Protests, mattresses, cereal, ants: Emptying my notebook

It's Labor Day Weekend, which means we're at the unofficial end of the summer of the strangest year of our lives. It seems like we were commemorating Memorial Day just a few days ago, with the pandemic persisting and national anger over systematic racism.

Three months later, we're . . . still there, I guess. But we're three months closer to the end, if my math is right.

Right?

Please?

Well, it's time to empty the columnist's metaphorical notebook, which is actually a virtual notebook on my smartphone.

•••

Whether these months of unrest have moved us in a positive direction is open for debate – we may be no better off than we were in the spring – but we seemed to have learned at least one thing: The point of protest is to create discomfort.

For years, Americans complained as people protested or boycotted because it made things inconvenient. We said that those protesters would be fine if they didn't block traffic or if they didn't make it impossible to go to my favorite restaurant or if they didn't make it difficult watch a sporting event without thinking about politics.

It feels like we've finally accepted that inconvenience is one of the purposes of protest. Protest are partially to challenge those doing wrong and to force those of us on the sidelines to consider the issue and maybe get involved.

That we're complaining less about the inconvenience of protest and talking more about the subject is one sign of growth, I guess.

I guess.

•••

Having helped with three moves (from home to home) in the past year has made something ridiculously clear: Mattresses should have handles.

When I was a kid, our mattresses had handles. At least my twin-bed mattress had them: Plastic straps on the side.

Mattresses are hard to move. They're heavy, awkward and often bend. We pay hundreds of dollars for a mattress. How much would it cost to add a simple strap to hold when you move it?

I'd even pay extra for that. Wouldn't you?

•••

As long as we're talking about improving products, how about this: Breakfast cereals should come in resealable bags.

Instead, they come in plastic bags that are either too hard to open or don't close easily. Or both.

Want to be the breakthrough breakfast cereal company: Keep your boxes, but improve your bags.

You're welcome.

•••

The NFL season starts this week with no "bubble."

What are the odds that the league makes it through January without a coronavirus-caused shutdown?

I give the NFL a 60 percent chance of making it. Mostly because that league will power through some outbreaks.

•••

I recently had an ant invasion at my house and had to get some spray, which reminded me of one of my favorite work-related stories.

Several years ago at the Daily Republic, a veteran copy editor convinced a young colleague that ants were baby roaches. "Ants turn into roaches when they get older," he said. "Why else do you think they sell ant and roach spray? Roaches are adult ants."

I started laughing in the store when I remembered that.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Trip to the dentist teaches me about SLR

Do you remember when you found out about SLR? I found out when a dental assistant told me I suffered from it.

It was during my recent trip to the dentist, the semiannual torture during which I sweat through a T-shirt and try to act like it doesn't make me anxious.

"Are you all right, Brad?" the dental assistant always asks, reminding me that I'm not skilled at hiding my anxiety. "Let me know if it gets to be too much."

I think: "And what? What will you do then?" It's not the pain. It's the anticipation of pain, even though there's generally not any.

But this trip was different, because I learned I have SLR.

"Your teeth look pretty good except this one spot," the dental assistant told me through two masks and a face guard. I think she said that. It was muffled. And I had a mild chill, from my sweaty T-shirt. And my pupils were probably dilated, too. She continued: "Are you left-handed?"

"Mnmnmno," I said, struggling to speak with metal tools and that inefficient spit-sucker in my mouth. I hoped she realized that meant that I'm not a lefty.

"Well, that's interesting," she said. "Usually . . . wait. Oh, now I see. You have strong lip reflex. Has anyone ever told you that?"

What?

What?

Has anyone told me I had strong lip reflex? Not only had I not been told that, I had never heard that phrase.

Strong lip reflex? What the heck? Now in addition to having Type 1 diabetes, a dearth of hair on my legs and lower-than-normal ears, I have something else?

I answered her question: "No."

"Well, you do. Particularly here on the left side. See?" She pulled out my lip. It felt like someone was pulling out my lip. "That probably makes it tougher to get this spot. I'd recommend you pull your lip out when you brush. Do you use an electric brush?"

