Columnist seeks outstanding closing catch phrase

In the 30-plus years of writing a newspaper column, I've achieved nearly all my goals: Won a Pulitzer Prize (actually, it was a Wurlitzer Prize, the chance to briefly sit at an organ in a store), been read by a president (actually, it's the president of the Fairfield-Suisun chapter of the Wham! Fan Club. Namely, me), had a column adapted to a movie (Titanic) and never been suspended (yet).

But an elusive goal remains.

In the thousands (he writes, hoping he hasn't made a horrible math error and that the correct word is actually "dozens") of columns I've crafted, I've never had a catch phrase with which to end the column.

You know, like they do on television. And, likely, in successful columns.

I have no "Seacrest, out" like on "American Idol," or "That's the way it is, Jan. 14, 2018," like Walter Cronkite said in the day, or Paul Harvey's "And now you know . . . the rest of the story."

(Side thought: The fact that two of the three examples I cite were spoken by men who were born 100 years ago is a frightening example of my pop culture relevance.)

Anyway, I haven't given up. It makes sense to have a catch phrase to end each column, so you, the reader, is comfortable.

Not to knock other Daily Republic columnists (which is a lie. I constantly knock them in private), but none have catch-phrase endings. (OK. Kelvin Wade has a catch word, but that doesn't count.) This would put me in the lead in a competition with other columnists that exists only in my mind. I could have a 10-point bonus for having a catch phrase.

So what should it be? The topics I write about are widespread (in the past two months, for instance, I wrote about a Solano County quiz, a message to extraterrestrials, the Toy Hall of Fame, a 53-year-old's baseball comeback and more).

"Seacrest, out," wouldn't apply to those topics and Cronkite's and Harvey's catch phrases are too identified with the late legends.

How about "Keep your feet on the ground and keep reaching for the sky"? (Nope. Casey Kasem, who said that, wasn't as old as Cronkite and Harvey, but he was born in 1932.)

It's time to brainstorm. And to get the session started, here are some ideas:

• "This is Brad Stanhope, standing for hope." Instead of rolling my eyes at all the variations of my last name like I have for decades, I embrace it!
• "You can take that to the bank!" This option works best if you're capping off a column with a prediction or bold statement rather than, say, a missive on your fear of the bubonic plague or desire for a pet monkey to serve as a butler, but still . . . worth considering. Although it's from Robert Blake (born in 1933) in his role as TV's Baretta.
• "Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you'll be among the stars." This Casey Kasem-like phrase seems encouraging until you realize it makes no sense. The stars are way, way, way, way beyond the moon. Right?
• "I don't mean to brag, I don't mean to boast, but I like hot butter on my breakfast toast." It's a lyric from "Rapper's Delight," (released nearly 40 years ago) but it's also kind of boastful, if you consider the admission that you like butter to be boastful.
• "And remember: I'm not perfect, but at least I'm not Tony Wade." Simple. And true.

There are certainly other options worth considering. I welcome suggestions, so feel free to email me with your picks . . . especially if you remember Walter Cronkite and Paul Harvey. And Robert Blake. And Casey Kasem. And "Rappers Delight."

Stanhope, out.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Government agency on ETs means we need to share message

The truth is out there. And we need to spin it. Stat!

A report last month by The New York Times confirmed what those of us who celebrated the crop circles near Larry's Produce in 2003 have long believed: Extraterrestrial aliens are real.

Just ask the U.S. Department of Defense.

Well, kind of.

The DoD (as insiders call it) may not confirm that extraterrestrials are real, but it takes them seriously enough to investigate.

The Times reported that an agency called Advanced Aerospace Threat Identification Program (AATIP) existed for years, getting about $20 million a year in funding from the government until it was shut down in 2012.

Allegedly shut down.

Insiders say it still exists.

AATIP began in 2007, largely at the request of Nevada Sen. Harry Reid (Area 51 is in Nevada, by the way. Coincidence? Hardly). Most of the government money went to a research company headed by a man who told "60 Minutes" that he was convinced that aliens exist and have visited Earth.

They have visited Earth! That part's obvious. Is there any other explanation for Gilbert Gottfried?

But our government pursued them.

