Finding My Brontosaurus


  • Do you have 8 to 10 hours of free time everyday?

  • Are you bored of knitting toaster cozies and pants for your dolls?

  • Are you looking to surround yourself with a menagerie of paper playthings?

  • Can you follow a few simple directions?

  • Then you too can experience of the joy of origami!


  • The Japanese art of paper folding has been around for centuries. It was originally a novelty of the Japanese court almost a thousand years ago. It has been past down from generation to generation, as an intricate art form involving patience, skill and technique. You decided to buy a book, bring it home and make a brontosaurus in five minutes.

    So the first thing you need is paper. No, no, no … put it down … it won’t do. This is special “origami” paper were talking about. Thats right! The fibers were harvested from the pulp of the Crested Thonry Neetle in the south of France, by a tribe of devoted monks. The paper is washed four times in the fresh spring of the monastery, and then shipped out to be dried high atop Mt Fuji. The paper is then cut into perfect squares and packaged for sale in America at twelve dollars a pair. Now not only can you not fold this into a brontosaurus, but you can go broke trying.

    I’ve read lots of instructions in my time. I’m a geek, I breathe how-to manuals. I can tar, grep, awk, and compile with the best of them. Origami is different. The instructions were dictated in German, transcribed in Greek, and then translated into English by C students.

    (Actual directions from our origami book)

    • 1.) We begin with the preliminary fold

    • 2.) Fold diagonally in half

    • 3.) Unfold

    • 4.) Repeat (I’m not feeling any progress at this point)

    • 5.) Turn over model then turn clockwise

    • 6.) Fold in half then unfold (six steps in an I still have a flat sheet of paper)

    • 7.) Fold in half, then fold along creases

    • 8.) Squash fold the corners (well of course!)

    • 9.) Repeat

    • 10.) Finish with brontosaurus base

    Great sculptors claim they aren’t creating art; they are just freeing the art from inside its confines. David was lodged in the block of marble; all the master had to do was remove all the bits of marble that weren’t David. I ended up with a six-dollar piece of paper folded in half with 4 squashed corners. If there was a brontosaurus in there he must have been hiding. Oh well you can't succeed at everything.

    I recall one of my mother’s former employers. There was a plague on his desk that summed this feeling up perfectly. “If at first you don’t succeed, then you’re above average.”

    Grand Marshal in the Geriatric Parade

    She’s leading the parade down Sonoma Hwy, a one lane road with no alternatives. We drive at a blazing 30 miles an hour. She’s now blown my schedule, reputation and promises I made to be on site by 11:00. Subsequently I will have to alter my lunch plans since I will be on site for longer than I expected. Her car is a beast of a Lincoln, which begs her to let it drive the way it was intended. The car laments not being picked up by the organized crime family, or at least someone under 75. Its V8 is dying a slow death under the hood of the car for the Grand Marshal of the Geriatric Parade.

    One of the sites for the county is on a stretch of one lane hwy that runs by an adult community. They're all contained out there. They have thier own banks, Bacci ball court, and Golf course. They have some of the best resturants in town. They have mini marts, hair salons and gas stations. For some unnkown reason, the road calls to them.

    Come out… We need you
    “I busy… I’m playing checkers”
    There are people out here driving 60MPH!
    “Let me get my coat.”

    Using your horn is worthless, it’s better to just relax. She can’t hear you, and if she could she wouldn’t care. Foaming at the mouth, banging my head on the head rest, I’ve worn out the horn symbol on my steering wheel by pounding on it.

    “Some young hell raiser, behind me, can’t he read the sign….” She squints, “Something about cows…. I think.”

    All you can do, is relax, turn up the music and enjoy the Parade. Rain or shine she’s there, the Grand Marshal in the Geriatric Parade.

    Forgetting Coke

    I like Diet Coke, I think. As I was pouring out the Diet Coke in stages, it occurred to me how much work this soda could be. It takes me 5-10 minutes to pour a Diet Coke over a glass of crushed ice. When I can microwave my dinner in 4 minutes, I have to plan to drink pop.

    On the Internet now, there is a rage of adding an entire container of Mentos to a Diet Coke two liter. This will make the Coke explode its entire contents, in a rushing geyser like stream of brown foamy liquid. Its pretty cool to watch, but that seems like a strange thing to drink. I'm not a fan of Diet Coke foam. I overhead someone at work say that you could make the foam go down quickly by sticking your finger in the Coke. If this wasn't odd enough, they actually did it. Now your fingers are covered in sticky Coke and you still have a head of foam that would rival most micro brewed beers. So I decided to put this to the test, at home.