"Mnmnyes." The spit-sucker was falling behind again. I meant yes, but I didn't want to drown.

"If you pull your lip you, you'll see. It's a strong lip reflex."

Wait a minute.

She had me in a position of weakness. I was laying prone, there were sharp metal objects in my mouth, a suction device falling behind as she shot water into my mouth to combine with my overactive salivary glands. But seriously? If I pull out my lip, I'll see how strong the reflex is?

Compared to what? How could I tell? These are the only lips I've ever owned. When I pull them out, they feel LIKE I AM PULLING OUT MY LIPS.

How is that supposed to show me that my lips have a strong reflex? I didn't argue, though. You know, the sharp metal object and all.

Finally it ended. My appointment finished, I staggered to my car, exhausted from the tension of anticipating pain that never came (and almost never does), relieved that I don't need to go back for another six months.

I survived metal picks poking around my teeth. I survived gallons of water being shot into my mouth while a tiny hose sucked out a fraction of it. I survived discussion with a talkative dental assistant wearing two masks and a faceguard.

But I emerged with new knowledge. I am one of the few. I am part of a small community in America and the world.

I am someone with strong lip reflex.

If only there was a way I could test it.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

 

I know this much is true: Music transcends time

The song was "Wasted on the Way," by Crosby, Stills and Nash.

It was nothing special to me, except for a memory.

"This reminds me of delivering pizzas," I told Mrs. Brad.

She's heard that before, when I've heard "Rosanna," by Toto. "Eye in the Sky," by the Alan Parsons Project. "True," by Spandau Ballet. "What's Love Got to Do With It," by Tina Turner.

None of them are special songs for me, other than being pizza delivery songs. I don't love them, I don't hate them. They were the soundtrack of that time of my life, indelibly linked to driving around my hometown in a Volkswagen Rabbit, dropping off family-sized pepperoni pizzas for a 75-cent delivery charge and (hopefully) a $3 tip.

"Jump," by Van Halen. "How 'Bout Us," by Champaign. "Queen of Hearts," by Juice Newton.

That's the power of music, I guess. We all have songs that take us back to a specific time. Every generation has specific songs that they identify with fun times in high school. Or heartbreak in high school. Or alienation or self-realization or one specific weekend. Or a special friend or a first girlfriend or boyfriend.

There are songs we associate with specific moments. The song that played at a wedding. Our mom's or dad's favorite tune that they would turn up when we were in the car.

Those are magical songs.

"Wasted on the Way" isn't at that level for me. Nor is "Queen of Hearts," nor even "All Those Years Ago," by George Harrison.

They are tunes I associate with a stage of life. Working at a pizza parlor at night. Going to college during the day. Working with teenagers at church. Dating Mrs. Brad before she was Mrs. Brad. During that era, I spent hours and hours in my car, taking pizzas to homes and motels and workplaces. I spent hours and hours in the pizza parlor, with the radio turned on in the background.

Always a top-40 station. A mix of the Rolling Stones and Sheena Easton and Chicago and Air Supply and Loverboy.

There were artists that I loved in that era: The Commodores and Earth Wind and Fire. Billy Joel. Huey Lewis and the News. Their music doesn't remind me of delivering pizza. When I hear those songs, I think of MTV and dating Mrs. Brad and hanging with my friends.

Not background music. Foreground music. But the rest? Still memorable.

You may well have music that has similar associations for you. Maybe it's the music that played at your workplace. Or in car where you were a passenger. Maybe it's the music that you listened to while commuting or walking around wearing ear buds.

"Wasted on the Way," is a fine song that sounds a lot like other Crosby, Stills and Nash songs. If it was popular at any other time, I'd probably know it, but not remember it. But it was popular during a time I spent hours and hours every week driving around town, listening to top-40 music and not worrying about much.

It wasn't a special song, it was just a memorable song.

And I guess that's what makes music special. Even songs that aren't magic for us retain a level of magic in our memories.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

 

Kongonaphon kely changes our view of dinosaurs

 

It's "Jurassic Park" meets the "The Borrowers:" A fossil found in Madagascar is of a 237-million-year-old dinosaur that was 4 inches tall.

