My life as the world's oldest sign-spinner

Time to add another job to my LinkedIn profile: Sign-spinner.

There I was, on the sidewalk in Concord, becoming possibly the first-ever sign spinner born during the Kennedy administration. While I usually don't usually brag about my dexterity, I only dropped the sign a few times (more on that later) and my knuckles only got a few injuries from the cardboard.

Kind of a success.

Yes, sign-spinning. On a busy street corner. By someone who has a grandchild.

It was Easter Sunday and I was "greeting" at the church where Mrs. Brad and I now attend. It's an awesome, energized, growing place and we're thrilled to be a part of it. I regularly help greet people anyway, so when asked if I could jump in to help on the "Super Bowl Sunday of Christianity," (apologies to Jesus) I was all in. Easter greeting!

I went to the pregame meeting and got my assignment. Along with Chris and S.J. (both millennials), I was sent out to hold a sign and wave at people who drive on the busy thoroughfare next to the church campus.

The sign had a friendly phrase and S.J. mentioned that I should cover up the part that said, "Happy Mother's Day" (which, to be fair, was in small print. And isn't Easter kind of a better version of Mother's Day? And really, shouldn't every day be Mother's Day?).

I was there.

Me. A gray-haired man whistling an Eagles song while holding the sign. And feeling awkward. Because of the second sentence in this paragraph.

Until . . . I thought about spinning the sign. Chris and S.J. were bouncing their signs and waving at friendly motorists – many of whom pulled into the church's multiple parking lots. But I starting spinning the sign. I was a sign spinner, like the young people who dance and spin signs along busy roadways. All I needed were ear buds and some hip-hop on my phone.

I twirled the sign. I rotated it 360 degrees. I went faster, wondering if I could get the sign spinning fast enough that it would lift me off the ground.

People honked and waved, most likely at Chris and S.J., but possibly at me ("Mommy, is that grandpa spinning the sign?" "No, dear, Grandpa is dead. But bless that man's heart. He probably doesn't know where he is.")

I got better at it. I checked my watch a few times, seeing how much longer I needed to stay out and I dropped the sign a couple of times and picked it back up. Nobody noticed.

Then I went for a spectacular spin and . . .

Dropped the sign, which slid into the street.

I bent down to pick it up, stepped out and realized that . . . I stopped traffic.

The sign-spinning old man clumsily dropped his sign in the middle of a busy street just as the traffic backed up. How sad!

The driver in the first car smiled and waved at me. I waved back, staggering back to the sidewalk.

And thought, "I have a grandchild. I am spinning signs."

Then I thought more about it.

It was Easter. I was spinning a sign that invited people to hear the most important message in the world: The resurrection of Jesus and the opportunity for new life.

So I kept spinning. And waving.

But frankly, I may avoid sign-spinning next Easter. Because I'm a grandfather who was born during the Kennedy administration, for crying out loud. Let the kids do that.

I'll get a rocking chair and shout at cars to slow down.

And reminisce about my old days as a sign-spinner.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Is strategic grocery bagging wise?

Who knew there is a right way to bag groceries? Other than "don't put eggs under a gallon of milk," I've long insisted that there is no correct way.

Friends, however, disagree. Unfortunately, they have support from the grocery-bagging community.

I do virtually all of our shopping for groceries and have done so since Mrs. Brad and I married, despite the fact that I am a terrible cook. A grocery list and willingness to navigate a grocery store will get you places.

Anyway, I have always insisted that it doesn't matter how you bag groceries, as long as nothing breaks.

I openly make fun of baggers who want to put toiletries in a separate plastic bag inside my paper bag. I argue that it won't hurt the vegetables if they touch cough syrup–or even a cereal box.

I take the groceries straight home and put them away. I don't need similar groceries to be in the same bag and in fact, I secretly believe that is a way to create food ghettos.

Right? Isn't a policy of only allowing canned food to be next to other canned food similar to the disgraced former policies in Central and Eastern Europe? (Pay no attention to how we store food. That's a different issue. This is about transportation from the grocery store to my home.)

My philosophy was foolproof. What rational person would disagree?

How about Alex?