During the AATIP's years of official standing (which coincided with Alex Smith's career with the 49ers. Coincidence? Hardly.), the program compiled reports that described sightings of aircraft with technology that went beyond contemporary aeronautical science. The UFOs weren't possible for humans.

Members also studied video of encounters between UFOs and American military aircraft.

Of course, this is nothing new: The Air Force investigated more than 12,000 UFO sightings from 1947 to 1969 (Which is when Woodstock happened, which allowed the government to ascribe all UFO sightings to brown acid. Coincidence? Hardly.).

Regardless, let's make the obvious jump: UFOs are real and the government knows it. Otherwise, why spend millions of dollars every year?

Fellow humans, we need to be proactive. Aliens are investigating us, so we need to communicate with them.

The next step is to fashion our message. They are among us.

I'm here to help and the work begins with where marketing professionals always begin: Who is our audience? What is our message? How do we best communicate it?

Audience: It's obviously extraterrestrials who are curious enough to visit us.

Message: It should be simple: Don't hurt us. We stay in peace. We want to be your friend. Phone home. Dilly dilly.

Method: Social media is likely outdated to anyone with technology to visit far-off planets. Television and radio signals – the preferred method in decades past – are already passe on Earth. Sometimes the best method is simple and here's my recommendation:

Reprint this column. Leave it out for the aliens to see. Refer extraterrestrials to the Daily Republic web page. Read it aloud, in case they're listening.

And if you're an ET and you're reading this, here's what we have to say:

Don't hurt us.

We stay in peace.

We want to be your friends.

Phone home.

Dilly dilly.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Bradstradamus gives you a preview of 2018

So another year goes in the books at midnight and we welcome 2018, which will hopefully bring better news than this year.

The past year in review? Strife, fires, disasters.

And that's just the seasons for the Giants and Raiders, right?

Anyway, we're finishing the time of year when news outlets highlight the top stories of the previous year, so I'm doing something different: Predicting what's to come.

That's right, this is a worldwide scoop. Below are 13 things that will happen in 2018, predicted by Bradstradamus. Take these to the bank!

Jan. 17: While at the grocery store, you see several lines and pick the shortest one. By the time you reach the cashier, the other lines have cycled through twice and have no one standing in them.

Feb. 14: Social media fills with people saying how much they hate Valentine's Day, which reminds you: You don't really like it either, you just don't say it.

Feb. 20: Midway through the Winter Olympics, everyone agrees that NBC's coverage of the Games is terrible and we lament that coverage isn't like it used to be – hearkening to a time when we . . . complained about the coverage and lamented that it wasn't what it used to be.

March 5: A day after watching the Academy Awards on TV, you declare that you'll go see that movie that won all the awards. Then you wait until it comes to Netflix. Then you forget it.

April 28: Midway through the NBA playoffs, I insist that there is no guarantee that the Warriors and Cavaliers will meet for the fourth consecutive year in the Finals, because anything can happen.

May 31: Warriors and Cavaliers begin their fourth straight NBA Finals.

June 22: On the second day of summer, state leaders warn that this could be a terrible fire season, due to the lack of rain (or abundance of rain, or regular amount of rain) during the winter. In other words, when everything dries out later in the year, fire danger will be high. Hmm.

July 5: You wake up exhausted, due to watching fireworks (they don't start until after 9:15 p.m.!) and being kept awake by insane neighbors who make your neighborhood sound like a war zone. Welcome to America!

Aug. 22: President Donald Trump tweets something that inflames his opponents and excites his supporters, even though it's just a tweet from a 72-year-old man who doesn't know the rules concerning capitalization. #Sad!

Sept. 17: A man at Allan Witt Park spends much of the afternoon teaching his 12-year-old poodle how to fetch a stick, thus disproving the old saying that you can't teach an old dog new tricks.

Oct. 31: After seeing a coworker or friend dressed up for Halloween, you have an idea of how you could dress up next year. Within 10 minutes, you forget it. Until Oct. 31, 2019.

Dec. 23: I write another of the "Solano County quiz" columns, alternately boring and thrilling readers. Mostly the former. (Bet the farm on this one.)