Four inches tall! That's shorter than Tom Cruise! Hiyo!

The dinosaur is known as Kongonaphon kely (K. kely), which means “tiny bug slayer." (Coincidentally, that was the title of the song on the flip side of "Tiny Dancer" by Elton John in 1972.)

By dinosaur standards – or really any standards – K. kely was tiny. It was so small that when it rained, the K. kely was the last to know. That's tiny! Hiyo!

(I'm preparing for my standup comedy routine when the pandemic ends.)

The discover of the little dinosaur grabbed headlines because it was different than the stereotype of a dinosaur.

The articles I read about it used a classic journalism trick, comparing the size of K. kely to something familiar. Instead of "a ship that's the size of four football fields" or "hail the size of golf balls," K. kely was described in one article as "the size of a mobile phone" and in another as "the size of a coffee cup."

Both descriptions work for me, since they're the first two things I grab every morning.

The K. kely skeleton was found in 1998. Actually, that's not true: The bones were dug up in 1998, but there were so many bones mixed together, it took a while to realize this was a dinosaur.

That makes sense because K. kely was so tiny, it would use a toothpick as a pool cue in the dinosaur billiards tournaments. That's tiny! Hiyo!

Finding tiny versions of big things are fascinating. Discovering a mobile-phone-sized dinosaur is like finding out that there are microscopic 747 airliners or miniature giraffes. Or that there's a 3-foot-5 Shaquille O'Neal clone.

Impossible, right?

Scientists needed to find out how K. kely survived. Well, K. kely ate insects, so it wasn't a competitor with its larger cousins. Scientists knew this by looking at its teeth, which is a level of dedication beyond me.

Scientists think it's possible the K. kely adapted its small frame as an evolutionary advantage, allowing the mini dinosaur to go to places other dinosaurs couldn't. That could mean K. kely helped advance other traits that were important to dinosaurs, such as bipedal movement, fluff to warm their bodies, the beginning of flight and how to chase people in "Jurassic Park" movies.

For a little dinosaur, K. kely had a big impact. And it was small. In fact, it was so small that its driver's license photo showed it head to foot! That's tiny! Hiyo!

The good news from this discovery is twofold: First, we're still learning from the past. The fact that we can still be surprised by science (and history. And math. And anything.) means we're still learning and advancing as people.

The other good news is further proof that you can make an impact regardless of size. K. kely was small – in fact, it was so small that other dinosaurs would ask him how the weather was down there (hiyo!) – but still played an important role. More than 2 million years later, we're talking about K. kely.

That's good news.

The bad news?

In 237 million years, we've gone from K. kely to R. Kelly. That's not an advance, right?

The fun-sized dinosaur was much better.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

 

Seven secrets to writing a column

When I speak to young people about writing columns, I generally tell them the No. 1 secret: Don't be afraid to use a made-up story as your opening paragraph. Readers don't know it's not true.

For instance: Pretend that "young people" care enough about what you do to ask about it, let alone want to know your "secrets."

Bingo bango.

Which is the No. 2 secret to writing a column: Have a catch phrase.

All great columnists have them. Herb Caen called San Francisco "Baghdad by the Bay." Tony Wade always writes, "me like Raiders very much." I'm sure Mike Royko, Jimmy Breslin and Maureen Dowd had catch phrases, even though I don't know what they were. Catch phrases are crucial to keeping your readers connected.

Bingo bango!

I've been writing columns for the Daily Republic since 1986. Seriously. To make it clear how long ago that was, 1986 was closer to Korean War than it is to today. More practically, it was so long ago that the Dodgers have won a World Series title since then! (Column secret 3: have ongoing inside jokes in which you insult rival sports franchises.) During that time, I moved from the young, idealistic sports writer to the sarcastic sports editor to the ridiculous "humor" writer to the old man who writes about column tricks.

That's column secret No. 4: Have self-references within a column. Allow your column to be self-aware and make jokes that readers think they get because they're insiders. If you don't believe me, bingo bango! Get it?

