5-minute guide to political conventions

If you're like me, you're having a hard time sleeping. It's like opening day of baseball season, Black Friday, the day the new season of "Game of Thrones" starts and the day a new iPhone comes out, all rolled into one.

The political conventions start this week!

Republicans gather Monday in Cleveland, which should be (but isn't) named after Grover Cleveland, a Democrat who was our 22nd and 24th president. That's right, the Republicans are meeting in a city we associate with a Democrat.

A week later, the Democrats gather in Philadelphia, which should be (but isn't) named after Phil Mickelson, a conservative Republican golfer (is there any other kind?). That's right, the Democrats are meeting in a city that we associate with a Republican.

With the quadrennial (look it up!) pomp and circumstance, many of us have a hard time understanding what's happening. So following is a five-minute guide (depending on reading speed) to the conventions, with facts and tips:

All delegates aren't created equal. Delegates, of course, cast the votes to determine who gets to represent their party. Most are pledged to vote for certain people and most are there for the parties. But there are some special delegates, called super delegates. They have super powers, such as the ability to run through walls, stay awake during boring speeches and drink unreasonable amounts of alcohol.

Watch the roll-call vote. This is merely a formality, but it gives the state delegation leaders a chance to pimp for their state on national TV. You learn all kind of things about states as the leaders say things like, "The great state of Mississippi, which ranks 50th in education, health care, life span and drug use – but only 47th in drunken driving arrests – casts 41 proud votes for the next president of the United States, Donald Trump!" Or, "Colorado, the first state in the nation to legalize marijuana for recreational use, casts 33 votes for the next president of the United States, Hillary . . . umm . . . umm . . . are those nachos? . . . "

Lunatics make a scene. The branch of each political party (that favors mandatory gun ownership or thinks we should provide free health care to pets), gets to make a scene. Sometimes they get a speaker, but more often they create some sort of "spontaneous" demonstration that makes a home viewer wonder if it's really happening while the "normal" delegates ignore it.

Straw hats. You will almost assuredly see some. Enjoy it. You won't see them again until the 2020 conventions.

False drama. There is almost always some question about who will be the vice presidential nominee or whether there is a backroom deal – this year, that will be particularly heightened during the Republican convention, due to Trumpmania. It is always like sports rumors at the trading deadline: All smoke, no fire. It's highly unlikely Chuck Norris will be the last-minute Republican vice president replacement for Indiana Gov. Mike Pence, or that Hillary Clinton will offer to be co-presidents with Michelle Obama. But it will be rumored.

End of civility. If you like politics, enjoy the final weeks before we descend into more than four months of accusations, name-calling and mud-slinging. You think it's been ugly so far? That's nothing.

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

How to assemble a great marriage plan

A friend told me recently about a Bay Area couple whose job is essentially assembling IKEA furniture for people.

It seemed insane. Assembling things? As a couple?

Then I thought about it: Mrs. Brad and I have spent many years assembling things, establishing a solid working relationship. Most furniture in our house and all the electronics have been assembled on site. I once (kind of) built a shed. She's an engineer.

Could we do what the IKEA couple does? Could that be an early retirement plan for us – a way to pick up extra money and do something together?

(Harp music plays, revealing Mrs. Brad and me in someone's living room, preparing to assemble a box of furniture parts into a beautiful IKEA product.)

Me: OK, I'll open this box and we'll get going. LET'S GET THIS PARTY STARTED!

Her: That's not the box! That's a table. Put away the box cutters.

Me: What? Oh. Sorry, I was thinking about getting my phone to stream the Giants game. Is this the box?

Her: (Taking away the box cutter) I'll do it!

Mrs. Brad opens the box and lays out the parts. After struggling with my phone for several minutes, I grab the instructions.

Me: This doesn't make sense. It's in Spanish. Or French. Something.

Her: Find the English version. It's on there.

Me: Are you sure? Oh, here it is. Thank goodness. I thought there was eight pages of instructions. OK: Assemble the parts.

Her: I did that.

Me: OK . . . um . . .

Mrs. Brad begins assembling parts. She pulls out a tool and connects two parts.

Me: WAIT! You are supposed to attach A1 to B2. What are you doing?

Her: That's what I'm doing. I'm putting together the base.

Me: Speaking of that, the baseball game is about to begin. Do you think these people have a Bluetooth speaker for my phone?

Her: Don't worry about that. Can you hand me the wrench?

