The long national wait is over; Nerf is in the toy hall of fame

The Toy Hall of Fame in Rochester, New York, will finally induct my childhood this year.

Along with the Fisher-Price corn popper and Cabbage Patch Kids, that is.

Nerf balls and baseball cards – the most influential "toys" of my youth – were finally inducted to the toy shrine at the Strong National Museum of Play earlier this month after years of being passed over. The honor for Nerf balls came after me campaigning for them year after year after year.

It's about time.

Suitable for a toy that has been overlooked year after year, Nerf was overshadowed in the announcement. This time it wasn't because Nerf was outvoted by the rocking horse or the stick or Jenga. This time it was because Ken was bypassed by voters despite being the sneaky star of the year's biggest movie.

Ken can wait. He's used to being in the shadows (and did anyone ever get excited about a Ken doll? When it comes to toys, he's an accessory!). This is Nerf's year. And it's the year of baseball cards.

Anyone of my generation can (and should) join me in celebrating the indication of Nerf into the toy shrine, with the honor coming a full six years after its harder-shell cousin, the Wiffle Ball, was inducted. Want even more stunning news? The following toys were inducted into the Toy Hall of Fame ahead of the Nerf ball: jigsaw puzzles, the Game Boy, rubber ducks and Risk.

Over Nerf balls!

Nerf revolutionized how we play. The spongy ball (my first Nerf ball was just that. There was no Nerf basketball or Nerf football or Nerf gun. There was just a Nerf ball that I could throw at my sisters and see them flinch) changed indoor action.

I could bounce it off the wall and not have a parent yell at me. I could shoot it at the laundry basket, anticipating the creation of the Nerf basketball. Had none of the subsequent Nerf toys emerged, the Nerf ball still would be legendary and worthy of induction into the Hall of Fame.

Alas, it spawned an entire world of Nerf products.

It's a similar story for baseball cards. I've written about my baseball cards in the past, but their arrival was a harbinger of childhood spring and summer for me. Over the years – notably when I was in middle school – I collected and collected and collected. I had multiple years of complete sets of 660 (then 726) cards made by Topps. The fact that I know far more about mid-1970s baseball players than those on current rosters has something to do with age and memory, but it also has to do with those cardboard pictures with stats on the back.

(By the way, I sold my card collection a few years ago to a friend who helped get me started. Of course, I sold them shortly before a worldwide pandemic reinvigorated the card-collecting craze and doubled, tripled and quadrupled prices. Which is why I'm glad I sold them to a friend, not a business.)

The corn popper (that toy toddlers push around as they learn to walk) and Cabbage Patch Kids are also worthy honorees to the Toy Hall of Fame. But when historians look back on this class of the Toy Hall of Fame, they'll nod in agreement with the selection of baseball cards and shake their heads in alarm that it took this long – as part of the 26th class to be inducted – before Nerf made it into the Hall of Fame.

I'll now end my boycott of the Hall of Fame. If I somehow find myself in Rochester, New York, with a chance to visit, I'll go.

And I'll grab the Nerf and throw it at someone, seeing if they flinch like my sisters did.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

Writing up the unwritten rules for passengers on planes

Legendary essayist Ralph Waldo Emerson put it succinctly: "Good manners are made up of petty sacrifices." 

Emerson wasn't talking about unwritten rules on airplanes (since he died 21 years before the Wright Brothers took flight in Kitty Hawk, North Carolina), but he could have been. Manners are important when you're stuck in a metal tube thousands of feet in the air with hundreds of people for several hours. Some basic politeness – following societal rules – can make it better for everyone.

But what are the rules? We know we can't bring our weapons or a 3.5-ounce drink through security, but what about other passenger rules?

You probably have opinions, but the folks at Kayak (the travel website) made it official when they surveyed people on the internet (not science, but still a survey) to gain an understanding of general "rules."

Here's what the public says about some airplane "rules," with the correct answer from someone who routinely sits in the middle seat so Mrs. Brad can have the window and who often falls asleep and misses the opportunity to get "free" peanuts or soda.