Secret No. 4 is a little more sensitive: Be fully aware of controversies before you wade in with a dumb joke. Unfortunately, that's something I've done a few times – and then blamed editors for not warning me.

For instance, there was the time when the local high school band (Editor's note: Rest of sentence deleted) and the time when the Malaysian Airlines plane (Editor's note: Rest of sentence deleted). Boy! Lesson learned. Especially when I discovered that readers weren't amused when I compared Gilligan's Island to (Editor's note: Rest of sentence deleted).

Which is secret No. 5: Use ancient pop-culture references, which allow readers to either laugh along with you or feel sorry for you. The winning side of that is the ability to look down on young people for not getting your jokes. Sure, they can make Tik-Tok videos, but they don't get Gilligan's Island references!

But perhaps the best lesson – one I've taken to my non-newspaper jobs, so it holds up outside of traditional journalism – is how to end a column.

A former boss used to occasionally call me over to help her finish her columns, because she knew it was perhaps my only area of expertise. I never told her the secret (which is No. 6: Protect your job by keeping secrets from your boss), but it was simple: Just rewrite the first sentence in a different way. Readers will think you've gone completed the circle, even if you haven't.

So that's the seventh secret: Circle back.

Which is what I always tell young people who ask me about my column.

Bingo bango!

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

20 thoughts from 20 weeks of COVID-19 life

Monday marks 20 weeks since this COVID-19 thing got serious, 20 weeks since March 16, when most Bay Area counties issued a shelter-in-place order. Two days later, Solano County joined the order.

Over the past 20 weeks, we've endured a lockdown, flattening of the COVID curve, a reopening, the expansion of the pandemic and more.

Sports stopped. Theaters, restaurants and most retail stores closed. Schools and churches shut down.

We wear masks in public. We hoard toilet paper. We drive less. We stay home more. We argue about every issue.

Twenty weeks.

Here are 20 of my weekly thoughts from the pandemic.

Week 1: Is the world ending? Going to my office to get equipment so I can work from home feels like I'm in an apocalyptic movie.

Week 2: A Facebook friend (who previously only posted memes about food) cites an obscure scientific website that insists COVID-19 is like the flu.

Week 3: Sports stopped three weeks ago and it's agonizing. No March Madness, no baseball, no NBA playoffs. I created a putt-putt course in my home.

Week 4: The shelter-in-place order was extended. The mask Mrs. Brad made me works, but I'd like something more comfortable. Off to Amazon!

Week 5: When will the toilet paper shortage end? Ridiculous.

Week 6: My Facebook friend claims COVID-19 is a plot by the deep-state government to control us. How shutting down businesses benefits the government is unclear.

Week 7: Things are stable. I'd make a "flattening the curve" joke, except they've all been said.

Week 8: It doesn't seem so weird to go to the grocery store with a mask. We're ordering to-go food from restaurants. They're talking about opening up again, but we'll see.

Week 9: My Facebook friend calls people who don't see a conspiracy, "sheeple." He cites obscure data that more people will from a recession than COVID-19.

Week 10: Mrs. Brad is now my barber. Unfortunately for her, I can't cut women's hair, so she's on her own. I haven't thought about sports much lately.

Week 11: Demonstrations are sweeping the nation. I stopped wearing gloves while grocery shopping, but boarded-up windows due to looting makes it feels apocalyptic again.

Week 12:  My Facebook friend insists that the political demonstrations prove that COVID-19 is a political scam and cites a report on an obscure website that Dr. Anthony Fauci is a fraud.

Week 13: Sports have been gone so long that I don't really remember what it was like to have them. Will their return be good news?

Week 14: Zoom fatigue continues. Video calls seemed good for a while, but now they just make me weary. My unstable WiFi doesn't help.

Week 15: My Facebook friend says that the fact that the Center for Disease Control's changing approach on masks proves that the government doesn't know what it's doing. He won't wear a mask.

Week 16: Schools may reopen. Or not. With no school-age kids, I feel for both sides: Parents forced to teach and teachers who don't feel safe. There's no easy answer.