    Poured a nice lot of Diet Coke full on into a glass, foam raised high and threatened to crest the glass. I put in one finger… it foams around it. The foam is receding, but is it my finger that’s causing that? I add a second finger; theoretically this should double my de-foaming power… I still can’t tell. Three, four, this is getting gross, and I’m bored of it. I put my whole hand it, and send foam and Coke flying. THERE! I defiantly have more room for more Coke now. The Greeks would be proud; logic wins another victory, shoving your hand in a Coke glass helps remove foam. I wouldn’t suggest using this at parties.

    Now you have your glass of Diet Coke. More than likely you are not drinking it, “For the Taste of It.” Diet Coke tastes just like it looks, like bubbly brown water. Your drinking it because you’re thirsty and you don’t want to consume 1000+ calories for a sugar soda. This means you care about what others think about you, because you’re regulating your appearance, but with all that carbonation, you’re a self-esteem nightmare. Belching like an under-educated over-zealous sports fanatic probably isn’t your idea of “fitting it.” Being the self-conscience person that you are you try and stifle your burps. Your eyes water and a plume of air escapes from your nose and ears, you cough and choke. You then take a swig of Coke to stop from having a coughing fit and start the cycle all over. Looking good baby!

    Additionally all those cans of Diet Coke contribute to your overall aluminum intake, which scientists tell us might be linked to Alzheimer’s. You’re starting jokes and forgetting the punch lines, people’s names, and where you left your keys. People are convincing you that you owe them money, and that you were brought up by a herd of yaks in the Himalayas. But…

    You look great!

    Baby Gates & Socialism

    As I navigate my living room, it is hard to remember that just a few months ago, I wasn’t required to run a steeplechase in order to go to the restroom. Additionally I could open a drawer without unraveling the mysteries of some overcomplicated plastic puzzle. Then of course there are the one thousand ordinary household items, that have become maiming objects of terror.

    Having a baby changes your life. If your not aware of that take a moment and let it sink in. Things you used to take for granted, like leaving the house, will now take 4 hours longer. It’s not just, grab your coat, keys, shoes and go. Now it’s a bit more complicated.

    • Locate the child (the younger the child, the easier)

    • Start to pack their bag

    • Stop them from eating the wet wipes from the package

    • Pack, food, change of clothing (warm clothing, and cooler clothing), toys, pacifier, blanket, wet wipes, changing mat, diapers, forget something… (this part is easy)

    • Stop them from removing all equipment from packed diaper bag

    • Put on your shoes

    • Distract child who keeps uniting your shoe laces. Make faces, tie laces

    • Grab child

    • Forget coat, and diaper bag

    • Lock door, close door

    • Strap child in their car seat

    • Realize your keys are locked in the house, with coat and diaper bag

    • Weep openly till neighbors call police

    So we now have Alexis fenced off like the ravenous animal that she is. Our job is to construct the fences in such a way that she cannot escape. In addition we place pitfalls, like her toys and pacifiers inside the fence to appease her. Her job is simple; go to the edge of her world and bust down the wall. She's like a little revolutionary, and we’re a bunch of fence building socialist. If it were not for the fact that I like to try and beat her at this game I probably would feel bad for her. I've added safety latches to the drawers she used to open, and plastic plug inserts to the electrical sockets. She continues to amaze me though. There is always a reason to freak out. Tonight she somehow got a stray tissue and, in protest to her captivity, tried to eat it. Do we ban tissues like good socialists leaders? Or have the state papers write articles telling her all tissues are evil, and should be avoided. Propaganda campaigns are more difficult when your child can't read.

    My boss was telling me last week about a consultant that would come into your house and for 2-3 hours walk around on his hands and knees. He did this to outline all the potential hazards in your home. I can only imagine being more paranoid than I am. I have a picture in my head of me taking the belt sander to all my cherry furniture, and rounding all the edges, putting foam bumpers on all wall corners, or spraying down the house with disinfectant every hour. No thanks; I'm crazy enough as it is. I'll live with the steeplechase, for now, but when they start walking, I'm buying them each a body bubble.

    Magic Eyes

    Some extra fun for a lazy Thursday afternoon...

    If you were breathing in the 90's you remember Magic Eyes! I forgot how cool these were... I found a bunch online and posted them, Click on each to get a larger sized image.

