Musings on great art, the color palette

Mrs. Brad was talking with a friend and I was listening.

Except it sounded like gibberish: They were discussing art.

I like art. Specifically, I like Art Howe, Art Monk, Art Garfunkel and Art Linkletter. But on a different level, I enjoy works of art. The statue of David. The statue of Willie Mays. The painting of dogs playing poker. Finding Waldo. All the great art of the world.

But colors? They make me laugh.

In the discussion referenced earlier, Mrs. Brad and her friend were looking at a color palette, discussing the names. As if they made sense.

Sap green. Payne's gray. Cadmium yellow light. Quina-cridone magenta. (To be fair, they didn't say those. I found those on a color wheel. But they said words like that.)

It was all mumbo jumbo, which is typical. Everybody takes what we understand and makes it complicated.

It's like medicine, where they come up with drugs that start with X or Z to treat a malady that has a multisyllabic name ("Take new Xaxoplaxin, to treat the symptoms of Ribertosom Syndrome.")

Similarly, listen to the sideline reporter at a sports event, explaining how your favorite player has an abrasion on his head and a contusion on his hip. Oh no! It's serious: a scrape on his face and a bruised hip.

Anyway, it's the same thing with colors, although there's apparently a reason for it.

Turns out that, contrary to what I believed in my childhood, there are more than 64 colors.

Seriously. Shocking, right?

Sixty-four seemed like a lot – and that was the outer limit, of course, because that was size of the Mac Daddy of crayon boxes, which only rich or artistic kids possessed. The 64-crayon box with a sharpener? To me, that must have included every conceivable color, a fact made obvious by the inclusion of not just blue, but sky blue and blue-green.

(We can't ignore, of course, the "flesh" crayon. Not only was that racist, it was wrong. That was not even my skin color. And it creeped me out to call it "flesh," which seemed like something a monster would eat.)

Anyway, it turns out there are more than 64 colors. And it turns out that the naming committee for the colors has the freedom to go crazy.

Cerulean blue, by the way, is next to patholo blue on our palette – which actually is a color-mixing guide. In other words, it allows you to combine burnt sienna with raw umber and come up with a new color (medium slumber?).

You want your house to be white? Do you mean eggshell, alabaster or chiffon porcelain?

That's a blue shirt? Do you mean navy, Aegean, azure, admiral or arctic?

And those are the fundamental colors – the ones that Big Paint, the conglomeration of major paint producers, largely agree on.

Here's all I know: When Cassius Marcellus Coolidge was painting, he probably didn't use terms like eggshell, raw umber and patholo blue. The great Coolidge likely used white, brown and blue on his masterpiece.

Who's he? Oh, I guess I get to play the role of art expert now: Coolidge, of course, was the American genius who painted the "Dogs Playing Poker" series starting in the 1890s.

Sap green, indeed.

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

What price safety? Maybe we should ask Graham

Safety first. Unless, of course, it makes you look like Graham, because sometimes safety is overrated.

Even car safety.

First, a caveat: I'm not talking about safety belts (why wouldn't you wear them?) or air bags (one of the great advances of modern society). I don't mean vehicles that are determined to be particularly safe (I can't afford a Hummer and don't have a Subaru or Volvo, but I respect them). I look forward to the self-driving cars. Until then, I would be OK with wearing a helmet while driving if someone I respected said it was a difference-maker.

Safety is important. But if you're talking about having a body designed to survive car crashes? No thanks.

Sound crazy? You haven't met the aforementioned Graham.

Yes, Graham.

He's the interactive, life-sized sculpture version of a human designed by an Australian artist out of silicone and hair (like Pamela Anderson!) to represent how a human could best survive car crashes.

It begs this question: In an era when athletes take performance-enhancing drugs to excel at their sport, does it make sense for a serious commuter to undergo surgery to be able to survive any car crash?

You might want to look at Graham before you answer.

The Aussie artist, named Patricia Piccinini, consulted with trauma surgeons (my theory: One was Aussie singer Rick Springfield, who played Dr. Noah Drake in the 1980s on TV's "General Hospital") about what would help a human survive a car wreck.

The result? Graham. He looks like the missing link, even on his website in which he appears wearing only gym shorts: www.meetgraham.com.au.

Graham has an extra-thick rib cage with air sacs to help absorb the blow of a collision. He has a flattened face and larger skull. He has thicker skin (which might come in handy when people make fun of him). Graham's legs are multiple-jointed, going both ways. They end with hooves.

Graham might survive a car crash, but his social life would be a train wreck.

A CNN.com article about Graham quoted David Logan, a crash investigation expert at a research center in Melbourne, as saying, "It's really about understanding the physics behind road crashes, and (Piccinini) did a fantastic job of interpreting that and creating something that is really able to be digested by anyone from what is some quite complex physics."

Well, maybe.

Once I saw Graham, I couldn't stop thinking of what his life would be like. On the worst days of my life, I look like a male model next to Graham.

It's interesting to think about what could make us more able to survive auto accidents (which kill 30,000 Americans a year) and nearly any advance is a good one.

But Piccinini's creation – Fordenstein? – brings to mind wisdom shared by Richie Cunningham in a classic episode of "Happy Days," when he spurned his father's desire to move to a bomb shelter due to fear of nuclear war: "I'd rather live now than just survive later."

Pretty deep, right?

Graham's appearance, however, brought a more salient observation by my friend Teresa.

"He might survive a car crash," she said. "But he'd never survive middle school."

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

Lassen Park camping trip ends with a whimper

There are many synonyms for cold: Frigid. Brisk. Nippy. Shivery. Icy. Glacial.

