What Mrs. Brad really fears will happen to me if she dies first

Mrs. Brad and I were taking our regular Saturday morning hike around our community on a recent warm day. We walk, talk and comment on our neighbor's houses. We greet people and shake our heads at those who walk past us and avoid eye contact.

We'd talked about our kids, jobs and plans for the day. We asked some questions that we would later Google ("What are the main predators for coyotes?" "What's the difference between England, Great Britain and the UK?" "Did Hawaiians invent the ukelele?"). We were getting our exercise, sharing our lives and having a good time.

And then . . . 

"If I die before you, I want you to promise me something," she said.

Geez. Out of nowhere!

While on a relaxed walk, Mrs. Brad was asking me to promise to do something if she dies first. Things had suddenly gotten deep.

Side story: A few years ago, she announced, "After you die, I'm going to . . . " I interrupted her. "What makes you think you'll outlive me?" She looked at me and started again, "After you die, I'm going to make it easier for our sons. I'll move close to them if they don't live here."

Nothing dramatically changed since that day, so I don't know why her outlook changed. She has no fatal disease and I haven't discovered the fountain of youth. But suddenly she was extracting a promise from me.

I started anticipating her request. The most likely ask was for me to not be stubborn but to allow our sons to take care of me. That was by far the most likely request.

It was unlikely she'd have an opinion on whether I'd remarry or grow a beard or become vegan. What did she want me to promise?

After waiting for me to say OK (which I did by saying, "OK."), she made her request:

"Promise that you'll get professional housekeeping."

What?

What?

My wife, to whom I've been married nearly 40 years, who I fell in love with when I was 18, who I partnered with to raise two sons with me and who has been my teammate in every area of life since the Reagan administration (or since Chris Brown was the Giants third baseman, depending on your historic reference point), had one request for me if she dies first. That I hire a housekeeper.

I was baffled. While I don't see all the dirt she does, I'm not a slob. I do the dishes and vacuum and pick up the house regularly. I did all of our laundry for decades. I'm the grocery shopper.  But if she dies first, her first concern is not that I let our sons help me, but that I let a housekeeper clean the house once a week or once a month or whatever.

Second side note: There's no problem with hiring professional housekeeping. It makes sense. We've done it. But that's the thing that most concerns her?

I was befuddled. It was an easy request Of course, I'll do that (as far as she knows).

Later, I wondered why the request shocked me so much. Why did it seem to come from left field (Giants left fielder the year we married: Jeffrey Leonard. HacMan!). 

I landed on five possible reasons the request surprised me:

1. I've watched too many movies where a character makes a romantic request of their loved one while dying. In the real world, maybe people have practical plans. Such as keeping their posthumous house clean.

2 Mrs. Brad fears I'll have people over after she dies and they'll judge her if my house is dirty.

3. It's crazy.

4. Mrs. Brad secretly signed up for a multilevel marketing scheme involving house cleaners and told her "manager" that I had agreed to pay for housekeeping at a future date.

5. I'm actually a slob but don't realize it.

I don't which is true (oddsmakers have No. 5 as the heavy favorite). I just know the next time Mrs. Brad wants me to promise something if she dies first, I'll be ready for anything. ("That you'll eat salad once a week." "That you'll take up horseshoes." "That you'll never wear suspenders." "That you'll keep your eyebrows trimmed.")

In the meantime, I'll search the house for a document where she added me to a list of people she's registered for future housekeeping services.

Maybe I found a loophole: If I'm truly going to let our sons help me, they can clean my house.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

Biggest question in A's move: Why doesn't owner sell?

It's been more than a week since the Oakland A's played their final game at the Oakland Coliseum. They're set to play at least the next three seasons in Sacramento before allegedly moving to Las Vegas to play in a new stadium (smart bet: Las Vegas stadium is never built).

A's fans justifiably have hard feelings for team owner John Fisher, who is abandoning Oakland after years of stadium plans that failed due to his incompetence and penny pinching.

The biggest question, remains this: Why doesn't John Fisher just sell the team?

Fisher doesn't seem to like being a team owner. He doesn't go to games and cheer, like the owners of the Warriors and 49ers. He mostly gets blasted for his incompetence and idiocy (those criticisms are correct). He claims to not be making much money off the team (likely untrue, due to major league baseball's revenue-sharing agreements).

