Cold-case lessons from death of Lucy

There are cold cases and then there are ice-cold, deep-frozen cases.

Like Lucy.

She was a small woman, less than 100 pounds. Maybe only 60 pounds. She lived and died in Ethiopia, although it wasn't called that when she lived there, because it wasn't called anything.

Lucy's body was found in 1974 and just recently scientists have begun to understand how she died. Of course, when your body lies around for 3.2 million years, there isn't always a big hurry to determine cause of death.

Lucy, of course, is the world's most well-known fossil (edging out Larry King and Keith Richards). Her body was found in a shallow Ethiopian grave 42 years ago – beginning her career as an ideal example of an Australopithecus afarensis species.

Still with me? Good. Because I'm a little confused. I'm trying to figure out whether Pat Riley should have been included among other famous fossils. Anyway . . .

Researchers from the University of Texas recently released a study on how Lucy died. They used original fossil and CT scan results.

Here are their conclusions, and they're a cautionary tale for anyone alive now, not just in the year 3,177,984 BC (if  the age of her fossil and my math are both correct):

First of all, Lucy is theorized to have fallen from a tree, plummeting the equivalent of about four floors. (Lesson: Always secure yourself in high areas. And don't climb trees without reason).
Second, she tried to shelter her fall with her arms, breaking them and shocking her torso. (Lesson: Wear wrist guards).
Third, she rolled toward a nearby stream and slowly died. (Lesson: Keep a phone handy and call 911 if needed).
If you're like me, you have one thought in mind: How can the researchers be sure about her death?

I mean we've all seen plenty of TV detective shows when it looks like someone died of natural causes – or "fell" to their death – and we always learn that it wasn't so simple. Somebody did it. Somebody had means and motive. Somebody wanted to see Lucy out of the picture.

Maybe the answer is obvious. Did anyone ask Desi about Lucy's death? He might have gotten tired of her zany antics! (Hey! A 60-year-old pop culture gag!)

What about Charlie Brown? He might have tired of her cruel football tricks. (Hey! A 50-year-old pop culture gag!)

What about . . .

Oh, never mind. The point is that there is no statute of limitations on murder. If Lucy indeed was killed by another member of the Australopithecus afarensis species, and if they are reading this column, they need to know this: The researchers at the University of Texas are tracking you down. They know how Lucy died. They know what she did in her last moments.

The next step is time travel: Find a way to go back to when Lucy's contemporaries were alive and figure out the person behind this nefarious act. Because who knows what Lucy might have done, given a few more years. She could have changed everything.

Maybe she would have invented the wheel, 3.176 million years before humans did so. Maybe she would have learned to write, starting recorded history 3.175 million years before it did. Maybe she could have created a genuinely usable universal remote, which still doesn't exist. Maybe she could have written a song for the Beatles that no one understands.

Picture yourself in a boat, on a river. With tangerine trees and marmalade skies.

Look for the girl with the sun in her eyes and she's gone, indeed. (Hey! A 45-year-old pop culture gag!)

RIP Lucy.

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

This haircut seemingly wouldn't end

Losing a hair stylist is like losing a mechanic or dentist or insurance agent: It's uncomfortable to go somewhere unfamiliar.

And you can leave a new place looking disheveled.

The shop where I got haircuts for the past 15 years recently closed. For a few weeks, it was going to "reopen soon," then it closed.

I liked the place. I like the women who cut my hair. We shared stories about vacations and work. They knew about my family and asked specifically about my sons. They also knew how to cut my hair, which is not difficult: five on the top, three on the sides. (Some sort of measure for clippers, I guess. The lower the number, the shorter your hair.)

The closing of my hair shop led to a mini-crisis: Where should I get haircuts? (Note: Don't suggest I come to your favorite place. I have a new shop, different from the one discussed below.)

I tried another nearby salon (is that the correct term for a place where they charge $12 for a haircut?). My first experience was bad enough for me to dislike it, but on a recent Saturday, Mrs. Brad was otherwise occupied and I had extra time. It's in my neighborhood. I could get a haircut and not interrupt my regular schedule.

