walk away, leave people alone, allow for self discovery. The 'white man's burden,' or whatever your burden is, doesn't have to be your burden any longer. Be free! Run with the wind children of Earth!

Stop sucking satan wang!

23 July 2007

Sweeeet Beaver

I just noticed that some poor soul found my blog yesterday with a google search for horror beaver.

Looking back through my sitelog a bit further I see others have also landed in my neighborhood in search of this horror beaver. In fact, unbeknownst to me, until now, I have become the #2 link on google for horror beaver. That's not good enough! It's time to take the top position folks. So please, if you must discuss a horror beaver, I ask that you link people my way. I'm not trying to whore my blog necessarily, I just want to take top marks for the two lovely words. Simple desire, no?

Ah yes, back to the point of this whole post. Of course I wanted to know what this "horror beaver" is so I did a bit of searching myself. Well, I found it. The horror beaver doesn't actually look like a horror beaver at all to me, nor does it look like a horrific beaver. It's more of a horror marmot I'd say, or maybe a horror prairie dog.

Not one to disappoint, I give those needing their daily fix of horror marmot the interminable horror they seek (just look at the beady eyed little fecker — I hate 'em already):

29 June 2007

23 June 2007

Who knew?

Online Dating
This rating was determined based on the presence of the following words:
* death (5x)
* fucking (2x)
* shit (2x)
* crap (1x)
* ass (1x)

My blog is rated R??? I honestly thought I'd look up my rating, post a squeaky clean G rating. Of course my goal would be to hit NC-17 within a week or so. Fucking, death, and ass (not necessarily in that order) did me in however. Well, at least I still have a bit of work to do — it's high time I get the rating I so deserve.

This makes me wonder... when a director fetches a measly PG-13 (the of box office death rating) on a movie, will s/he be driven to make their next movie a firm R rating? Or perhaps NC-17 before being forced to delete scenes? I would.

A few quick bloggy examples: Curly Giants moved swiftly from PG-13 to R. UDreamOfJanie started with an R and jumped up to NC-17 in no time. Some wanker (and kind fellow I'm sure) at a blog called Hot Dogs, Pretzels, and Perplexing Questions hit the NC-17 right out of the gate. Anyway, enough of that for now. Go fetch your rating! It's fun, and everybody's doing it. Discontinue use of ratings system if any of the following occurs: Itching, vertigo, dizziness, tingling in extremities, loss of balance or coordination, slurred speech, temporary blindness, profuse sweating, or heart palpitations. Some studies have shown an increase in lascivious behavior may also eliminate side-effects. In all cases, if your blog or ratings box begins to smoke, get away immediately. Seek shelter
and cover head.

Until next time, write all the cursin' and swearin' lewdest, crudest and awfulest things you can think up in my comments. It won't help my score any, but I'll sure enjoy it.

P.S. That fucking shit filled wank bag, std spewing, sex deprived son of a fucktard whore bag needs to get his shit together and fix the poor-ass pimp-slap job he's done.

Update 9:23 AM, 23 June: Got it! I feel much much better now.
Online Dating
* death (8x)
* shit (3x)
* ass (2x)
* hell (1x)

22 June 2007

Death of a Bartender

The always charming UDreamOfJanie is hosting a poetry contest this month. The selected subject (a poem from the dying lover’s point of view) is far too intriguing for me to pass up. Almost immediately I had a few ideas in mind, each looking for an orifice from which to make their escape.

Below is the first I've tapped to screen. Pending time and energy over the next day or two I'll expel the rest. And of course, once done I'll submit either the best or worst/crudest/shocking/shameful.

Death of a Bartender
I swear,
I knew not his bullet would pierce my spleen.
I thought my hand quicker.

I fear,
We'll not meet amongst the burnt gardens I'll soon walk.
Your garden is sure to be light as the sun above.

I cry,
That I will pleasure you no more.
It is this that pleased me most.

I regret,
Dueling a man o'er spilt ale.
The git spilt not one, but two!

Please dear husband,
Pour the bourbon, that my liver takes me 'fore this breaking
It is a pain I cannot bear.

In posting the following selection (real poetry) I know I'm essentially wrapping my so-called poem above in deer skinned camouflage. But I can't help myself. Of Shakespeare's sonnets this has long remained one of my favorites; it also came to mind when I read UDoJ's given subject.

This particular sonnet, #130, is a unique take on a lover's attributes with an ever classic, "I'm just kiddinnnng!" at the end. Or at least an "I love you anyway, babe." Shakespeare being the genius s/he is however, does not write about the poet's subsequent grisly death. It's easily assumed however the mister (poet) was quickly dispatched by his mistress.


My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; 

Coral is far more red than her lips' red;

If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;

If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.