    If you don't remember, look at the picture and let it go out of focus, the trick is it only works when your depth perception isn't focused. You will see a 3D image in the flat picture, the longer you stare the more into focus the "hidden" picture comes. Be the first to post a comment with all the hidden pictures and you get bragging rights.
















    Piece a Cake

    My wallet has been in the evidence room of the Sonoma county sheriffs’ office for the last 8 years. I was pick-pocketed a month before I was married. All I have to do is go down there with a current ID and claim it. I’ve been thinking about doing it for the last 8 years, but I never seem to make it there. I even work for the county, and I drive by this office at least once a month. I could easily stop by and get it. I could probably even send an email to someone and have it inter office mailed to me. More than likely I’ll never get it.
    This is procrastination at its best.

    I find that I always have a reason not to do a thing. Additionally these are usually the simpler tasks. For some reason I’d rather do the hard stuff and put off the easy stuff till later. My favorite line is “Piece a cake. That should take about 5 minutes.” Generally this is a true statement. I just never seem to get around to it. I cannot believe I’m the only one.

    • I’ll wait 3 months between haircuts.
      It’s fine; just gel it…
      more…
      more…
      more…
      hum, I feel sorta slimy.

    • I’ll walk to the gas station after I run out of gas.
      How far into the red is really bad?
      They should have the light get brighter!


    • I only shave once a week.
      This isn’t because I like the sexy stubble look.
      What’s sexy about an unshaven geek?
      Not much my friends!

    • I won't even mention the dentist.
      I'm sure they're all fine in there...

    • But… if my computer is running slow…
      I’ll wipe it.
      Reload the OS.
      install the drivers
      my applications
      and finally restore my data
      Even if it takes all night.

    So my car’s registration was due in December, and we paid it. All I need to do is take 2 hours out of my weekend to get a smog check; I don't need a reservation, and I don't even have to fill out a form. The smog shop will send my results to the DMV over the Internet, and then the DMV will mail me my registration sticker automatically. I can totally do this... wait...2 hours! On a Saturday?! Who has that kind of time? We have to drive down, drop off the car... Oh heck, I'll just stay at home and spend that time on something more tedious and less productive, like re-bundling all the cables behind my computer into perfect order, or maybe I'll just type up my blog.

    "Piece a cake" ...

    Into the Mists

    As is customary in all great adventures, this one started with a journey. I knew not entirely what awaited me, but the camera of my mind was loaded and I would be capable of plenty of snapshots. I was going to take a daring trek. I was to travel to the "Ballpark." My traveling companions were quite familiar with the terrain, and would assist me as much as possible. For the first leg of our journey I would ride in hospitable surroundings, a posh Mercury. Here my mates and I chatted and readied ourselves, as we ventured into the mists. AT&T Park in San Francisco.

    Sitting on a jetting peninsula in the cold waters of the north, as millions had done before us, we arrived at the park. Ping was responsible for the expedition and was able to barter passage into the mightly fortress. Once inside my survival instincts kicked in. Our guide on the inside, The Storekeeper, deftly maneuvered the crowds and located our dwelling for the next 5 hours. A choice location by which to study the locals and their customs.

    Ando and I were off for the second necessity of survival, nourishment. The local food supply leaves little to complain about, pork in abundance, pizza, and the crème de la crème, garlic fries. This last item coupled with fermented beverage was the local’s way of securing what little territory they were able to occupy. As was the custom, one buys pork, garlic fries, and beer. The beer is then slashed on your feet, pants, and shirt as you return to your chair. It is acceptable to holler and beat others as long as they bear your markings.

    Being an outsider, I proceeded at once to the local mercantile and purchase an overpriced itchy headpiece. The choice of colors was limited. I noticed even though a number of different marking were worn around the ring, I could only purchase one. I have to say it turned out to be a wise choice. I was able to walk amongst them unnoticed. With the smell of garlic fries and sausage on my breath, my camouflage was complete.


    As titans battled for supremacy in the center of our arena, the locals observed their own customs. Our job, besides watching the battle unfold, was to respond to a large glowing billboard that bombarded up with commands, "Stand", "Make Noise", "Louder", "Smile", "Stretch", and so forth. No one seemed to find these instruction odd, and I followed with the group. Additionally we were required to quarrel with each other, beating our chests, and waving our arms. At this point I could only watch. The dance was quite complex, and the language needed to be scary, loud, or witty to win support from your clan. Some were skilled; others were removed due to poor performances.

