Nonsensical problem with the term 'nonfiction'

One of the enduring mysteries of life – along with how Tom Cruise doesn't age and what makes hot dogs taste good – is the fact that the two types of narrative (usually in books) are fiction and nonfiction.

Fiction. Nonfiction.

Fiction, of course, make sense. Fiction is made up. But the other stories – which covers everything else – are nonfiction?

All that we can do is describe it by what it's not? It's not fiction.

The irony is crazy (nonsane?): An industry of people who work with words – authors who gave us "The Grapes of Wrath," "The Origin of Species," "The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People" and "Not Quite Camelot" (check it out on Amazon!) can't come up with a word to describe a book that's not fiction.

I almost nonbelieve it.

Writers constantly create. "Beatnik," for instance, wasn't a word until San Francisco Chronicle columnist Herb Caen (that newspaper's Tony Wade) used it in 1958. Joseph Heller's novel "Catch-22" created the phrase to explain a no-win situation. "Cyberspace" first appeared in a 1982 novel. Heck, "serendipity" was part of a novel from the 1700s. "Blatant," "robot" and "chortle?" All made up by authors.

And it's not just authors. Think about other words that have come into use since 2000: Selfie. Emoji. Tweet. Sexting. Hipster. Currific. (I just made that up to explain a ridiculous basketball shot.)

Cooks have an alternative to "sweet." It's savory. (If that's nonright, I apologize. On TV shows, they always present options as savory or sweet, so I presume they're nonsame.)

But go to a bookstore or library (or website) and you have a choice: Fiction or nonfiction.

This needs to change. There is no reason that we should be stuck with a 12th century way of dividing books (I nonresearched it, so the 12th century is a guess).

Part of the problem, of course, is that the logical opposite to "fiction" is "fact."

Nonfiction books aren't necessarily factual, they're just presented as such. For instance, a book that heralds the greatness of the Oakland Raiders is considered nonfiction, even though the premise is fanciful. The author (and, presumably, the audience) treat it as fact, which is nonsmart.

So to categorize books as fact (or factual) implies truthfulness, which isn't always there.

What do we do? Do we throw up our hands, say it's too hard and pick the lazy way out? Of course not.

Did Dr. Seuss give up when he couldn't find a rhyme for "sofa" in "There's a Wocket in My Pocket?" No, he wrote about a "bofa."

Did J.K. Rowling give up when she couldn't come up with a name for the fourth house at Hogwarts? No, she just let one slytherin. (A "Harry Potter" joke!)

So there's no reason that those who work with words should be so lazy as to define half the books in the world by what they're not. Nonfiction is a nonstrong way to define a massive genre of literature.

The solution? A new word, which contains enough accuracy to define it and make it obvious what we're talking about.

I suggest that from now on, books are either fiction or faction.

Faction. It's the opposite of fiction. Brilliant, right? Because "faction" also means a small, dissenting group within a larger group.

Embrace it and become a part of the faction faction.

You're welcome. It was nonproblem.

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

Of drains, dentists, irrational fears

When I was a little kid – maybe 2 or 3 – I had an embarrassing, irrational fear: I was terrified that I would be sucked down the bathtub drain.

Looking back, it's absurd. Those holes were tiny. I could never fit in them. (And even if I did, I'd likely be in the P-trap, where my parents could hire a plumber to rescue me.)

But every night, I would finish my bath and my mom or dad would pull the plug.

Lil' Brad would scramble out of the tub in a panic, barely escaping a horrible death. So my little brain thought.

It made no sense. It didn't matter.

Fast-forward several decades and it's deja vu – except instead of a bathtub drain, it's a trip to the dentist.

My name is Brad and I have dentalphobia. I've written about it before, but it's still there.

There's no reason. I haven't had a bad experience at the dentist in years. I visit every six months. The dental assistant is gentle (although she could vacuum the spit-water out of my mouth a little more frequently).

I still stress out.

Last week, I made my semiannual dental trip.

I entered the office and made my requisite appointment for six months from now (my personal schedule: Once at the beginning of the baseball season, once in the playoffs. Every April, every October). Then I went back to the torture cham . . . er, cleaning chair.

The assistant was nice. She confirmed my medical history. She asked about my job. She began cleaning my teeth. And . . . I felt sweat rising from my scalp. And my back. And my legs. They all tingled. The pace of my breathing picked up.

Nothing hurt. She was careful. My gums were safe.

I sweated some more.

"Is everything OK?" she asked after a few minutes, seeing my dilated pupils. "Yeah," I replied, trying to swallow.

She went back to work. I went back to perspiring. It was irrational. It was insane.

It was unavoidable.

My T-shirt got damp. This was ridiculous. She wasn't hurting me. I wasn't in pain.

"Are you OK?" she asked again. I told her I was OK, that it was mental, not physical. Time passed slowly. Five minutes. Fifteen. Thirty.

To distract myself, I watched "Good Morning America" on the TV. I tried to focus on whether ABC News was seriously airing a five-minute segment on a fashion magazine editor doing a "seven-day high-heel detox" by wearing flat shoes.

It didn't work. I kept sweating.

Finally, it was done and the relief was palpable.

I went into the next room to wait for the dentist.

Then I started to shiver. I had a chill, because I sweated to the point that my T-shirt was damp.

It's absolutely absurd. I'm a grown man who gets psyched out by doing something that never hurts.

Why is it? I don't know, but I do know that after my appointment, I relaxed because I was six months from the next sweat-in-the-chair session.

Actually, I sweated so much that I should have gone home and showered. Which would be nice, because when I'm standing in the shower, it's easier to get out of there before the drain sucks me to a horrific death.

