Does anybody really know what time it is? Does anybody really care?

Mrs. Brad is smarter than me in most ways. She's an engineer, so she knows how things work. She's more sensitive, so she's attuned to how others are feeling. She can cook, so she knows that macaroni and cheese has more ingredients than macaroni and cheese.

In my defense, I know more about the 1970s and 1980s San Francisco Giants and I remember song lyrics better.

However, there's one area in which she is far behind me and has plenty of company with younger people: When Mrs. Brad sees an analog clock (the circular kind, with two hands on it), it takes her a few moments to know the time. She doesn't automatically realize that it's 4:15 p.m. or 6:35 a.m. She has to calculate it.

If you're like me and you can tell the time immediately when you see a clock, congratulations. You're in the majority. You're also likely eligible for AARP membership and you probably also know who Ed Sullivan was.

A survey by YouGov showed that 71% of Americans surveyed can tell the time on an analog clock instantly, while 23% say it takes a few seconds and 3% say it takes more than a few seconds. The other 3% are "not sure," which I presume means they don't know what the word "clock" means.

However (and there's almost always a "however"), the numbers change based on your age. Of those 65 and older (hey! Newspaper readers!), a full 95% can tell the time instantly on an analog clock. Of those aged 18 to 29, 43% say they can do it instantly and the rest say it takes some time (or again, "not sure," which in this case means they've never seen an analog clock).

This all makes sense, of course. If you're 25 years old, you were born in 2000 or later, meaning that you've always had access to digital devices with clocks that show numbers, not a pie chart. There's been no need to watch what we call a "real" clock. People under 30 have never sat in a classroom, watching the wall clock tick slowly, slowly, slowly to the end of a boring teacher's lecture. They've never had to learn what their uncle or grandma meant when they said the time was "half past three" or "quarter to six." What would those terms even mean if you were looking at a digital device that said 3:30 or 5:45?

So Mrs. Brad is like the youngsters – a scenario that makes her feel much better than she did as a little girl when they taught how to "tell time" in school and she couldn't really grasp it. She could and can tell the time, but it takes some figuring before she's sure of it.

This woman is an engineer. She can read blueprints. She looks at leaky plumbing and figures out what's wrong, all while I tell the time instantly and inform her that Mike Ivie hit a grand slam to beat the Dodgers on Memorial Day weekend 1978 and that Billy Joel's "We Didn't Start the Fire" tells post-World War II history in chronological order. Speaking of chronology, look, it's quarter past seven! (That's 7:15 for you kids out there.)

But really, like the Chicago song, it comes down to, "does anybody really know what time it is? Does anybody really care?"

The answer is yes. And younger people are more likely to need a digital device to instantly know what time it is. Especially, to use another Chicago song, if it's 25 or 6 to 4.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

Stone-skipping world rocked by latest sports scandal

You think the steroid era of baseball in the late 1990s and early 2000s was bad? This is like substituting a superball for a baseball. This is worse. 

You think the gambling scandals that rock college basketball every 30 or 40 years are bad? Consider if the NCAA champions were cheating by shooting at a bigger hoop. This is worse. 

You think it was terrible when Lance Armstrong used blood doping to win seven straight Tour de France titles? Just think if he also had a motor on his bike. This is worse.

You think it was terrible when the New England Patriots deflated footballs? No? Neither do I. I'm not sure how it helped them and it's confusing. But they seemed guilty. This is worse.

One of the world's great sporting events was rocked by scandal this summer (just wait until you hear what sport! Me using "rocked" is funny!). It's a sport you've undoubtedly tried, but I suspect you didn't know involved a world championship. I fact, you probably didn't know it was a sport.

You probably think you're pretty good at it.

Stone-skipping, the "sport" where you see how many times you can make a rock bounce when you throw it across water, faced the greatest scandal this year since the first caveman tried to see if he could bounce a rock across a river inhabited by dinosaurs and dragons (my history is shaky. Some of that may be wrong).