But he could sell the team. Fisher is allegedly worth $3 billion (due to his biggest accomplishment: Being the child of the couple who founded the Gap). He bought the A's in 2005 for $180 million and the team is now worth well more than $1 billion.

John Fisher won't be beloved in Sacramento or in Las Vegas. He doesn't appear to care.

It's unclear why he hasn't sold the team, cashed out and let someone who actually likes baseball run it.

Instead, he abused A's fans for nearly 20 years, helped drive away the Raiders (by vetoing any changes to the stadium) and now broke their hearts by taking away the team of Catfish Hunter, Reggie Jackson, Rickey Henderson and "Moneyball."

Being rich isn't enough. He apparently also wants to be despised – and that's something at which he succeeded.

On to the topics du jour . . .

➽➽➽

A few weeks ago, I asked some friends (both in real life and on Facebook) if our hands have five fingers or four fingers and a thumb. In other words, is a thumb a finger? If so, why does it have a different name? The consensus was that a thumb is a finger, but my smart friend Duane pointed out that a finger requires three phalanges and a thumb has only two. Duane also said that means we don't have a middle finger, since we have only four fingers.

I agree with Duane because he's smarter than me and I've never used the word "phalanges" in a conversation. However, I have a simpler solution, based on what we call our toes. What if we started calling our thumb a "big finger," like we call our big toe? Wouldn't that solve a problem?

➽➽➽

Part of aging that isn't talked about enough (and maybe shouldn't be): The reaction when celebrities, politicians and athletes who die. You are kind of shocked that they've died so soon and then you realize they lived a long, full life.

Pete Rose was 83. Kris Kristofferson was 88. Tito Jackson was 70. Phil Donahue was 88.

My suggestions: The only famous people who die should be those who were already old when I was a kid.

➽➽➽

A few weeks ago, I was reading my Bible in The Message version, which was published in the 1990s and early 2000s and made a major effort to be in everyday language. I read the following verse, which would have made 10-year-old Brad giddy. In fact, it made current Brad giddy.

From 2 Kings 18:27: “We weren’t sent with a private message to your master and you; this is public–a message to everyone within earshot. After all, they’re involved in this as well as you; if you don’t come to terms, they’ll be eating their own turds and drinking their own pee right along with you.”

Fantastic.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

Rio de Janeiro scandal shows dark side of claw games

For years, I've referred to Chuck E. Cheese pizza restaurants as "casinos for kids."

The parallels are shocking. Both are noisy and dark, with energy and greed and competition. Some people celebrate, while others bemoan how close they came to winning (money, a stuffed animal or a pencil). There are family arguments over whether to keep spending money or shut it down for the day.

Chuck E. Cheese is a Ceasar's Palace for kids.

Turns out that's closer to the truth than we thought.

And it's not Chuck E. Cheese, which I'm sure has a capable legal department that scours the internet to find everything written about it.  I'm not saying a pizza parlor named after a rodent might be unsavory. Not at all. Mea culpa if you thought that.

But the kind of product you might see at a Chuck E. Cheese establishment – again, I'm not suggesting the vermin-controlled pizza parlor is unscrupulous – is apparently more like a slot machine than a contest of skill.

Consider Rio de Janeiro, where police recently carried out an aggressive sweep of claw machines. Claw machines are those glass-box machines with joystick-operated claws. You try to grab a stuffed animal after dropping in whatever money they require (maybe $2 or $3).

According to an article by The Associated Press, "Officers seized claw machines, laptops, tablets, cell phones, a firearm and – yes – furry friends. They are investigating whether organized crime groups may be the invisible hand behind the claw because they already run slot machines and a popular lottery known as 'Animal Game' across the city."

Organized crime may be in charge of Rio's claw games!

This isn't the first time. A few months earlier, Rio police seized 80 such machines, ostensibly putting a severe crimp in the plans of parents who hoped to impress their 4-year-old with their ability to grab a stuffed penguin.

Police said there were two major crimes involved: First is that machines were rigged to pay off after a certain number of turns, changing them from a game of skill to a game of luck. Second was that the games had counterfeit toys, so a stuffed tiger was even cheaper than you thought.

Cheap payoffs and a fixed game? Other than every single county fair I've attended, that sounds shady!

That couldn't happen in the United States, right?  Right?