So I went back and signed in. And waited. And waited. And waited. It felt like I was the guy at "Cheers" whose name nobody knew, since many customers were greeted when they arrived while I was ignored. That's OK. I wasn't a regular.

Finally, a young man came in, walked up to me and wordlessly indicated that he could cut my hair.

As mentioned earlier, it doesn't take long to cut my hair. The "five on top, three on the sides" haircut usually takes less than 10 minutes – enough time to talk about vacations, but not much more than that.

We didn't talk, since my barber didn't know me. That's fine. I didn't expect conversation.

He cut my hair. I heard buzzing, per usual. After the requisite 10 minutes, he stopped, then sprayed my hair with water.

And started cutting again. Barely. Occasionally snipping stray hairs with the clippers.

"He's making sure it's clean," I told myself.

He kept clipping. For several minutes. Then he stopped and sprayed.

And started clipping again.

Curious. I thought, "I'll tell people I had an obsessive-compulsive hairdresser. That will be funny."

He combed, then clipped the occasional stray hair.

Combed. Combed. Clipped a single hair. Combed. Clipped.

Stopped. Sprayed.

And started combing. Clipping. Combing. Combing. Clipping.

Spraying.

Combing. Combing. Clipping.

I got anxious. Was I supposed to tell him to stop? Had the rules changed? My potential OCD joke – to be clear, I don't consider obsessive-compulsive disorder funny – seemed factual. My. Barber. Couldn't. Stop. Cutting.

My hair is short. It's thinning. It's gray. It doesn't require a lot of work to cut.

But he kept combing, clipping, combing, combing, clipping, spraying, combing . . . .

I was frustrated, but polite. I told myself that maybe there was a game plan.

Clip. Comb. Comb. Comb. Clip.

Finally, my phone rang. It was Mrs. Brad, informing me that she needed assistance. Finally, I had an excuse.

I told Mr. Comb-Clip-Comb-Comb-Clip that I needed to go. He nodded and took off my bib, never speaking. I paid and left, with a mix of anger, confusion and amusement.

What just happened?

Then I got paranoid. Was this my fault? Is it possible that my barber is somewhere telling people about the weird guy whose hair he cut? The guy who wouldn't just say the cut was good enough? The guy who made him keep on clipping?

Boy, do I miss my old hair place. Where they decided when a haircut was done.

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

Here's how to make the debate a TV hit

A letter from one of the great script-fixers of television to the leaders of the Commission on Presidential Debates on the eve of tonight's second presidential jawboning.

Dear Commission:

Greetings and congratulations on the boffo ratings for your first debate a couple of weeks ago. It reminded me of the debut of "Gilligan's Island" in 1964 and of "Lost" in 2004. Both huge. And both got better (especially "Gilligan," when they introduced the idea of failed escapes!).

As you may know, I help make TV shows better. I take them from good to great.

I'm the one who added the idea of a potential second date to "The Love Connection." I suggested the expansion of "30 Minutes" to an hour. I came up with the idea of Fonzie jumping the shark on "Happy Days."

People still mention that, almost daily.

With your second debate airing tonight, I have some suggestions to boost ratings. Institute these and you could be another "Law & Order" or "Knots Landing." (With spinoffs!)

I'm a fan. I watched both the first presidential debate and the vice presidential debate. (OK. I didn't watch the vice presidential debate. No one did, so let it go.)

You've got a ratings hit. And as you prepare for your second episode, here are suggestions that can make your program even bigger, because it's fine to be "Dr. Ken," but wouldn't you rather be "The Walking Dead?"

Here are four suggestions to make your show better, starting with tonight's episode:

1. Enforce the time rules creatively. Here's how to do it: Introduce a trap door (like on the Game Show Network classic "Russian Roulette") that will open at the end of the allotted time. Or drop slime on candidates who talk too long (as on the former "Slime Time Live" on Nickelodeon). Who wouldn't want to see Hillary Clinton or Donald Trump drop down a chute or get covered in slime? Or to see them cut short a point to beat the clock? Add that, keep viewers.

