How I keep Mrs. Brad awake when she wants to sleep

What you think about while trying to fall asleep says a lot about you.

Count sheep? Maybe you're a type-A personality who keeps track of everything.

Re-live unhappy social exchanges? Maybe you're too self-critical.

Worry about the future? Maybe you're trying to control things that you can't.

What Mrs. Brad told me she thought about while laying awake on a recent camping trip is probably reason for concern – for me. Or worse.

First, self-revelation. I occasionally struggle to fall asleep and inevitably, I end up making sports lists in my overactive brain (it's overactive at that moment, not in general): The 10 best Giants of all time. The Mount Rushmore of 49ers. The all-time Warriors team. A Giants team made up of two players from each of the past five decades. The greatest duos in music history.

You get the point. It is meaningless and probably doesn't help me fall asleep. But it's what I've been doing since I was a teenager, falling asleep listening to baseball games on the radio.

That's me.

Mrs. Brad? Apparently a little different.

The story begins with a recent camping trip at Lake Almanor near Lassen National Park in northeastern California. It's a beautiful site, with rivers, the big lake and nearby Lassen National Park, with its Yellowstone-like geysers and Mount Lassen.

Our trip highlight was a group hike up the mountain, going from the parking lot at 8,400 feet to the peak at about 10,500 feet – through late-July snow, up steep inclines and along scenic trails. It's a challenge, but not as difficult as you might think, although I now claim that I ascended the peak of the second-tallest volcano in Northern California.

The afternoon following our successful ascent of the peak (sounds more dramatic that way, right?), Mrs. Brad and I discussed how tired we were. As with seemingly every camping trip, the first night didn't include much sleep (we weren't alone – almost no one in our 15-person group slept well), partly because of unfamiliarity with the area, partly because of cold weather, partly because of strange noises.

"I was laying there and I had to force myself not to laugh," she told me.

"What was so funny?"

"I was just thinking of all the stupid things you've done. I didn't want to start laughing, because I wouldn't be able to stop and it would wake you up."

Hah hah hah.

Hah.

I reacted with outrage and questions.

"Stupid? What stupid things?"

Mrs. Brad is smart. She saw what was happening. "Not really stupid, just silly. Silly things. You know."

"What silly things?"

Apparently she presumed I would know what she meant. She wasn't prepared to list the things.

"Just silly things. You know."

I didn't know. Then she shifted the conversation to the highlights of the hike and I didn't get an answer.

But there's this. I now know that while I lay awake, wondering whether I should take the 2000s version of Barry Bonds (with Tim Lincecum, but excluding Rich Aurilia) so that I can have the 1990s versions of Will Clark and Jeff Kent on my two-players-per-decade Giants team, Mrs. Brad is possibly thinking of the stupid/silly things I've done.

And trying not to laugh.

That wasn't on the list of things I thought I brought to our marriage.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Legend of Kenny and the treehouse still inspires

My friend Kenny was decades ahead of his time. The year we graduated from high school, he moved into a tiny home. Actually, it was a treehouse. He lived there for a year.

Really. It was epic.

The story of Kenny and the treehouse is actually much bigger than that. Kenny lived life large – sometimes unwisely – in those years. But memorably. He resided in more than a dozen homes and drove more than a dozen cars in the first few years out of high school. He and his girlfriend ran off to San Diego, then came back. He left a job at the post office to sell Kirby vacuum cleaners. I lived with Kenny longer than anyone outside my family and remain close friends with him after decades.

And there's always this: He lived in a treehouse in our hometown of Eureka.

It's a story that I told to amuse and amaze my sons as they grew up, since living in a treehouse is a common childhood fantasy.

Kenny's domicile was in the backyard of his parent's house, a few blocks from where my parents lived. The home's previous owners, who ran a construction company, built the home between three redwood trees and ran electricity to it.

After Kenny finished high school, he reached an agreement (probably with few options) to move into the treehouse and pay his parents $100 a month rent ($300 in today's dollars). He became a legend among his friends.

"You're living in the treehouse?" we would ask. "Awesome!" (Because we called everything "awesome." And because it was.)

When Kenny took residence, he did some construction – installing items important to an 18-year-old. He added a small refrigerator and a gas stove top, for which he planned to pipe gas (but never did). He bought a microwave. He also did the seemingly miraculous – running water (into a treehouse!) for a toilet that worked and a shower he never finished.

As he said in an email recently, "I had a refrigerator, microwave and toilet – which was great for beer, popcorn and the aftermath thereof."