Well, there are certain standards we have. According to the AP article, most states consider claw machines games of chance, which is the opposite of what appears to be how they are presented in Argentina. American claw games are specifically exempt from gambling statutes if they comply with certain rules, probably because the Big Claw lobby has so much influence.

Of course, the people running such games also need a certain number of winners, so people keep thinking it could be them – similar to how people who run carnival games make sure a few people carry around massive stuffed animals as a passive advertisement for how great their game is.

Claw game enthusiasts in Rio de Janeiro appear to have a bigger complaint than the consideration that the game is based on luck, rather than skill. They also seem to believe the claw is weaker and can't grab stuffed animals – a scenario familiar to those of us beyond a certain age who find it tough to open a pickle jar. To the Rio claw-gamers, the game got tougher. Too tough.

Rio claw-game enthusiasts are shaken. Skill isn't the thing. The claw can't grab big stuffed animals. And the toys are counterfeit.

I'm sure that Chuck E. Cheese and other such establishments haven't rigged their games to guarantee profitability. The reason is simple: When my kids were young, you had to spend about $30 in gaming coins to win enough coupons to acquire a 50-cent toy. That's a payoff of $60 for the house for every $1 in expenses. If you can do that, there's no need to rig the games further.

Note to the Chuck E. Cheese lawyers: That's a compliment to your business model, not a criticism.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

Leaving on a jet plane . . . I'll land with clean teeth and a new tattoo

Hear me out. This isn't absurd.

This might sound absurd. But years from now, we'll look back and wonder why it took so long to do this. Like changing the rules to make baseball pitchers throw pitches within 18 seconds. Or instituting trading curbs to slow stock market crashes. Or creating microwaveable taquitos.

All so obvious in retrospect.

So hear me out, but first, establish the reasoning:

1. Virtually everyone dislikes going to the dentist. Dentists aren't (necessarily) evil or sadists, but if you had an opportunity to get all the benefits of teeth cleaning without going to the dentist and sitting in that torture chair, would you take it? Of course.

2. Consider the colonoscopy, that unfortunate procedure you should have done at least every decade upon turning 50. It involves at least 24 hours of fasting, taking something that "cleans out" your system and having someone drive you to and from an appointment. That doesn't even address the procedure. If you could have the same result without enduring all that, would you do it? Of course.

3. Now think about other uncomfortable procedures. I'm not talking about major surgery, but things like a biopsy or Lasik (is that a brand name? Maybe.). Getting a tattoo. Anything that takes time and makes you uncomfortable. Would you take the result without the discomfort? Of course.

4. Finally, consider long plane flights. If you're going to Hawaii, Florida or the Philippines – or anywhere that requires five hours of sitting uncomfortably in a plane next to strangers, would you prefer to get there without the discomfort? Of course.

So hear me out.

What if there was an airplane flight where they would anesthetize you and then do every medical procedure you need: Clean your teeth, do a colonoscopy and give you that tattoo you've wanted. When you wake up, you're in Honolulu or Miami or New York City. It feels like you just got on the plane, but  your teeth and colon are both clean (presumably with different doctors and with hand-washing between), while you've got a new "Fanilow for Life" tattoo on your back with a picture of Barry Manilow.

It's a hybrid plane/surgery center. Brilliant!

The finances would work. Would you pay extra for that? I would. Would doctors and their assistants do that? Sure, they'd get free trips. Would an airline do that? They could charge more, so the answer is yes.

The hybrid plane/surgery center is the greatest idea since microwavable taquitos! We must make this happen! It's so obvious.

One day your grandchildren or great-grandchildren will be shocked to hear that we used to make an appointment to get our teeth cleaned or to get a colonoscopy. It will seem ridiculous.

"Why wouldn't you just take an airplane flight?" they'll ask.

You'll shake your head and give no answer as you eat a microwaved taquito.

The great ideas come around only once in a while.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

A surprising percentage of your neighbors fear tornadoes

I hate to tell you this, but you probably know someone who is irrational.

You may already know that, based on your acquaintances' views on politics or sports or pizza toppings or whether Milli Vanilli should have been forced to return their Grammy award (after all, the award goes to the musicians, not the lip-syncing guys). But now you know for sure.

According to a survey by the good folks at Yougov, 6% of Californians think tornadoes are a "major problem" where they live.