During the world stone-skipping championship on the island of Easdale off the west coast of Scotland, several competitors were found to have ground special rocks to make them skip better.

Oh. No. Is nothing sacred?

There were more than 2,000 competitors in this year's event and the rules were simple:  The winner would be the person whose three tosses (each having to skip at least twice) covered the greatest distance. The stones thrown were required to come from "naturally occurring island slate."

Simple, right? If you've skipped stones at a river or lake (or stream or bathtub or ocean), you've undoubtedly looked for the perfect skipping stone. The best ones are medium-sized, flat and circular. At least I think those are the best ones because they seem like they would skip best. 

The officials require the rocks to be no more than three inches across, so they have a wonderfully named "ring of truth," which they use to ensure the stones are no wider than that.

The officials said that the "ring of truth" was used to note the size, but no one noticed that many of the stones were almost perfectly round.

How many rocks are perfectly round? After some special grinding, enough, apparently.

Fortunately, the guilty admitted it. Or some of them did – we have to take the word of the event organizers, who have a built-in incentive to minimize reporting of cheating: Who knows how many stone-skippers were like Rafael Palmiero or Barry Bonds or Roger Clemens and didn't admit what was obvious?

We'll never know, but the winner of the event was an American named Jonathan Jennings, who won the event by skimming his three stones a cumulative 177 meters. That is roughly 580 feet, which is also the circumference of Barry Bonds' head after he "allegedly" used human growth hormone.

I jest. It was only about 400 feet around. No. Just kidding. Maybe 4 feet? It definitely was large.

Anyway, organizer Dr. Kyle Mathews told the BBC that lessons had been learned and they would "move on to an even greater event next year."

In other words, he was like the leader of every sport in which cheating is discovered: He vows that stone skipping will rise above the cheating.

I'm not sure I believe him. My faith in this sport is shaken, even though I didn't know it existed. Maybe next year, I'll skip it. Get it?

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

If you disagree with my rankings of nuts, you're . . . crazy

Perhaps the greatest moment in cinematic history came during the 2000 film, "Best of Show," where Harlan Pepper – a dog trainer from Pine Nut, North Carolina – tells how during his childhood, he'd recite the names of "every nut that there was."

"Peanut. Hazelnut. Cashew nut. Macadamia Nut. Pine nut," he drones. Harlen is obviously tickled by the story and tells how it would drive his mother crazy. "She'd say, 'Harlen Pepper, if you don't stop saying nuts. . . " And the joke was that we, of course, lived in Pine Nut."

"Pine nut" ranks in the upper-tier movie phrases, alongside, "I'm going to make him an offer he can't refuse," "Toto, I have a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore," "Say hello to my little friend" and "Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn." It's movie magic.

Harlan Pepper also had a great idea. How do we rank nuts? What's the best?

From the guy who has ranked office supplies, home furniture, Bay Area sports team owners, minor holidays and at least 33 more things comes this week's rankings: The top nine types of nuts, counting down.

You surely won't disagree, but if you do, you're . . . (ready?) . . . nuts!

On to the rankings:

10. Hazelnuts. I'm not sure I've eaten them as a standalone food, but I've definitely had hazelnut-flavored coffee, which is pretty good. And if they were good enough to be mentioned by Harlen Pepper in "Best of Show," they're good enough for my list.

9. Walnuts. A great secondary or tertiary ingredient for many products, but the fact that Mrs. Brad despises walnuts and won't eat food if it has walnuts, moves these down on my list. Also, they're rather hard to crack.

8. Chestnuts. They are outstanding in only one condition: While roasting. Key: It must be on a fire that is open. No fireplace-roasted chestnuts for me.

7. Macadamia nuts. These benefit from their association with Hawaii. They're Hawaiian nuts, so they must be great! Right? This may be the real truth: They're replacement-level nuts that come from a great state. They're like an average quarterback who plays at Notre Dame.

6. Pecans. Some people put these at the top of their list, particularly people old enough to remember when pecan pie was a thing (I'm sure it's still baked by people, but no longer considered "a thing."). 