Week 17: My Facebook friend cites a study about the low death rate of COVID-19 among younger people and says we should just treat it like the flu. It's not that dangerous.

Week 18: Baseball returns this week! How did I live without baseball?

Week 19: The Miami Marlins had a COVID-19 outbreak, but the NBA returns this week! How did I live without basketball?

Week 20: Will this be over in 2020? Will we get a vaccine? Will sports continue? My Facebook friend says . . .

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

I could use a tip on when and to whom to provide a tip

Before the pandemic hit and changed everything, I spent a fair amount of time thinking about tips.

Pre-pandemic, I was of the opinion that establishments where you pay at the counter had found the perfect way to inspire greater tips: Shame.

In recent years, the "cash register" (I show my age) evolved to a person behind the counter spinning a tablet toward you, where you insert your credit card and sign with your finger. The trick? It routinely has an option to tip. Kind of an option.

More like an expectation.

Because there are people in line behind you. Everyone behind you can see the screen (to be fair, they're probably not looking, but you can't tell).

We almost always tip, paying extra for someone to stand at a counter and take our order to avoid shame.

Tips are complicated. While some been on hold for the past several months – and may remain so for several months – there are a host of people who we are supposed to tip. More than I knew before doing some research.

Of course, you tip waiters at a restaurant. You tip a pizza delivery person. You tip a cab or rideshare driver. However, you're supposed to tip nearly all service providers, something explained by an article in Business Insider.

Some are obvious: airport shuttle drivers, bartenders, bellhops. People who cut hair. (All things that have largely disappeared since mid-March.)

But that's not the end.

We're supposed to tip bathroom attendants (I'll consider this if I ever go somewhere that has one. I would think someone standing around in the bathroom is just a random creep). We're supposed to tip babysitters. Dog groomers. Furniture delivery people. Garbage collectors. Hotel housekeeping staff. Mail carriers. Package delivery people. Plumbers.

I always figured plumbers, mail carriers, garbage collectors and dog groomers received enough pay for doing their jobs. Am I supposed to subsidize what they earn from their employers? If I'm doing so, am I just allowing the fat-cat owner of the dog grooming place to get rich by underpaying his staff? Probably.

If I'm supposed to tip service providers, do I only tip people who earn less annually than me?

When I learned that many people tip the housekeepers at hotels and motels, I felt like a stooge. I have never even thought about that.

Babysitters? The Business Insider article suggested a 10 percent tip – although it's suggested as a holiday bonus. (My workaround: Don't hire a babysitter during the holiday period.)

I'm not sure how I could even tip a garbage collector, since I live in a place with community bins (I presume money I left would be taken by someone or sorted into the correct recycling container). Same with a mail carrier (would an envelope with cash wind up in the dead-letter bin?).

Maybe if babysitters, hotel housekeepers and plumbers just had one of those new cash register tablets, it would be easier. I might not want to tip, but the possible shame of embarrassment would force me to do so.

Problem solved, once we figure out this pandemic.

Until then, tip mask-wearers.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Power rankings for Bay Area sports figures

After a unique period in American sports history, we now enter another unique period in American sports history.

Over the next two weeks, the four major American team sports will launch or re-launch their seasons, beginning with baseball's opening day Thursday. That will be followed in short order by  the opening of NFL training camps July 28, the re-start of the NBA season (without the Warriors) July 30 and the re-start of the NHL season (without the Sharks) Aug. 1. Major League Soccer is already playing.

Knowing that there's no guarantee that the seasons will be played to a conclusion, this is as good a time as any to re-examine the most important people in Bay Area sports.

So here we go, with the official power rankings of Bay Area sports personnel (note: Las Vegas Raiders personnel not eligible).

10. Chris Wondolowski, Earthquakes. The greatest player in San Jose soccer history is one of the greatest players in MLS history. That's enough for this list.

9. Joe Thornton, Sharks. Thornton – who may retire this summer – has played for San Jose since 2005, which means he was playing professionally in the Bay Area when 49ers star Nick Bosa was 7. He's the NHL franchise's Willie Mays.