Yes. Roughly one out of 15 Californians live in fear of tornadoes. Of course, that's not the main natural disaster we fear. That is earthquakes. According to the survey, 32% of us consider earthquakes a major problem– which seems a bit low to me, since 70% of California's population lives within 30 miles of an earthquake fault.

I mean, I'm not afraid of earthquakes. I'm not afraid of anything other than the clothes in my closet when they seem to take human form after we turn out the lights. (Two major fears of my childhood: That Charles Manson would escape from prison, come to my Humboldt County home and kill me; and that I would inexplicably go down the drain of the bathtub. By the time I was in my 40s, I had conquered those fears.)

But to repeat. One-fifth as many Californians fear tornadoes as earthquakes. Despite there being zero recorded deaths due to tornadoes in California's history.

That begs the question: Why?

Part of it may be some anxiety that we Californians embrace. After all, only 3% of Oregonians, Nevadans and Arizonans consider tornadoes a major problem and only 2% of Washingtonians consider tornadoes a major problem. (And yes, I was anxious about how to spell all those words.) We're twice as anxious about tornadoes as residents in our neighboring states.

The concern may come because so many Californians moved here with a baked-in concern from their home state. Maybe a decent chunk of that 6% includes people from Kansas or Nebraska or Oklahoma (all part of "Hurricane Alley," which constituted the former Big Eight Conference). 

There's also the possibility that movies ("Twister," "Twisters," "The Wizard of Oz") have given us a sense that tornadoes can crop up anywhere. In rural Kansas. In urban Oklahoma. In Vacaville. In Cordelia.

But 6% of Californians consider tornadoes a major problem. Also, 8% consider hurricanes a major problem (also unlikely, but more possible) and 32% consider earthquakes a major problem. Significantly, 63% of us say none of the above, which makes it clear that there is a lot of overlap in fears. The same people who fear hurricanes and tornadoes likely also fear earthquakes.

The good news is that most things we fear never happen. The economy hasn't collapsed. Steph Curry hasn't reinjured his ankle in a long time. That clicking sound in your car engine went away. 

So a fear of tornadoes is not, in the current pseudo-spiritual language, likely to manifest tornadoes.

How do I know? I never went down the drain and Manson never came for me. As far as I know. Although maybe he was coming for me but was swept up in the great Southern Humboldt County tornado of 1973.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

When worlds collide: Is our galactic collision avoidable?

So we may avert disaster.

Whew!

For the past 112 years – give or take, depending on when you became aware of it – we've had a feeling of impending doom. Disaster was coming. It was just a matter of time.

Since 1912 (the same year the Titanic sunk and Fenway Park opened in Boston), astronomers believed Andromeda and our Milky Way galaxy were on a collision course. It would be a terrible crash, like when Scott Cousins ran over Buster Posey in 2011 and ended Posey's second season.

They didn't have a precise timeline for the collision, just that it would happen in the next several billion years. But, like global warming, colonoscopies and Raiders fans being irrationally confident about their team, this had a sense of inevitability.

One day we'd be living our lives and BAM! We'd slam into Andromeda. Or vice-versa.

The anxiety of that could be called the Andromeda Strain, if that wasn't already been the name of a book by Michael Crichton that was made into a movie starring Arthur Hill as Dr. Jeremy Stone.

But enough about that. According to an article on Science.org, we've known about the coming collision since, "(astronomer) Vesto Slipher noted that (Andromeda's) light is blue-shifted – squashed toward shorter wavelengths by the Doppler effect, in the same way that an oncoming ambulance siren whines with a higher pitch."

Great description, presumably. Apparently that signaled a collision with the Milky Way, a possibility that became more terrifying when we (by that, I mean Vesto Slipher and I) discovered that Andromeda is actually a galaxy, not an expansion franchise in the Milky Way. Stated simply, Andromeda is not the astronomy equivalent of the Miami Marlins.

After 1912, things continued to change. A 2008 study suggested that the collision between the galaxies would happen in the next 5 billion years. That collision would create a bigger galaxy, but with some stars (possibly including our sun) spinning off and out into space, like when Google buys a competing tech company and becomes bigger, but cuts loose thousands of employees. Sort of. (I don't understand business or astronomy.) The study suggested Earth and the sun would be absorbed by the new galaxy, the kind of optimism that those Google-purchased employees would have shortly before discovering their key cards no longer work.

I know what you're thinking. 

