Nature, funding both unfair to ugly mammals

As if the world wasn't already unfair to the ugly, some animals are in danger of extinction because they lack  beauty.

It's not evolution. It's prejudice.

At least that's the conclusion of a study published in Mammal Review Journal (which could really be the name for People magazine, right?).

The study was focused on Australia, hopefully by scientists with big knives strapped to their hips while they called each other "mate" and ate vegemite sandwiches. It broke native Aussie mammals into three groups: "Good" (such as kangaroos and koalas), "bad" (invasive species) and "ugly" (animals that look like Don Knotts). Researchers found that the ugly animals made up about 45 percent of the mammals, but got a small percentage of academic research.

In other words, the animal versions of David and Victoria Beckham got a lot more attention than the animal versions of Clint Howard and his wife (I don't know what his wife looks like. This is based purely on Clint Howard).

The professor who led the study said that scientists who research ugly animals do little more than document their existence. Meanwhile, animals that attract tourists and inspire cuddly animated characters get plenty of funding for studies.

This doesn't seem right. Ugly animals are stuck in a perpetual middle school and high school, where physical appearance is overvalued and the ability to know sports statistics, song lyrics and 1970s sitcom characters is undervalued (the previous sentence may be influenced by personal experience).

The concern among Aussie scientists is that the less-attractive animals may go extinct in the same way as Aussie musical groups Little River Band and Air Supply. If we spend all of our time making the lives of the beautiful animals better while ignoring the ugly animals, are we headed toward a world that looks less like a healthy biosphere and more like an episode of "The Bachelor?"

Well, there's some good news. There's an advocacy group: The Ugly Animal Preservation Society.

Seriously.

While their approach is to use comedy (frequently used by those of us not favored by nature), the goal is, "to raise the profile of some of Mother Nature's more aesthetically challenged children."

Some of the animals promoted by the group include the lesser horseshoe bat, the griffon vulture, the public louse, the humphead wrasse and the tonkin snub-nosed monkey.

Back to the Mammal Review Journal, where this started. The article about the study featured a photo of two Aussie scientists holding cuddly koalas while apparently discussing ways to make the cute koala's life even better. But it also included a photo of an ugly animal: the blobfish, which was once voted the world's ugliest animal.

I didn't think it looked so bad. It was really a fish version of Jimmy Durante, who wasn't considered ugly because he was talented.

Which brings this: Is it possible that one solution to the ugly-animal problem is one that humans figured out long ago? Perhaps instead of funding studies and trying to change perceptions, we should just teach the griffon vulture how to sing "You must remember this," and to do a soft-shoe dance.

Nature isn't kind. Neither is research.

But we must do our best to save the humphead wrasse and tonkin snub-nosed monkey. And Clint Howard.

Maybe the soft-shoe is nature's best gift.

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

Man of the Year, Texas Roadhouse and more tidbits

It's the unofficial first weekend of summer 2016, which means it's time to empty my virtual notebook of column bits, including information that could change your life.

And by "change your life," I mean you could conceivably be struck by lightning while reading this.

On to the topics du jour . . .

