Sandwich Islands: Best thing since sliced bread

Aloha and hand me some lunch meat between two slices of bread!

Mrs. Brad and I recently returned from the Sandwich Islands and this seems an appropriate place to share our memories.

The Sandwich Islands? Well, you may call them something else – most likely the Hawaiian Islands. I've got nothing against the people who call them "Hawaii." I'm just old-school.

And to those who think it's baloney to call them the Sandwiches, a reminder they were named that by Capt. James Cook, who "discovered" them in 1778. By "discovered," I mean it in the same way that I "discovered" "Mad Men" five years after it debuted on American television.

I call them the Sandwich Islands for a very simple reason. They are named after John Montagu, the fourth Earl of Sandwich. When Cook named the islands after Sandwich, it was an honor, multiplied by the fact that there's very little chance that anything else could ever be named after him. If we stop calling them the Sandwich Islands, the name Sandwich probably goes away.

I told that to Mrs. Brad as we ate some peanut butter and jelly, smeared between two slices of bread on Kauai, the northernmost of the Sandwich Islands.

(Side note: If I read about witches while I sat there eating that food, it would be about a "sand witch," right? Too bad for John Montagu that it never stuck. So he gets the islands named after him.)

The islands, of course, widely became known as the Hawaiian Islands in the late 19th century, which created a po' boy in Sandwich.

The beauty of the Sandwich Islands is that the weather is predictable. It was our third trip there – a triple-decker Sandwich? – and the climate has been the same every time. About 85 degrees as the high, 75 as the low. Humid. Residents – Sandwichians? – likely don't need long pants or jackets as they enjoy their cold desserts.

I know that because Mrs. Brad and I spoke about that while sitting at a local restaurant, enjoying one such treat. It was two thin slices of chocolate biscuit with vanilla ice cream between them. It's an ice cream-between-slices item, I presume. Don't know for sure, but it was good. It was the perfect kind of ice cream dessert for the Sandwich Islands.

The best thing about our entire week was relaxation as we enjoyed beaches, hikes, swimming and food while sleeping at a place I called the Club Sandwich.

The food? Delicious. We had bacon, lettuce and tomatoes between slices of bread; we had cheese between two slices of toast; we had several other great meals between (I wish there was a word for the process of inserting something between two other things!) the aforementioned meals. The one thing we didn't have? We ate no tuna on Sandwich.

So if you ask what we liked most about our trip to the Sandwich Islands, it's this: The variety of lunch food and delicious ice cream desserts.

We give a big salute to John Montagu. Thanks to me, no one will forget him, even Inspector Clouseau. Because even a French dip will now remember Sandwich.

Aloha.

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

Really: Some things are worth keeping

When I was a teenager, my dad had a container for tortilla chips. They were his favorite snack, so my stepmom would buy him massive bags of Bien Padre chips (made in my hometown) and he would eat them nearly every night.

The funny thing? His container.

It was an aluminum box about the size of a slice of bread that was assuredly intended for some other use. Maybe to hold food. It was aluminum and clearly intended for a single use.

My dad didn't get rid of it. He used it every night. Week after week, month after month.

Year after year.

That aluminum container held literally hundreds of thousands of tortilla chips through the decades as he watched the evening news or golf or read the latest racy Harold Robbins novel. He kept it year after year, refusing to use a bowl or even get a new version.

When Mrs. Brad and I moved away from our hometown decades ago, my dad still had that chip holder. I don't think he still does, but I wouldn't be surprised if I visited and he pulled it out.

He is a child of the Depression: He kept a cheap, replaceable container that could easily have been thrown away. Because it worked.

Fast-forward a generation. I'm older than he was when he started using that container. I've raised two sons, who when asked in their teens about my values, said that I didn't waste money. (It probably wasn't phrased that way. It probably included the word "cheap" and an accusation that all of their friends had fathers who more freely handed out money. I consider those charges to be unsubstantiated and won't dignify them with a response.)