We had a discussion about grocery shopping at work recently (I'm sure it had to do with our job. Probably.) and my friend Alex revealed that not only does she organize her grocery list by category (all produce together, all meat together, etc.), she has a strict strategy about bagging groceries.

Similar foods go together. They have to go together, according to Alex. She will put her groceries on the counter in a way to make it clear how they should be bagged.

The sound of my eyes rolling may have been audible. Until . . .

Alex said that cashiers and baggers have complimented her on her strategy.

My immediate reaction was to do what I always do when someone disagrees with me: Make fun of them, then check on the internet to confirm that they're crazy.

Alex isn't crazy.

An article on a website called Insider (presumably about people who never go outdoors) revealed that a survey of people who bag groceries for a living showed that they agree with Alex. Put cold food with cold food. Produce with produce. Put toiletries in their own bags. Bag delicate items (bread, eggs) separate from everything else.

I've spent my life considering that an obsessive-compulsive disorder ("I must have my groceries bagged in a certain way. Don't let the toilet paper container touch the potatoes!") is in fact the correct strategy, according to experts.

It's like when the football statistical experts first suggested that it would be smartest to never punt or baseball statistics experts said a walk was indeed as good as a hit.

Crazy, right? Except for one thing: Apparently, most of the world already knew this. My philosophy that it doesn't matter how you bag groceries as long as you don't break the eggs is outside of mainstream thought.

You should organize your groceries for the ride home. Keep similar items together.

Maybe I will do that. Maybe I'll change decades of behavior. Maybe I'll be like Alex and organize my shopping list and my grocery bag, to ensure that everything stays pure.

Or maybe that's a conspiracy to keep vegetables from mixing with cereal and canned goods, so they'll never realize how powerful they are.

Diversity forever!

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Pilgramage to labyrinth falls short of a-mazing

It sounded worthy of a pilgrimage: A labyrinth!

Since Mrs. Brad and I moved from Suisun City to our new home last summer, we've explored the region. Not only have we visited nearby cities and attractions (anything with the word "reservoir" in it has been hiked), but we've looked around the community immediately surrounding our home.

We like to walk, so we've visited hiking trails. We like to read, so we've visited the library. I love to play basketball, so I've gone to the gym. We've checked out the golf courses and the swimming pools.

But a mysterious labyrinth kept cropping up in the community newspaper, with directions  ("To get to the labyrinth . . .").

It had to be cool, right? Maybe mystical? The fact that the directions weren't simple (they involved a few turns and several estimated distances you needed to traverse between them) made it even better. If you went 0.2 miles past a sign and turned on a fire road? Awesome.

I envisioned something like the Cool Patch Pumpkins  maze in Dixon. Except this was a labyrinth, which seemed more . . . zenlike . . . than a simple maze. There would be something spiritual about it, something otherworldly.

The difficulty to reach it made that more likely, right?

On a recent Saturday, we decided to check it out. We knew it wasn't too long a hike and I took a photograph of the directions from the newspaper, so we'd have in my phone. We headed up the hill across the valley from our home.

The walk wasn't too steep and we pushed on. Our excitement built. We were going to see the labyrinth!

Twenty minutes, 30 minutes. Not bad.

We walked through neighborhoods we didn't know existed . . . the mystery was deepening. This was like a hike to another world! I checked my directions.

"It says in two-tenths of a mile, there's a sign on the right," I told Mrs. Brad. "The sign says . . . 'labyrinth.' "

We pushed forward, up the hill and saw the sign. "Labyrinth." Almost there!

We walked on the fire road. We could feel the pull. "A sign!" I shouted. "It says labyrinth, 240 feet."

The labyrinth was just up the hill.

Excited, we headed up the hill, looked under the trees and saw it.

A labyrinth.

Of small rocks.

On the ground.

It was a maze laid out on the ground, with large gravel. You could walk through it, I guess, although it would be easier to just step over the rocks.

It was a labyrinth, but it was a labyrinth in the same way that the puzzles in the "Highlights" magazine for kids are a labyrinth.

I felt like Ralphie  in the "A Christmas Story" movie, when he drinks gallons of Ovaltine to get his Orphan Annie Secret Society decoder pin in the mail. Excitedly, he works to break the code . . . and it turns out that the "secret message" is to drink more Ovaltine. "A crummy commercial?" he asks.