• As we near the end of the first half of 2016, it's clear already who the Man/Person of the Year will be for every news outlet in the United States: Donald Trump, the presumptive nominee for president for the Republican Party. Plenty can happen in the next six months, but Trump's first half of 2016 is unparalleled in American political history and is nearly impossible to surpass in the next six months.
• A follow-up point: I love the word "presumptive."
• If you're younger than 50, this might seem incredible, but the Sunday of Memorial Day weekend used to be one of the biggest sports days of the year: It was (and remains) the day of the Indianapolis 500. Back when auto racing – specifically open-wheel racing – was a major sport, most of America either watched or listened to the Indy 500. Then we watched Ed Sullivan, argued about the Vietnam War and went to bed.
• One of the most impressive runs in Fairfield-Suisun business history is being made by the Texas Roadhouse. The steakhouse is now seven years old and anytime you go there, it's crowded. Go on a weekend night and you face a 30- to 60-minute wait to get a table. After seven years! Longer-time residents might come up with comparables, but nothing in my decades here is close as far as keeping hold on local customers.
• On second thought, does In-N-Out Burger compare?
• Did you ever wonder why we say "I have a doctor's appointment?" I don't understand the apostrophe. We don't say "I have a dentist's appointment," do we? Doctors are so powerful, they even own our appointments.
• In an era of major change for radio stations (streaming services and podcasts have taken away much of the audience), what ownership did to KGO radio in San Francisco is still stunning. In the course of about five years, the Atlanta-based ownership changed the iconic radio station of the Bay Area – which was the No. 1 ranked station for 27 years in a row – into another AM radio station filled with syndicated talk shows.
• Related note: I have six music apps on my mobile phone, something that would have made any pre-2005 version of me assume that I also drove a flying car. And to think that a TV remote control blew my mind when I was 10. You could switch back and forth on the two channels in my hometown without getting up!
• You may have missed it, but Dallas Mavericks owner Mark Cuban says he'd consider offers to be vice president from either Hillary Clinton or Trump. And somehow that got on the news, despite having zero chance of happening. And now I'm repeating it. Oh no . . .
• I don't know why, but I feel like a king when I drive the back roads instead of Interstate 80 and Highway 12 to come home from the 1-80-680 interchange area. It's probably slower, but it's prettier. And it feels like local knowledge, despite all the other cars on it. I guess that makes me a rube.

A final reminder: Friday is June 3, which is the anniversary of the day Billy Joe MacAllister jumped off the Tallahatchie Bridge. I don't know about you, but I'll be picking flowers up on Chocktow Ridge, then dropping them into the muddy water off the Tallahatchie Bridge.

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

Knocking suburbs is just snobbery

America's suburbs get no respect. City-dwellers and rural residents both look down their noses at those of us living in the fringes of America's urban areas, despite the fact that more than half of Americans live in the suburbs.

We are the silent majority!

I'm ready to defend us, as soon as I finish eating at a chain restaurant and drive home to my master-planned development.

I'm not mocking them. I like both, despite the disdain in which they are held by others.

Anti-suburb snobbery has been around for decades, but has grown with the gentrification of America's cities. It's chic to call out the suburbs as lacking soul. As creating sprawl. As places where beaten-down commuters live.

America created an industry over the past 70 years of building homes in the suburbs, then having city-dwellers and rural residents mock and hold them in disregard.

Talk to a young resident of San Francisco. Watch an episode of "House Hunters." Listen to someone from a small town. They all agree: The suburbs are boring and a wasteland.

I call baloney.

And not just because I live in the suburbs. Or maybe because I live in the suburbs. Who knows?

I'm tired of hearing cities like Fairfield, Suisun City and Vacaville described as boring and predictable. Because here's what else they are: Safe and (relatively) affordable.

The great American suburban explosion started in the years when soldiers returned from World War II and desired a place to raise their families. That resulted in tract housing. Daily commutes to work. New schools. Supermarkets. Fast food restaurants.

For some people, those things are boring and bland. For the rest of us, they're where we grew up and chose to live as adults.

What, exactly, is wrong with wanting to live away from a city or not in the country? To live where you can afford a home (even an apartment), but still have access to plenty of opportunities?

I don't begrudge people who live in cities. That's what they want. Urban residents love the energy and opportunities and buzz of the city (or they're poor and can't get out). If you live in San Francisco or Oakland, you can probably walk to a dozen restaurants and go to street fairs and see concerts or sporting events within walking distance.

I don't mind people who live in rural America.

I'm glad they have that option.

I just think they should have the same view of those of us who live in America's suburbs.

Disdain for the suburbs isn't sophistication or a deeper understanding of life. It's snobbery. It's looking down your nose at people who choose to live in a place they can afford and where they choose to raise their family.

Disagree? I'll meet you at a chain restaurant at the mall to discuss it, then return to my three-bedroom home that looks a lot like the others in my neighborhood.

And perhaps then I'll simply revel in my paranoia about what others think about where I live.

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

Remember: Cliches, buzzwords are dime a dozen

It was clear the moment he walked in the door: This guy was wound up like a cheap watch.

"I need some information from you," he said. "How many cliches are too many in one sentence?"