8. Steve Kerr, Warriors. The combination of three championships and his communication skills (he was a top-level analyst on TV, he's brilliant in interviews) make him elite. Players, media and opponents all like him.

7. Matt Chapman, Athletics. A's shortstop Marcus Semien was a finalist for the American League MVP last year, but Chapman is the team's best player. He's a power hitting third baseman with charisma who is also eligible for arbitration (and a big pay raise) next year. That probably means a trade is coming–such is the plight of the A's fan.

6. Jimmy Garoppolo, 49ers. The quarterback would have contended for the No. 1 spot had he led his team to a Super Bowl championship, but they fell one game short.  Playing this position – starting quarterback for the 49ers – is almost a virtual lock for the top 10 (I had Tim Rattay in the top 10 in 2004).

5. Klay Thompson, Warriors. A beloved figure whose apparent disinterest in anything but basketball and his dog make him even more likable. The big question is how he returns for the 2020-2021 season (presuming there is one) after sitting out this year with a knee injury. Don't bet against him.

4. George Kittle, 49ers. He's the best tight end in the NFL and he has a huge personality that fans love. Kittle is the greatest tight end in franchise history and he's 26.

3. Kyle Shanahan, 49ers. He became the 49ers coach at age 37 with big expectations and somehow surpassed them. 49ers fans have seen this before and hope Shanahan is more like Bill Walsh than Jim Harbaugh.

2. Buster Posey, Giants. A three-time champion, Rookie of the Year and  MVP is a candidate for the Mount Rushmore of San Francisco Giants players, which is saying something. When Posey elected to sit out this season to protect the health of his adopted premature twins, he moved up in the public's estimation.

1. Stephen Curry, Warriors. The greatest shooter in NBA history. One of the great teammates in NBA history. One of the great face-of-the-franchise players in NBA history. Curry has won three championships. He's the greatest Warriors player ever. He's the No. 1 sports figure in the Bay Area and it's not even close. He's nearing Willie Mays-Joe Montana status as the greatest Bay Area sports figure in history.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Lessons from another unhappy American year

We haven't been this unhappy as a nation since before 1972, when "Jonathan Livingston Seagull" was the nation's most popular book.

According to a May survey taken by NORC (formerly the National Opinion Research Center) at the University of Chicago, only 14 percent of American adults consider themselves very happy, down from 31 percent two years earlier. Nearly one-fourth of people surveyed said they were unhappy.

Those figures are the saddest since the survey began in 1972, when Americans were reading a book about a seagull who was learning about . . . well, that's all I need to say. The protagonist in the top book of 1972 was a seagull. Yeah, Americans had reason to be unhappy in 1972.

We're sadder now.

In 1972, the Vietnam War was still going, Northern Ireland was in turmoil and the most popular song was the spectacularly depressing, "Alone Again, Naturally."

Yet we're sadder now.

More reason for unhappiness in 1972: On Christmas Eve, the 49ers and the Raiders each lost excruciating NFL playoff games: the 49ers blew a 28-13 lead to the Cowboys, the Raiders lost on the "Immaculate Reception" pass to Franco Harris.

In 1972, we were an unhappy nation. Yet we're sadder now.

We're past the "Alone Again, Naturally" level of sadness.

That's what a years of political hostility, a global pandemic, an economic collapse and unrest in the streets will do. They'll make you sad.

The survey also found that Americans are less optimistic about their children's future than they have been in 25 years, going back to 1994. To be fair, there was reason to think the future was dim in 1994: That was the year of the baseball strike and O.J. Simpson trial. Grunge music was at its peak, so parents envisioned a future of children wearing flannel shirts, torn-up jeans and long, dirty hair. Of course parents were pessimistic.

We're similarly pessimistic now.

Anger is also on the rise. More Americans (30 percent) say they've lost their temper than even after the Kennedy assassination in 1963 of the terrorist attacks of 2001. Presumably, that's due to being stuck inside with people for (checks watch) coming up on four months.

So what should we do? Did the convergence of a pandemic, social justice issues, an ugly presidential election and the rise of YouTube stars make it inevitable that we'd be unhappy? Is there a way out?