A crummy labyrinth?

There's nothing wrong with the labyrinth. It's a perfectly fine layout of rocks. I'm sure people took plenty of time to get the rocks to the area and to create the design. I'm even sure the labyrinth has some spiritual meaning for someone (the person who sells rocks?).

But one of the mysteries of where we live is no longer a mystery. Our community labyrinth, the subject of frequent newspaper articles and discussion between Mrs. Brad and I, isn't that special.

The views from the labyrinth area are great. The hike was a challenge.

The labyrinth? It was like a commercial to drink more Ovaltine.

Time to head out to hike around a reservoir.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Not to create an atomspheric river on your parade, but . . .

Years ago – before the Internet – the Daily Republic had a  service where readers could phone in and hear a recording with winning lottery numbers, local sports scores, weather reports and more.

It was (kind of) interactive and it was the responsibility of those of us who worked on the news and sports copy desks to update the recordings every night before we went home.

I was the sports editor, but I often persuaded the copy desk folks to let me report the weather. I would do a parody of a TV newscaster or morning drive-time radio host, using a fake voice and breaking out neighborhood-specific references while making chatty references ("if you live out in Green Valley, it's not quite time to put away the umbrella. We expect a few spatterings of showers starting around the evening drive time Thursday. And of course it should get a little nippy again Friday morning up in Allendale . . .").

Here's what I wish I knew then: The term "atmospheric river."

That is, if you don't know, the weather term du jour for rain.

Read any newspaper or Internet article about rainstorms and you likely get to hear that "an atmospheric river will soak the Bay Area  Thursday . . ."

It's dreadful.

It's fantastic.

The phrase might be appropriate if it were only used for crazy storms. Perhaps "atmospheric river" would be an appropriate description for a series of storms that result in flooding and loss of property. But that's not how it's used. If we have a looming storm that will bring a half-inch of rain,  the weather people want to talk about an atmospheric river.

I love it, because it's colorful. Phrases that create a mental picture are the best: Cauliflower ears. A gullywasher. Hand caught in the cookie jar.

An atmospheric river.

But I hate the phrase because it is an exaggeration. Atmospheric river means that it's going to rain.

I guess I'd be OK if we just decided to describe all weather phenomena in the same way. A snowstorm would be an atmospheric avalanche. A windy day would be an atmospheric vacuum. A hot day would be an atmospheric oven. Summer would be an atmospheric desert.

In that way, I could justify – maybe – the use of atmospheric river.

But now? This is just a silly phrase. This the weather equivalent of "at the end of the day" or "if you build it, they will come" (a phrase I banned from the Daily Republic when I was a sports editor, because I had already used it about five times. Nobody else could do the same).

Whether "atmospheric river" will open the door to a series of imaginative weather descriptors or will be banished to the trash heap of  history remains to be seen, but I love it.

And I hate it.

However . . . I know how I would feel if I could go back in time and record more local weather reports on the Daily Republic phone service. I would be all in.

That's because I  understand it might get a little chilly over toward Elmira, so keep the scarves available. And don't be surprised if you see a little bit of frost on the windshield when you head out to work in the morning. And be ready for the evening commute, because it looks like we'll have an atmospheric river coming our way!

Man, I miss those recordings.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Social media videos, baseball predictions and more

We're heading into April, which means its time for spring cleaning – a chance for me to empty my metaphorical notebook filled with thoughts that aren't enough to complete a column, but are too important to ignore.

Well, maybe not too important (they include baseball and breakdancing) , but anyway, here we go . . .

•  The single most disturbing element of social media is how eagerly we rush to judgment about someone, based on a short video clip.

We've all seen clips of people behaving badly – calling others names, making absurd statements, getting in ridiculous confrontations. Often someone will share a 10-second video and the entire social media world will rush to post the most outraged comment, hoping to condemn the person forever.

Many times the criticism is deserved. The famous video of former NFL Ray Rice punching his wife is one example that fleshed out the narrative and showed he was deserving of punishment.