2. Add Judge Judy. The moderator is usually a news broadcaster whose job is to be neutral. But your ratings could be hurt by candidates continually talking over each other – last time was like watching the jackals shout at each other on ESPN. I want a moderator with authority. I want Judy Sheindlin. She'll keep order and entertain. That's a dynamic duo!

3. Add a real-world segment. Candidates act like normal people, but we know they're not. Can Clinton or Trump make a pot of coffee? Can they figure out how to feed a family of four on $5 at Taco Bell? Do they know how to iron a shirt or how often you should change your motor oil? I want a 20-minute real-world challenge segment. The winner controls a shock collar for his or her opponent for the next five minutes. I'd keep watching!

4. Getting desperate? Finally, if the show starts losing ratings, go with my old favorite: Have Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton jump a shark while water skiing and wearing a leather jacket.

People will talk about it for decades!

Best of luck. I'll follow up soon about my idea for a wacky spinoff show, where the vice presidential candidates share an apartment in New York. "Pence, Kaine . . . and Chaos!"

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

New planet brings questions, possibilities

They've found another planet with life on it.

Well, maybe not. Still, it could have life! And that's enough for me, fulfilling the promise of my childhood, when we knew there were extraterrestrial aliens who would one day either perfect our lives or enslave us.

Anyway, Proxima b exists!

Scientists revealed in August that they discovered a roughly Earth-sized planet circulating around Proxima Centauri, the nearest star to the Earth (although to be fair, many scientists consider David Hasselhoff the nearest star to Earth, based on his "triple-threat" ability to sing, dance and act. A few renegade scientists consider Wayne Newton or Nick Cannon the nearest star. But most choose Proxima Centauri.).

Immediately, the speculation began: Could there be life on the planet? Might we be able to communicate with the inhabitants? Will 'N Sync ever reunite? Could humans survive on Proxima b?

Scientists were quick to discourage any idea that Proxima b is like Earth.

One scientist said Proxima b may be heavier than Earth – although it could drop a few pounds if it ate better and would regularly exercise – and that its atmosphere might be "like Neptune, with a thick, gaseous envelope." (By the way, a heads up from someone who knows: thick, gaseous envelopes require two "forever" stamps, even if they include a single sheet of paper.)

Buried in the information about Proxima b was a possible game-changer: The planet rotates around its star every 11.2 days, which means that's "one year" on Proxima b. Insiders say that could put serious pressure on Proxima b's Social Security system, since people on the planet would reach 62 – the age at which you can begin to draw Social Security payments – before turning 2 Earth years. That means there might be a serious imbalance between those who contribute and those who withdraw from Social Security.

There are other problems for Proxima b. Its star is 0.1 percent as bright as our sun – kind of like comparing the brightness of Blaine Gabbert's star to that of Joe Montana. In cases where the star is dim, planets often keep the same face toward the star. That means, of course, that it's always daytime on half the planet, always night on the other, which wreaks havoc on all performances of "Fiddler on the Roof," due to the lack of understanding of "Sunrise, Sunset."

Perhaps the biggest question is whether Proxima b has water. Astronomers say that if the planet was formed far away from the star and moved closer, it could be ice rich. But they warn that it's always possible that the inhabitants of the planet didn't refill ice trays after using the cubes, in which case the long-ago formation of ice helps no one.

Is this another Earthlike planet? Could we move there if real estate prices continue to increase?

We don't know. But here's what we do know:

• Proxima b could have life.
• "Fiddler on the Roof" doesn't necessarily translate to other planets.
• Thick, gaseous envelopes cost extra to mail.
• You should always refill ice-cube trays, just in case.

Isn't science great?

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

Aquanaut suit? Oxygen bar? It's almost Christmas!

Christmas is three months from today, so the new Hammacher Schlemmer catalog came just in time!

If you live under a rock, Hammacher Schlemmer is the company that sells all kinds of exotic things that are marginally affordable. If you live under a rock, Hammacher Schlemmer also likely has something that will make your life better: Perhaps a rock-powered lamp that also works as a shortwave radio.