• Can you take off your shoes in flight? Most people (56%) say no because it's gross. Brad says: Go ahead, as long as your feet don't stink. I keep my shoes on, but that's because I'm not an animal.
• Do you get to control the shade if you have the window seat? The public says yes (77%). Brad also says yes for the same reason you get to control your window in the car: You're sitting next to it. If you want to control the window shade, get a window seat. Also, Mrs. Brad sits by the window and I trust her.
• Can you rush to get off the plane ahead of others? Most people (58%) say no because it's unfair. The public says you should wait your turn. Brad says: Of course not. This is like thinking you shouldn't have to wait in line at the grocery store. If you're over 5, you can wait. The exception is if you have explosive diarrhea, of course (that's true in the store, too. And the bank. And even in line for the bathroom at a concert or sporting event).
• If you're in the middle seat, do you get both armrests? The public says no (57%) because the public has apparently never sat in the middle. Brad says: The middle seat should get both armrests. Or at least the main portion of them. The window and aisle seats each get a full armrest on one side and should get at most a small portion on the inside.
• Can you call someone before you get off the plane? The public says no (69%) because it's irritating to listen in on other people's conversations. Brad says: No, unless you have a really interesting conversation that I can then repeat to whomever I see at my destination. Then it's OK.
• Can you chat up your seatmate? The public narrowly says yes (52%), because it's friendly. The public obviously didn't sit next to a guy I sat by last year who insisted on showing me hundreds (literally hundreds) of photos of his relatives. On his phone. Hundreds!  Brad says: I guess it's OK as long as you recognize the body language of "I don't want to talk." And you don't show 40 phone photos of your grandson playing a Little League baseball game.

So next time you fly, keep this in mind. The person by the window controls the shade, the person in the middle gets two armrests, don't rush off the plane or make an immediate phone call, and don't show me hundreds of photos on your phone.

And for crying out loud, don't try to bring a 3.5-ounce drink through security! A 3.4-ounce drink is fine, but more than that? Insanity!

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

Experts have a great idea to make recycling even more confusing

The experts want to make recycling even more confusing!

A recent Axios article brought what the writer and editors obviously thought was good news: Soon there would be QR codes to assist us with the "hyper-local" rules of recycling. 

When I read it, I nearly spit out my coffee, which made my next decision even more difficult: Can you recycle coffee if it includes spit?

The article said soon we will be able to use QR codes – those barcodes that an app can read to take you to a specific website – to determine how to determine whether you can recycle your yogurt container, cardboard box or insulation packaging. And where to put it.

Once you scan the code on the package, it will interact with the ZIP code you enter to tell you what type of recycling (or not) it is and in which bin you should put it.

Simple, right?

Nope. It sounds unnecessarily complicated and confusing.

I'm supposed to scan each item and see whether it goes in the Dumpster (where I live), the green recycling bin, the cardboard bin, or in one of the myriad other recycling options?

Each item. Individually.

If I sound grumpy, it's because recycling has become such guesswork. What goes to the landfill? What's recyclable and if so, what type of recycling is it? It keeps getting more confusing and just when you think you have it figured out ("OK, so pizza boxes can go with green recycling if there's no pizza left on them. But if there's any grease, it goes with the cardboard"), the rules change.

Pretty soon it becomes easier to just put stuff in the regular garbage, which defeats the purpose.

Most of us care about recycling, which is good. We need less garbage. We need to reuse as much as we can. But recycling rules are splitting into those who understand the rules and those who don't.

The experts are baffled and angry when we're confused about where to put our used Starbucks cups (Does it matter if there's coffee left? Do the lid and cup go in different places?). They're flabbergasted if we put plastic bags in the blue recycling bin because they have the recycling symbol. Don't we know better?

It feels like the recycling rules are constantly changing. Furthermore, what's recyclable in Fairfield might go in a different bin in Rio Vista.

According to the Axios article, the Recycling Partnership–a nonprofit focused on this issue–says 60% of us are confused by recycling rules. My guess is that the remaining 40% just throw everything in the trash, eliminating "confusion."

But now the advocates say there's a solution that will fix everything. We can have different rules in different places and there will be no problems. Put QR codes on everything. Then people will pull out their phones, scan the QR code and know what to do.

Except . . .