But other times, we just don't know. We don't know what happened before or after. We don't really know for sure what actually happened in the video.

I don't ask people to ignore what they see. We're in the video age and what we see is often what's true. Even if a video clip is only 10 seconds long, it's still (generally) an actual 10 seconds. It happened.

But wouldn't it be better if we could pull back first? What if we acknowledged that we might not know the whole story? The real story could be better, it could be worse.

But it's not the whole story.

Consider that the next time you see something.

Off my soapbox.

Today's topics du jour . . .

• Baseball season started, so it's nearly impossible for a former sports writer to avoid predictions. At least for the two Bay Area teams.

Unfortunately, there isn't a lot of reason for optimism for either. The Oakland A's are the better team of the two, but there's a lot of pressure on their young players who emerged last year to continue to improve. Add a spate of injuries and it seems unlikely that they will make the playoffs.

The San Francisco Giants, meanwhile, are at their lowest point in a decade, with an aging core and help still a year or two away. This could be a dismal season at the newly named Oracle Park.

My guess? Giants win about 70 of 162 games, A's win about 85.

A rough next six months.

• We call lions, tigers, jaguars and many other large predators "big cats." Aren't you glad that there aren't similarly sized "big dogs"?

Think about it: A canine version of a tiger.

Fortunately, the last "Big Dog" I knew was Glen Robinson, the first pick of the 1994 NBA draft who played 11 seasons in the league.

Still, "big dogs" is a terrifying prospect.

• Did you see that the organizers of the 2024 Paris Olympics want to add breakdancing as an official sport?

Really.

Of course it seems ridiculous, because . . . well, it's breakdancing.

But then you realize rhythmic gymnastics and synchronized swimming are both Olympic sports and suddenly breakdancing doesn't seem that crazy.

I'm going to go get cardboard and start preparing.

• I'd write more, but I need to go find that secret awful video of me and keep it off the internet.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Bambizilla is real and he's coming for us

It took 77 years, but Bambi and his mother are finally getting their revenge.

(Hold your breath . . . Brace yourself . . .)

We now are under threat from ZOMBIE DEER.

Seems funny, right? Ha ha ha ha.

Oh yeah zombie deer. Good one!

Well, you can laugh until Bambizilla eats you alive as your horrified family members scramble to safety, knowing that they, too, are doomed.

This is no joke. Zombie deer are a real thing.

As of last month, zombie deer were in 24 states and scientists have warned that the disease that causes the zombification (my word) could make the jump into humans. That, of course, can only happen if (and this part they didn't say, but I presume is true) the deer don't KILL US FIRST.

Now some background: The zombie illness is called chronic wasting disease and, like me, it's been around since the 1960s. Scientists say the disease is spread by the zombie-like pathogenic proteins that aren’t alive and can’t be killed.

Read that again.

THEY AREN'T ALIVE. THEY CAN'T BE KILLED.

In an infected animal, those pathogenic proteins eat away at the brain, causing symptoms that resemble dementia and eventually lead to death. After which, presumably (an opinion informed by watching "The Walking Dead"), the deer wander the Earth, seeking any kind of meat. Including humans.

When outbreaks come, the zombification is almost impossible to stop because, again, THE THINGS THAT CAUSE IT AREN'T ALIVE. They're zombies.

Scientists say that the prions turn the brains of the deer into "swiss cheese," which seems like it would be tasty with venison. Not in this case.

The zombie disease is similar to Mad Cow disease, the inspiration for the 1990s sitcom "Mad (Cow) About You," starring Paul Reiser, Helen Hunt and their pet cow. The fear is that humans will eat the deer and become more like Paul Reiser . . . wait a second, that's wrong. The fear is that the humans will become INFECTED WITH THE ZOMBIE DEER DISEASE.

It hasn't happened yet, but we've seen the movies. It will happen. And in all likelihood, the zombie deer will first come for us, knowing that we deserve it because not only have we joyfully eaten venison for years, we watched "Mad (Cow) About You" and laughed.

However, if you're looking for good news, there is some.