Dec. 31: You see (on a website, social media or TV) a list of all the bad things that happened in 2018 – dramatic news, natural disasters, celebrity deaths – and think, "2019 has to be better." Because you already forgot that a man taught an old dog a new trick just a few months earlier.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

The annual 'How well do you know Solano' quiz

It's another Christmas Eve, which means it's time for my annual quiz to see how well you know the county in which you live.

Unless, of course, you don't live in Solano County, in which case you can view this as a quiz to see how well you know the county in which I live.

Anyway, it's 20 questions and it starts . . . now:

1. There are nine Bay Area counties. Where does Solano rank in population among them (first being the largest, ninth being the smallest)?

2. Name the seven cities in Solano County.

3. Which is larger: The inmate population at the two prisons in Vacaville or the number of students who attend Solano Community College?

4. What was the No. 1 crop in Solano in 2016, based on earnings?

5. What baseball Hall of Fame member lives in Solano County?

6. Within two inches, what is the average annual rainfall in Fairfield-Suisun (measured at Travis Air Force Base)?

7. Name the five counties that touch Solano.

8. What two members of the House of Representatives represent parts of Solano County?

9. When was the last presidential election in which the Republican candidate carried Solano County?

10. What two cities in the county are closest in terms of population?

11. Who is the largest non-governmental employer in Fairfield?

12. Fairfield is 37.6 square miles. Within 3 square miles, how large is Suisun City?

13. What is the largest high school in Solano County, in terms of students?

14. On the Wikipedia page about Vallejo, who are the first three individuals mentioned? (One right gets credit.)

15. Within 10 years, when was the first Solano County Fair held?

16. Which movie theater has more screens, Brendan Theatres in Vacaville or Edwards Cinemas in Fairfield?

17. Which city has a larger population: Fairfield, Calif., or Fairfield, Conn.?

18. Which Wade brother is my favorite?

19. In terms of size, what is the largest public park in Fairfield?

20. What is the official name of the Solano mall?

ANSWERS

1. Seventh, behind Santa Clara, Alameda, Contra Costa, San Francisco, San Mateo and Sonoma, but ahead of Marin and Napa.

2. Benicia, Dixon, Fairfield, Rio Vista, Suisun City, Vacaville, Vallejo.

3. The college. It has about 10,000 students, while the two prisons combine for about 6,500 inmates.

4. Walnuts, with $44.8 million in gross earnings.

5. Orlando Cepeda lives in Fairfield.

6. 24.89 inches. So you get credit for guessing 23 to 26 inches.

7. Contra Costa, Sonoma, Napa, Yolo, Sacramento.

8. Democrats John Garamendi and Mike Thompson.

9. Ronald Reagan in 1984.

10. Suisun City (28,111) and Benicia (26,997)

11. Vallejo Kaiser Permanente, with nearly 4,000 employees.

12. 4.2 square miles, so take credit for estimating 2-7 square miles.

13. Armijo High, with nearly 2,400 students.

14. Zodiac killer, Mac Dre and E-40.

15. 1950.

16. Trick question! They each have 16 screens.

17. California, with a population of about 112,000. The population of Fairfield, Conn., is about 61,000.

18. Kelvin.

19. Rockville Hills Park at 633 acres.

20. Solano Town Center

SCORING

0 to 8: Remember when Suisun City was rated as the worst city in the Bay Area about 30 years ago? That's you.

9 to 15: Pretty solid. Treat yourself to a movie at the largest theater in the region. (Get it?)

16 to 20: Expert. About twice what I got after I wrote the questions.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Baseball legend's potential return gives hope to my generation

In what could only be good news for men born before 1970, Rafael Palmeiro says he's considering a comeback to major league baseball.

Palmeiro is 53. He was born in 1964.

All men in their 50s and older are ready to give him a standing ovation. Assuming we can get out of our easy chairs to do so.

Ahh, never mind. Can you pass us the chips?

For the uninitiated, Palmeiro should be a legendary player, one of five men in history to record 500 homers and 3,000 hits in his career. But his career ended ignominiously when he was suspended in 2005 after testing positive for steroids – just a few months after he told a congressional panel (while shaking his finger at them!) that he'd never used steroids.

Ooops!

Now he's talking about a comeback. Of epic proportions.