I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,

But no such roses see I in her cheeks;

And in some perfumes is there more delight

Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.

I love to hear her speak, yet well I know

That music hath a far more pleasing sound;

I grant I never saw a goddess go;

My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:

And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare

As any she belied with false compare.

20 June 2007

a shameful regression

I've been an on and off vegetarian pretty much as long as I've been conscious of the world around me. For a time as a kid my choice not to eat meat was simply that — a choice with little reason. I didn't crave it so why eat it. Once in a while my parents would BBQ some burgers or grill some chicken with garlic and hickory salt and I'd latch on to some of it. Some of the times I'd break down and eat meat just-the-one-time, others for a couple months at a time, and I think once for at least a year, maybe more. At some point though, the meat would lose its enticing whatever it was, and I'd stop eating it without hesitation or regret.

As I got older I found the conflict of killing an animal to feed myself at the forefront of my decision. I suppose I always felt this in some way, but finally it had become the reason I would be a vegetarian. Much to the chagrin of my parents and relatives that I visited. "No no, I'll be just fine with these green beans and buttered bread. Really, I don't want any [insert meat product here]." Heck, I didn't want anyone's help for anything, let alone some creature giving up it's life for me.

Some years ago I found myself divorced, alone and living as I do naturally in a single person's habitat without that in-home influence. It was easy to once again become a vegetarian, and I became a staunch one at that. This time I cut meat, milk, eggs and other products that I no longer craved or wanted. I don't think I'm cut out to be a vegan though and I found some of these cuts harder to make than others. In particular cheese. There is just no substitute. I've found some soy products that are starting to taste a bit like cheese, but not close enough! And, at the point soy starts to look like cheese I wonder what mishmash of processing has been needed to make it so. I was fine and dandy with keeping cheese as my single vice.

Enter the regression. About a year ago, early April, I took a business trip to Reno. I was there with a business cohort and knew many people there from around the country but a few of the nights it was nice to head out on my own. Problem being, the hotel (the Reno Hilton - it's huuuge!) is an oasis of it's own. Sure there were ten some restaurants to choose from surrounding the game floor, but the seclusion left little for recreation or variety. I took thrilling walks around the interior of the hotel and to the farthest reaches of the parking lot. That said, this vegetarian didn't have much food from which to choose. I had walked past all the restaurants this one evening at least three times trying to find and fill my craving. Finally it hit. The hamburgers and fries at Johnny Rockets caught my attention. Five minutes of hesitation and pacing finally landed me at one of their red sparkly booths ordering a greasy mushroom-swiss burger, fries and a milk shake. Hey, if I'm going do it, I'm going to do it right!

Gut bomb!!! My stomach didn't know what to do with the stuff, but it finally worked through everything in the following days.

Since April, I've had spots of meat, nothing grand until one fine day, a very hungry, energy draining, athletic sort of day I needed to have, had to have, craved, wanted and lusted for meat. A quick trip to a local BBQ house and a set of baby back ribs later I was satisfied. Damn, it was good! That set of ribs left me wanting for more and I've ended up eating more meat in the last four months than I've had all total in the decade preceeding my regression. Now, I still eat much less meat than most people I know, but for me, it's a lot. Someday, I'll probably push meat from my diet once again, but for now... I'm enjoying it far too much. Fish is tops on my list. Tasty little swimmers.

Tonight's dinner: BBQ'd beef baby back ribs. This time on my grill.

Gut bombs in Reno look like this...
The documented remains of my breaking point.

14 June 2007

We're Doomed! An Arms Race With the Sun

Since the dawn of time man has longed to destroy the sun.

In a little known essay by an omnipotent professor the final cataclysm of the sun and solar system has been deemed inevitable. As flame wrapped gaseous tendrils flare out from our seemingly distant star reach out to touch us, the atmosphere will burn brighter than human eyes could ever have imagined. Those who gaze into the sky to see its approach will see nothing further. The barrage continuing, bursts of light will lick at the dark side of the planet turning night to day as the sun's gaseous magma reaches beyond our little mud ball we call Earth into the rest of the solar system.

Two flares, maybe three will wipe the whole of mankind from the face of the Earth — excepting those protected for a few short days in bunkers deep within the Earth's crust. In kind, the trees, the atmosphere and nearly all plant and animal life as we know it will cease to exist. But who will thrive? Someone, something, must surly benefit, if even for a short time from this change in climate. Lo, deep in the ocean, amongst white hot gaps of colliding tectonic plates wee microbial organisms that call this climate home will thrive. The ocean will heat to boiling temperatures and at long last the little guys will feel at ease drifting amongst the torrid worldwide currents where all other life has ceased to exist. But this too will be short-lived, for their aquatic atmosphere will soon burn away as ours did previously. Atop the scorched landscape the ever-present cockroach will scurry from beneath rocks (in cooler moments) devouring the scorched remains of Earth's inhabitants. They too will thrive for a short time more. Human waste, both nuclear and municipal, will no longer be of issue. Carbon emissions no longer a concern. And green house theory will give way to sun-torching reality. Assuredly some will scream this is not to be so even as their flesh blasts from their bones.

