Metric system failure in 1970s is hard to measure

When I was in elementary school, we were convinced of one truth: The metric system was inevitable. They told us as much in school.

They were off by 1.61 country kilometers (a country mile). It turns out that Americans weren't ready to switch from inches, miles, pounds and tons to centimeters, kilometers, grams and kilograms. Instead of the future we were promised – where everything would be measured in some sort of base-10 system, our leaders refused to give 2.54 centimeters (an inch). Decades later, it seems like a dream.

As it was explained to us in those days, the metric system made sense. Rather than 16 ounces to a pound or 12 inches to a foot or three feet to a yard or 5,280 feet to a mile or 212 degrees to boil water, the metric system was all based around the number 10.

There were 10 millimeters in a centimeter. One hundred centimeters in a meter. One thousands meters in a kilometer. Water boiled at 100 degrees.

Same thing with weights. There were 1,000 milligrams in a gram. There were 1,000 grams in a kilogram. And so on, with various versions of centi-, deci-, milli-,  kilo- and even mega- as the acceptable prefixes. Once you learned the prefixes, you could figure out anything.

It was really a good way to get more bounce for the 28.34 grams (ounce) from math and language. Simple.

But it never happened and really, it should have been no surprise.

In an era of dawning globalism, supporters of the metric system insisted that we were out of the mainstream. We needed to speak the way the rest of the world spoke and they didn't want a halfway solution. They wanted to go the whole 8.23 meters (nine yards).

In elementary school, we didn't argue. We didn't know better. It made sense to us.

However, those in charge of teaching us were trying to ignore the 362-kilogram (800-pound) gorilla in the room. Our parents and grandparents were Americans and weren't going to compromise.

They set their sights beyond just on avoiding a full conversion Our parents and grandparents figured the old adage was true: Give 2.54 centimeters (an inch) and they'll take 1.61 kilometers (a mile).

Frankly, by looking back, it's obvious  that no version of the metric system would be made standard in America without traditionalists taking their 0.45 kilograms (pound) of flesh. They needed something back and when it was obvious that gas prices weren't coming down, there was little that the metric-loving world could promise America, other than to be considered "mainstream."

I can only presume that when metric supporters realized what they were up against, it must have hit them like 907.19 kilograms (a ton) of bricks. This wasn't going to work.

In retrospect, it seems almost silly. Decades later, we remain an outlier in the world, with our miles and pounds and inches and other strange measurements. While the rest of the world operates in base 10, we have to use our smartphones to remind us how many ounces are in a pound – and in a gallon, since we use the same word for volume and weight measurements.

If I were in charge, I'd say we should slowly convert to the metric system. Not going all out, but doing one thing at a time: Let's start with weights, for instance, and when that changes has been made, we can move on to other measurements. Like the old saying, a journey of 1,609 kilometers (1,000 miles) begins with a single step.

Then we can . . .

Wait a minute. I can see it already.

In the same way as proponents of the metric system were ridiculed in the 1970s, I will be marginalized and mocked for this proposal.

I've changed my mind. Now that I think about it, I wouldn't touch the metric system with a 3.05-meter (10-foot) pole!

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Legally changing your age idea is lit!

Emile Ratelband has a great idea. Bad reasons, but great idea.

Ratelband, as you undoubtedly know, is a 69-year-old Dutchman who went to court recently to have his birth date changed.

That's right.

Ratelband says that if you can legally change your name or gender, you should be able to change your birthdate.

He wants to be 49. He wants the court to make his official birth date two decades later than when he was born.

His motivation, though, is suspicious. Ratelband hopes that being 49 will help him on dating websites, where he believes his senior status works against him. He describes himself as a "young god" who feels 20 or 25 years younger than he is.

I certainly don't have much interest in dating websites, but sometimes I feel 20 or 25 years younger than I am. Or maybe 30 (to be fair, it's usually because I'm being immature and I feel like I'm 12. Which is more than 40 years younger, now that I think about it).