"I want to prove to myself I can do it on a high level," Palmeiro told a reporter, "then walk away feeling good about the whole body of work."

While walking away, he'll stop and catch his breath, put on a sweater to keep out the chill, then begin muttering about kids and their fancy mobile phones and hip-hop music.

Because he's old.

Baltimore Orioles general manager Dan Duquette (born in 1958) didn't rule out the possibility of Palmeiro's comeback.

"It would be an interesting story," Duquette said. "It's like tying your shoes . . . If you can hit, then you can hit."

Easy to say if you don't grunt when you tie your shoes and calculate when it will be acceptable to wear shoes with Velcro straps.

Still . . . there are interesting issues to consider when thinking about a 53-year-old man playing major league baseball.

Considering that there were only three active players last year born before 1975 (the oldest, Bartolo Colon, was born in 1973), Palmeiro would be a walking, talking, finger-pointing commercial for those who claim that "50 is the new 30."

(Incidentally, those same people often claim that 300 pounds is the new 200 pounds. In other words, they believe a lie.)

Imagine a baby boomer big league baseball player, a man who played his first major league game when Ronald Reagan was president and the Soviet Union was five years from ending. Imagine the joy among aging men all over the nation.

But based on personal experience, I suspect a 53-year-old Palmeiro would need some specific clauses in his contract, such as:

• A provision allowing him to opt out of games once it's 9 p.m. Sure, when we were younger, it was nothing to stay up late. But once you hit a certain age, the idea that you used to routinely see midnight is mind-blowing. Frankly, the idea that I used to see 10 p.m. is kind of mind-blowing.
• None of that noisy modern music in the clubhouse. If you want something upbeat, try the Bee Gees or maybe even Lynyrd Skynyrd. How about the Eagles?
• More fiber in the post-game and pregame meals.
• More bathroom breaks during games.
• A waiver for Palmeiro in case he tests positive for Geritol. (Side note: I tried that gag on a 20-something co-worker, who had never heard of Geritol. Kids these days!)
• More dramatic signs from the third-base coach. And the ability to use bifocals while playing.
• Approval to wear a sweater during cool games. And would it hurt them to add a heater or air conditioner near Palmeiro in the dugout?

Palmeiro's return would be epic. It would give my generation another reason to believe we can do anything.

The return of Palmeiro would be . . . umm . . . oh, never mind. I can't remember what I was saying. Can you remember where I put my sweater?

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Toy Hall of Fame gets it right with Wiffle Ball

My reaction to the 2017 Toy Hall of Fame class in four words: It's about darned time.

When the world's most important hall of fame announced its most recent list of inductees in early November, the most important toy of my childhood finally got recognition: The Wiffle Ball.

The Wiffle Ball was joined in the 2017 class by the paper airplane and the board game Clue – while 2017 nominees such as the Magic 8 ball, Matchbox cars, Pez candy dispenser and the card game Uno were left on the outside, looking in. As was sand, which failed in its bid to join 2008 inductee stick in an "also appears in nature" category.

The toys are enshrined at The Strong museum in Rochester, New York, which has been naming toys to the shrine since 1998 (the legendary first class that included Barbie, Crayola crayons, Erector set, Etch A Sketch, Frisbee, LEGO, marbles, Monopoly, Play-Doh, Teddy bear and Tinker toy).

There were undoubtedly some tough choices this year. For instance, both My Little Pony and Transformers failed to make the cut, continuing the ongoing dominance of baby boomer toys. There was likely criticism that the board game Risk failed while Clue made it: Does the shrine favor detective work over international diplomacy?

But, alas, who cares? The Wiffle Ball is in!

For the uninformed, Wiffle Balls are plastic baseballs with what the Hall of Fame calls "eight oblong slots cut into one hemisphere." The result is a "baseball" that dodges and darts when thrown by a savvy 13-year-old.

The plastic balls arrived in the early 1950s and came at the perfect time: the spread of suburban backyards made them a perfect place for a baseball game that shrinks the field.

For baseball fans of my generation (particularly those of us who weren't very good at it), the Wiffle Ball was magical. You could throw curve balls that broke either way. You could throw knuckleballs. And you could hit against your friends with a plastic bat . . . all in a confined space.

