Secrets of El Niño winter, including forecasts

Our long California drought may soon be over.

In case you haven't heard, weather experts are nearly unanimous in saying that we're about to have an El Niño winter, which could mean the end of the drought and the arrival of flooding.

Or maybe nothing will change.

That's where I come in. I follow the tradition of Ben Franklin, who wrote Poor Richard's Almanack (Franklin lacked a copy editor to tell him that within a couple of centuries, the "k" wouldn't be needed) before he stopped publishing it to launch his famous late-18th-century blog "Ben There, Done That." Later, the Farmer's Almanac picked up the mantle, but without the brilliance of Franklin's lightning commentary (pun fully intended).

In the spirit of Franklin ("it's all about the Benjamin," I always say), I now take responsibility to explain and predict the weather months ahead of time.

First of all, some education: El Niño is a weather term that means "The Niño" in Spanish. It is based on the career of former Major League Baseball pitcher Niño Espinosa, who was noted for his ability to "make it rain" while attending clubs in New York City when he played for the Mets. Thus, the idea that a "rainy" year is an "El Niño" year.

You're welcome. Never forget Niño Espinosa, who died of a heart attack in 1987 at age 34.

Now the forecast, to give you time to prepare for the deluge of 2015-16.

October will be fairly dry, although an unexpected amount of Starbucks pumpkin spice latte will make it more humid than normal. We'll frequently be warned by TV talking heads that the drought is far from over, as if we didn't know.

November will bring the first hints of precipitation, with the chance of a deluge around midmonth – enough to bring a national day of thanksgiving on the fourth Thursday.

As December comes, the wet stuff will become more regular, to the point that you'll be able to get polite chuckles from your co-workers by saying "It's raining cats and dogs. I know because I just stepped in a poodle!" However, news media members will be unanimous in reminding us the drought isn't over. Not by a long shot.

As 2016 begins, we'll have our first wet January in years, with a few gully-washers. We won't be tired of it, although we will tire of hearing that the drought isn't over. And you'll break out this one for your co-workers: "When is Monday coming? MonSoon!" They will ignore you.

By February, we'll start getting cranky as the cloudbursts continue, making the Super Bowl at the 49ers stadium in Santa Clara even sadder than expected. In an effort to lighten the mood, you'll spring a new joke on your co-workers: "It's raining dogs. I know, because I just stepped in a pile of shih tzu!" That gag will result in a trip to HR and some mandatory classes on appropriate workplace language.

By March, we'll curse Niño Espinosa (see Paragraph 6) and wonder if it will ever be sunny again. It's the time we start breaking out references to "liquid sunshine," as we go through our second set of windshield wipers of the year.

April will, of course, bring showers, which will give you a chance to break out the line for your co-workers: "If April showers bring May flowers, what do May flowers bring? Pilgrims!" Their anger will make you wonder if it's politically incorrect to use the term "pilgrim."

May will bring the end of the El Niño as pilgrims invade America and force us to wear black, buckled shoes. Your co-workers will ignore you when you tell them you predicted this, but as we dig out from a winter of rain, one thing will remain true: The media will remind us that the drought is far from over.

Ben Franklin wouldn't have written that!

Brad Stanhope is a former Daily Republic editor. Reach him at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Camping trip almost blew us away

We thought we knew about wind. After all, we've lived in Suisun City for decades and endured year after year of gusts.

But this was different.

We found ourselves late at night, trying to sleep while also hoping that our tent wouldn't blow away. Huddled and shouting at each other.

But let's go back to the beginning of a medium-length story (about 650 words) about a couple, a camping trip and a cold, windy stretch of Northern California coast.

It began when friends at Mrs. Brad's workplace planned a camping trip for early September at Dillon Beach, near Tomales.

We have a history of camping, although we skipped it for several years after an unfortunate experience involving a mean raccoon, a bag of food, our two young sons, me hiding in the bottom of the sleeping bag and Mrs. Brad defending us with a tree branch. So we have the gear and experience.

It was the end of the week of a heat wave, when temperatures soared past 100 every day. Even Tomales, which is about 6 inches from the ocean, was reportedly hot – leading me to repeatedly use the phrase "hot Tomales" to describe our destination. We expected a break from the heat.