Hammacher Schlemmer is the modern version of the old Sears Wish Book Christmas catalog.

If you're eccentric.

This year's cover item grabbed my attention and led me to remind Mrs. Brad that Christmas is nearing. It's a Self-Propelled Aquanaut's Suit (all Hammacher Schlemmer items start with capital letters), which allegedly maintains sea-level-area pressure while enabling descents to 1,000 feet below the water's surface. I'm afraid to go 10 feet below the surface and would undoubtedly get seasick, but it seems like a cool thing to have in my garage. I could use the suit to do routine homeowner chores that impress the neighbors. Mowing. Cleaning gutters. Getting mail.

Then I saw the price: $825,000, which is about 8,250 times our budget for Christmas, so . . . nah.

But the rest of the catalog? Fantastic. So if you're planning ahead for this Christmas, consider these options:

The Wi-Fi Communicating Pet Treat Dispenser ($199.95). This allows you to check on a pet from anywhere and remotely dispense treats. It could likely be adapted to include the treats that the man (or woman) in your life enjoys and you could put it next to his (OK, it's likely a man) favorite lounge chair. Boom! A man treat dispenser.

The Any Surface Full Body Massage Pad ($199.95). Over time, it's cheaper than finding motels that have those "magic fingers" beds that use coins. Maybe. Over a long time.

The Star Wars Toasters (Stormtrooper, $59.95, Darth Vader, $39.95). After it's perfectly toasted, you can Chewie your toast.

The World's Largest Toe Tap Piano ($79.95). For any time your recipient wants to re-enact the fantastic scene from "Big."

The Sliding Door 1,044 CD/468 DVD Library ($349.95). This can go next to the 8-Track Storage Shed and the VHS Bookcase! Right next to your oversized boom box that plays cassettes.

The Personal Oxygen Bar ($399.95). Modeled after oxygen bars found in resorts and spas, this can replace the current "oxygen bar" – the Earth's atmosphere.

The Driver's See Through Sun Visor ($19.95). Or as I call it, a "windshield."

The Best Nose Hair Trimmer ($19.95). Since it's the "best," that automatically puts it past my personal choice: A small pair of scissors paired with a smartphone flashlight while standing inches from the mirror. You're welcome.

The Cordless Reading Lamp ($149.95). This is a rechargeable reading lamp that you can move anywhere, in case you live in a house that doesn't have electricity.

The 15-Foot Inflatable Rudolph ($399.95, with a 12-foot inflatable Clarice for $349.95). Can you imagine this in your front yard? And can you imagine the stories your friends could tell after the first wind storm? It's worth the double this price!

The Two-Story Inflatable Black Cat ($299.95). If your 15-foot Rudolph doesn't creep out your neighbors enough, you can add this, while walking in your Self-Propelled Aquanaut's Suit.

This is going to be the best Christmas ever!

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

There's no parallel for my ability to park

I'm irrationally proud of my ability to parallel park. If you don't believe me, just watch.

I strut, as if I just rode a bucking bronco for eight seconds. Or cut the correct wire to disarm a bomb.

I rarely feel better about myself. I backed my car into a tight space between two other cars – a skill that many people never muster!

I can parallel park! I am great at it!

Except I have no idea whether I'm especially good. I mean, I know I can do it, but am I great? Or just adequate? Or maybe subpar?

I'm definitely better than subpar because . . . are you ready? . . . I can parallel park on the opposite side! On a one-way street, I can parallel park on the left side. That's a lost art.

Driving includes several activities about which we (by which I mean mechanically challenged middle-aged men) are unnaturally proud. Secretly – or not-so-secretly – many of us think we're outstanding behind the wheel. We embrace our greatness.

Another example? The ability to drive a vehicle with manual transmission. That's a skill!

When I started driving, roughly half the cars on the road were manual transmission. Automatic transmission cars seemed weak, something that a housewife would drive to the grocery store. A real man? He drove a stick.