5. Pistachios. A great mystery of life is why anyone would choose to get pistachios in the shell when they could get them without. They're tasty and the biggest risk is eating too many because they seem like they're not substantive.

4. Coconuts. These are actually a type of fruit, but they have the word "nut" in their name. So, yes, they're nuts. (I realize Grape Nuts and nutmeg could qualify on that standard, but all their appeals have been exhausted. Only coconuts qualify under this rule.) Coconuts are different than other nuts (maybe because they're a fruit), which moves them up the list.

3. Cashews. The fact that these come in a variety of flavors boosts their ranking. Are they elite? No, but they're a great pairing with other flavors. They're like an actor who is outstanding in a supporting role, but not great as a standalone actor. Cashews are the Ernest Borgnine (old reference!) of nuts.

2. Almonds. I may have them too high on my list, influenced by seeing them as a special kind of nut when I was a kid. My parents would only indulge in almonds on occasion (were they expensive? Maybe. Messy? Probably), so they seemed strangely exotic and exciting.

1. Peanuts. Technically a legume, these are nevertheless the king of the nut world. The perfect stadium food, they are also a tremendous addition to any restaurant that allows peanut shells to be thrown on the floor. They're the key ingredient in peanut butter, perhaps the world's greatest food, which solidifies the ranking. All hail the peanut!

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

Young people will roll their eyes at your emoji use

This should come as no surprise: Younger generations have their own secret meanings for emojis.

Yes, those thumbs-up emojis you sent to a child or grandchild may have been taken with a different meaning than intended, but don't feel bad – they already knew they were cooler than you. This just proves it.

According to a Wall Street Journal interview with Erica Dhawan, who wrote a book on "digital body language," there are plenty of misunderstandings concerning emojis. For instance, to Generation Z (those born 1997-2012), a smiley emoji is often read as passive-aggressive, rather than encouraging. Sparkles can mean something exciting. Or it can be used ironically. Of course, if you were cool and 24 years old, you could tell the difference.

The bottom line for emoji use, according to Dhawan, is that older people tend to use the emoji based on its dictionary definition and the cool, younger people use it on their own definitions. Postmodernism! If emojis don't have specific meanings, is there any objective truth?

Well . . . 

Anyone who has been young, had children or been around young people (which includes all of us) already knows the shift to insider meanings for words or symbols is inevitable – although many of us think we are cool enough that it won't happen to us. We'll always be current, we'll always understand the culture, we'll never be baffled by how young people speak.

IYKYK, right? All those acronyms (in this case, "if you know, you know," which itself is a weird phrase. Grandpa Brad here, saying, that's true in the same way as "if it's green, it's green" is true) and changed meanings are a way of keeping the language fresh for younger generations.

I'd do better if I had more riz (charisma) and could be low-key lit.

It was no different for millennials (born 1981-1996), who use (or used) terms like "adulting" and "bae" and "shook." My sons are of that generation and we forever were confused by them saying they were "talking" with a girl.

"Talking? Speaking? Using words?" I'd screech, pushing my glasses up my nose and adjusting my pocket protector (at least that's how I presume they saw me). I think it was more than that, but am not sure.

Every generation changes the language to make it harder for adults to identify and to stake out their own area. Think about an adult in 1985 hearing teens calling things "radical" and "bogus" and "tubular." A decade earlier, think about "catch you on the flip side" and "can you dig it?" and "keep on truckin.'"

Think about 1955 or 1935 and teens saying, "made in the shade" or using the term "beatnik" or saying "hep cat" or "aces."

Heck, my guess is that the younger generation in 1600 said things like "fiddlesticks" or "I play guitar in the band 'The Rolling Stones'" and confused the previous generation. The first post-caveman generation likely had cave paintings that confused the previous generation ("Why man have small stick in hand?" Grok asks his son. "Small stick ironic use of word 'stick!" "What?" "It's lit!")

All this highlights that we can change the way we communicate (from cave drawings to grunts to speaking to writing to speaking on phone, to texting to emojis, which are really cave drawings), but each generation will communicate in a way that their parents and grandparents don't understand.