He was a chip off the old block. Years earlier, I'd asked the same question and it's a tough row to hoe. Or is it was "a tough road to ho?"

Six of one, half-dozen of the other, I guess.

To add insult to injury, he was like a bull in a china shop. Or is it China shop? I guess it depends on whether the china is actually from the nation, to cut through the red tape.

But he really opened a can of worms: How many cliches are too many? And is that just the tip of the iceberg? If we get into this discussion, will we soon be worrying about everything?

"Maybe we should just let sleeping dogs lie," I told him. "This is really just beating a dead horse."

But he reminded me that I was a writer, not a veterinarian. Shouldn't I know about cliches?

"Don't judge a book by its cover," I reminded him.

"If the shoe fits, wear it," he said. And he had me. This guy was as honest as the day is long.

"Well, don't put all your eggs in one basket and don't count your chickens before they hatch, which seems alike," I told him. "But I'll give you my opinion."

"Finally," he said. "The squeaky wheel gets the grease!"

I wasn't sure what he meant, but maybe it was a blessing in disguise. I wanted to give him a real answer, not a dog and pony show.

"Now, I'm certainly not pure as the driven snow," I started. "And if what I say sounds like criticism, that would be the pot calling the kettle black."

He leaned forward. As the crow flies, he was inches away. It would have to be a small crow, obviously. But he could finally see the light at the end of the tunnel.

"As far as I'm concerned, cliches are overused," I said. "Most cliches fall as flat as a pancake, but the devil is in the details."

He was on pins and needles.

"When a writer overuses cliches, it stands out like a sore thumb," I added. "The writer might have good intentions, but the road to hell is paved with good intentions."

"So be careful when you use them!" he shouted, although his bark was worse than his bite. "I wish I knew this earlier, but better late than never."

I didn't know whether he was just trying to keep up with the Joneses, but when he turned to leave, I was relieved. This could have gone on until the cows came home.

He walked away smiling – on cloud nine, proving that good things come to those who wait.

The conversation was a feather in my cap. And I'd also killed two birds with one stone: I educated someone and got a column topic.

Another day, another dollar.

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

Tips from a scarred Mother's Day veteran

It's Mother's Day, which is time for two reminders:

1. Mother's Day is important.

2. All greetings aren't equal. You don't get credit for simply remembering.

Trust me. I know. Or ask Mrs. Brad. She knows.

It goes back to a Mother's Day many years ago, right after our first son was born. We'd gone through a few years of infertility, with all that encompasses – particularly for women.

I figured "something" would happen sometime, but I was also ready to accept a childless life. I was also preoccupied with whether the Giants could contend, whether the 49ers would keep winning and when M.C. Hammer would become bigger than Elvis.

Mother's Day was especially painful for Mrs. Brad. The annual reminders that she wasn't a mom yet, combined with what felt like condescension from those who realized it (". . . oh, this is a day for you, too!") made her want to avoid Mother's Day at all costs.

The year before our son was born, I scored big time. We had a fish tank with several small fish, so on Mother's Day, I gave her a card, "signed" by all the fish – each with different handwriting. It was clever. She liked it.

I won.

Then we decided to adopt and our son was born in November. We went through all the tension and excitement of having kids, along with the extra drama of adoption. When that first Mother's Day came, I figured I was on a winning streak.

Remember the fish card? I could do even better!

At the grocery store a few days before Mother's Day, I perused the cards. There were cute ones, old-fashioned ones, Bible verses, corny ones "to my wife." I looked around and saw . . .

Cards in Spanish!

This would be hilarious! I would get Mrs. Brad a card in Spanish for her first Mother's Day! She doesn't speak nor read Spanish, so this would be even better than the fish card! Hilarious!

Of course it was a bad idea, but it didn't seem so at the time. Many bad ideas don't seem so at the time.

Me writing a column about the possible outcomes of that Malaysian airliner that disappeared a few years ago didn't seem like a bad idea.

My late-1980s mullet didn't seem like a bad idea.

I'm sure investing in a time share doesn't seem like a bad idea.

And that Spanish card for Mrs. Brad's first Mother's Day didn't seem like a bad idea.