Kenny lived in a treehouse with a fridge, toilet, electricity and bed.

For a year. When we were 18.

When I asked Kenny about it recently, he remembered physical details about the treehouse, as well as the experience of hearing sirens and shots fired from his elevated, thinly insulated home. He recalled windy nights when the trees would slam into the side of his home, making him wonder if it would plummet.

He remembers that, but here's what I remember: How cool it was that he lived in a treehouse, where his girlfriend would visit and they would hang out in his top-floor bedroom and listen to Eagles albums. How he had his own refrigerator and a toilet that was 10 feet in the air.

He moved out only when two other friends joined the two of us in a flat above a local supermarket, a building we thrashed in the six months we lived there before Kenny and I relocated to a duplex across town.

Here's my only takeaway: Before the era of tiny houses and off-the-grid houses and all other variations, my friend Kenny lived for a year in a treehouse.

It still is mind-blowing.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Extinction news causes fear, loathing, confusion

News about extinction is rarely good. This was no exception.

Scientists recently reported that Earth is entering a mass-extinction event, with the likelihood that three-quarters of all species could disappear in the coming centuries.

It wouldn't bother me as much if we were talking only about mosquitoes, raccoons, house flies and rats. But it's worse.

"What is at stake is really the state of humanity," said Gerardo Ceballos, co-author of the study "Biological annihilation via the ongoing sixth mass extinction signaled by vertebrate population losses and declines."

I would call it, "You'll miss us when we're gone!" for marketing purposes. But that's just my opinion.

According to the report, issued in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences (similarly a terrible name for a magazine, in my opinion), nearly one-third of land-based mammal, bird, amphibian and reptile species are shrinking in both their numbers and territorial range.

That leads scientists to declare that we're in the sixth mass-extinction event in Earth history, which is concerning because it still trails the number of films in the Harry Potter, Star Wars and Fast and Furious franchises. Maybe extinctions can catch up.

The sixth mass-extinction event! If you're not a historian, here are some of the things lost in the previous extinction events:

• Dinosaurs.
• Vaudeville.
• Two-hour baseball games.
• Manual transmissions.
• Black-and-white movies.
• Life magazine.

There are many who are concerned that the next one may take cable and satellite television with it, which would have a significant effect on you if you haven't cut the cord. Also at risk: landline telephones, owner-operated hardware stores and televised bowling.

Catastrophic, indeed.

But back to what the scientists think. One scientist said that we've wiped out half of Earth's wildlife in the past 40 years and says, "if we keep cutting by half every 40 years, there's going to be nothing left," a point that would be debunked by mathematicians, who would point out that if you keep halving things, it never goes to zero.

But that's just the old science vs. math argument. (Which gets amplified when scientists refer to math as "arithmetic," which math experts consider a demeaning term for some reason.)

The report's authors highlight several animals that are rapidly disappearing, including African elephants, jaguars and barn swallows.

And the report includes something that was previously unknown to me, namely, that there is an ongoing dispute about whether Earth's six mass extinction has already begun.

Those suggesting it has point to such factors as the extreme drop in many animal populations, the reduction in forests or other habitats, the return of "rat tail" haircuts for men and the advent of the "YouTube celebrity."

Ceballos said that regardless of where you stand on the issue of whether the extinction event has already begun, there is urgency. He said, though, that there is reason for optimism.

"The good news is we still have time . . . the window of opportunity is small, but we can still do something to save species and populations," he said.

My proposal: Let's not follow the lead of brachiopods, elpistostegalians, archosaurs and Crystal Pepsi, all of which were eliminated in previous mass extinctions.

Let's do something!

For starters, let's limit the number of movies you can make in one franchise. We'll figure out the rest later.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Column on homophones lax the write frays

Is the right word homonym or homophone?

The two words mean the same thing, which is ironic in a way – because that meaning is to use different spellings to describe sound-alike words that mean different things.

So homonyms and homophones are certainly not homonyms or homophones.

It might be the most ironic word issue outside of the word "phonics."

Homonym or homophone? Which is wright? Witch should I yews?

There is sum significance to it, because misusing words is common. I think of it every time I see someone say, "It's good to be apart of this family," which means actually being apart from the family.

But misusing words is understandable.

I, for instance, can except that I can use the language wrong sometimes, accept I don't always do so publicly.

I thought about this the other mourning, while I sat down with a boll of serial. My job requires me to work with words, both in this space and in my normal job.