It was true for Grok, it was true for Keith Richards, it was true for your grandparents and it's true for Gen Z.

A hint to know when your words are considered outdated by a younger generation: They always are, so there's really no "hint."

Can you dig it? Catch you on the flip side.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

Once I get my trademarks, I'll be getting paid all the time

Bill Belichick is either a fool or a genius.

The legendary former New England Patriots coach is now the coach at the University of North Carolina. He's 73 years old. His girlfriend, Jordan Hudson, is 24.

That's not the fool/genius issue I'm discussing, although my guess is that you had an immediate reaction to that information. Hudson was born April 7, 2001. At that point, Belichick was 10 days from his 50th birthday, having established himself as a genius defensive coordinator for 11 seasons with the New York Giants. He was a year into his second NFL head coaching job–three, if you count that he was the New York Jets' coach for one day. He was about to realize he was a much better coach if he had Tom Brady on his team.

Yes, Tom Brady was in the NFL when Belichick's current girlfriend was born. So yeah, there's a significant age difference.

Again, that's not the issue. The question is whether Belichick and Hudson (who has the uncommon ability of knowing how to make headlines and money) are brilliant in their request to trademark a series of phrases.

Yes, trademarks. They've filed for 17 trademarks on phrases, so you can't use them for any commercial purpose without their approval (which would usually include some sort of compensation).

Many of the phrases have "(Bill's Version)" listed after the words, an apparent tip of the cap to Taylor Swift. Those without such an addendum include "Saving Miss Daisy," "Trail of Salty Tears" "Chapel Bill" (a play on Chapel Hill, the location of the University of North Carolina) and "The Belichick Way."

But the headline request is to trademark the phrase "gold digger," which seems like a bold attempt by Hudson to make people pay for calling her a name. Trademarking that phrase might also come as a surprise to many people (including Kanye West and Jamie Foxx, who had a hit song by that name, as well as anyone who, you know, actually dug for gold as a profession). I admire the self-awareness of Hudson to try to trademark that phrase, as well as the audacity to trademark a common phrase.

It makes me wonder if it's worthwhile for Stanhope Enterprises (a made-up company with a name for which I may seek trademark protection) to make a run at registering trademarks for other phrases. Before I consult with my longtime personal attorney, Atticus Finch, here are some phrases I'd like to trademark.

"Are you really going to wear that?" It's been used by concerned mothers and wives for generations as men head out to an event while wearing clothes they like. However, the rules would change. Say it? Pay me.

"Have you seen my glasses?" Another common phrase uttered by mature people who are actually wearing their glasses at that time. Once I get the trademark? Say it? Pay me.

"Please hold. Your call is important to us." I hate the phony politeness of a recording while I'm 30 minutes into waiting for what will inevitably be disappointing service. Perhaps by having to pay each time this is used, it will change things. Perhaps not, but say it? Pay me.

"It's a Brad, Brad, Brad, Brad World." No one has ever said this out loud, but if I trademark it, perhaps people will start. It's worth a try. Say it? Pay me.

Belichick and Hudson may be foolish, but if they are, they'll have company. If they're geniuses, I will be, too (if Finch agrees).

Because it's a Brad, Brad, Brad, Brad World. If you read that out loud, prepare to pay me.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

Six reasons why the NFL is America's favorite sport

America's favorite sport really gets rolling this week.

The NFL isn't just America's favorite sport. If there were a way to measure it, the NFL would be America's seven favorite sports. Consider this: 72 of the 100 most-watched TV broadcasts in 2024 were NFL games. Read that again. Was that an outlier? Maybe, but not in the direction you thought. The figure was 93 of the top 100 in 2023, when there was no Olympics, no presidential election.

The NFL is King Kong.

For decades, there was a feeling that it was the nation's most popular sport, but baseball was often close behind (or even ahead). The Michael Jordan era pushed the NBA ahead of baseball and optimists could make the case that basketball was on track to ultimately push the NFL as the No. 1 sport.