There are advantages to being young. If I were 30 years younger, I'd be between my two sons, which would be lit, as those of us born in 1992 like to say.

Many of us remember our late 20s as prime years, when we had the energy of youth, but a little wisdom.

I also remember being exhausted all the time, with a baby boy at home and another one coming. But if were 26 now? I'd be on fleek, as millennials say.

If I succeed in resetting my birth date 30 years later, think of the advantages:

Umm . . . well, I guess my knowledge of 1970s music could make me a real hipster. Of course there's no way I'd grow a long beard or drink weird coffee, but still . . . imagine a guy in his 20s who sings along with Eagles music! Just don't ask me about post-1990 pop culture.

Still. That would be great. If I were declared 30 years younger, I would wake up every day, look at my driver's license, see that I'm 26 and  my world would be different.

I would have more energy. My bae (popularly known as Mrs. Brad) would also, in this scenario, be 30 years younger, so we would be adulting together, as 26-year-olds say.

Think of what we could do: Pay bills . . .  worry about the future . . . be tired . . . wonder if we knew what we were doing as parents and employees . . . still be exhausted and not be able to get enough rest . . . wonder how we could afford things if our car broke down . . .

Wait.

One.

Minute.

The more I think about it, maybe Emile Ratelband is crazy.

The idea of being younger seems great, but the truth of what it's like to be younger – at least to be a young adult trying to figure out how to navigate life – isn't simple. I wouldn't trade my experience for anything, but I don't want to go back.

I've changed my mind.

I don't want to be 30 years younger. Let my sons and their generation live that. I'll live my life, enjoy being my age and criticize their generation for not being perfect.

Meanwhile, I still get to do many of the things I did three decades ago: Worry about my kids, think things cost too much, wonder why I still get zits.

It's what people born in 1992 say: The struggle is real.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Fear, loathing, groans at new dental office

Trips to the dentist are scary, even though people deny it.

People insert sharp objects into our mouths, poking and prodding. Even if it doesn't hurt, it seems like it will hurt.

As someone who routinely sweats through a shirt during a dental visit, a new dentist where Mrs. Brad and I now live seemed like an opportunity for a new start.

New people. New technology. Time to erase history.

The dentist scheduled me for an extra-long visit, citing the need for a full set of X-rays.

Dental X-rays haven't changed much since my childhood, back when there was no such thing as pediatric dentists and when we had to go to the cranky old man who routinely pulled our parents' teeth with pliers (I'm guessing on that last part).

During X-rays, they stick a sharp plastic torture device in your mouth, alternately gagging you and cutting up your mouth. They drape a 15-pound lead vest on you, line up the X-ray machine and scramble out of the room to avoid a toxic exposure to radiation.

My new dentist has a digital X-ray machine (probably not new, but new to me). A full set of X-rays meant putting the digitized plastic torture device–which was connected by a cord to the computer–in various places in my mouth. Front, back, side.

It went well.

One picture, adjustment.

Another picture, another adjustment.

Another picture, another adjustment.

I settled in, got comfortable. The X-ray technician re-adjusted the plastic torture device, I sat back, closed my eyes and . . . she tripped over the cord.

My head snapped forward like I was an unlucky fish.

She had tripped over the cord, yanking my head forward and catapulting the plastic torture device out of my mouth.

"Are you all right?" I asked, overcome by shock. I acted concerned about her safety.

She was more concerned about me. and to be honest, so was I. Had teeth been ejected? Was I bleeding? Did I have whiplash?

We checked and the answer was none of the above, so we continued. I survived the worst, right?

This dental office was high-tech. Clumsy, but high-tech. So what if I needed a dozen or so X-rays of my mouth? Things would be fine.

I was surviving the normally gag-inducing X-rays, perhaps because I was careful to breathe through my nose.

She took another picture, another adjustment. Another picture, another adjustment.