Here's another: Camping.

That's the main takeaway from a recent trip to Lassen Volcanic National Park by Mrs. Brad and me.

We decided to camp at Lassen for the first time since our sons were in elementary school. We would again stay at the ominously named Summit Lake campground, but global cooling obviously hit the region since our last trip.

How else do you explain mid-July nights that prompt whimpering?

Yes. Whimpering. You'll see.

First, the great part. Lassen Park – east of Redding, in northeastern California – is spectacular. It's one of our state's hidden treasures, a 106,000-acre park with geysers, Lassen Peak (10,500 feet!), isolated lakes and more than 150 miles of hiking paths.

It's a fantastic place to camp and relax. Until night. Then, it's a fantastic place to freeze.

Mrs. Brad and I arrived on a beautiful Sunday afternoon, with the temperature around 75. Of course, our campground was 7,000 feet above sea level.

Of course, we saw snow (in July!) in the park.

Of course, we knew it would be chilly at night.

Of course, we underestimated it.

We set up camp. We walked around the campground. We ate dinner. We built a fire. We tried to avoid getting smoke in our eyes. We went to bed at about 9:30 p.m., after watching the sky fill with stars.

As we crawled into our sleeping bags, we knew it would be chilly: The weather app on my phone told me so. We wore hoodies and put an extra blanket over our 30-year-old department-store sleeping bags. Good enough, right?

Wrong.

It was cold. It was uncomfortable. Our pillows felt like they were filled with sand (does pillow stuffing freeze?). I struggled to fall asleep and so did Mrs. Brad. After several hours, knowing the sun would soon come up, I checked my watch.

It was 11:30 p.m. Oh, no.

It got colder. I slept. I woke up. I shivered. I rolled over. I grabbed a coat and used it as an extra blanket. I slept. I woke up. I checked my watch. It was 12:15 a.m., 45 minutes after the last time I checked.

The endless night continued. Every once in a while, Mrs. Brad and I were awake at the same time and spoke. Through chattering teeth. We commiserated.

Finally, morning. Finally, sun. I  turned on our car and it was 41 degrees. It felt colder.

Soon, though, it was a glorious day, perfect for a hike (where we saw more snow!), relaxing, reading, dinner, fire, stars, bedtime.

Night No. 2 was different. I wore my big jacket to bed. I wore jeans. I wrapped a blanket around me, like a mummy. I was prepared for an endless night of cold. So was Mrs. Brad.

This time, I slept until 1 a.m. The cold only woke me four or five times the rest of the night. Mrs. Brad? Not so good. The next morning – after I got up at 6 a.m. and paced around for an hour, looking for the first patch of sun – she awoke and told me she was miserable.

How miserable?

"I woke up during the night and could hear myself whimpering."

That, thankfully, was our last night before continuing to a hotel, which had a heater, air conditioning, shower and a bed. Paradise.

We love Lassen and would do it again. But next time, we'll go in the summer when it's . . . oh, never mind. We went in July!

Perhaps it's time to update our sleeping bags.

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

Making my bucket list official

Climb Mount Everest. Run with the bulls. Skydive. See Stevie Wonder perform.

When people talk about their "bucket list," they usually include items like that. Our bucket lists, of course, are the things we want to do before we die. As people age, they become more aware of the bucket list. Then it recedes.

I say that because it seems that 40-year-olds talk most about bucket lists. My 85-year-old dad? Never talks about it (or perhaps he does, but has the volume on the TV turned up so loud no one can hear him).

Anyway, it's valuable for me to share my bucket list – partly because it creates a sense of accountability, partly because it might inspire someone, partly because I'm expected to turn in 500 words a week on a subject of my choice.

My bucket list is different from yours. That's because we're different. And because my bar is set low.

Here we go . . . before I die, I hope to:

• Eat at Athenian Grill.**
• See a ventriloquist perform without cringing.
• Have my teeth cleaned by the dentist without sweating through a shirt.
• Remember that the food at the Solano County Fair sounds exotic and delicious, but usually leaves me bloated and sluggish.
• Go big.
• Go home.**
• Watch a full movie on the Lifetime Network without laughing.
• Travel to Turkey . . . or eat turkey.**
• Make an actual list of buckets: Mop, water, wooden, metal. Mo . . .
• Remember whether or not there's a second "e" in judgment (or "judgement") without looking it up.
• Get to a movie early enough to see all the pre-show programming.
• Dye my hair jet black and insist that "it's always been this way."
• Rip off each side-view mirror from my car while backing out of the garage.**
• Teach my dog to poop in the toilet.*
• Watch "The Bucket List," a 2007 Morgan Freeman/Jack Nicholson movie.
• Drink a cup of coffee every morning for a week.**
• See the Giants, 49ers and Warriors win championships.**
• Find a loophole that allows me to retransmit, rebroadcast or make another use of the pictures, descriptions and accounts of a sporting event without the express written consent of the team or league.
• Go to a concert for an Air Supply tribute band.
• Show up late to the Air Supply tribute band's concert and explain that I was making good progress, then I got lost in love.
• Challenge a traffic ticket while wearing one of those white wigs and calling the judge "your eminence."
• Time travel to be a star of a 1970s "blaxploitation" film.
• Become the first person to officially not like Sara Lee.
• Drive away from a gas station with the gas pump still connected to my car.**
• Go to an air show at Travis Air Force Base.*
• Have Stevie Wonder see me perform.
• Get back to my birth weight.
• Write a 500-word column about my bucket list.**

(*Probably won't do this. **Have already done this.)

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

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.