Four out of five dentists surveyed said you should read this column

Evolution is slow until it isn't.

Dinosaurs roamed freely in the American West for hundreds of years before they all died in the Revolutionary War. Men treated women as inferiors until Billie Jean King beat Bobby Riggs in a tennis match in 1973, settling gender equality forever. Soccer was the only sport in the world until an intrepid Irish player touched the ball with his hands and lived – leading to the rise of baseball, basketball and team handball.

(Don't fact-check me. Trust me.)

We live in a period of dramatic changes in short periods. The rise and fall of the BlackBerry, the explosion of remote and hybrid work, the disappearance of traditional tube televisions, the rise and fall of Paris Hilton. As legendary philosopher Ferris Bueller said, “Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”

Keep reading. My point is three paragraphs away.

I don't know when hairy chests for men went from sexy to disgusting, but it took a while and I missed it. Few of us can pinpoint the year when children went from calling adults "Mr." or "Mrs." and started calling them by their first names. I missed that, too.

Who can pinpoint when yellow stopped being a common color for kitchen appliances or when men started growing sideburns again? Not me.

Finally: It's hard to pinpoint exactly when we stopped chewing gum.

Gum chewing is down. The number of Americans who chewed gum at least once a year dropped 12% over the past decade-plus. In 2024, less than half of Americans say they'll chew gum (at any point of the year!).

The gum-chewing bubble has popped (GET IT?).

Back in the day, everyone chewed gum. Gum-chewing was almost as common as cigarette smoking – which leads to the possibility that the two are linked in ways beyond Nicorette. We had the gum-chomping waitress as a pop culture icon (hello, Flo from "Alice"!). Anxious cops chomped gum in movies. Baseball players chewed gum (if they weren't chewing tobacco). Kids in school chewed gum and stuck it on the bottom of their desks. Every mom had gum in her purse, even if it was something like Dentyne or Wrigley's.

But it's gone down. Way down.

Think of the last time someone rudely chomped on gum while talking to you. It's been a while, right? Consider this: When was the last time a fitness trainer who discourages situps said, "If using a muscle over and over makes it strong, why don't people who chew gums have huge jaws?" (Ignoring the fact that the jaw is not a muscle and also ignoring the fact that doing situps is not designed to make your torso bigger!)

Anyway, Big Gum noticed the decline. They realized the path to keeping their product viable is more than just having attractive twins chew gum (the old Doublemint commercials) or telling us gum chewing can help keep our teeth healthy (like Dentyne did). 

According to an article on Food Dive, Hershey (who knew they sold gum?) is introducing a version of Ice Breakers gum where the flavor keeps changing (presumably not the traditional gum-flavor change that goes from five seconds of flavor to tasteless cardboard). Hubba Bubba now has a Skittles-flavored gum. Another company has introduced caffeine-infused gum, for people who would rather chew their coffee. 

Shockingly, Big League Chew is making a comeback – although mimicking chewing tobacco seems outdated in a world where major league baseball has banned most tobacco products. This emphasis is happening through partnerships with college athletes who show Big League Chew as fun, since mouth cancer seems like a blast.

Gum manufacturers are following a playbook for when a product loses steam: jazz it up and make it popular for a new generation.

We'll see if it works. On one hand, I lament the end of a familiar characterization of people. On the other hand, it's been a while since I stepped on sticky gum that some idiot spit out on a sidewalk.

Is gum going away? Is it a good thing? I'm not sure, but I'm interested to see if gum goes the way of dinosaurs and disappears after a few hundred years.

Four out of five dentists say that's happening.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

It's time to move away from arbitrary (6 foot) ideas about height

I've been 5 foot, 10½ inches for decades. I was that height when I married, when I turned 30, when I got gray hair, when the 49ers won their last Super Bowl and when the Giants won their last World Series (events that were 19 years apart). 

About 15 years ago, I went in for an annual physical and they measured me as . . . 5-11.

I was growing! The dream of being 6 feet tall was still alive! Maybe I'd reach that magical landmark by the time I was 50 or 60 or 70. Things were really going to start happening for me!

The next year, I measured 5-10½ and the dream was done.

Except the "dream" is the result of a strange allegiance to round numbers and the imperial measurement system.

Think about it: Even if we've decided that a whole number is better than a fraction (that 6 feet even is superior to 5 feet and a fraction of a foot), who made the decision that we'd ignore the logical decimal system and instead go with the imperial system of inches, feet, gallons and pounds?

Other than all of America in the 1970s, I mean. Because when I was in elementary school, we were told that by the time we were adults, we'd be measuring things by the decimal system. Alas, that was over by the time I was in high school as we determined the decimal system, like disco music, sucked.

Back to the point: Think of the pain caused by the ridiculous belief in the superiority of 6-foot men  (apparently, many women in dating apps say they want their man to be at least 6 feet tall).

We all apply arbitrary standards. We like baseball batters who hit .300, not .299. We recognize the world record in the 100-yard dash, not the 95-yard dash. We talk about a 10-gallon cowboy hat, not an 8-gallon hat. Denver is the Mile-High City for a reason. 

I'm not suggesting we stop having ideals. After all, if we did that, what would happen to iconic things like "My 600-Pound Life" or "The Hundred Years War" (other than reducing voyeurism or celebrating long-ago wars)?

Here's my suggestion: Follow the European model.

Generally, I'm an America-first person. They shouldn't call soccer "football." We should drive on the right side of the road. We shouldn't endorse official naps during the workday.

However, there's one European model with which I agree: The standard for male height shouldn't be 6 feet tall. It should be 180 centimeters.

Who disagrees with that? Of course! One hundred eighty centimeters makes sense!

(First, I Googled, "convert 180 cm to feet" and found that it's between 5-10½ and 5-11. In other words, if I stand up really tall and don't get a haircut for a few months before a doctor's appointment, I might reach 180 cm. Wonderful!)

Of course, it would be simpler if we weren't hung up on multiples of 10. For instance, I think it's reasonable that 179 centimeters were considered the ideal, since it's slightly shorter than 5-10½. At least that seems ideal until I start shrinking. Maybe 178 centimeters or even 175 centimeters.

Wouldn't the world be better if we didn't set arbitrary numbers for ideal heights, weights, IQs and income? Especially since all of my figures – except weight – are gradually declining.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

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 . . .

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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?

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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.

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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.