Most of us will struggle to remember how to use the QR code app. Then we'll forget that we're supposed to scan the code off the packaging, even if we can find it. Then we'll forget our ZIP code. Then we won't know which of the bins is "compost" and which is "recycle."

Why don't we just adopt universal recycling rules?

Why don't we stop having super-local recycling rules that change every three months?

Why don't we just have two or three bins, marked clearly.

Too easy? Well, this part is simple: if you're reading this in a physical newspaper, you can probably compost it.

You can recycle a plastic bag if it came in that.

Unless the bag is wet.

But if you're reading it online, your electronics must be recycled as e-waste.

Unless, of course, the rules are different where you live.

Or the rules have already changed.

Boy, that QR code will fix everything!

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

Getting older is tough, but nobody told us about these parts

I knew aging would be hard, because I always heard old people talking about it.

"Getting old isn't for wimps," they'd say, as they complained about something that seemed wimpy.

Older people groaned when they stood. They walked slower. They couldn't hear things as well. They would say (always laughing, as if they invented the line), "If I'd known I was going to live this long, I would have taken better care of myself." Hah hah hah.

That wasn't going to happen to me. I would take care of myself when I was young. Also, I knew what to expect, so I wouldn't be surprised.

I was ready for my hearing to get worse.

I was ready for gray hair (although not in my 30s, when it started).

I was prepared to need more naps and for arthritis to hurt my hands.

But nobody told me about the most obvious signs of getting older.

As a public service for those of you who consider yourself young, here are three surprising things about getting older.

• Your legs get stiff quickly. When I was young, I could drive three or four hours, get out, stretch my legs for a few minutes and feel fine. Now? I drive 45 minutes (45 minutes!) and when I get out of my car, it feels like I've been behind the wheel for 12 nonstop hours. My legs feel tight. What the heck? I exercise regularly. My legs are fine. Nobody told me this.
• Handrails are extremely valuable. While I haven't fallen (or even come close) while descending stairs, going down them is way more jarring than it used to be. I need at least a flight of stairs before I have any bounce in my legs, so where did the muscle (or ligaments or tendons or whatever gives you bounce) go? Sometimes it feels like I'm descending stairs on stilts. Handrails are suddenly important and I am always ready to grab them. Nobody told me this.
• Toilet breaks are part of every decision. This is the most consistent factor in my daily life: If I'm going to drive across town, maybe I should go to the bathroom first. I'm going to take a nap? Let me make a quick trip to the bathroom. Going for a short walk? I'll visit the bathroom first. Time to eat? Maybe I'll visit the bathroom first. Planning to watch an hour-long TV show? Hold on, let me go to the bathroom. Need to walk across the room? Well, as long as I'm up, let me hit the bathroom. Nobody told me this.

There are plenty of other things about aging. It's harder to read small print. Characters on TV mumble too much. If I'd known I was going to live this long, I'd have taken better care of myself.

Hah hah hah.

There are more aging tips, but let me visit the bathroom first.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

Brady Bunch home price had to change (like Peter's voice)

How could the "Brady Bunch" home be such a flop on the real estate market?

Maybe the real estate agent had an unlucky tiki from Hawaii? Maybe Buddy Hinton mocked potential buyers? Maybe people were afraid they could only eat pork chops and applesauce if they moved in?

Whatever the reason, the "Brady Bunch" house in Studio City–or the house that stood as the exterior model for the iconic TV show 50 years ago and was recently remade to match the interior shots (filmed at a studio)–recently sold for a fraction of its asking price.

That house, presumably paid for by Mike Brady's income as an architect (don't lose those plans at the theme park, or you might lose your job, Mike!), recently sold for $3.2 million. Now, that's surely enough for Mike and Carol to pay for counseling for six adults whose their childhood home lacked a bathroom and whose beloved pets (Tiger and Fluffy) both disappeared without comment after Season 1. However, the sales price was just a fraction of the $5.5 million asking price.

Surely a home visited by Davy Jones, Joe Namath, Don Drysdale and Johnny Bravo should be worth at least $4 million. (My view may be obscured by the fact that no famous person ever visited my childhood house, unless one of my sisters' boyfriends became a famous serial killer or something. Which is a definite possibility.)