The day felt like one of those daze when you due what you can to get bye to urn a living. I wasn't sure if my attitude was something permanent or just a faze. But I was unphased.

Regardless, it was bazaar.

Was it OK to except mistakes like that? Who nose?

The homonym-homophone conundrum (if that's what it is) was either a Sirius problem or was insignificant. Which was it?

On the day in question, I chose to ignore the issue, get dressed and go to work.

I looked for my new pair of genes, but couldn't fined what I needed. So I grabbed an old pare, put on some moose, then brushed my hare and left.

The question kept nagging me. Is it homophone or homonym? Is it a serious issue or knot?

I side, deeply. This was turning into sum day.

The problem of word mistakes is common to writers. I hoped to avoid it for my whole career, but I new I would eventually make a mistake, because it's not aloud.

The first time I did it and saw it published, it made me so sad that I bald my eyes out while I listened to an album by the Little River Banned.

Finally, I decided to settle the issue. I looked it up and found that technically, homonyms are words that are both spelled and pronounced the same, but mean different things. What I was considering was a homophone. Not knowing the difference is a serious mistake, baste on what I know.

Then I re-read this column and knew the truth: I mist again.

I told myself the danger of trying to address this type of issue: You always make the mistake mentioned.

Perhaps, I told myself, yule learn sometime.

I put it aside and ignored it. Later, I'll address it.

Same thyme, next year?

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Stop using dad slur to describe hats!

The day after the Golden State Warriors won the NBA championship, a work friend purchased four official NBA champion caps from a Warriors team store – for herself, her husband, her father and her father-in-law.

Nice, right? But when another co-worker – who buys a lot of sports gear – came by our cubicles to see it, he responded with disdain.

"It's a dad hat."

A dad hat?

A dad hat?!?

My friend who bought the hat agreed. But she defended the choice, because among the recipients were her father and her father-in-law.

A dad hat? I was flabbergasted, like a father on an old TV sitcom.

I asked my co-workers – both (no surprise) younger than me – what they meant. Not what they meant by "dad hat" (I get that it means the kind of hat a dad would wear), but what made it so.

The answer? The rounded brim and the fact that it was a snapback, which allows the user to adjust it. Their contempt was obvious. Only a dad would wear something like that.

I snapped.

"I just want to let you know that I am offended that you use the term 'dad' as a slur," I said, voice rising. "We members of the fatherhood community don't consider it appropriate for you to degrade something by using the term 'dad’ as a derogatory term. Dad isn't a negative word."

They stammered and looked for a way to soften the blow. No need to give the old man a stroke or give him the vapors, they probably thought.

I was just getting started.

"I have been a dad for nearly half my life," I said. "And anyway . . . who wears hats with flat bills? They look stupid!"

Both co-workers looked away in embarrassment. I was acting like . . . a dad, I guess. All that was missing was a demand that they go to their rooms.

I'm right, though. About the cap (no need for discussion) and the use of "dad" as a pejorative term.

You hear it all the time now. Dad jokes. Dad shorts. A dad cap. And strangely, the idea that some women are attracted to a "dad body."

Dad jokes? Meaning, I presume clever wordplay that requires intelligence to understand. Or, perhaps, a gag about bodily functions. Those are dumb?

Dad shorts? Cargo shorts, I guess. Which are handy if you have things that you need to store in all those pockets.

And the "dad body" concept is perhaps most irritating. Oh, sure, it's sometimes presented as something that women somehow desire – a soft, doughy, out-of-shape man.

First of all, that premise seems unlikely. Secondly, it's always presented with a sense of irony: How about this? Women like a dad body! And thirdly . . . why is that a dad body?

Arnold Schwarzenegger is a dad. Vin Diesel is a dad. Dwayne Johnson is a dad.

But "dad body" is used as a slur. Like dad hat, dad shorts and dad jokes (example: Our wedding was so emotional, even the cake was in tiers." Get it?), it is offensive to those of us in the life.

Stop using dad as a slur.

Or you'll be on restriction!

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Food discussion leaves me feeling empty

Has food always been this significant a topic of conversation?

It doesn't seem like it to me, but I may be ignorant (don't reply to that!).

In a nation where we have multiple 24-hour food TV channels and more styles of food than clothing, nearly every group conversation gets around to food.

The best restaurants. The best ingredients. Opinions about ingredients. How to follow specific diets.

It doesn't bother me, it just confuses me – because I don't remember this from most of my life. I also have nothing to contribute to the conversation.