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

Fashion advice from Vidal Suisun

My fashion guru isn't Christian Dior, Coco Chanel or even the estimable Tim Gunn. The person with the most influence on my fashion lives in Suisun City.

In fact, she lives with me. Like many men, I trust my wife with fashion choices. (Mostly.)

The reason for our fashion relationship – where Mrs. Brad lets me know, either clearly or subtly when I need a fashion change – is simple: I have no fashion sense. I don't recognize changes. I resist being a hipster, but don't want to be old-fashioned.

So she is my adviser.

Sometimes, it's obvious. A few years ago, she burst out laughing when I emerged from our bedroom wearing what was apparently a garish sweater. Her laughter doubled when my oldest son called me "Cosby."

Mrs. Brad also occasionally blurts out "no" as I appear before her in mismatched clothing.

More often, though, it's a delicate dance. She doesn't tell me something looks terrible, she just suggests that it's not the best choice.

My workplace dress code calls for slacks and shirts with collars. No ties are necessary, but it's a reasonably formal workplace, compared to my work history (I spent the 1990s as the Daily Republic sports editor, wearing shorts and sports jerseys).

I have a fairly large collection of shirts, collected through the years by trips to Goodwill. They vary in style, although I remain loyal to the button-down look of my college years.

The most common way that Mrs. Brad communicates my style mistakes is simple: "You look kind of pale," she'll say. Or "that shirt makes you look washed out."

I nod. She continues to go about whatever she's doing.

I don't wear the shirt again.

I learned in the 1980s that I was a "winter," someone who can wear a variety of colors that Mrs. Brad (also a winter) carried in a swatch in her purse (I'm guessing. I don't really know what "swatch" means). I can't identify the colors, but I know they don't include yellow. Or pink (thankfully).

Armed with this knowledge, I occasionally pick a shirt that I think is in my "winter" range, then learn that it makes me look "washed out."

I don't want to be pale.

I don't want to look sickly.

I want to be healthy and hearty and robust! I want to look like a professional golfer or a 1970s game-show contestant!

So if Mrs. Brad tells me in the morning that I look pale, my ego makes me refuse to change a shirt, but my vanity means I won't wear it again.

There is, however, a recent exception. I bought a yellow shirt on the streets of San Francisco during the Golden State Warriors' championship run last year. It says "Strength In Numbers."

Mrs. Brad has told me more than once that it makes me look pale.

I scoff, because sometimes, despite what Billy Crystal said while impersonating Fernando Lamas, it's better to feel good than to look good.

Only sometimes, though. Most of the time, looking washed-out is bad.

Right?

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

Time for baseball to become more 'exciting'?

A half-century ago, there was little question about America's favorite sport: It was baseball, as it had been for decades.

Fifty years ago, baseball was so popular that it was considered "America's pastime" (surpassing protesting the Vietnam War and listening to AM radio while smoking).

Now baseball is an also-ran. When it comes to sports, it's the NFL's world – we all just live in it.

Baseball is no better than a distant second to the NFL and may be as low as third or fourth in America's consideration.

This is the opening week for baseball and maybe it needs a boost. Maybe it needs something to move it back up the list.

Fortunately, I have suggestions to appease those who say the game is boring, tradition-bound and will soon be surpassed by mixed martial arts, mountain biking and lawn darts.

Ready? For starters, baseball can eliminate down time. Instead of having several seconds between pitches and several minutes between innings, Major League Baseball should require action. Give pitchers two seconds between pitches! Don't allow batters to step out of the box! No pick-off moves! Make it faster! Faster is better!

It may be time to  increase violence, too – make it more like MMA and football. Baseball should allow runners to plow over fielders. Encourage pitchers to throw at batters. Rather than penalizing teams for bench-clearing brawls, encourage them. You want exciting videos? Watch a collection of brawls and collisions from baseball last night!

Baseball could also open up access. Take social media to the next level and require players to Tweet during games. Strap a camera on each player's head and send us to a website to watch the game from Buster Posey's perspective. Open up the clubhouse to live coverage, like a reality show. Vote a player off each week.

Baseball can't let itself die! The sport should become more violent, more exciting, more tangible.

Then . . .

Then . . .

It will be worse.

Here's the thing. Baseball remains what it's always been – a slow, interesting, intriguing sport for fans who have the patience and interest to follow it. It's less popular than it was three or four decades ago, but it's still popular.

Baseball just requires more attention than other sports. Not only during the game (try watching a three-hour Giants-Marlins game in May with a non-baseball fan and see how they react to long at-bats, batters stepping out to slow down the pitcher and all the scratching), but because it's an every day game.

NFL teams play once a week. NBA teams play three games a week. Mixed martial arts and boxing have championship fights every few months.

Baseball teams? Six or seven games a week. Every week. From April through September.

Week after week.

Month after month.

Being a baseball fan requires paying attention for long periods of time. It requires years to get familiar with the traditions and culture of a team.

In 2016, we think everyone wants new, different, unusual. While baseball has plenty of each, its defining quality is consistency.

For the next six months, the Giants, A's and the other 28 major league teams will play. Over and over and over. Stars will struggle, then recover. Young players will surprise. One game will last 15 innings. The next will have a rain delay.

It requires attention.

That's why baseball is so great. It's also why the percentage of people who consider it their favorite sport has declined.

Being a baseball fan takes patience and dedication. Maybe it's the tradition. Maybe it's my age. Maybe it's realizing that faster and shorter and flashier isn't always better.

I'll keep baseball the way it is. Patience and attention are their own reward: You get to follow a great sport.

Now get off my lawn, punks!

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