A map of the areas where Bambizillas were found shows that none have been found west of eastern Utah, about 800 miles from Solano County. Some quick research shows that cows walk at about 2 mph. Assuming they'd walk no more than 12 hours a day, that means it would take a minimum of 33 days to make the trip to Solano–and they have to cross the Sierra Nevada.

The bad news? When there's an outbreak in movies, it can quickly become an extinction event.

Am I saying deer will kill us all?

Am I saying it's inevitable that we will end up hiding from the walking dead of deer?

Am I saying that Bambizilla will get his revenge against all of us?

No. Not necessarily.

I am saying if it happens, we kind of deserve it for watching "Mad (Cow) About You" in the 1990s and laughing.

Bambizilla is coming.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Memories of our longtime pet and partner, Brandy

Brandy Stanhope was born on the first day of 2008. She died March 4, an 11-year-old who lived a full life of love.

Brandy was my dog. And, for many years, my sidekick.

"My dog died" columns are standard issue for writers, including me. About 15 years ago, I wrote about the death of our beloved Vida. Virtually everyone with a keyboard will memorialize their pet. Heck, John Grogan wrote about his dog Marley and ended up with a novel and movie.

Brandy gets mentioned here not only because she was a great dog, but because she was a regular part of my column and occasionally "sat in" for me while I was "on vacation." A few readers have a passing interest in her.

Brandy's death wasn't a surprise. Like many dogs – particularly larger dogs (she was a Weimaraner, weighing about 70 pounds) – she stayed a puppy seemingly forever, then went through a quick descent. When Mrs. Brad and I moved from our longtime Suisun City home to Walnut Creek last summer, we left Brandy to live with our son and daughter-in-law, who bought our home. We all knew she was near the end, because she was almost 11.

In February, her health slipped. In March, she died – eight days after we drove up to see her. Brandy wasn't eating. She had low energy. She got old fast.

I took her to the vet for her final visit on a Monday morning and sat on the floor with her as she slipped away.

Then I went to my car, texted my sons and wife and cried.

For her first nine years, I took Brandy for daily runs – me riding a bike, her running alongside. People would ask what breed she was (a greyhound?) as we ran on Sunset Avenue or on the path along Highway 12.

I left her in charge of the house when I would go to work ("You're in charge, Brandy. Don't let anything happen and have a good day.").

Mrs. Brad and I took her on walks and took her on vacations, including some amazing trips to Trinity County when Brandy went on hikes into the wilderness, running double the length of our trek, since she ran ahead and behind constantly.

Our sons were teenagers when Brandy came along and in a short time, she endeared herself to them and their friends.

Brandy loved people. Desperately. She would howl when she heard someone come home, acting as if she'd been alone for months. Weimaraners are weird that way.

This is no breaking news: Dogs love us unconditionally. Dogs make us laugh and comfort us when we're sad. Dogs are tied to memories.

Brandy will always be the dog who was smart and desperate for attention. She will always be the dog who could run faster than I could ride a bike.

Brandy will also always be a dog that was smart enough to figure out how doors worked, despite our repeated efforts to stump her.

She's also the last dog we'll have. Our new home doesn't really make sense for a pet, so Brandy retires as family champion.

She was loving, smart, energetic and loyal. Now we know how she felt when we left her behind, except she's not coming  home at the end of the workday.

Brandy's gone and the old saying is true: It's impossible to forget a dog that gave you so much to remember.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

My sure-thing pitch for an 'Uno' movie

Mattel is one of two American brands that dominate the toy market – last year, the company earned $4.5 billion, narrowly trailing Hasbro, which earned $4.6 billion. Despite that, Mattel is missing something: Movies.

Transformers is a Hasbro toy and a movie franchise. So are Battleship and G.I. Joe. Mattel has no significant movie franchises.

Until now.

The company recently announced it will launch a Barbie movie franchise, which is easy to envision. Same thing with Hot Wheels. Those movies will be big!

But Mattel is going beyond that. Are you ready for films about the View-Master?  How about Uno?

Yes. Finally. A movie about Uno.

Seem crazy? Maybe, but fortunately for Mattel, I've done some of the hard work with my screenplay script, which I now submit for your review:

INT: LIVING ROOM – EVENING

Family sits in a circle, playing cards. The youngest, 5-year-old MAX is excited. Older sister MINNIE and parents MOM and DAD also sit, not as excited. Minnie lays down a card, leaving her with three cards.