Me: (Looking through her toolbox) Is this a wrench?

Her: That's a screwdriver. A wrench looks like . . . here it is. This is a wrench.

Me: That's what I thought. I just . . .

Mrs. Brad continues to put the furniture together as I watch.

Her: Can you move? You're blocking the light. I need a Phillips screwdriver.

Me: This?

Her: No. That's a slot screwdriver. A Phillips looks like a star.

Me: That's weird. Because J.R. Phillips played for the Giants and he wasn't a star.

Her: What? Could you just get me a Phillips screwdriver?

Me: Why are you mad? He wasn't a star. ARE YOU SAYING J.R. PHILLIPS WAS A STAR?

Her: (Moving me out of the way.) Never mind. I've got it.

Me: I'm hungry. When will we be done?

Her: We just started. How can you be hungry?

Me: Why are you getting mad at me? I'm just trying to help. I had no IKEA you'd get so upset! Get it? Ikea?

Her: (Deep sigh) Can you hold this board while I attach it to the crossbeam?

Me: (After holding it for 30 seconds) How long is this going to take?

Her: The project?

Me: No, me having to hold this. My arms are tired.

Her: Poor baby.

Me: Is this still about J.R. Phillips? Because he wasn't very good. Ask anyone!

Her: Can you do me a favor?

Me: I guess so. I'm already doing all the work.

Her: Can you go outside and wait in the car?

Me: I don't understand why you're so mad about J.R. Phillips. I had no ikea a you liked him so much. Get it?

Her: GET OUT!

I slink out, secretly happy to listen to the game in the car.

I guess it wouldn't work. But it would be weird that she'd be so ignorant about J.R. Phillips, right?

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

I hate loud noises, explosions . . . and cats

Editor's note: Brad Stanhope is on vacation. Sitting in this week is his dog, Brandy, an 8-year-old Weimaraner.

Hey, everybody. How's it going? It's been a little rough for me. More like ruff, right?

Hahaha howwwwwwwwl.

Anyhoo, the last few nights have been difficult. I mean it's always a little tough at night because the cats wander around and I see shadows through the sliding glass door that may be cats.

I hate cats. Because they're dumb.

Did you hear about the cat who was asked whether he liked his can of food cut into six or 12 chunks? He said, "Six. I couldn't eat 12." Hahaha howwwwl.

That's a great one. Cats are dumb. My neighbor Scruff told me that through the fence. Then we started fence wrestling, which really angers She Who Pets Me.

But Scruff is hilarious. He tells me new ones every day. Or the same ones. My memory isn't that great.

Anyhoo, back to the roughness.

Am I the only one who notices that there are a lot of loud noises at night this time of year? And by this time of year, I mean . . . I don't know. I can't really keep track of time.

I'm like the cat who knocked an alarm clock off the shelf, because he wanted to see time fly!

Haha.

What's an alarm clock? Scruff said that was funny, so it probably is. But I don't know.

Anyhoo, the loud noises and bright lights in the sky drive me crazy this time of year. Boom! Bang! Rat-a-tat! Sparkle!

I don't know what's going on, but I can't stop from howling, which makes He Who Feeds Me and She Who Pets Me both yell.

It's a weird time. The other day, I chased this cat up the tree, then Scruff told me the cat was so dumb that he climbed the tree because he thought it would raise his IQ.

Hahaha howwwwwwl.

What's IQ?

But back to the loud noises and sounds . . . wait a second . . . there's somebody up front . . . HEY YOU GET OUT OF MY HOUSE! OUT OF MY DRIVEWAY! GET AWAY! GET AWAY! . . . umm . . . never mind. It was the neighbor. I thought it was a mailman.

Anyway, did you hear about the dumb cat? By that, I mean all cats? Anyhoo, this cat thought Meow Mix was a cassette tape with songs.

Haha hoooowwwwwl!

Get it? I don't. What's a cassette tape? Whatever it is, I bet it's funny!

But here's what's not funny: The loud noises and explosions in the air. He Who Feeds Me and She Who Pets Me both say it will be over soon, but I don't believe them. They also told me to ignore Scruff at the fence, but if I'd done that, I wouldn't know all those cat jokes.

Like that one cat who took a blood test and failed.

Get it? I don't.

But . . . let me go roll in the grass, because my back itches. Grrrrr . . . grrrrrr.

Oh. Much better. Let me stretch out and yawn. There, that's nice. That's sooooo nice.