The home has an interesting history. It was built in 1959, which was when Greg was 3, Peter was a newborn and the Brady men were living there with Mike and their soon-to-be deceased mom, whom they pretended never existed (one theory: the first Mrs. Brady was a Russian spy who didn't die, but "disappeared" and the family was told to never talk about it).

After the show ended, the interior of the home (never actually shown on TV) continued to evolve to modern styles (like when Mike switched to a perm hairstyle). In 2018, HGTV purchased the house and used it as the site of "A Very Brady Remodel," in which the home was remade to look like the interior shots from the TV show. That entailed adding a second floor, which was lacking (and necessary for Peter to fool around and break Carol's beloved vase).

When the home again went on the market, the owners and real estate agents obviously thought it would bring a large offer. They probably also thought "George Glass" was really Jan's boyfriend and that Peter and Bobby really saw a UFO in the backyard.

Heck, Bobby and Cindy had a better chance at breaking the world record on the seesaw than the owners had of getting the full asking price.

Still, the owners presumed that in a world where Marilyn Monroe's "subway dress" sold for more than $5 million and Michael Jackson's jacket from the "Thriller" video went for nearly $2 million, there would be some rich baby boomer who wanted to own a famous house with orange Formica counters and a brick wall with appliances (some of which were decorative only) in the kitchen.

They should have known better: As Mike Brady once told Bobby after the youngest son bragged about knowing Joe Namath, "When you bluff, someone may call you on it."

Of course, there's possibly another reason the home sold for so far below the asking price: Maybe there were significant problems and tattle-tale Cindy couldn't keep her mouth shut. If that's the case, even someone with eyes as bad as Jan's could have seen a price drop coming.

In the end, HGTV got $3.2 million, not $5.5 million. It turns out the high price wasn't much more than a hunch.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

Unfortunately, some life skills (burping, skipping rocks, spitting) aren't universal

I can't spit.

Oh, sure, I can project saliva from my mouth, but not in a way that consistently clears my chin. It's a "skill" I lack (and which I lamented early in life, attributing it to the fact that I had only sisters and that my dad didn't spit).

Spitting is a taken-for-granted life skill by those who have such abilities.

Does it matter? Not really. But many (most?) of us go through life having at least one or two things that others do easily and we can't.

I'm not talking about playing a guitar or doing math in our head or being able to touch a basketball rim. I'm talking about basic life skills that we take for granted.

Here are eight of them:

8. Snapping fingers. How hard is this? Well, maybe answer this: How would you describe how to snap fingers to someone who can't? "Just rub your thumb and a finger together quickly?" Something else? (Note: I've largely lost this ability as arthritis has sapped my knuckles, which is pathetic. How hard is it to snap? Fairly hard these days).

7. Raising a single eyebrow. This was highlighted 20 years ago by The Rock and indicates disbelief or machismo – I think. It's easy if you know how to do it, (I do). It's impossible if you don't know how to do it (Mrs. Brad doesn't. Her efforts to do so result in her screwing up her face and both eyebrows raising the same).

6. Skipping rocks. I guess this is an athletic achievement, but there are people who can throw a ball hard who can't skip rocks and there are others who can barely throw, but can skip rocks. Again, how would you describe how to do this? "Just bounce the rock across the surface of the water?" Easier said than done, apparently.

5. Rolling your tongue. The only thing I remember from my biology class in college was that genetics determine whether you can make a tunnel of sorts with your tongue. Oh, I remember another thing: When the professor said that, everyone in the room tried to roll their tongue.

4. Loud whistling. The ability to quickly whistle loudly to get attention is admirable (and irritating), but not automatic. Many of us have tried to whistle loudly, only to have a meek whistle escape our lips. That's embarrassing.

3. Cracking knuckles. I can't do this. I've never have been able to do this, while my friends confidently pop their knuckles and look smug. Or that's my interpretation of them.

2. Burping. The stereotype persists of the dumb college-age guy belching on command (maybe to a song as his friends laugh? Maybe with an incredible lack of self-awareness?). But we all burp – unless you don't know how. I've been able to burp since early elementary school, but I couldn't tell you how to do it.