And was good at it. My first several vehicles had stick shifts and I, like most guys, considered myself elite at going from first to fourth (or fifth) in a few smooth steps.

Now about 10 percent of American cars are manual transmission and most young people have never driven one. I have and I'm good at it.

Want to hear something else? I am expert at using a squeegee to clean my windshield at the gas station. Oh, sure, it's not that hard, but we experts pride ourselves on not leaving streaks.

It involves a slight overlap of  the squeegee area, followed by a wipe of the paper towel to catch a few spots (and of course, a quick flick of the wipers to catch everything you missed).

It's a skill. And for those of us who don't change oil or rotate our own tires, it's a point of pride.

There are other vehicle-related skills of which I'm irrationally proud: The ability to drive curves. Knowing the perfect time to dim my brights while driving on rural roads. Driving at a pace so I hit green lights all the way through cities with timed stoplights.

Sure, you could say there's no standard way to measure whether I'm actually good at the skills. Sure, you could say that parking or shifting or wiping a window isn't an important skill. Sure, you could say I'm desperately trying to find affirmation in a world that's passed me by.

I will simply parallel park my car, get out and smugly walk past you.

Because I'm really good at it.

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

When every purchase was meaningful, confusing

I stood behind them at the pet store near Costco in Green Valley. They were two preteen boys, holding what appeared to be a small box to transport small rodents – maybe for a hamster. Or a rat.

The smaller boy pulled out a sweaty dollar bill and put it on the counter, along with a handful of change.

"Will that be enough?" he asked the checker.

"It will. We'll get back 15 cents," said his friend, confidently.

I smiled as the checker rang up the item, then counted out the money. There was a lot of change.

"Actually, you get seven cents back," she said, handing him back a nickel and two pennies.

Tax. They'd forgotten the tax. But the boys paid and headed out. They got on bikes and left, riding across the sweeping parking lot, back to their houses where, presumably, a hamster, rat or mouse awaited a new transportation device.

It was sweet. It was suburban. It was also something that rarely happens in the 21st century, both because many kids aren't allowed to ride their bikes to the store and because so many kids have so much money that they don't sweat over whether a dollar and change will be enough for their purchase.

It reminded me of being in their position.

I didn't grow up poor, but I was raised in an era of tight allowances and of needing to save up to buy things. I also grew up in a home that was a couple of miles from the nearest store, so the opportunity to actually purchase things was a treat.

I was a saver, not a spender.

I would put away my weekly allowance – first a few quarters, then a dollar or two – for weeks. Or months. The goal was to buy something good: a box of baseball cards, a Nerf football or maybe even a 10-speed bike.

My shopping trips were significant. I remember bringing cash to the store, then staring at the annual issue of Street and Smith's Baseball Preview or at a new transistor radio and weighing its value.

I'd grab it off the counter, then think about whether it was worth so many weeks' allowance. I'd put it back.

But I'd keep considering it. Money was in my pocket – I always checked several times, fearful that I'd lose it – and it might be quite some time before I could make another purchase.

When I decided to make a purchase, I'd do the same dance done by the boys in front of me at the pet store. I'd nervously go the counter and do the most adult thing imaginable: Put my item on the counter and pay for it with my own money.

Sweaty singles. Random change. I was good at math, but taxes confused me. Invariably, I'd wait until the item was rung up, then count out my money. One dollar, two dollars, three dollars, four dollars. A quarter, another quarter, two dimes and three pennies. I'd slide it to the checker, who took it, bagged my item and handed it to me.

Undoubtedly, there were smiling adults behind me. I never noticed, because I was relieved I had enough. And invariably, I almost immediately had buyer's remorse.

Did I waste my money on something not worth it?

I hope the boys at the pet store didn't have buyer's remorse. I hope they enjoyed their purchase. It was definitely worth it.

For me, at least.

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

End of summer brings blues, football, notes

It's Labor Day weekend, which is a good news/bad news situation. The good news is that it's a three-day weekend and the NFL season is about to start. The bad news is that summer is nearing the end.

I've long championed my love of summer. I also proposed a new season system, under which summer would officially end Monday night.