Well, other than, "That guy sure doesn't know much about business or astronomy." You're wondering how likely the collision is, because you have plans for 6 billion years from now and want to know if it's worth adding them to your calendar.

Well, the new study finds that several factors (the motion and mass of the galaxies, the inclusion of a third galaxy, late money coming in on the Raiders) dropped the odds of a collision from overwhelmingly likely to about 50-50 and pushed the potential date of the collision to 8 billion years from now.

Good news: You can add that event that's 6 million years from now to your calendar, you can rest for another 8 billion years, you can drop the name "Vesto Slipher" into casual conversation and most importantly, you get some bonus news.

Should Andromeda and the Milky Way collide and create a new galaxy, astronomers already have a name: Milkomeda.

So we've got that going for us. And by "us," I mean you, me and Vesto Slipher.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

Offsides, QB1, nickel defense: Understanding dumb football terms

I'm old enough to remember when I knew what offsides meant in football: Virtually everything.

I don't mean it was that valuable. Back in the day, "offsides" had varied meanings that covered a variety of circumstances. Back then, football penalties had simple descriptions. Now, the officials sound like scientists when they describe a penalty.

America's most popular sport returns this week. We'll have NFL games every Thursday, Sunday and Monday (with some Fridays, Saturdays and even one Wednesday – Christmas! – thrown in) until late January. And we'll hear officials and broadcasters use terms that would confuse a time traveler from the 1970s or 1980s.

Some examples:

• Offsides. When I was a kid (when Red Grange was running wild through defenses before the launch of the NFL), "offsides" was the call if the offensive or defensive player was ever on the wrong side of the line of scrimmage. Now we have a series of different calls that you'll hear an official make:
• Neutral zone infraction. This is when a defensive player lines up in the area paralell to the ball. In other words, offsides.
• Encroachment. This is when a defensive player lunges past the line of scrimmage before the ball is snapped. In other words, offsides.
• Unabated to the quarterback. This is when a defensive player gets past the offensive line before the ball is snapped and has a clear shot at the quarterback. In other words, offsides.
• False start. This is the opposite of the three previous examples: This is when the offensive player (usually an offensive lineman, although it can be someone else) starts forward before the ball is snapped. In other words, offsides.
• QB1, QB2. This is the starting quarterback and backup quarterback. I suspect this comes from fantasy football, where people look at their roster with their first and second quarterback. It's not clear why QB1 is a better phrase than "starting quarterback" or QB2 is better than "backup quarterback," but it's also not clear why , the best solution to an electronic device not working is still to unplug it, count to 10 and plug it back in. Somethings are not for us to understand.
• Nickel defense, dime defense. This isn't new, but still confusing. A nickel defense is when a defensive team brings in a fifth defensive back (they usually play four). It's the fifth, so it's a nickel, get it? A dime defense, therefore, should be when they bring in 10 defensive backs, right? But that would leave only one other player, so it's not true. A dime defense is when there's two extra defensive backs . . . or two nickels, which makes it a dime. Hmm.
• Mike, Sam, Will. In the old days (before we said QB1 and QB2), we called the three linebackers in a standard defense the middle linebacker (self-explanatory), strong-side linebacker (lines up on the side that the offense has a tight end, which is the offense's "strong side") and weak-side linebacker (the side without a tight end). Now we use words that start with the letters that begin middle, strongside and weakside. You can figure them out. I'm not sure why they're better than "strong," "weakside" and "middle."
• Hook-and-ladder play. OK, this is a personal choice. People call it a "hook-and-ladder" play when a wide receiver runs a button-hook pattern (runs out and quickly turns around, like a button hook), catches the pass and then laterals the ball to another player. If you read that, you should see the problem: It's a hook-and-lateral play, not a hook-and-ladder. There is no ladder on this play, there is a lateral. 

The takeaway: Feel free to correct your friends the next time they say "hook and ladder." It will bring joy to someone who still wants the refs to say "offsides" for when someone is offsides.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

Locking up merchandise makes retail problem worse

All I needed was some AA-sized batteries. Simple, right?

Except at my grocery store, those batteries were locked up like crown jewels. Or R. Kelly. To get batteries, I needed to get help. A sign said so – I needed someone from the store to open the battery case as they sat there, taunting me from behind the clear plastic like the most valuable cylinders in history.

I looked around. Even if I found someone, they'd probably take a few minutes. After they opened the case, I'd have to point to what I wanted, like I was getting a diamond ring. Or a donut.