Take a recent gathering of Mrs. Brad's extended family. We were discussing something interesting (sports? music?) when suddenly the conversation switched to food. People talked about items in a salad and what flavors they liked.

I didn't understand any of it. I know chef salad and green salad. Oh, taco salad.

Someone mentioned capers, which I presumed was some sort of seafood (it turns out to be some sort of seasoning).

Everyone at the table had opinions and knew what was being discussed. Except me. It was like waking up to a discussion being held in Russian.

The same thing happened a few days earlier with work friends. They started talking about styles of food that were mysteries to me. Not only did everyone else know about the food, they all knew restaurants where that type of food was served, whether it was done well and whether they liked it.

They might as well have been talking about the foreign policy of 16th century Poland. I didn't know anything.

Here's what I thought: "So this is what it's like when I talk about sports around people who don't know it. They aren't offended, they just can't contribute."

So to reiterate, is this something new?

My knee-jerk response is yes. This is the next step in a progression that went off the ledge when people started identifying themselves as "foodies." As if the fact that they liked food made them different than those of us who like pizza, corn dogs and toasted cheese sandwiches.

Aren't we all foodies, since we need food to . . . you know . . . live? In my darkest moments, I've told Mrs. Brad, “When people say they're a 'foodie,' do they really just mean 'glutton?’ ” But that's my darkest moment and I regret saying that. Sometimes.

I also must consider another possibility: That people have always had this knowledge about and this level of desire for discussion about food. Maybe people have always opined on which restaurants are good and which are bad. Perhaps people have always considered trends in food and shared thoughts on ingredients.

Maybe I'm just out of the loop.

An indication came several years ago when I was the associate editor at the Daily Republic. We had "story conferences" every day to decide what should go on the front page. During this period, a huge amount of scallions were recalled due to some sort of poisoning. It was important news for several days in a row.

I presumed scallions were some sort of fish.

Turns out, scallions are those little green onions. Everyone else knew.

Therefore, I return to my initial question: Have people always talked about food like they do now?

Regardless of the answer, I'm an outsider in the discussions.

At least now I know capers and scallions. Which is all I can contribute to the discussion: "Well . . . my favorite onions are scallions!"

Then I'll go back to resenting people who call themselves "foodies."

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Why it's normal to cheat on health tests

It happens every time I go to the doctor. After the interminable wait, they move me to the staging area, then take my blood pressure and measure my pulse. I assume it's a challenge, so I try to reduce my pulse to that of an iguana and make my blood pressure as low as possible.

The goal: A pulse rate of less than 60 beats per minute. A blood pressure below 120 over 80 (a standard which I know only from watching medical shows on TV as a child).

It's a competition.

There is no reason for this competition. I doubt I can affect medical tests. If I could, there's no benefit. Yet I do it every time, because I want to "win" and  avoid the repercussions of a bad health test.

Even if a "bad" test is accurate and helps my doctor treat me.

I will do everything I can to win the test.

Pathetic? It isn't anything new. I also suspect I'm not alone in trying to game the system.

It started in elementary school, when they would bring in the meanest man in the world to conduct hearing tests for us on a special school bus, loaded with equipment.

He would require us to raise our hands when we heard a noise. Right hand when we heard it in our right ear, left hand when we heard it in our left ear.

The meanest man in the world terrified me, but I really, really wanted to do well on the test. It didn't matter if I needed help with my hearing, I wanted to shine on the test . . . so I would watch others to make sure I didn't miss a sound. Occasionally, I raised a hand to silence, because . . . I wanted to do well on the test.

That makes sense, in a way. I was a kid. I didn't want to have one-on-one interaction with the meanest man in the world (which probably wouldn't happen, but I didn't know for sure).

I'm not a kid now. But I still cheat on health tests.

So do many of us, regardless of the illogical nature of it.

Want another example? Watch anyone who goes to the optometrist – or the DMV – for an eye exam. The good doctor will put up that chart of letters and ask us to read it.

"A, X, J, P, T."

"OK, the next line down."

"P, F, T, J . . .  Q?"

"OK, one more down."

"(We can't read it, but we try anyway, hoping to guess right) A . . . J? . . . P? . . . F? . . ."

The test is to see how our vision works. We think that maybe we can guess right and avoid the news that our vision has deteriorated. We want to beat the test.

Frankly, if you told me there was a version of the eye chart on the internet (which may be true), I would consider memorizing it to make my eyesight seem better to my doctor. It's nonsensical, but true.