Two-and-a-half decades into the new century, it's undisputed. The NFL is king of sports. And king of television. And maybe king of culture. Second place among sports? College football.

Which brings the obvious question: Why? Why is the NFL so much more popular than other sports (also including mixed martial arts, golf, tennis, pickleball, hockey and auto racing)?

Allow me to suggest six reasons that we (and by that, I mean you and your friends, not me. I'm an NBA- and baseball-first fan) love the NFL:

1. It's a perfect TV sport. NFL games last approximately three hours, with about 11 minutes of on-field action included within that time. But football's rhythm fits perfectly with the modern smartphone and social media attention span of Americans:  One play takes a few seconds, then there's a 30-second break (or more) in which you can digest what happened, watch replays or talk to someone. Then another play. Frequent commercial breaks. A 15-minute halftime. If you asked a neurologist to design the perfect TV show for the modern brain, this would be it.

2. An optimal schedule. NFL teams play once a week, which allows you to be a fully invested fan without having to pay attention every day. Baseball teams play six or seven times a week; NHL and NBA teams play about three times a week. That's a lot of games. The NFL schedule allows you to watch a game one day, talk about it the next, take a break for a few days, then repeat. Also, every game is important in the way that's largely true only in the postseason for baseball, hockey or basketball.

3. It's violent, but not too violent. This obviously is a matter of opinion (Mrs. Brad doesn't like football and an estimated 95% of the time she walks into a room when I'm watching a game results in a season-ending injury to a player), but the NFL has been good about minimizing the obviously dangerous scenarios (penalties for shots to the head, a definition of "defenseless" offensive players, allegedly neutral doctors on the sidelines), while continuing to allow big hits. If we ignore long-term brain injuries, it's not too violent. Nothing to see here, folks. Move along.

4. It's a perfect fantasy sport. Because of the schedule and the simplicity of how fantasy football scoring works (even the complicated rules generally match the eye test for what is worth points), fantasy football is wildly popular. More than twice as many people play fantasy football as play either fantasy basketball or baseball. And playing fantasy football makes you care about every game.

5. Rules changes, analytics make it more interesting. NFL owners know that offense is what attracts fans, so there is a constant evolution to encourage more scoring and more explosive plays. Additionally, when the analytics folks got involved and looked for ways to increase efficiency, the results made the game more exciting. Both baseball and the NBA have to deal with the reality that many things that analytics folks say increase a team's shot at winning often make the game duller.

6. It owns the media. This is general (media companies are dependent on the NFL to drive eyeballs) and literal (the NFL just bought 10% of ESPN, assuring that the country's most important sports journalism organization is a public relations arm of the league). The NFL has media muscle and exercises it. And having games on so many platforms (ESPN/ABC, Fox, CBS, NBC, Amazon, Netflix, YouTube) means that the NFL is promoted everywhere, since those organizations have a built-in incentive to push the league: Ratings.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

The secret, separate issue behind why we misspell words

One of the great ironies of the English language is that the word "misspell" is frequently misspelled.

At least by me. And by many others. The multiple double-letter combinations may be part of it (are there two consecutive ps? Why not?). That challenge is constant for me. I misspell it half the time. (Not that time, though. I'm two-for-two so far.)

I'm a writer, both professionally and as a hobby. I care about words. I'm a stickler for use (not usage, which means the same thing, but is just two meaningless letters longer. See? I'm a stickler). I also have plenty of spelling problems – and I recently discovered why.

Take permanent, which I misspelled the first two times I wrote it in this sentence before it was corrected by spell check. It's per-MAN-ent. Not per-MEN-ant.

I asked some friends–the same ones who helped me with a column on semantic satiation, which is when you look at a word so long that it suddenly seems like gibberish–to share words with which they struggle to spell.

Definitely was one popular choice. So was conscience. So was differentiating between breath and breathe.