Now, she just needed to get the back teeth. She slid the torture device back in my mouth, left the room and . . . and . . .

Suddenly, there was an inhuman groan.

From me.

Was a demon escaping? My tongue involuntarily ejected the torture device as my eyes watered. I had gone from calm to gag to dry heave.

And what the heck was up with that otherworldly groan?

Having my head snapped forward by a clumsy X-ray tech suddenly seemed preferable.

I tried to wave it off.

"I'm OK," I said. "I don't know what happened." Which was true. (Again, from where did that sound emanate? Was as frightening to her as me?)

Unfortunately, the X-rays still needed to be finished. She gave me a pep talk and told me I could eject the torture device as soon as I heard the camera click. I psyched myself up, braced myself and . . . pulled it off.

The rest of the appointment went fine. They cleaned my teeth and I sweated less than normal. No cavities, no appointments needed for six months.

I left shaken, but determined. Other than having my head snapped forward and having an involuntary, inhuman growl emerge from my body, the dental trip was a success.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Daylight saving time, best sidekicks, drug side effects

It's the first Tuesday in November, which means it's time to empty out my notebook with thoughts, lists and rants that aren't long enough for an entire column, but make up a mishmash of late-autumn observations.

That I'm making up the part that this is some sort of tradition is my first observation.

• • •

A perpetual opinion: Daylight saving time, which ended Sunday, is a bad deal.

In exchange for an extra hour of sleep (for one day), we get dark nights for four months. From now until March 10, when we get back the hour of daylight that was stolen Saturday night, we must endure driving home from work in the dark, in the rain, in the cold. I'm not sure rain and cold are directly attributable to the end of daylight saving time, but it sure seems like it. We get 126 days (18 weeks!) of gloom for one hour of sleep.

I wonder if winter will go away if we choose year-round daylight saving time.

• • •

Today's list: Five greatest sidekicks in TV history:

5. Bert. Ernie gets all the love for his role on "Sesame Street," but that puppet's sunny disposition is welcome only because of his longtime partnership with the curmudgeonly Bert.

4. Jesse Pinkman. "Breaking Bad" might be the most surprising great TV show in history and a major factor was the chemistry – no pun intended – between Aaron Paul's Pinkman and Bryan Cranston's Walter White.

3. Pat Summerall. Even though he was the play-by-play man with John Madden, which should make him the lead, Summerall was Madden's sidekick. One of the great announcers, he knew when to step aside.

2. Ed McMahon. He introduced Johnny Carson and laughed as his jokes ... and was still a star.

1. Barney Fife. Greatest sidekick ever. While never the star on the "Andy Griffith Show," he was the most memorable character.

• • •

I presume it's at the behest of the Food and Drug Administration or something, but I'm amused every time there's a new drug advertised on TV. Invariably, they list the reasons you shouldn't take it and include one great one.

"Don't take Zaxapraxal if you are pregnant or could get pregnant, have COPD, have narrow-angle glaucoma, are allergic to Zaxapraxal ..."

Every time: Don't take the drug if you're allergic to the drug.

Great advice, so please tell me how to find out I'm allergic to a drug without taking it!

• • •

The Oakland Raiders' 10-year, $100 million contract for coach Jon Gruden could be among the worst deals in sports history.

Sure, it's easy to jump on the Raiders after seeing them implode against the 49ers on Thursday. But this goes way beyond one game.

Gruden has coached a half-season and has already traded away the team's two best players, shown no ability to work with younger players and turned a potential playoff team into a laughingstock.

This could be 10 years of disaster.

Most bad sports contracts just tie up a team's finances with an underperforming athlete, but this deal turned a decade's worth of decision-making over to someone who shows no aptitude for building a team.

It's catastrophic.

The good news? Most of Gruden's 10-year stint will be in Las Vegas.

• • •

Final warning: Don't read this column if you're allergic to reading this column.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.