MAX

Uno!

MINNIE

I have three cards. You don't do that until there's just one.

MAX

Not true! Read the rules!

Minnie sighs and picks up two additional cards as camera pulls back to show both parents checking their watches. The film is set in the era before cellphones.

MAX

It's your turn, Mom!

Mom plays a 5, then a 3. Close-in shot shows she has only two cards left. Mom picks up a card. And another card and another card.

MAX

You can play an eight!

MOM

Nope. That's Crazy Eights, not Uno, dummy!

Mom, Dad and Minnie all throw their heads back, laughing. Mom finally gets a red 6 and plays it. Now it's Dad's turn. Dad plays a red 4.

MAX

Uno!

DAD

I have two cards.

MAX

But you will play that other card and only have one! You have to pick two cards! It's in the rules! Another rule is that my lines all end with exclamation marks!

DAD

The rules are . . .

MAX

You have to pick two cards! No fair! Quit cheating!

Camera pans to Mom, Dad and Minnie, all of whom roll their eyes. Inexplicably, the theme from "Dr. Zhivago" begins to play, followed by "Danger Zone." Dad picks two cards. Music fades.

MAX

This is fun! You had to pick cards! Now it's my turn!

Max plays a red 2, then a green 2, then a green 7.

MAX

Uno!

MINNIE

It's not time yet. You still have three cards.

MAX

I won't in a minute.

Max plays a blue 7 and a blue 5. He now has one card.

MAX

See? I have Uno  now! I was right!

MINNIE

But that's not the . . .

Max plays a Wild Draw 4 card, jumps up and begins to dance as the "Zhivago" theme returns. Scenes of horses pulling sleighs across the Russian snow are mixed with scenes of Max dancing.

MAX

I win! And you have to pick up four cards!

MINNIE

No, the game is over.

MAX

No fair! I gave her a pick-four wild card! She has to pick it! And I still have exclamation marks after everything I say! No fair!

Camera pans to show Mom, Dad and Minnie. Then zooms in on Max, moving closer, closer, closer. The lights flicker, then go out. In the dark, a blood-curdling scream. The lights come back on and Max is gone. Mom, Minnie and Dad sit in a circle.

DAD

Guess how many kids we have now?

MOM AND MINNIE

Uno!

The three of them unhinge their jaws, laughing. After a minute  of uninterrupted laughter – enough to make the audience uncomfortable – there's a knock at the door. Minnie looks at her parents, gets up and answers as the camera follows from behind. She opens the door to see a Magic 8 ball. Camera zooms in to show the words "Signs point to yes."

MINNIE

Noooooooooooo!

Camera fades to black and screen shows in white letters: COMING SUMMER 2020: UNO DOS: MAGIC 8 BALL, THE MOVIE.

You're welcome, Mattel.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Emoji additions add to confusion with communication

Someday, you'll regret using emojis. You'll regret texting that winking smiley face. You'll regret Tweeting the unicorn. You'll regret trusting an organization called the Unicode Consortium.

The Unicode Consortium? Yes that's the organization that approves new emojis. Is there anything more 2019 than that?

The Unicode Consortium (which sounds like either a scary multinational organization bent on world domination or a 1975 disco band) recently announced the approval of 59 new emoji (that's the plural) for 2019. Among the new emojis are an otter, ballet shoes, a yawning face and some long-overdue emojis for disabled people (including people in wheelchairs, guide dogs and an ear with a hearing aid).

While some of those may be overdue, I consider the new emojis hurtful. Because I consider all emojis hurtful.

It's just a way to pretend to say something while really using other people's words or images. And as I have written before – and will undoubtedly write again – there is a system for communicating with symbols and images. It's called written words.

The first emoji set was released in 1997 (I presume it had some "Seinfeld" and NSync emojis). Every year, there are new ones, allowing people to further confuse me.

The update increased the emoji count to 3,053, meaning there are more emojis than the career record for NFL points, NBA 3-pointers or baseball RBIs. There are more emoji than parking spots at the Solano Town Center mall, for crying out loud!