I guess there's something charming, yet foolish in trying to beat health tests. It's the same thing that makes us floss our teeth ferociously before we visit the dentist.

When someone says they've cheated death, perhaps we all inwardly admire them. Because we spend so much time trying to cheat health tests, which might be connected to cheating death.

Now let me see if I can find an eye chart on the internet. I've got an appointment in a few months . . .

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Advice from a dad on Father's Day

It's Father's Day, the 365th-most-important day of the year (366th most-important day in leap years), which means it's time to bring in a specialist to answer your questions.

Like Annie's Mailbox and Tim Jones' real estate column, this space each year becomes a forum for you, the reader, to have your questions answered. By a dad.

Let's go to the mailbag:

Dear Dad:

I think my 13-year-old son is smoking marijuana, but don't know how to confront him. I remember my parents were so out of touch when I was a teenager and experimented with weed. I don't want to make him feel like he can't trust me, but I can't ignore that he smells like marijuana when he comes home from school. What should I do?

– Worried in Suisun

Dear Worried:

Does anyone call marijuana "grass" anymore? I guess "weed" is a better description, speaking of which, I think it's time for another batch of Weed-N-Feed on the lawn. This happens every year around this time – the lawn needs to be mowed every week. I've found that the best way to apply Weed-N-Feed is to turn on the sprinklers for a few minutes, then turn them off and let the lawn set for a bit before I use the spreader I keep in the shed. The water keeps the grains on the grass and stops the wind from taking it away.

Dear Dad:

My adult daughter has two children, but they have different fathers and one actually lives with her dad. The problem is that when I send the grandkids Christmas gifts, the child who lives with my daughter always sends a thank you card and the other doesn't. I'm not even sure if she gets the gifts, so would I seem ungracious if I called and asked? Her father and I don't get along.

– Fairfield Grandma

Dear Grandma:

You know who else apparently didn't get along? Angel Pagan and his Giants teammates. I read that a few weeks ago and wasn't surprised. Apparently, Pagan's teammates were not overly fond of him, which explains why the Giants didn't make a huge effort to re-sign him as a free agent, despite not having a left fielder. So they played four years with an unpopular outfielder, but no one knew about it. Further evidence that Bruce Bochy is a great manager.

Dear Dad:

My wife and I have a disagreement. Every time someone drives through our neighborhood at a fast rate of speed, she gets irate – and expects me to do the same. As far as I'm concerned, by the time we realize a car was driving fast, it's already gone, but she wants me to call the police. Who's right?

– I Just Want Peace

Dear Peace:

What is it about teenage boys that makes them drive fast? I guess their brains aren't fully functional. I remember my first car: It was a 1976 Volkswagen Rabbit and I drove it faster than I should have. A Volkswagen Rabbit! It seems ridiculous now, but I had some fuzzy dice hanging from the rear-view mirror and consistently drove faster than the speed limit. Another thing: It was a five-speed and I thought nothing of having a stick shift. Too bad kids don't know how to drive a stick now, which seems like we've lost something. I miss that Rabbit.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

'Battle of Network Stars' can't top its predecessor

The 1980 U.S. Olympic hockey gold medal victory was the greatest sporting event of my youth. Hank Aaron's 715th homer and Bruce Jenner's win in the 1976 Olympic decathlon rank second and third.

Fourth? Gabe Kaplan's win over Robert Conrad in the 110-yard runoff during the 1976 "Battle of the Network Stars" television show.

It. Was. Epic.

For a kid who lived in a town with two TV stations (one shared ABC and NBC programming), any TV sports were important. That the star of my favorite TV show ("Welcome Back, Kotter") outran the cocky star of "Baa Baa Black Sheep" (and former star of "Wild, Wild West") to give ABC a much-deserved win in the relay race was high drama.

Seriously. It was huge. Gabe Kaplan's win was the talk of the school the next day.

This subject is pertinent because "Battle of the Network Stars" returns to TV June 29, airing on ABC.

It won't be the same because the world changed. To be clear, the previous incarnation of the show (which ran from 1976 to 1985, but had its glory years in the first two or three seasons) was bad. But in a world where we embraced weak programming, it was all we had.

"Battle of the Network Stars" aired in the glory days of trash sports on TV. King of the hill was "The Superstars," on ABC, which pitted the best athletes from professional sports in a series of events outside their area: Bike races, swim races, rowing races and obstacle courses (Lynn Swann could hurdle the high-jump bar!). It was must-see TV.