My pal Dana and I played Wiffle Ball constantly during the summer (plus variations of it, with tennis balls replacing the plastic ball to make home runs easier to hit). At Stanhope Field, all of right field was off a retaining wall, which allowed the ball to roll and roll and roll – and led me to hit almost exclusively left-handed to take advantage of the dimensions.

The point isn't so much that I could hit lefty or that I could strike out Dana with a knuckleball or even that I set the single-season home run record (all of which are important), but that the Wiffle Ball allowed the two of us – and generations of kids – to play baseball without having to gather 18 people to play regular baseball or even a half-dozen to play "work-ups" (perhaps another column).

Wiffle Ball made my middle school and early high school summers fun. I welcome the Wiffle Ball into the Toy Hall of Fame and await the day that its every-other-sport partner, the Nerf ball, can join it, in the same way that Raggedy Andy joined Raggedy Ann two years after she was inducted.

And if you disagree with me, I'll strike you out with a knuckleball.

Just like I could strike out Dana. And set a single-season homer record against him, in case you forgot what I wrote three paragraphs ago.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Christmas classic really 'a dysfunctional life'

In the days when the legendary Frank Capra film was in the public domain, "It's a Wonderful Life" was on multiple TV channels every day. Now, it's only on NBC, but the message continues: Generosity and sacrifice are what make you "rich."

Except that's not the true message. "It's a Wonderful Life" is really a study of dysfunctional people who celebrate passivity, alcoholism and irresponsibility.

It's a dysfunctional life!

To prove it, here are the 10 most dysfunctional people in the beloved holiday movie, counting down.

10. Mary Bailey. She's largely above the fray, although her teenage manipulation of George and Sam Wainwright is desperate. And while George is trying to save the town with his banking prowess, she allows the kids to run wild in that atrocious house. (Interestingly, in the non-George world, she's the biggest victim: She isn't married, she's an old maid who works at the library! The horrors! She never married!).

9. Mr. Potter. Unlikable, but one of the few residents of Bedford Falls who stays true to himself. He likes money and power. He's despicable, but at least he's not a sniveling coward like . . . well, you'll see.

8. Tony Wade. Columnist for the Bedford Falls Republic, he remains insanely loyal to the Potter-owned Bedford Falls Raiders, who are about to leave town for the second time in three decades.

7. Ma Bailey. When her husband dies, she transfers all the responsibility to her sons. When Uncle Billy gets so drunk he can't stand up, she gladly sends him home. She's reckless.

6. Bert and Ernie. Bedford Falls' only police officer and cab driver team up to consistently help George avoid repercussions, including when Bert looks the other way when a clearly inebriated George runs into a tree (it could have been a child!) on Christmas Eve.

5. Sam Wainwright. Let's face it: Sam is a skirt-chasing lightweight who makes a lot of money by selling gullible Americans plastic products. He's the guy you would avoid at a class reunion.

4. Harry Bailey. George's better-looking, fly-boy brother saved all those men on that transport and returned a war hero – then expected George to take care of Mom while he chased women and money.

3. Mr. Gower. Sure, his son died in World War I, but his response? He drinks himself senseless, nearly poisons a drug store customer and when confronted, he hits George in the head. He beat a child while drunk, trying to kill a customer. Gower should have been imprisoned.

2. Uncle Billy. Ah, the charming drunk who can't keep records and unwittingly destroys your business. It's really nice that he holds a responsible job at the Bailey Savings and Loan, right? He's what happens when everyone allows you to avoid consequences.

1. George Bailey. The ostensible hero of the story, he is really the chief enabler. Bailey consistently refuses to stand up for himself, then whines about lost opportunities. That doesn't even include the fact that Bailey was a grown man when he began pursuing teenage Mary and the fact that his solution to a life crisis was to get drunk, then drive through town. Don't get me started on the fact that he raises his misbehaving kids in an unsafe home.

Enjoy the movie!

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Real outsider presents tax reform ideas

When people talk about changing the tax code, they always say the same thing: Our federal tax code shouldn't pick winners and losers.

Baloney.

By the very nature of taxes, they do that and always have. When we tax people's income (or anything else), we pick winners and losers: What do we tax? What do we ignore? At the same rate or at a varying rate?