It's an emoji overload and the danger in the ever-increasing emoji universe is that it will just lead to more people using symbols to represent what they think, rather than using, you know . . .  words.

A confession: If you gave me truth serum, I would admit that a good part of my dislike of emoji is that people will text me a message with an emoji and I can't tell what it is. "I see hands," I mumble, "But what are they doing? Is that a finger pointing at me? Are the hands praying? IS THAT PERSON FLIPPING ME OFF?"

People start walking away from me.

I fear that some day, we'll live in a world where people no longer know how to write or  speak. The emoji people will have conquered the world and will limit communication for the remaining humans to emoji.

Which will be limited by the all-powerful Unicode Consortium.

If I'm alive then (odds are strongly against that), I'll be easy to find. I'll be the last man on Earth speaking – and I'll be shouting, "IS THAT PERSON FLIPPING ME OFF?"

Then I'll look around, realize I need to be quiet and start seeking an emoji of a man shaking his fist at a passing cloud.

Fight the power!

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

'The Martin Van Buren of days': Ranking days of the week

There is no restaurant named "TGI Mondays." Elton John didn't sing "Tuesday night's all right for fighting."

There's a reason. We don't really like Monday and Tuesday. We like the weekend. Or at least it seems like it.

But how do the days rank? Nobody ever takes the time to scientifically rank the days of the week, from worst to best. Until now.

Following are my power rankings for the days of the week, starting with the obvious No. 7:

7. Monday. The start of the traditional work and school week, we lament this day. It's instructive that nearly all songs about Monday are sad: "Rainy Days and Mondays," "Blue Monday," "Manic Monday, "Monday, Monday." Monday is the worst day. It is to the days of the week what Sneezy is to the Seven Dwarfs. Last.

6. Tuesday. The forgotten child of the days. We don't even have an opinion about Tuesday – people talk about the weekend and Monday and Friday. People even talk about Wednesday. Tuesday? A humble day. If I didn't know I needed to rank seven days, I might have left out Tuesday. Tuesday is to days of the week what Martin Van Buren is to presidents: Forgotten.

5. Sunday. This is the day I go to church, where most of my important relationships exist. This is also a weekend day and when most NFL games are played. Those are all positives. Negatives? Sunday night is often the saddest night of the week for those of us who work or attend school Monday through Friday. Also, Sunday is the recipient of all the undone chores that were ignored Saturday. Sunday is to days what Alice was to the Brady Bunch: Fun, but a reminder that work needs to be done.

4. Wednesday. The day in the middle of the week is the day in the middle of the rankings. That it outranks the three days that precede it is partly because of the amusing Geico commercial for "hump day." Wednesday is the start of a downhill roll to the weekend. Wednesday is . . . the Wednesday of days of the week, which is the most Wednesday thing possible.

3. Friday. This was considered the favorite day of the week since the advent of the five-day work week, but I suspect the rise of flexible work schedules has diminished its popularity. Survey 100 people and they might say Friday is their favorite day. But force them to think about it and they might change their mind, because Friday is overrated. You still work or go to school. It's not the weekend yet. Friday is the Steve Jobs of days: Overrated.

2. Thursday. Thursday's ranking comes from its symbolic meaning. When it's Thursday, it's almost the weekend (and for people who work four-day weeks, it often is the weekend). If Thursday were a month, it would be April, which  heralds the coming of summer. While I haven't watched network TV for a while, I presume Thursday still has a killer prime-time schedule, with NBC showing "The Cosby Show," "Cheers" and "Night Court." And maybe "L.A. Law?" Thursday is the Draymond Green of days. People think it's good, don't realize it's great.

1. Saturday. The perfect mix of relaxation and promise. When Saturday arrives, the regular work-week people have flexibility to do what we want, whether it's housework, recreation or anything else. You can sleep in. You can also postpone difficult weekend chores and tell yourself it will be done Sunday (See above). "Saturday Night Live," is on TV and "Saturday in the Park," is the greatest song with a day of the week in the title (FYI, No. 2 is "Monday, Monday," No. 3 is "Sunday Morning Coming Down"). If Saturday was an actress, it would be Meryl Streep.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.