Back to my initial point, 'what the hell does this have to do with mankind wanting to destroy the sun?' It has everything to do with mankind! First we were the physical center of the universe, which the surly sun didn't much care for I might add. Then we signed a treaty of sorts with the sun (treaty finally acknowledged by our Catholic friends in 1992) and moved Earth aside by a few miles to orbit the sun; with the caveat we would remain the industrial and intellectual center of the universe. The sun is still not quite settled on the debate, and neither are we apparently.

Further provoking the sun, a few select humans have traveled beyond our blue island to the pervasive sea of black lorded by the sun — this in clear disregard of the territorial framework laid out in the aforementioned treaty. Man's rockets have discarded their crap towards the fiery mouth of Mr. Sun and our "scientists" are even contemplating starting an arms war with the ol' curmudgeon! As if a few "test fires" of our piddly rockets into the moon will actually scare the sun into thinking we can trump him in such a war. At the first hint of attack the sun will surely tisk-tisk us shaking his fiery head, yawn for a moment, and with a reach of his mighty arm our oceans will boil.

Mankind's eternal campaign to destroy the sun has gone too far. It's time we step back, stop the bickering and face up to the fact we are not the center of the universe. Your urban hummers will not protect you, people! Please write your local congresswoman/man now and demand we cease any and all association or involvement with the worldwide anti-sun campaign (you'll find them here and here).

13 June 2007

vrai [noun]

I've found out something about myself today... I think the definition is rather appropriate.

vrai --


A brand of soylent green breakfast cereal

'How will you be defined in the dictionary?' at QuizGalaxy.com

26 April 2007

bush vs. bush

A pinch of Bush arguing with himself.

21 April 2007

beaver meets johnson

Who says city planners don't have a sense of humor? I'm not about to complain about beaver on top either.

I saw this, stopped the car, turned around, parked and walked half a block to take a few pictures of this from the middle of the street (thankfully beaver wasn't very busy today).

18 April 2007

Open letter to the lubery

I tried to get my car's oil changed with a local company that runs both a "lubery" operation and several car washes. It didn't work out so well. This is one of the kinder letters I've written but I've needed to post something and decided this should be it. Please forgive the bits of soft cuddly love.

Dear Lubery Administration:

I was excited to find a local company that could offer a quick oil change and even offered my oil of preference. Sadly, I've returned home without service and will be taking my business elsewhere, tomorrow.

I write you this note because I've run a privately owned store for many years and found it is often from customer feedback that a manager can see the biggest gaps in one's service.

That said, I drove into the establishment on Follock St. and followed the generous white arrows you'd affixed to the asphalt to the backside of the building. Not seeing any clear instruction of what to do next I parked my car and walked into the lobby hoping to arrange the deed. No one there.

Thinking maybe I'd missed something I walked back outside and saw a small stop sign on the bay doors that says simply, "wait here for attendant." I heeded your gentile instruction. I pulled my car up to one of the bay doors setting off the oil parish bells. A shop fellow beyond the glass bay doors looked up from talking to someone (a customer perhaps, I'm not sure) and continued his conversation. I waited for, oh, ten minutes and finally had to give up. A "be with you in a minute" hand gesture or similar from anyone would have been plenty. I'd have happily waited my turn for service. Perhaps I showed up during a gap in personnel? We'll never know.

Look, I'm not trying to bust anyones chops. Also, I'm not mad and not about to complain to 20 of my friends [maybe a touch more than that]. I just want to let you know that you're missing a grand opportunity. One that (with your
physically clean image) could carry your lube business leaps and bounds above your "jiffy-pep" competition down the street. I encourage you look at fakeoilservice.com [no need to advertise for free]. I moved from a state that had these shops and used their service a number of times. The customer is given a newspaper to read while waiting in-car, cameras/displays are mounted so the customer can see the crew working under the hood and below the car, and the same greeter that gives Joe Customer the paper and asks for services needed also checks tire pressure; making any necessary adjustments. Their shop is always clean, the employees courteous, service incredibly efficient and these places stay packed!

I tell you all of this because no one in the [censored, because censorship is fun] area comes close to this level of service and I'd love to see a local company pick up the ball before another franchise spreads to the area. Or, perhaps the spraying water and wax is more lucrative to the company and should remain your focus.

