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

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

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

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

If you're eccentric.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is going to be the best Christmas ever!

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

There's no parallel for my ability to park

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

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

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

I can parallel park! I am great at it!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because I'm really good at it.

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

When every purchase was meaningful, confusing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It reminded me of being in their position.

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

I was a saver, not a spender.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did I waste my money on something not worth it?

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

For me, at least.

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

End of summer brings blues, football, notes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who wouldn't love that?

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

Yes, Solano County.

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

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

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

Big Floss perpetuates big dental lie

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

Daily flossing will save your teeth.

It will prevent heart problems.

It will improve your life.

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

Turns out it's not necessarily true.

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

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

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

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

Big Floss.

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

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

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

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

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

Says who? Big Paint?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still . . .

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

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

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

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

I want to be famous enough for an AP obit

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I've got plenty of time!

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

Musings on great art, the color palette

Mrs. Brad was talking with a friend and I was listening.

Except it sounded like gibberish: They were discussing art.

I like art. Specifically, I like Art Howe, Art Monk, Art Garfunkel and Art Linkletter. But on a different level, I enjoy works of art. The statue of David. The statue of Willie Mays. The painting of dogs playing poker. Finding Waldo. All the great art of the world.

But colors? They make me laugh.

In the discussion referenced earlier, Mrs. Brad and her friend were looking at a color palette, discussing the names. As if they made sense.

Sap green. Payne's gray. Cadmium yellow light. Quina-cridone magenta. (To be fair, they didn't say those. I found those on a color wheel. But they said words like that.)

It was all mumbo jumbo, which is typical. Everybody takes what we understand and makes it complicated.

It's like medicine, where they come up with drugs that start with X or Z to treat a malady that has a multisyllabic name ("Take new Xaxoplaxin, to treat the symptoms of Ribertosom Syndrome.")

Similarly, listen to the sideline reporter at a sports event, explaining how your favorite player has an abrasion on his head and a contusion on his hip. Oh no! It's serious: a scrape on his face and a bruised hip.

Anyway, it's the same thing with colors, although there's apparently a reason for it.

Turns out that, contrary to what I believed in my childhood, there are more than 64 colors.

Seriously. Shocking, right?

Sixty-four seemed like a lot – and that was the outer limit, of course, because that was size of the Mac Daddy of crayon boxes, which only rich or artistic kids possessed. The 64-crayon box with a sharpener? To me, that must have included every conceivable color, a fact made obvious by the inclusion of not just blue, but sky blue and blue-green.

(We can't ignore, of course, the "flesh" crayon. Not only was that racist, it was wrong. That was not even my skin color. And it creeped me out to call it "flesh," which seemed like something a monster would eat.)

Anyway, it turns out there are more than 64 colors. And it turns out that the naming committee for the colors has the freedom to go crazy.

Cerulean blue, by the way, is next to patholo blue on our palette – which actually is a color-mixing guide. In other words, it allows you to combine burnt sienna with raw umber and come up with a new color (medium slumber?).

You want your house to be white? Do you mean eggshell, alabaster or chiffon porcelain?

That's a blue shirt? Do you mean navy, Aegean, azure, admiral or arctic?

And those are the fundamental colors – the ones that Big Paint, the conglomeration of major paint producers, largely agree on.

Here's all I know: When Cassius Marcellus Coolidge was painting, he probably didn't use terms like eggshell, raw umber and patholo blue. The great Coolidge likely used white, brown and blue on his masterpiece.

Who's he? Oh, I guess I get to play the role of art expert now: Coolidge, of course, was the American genius who painted the "Dogs Playing Poker" series starting in the 1890s.

Sap green, indeed.

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

What price safety? Maybe we should ask Graham

Safety first. Unless, of course, it makes you look like Graham, because sometimes safety is overrated.

Even car safety.

First, a caveat: I'm not talking about safety belts (why wouldn't you wear them?) or air bags (one of the great advances of modern society). I don't mean vehicles that are determined to be particularly safe (I can't afford a Hummer and don't have a Subaru or Volvo, but I respect them). I look forward to the self-driving cars. Until then, I would be OK with wearing a helmet while driving if someone I respected said it was a difference-maker.