Then we arrived Friday evening. Tomales was like the set of a horror film, with waves of fog blowing across the road and scary organ music, although the music may have been inside my head.

The biggest problem? We only brought our hoodies – no coats and no headgear except our baseball caps. No problem. It would be nice.

Right?

It got colder. And windy. And windier. Putting up our tent was like wrestling with a rabid, nylon alligator. We scrambled to get our ice chest and backpacks in it to keep it from blowing away.

The wind died a bit and after sitting by the fire – made by Mrs. Brad's co-worker Joe, who had everything, including a big trailer, firewood and stakes we needed to borrow to anchor the aforementioned tent. Then we decided to go to bed. Then it began to blow harder.

Our tent, and this happened two nights in a row, was buffeted like a flag at Candlestick Park. It blew so hard and steadily that the tent looked like a shark fin. Or, as I described in the moment, "like Jimmy Neutron's hair." It would have blown away if it wasn't for our body weight.

"Are you sleeping yet?" Mrs. Brad yelled from 9 inches away.

"Not yet, but I'm tired," I shouted back, feeling my legs lift as the wind got under the tent.

We survived Friday night, then it happened again Saturday – after a sunless day spent huddled around the fire. (Note to self: Camp at least a mile from the ocean next time. Or bring a heavy coat.)

On Saturday night, Joe came out of his trailer and looked at our tent.

"Do you guys want me to pull my truck there to break the wind?" he shouted from somewhere out in the storm.

"No, we're fine," we both yelled, hoping we weren't airborne.

Joe ignored us and moved the truck, which managed to decrease the wind.

Somewhat. At least we could sleep, confident we wouldn't wake up somewhere in Oregon.

Ultimately, the gusts dropped to the normal Solano County summer evening – only 30 or 40 mph.

We survived.

Weekend report: We never saw the sun, survived a wind storm that would have defeated a lesser couple and we learned a valuable lesson: If our home ever gets damaged by a wind storm, we'll move into our tent, then call Joe and have him park his truck in front of it.

Oh, and we won't go to Tomales in September. At least without sandbags, parkas and safety parachutes, just in case we have to bail out of the tent from 1,500 feet.

Brad Stanhope is a former Daily Republic editor. Reach him at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

NFL's slide, musical guilty pleasures and more

It's time to empty my reporter's notebook, which is now an app on my telephone that has virtual pages onto which I type by touching "keys" on a screen.

Ahh, technology. I love you and hate you at the same time.

Virtually, of course.

On to the topics du jour . . .

First, the NFL makes its debut this weekend at what feels a lot like a turning point. Three or four years ago, the NFL was the undisputed king of American sports and getting stronger.

Now? Concussions, player arrests and an inept commissioner have it feeling a little like Major League Baseball when the steroid era came into full flower: Nothing but bad news.

The big difference? There was a way to restore confidence in baseball by instituting drug tests (although they're clearly not infallible). How can you eliminate the risk of head injuries for a sport that relies on violent collisions? And how do you change the perception that management is out of touch and interested only in making a lot of money?

The NFL is in a precipitous position. It's still king of American sports, but it now feels more like a monarchy that's trying to hold onto power.

Next, something that's apropos of nothing – five musical groups from the 1970s and 1980s that I still like, despite public embarrassment in admitting it:

5. Christopher Cross. The singer of "Ride Like the Wind" and "Sailing" was the biggest victim of the rise of MTV, since he was a boring, unattractive performer at the exact time that those became unforgivable. I'm still not sure why he wasn't the James Taylor of his generation.

4. Kriss Kross. OK, they're in the 1990s, but I can't think of Christopher Cross without thinking of Kriss Kross. "Jump!" is one of the most ridiculed songs of its era, but when it comes on, everyone smiles. I guess I don't like Kriss Kross as much as I like "Jump."

3. Bee Gees. They spent decades identified as the ultimate disco group, but they were much more than that – their ballads were fantastic and they acted as producers for myriad stars. But let's admit it, their disco stuff was pretty awesome.