I don't necessarily have problems with those (well, sometimes I struggle with definitely until I stop and think about it. It's de-finite-ly). But sometimes I have a problem with necessarily, the third word in this paragraph. Again, it's the old double-letter challenge: Is it a double-c or a double-s? Or both?

That's a permanent problem for me (I'm hoping that by writing permanent many times in this column, it will lodge in my brain. Permanently.)

My friends shared other words with which they have problems. Some of them are because the words are spelled very differently from how they are pronounced. Like colonel. Or macabre, a word I would only use if I was showing off.

One friend said a word they struggle with is "suspicious," about which I'm strangely dubious (get it?). Another said "occasionally" is a struggle, perhaps for my aforementioned double-letter challenge. There are double letters, but is it the c? The l? Maybe the n?

The same problem arises for committee, which has the rare status of three triple letters. In most of the double-letter words, there are no more than two pair and you have to figure it out. Then you get committee or bookkeeper and you wonder if you're doing too much.

According to YourDictionary.com (which must be authoritative, right? It's a dictionary? And it's yours!), the 10 most commonly misspelled English words are acquit, cemetery, exhilarated, hierarchy, inoculate, liaison, memento, pastime, pronunciation and vacuum. I would misspell virtually all of them, either due to the double-letter problem (does vacuum have a double-c or a double-u . . . or a W, if you're just saying this out loud?) or I say them wrong (It's not moe-mento? It's not ex-hil-er-rated?).

That's a separate problem that's not associated with double letters or weird spellings. And it applies to separate, which should be no surprise if you're inside my brain and see how I try to make dumb jokes with these words.

I misspell (got it!) the word "separate" (got it!) frequently. As often as I misspell "permanent" and for the same reason. That reason? I pronounce the words incorrectly.

I say "sep-per-rut." I say "per-mun-ant." So when it comes time to spell them, I sound them out and spell them wrong.

It turns out that we have a spelling problem that has been largely fixed by spell check functions. And when you get down to it, many of us don't really have a spelling problem, we have a pronouncing problem.

That's separate from misspellings. (Two-for-two!).

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com. 

'Baldergate' lesson: Don't forget to use the clipper guards

I knew something was wrong. Something was off.

But what?

I sat on a stool in our shower, ready for Mrs. Brad to cut my hair. But it seemed wrong somehow.

Mrs. Brad wasn't worried. She was enthusiastic. She started, swiping the clippers across my hair. Seconds later, I had an inch-wide bald strip across my skull. She had forgotten to put a clipper guard on. She'd shaved my head. Or part of it.

Mrs. Brad was stricken. She stepped back with a sick look on her face.

I realized what happened (no wonder things seemed wrong! No wonder I could feel the clippers on my skin!), but I'm an optimist. I thought, "It can't be that bad."

I looked in the mirror. I had a bald stripe on my skull.

Oh. No. It was that bad.

Let's rewind a bit. About six months ago, we decided to have Mrs. Brad cut my hair. For years, I've gone to the $25 haircut stores every six weeks or so and told them my preference. It used to be clipper guard No. 4 on the top, No. 2 on the side (Oh! A really sophisticated haircut!). Eventually, I wanted to stretch out how often I get haircuts, so I switched to No. 3 on the top, No. 2 on the side. (I've now done research. No. 4 cuts your hair to a half-inch, No. 3 cuts it to three-eighths of an inch and No. 2 cuts it to a quarter inch).

Using no clipper guard, of course, shaves your head. But we'll get back to that in a moment.

This wasn't totally new. When the pandemic hit, we did what many others did: We bought clippers. Mrs. Brad cut my hair. It was good enough, but she didn't like the challenge of the contrast: Where does No. 3 end and No. 2 begin?

So post-pandemic, I returned to my haircut store visits. Finally, I struck a deal with Mrs. Brad. If she'd cut my hair, she could cut it all the same length. No. 3, peferably. My hair is low-maintenance and if she cuts it, I don't have to wait at a haircut emporium.