Ahhhhh.

What was that? Did you hear that? Sounds like barking!

Hoooowwwwwwwl! Hooooowwwwl!

I'm going to patrol the fence area, to make sure everything is where it should be. Come along.

Which reminds me, did you hear about the cat who thought Snoop Dogg was a real dog?

Hahaha.

What is Snoop Dogg? Not a dog, apparently.

Anyhoo, I hate the loud noises. They're almost as bad as cats, who are so dumb, they paint garbage cans brown and orange so they can pretend they're eating at A&W. Hahahaha.

I don't know my colors.

I don't know what A&W is.

I like to eat garbage.

But I bet that's funny.

Brandy Stanhope is the longtime pet of Brad Stanhope. Reach her at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

What should we think of sports celebrations?

Many of us love sports, but there are few things as divisive (and generational) as the celebrations that come from said sports.

Watch a modern athlete celebrate a good play and you'll get one of two reactions: Excitement or disgust.

It comes up every time an NBA player dunks over an opponent and flexes his muscles. Or a football player scores a touchdown and dances. Or a baseball player hits a home run and flips his bat, then runs around the bases slowly. A hockey player . . . oh, heck, I don't watch hockey. I don't know what they do to celebrate.

Oh! Soccer players score a goal and run around like they're an airplane. (Do they still do that?)

You get the point. The problem is defining what's really at stake.

Is it that a young generation has gotten carried away with its importance and doesn't respect the game?

Is it that the older generation has forgotten that we play games and that they're supposed to be fun?

Should athletes act like they've been there before? Or should they remember that sports are entertainment?

It's all in how you view it. Is an athlete celebrating an example of what makes sports great or why it's gotten awful?

Professional sports leagues have, of course, weighed in on this important issue by legislating it. In the NFL, there are rules on what is a penalty (one guy spontaneously celebrating? OK. Three guys doing a choreographed dance? Not OK. Spiking the football? OK. Spinning the football? Not OK.).

In baseball, it's nuanced and left to the players to enforce. A pitcher who over-celebrates (according to the grumpy old teammates) a strikeout or a hitter who enjoys a home run is apt to cause a bench-emptying brawl. At the least, he'll be told he's out of line. Local example: Madison Bumgarner of the Giants, who is 26, acts like Wilford Brimley on the mound – lecturing opponents on how to act, so they don't break the 120-year-old unwritten rules.

It's really kind of silly, but draws lines among fans. Mrs. Brad usually won't watch celebrations, while I run toward the TV to see them (the same reactions we have to a serious injury).

Is there a middle ground? Or is this the sports version of Coke vs. Pepsi, rap vs. rock or sock-sock-shoe-shoe vs. sock-shoe-sock-shoe?

I say there's a middle ground: Celebrations are good. Taunting is bad.

Most of us who aren't sociopaths (which is one way to eliminate disagreement with your opinion) are fine with an athlete showing joy. Think of Magic Johnson. Or Steph Curry when things were going well. Or Brett Favre running around like a little kid.

Joy is fine.

Taunting isn't. Shoving a ball in an opponents' face is a recipe to start a fight. Standing over someone who you just sacked or over whom you dunked is bad form. Mocking someone is negative.

Here's the easiest solution for all major sports. Quit making new rules. End efforts to legislate whether something is spontaneous or rehearsed. Don't tell players what they can't do.

Let athletes show joy, whether it's rehearsed or spontaneous. Let them dance, jump and celebrate. Let them have fun.

But penalize taunting. Enforce your rules against unsportsmanlike conduct that every sport always has. Whether it's a 15-yard penalty, a technical foul or an ejection, officials can stop taunting.

How can you tell the difference? It's like Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart said of obscenity: I can't define it, but I know it when I see it.

So should the refs.

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

Solid advice from Dad on Father's Day

Editor's note: In honor of Father's Day, the normal Brad Stanhope column is written by local resident Stan Landers, the long-lost brother of iconic advice columnist Ann Landers. He will take questions from readers and answer them as only a father can.

Dear Stan: My husband loves me, but he just doesn't say it much. When I suggest something, he always says, "that sounds like a solid idea," and when we go out to dinner, he seems more interested in his 1968 Mustang than he is in me. I've told him I'd like to be more romantic, but he just grunts and says he'll try. What should I do? – Ellen, Suisun City.