2. Hall and Oates. A favorite target of the "I hate the '80s" crowd, they recorded song after song after song that were catchy, fun and still hold up. I've never been totally sure of John Oates' role in the duo, but it must have been something, right? Maybe he sang on "She's Gone"?

1. Wham! Make fun all you want of "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go," but I loved George Michael's work during and after this group. Still a fan.

Next: One of my favorite political games is to figure out which presidential candidates match up with sports figures.

This year is a rife with options, but one is inescapable: Donald Trump is the political equivalent of late George Steinbrenner, former owner of the New York Yankees.

Two boisterous, obnoxious, rich New Yorkers who think they know everything. Both have (had) a large cadre of enemies, but also a large group of people who admire them for their focus on winning and refusal to be politically correct. Trump doesn't have Joe Torre, though.

Next up: Perhaps the greatest example of American ingenuity is in our industrial kitchens. Whether it's Cap'n Crunch Delights (at Taco Bell) or Bacon Mac and Cheese chips (from Lay's), we're forever finding new, enticing ways to eat.

My favorite new item is quick-serve pizza – the pizza version of Chipotle, where you pick toppings and they make your item in a few minutes. The local version is a place called Pieology (a national chain) in the Gateway area near the mall, but I suspect we'll see others coming.

It's a great idea – your personal pizza in five minutes or less.

Is it any wonder we love this country?

Brad Stanhope is a former Daily Republic editor. Reach him at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Dream a (boring) little dream of me

Of all the areas in which Mrs. Brad and I differ – being handy around the house (her, not me), being a good driver (her, not me), reading other people's moods (her, not me), cooking well (her, not me) and knowing 1970s and 1980s sports facts and music lyrics (me, not her) – there is perhaps no greater gulf than in how we dream.

Not our wishes. Our actual dreams, while sleeping.

First of all, she remembers dreams nearly every morning. I remember about one a year.

Second, her dreams combine people, places and circumstances from all periods of her life. They are often packed with emotion and leave her affected for the rest of the day.

Mine are bland and uneventful.

If they were made into movies, her dreams would be psychedelic, crazy rides, with cameo appearances and hidden meanings. Mine would be poorly done documentaries on boring topics.

A typical example: Mrs. Brad wakes up and tells me she had a really sad dream. (Names are left out to make it simpler.)

"It was in our old apartment, but I wasn't married to you, I was married to (a former co-worker)," she says. "It was so sad, because I knew we were supposed to be married, but we weren't – and you were acting like you didn't care. Then (a high school or college friend) was my neighbor and she was married to (someone who we attended church with decades ago), but (our son) was their son.

"I had to get to work, but I knew that if I didn't say something to you about loving you, we could never marry. But I was already married. You kept talking about (a famous actor) and wouldn't change the subject. Finally, I asked if you loved me and you said that you had to go bowling.

"Then I started to cry, because I knew nothing could change. But we were supposed to be married. It was so sad."

Early in our marriage, I would ask follow-up questions in an attempt to help it make sense, but it couldn't make sense and really all that mattered was that Mrs. Brad was sad. I would tell her, "That was just a dream. We are still married," and she would say she knew, but would remain sad for much of the day.

While I wondered whether another lineup could help the Giants score more runs.

It still happens frequently. And we've been married three decades.

Finally, a month or so ago, I finally had a dream that I remembered. It was my chance to tell her!

"I dreamed that (our youngest son) got a haircut and I told him that I noticed it," I told her, concentrating to remember pertinent details and doing my best to weave a compelling, accurate tale. "Then, about 10 minutes later, I told him again that I noticed it. He said that I already told him."

Mrs. Brad looked at me.

"That's something that you would do in real life!" she said. "That's the kind of thing you do all the time."

It's true. My dream was a boring, everyday occurrence.

But I did remember it, so I should get credit for that.

Here's my takeaway: Mrs. Brad may have crazy, multiple-layer dreams while I have dreams about everyday things that could actually happen. Hers may be more dramatic, but consider this:

There is a much better chance that my dreams will actually come true.

I've got that going for me.

Brad Stanhope is a former Daily Republic editor. Reach him at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.