History suggests yes.

Just look to 1973 (although to be clear, we're sadder than we were in 1972).After "Alone Again, Naturally" was the top song in 1972, "Tie A Yellow Ribbon 'Round the Old Oak Tree" was tops in 1973. Happy enough for you? "American Graffiti" and "The Sting" were released in movie theaters in 1973. Secretariat won the Triple Crown. The Paris Peace Accords brought an end to U.S. involvement in Vietnam.

(Pay no attention to the oil embargo and the Watergate hearings. They mess up my point.)

Will Americans be happier again? I say yes. This is what we do. We bounce back. We face adversity, grovel in misery for a while, then rebound.

Things have to get better, right?

Right?

Our happiness level is at the lowest level in a generation, but like Jonathan Livingston Seagull learned, there's hope.

Things will turn around.

And if it doesn't get better, I call dibs on writing the follow-up to 1972's top book.

Jonathan Livingston Sequel.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

You are significantly cooler than Abe Lincoln

You are cooler than your great grandparents.  You are also cooler than Abraham Lincoln and Ulysses Grant.

Partly because you like better music and you can quote popular movies. Your haircuts are better, your sunglasses look sharper and your social media profile is better. You don't wear a goofy stovepipe hat (I'm talking about your great-grandmother, not Lincoln!).

But the main reason you are cooler is because you are literally cooler.

The normal body temperature for humans has dropped more than 1 degree over the past 150 years.

Seriously.

Pretty soon we'll be as cool as the other side of the pillow. And we'll continue to get cooler, presumably.

Remember when you learned that the normal body temperature is 98.6 degrees? That was an immutable fact, like that water boils at 212 degrees, water freezes at 32 degrees, bad-tasting medicine is good for you and the Dodgers lose in October.

Facts. Especially the facts about the freezing temperature of water and the Dodgers in October.

However, Stanford University researchers recently discovered that the average body temperature for humans is 97.5 degrees.

It's fallen by more than 1 degree!

The 98.6 standard is so 19th century. If someone tells you that's the normal temperature, I hope they're riding in a stagecoach, planting crops at  their homestead and worrying about getting consumption.

The 98.6-degree standard, which seemed set in stone, came from a 1851 study, when German doctor Carl Wunderlich studied the average armpit temperature of 25,000 patients. (That 25,000 Germans were willing to let a doctor stick a foot-long mercury-filled thermometer in their armpit for 20 minutes in 1851 might go a long way toward explaining a World War I and World War II, right?)

Wunderlich published a study on his findings in 1868. Modern researchers reviewed his work, then studied data from subsequent studies.  While they couldn't vouch for all the specifics of the earlier studies, nothing jumped out as an outlier. The studies seemed legitimate.

People in 1851 did have an average temperature of 98.6 degrees.

But over time, humans cooled down. Now the average temperature of  97.5 degrees.

Our temperature is dropping.

Of course, as all doctors will tell you when pressed, there's no "normal" temperature. Just like there's no "normal" childhood, "normal" hair or "normal" obsession about 1970s and 1980s pop culture and sports. (The last may have been something I've said to myself.)

There's no normal, but there's an average.

Here's something else you might not know: Our temperature varies over the course of a day.

A 1992 study found that people's temperature varied, starting lower and hitting a peak in the late afternoon. That, by the way, is remarkably similar to summer days.

But the big news here is that human temperatures have dropped.

Scientists suggest several possible reasons. We now spend more time in climate-controlled settings. We get fewer infectious diseases (at least until this year). We have better clothing. Our bodies can literally chill, compared to those of our 1851 ancestors.

As our society has progressed, our bodies have cooled.

As we continue through the strangest year of our lives, threatened by a worldwide pandemic, we can take comfort in some good news.

We are cooler than our great grandmothers. We are likely cooler than our grandfathers.

There may have been some cool people in the 1800s and early 1900s, but we're cooler than them.

But let me make this much clear: If your normal body temperature is 97.5, mine is probably 97.1.

Because I'm cooler than Abraham Lincoln. And I'm cooler than you.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.