I mention this because we're in the middle of the biggest push for comprehensive tax reform in Congress since 1986, when "Say You, Say Me," was the second-most popular song of the year (and we learned that to say it for always is the way it should be).

I know about tax reform because my day job involves the subject . . . and because it's in the news. Tax reform this, tax reform that, corporate rate this, itemized deductions that, pass-through rate this, alternative minimum tax that.

Confused? Me, too. But I have a plan, if it's not too late for Congress to make some changes.

We can do this!

The first issue we must agree on is that the purpose of the tax code is twofold: Raise money for the government and encourage certain behavior.

Why do we get to deduct home mortgage interest? The government wants us to buy houses.

Why do we get a deduction for each child? The government likes children.

Why do birds suddenly appear every time you are near? Just like me, they long to be close to you.

We can agree that we pick winners and losers. We just need to agree on what they should be, which leads to my first proposal:

Proposal No. 1: Tie the individual tax rate to the taxpayer's BMI.

The current tax code taxes us between 10 percent and 39.6 percent of our income (with all kinds of confusing deductions and other options). At the same time, the government wants us to eat healthy and exercise. Under my plan, if your BMI is "healthy," your tax rate will be 18.5 percent to 24.9 percent. If you're way out of shape, your tax rate will be high.

We don't want to encourage unsafe dieting, so I would set the low at 18.5 percent. (By the way, I'm not saying you should be thin. The government is. I think you look great.)

Under my tax plan, you would visit the doctor in January of each year and get a BMI number. That's your tax rate for the previous year. Think that might affect your holiday diet?

Proposal No. 2: Tax-free lottery.

Under my plan, we'll have an hour-long TV show each year, capped by a low-level Internal Revenue Service employee pulling out a four-digit number (maybe one every 15 minutes, building suspense). Anyone who has that sequence of four numbers to finish their Social Security number gets a full tax refund.

Bonus idea: Tell taxpayers they must file by March 15 to be eligible for the drawing. That would speed up the filing of returns.

Proposal No. 3: Make tax form smaller than a postcard.

People have advocated a simpler tax system for years – but they nearly always dictate what that means: It needs to be three pages or it needs to be the size of a postcard. How about this? We make it smaller. Much smaller. You can shrink anything – heck, a guy copied the entire Hebrew text of the Jewish Bible on a grain of rice. Let's shrink taxes by shrinking the tax forms.

If our tax code is broken, the solution is simple: A BMI rate (for corporate rates, too. We'll see if they're really fat-cat rich guys), a lottery show. And for those obsessed with size, a tiny tax form.

I guess this column should have appeared on the business page.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

When Thanksgiving Day changed our lives

My favorite holiday of all time is Thanksgiving, 1990, which involved a middle-of-the-night drive down Interstate 680, dinner at Denny's and a night at a cheap hotel.

It was a life-changing event.

Just a few months prior, Mrs. Brad and I dived into the world of adoption. We had done as much infertility treatment as we could stand (not that much) and made contact with lawyers who dealt with adoption. Within a few weeks, we miraculously met a brave 21-year-old pregnant woman named Denise who made the painful, best-for-the-baby decision to allow a family to adopt her child.

Us.

It was rapid-fire: We fell in love with Denise, we feared she might change her mind, we raced to get our home set up, we met with lawyers, we told our families, we worried again that Denise would change her mind. She was due to give birth Dec. 3, so I went to an electronics store Nov. 21 and picked up a pager, so we could be reached at any time. That night – the night before Thanksgiving – Mrs. Brad and I watched a TV movie, then went to bed, knowing our prospective child wasn't due for two weeks.

At about 1 a.m. the pager vibrated, waking us.

There was only one possibility: Denise was in labor. My hands shook as I tried to dial the number from the pager (great technology!). It took multiple efforts, but finally I reached Denise's sister and found out it was true: Denise was in labor.

Mrs. Brad and I threw everything we could in our Hyundai and headed toward San Jose, where our child would be born. At a convenience store, we bought some terrible coffee (it had grounds in it!) and made the 70-minute drive to Alexian Brothers Hospital with our conversation bouncing between terror and excitement.

We rushed in, Mrs. Brad served as the labor coach and I watched the miracle. Just after 3 a.m., our son was born. He was beautiful.