Safety is important. But if you're talking about having a body designed to survive car crashes? No thanks.

Sound crazy? You haven't met the aforementioned Graham.

Yes, Graham.

He's the interactive, life-sized sculpture version of a human designed by an Australian artist out of silicone and hair (like Pamela Anderson!) to represent how a human could best survive car crashes.

It begs this question: In an era when athletes take performance-enhancing drugs to excel at their sport, does it make sense for a serious commuter to undergo surgery to be able to survive any car crash?

You might want to look at Graham before you answer.

The Aussie artist, named Patricia Piccinini, consulted with trauma surgeons (my theory: One was Aussie singer Rick Springfield, who played Dr. Noah Drake in the 1980s on TV's "General Hospital") about what would help a human survive a car wreck.

The result? Graham. He looks like the missing link, even on his website in which he appears wearing only gym shorts: www.meetgraham.com.au.

Graham has an extra-thick rib cage with air sacs to help absorb the blow of a collision. He has a flattened face and larger skull. He has thicker skin (which might come in handy when people make fun of him). Graham's legs are multiple-jointed, going both ways. They end with hooves.

Graham might survive a car crash, but his social life would be a train wreck.

A CNN.com article about Graham quoted David Logan, a crash investigation expert at a research center in Melbourne, as saying, "It's really about understanding the physics behind road crashes, and (Piccinini) did a fantastic job of interpreting that and creating something that is really able to be digested by anyone from what is some quite complex physics."

Well, maybe.

Once I saw Graham, I couldn't stop thinking of what his life would be like. On the worst days of my life, I look like a male model next to Graham.

It's interesting to think about what could make us more able to survive auto accidents (which kill 30,000 Americans a year) and nearly any advance is a good one.

But Piccinini's creation – Fordenstein? – brings to mind wisdom shared by Richie Cunningham in a classic episode of "Happy Days," when he spurned his father's desire to move to a bomb shelter due to fear of nuclear war: "I'd rather live now than just survive later."

Pretty deep, right?

Graham's appearance, however, brought a more salient observation by my friend Teresa.

"He might survive a car crash," she said. "But he'd never survive middle school."

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

Lassen Park camping trip ends with a whimper

There are many synonyms for cold: Frigid. Brisk. Nippy. Shivery. Icy. Glacial.

Here's another: Camping.

That's the main takeaway from a recent trip to Lassen Volcanic National Park by Mrs. Brad and me.

We decided to camp at Lassen for the first time since our sons were in elementary school. We would again stay at the ominously named Summit Lake campground, but global cooling obviously hit the region since our last trip.

How else do you explain mid-July nights that prompt whimpering?

Yes. Whimpering. You'll see.

First, the great part. Lassen Park – east of Redding, in northeastern California – is spectacular. It's one of our state's hidden treasures, a 106,000-acre park with geysers, Lassen Peak (10,500 feet!), isolated lakes and more than 150 miles of hiking paths.

It's a fantastic place to camp and relax. Until night. Then, it's a fantastic place to freeze.

Mrs. Brad and I arrived on a beautiful Sunday afternoon, with the temperature around 75. Of course, our campground was 7,000 feet above sea level.

Of course, we saw snow (in July!) in the park.

Of course, we knew it would be chilly at night.

Of course, we underestimated it.

We set up camp. We walked around the campground. We ate dinner. We built a fire. We tried to avoid getting smoke in our eyes. We went to bed at about 9:30 p.m., after watching the sky fill with stars.

As we crawled into our sleeping bags, we knew it would be chilly: The weather app on my phone told me so. We wore hoodies and put an extra blanket over our 30-year-old department-store sleeping bags. Good enough, right?

Wrong.

It was cold. It was uncomfortable. Our pillows felt like they were filled with sand (does pillow stuffing freeze?). I struggled to fall asleep and so did Mrs. Brad. After several hours, knowing the sun would soon come up, I checked my watch.