She agreed. For months, it worked well. I'd need a haircut and ask her to cut it. When it was convenient for both of us, I'd set up the stool in the shower, she'd take 10 minutes to cut it. Then I'd use the Dustbuster to get the hair out of the shower and wait another six weeks.

It worked well until the night of Baldergate.

After Mrs. Brad mistakenly (and enthusiastically) mowed all the hair from my scalp, I looked in the mirror. It was shocking. All of my hair was about an inch long (that's not "long" for regular people, but it is for me) except for that strip. On that inch-wide script, you could see my scalp, shining under the light.

It was a reverse mohawk, except it was off-center. It was ridiculous.

My first reaction was to be positive. I told Mrs. Brad I could cover it, to go ahead and cut it regularly.

"How will you cover it?" she asked. I didn't know, but I envisioned wearing a baseball cap for a couple of weeks until it grew back. Yeah, a baseball cap in my office. A baseball cap at church. A baseball cap while playing basketball. Like no one would ask why I was wearing a baseball cap.

Finally, we agreed on a strategy. She'd cut it shorter than normal. It would be No. 2 (a quarter inch) all over, except for the part where no clipper guard was used (where it was zero inches).

It kind of worked. Kind of. Maybe. The rest of that night, every time Mrs. Brad looked at me, she started laughing. She told her mom about it the next day and again couldn't stop laughing.

I told my co-workers, who professed that they hadn't noticed, but then admitted it was impossible to miss once you realize it. My always-short hair was really, really short on that strip.

The day after Baldergate, Mrs. Brad had a positive spin. "You're lucky you have gray hair," she said. "If it was still black, it would be more obvious."

I guess that's something. But a two weeks later, I went to the DMV and got my Real ID driver's license, which required a new photo. So for the next four, eight, 12 years or more, I'll have a reminder in my wallet.

I'm having a bad hair summer.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

Spoon, known are the epitome of semantic satiation

Spoon.

That was the word. Spoon.

The longer my friend Liz studied it, the more wrong it looked. And sounded. Spoon. Is that really a word? Spoon. Spoooooooon. Spoooooooon. It can't be right, can it?

I experienced the same thing earlier that day for a different word. I was considering a quote from former Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld, who said strategy included "known knowns," "known unknowns" and "unknown unknowns." Writing it, suddenly the word "known" seemed wrong. Known. Knoooooown. K-noun? Nnnnooonnne.

You've done this, right? If so, you're not alone. A 1907 paper published in The American Journal of Psychology named the phenomenon "semantic satiation." It is the process of repeating a word over and over to the point where it temporarily loses meaning to the person saying it, who then perceives it as meaningless.

This is a fairly common experience. This isn't using a word wrong or misspelling it (irony: I'm a writer/editor and the word I'm most afraid of misspelling is "misspelling." Too many double letters. More about that in a future column). Semantic satiation is saying spoon so many times that it seems ridiculous and not a word.

It's so common that I asked friends to share examples. Some of their offerings seem like they're not words because they're spelled or pronounced weirdly. But many are words that eventually seem like they must be wrong. And the more you study them, the more wrong they seem.

They're . . . weird. And there's irony in the fact that one such word is weird. Weird. Weird. It can't be spelled that way, right? Or pronounced like that. Weeeeeerd. We-eared. The "ei" combination seems wrong. It seems . . . weird, right?

Like spoon.

Another good example is "bundle." Sure, it initially seems fine. Bundle. A bundle of sticks. Bundling your insurance. A bundle of . . . wait, is that right? Bundle? Bunnnn-dull. That can't be the word. Bundle. Bun-dul-luh, maybe? Bunnn-dull. Strange word. Weird word, if you don't think about "weird" too long.

And how about "restaurant?" It's spelled strangely but it also doesn't seem like a real word. Rest-too-raunt. How about res-taw-u-rant? Restore-ront? Restaurant? A real word? Only if they give you a spoon. Spooooooooon.

There are some other words that seem unwordlike. Tomorrow, for instance. And Wednesday, which like February is generally pronounced wrong, but also doesn't seem like a real word. On Tuesday this week, try saying, "Tomorrow is Wednesday" 10 times in a row. Pretty soon it will feel like you're a toddler making nonsense sounds.