And so was "Battle of the Network Stars," which was important because actors on network TV really were stars. It meant something to watch Lynda Carter, Adrienne Barbeau, Ed Asner, Billy Crystal, Penny Marshall and Kristy McNichol compete in relay races, a tug-of-war competition and even a dunk tank showdown.

The host? Howard Cosell, who lent gravitas, since he was also ABC's man on the spot for such things as Muhammad Ali championship fights and Monday Night Football.

Of course the Kaplan-Conrad 1976 showdown was the high point of the series' history (and one of the highlights of my young life). It was the "Battle of the Network Stars" version of the Lincoln-Douglas debates, the Ali-Frazier fights or the Coke-Pepsi rivalry.

The runoff came after the event judge ruled that Conrad's NBC team committed a foul during the relay race, which enraged Conrad. It seriously enraged him.

Reviewing a YouTube clip of the event shows that Conrad was as much a jerk as my teenage brain perceived, as he argued, threatened to quit, then agreed to the runoff with Kaplan to settle it. Every sane American, it seemed, was in Kaplan's corner as the actors settled what Cosell called "a big brouhaha."

The race was even through the first half, then Kaplan pulled away, outrunning Conrad into the celebratory arms of Farrah Fawcett Majors, Lynda Carter, Ron Howard and other stars as I danced in my family's living room.

Now the program is back. Producers promise matchups between such groups as "Cops vs. TV sitcoms," "lawyers vs. White House," "TV moms and dads vs. TV kids" and more.

Fine. But here's what the new incarnation of the show can't offer: The drama from a time when there were three TV networks and so little sports on TV that a teenage Brad jumped in the air to celebrate a win by Gabe Kaplan – a victory that his friends the next day treated like the end of World War II.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

My secret graduation address, delivered

The following is a draft of Brad Stanhope's annual graduation address, which will apparently remain under wraps for another year as he (inexplicably) hasn't been asked to speak at a graduation since the infamous incident of 1998. To be fair, he later said that he didn't know the microphone was still on.

Mr. Stanhope carries a copy with him at all times, in case a graduation speaker falls ill and he's called on to be a substitute.

The full text follows:

Graduates of 2017, congratulations on accomplishing one of the biggest achievements of your life.

The class of 2017 is special. You enter a world different from any previous graduating class: You are the first class since 1845 to graduate while a former game show host is president. Of course, 1845 was when our president was James K. Polk, the former host of "You Bet Your Log Cabin."

But I digress. You enter a world where responsible citizens must differentiate between real and fake news, where something called a "unicorn frappucino" makes the news, where driverless cars are a reality and where the phrase "throw shade" means something.

In other words, good luck. You'll need it.

Before you enter the world, allow me to share a few bits wisdom I gathered through the years, things I wish I knew when I was your age. Of course, you need to learn your own lessons, but let me give you some tips.

• For starters, remember three things about following rules: No. 1, they exist for the good of the group. And No. 2, sometimes the people who make rules are wrong.
• The secret to wealth has never changed. Simply spend less than you make over a long period of time. Anything else is a shortcut.
• Shortcuts work for some people, but not most of us.
• Enjoy being able to eat how you do now. Junk food is tasty and fun, but 10 years from now, you'll realize that it makes you unhealthy. In 20 years, you'll have to cut back. In 30 years, you'll wish you'd listened to your doctor a decade earlier. Enjoy it now.
• One of life's easiest things is to be appreciative. If you say "thank you" to people and otherwise appreciate them, you will end up ahead.
• You're welcome.
• Keep learning. What seems new and cutting-edge now will seem ancient in the future. And by "future," I mean a year or two from now. Don't be your generation's equivalent of people who never learned how to work with computers or use smartphones.
• Conversely, remember that having the latest knowledge doesn't make you wise. Repeatedly making good choices makes you wise.
• Read that again: Wisdom is the process of repeatedly making wise choices. One way to do that is to ask yourself what the future version of you (maybe 10 years from now) would advise you to do in a given situation. Had I done that, I would have never been involved in the 1998 open-microphone incident. I really did think it was off.
• People who say "the only regrets I have are things I didn't do" are either shameless or were unconscious most of their lives. We sometimes regret both what we did and what we didn't do.
• Don't let regret paralyze you.

Now it's time to go into the world and make a difference by being the best version of you. And it's time for me to make sure the microphone is off before I say anything else.

I just hope I didn't throw shade.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.