A birth is always chaotic, but ours seemed more so. The nurses weren't sure how to handle us (were we stealing the baby? Had we brainwashed the birth mother?), but Denise was fantastic in what had to be one of the roughest moments of her life. We held Chad (Chad!), helped wash his hair, made a series of phone calls from a pay phone and floated through the morning, exhausted.

We were too tired to drive, so we got a cheap hotel in San Jose and collapsed for a few hours, then returned to the hospital. That night, we ate Thanksgiving dinner at Denny's (turkey!), then returned to the hospital before finally going back to the hotel. And collapsing. Again.

A day later, we drove home, worried all the way that baby Chad might need something we couldn't do. Did we know how to be parents? We weren't sure, but we knew one thing for sure: Our lives were changed. And we loved our son.

That was 27 years ago Wednesday.

Now he's married and expecting his first child (!). We've lived through the childhoods and teen years of him and his younger brother (born on April Fools Day, 1993). We celebrated Christmases and birthday parties and Fourth of July celebrations and, yes, 26 Thanksgiving dinners.

I love holidays. I love celebrations. I love getting together with loved ones.

But every Thanksgiving reminds me of 1990, when we ate at Denny's, slept in a cheap hotel and met our son.

We're still thankful.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Why I like chasing cats, napping and . . . sit!

Editor's note: Brad Stanhope is on vacation. Per usual, his dog Brandy is sitting in for him this week.

I'm sitting in for Brad.

Get it? Sit?

Sit!

Hah hah hah hah hah hooowwwwl! That's a good one!

Let's reacquaint ourselves. I'm a dog and even though I can't really sniff you from here (and for some reason, humans get upset when we try to sniff them, so maybe I'll sit this one out. Get it? Sit!), I presume you're a reading human.

Lucky dog (no pun intended). Because that's one of the things I wish I could do: Read. Sometimes I get bored with just sitting around. And napping.

Not really! I love napping! It's one of the best things about being a dog.

You know what else is great about being a dog? Let me count the things . . . or better yet, bark the things:

• We can poop anywhere, not just in that small, confining room with the scary rushing water. Although it is fun to play with that roll of paper you keep there.
• Napping.
• Getting scratched.
• Chasing cats.
• Napping.
• The fun of barking at each other through the fence while you yell at us.
• Sit!

Hah hah hah hah hah hooowwwwl!

Anyhoo, I live in Brad's backyard. And house. And sometimes the garage when someone comes to the front door and Brad gets mad at me for warning him that it could be dangerous. Especially when it's the guy in the big brown truck who brings those interesting boxes.

Do they hold bones? Cats? Cats' bones? That would be great.

I don't like cats.

Sit!

Hah hah hah hah hah hooowwwwl!

Dog jokes are the best. Here's one: What do you get if you cross a cat, a giraffe and a can of food?

I don't know, but it has a cat, so I'd chase it. Get it?

My neighbor Scruff likes that joke. He's the one who told me the one about the tree: Why did the cat run from the tree? Because it was afraid of the bark!

That's a great one, although I have never heard a tree bark. It would be funny if it happened, though.

Which reminds me of a story. I don't know why, because I don't know what "reminds" means, but I just thought of a story that you might enjoy.

Sit!

Hah hah hah hah hah hooowwwwl!

Anyhoo, I was patrolling the backyard one day while Brad and Mrs. Brad were both gone and suddenly I heard Scruff trying to escape. He does that every once in a while.

So I ran over and barked encouragement to him. While we were barking at each other ("Go Scruff, go!" "I'm almost out, Brandy" "Here comes a cat . . . just kidding" "What?"), suddenly I heard a weird noise.

So I barked at it instead.

Great story, right? Scruff thinks I'm a good storyteller, although I think he's better. He's the one who told me that the desert lion is everyone's favorite at Christmas. Because he has sandy claws.

I don't know what that means, but Scruff thought it was great.

Sit!

Hah hah hah hah hah hooowwwwl!

Anyway, here comes Brad to pick up my poop. I don't know why he does that, I just want to bury it.

Sit!

Get it?

Reach Brandy Stanhope's human, Brad Stanhope, at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.