I just wanted some batteries so I decided I'd buy them at another store, where I could grab them off the diplay case and take them to the cash register.

The same thing happened when I needed laundry soap. Again, it was locked up, in case someone wanted to steal a $10 or $15 container of laundry soap. It seemed ridiculous.

Actually, it is ridiculous because it's probably unneccessary.

As reported in a recent news article by Bloomberg News, the "average shrink" – the retail term that describes how much inventory is lost for any reason – has been about 1.5% for years. Average shrink also describes things damaged or lost in transit or returned or mistakes made by checkers. That rate was about 1.5% 10 years ago. It was still about 1.5% a few years ago when there was a flood of stories about the insane amount of shoplifting in the post-pandemic months. Remember that?

It was 1.5% then.

It's 1.5% now.

Which means there wasn't an insane amount of shoplifting in 2021. Instead, there was high-profile shoplifting and scared social media jabber about it. This caused a reaction by many stores, which began locking up things. Like batteries. And laundry soap. And underwear. And deodorant. And toothbrushes.

Unsurprisingly, there were unintended consequences. 

The first is that the things that get locked up see a drop in sales. If we have to ask a clerk to unlock deodorant or batteries or underwear or toothpaste, we often go elsewhere. It's a hassle; we can get the product at another store or order it on Amazon.

The lock-up-everything strategy also damages the store brand. I think less of a store that makes me work harder to get something basic. It also makes me wonder if it's safe. If customers steal laundry soap or deodorant, what kind of monsters are my fellow shoppers? Is that grandmother shuffling behind the shopping cart really an insane woman who will steal a toothbrush?

Yet another unintended consequence is that people interested in stealing large amounts of products simply began stealing them while in transit. Rather than stealing from a store (again, just 1.5% general average shrink), they steal it from a truck hauling it around. One report said such theft was up nearly 50% in the first quarter of 2024 after a 10% increase in the fourth quarter of 2023.

That's the real mass looting. But it comes when criminals steal boxes of underwear off trucks that are parked at a restaurant while the driver gets a burger and fries.

When stores decide that theft is out of control (which may be true in some stores. But not widely true), management often locks up merchandise. Their customers then think the store is dangerous, they choose to buy elsewhere and the odds increase that some organized group will just steal the merchandise off a truck before it gets to the store.

The real average shrink is the frequency with which we'll buy locked-up, low-price items at our stores.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

'Free Bird?' 'American Pie?' They're short compared to this song

If you think "Free Bird" (album version: 9 minutes, 8 seconds) or "Stairway to Heaven" (7:55) or "American Pie" (8:42) are long songs, just wait until you hear about "Organ2/ASLSP."

But first, a confession: The few times I've been to formal music performances (and by "formal," I mean just that: Performances where you have to dress formally; things that involve orchestras or even musicals), I convince myself that I'll sit and enjoy it.

I soon find myself sneaking looks at my watch, determining how much longer until it's over. Telling myself, "OK, two more songs until the intermission, which is always past the halfway point."

I'm not proud of that. I should have enjoyed "Phantom of the Opera" more. I should like it when great musicians play songs that inspire others. And by "others," I mean the people who don't sneak glances at their watch to calculate how long until it's over.

If you're not like me – if you wish the symphony would play longer or that the opera would continue or that Lynard Skynard would have another guitar solo –you should go to Halberstadt, Germany, and listen to a performance of the aforementioned Organ2/ASLSP, written by American composer John Cage.

As you likely don't know, ASLSP stands for "as slowly and softly as possible" (Don't ask me about the extra L. Seems to me it should be either ASASAP or ASSP.).

Want to know what Organ2/ASLSP is like? Think of a slow song. Then think of something much slower. Then multiply that by 10. Then think of something that would be much, much longer than that and you have the performance in Halberstadt of Organ2/ASLSP.

The song began Sept. 5, 2001 (six days before a day that would entirely overshadow the launching of Organ2/ASLSP). The song will end in 2640.

Yeah, the performance of a single song is scheduled to last 639 years. Even Keith Richards wouldn't be able to do that.

There's a fascinating story behind it. 