Dear Ellen: That 1968 Mustang is a solid car. I love the floor-mounted shifter and the 302 V8, especially on the Fastback. The best thing about those classic cars is that they had room under the hood to work. You could fit a wrench in there and do your own work. I think the reason they make the new cars' engines so small isn't to avoid taking up space, I think it's to make you take your car to the dealer to have anything done – even changing the oil. My first car was a 1970 Nova and now I wish I'd kept it.

Dear Stan: My daughter lives in Alameda with my granddaughter, who is 18. I see the both frequently, but am not sure about the best way to entertain my granddaughter, since I don't understand this younger generation with their mobile phones and such. How can I interact with her in a way that works for both of us? – Roy, Fairfield.

Dear Roy: I remember going to Alameda when I was probably 19 or 20 – it was several years before the naval air station there closed down. They had a great taco place called Edgardo's or Eduardo's or something like that – it was a Latino guy's name and the guy it was named after worked there. The best thing was that if you asked for "the special," which wasn't on the menu, you got double sour cream, double guacamole. And this was before everyone loved guacamole. A lot of servicemen worked there, too.

Dear Stan: Two months ago, my niece and her husband moved into a home my wife and I own in Dixon. It seemed like a perfect fit until they stopped paying rent. Now I'm stuck trying to evict them while they fight it – and a family reunion is coming up this summer. Is there any way I can move them out and keep the peace in the family? I'd really rather not get on the wrong side of her mother, who is my sister. – Vern, Vacaville.

Dear Vern: Remember those great commercials with the guy who said "Know what I mean, Vern?" Those were hilarious. His name was Jim Farney or Jim Varney or something. I think the commercials were for John L. Sullivan Chevrolet or whatever cars he was selling then. I bet you hear that a lot, right? Didn't that same guy from the commercials do the movies about "Ernest," like "Ernest Saves Christmas?" Know what I mean, Vern? Ha ha.

Dear Stan: Is it all right if I use the car? Mine is low on gas. – Stan Landers Jr., Suisun City.

Dear Stan Jr.: Ask your mother. I'm busy.

Brad Stanhope is the father of two and a former Daily Republic editor. Reach him at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Ask yourself: What would cheeses do?

There is a little-known glut that could really clog up the American economy: Cheese.

The American cheese market is saturated. There are billions of pounds of cheese waiting to be put on a cracker or be made into a sandwich. Here's how bad it is: According to an article in The Wall Street Journal, the average American would have to eat an extra three pounds of cheese this year – in addition to the average of 36 pounds per year – to wipe out the cheese imbalance.

This glut is based on several issues, including a record for cheese production in the U.S. But most important was a decision to blockade (more like cheese block-ade, am I right?) Russia a couple of years ago after its incursion into Ukraine. That led to more and more cheese being backed up (not the first time "back up" and "cheese" have been used in the same sentence).

Ultimately, we have a situation where "American cheese" is more than a type. It's a description of the location of the world's cheese supply.

Again, this came after the European Union decided to punish Russia, so here's some irony: The cheese surplus happened because of a military move. Who do we look to as a neutral party in such situations? The same answer as to whom we look as a provider of great cheese: The Swiss, am I right?

Is that ironic or conspiratorial? Or a desperate attempt to get a cheese pun in a column?

American commercial freezers at the end of March (the most recent month for which statistics are available, since it takes cheese a long time to work through the system, am I right?) had nearly 1.2 billion pounds of cheese.

That's a lot of cheese, Jack. (Keep track of my cheese puns. There are more to come.)

For dairy farmers, it's a mixed blessing. Their product is moving (always nice for cheese), but demand can't keep up with record supplies, so prices dropped – they are off nearly 40 percent over the past two years.

You may think it's nacho (!) problem, but it is.

As we play out the string (!), it's obvious that there are ultimately some significant problems: We can't let cheese bind up our (economic and food) system. We need to keep things moving or else they'll get all stopped up – which is never good.

This has shredded (brilliant!) the industry, which is not gouda (OK. I'll stop).

But at least there is some good news: In the past decade, we've seen the housing bubble burst and experienced the worst recession since the Great Depression. Contrasted with that, the great cheese glut of 2016 is manageable.

Finally, a crisis in America that doesn't require us to tighten our belts – in fact, we're asked to do the opposite. It's time to eat an extra three pounds of cheese over the next year.

Easy enough, right? And a year from now, after we've wiped out the cheese glut, let's get together and have a picture taken.

We can look at the camera and say . . . .

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

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.