1. Spitting. The ability to be cool and spit isn't as important as in cowboy days (I can't imagine surviving in the Wild West without being to spit) but from experience, I can tell you that rolling with your 13-year-old friends and having spit trickle down your chin isn't great.

The fact that I can't do two of the top three items on my list proves the Rolling Stones were right: You can't always get what you want (spitting, cracking knuckles) but if you try sometime, you just might find you get what you need (rolling your tongue, burping, raising a single eyebrow).

It's a snap (unless you can't do that).

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

Casual clothing rules at workplaces, just like the DR in the 1990s

How do you dress for work? If you wear "business casual" or "casual street clothes," you're in the majority, according to a Gallup poll conducted in August.

According to Gallup, 41% of respondents said they wear "business casual" clothing, which the survey-takers described as clothing such as blouses, dress pants, dressy jeans or skirts for women. Gallup described "casual street clothes" for women as things like casual jeans, T-shirts or leggings.

I'm a guy and I presume business casual means slacks and a collared shirt. Casual street clothes to me would be . . . I don't know. Maybe casual jeans, T-shirts or leggings? I've never heard clothes described as "casual street clothes" and that's despite occasionally being in the room  while Mrs. Brad watches "Project Runway," where designers dress their models in papier-mâché dunce caps and sleeves that connect their arms to their shoes.

Back to work clothes: The biggest shift since 2019 (according to Gallup) is a dramatic drop in the percentage of respondents who wear business professional, which is "suit or equivalent" for both men and women. Was there some landmark event that happened between 2019 and 2023 to explain the cause? I mean other than the Dodgers winning a fluke World Series after a 2020 baseball season that was cut short.

The main point of the Gallup survey is that most workplaces – Gallup included "uniforms" as a possible answer, so this survey appears to cover restaurants, offices, the military, schools, professional sports, etc. – embrace casual dress.

What a difference from my childhood. My dad was an accountant and he wore a suit to work. Slacks, jacket, tie. He wore shiny shoes. He had one of those Dick Tracy-type raincoats for bad weather (and I grew up in Eureka, so he took that raincoat to work about 200 days a year).

My friends' dads had a variety of jobs, but almost all of them wore suits or uniforms. They worked at the mills or were plumbers or worked in a nursery. They all wore suits or uniforms. My friends' moms who worked all wore dresses (or pantsuits if they were "liberated").

There was no "business casual" in the 1970s as far as I knew. Of course, as far as I knew, nobody's dad was cheating on their mom. As far as I knew, drunk driving was funny and smoking wasn't too bad. It was the 1970s, man.

My current workplace is business casual. I generally wear jeans and a collared shirt, although T-shirts are OK. When I started there in 2014, slacks were required, so times have changed.

Most of my career at the Daily Republic was as a sports editor, so my staff and I all wore a uniform. Well, kind of. We generally dressed in shorts and either a T-shirt or a jersey. And basketball shoes.

It was fantastic, but at one point, management decided we should dress "professionally," That meant someone would cover a softball game or track meet in a 100-degree heat and have to wear pants and a collared shirt, which made them the only person in attendance dressed that way.

Finally, management relented and let us resume dressing like slobby college kids.

Turns out that Daily Republic management in the 1990s was just ahead of its time. Relenting to allow casual dress (if jorts, a second-hand New York Giants football jersey and Nikes is "casual") simply put them 30 years ahead of their time.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

How my enthusiastic idea nearly led to a massive forest fire

In retrospect, it was a terrible idea.

In retrospect, another adult should have seen the problem coming.

In retrospect, I was 19, so I wouldn't have listened to them.

I was nearly responsible for starting a fire that could have burned thousands of acres of Northern California forest. Thousands of acres! And it would have been hard to mount a defense for my negligence: My only legal defense would have been enthusiasm.

I was 19, but my lack of judgment could create chaos. Not a terribly lofty position, but one where they turned me loose.

I was the activities director at a church summer camp – responsible for planning all activities, games and entertainment for a full week for about 100 junior high and high school students deep in the woods, where they stayed eight-to-a-cabin in rustic lean-tos.