It was 11:30 p.m. Oh, no.

It got colder. I slept. I woke up. I shivered. I rolled over. I grabbed a coat and used it as an extra blanket. I slept. I woke up. I checked my watch. It was 12:15 a.m., 45 minutes after the last time I checked.

The endless night continued. Every once in a while, Mrs. Brad and I were awake at the same time and spoke. Through chattering teeth. We commiserated.

Finally, morning. Finally, sun. I  turned on our car and it was 41 degrees. It felt colder.

Soon, though, it was a glorious day, perfect for a hike (where we saw more snow!), relaxing, reading, dinner, fire, stars, bedtime.

Night No. 2 was different. I wore my big jacket to bed. I wore jeans. I wrapped a blanket around me, like a mummy. I was prepared for an endless night of cold. So was Mrs. Brad.

This time, I slept until 1 a.m. The cold only woke me four or five times the rest of the night. Mrs. Brad? Not so good. The next morning – after I got up at 6 a.m. and paced around for an hour, looking for the first patch of sun – she awoke and told me she was miserable.

How miserable?

"I woke up during the night and could hear myself whimpering."

That, thankfully, was our last night before continuing to a hotel, which had a heater, air conditioning, shower and a bed. Paradise.

We love Lassen and would do it again. But next time, we'll go in the summer when it's . . . oh, never mind. We went in July!

Perhaps it's time to update our sleeping bags.

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

Making my bucket list official

Climb Mount Everest. Run with the bulls. Skydive. See Stevie Wonder perform.

When people talk about their "bucket list," they usually include items like that. Our bucket lists, of course, are the things we want to do before we die. As people age, they become more aware of the bucket list. Then it recedes.

I say that because it seems that 40-year-olds talk most about bucket lists. My 85-year-old dad? Never talks about it (or perhaps he does, but has the volume on the TV turned up so loud no one can hear him).

Anyway, it's valuable for me to share my bucket list – partly because it creates a sense of accountability, partly because it might inspire someone, partly because I'm expected to turn in 500 words a week on a subject of my choice.

My bucket list is different from yours. That's because we're different. And because my bar is set low.

Here we go . . . before I die, I hope to:

• Eat at Athenian Grill.**
• See a ventriloquist perform without cringing.
• Have my teeth cleaned by the dentist without sweating through a shirt.
• Remember that the food at the Solano County Fair sounds exotic and delicious, but usually leaves me bloated and sluggish.
• Go big.
• Go home.**
• Watch a full movie on the Lifetime Network without laughing.
• Travel to Turkey . . . or eat turkey.**
• Make an actual list of buckets: Mop, water, wooden, metal. Mo . . .
• Remember whether or not there's a second "e" in judgment (or "judgement") without looking it up.
• Get to a movie early enough to see all the pre-show programming.
• Dye my hair jet black and insist that "it's always been this way."
• Rip off each side-view mirror from my car while backing out of the garage.**
• Teach my dog to poop in the toilet.*
• Watch "The Bucket List," a 2007 Morgan Freeman/Jack Nicholson movie.
• Drink a cup of coffee every morning for a week.**
• See the Giants, 49ers and Warriors win championships.**
• Find a loophole that allows me to retransmit, rebroadcast or make another use of the pictures, descriptions and accounts of a sporting event without the express written consent of the team or league.
• Go to a concert for an Air Supply tribute band.
• Show up late to the Air Supply tribute band's concert and explain that I was making good progress, then I got lost in love.
• Challenge a traffic ticket while wearing one of those white wigs and calling the judge "your eminence."
• Time travel to be a star of a 1970s "blaxploitation" film.
• Become the first person to officially not like Sara Lee.
• Drive away from a gas station with the gas pump still connected to my car.**
• Go to an air show at Travis Air Force Base.*
• Have Stevie Wonder see me perform.
• Get back to my birth weight.
• Write a 500-word column about my bucket list.**

(*Probably won't do this. **Have already done this.)

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