Forever your squeaky wheel,

With this letter I actually mean to say: "pull your head out of your fucking ass and change my fucking oil so I can pay you instead of driving 15 miles to a different service station avoiding your lethargic bone-headed staff! Please."

30 March 2007

Withering blog and the titles it will one day bear

Seems I should change the currently non-apt title of my blog to "vrai's house of withering blog posts." It's been over a month since my last entry and I've surely let down my readership of ... well ... approximately two or three people.

Oh, but I do have some lovely horror in the ol' draft folder. Please hang on my dearie(s)!

Upcoming releases may may carry titles similar to these:
- I am an entitled SUV owner, see me park in the fire zone!
- PA drivers: Highway merging as a foreign concept.
- O, Fucking flag pole in the middle of the road...
- A man, a mattress and the stairwell.

14 February 2007

Left Coast and Right Coast

Extracting myself from a taciturn existence online I find myself in the mood to tap on my keyboard this snowy day.

On the surface everything seems so simple, there is so little explanation needed. Summed up with an "I've just moved from the other side of the country" one can speculate all that I've done without further question of the complete process. The average potato knows the subtext: a catalyst sparked the move, a household has been emptied, a new household filled, a job has been left behind, this individual [me] may know an assortment of people in the area but surely not many. This subtext sweeps through the mind without difficulty, without hindrance.

The obvious left behind, I move to the questions the locals voice once alighted from the obvious. Most commonly, "Pennsylvania? Why would you move here?!" or "How do you like it so far?" The third mindshift is apparent as the local starts to ponder my origin, the landscape, the people on the other side of the country; social differences. Having now lived on both the left and right coasts I find one very specific commanality with those I've observed and spoken with: each coast wonders how the other lives, thinks, breaths, 'do they really do X?'

It's difficult to give an aliquant answer to these questions of differences — one answer begets the next question — but I try in an attempt to not drag the conversation beyond my want.

The coastal personalities (with some exception of course) seem to me as follows.

The right coast'er excels at being direct in life and language. Lives are lived as fate dictates and a certain depth of worldly knowledge is achieved. Interesting to me, the general populace tends not to look too far beyond the protective boundaries built and retained through family lineage some 400 years ago. Within the boundaries however the glue of family is incredibly strong.

The left coast'er is much less direct. Not more reserved, mind you, just less direct. Each is increasingly (as time moves on) more careful not to offend another individual and as a result the left coast'ers are not always clear in all they intend to say or do. In it's purest (and worst) form this trait delicately thrashes its head through the use of passive-aggressive action. Further, people are quick to whine that something is not fair. Wah! Not one of the traits I generally appreciated or admired. In it's best form this thoughfulness, this compassion will run out and seek rights for those that have been wronged. Boundaries are less of issue for the left coast'er whose lineage traveled great distances to explore and settle in an untamed land free of fort's fence. S/he will wander the wilds freely, read a more eclectic blend of worldly topics and finds comfort in solitude. Families are close but not nearly so much as those huddled together in on the right coast. Left coast solitude precludes the regular and seemingly constant large family gatherings of the right coast'ers. Kids grow up and move easily from one state to the next and families keep in contact but not actually in touch; the general mentality drives a singleness in action.

Now, that being said, the most interesting part to me about the personality differences are the exceptions to my observations already mentioned. The left or right coast'er of exception tends to rank higher on my scale-of-generalization regarding the opposite coast than a native inhabitant. Right coast'er exceptions are incredibly well read/rounded, sometimes muddled in communication, often reserved, full with a compassion for others not seen on the left coast and manage to retain the right coast'er ability to quickly take action. The left coast'er exception is not at all reserved like the right coast habitants and is in fact a very magnetic individual. S/he has the ability to take action immediately as fate dictates and retains the west coast ability to move in solitude when the social web fails.

There is much more I could write on the coast'ers and I haven't even touched on the mid-states yet — I spent my childhood years in our land-locked region. These non-coast'ers are a different mindset entirely, and a mindset that varies by humidity. I'll have to revisit further social equations in a later post.

For now. Adieu!

09 February 2007

A night on the town: kittens in peril

Though her kitten was yummy...
Originally uploaded by vrai the dotty prof..

Har! We went out to dinner and this particular establishment actually thought it was safe to leave us with crayons and a large sheet of paper while they took forever to prepare our food. Little did they know.

Waxy mayhem ensues.

This young lady ate her kitten, Waldo perished in a tar pit (actually titled lint trap in the drawing) and a wagon broke down on the Oregon Trail (no one survived).

The manager of the restaurant personally boxed up our leftovers for us — I think in an effort to clear our table and empty the packed lobby. Or maybe ... it was the drawings.