I'd been a camper there – it was where I'd become a Christian a few years earlier – and was a camp counselor the year before. This time, I was "promoted" to activities director, mostly because of my enthusiasm and energy. Mrs. Brad – my girlfriend at that time, so not yet Mrs. Brad – was a counselor.

It was a fun job if you like running around and having a bullhorn (I liked both). It was 16 hours a day of mustering enthusiasm, organizing camp games (dodgeball, water balloon volleyball, tug-of-war, kickball) and being the emcee for the evening entertainment.

The week went pretty well (except when Mrs. Brad got irritated when I decided to be the "chair umpire" for volleyball and stacked several milk crates on top of each other to put me about 10 feet in the air, showing off).

Until the "Camp Olympics."

I was a sports fan. I'd participated in Camp Olympics as a camper and counselor. I wanted this event to be a memorable spectacle for the kids. I wanted it to be like the real Olympics.

What kicks off the real Olympics? The Olympic torch, of course. People carry the torch for miles and miles and miles, ultimately lighting a cauldron at the site of the real Olympics.

We could do that! (You're an adult. You recognize this is a bad idea)

I enlisted one of the kids – a high school cross-country runner – as the "torch bearer." He'd run into camp with the torch while I was explaining the games to the rest of the campers. (You're an adult. You see the problem.)

A torch? Simple: We'd find a stick, soak some old rags in gasoline, wrap them around the stick and light them. It would be a perfect torch! He could run through the dried forest with it. (You're an adult. Where were you when I was 19 and proposing this idea?)

The inevitable happened. As the kid ran, pieces of burning cloth fell into the bushes, starting small brush fires. Then more. He didn't know he was igniting a series of fires, so he kept running.

Fortunately, several of my friends – working as dishwashers/security guards/lifeguards/gofers – saw what was happening. They raced to fill buckets with water (we didn't have much. There was just a tower with several hundred gallons of water), then ran to douse the flames. They used blankets to snuff other flames. Brushfires kept starting.

I saw what was happening and did what came naturally: I panicked and prayed for intervention.

Somehow, the fire was put out. (I attribute it to divine intervention. And fast-thinking friends.)

The Olympics went on. Kids sprinted across rocky fields holding eggs on spoons, raced piggy-back into the swimming hole, downed gross food and played ping-pong and disc golf. One team, presumably, won.

At the end of the day, the only people who realized how close I came to starting a huge fire in the Northern California forests were my dishwasher friends, me and a few adults (who should have warned me).

The lesson? Enthusiasm is great, but it needs wisdom. Also, never underestimate the power of divine intervention.

And your friends.

Also, a 10-foot-high milk crate tower is awesome.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

My modest proposal for a new Solano County town

Yes, the rumors are true: I'm been planning a new city in Solano County.

No, it's not that one. I'm talking about Bradville.

Of course, you've heard all about the proposed Camelot to be built by tech billionaires who bought up thousands and thousands of acres between Fairfield and Rio Vista. The idea is to build a "European-style city" (one that gets steamrolled every 50 to 100 years by a massive war?) on what is now agricultural land.

There's been plenty of noise about that, much of it from local residents and officials who say they won't let it happen.

That's not my city.

Bradville is more modest. I can't afford to buy any land, so I'm hoping the county will just give me the land. Maybe as an alternative to the proposed uber-town, allowing Solano leadership to say, "We've already started a new city. It's called Bradville. Why do we need another one?"

Bradville is the town. The time is now.

Frankly, I'm not an urban planner. I'm not even an urbane planner (Webster's definition of urbane: notably polite or polished in manner). But I've got a great idea: A town that's a mixture of Andy Griffith's Mayberry and a postcard (one that creates a false memory of how things used to be).

So here's the plan: All I need is maybe 100 acres, maybe less. Enough room to build Bradville with maybe 10 houses and a coffee shop/gas station/post office/city hall where residents will hang out and chat. Where all the residents of Bradville will feel at home. Kind of like "Cheers."

OK. So it's a combination of "The Andy Griffith Show" and "Cheers."

We won't need schools: Our students can commute to the nearest town for their education. We can even get by without law enforcement, having the Solano County Sheriff's Office on patrol.