The big day arrived and I placed the card in the crib next to our son. Mrs. Brad saw it, her face lit up and she opened the card.

Then she read it. And cried. I had taken a landmark day in her life and made it into a stupid gag by giving her a card that she couldn't read.

There's no way to really recover from that. You apologize, admit your failure and don't repeat it.

I didn't repeat it.

I've had many Mother's Days since then. Mrs. Brad still doesn't like the holiday and I know not to make it worse with a dumb gag. (To be clear: I still go for the dumb gags, just not on Mother's Day.)

So there's your lesson on Mother's Day, 2016. Remember the holiday, but don't go for a cheap laugh when it's really important to the recipient.

It's no bueño.

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

Ranking recent decades: Official list, in order

We live in a world of rankings. Nielsen ranks television shows. Media members and coaches rank college sports teams. A website called Ranker.com claims that it ranks everything. And Rankin-Bass ranks Christmas TV specials.

Get it? That joke ranks high on a list of 40-year-old pop culture references.

Anyway, today I break out my latest rankings. A few months ago, I ranked the generations – with early favorite "The Greatest Generation" finishing behind the much-knocked Millennials. Today? We'll rank the decades.

Using a purely scientific method, I will rank the 1960s through the 2000s (the 2010s aren't done yet, so it's a nice cutoff). While everything is in play, we'll pay particular attention to pop culture, sports and world events.

It's science, so don't argue. Here are the rankings, starting at the bottom.

5. 2000s: It's hard to feel great about a decade that included the Sept. 1, 2001, terror attacks and the Great Recession: The worst attack on U.S. soil followed seven years later by the worst recession in 70 years. And in between, we had two major military engagements and the start of the New England Patriots dynasty. Ugh.

On the plus side, we did have the best years of "American Idol," the birth of social media and all those "Harry Potter" books and movies.

4. 1970s: The most dramatic musical decade, with the collision of rock, R&B, disco and punk. The 1970s also saw the end of the Vietnam War and Richard Nixon. In entertainment, there was a weird contrast between a major improvement in movies (more realistic films, plus the advent of blockbusters) and horrendous TV shows ("Happy Days," "The Jeffersons," "Three's Company").

Sports, a major factor for me, wasn't great in the 1970s. And you have to deduct for the hair, styles and food. To be fair, we really needed a breather between two epic decades (spoiler alert!).

3. 1990s: The tech boom, Bill Clinton's presidency, the emergence of hip-hop and grunge music as mainstream and, most significantly, the birth of my two sons makes this a really important decade. The 1990s saw the Gulf War, the O.J. Simpson trial and dynasties by the Dallas Cowboys, Chicago Bulls and New York Yankees – all of which troubled most of America.

If you liked boy bands or Brittany Spears, the late '90s were remarkable. The decade was high-tech (AOL, pagers), but it was the last gasp before we all got fully connected. No Twitter or Facebook, which made it better or worse, depending on your perspective.

2. 1980s: Some really remarkable music (Michael Jackson, Bruce Springsteen, Prince, U2) and a second wave of youth movies/TV shows in a decade dominated by Ronald Reagan. While it's funny to think of the technology of the decade (the Walkman, VCRs, early cellphones), the 1980s were when we made a leap into the information age – even if it was with old game systems and CDs.

TV gave us "The Cosby Show," (which seems creepy now, but was great at the time) "Cheers," "Seinfeld" and the dawn of modern drama with such programs as "Hill Street Blues" and "L.A. Law." The 49ers won four Super Bowls while Michael Jordan and Nike created a new partnership between marketing and sports. Oh, and world communism collapsed, too, for which the decade gets bonus points.

1. 1960s: America's most-heralded decade is the greatest decade of the past 50 years since it gave us the Beatles, Woodstock, the moon landing, the Civil Rights movement, Vietnam and a bunch of assassinations (clearly a mixed bag). It gets a lot of credit from baby boomers, who are overrated (see generations-ranking column), but in this case, they're right.

This was the decade that saw us transition from the post-World War II culture to modern culture. Like it or not, the 1960s shaped modern America. Oh, and I was born.

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

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.