Rhythm was another semantic satiation word, as is honor. Honor? On-er? That can't be right? Rhythm. Rhythm. Rith-umm. I can't even keep rhythm with a spoon. Spoon. Spooooooon.

A couple of other words seem wrong because they are spelled strangely, which focuses you to study them longer: Epitome and awry. Why isn't it "aww-ree?" Or "Ep-pit-tohm?" Even said right, epitome repeated begins to make no sense.

A final nomination for the semantic satiation hall of fame is the word queue. In addition to having four unnecessary letters at the end (if you're moderate, you have to admit it's at least two letters too long). Queue. Quuuuuuuuuuuuu. Qqqqqqqqqqq. That can't be a word.

How many words are there like this? A lot. The real number is probably an unknown unknown. Unknown. Un-noooeeen.

That can't really be a word, can it?

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

Asteroid striking moon could create chaos, more dumb jokes

An asteroid that looked like it might strike Earth in 2032 will almost assuredly miss us. Good news, right?

Well, not really, because YR4 may now strike the moon. (Yes, "YR4," which is a really great name for an asteroid. Memorable, scientific and short. Also, a good name for a rapper.) 

Yeah, an asteroid may hit the moon. This is the worst moon news since the 1978 overdose death of the drummer for the Who, am I right?

Scientists are downplaying the risk (Of course they are. Hey, did you see that our government now says climate change isn't manmade? I feel better. No need to change anything, I guess, as ocean levels rise and Fairfield becomes waterfront property).

A quick recap of YR4: In late 2024, scientists discovered the asteroid. By February, they said there was a better than 3% chance that YR4 could hit Earth by Dec. 22, 2032. It was the most danger we've had from an asteroid since the film "Armageddon" was released in 1998.

Eventually, experts essentially determined that YR4 would not hit Earth. Then came news this summer that the asteroid could hit the moon. The odds are 4.3%, which makes it the most likely moon interception since Warren Moon threw 21 picks for the Houston Oilers in 1993, am I right?

Astronomers (astrologers? I'm pretty sure it's astronomers, but astronomers and astrologers probably work in adjacent buildings) say the biggest danger of such a collision would be to astronauts or infrastructure on the moon at the time of impact (which seems a very risky life choice for an astronaut: "Hey, how about a trip to the moon in late 2032? What could possibly go wrong?"). 

Also in danger: satellites orbiting Earth, which seems kind of important. Satellites being affected should make us care. In fact, this possible collision could create more Moonies than the Unification Church in the 1970s, am I right?

YR4 is about 200 feet in diameter, so it could do plenty of damage. For context, that's the same diameter as (insert your own fat joke here. I won't do it anymore on the advice of my attorney).

YR4 is not large enough to be a "planet killer" as scientists charmingly call big asteroids, such as the one that led to the extinction of dinosaurs and launched the "Jurassic Park" movie series. YR4 is called a "city killer." Oh, that's all?

A collision between YR4 and the moon would likely be visible (the most visible moon event since Greg "Moon Man" Minton saved 30 games for the 1982 Giants, am I right?) and would create a new crater on the moon's surface while stirring up lunar dust. On Earth, we'd have a meteor shower that could cause up to a decade's worth of meteor debris in a few days.

Here's the good news: With seven-plus years to go, scientists are looking into ways to avoid a YR4 collision with the Earth or moon, including possibilities generally only seen in apocalyptic movies (a spacecraft that hits the meteor, for instance).

So calm down and remember the odds are roughly only 1-in-25 that an asteroid will slam into the moon around Christmas 2032. The most likely outcome is that YR4 misses both Earth and the moon and is just a reminder that we're often subject to the whims of the universe.

On the other hand, there's a chance that the asteroid strikes our main satellite and causes worse damage than scientists expected.

The worst case is foretold in a famous children's book. It might be, "Goodnight moon," am I right?

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.