We would, however, have some special laws. And as the King of Bradville (in case I forgot to mention it, that's part of the plan), I would enforce them with a strong hand.

For instance, there would be no backing into parking spots. I don't care that you have a big truck or that it makes you nervous to back into a parking spot. Just pull into the spot. Violate that and lose your car.

Also, folks in Bradville would not be allowed to use the phrase "what-not." Sure, we're friendly and folksy, but not rubes (my apologies if you use the phrase, you rube.).

Oh, and no Raiders fans, either. Sorry. You scare us. We'll allow Tony Wade to write about our history, though (as long as he does all interviews by phone and stays out of Bradville).

In Bradville, we'll have regular suburban houses and streets, because we're not pretentious. The gas station (part of the mixed-use building that includes the coffee shop, post office and city hall) will give away bobbleheads and antenna balls, like in the old days. The person working the front desk at the city hall/post office (they may be combined) will always be friendly and know your name.

Here's the best part: There's no big risk. Bradville will be like Birds Landing or Collinsville – two towns that are in the targeted area – but it will be incorporated. A real town. With a king.

Does the other proposed new city concern you? Are you baffled as to why someone would build another town? Do you think they might not realize how hard it will be to plant "a million" trees? Do they not know that all trees will lean at a 45-degree angle to the east due to the wind?

Those problems won't exist in Bradville, which will feel like the towns in those cheesy Hallmark movies. And the "Andy Griffith Show." And "Cheers."

Reach Brad Stanhope, king of the proposed town of Bradville, at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

Research shows that tattoos are common among most groups

When I was a kid, the only people with tattoos were World War II vets, ex-cons and circus performers.

In 2023, having a tattoo means you're probably a woman, aged 18 to 49.

The first part isn't documented, although it was my perception as a kid. The second isn't specifically true, either, but it's statistically likely. According to a survey by the Pew Research Center, 56% of American women aged 18 to 29 have at least one tattoo. Fifty-six percent! And 53% of women 30 to 49 have one or more tattoos.

If you're a woman in that age group (again 18 to 49) without a tattoo, you're in the minority. Not a tiny minority, but you're outnumbered.

In case you're interested, among the major population groups, those least likely to have tattoos are people who are 65 or older and Asians. By the way, don't come at me if you're Asian and have a tattoo or if you're over 65 and have a tattoo. I'm not saying you're wrong, I'm just citing stats. (And I'm probably afraid of you because my childhood perception that ex-cons have tattoos remains in my brain.)

The Pew survey says that 32% of Americans have a tattoo and 22% have more than one. A higher percentage of women have tattoos than men, 38% to 27%.

This isn't small change: The tattoo market in America is expected to bring in more than $2 billion in 2023 and grow to nearly $4 billion by 2030. That's about $6 per person in 2023–which is significant since many people (even those who have tattoos) won't get one in 2023. There is, if you're unaware, no subscription fee to keep your tattoo. You pay once and you get it for life, kind of like that email list that won't remove you.

The Pew survey broke it down even more. The more education you have, the less likely you are to have a tattoo. The more money you make, the less likely you are to have a tattoo. But the differences aren't that great: 21% of upper-income Americans and 21% of Americans with graduate degrees have tattoos. Presumably, something that says "Masters Degree" or "$$$$$." Or "Ma$ter$ Degree")

I don't have a tattoo and neither does Mrs. Brad. However, we're now within shouting distance of the 65-plus category. However, both of our sons have multiple tattoos. One has "sleeves" on both arms.

So tats are everywhere. Your boss might have a tattoo. The neighbor who watches your house when you're gone may have one. The person who does your taxes and the crossing guard at your kid's school may have tattoos.

The fact that one-third of us have tattoos answers the question that was asked a generation ago: Will those people who get tattoos regret their decisions when they get old?

The answer is no. They'll be normal. Many of their peers in their senior community will have tattoos.

There will eventually be a generation of older people with tattoos of flowers or dragons or of a "Harry Potter" character. It will be attributed to growing up in the 1990s and 2000s.

Of course, those with the "Ma$ter$ Degree" tattoo will talk about how their tattoo was key to them getting rich. If I'm still around, I'll suspect they had a summer job with the circus.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.