Cage, who wrote the song in 1985 and died in 1992, never said how long his song should last, but a group of experts realized that an organ can (theoretically) play a note forever. Since Cage designed the song to be played "as slowly and softly as possible," those experts elected to make it last those 639 years (settling on the amount of time from 1361, when the world's first 12-tone Gothic organ was built in Halberstadt until Jan. 1, 2000. Which is a specific time frame but also is a very Halberstadt, Germany-focused time frame).

Once they made that decision, it was a matter of determining how long each note should last. Since the piece starts with silence, the performance began with 17 months of silence (Hello darkness my old friend, indeed!). Since then, a series of notes have been played. The most recent – the 17th note – began Feb. 4 this year and will be played until Aug. 5, 2026.

There has already been a mistake. Remember that 17-month period of silence? It turns out it should have lasted 28 months, so the next note was the equivalent of starting to sing "Papa Was a Rolling Stone" (12:04) only 2:20 in instead of 3:52 in. Outrageous!

When the song finishes, 616 years from now, few will likely remember it. In fact, few will remember the first part, which consists of 65 sections, the last of which ends in 2071. When that happens, there will still be 569 years of the song left, the equivalent of the 39-second mark in Bohemian Rhapsody (5:55) – which is when Freddie Mercury first sings "any way the wind blows . . . "

Ultimately, the mistakes don't really matter. Because, like the free bird in the song by Lynard Skynard, this song is one you cannot change. Even while you check your watch.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

Overdue appreciation for women who cared for me when Mom died

Sometimes you only recognize extreme kindness in the rear-view mirror.

My mom died of breast cancer a month before my eighth birthday, which is obviously a watershed moment in my life.

In retrospect.

At the time, I was too busy processing it, adjusting to life without her, recognizing things were going a little crazy in my family and beginning third grade.

And really, is any soon-to-be-8-year-old ready to process such a thing?

My sisters, older than me, "processed it" (and some of the chaos in our family) in their own ways. But at 13 and 10, can you fully process such a thing? No.

My mother's death – and subsequent events in my life, including my dad remarrying (bringing the addition of my stepsister Jana) – affected me in ways that I've only unpacked in adulthood. One clear result was a feeling as a kid that anything can happen at any time, which led to my attraction of the Christian faith (where I know that ultimately, regardless of what's happening, God is in control). There are many other results, too – including many things that I've probably not unpacked yet and may never do.

However, I recently reflected on some unsung heroes in my life that 7- and 8-year-old Brad couldn't recognize: The women who recognized that I'd lost my mother and stepped in, however they could.

My teacher that year undoubtedly had a soft spot for me. Mom died on the Saturday of the first week of school, so my teacher knew she had a damaged little boy in her classroom. I don't remember anything special, but all of my memories of Mrs. Zwiefelhofer (real name!) are good. No other teacher in my lifetime gets a 100% passing grade, but every memory I have of her was that she was nice and gentle and kind.

I recognize now that she probably took care of me in ways that a third-grader doesn't recognize as special.

That was also the year I started Cub Scouts. I was a terrible Scout, partly because my dad wasn't an outdoorsman, partly because it just didn't fit: I couldn't whittle or start a fire or even tie knots (except for a necktie. My dad taught me how to tie a single and double-Windsor knot, skills I retain).

However, the two women who were my pack leaders in third and fourth grades – the mothers of my friends Jeff Stone and Todd Coleman – made me feel comfortable and paid attention to me in a way that probably reflected the fact that they knew my mom had died recently.

I don't know for sure that they were aware of my mom's death, although I suspect the early 1970s communication systems made them aware that one of their son's schoolmates had lost a mother. But I know that Pat Stone and Alice Coleman were kind and helpful and never made me feel bad for the fact that I couldn't do any of the traditional scout things.

Decades later, I look back on the loss of my mom and feel bad for the lost memories (after my dad's remarriage, we never really talked about my mom). Sadly, I have few memories of my mom. It's clear that a childhood incident (like one or more that likely occurred in your life: Maybe a divorce or another major disappointment) had sweeping impact on the rest of my life.

But I also realize that people like Mrs. Zwiefelhofer, Pat Stone, Alice Coleman (and others in my life) were adults who helped a little boy navigate what to them (and to me) probably seemed like an unimaginable tragedy.

Losing my mom was terrible and it unleashed a season of chaos and dysfunction in my family that my sisters and I are still processing. But part of the chaos was mitigated because of some women who had their own children and were invested in others – and somehow made the third-grade version of me feel better.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.