    All in all it was 5 or 6 hours well spent. We all stood in unison when the board went out. We followed its lead once again, and also departed. My throat was horse, my odor horrific, but my spirits were high. I hated to leave those Ballplayers in the Mists.

    Apologies

    My apologies, I have been attending to the sick the last few days. It seems the sick like having me around so much, they have shared. I now mingle with the diseased bodies at the Brown abode. I promise to post tomorrow.

    Cat Trees & Bamboo

    I have an idea, how about I make Saturday "Embarrassing Moments" day? I have enough for the foreseeable future. The only choice is, which one do I tell you...
    Story Circa: 2001
    Patricia and I spend all night building a cat tree for our first born, Tucker. This was made out of 4 - 1 inch thick plywood rounds screwed into 2 - 4x4's with 12 - 4 inch decking screws. Needless to say it was the most solidly build cat tree that ever was. Two nights later we get into a fight. I'm so mad at the end I look around for something to kick. I wind up with everything in me and attempt to remove the top of this 2 foot diameter plywood round with nothing but sheer bluster and a payless sneaker. I easily broke my toe. I can't say that I heard it crack, but that might have been due to the fact that Patricia was now laughing, and I was sobbing... at least the fight was over. Something would have to be done about my foot.

    Two years later I go to the doctor about this foot. This foot that I can barely put a shoe on without grunting or pounding my legs or chest. This foot that has been the bane of my life for the past two years. This foot that I was terrified to let any doctor touch. So I go to the doctor to have some work done. I'll spare you the details; I would prefer you made it through this post. Needless to say the toe was grim.

    So the doctor explains to me all the steps he's going to take. I don't know what it is about doctors, but they are always willing to explain your pain, or pain you will have in detail. So he takes about 5 minutes explaining the pain and how I should drink heavily or bring a stick to gnaw on. So I say;

    "Like bamboo under the fingernails, eh doc?" I smile. It's at this moment when the fact that he's Japanese comes into real focus.

    "What is that suppose to mean?" He is quite upset.

    "Body...this is the Brain... he's done it again...
    "We know... triggering the uncontrollable heat and blotchy skin...all systems go"
    "Mouth, can you muster anything?"
    "I'll see what comes out...engaging mouth"

    "Uh...I mean... never mind..."

    He walked out, and someone else did the procedure.

    Sentimental Journey

    Walking thru the crosswalk at half speed, in tan knee highs, with blue hair spun up into a sphere, too much lipstick on an overly wrinkled face, with a cane, shoal, and large brown purse. It's hard for me to imagine her rebelling against her parents.

    What they must have though when they learned she was swinging instead of waltzing. She was listening to Benny Goodman and not a more "classic" sound. She now lives in a world where classics are from the 70's, oldies from the 50's, and her music is so old it's called a standard. No one remembers that her parents might have said "I don't want you to play your wild music in here!" while waving a Jimmy Dorsey album cover under her nose.

    I feel a strange sense of loss as I see the passing of this generation. I understand that this 90 year old woman was in a pre-war world II atmosphere in high school. Jazz was old news, Big Band was wild, and Swing was emerging, and no one knew what a Stratocaster was, or cared if someone else got voted off an island.

    When you went out you dressed up. Even to go and get ice cream, you wore a suit, or dress, and it didn't matter if it was August. I'm not even sure I could imagine wearing a wool suit in summer, and sitting at the diner, smoking my cigar, and then coughing up $.15 for the meal. It sounds like a joke, but she lived it. And now here she is.

    Her Grandchildren forcing her to use email, so they can communicate, because, "no one uses the phone, Grandma." She saw the invention of the seatbelt, freeway and satellite. I've never lived in a world without the microwave oven, and she might have heated her iron on the stove. She finally gets a handle the VCR and some upstart has to invent digital recorders, or the Internet, or wireless telephones.

    When my kids grow up, the elderly will be my parent’s generation. From Ed Sullivan, and Civil rights, to Hendrix and Tie-Die. What will they think? Certainly they will have a much different impression of what it means to be older. Tattoos and ponytails at the convalescence home, can you imagine? I can image trying to explain things to my great granddaughter. "Calling you at home in New Berlin, the lunar colony, feels odd to me." Of course this won't make sense to her, it will just be her world. And maybe she'll ask me with a furrowed brow, "What was it like great Grandpa, when people used to type on keyboards, and what is a Blog for?"

    "Who remembers dear, who remembers?"