Every year, I hear people talking about how excited they are for fall – for the falling leaves, the pumpkin spice latte at Starbucks, the coming Christmas season. Every year, I get sad as the days become shorter.

This week is the unofficial end of summer. You may be happy about that, but I'm not. Still, it's time to empty my pockets of my summer-ending notes:

• I'm appalled that the state Legislature seriously considered a bill to end daylight saving time in California. Actually, the bill would just allow residents to vote on it, but really?

People want to end sunny evenings? They want to create a world that resembles summer in Alaska, with just a few hours of daylight every day? They want to let the Snow Miser win the famous Sun Miser-Snow Miser battle ("Year Without a Santa Claus," 1974)? Please.

If we get rid of daylight saving time, what's next? Christmas? Kittens? Laughter?

• For my money, there is no household item with a name that better reflects its purpose than a sewing machine.

Not only is it for sewing, it's a full-blown machine, with pulleys, levers, motors and pistons. (I'm guessing. I'm not knowledgeable about what pistons do.)

Second-best household item name, from my friend Danny: A juicer.

• The NFL season kicks off Thursday, so this former sports editor will share his predictions.

The Raiders will go 9-7 but miss the playoffs. The 49ers will be 4-12. Several high-profile players will suffer serious head injuries and the league will continue to be popular.

• For my money, the best autumn opportunity in Solano County is the Cool Patch Pumpkins Corn Maze in Dixon.

According to its website, the maze will open sometime this month. It's the world's largest corn maze. And it's in our county.

Do yourself a favor. Go to the Cool Patch Pumpkins Corn Maze.

• Here's the description of nearly every Netflix or Amazon TV series that I've watched with over the past year: A dysfunctional detective with a dark secret in his/her past works to solve a strange crime in a dark, hopeless town.

Who wouldn't love that?

• When the Golden State Warriors switched flagship radio stations from longtime home KNBR (680 AM) to KGMZ (95.7 FM), it was a milestone move for Solano County radio.

Yes, Solano County.

Among the stations carrying the Warriors will be KUIC 95.3 FM in Vacaville – largely because it's close to 95.7 on the FM dial and fans will be able to find it.

But consider this factoid: This is the first time a major Bay Area or Sacramento pro sports team had a Solano County affiliate.

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

Big Floss perpetuates big dental lie

We've heard it a million times (or at least every six months): Floss. Floss. Floss.

Daily flossing will save your teeth.

It will prevent heart problems.

It will improve your life.

The value of flossing has been considered fact – as widely accepted as the need for exercise, that sitting too close to the TV makes your eyes rectangular and that swallowing apple seeds leads to trees in your stomach.

Turns out it's not necessarily true.

A recent damning article by The Associated Press revealed that there is no scientific evidence that flossing helps prevent cavities. None. Just like there's no scientific evidence that if you are hit in the back while crossing your eyes, they'll stay that way.

The federal government has recommended flossing since 1979, which is the same time it issued the controversial warning that disco dancing could be fatal, which was subsequently disproved by Gloria Gaynor's anthem,"I Will Survive."

The floss news was shocking, particularly since it also isn't proven to reduce plaque.

Leading to the question: What could be behind this wall of lies?

Big Floss.

The worldwide amalgamation of floss producers. Seriously. Do you realize that the global market for floss will hit $2 billion per year in 2017?

That's a lot of string, some of it is waxed, most of it wasted by being wrapped around fingers. And Big Floss realizes that if the public knew that the use of it didn't make a difference, it could create a huge cavity in industry earnings.

When The AP contacted the henchmen of Big Floss – including Procter and Gamble and Johnson and Johnson – they either declined comment or acted like they had a sore tooth and couldn't talk. Neither is impressive.

According to The AP's article, Wayne Aldredge, president of the American Academy of Periodontology, acknowledged the weak scientific evidence and the brief duration of many studies. But he urged patients to floss to help avoid gum disease with a strange analogy.

"It's like building a house and not painting two sides of it," he said. "Ultimately those two sides are going to rot away quicker."

Says who? Big Paint?

Aldredge also said that the impact of floss might be clearer if researchers focused on patients at the highest risk of gum disease, such as diabetics and smokers.

That's . . . wait, what? DIABETICS ARE AT HIGHER RISK FOR GUM DISEASE?

This just turned into a full-fledged panic attack. As a diabetic since age 14, I'm . . . wait a second. Do they have any evidence that proves that? Or is Big Floss just trying to once again take advantage of diabetics?

Let's get back on point. In addition to Big Floss, I assume that dental hygienists play a role in this conspiracy.

Think about their jobs. They're paid well, but they spend the day cleaning our teeth. At the end of an hour scraping gunk off someone's teeth, I suspect you want to make a point, if only to get out your aggression.

Dental hygienists always tell us to floss more. They always act like we're slobs. (Or maybe that's just me).

Might hygienists be in cahoots with Big Floss? I fear it's possible.

Still . . .

Despite the stunning lack of evidence that flossing helps, I will likely keep flossing. And so will you.

We'll do it for the same reason we stopped eating apple seeds when we were old enough to know better.

There may be no scientific evidence that apple trees can grow in our stomachs, but why take a chance?

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

I want to be famous enough for an AP obit

Early in my journalism career, it became a running joke: I could parody obituaries written by The Associated Press.

They always, always, always started the same way: The person's name, why they were meaningful, the word "died" and the day. Then a period. Then a three-word sentence, saying their age.

Bing Crosby, who partnered with Bob Hope on a series of "On The Road" movies and was one of America's greatest crooners, died Sunday. He was 73.

Harry Caray, the play-by-play voice for more than five decades for four major league baseball teams, died Tuesday. He was 81.

Always the same. Which got me to thinking: What would my obit say? Perhaps more interestingly, what would be a cool obit to have?

Again, this isn't about the obituary that will run in the local paper ("Brad was a beloved husband, father and master to his dogs, with whom he played cards until his last days . . ."). This is about having a claim to fame that is enough to get you an obituary by The Associated Press. And having that claim to fame be something that people enjoy.

Right now, it would most likely be something like this: Brad Stanhope, who wrote columns about pet monkeys, space travel, his mechanical ineptitude and ironically, obituaries, died Tuesday. He was 53.

Wait. That's how old I am? I better get busy! This is getting fairly close to being practical, not whimsical!

Anyway, think about for what most of us would like to be remembered, which is really what this is about. Of course there are only so many Mother Teresas or Jonas Salks or Steve Jobses, so it's more likely that most of us will be remembered for something unique, not for making a worldwide change. My choice?

Something quirky enough that everyone connects with it, but not so much that I got bugged about it all the time.

Like Bette Nesmith Graham. You know, the mother of Michael Nesmith of the Monkees, but more importantly, the inventor of Liquid Paper. That's the stuff we used to "paint" on paper when we made a mistake with our typewriters, which were . . . oh, never mind. But when Bette Nesmith Graham died in 1980, you can bet her obituary read "Bette Nesmith Graham, who invented Liquid Paper and was the mother of Michael Nesmith of the Monkees, died Tuesday. She was 56." (What? 56? I've got to get busy!)

That's a good example. So is Larry Waters.

You remember him. He's the guy who tied a bunch of weather balloons to his lawn chair and floated at 15,000 feet above Los Angeles, using a pellet gun to shoot the balloons so he could come down. He dropped the gun and got tangled in power lines, causing a brief blackout.

His obit? "Larry Waters, who tied weather balloons to a lawn chair and floated 15,000 feet above Los Angeles in 1982, died Tuesday. He was 44." (What? I'm on borrowed time?)

You get the point: While many of us are past the point of being a president or rock star or famous actor or discovering the cure to a dreaded disease, we still hold onto the hope that we'll do something that makes us worthy of an obituary by a wire news service.

So here's my dream: "Brad Stanhope, who famously had a pet monkey that served as his butler and later drove a flying car to work, died Monday. He was 153."

I've got plenty of time!

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