Recently, while Mrs. Brad and I were traveling, she noticed my daily pill holder. (OK. So I've admitted I'm old, cheap and have a container to remind me to take my assortment of cholesterol and arthritis medicine. Get off my lawn!)

It's one of those plastic versions, with the first letter of each day of the week on the compartment. Nice and big, so the old eyes can read it.

"Is that broken?" she asked, looking at the container that appeared to have been run over by an 18-wheeler.

"No. I fixed it."

Then I tried to change the subject. But it didn't work. She asked some more.

It was fixed! It wasn't broken! The lid for one of the dates (Thursday) broke off, which is admittedly unacceptable. You can't have a random statin pill migrating to the wrong day. Or a low-level aspirin slipping into Friday's slot and causing an aspirin overdose!

Rather than throw out the container, I fixed the broken lid. I used Scotch tape.

I told Mrs. Brad this. She looked at me skeptically.

"Why don't you just get a new one? Or you can have mine," she said, offering me her "travel" pill container.

"No. Mine is fine," I said. "Yours is too big. It won't fit as well on my shelf. This is fine."

She raised her eyebrows at me.

But I didn't want to buy a new pill container. It would be a waste of money. The taped-up version works fine.

Of course, those containers cost $2. I could easily replace it and not suffer financial hardship.

I don't know why I don't just get a new one. I guess it's the same philosophy that my dad had all those years ago: If it works, don't change it. If it ain't broke, don't fix it. And if it does break, fix it with tape and keep using it.

It's a philosophy that leads to hoarding, I guess. But let's be honest: His tortilla chip container was ridiculous.

My pill container? It makes sense.

Right?

Right?

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

Color me excited for Hall of Fame announcement

Like most Americans, I'll be clicking "refresh" on my Internet browser Thursday morning, awaiting the big announcement.

This is no game! It's time to find out the new inductees to The National Toy Hall of Fame in Rochester, New York.

My money is on the scooter and Twister. But I hope that Wiffle ball makes it and won't complain if coloring book gets inside the lines.

Induction into the Toy Hall of Fame, of course, is one of the biggest stories of the year. And this year's field of 12 nominees for just two spots is one of the strongest in memory. In addition to the aforementioned four nominees, there's also American Girl dolls, Battleship, Jenga, Playmobil, puppet, super soaker, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and the top.

Can you imagine a Hall of Fame without puppets? Or the beloved top? You will likely have to, for at least another year. Because they're unlikely to get enough support for enshrinement.

My support for Twister comes from my childhood, when it was a boxed game that was physical, unlike The Game of Life (2010 inductee) or Aggravation.

Scooters get my backing because of the late-1990s Christmas when every kid in my neighborhood (including the two Stanhope squires) received Razor scooters. There were 12-wide races down our street – the kind of signature moment that Hall of Famers need.

As you likely know, there are already 56 toys in the Hall of Fame. Twister (or Battleship) would be the fifth board game, joining Candy Land, Life, Monopoly and Scrabble (I don't consider checkers, chess or dominoes – all inductees – board games).

Hall of Fame watchers speculate that puppet could create the kind of controversy that erupted when cardboard box (2005) stick (2008) and ball (2009) were inducted as general items. More than one critic wondered if invisible friend or rocks might be future inductees – a chorus that only got louder when blanket made it in 2011.

Although this year's field is very strong (expect some significant protests from Generation X members if super soaker and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles are left out for a baby boomer toy), it still will pale in comparison to the strongest classes since the shrine opened in 1998.

Other than the initial class of 11 (including Barbie and Legos, the Babe Ruth and Ty Cobb of toys), most Toy Hall of Fame experts consider the 2000 class the best ever. That, of course, was the year of bicycle, jacks, jump rope, Mr. Potato Head and slinky.

All we can hope is that we avoid the debacle of 2013, when chess and rubber duck (neither of which have been a part of this columnist's life) made up the entire class. There were rumors of a rebellion among the other toys, which conspiracy theorists cite as the reason for last year's induction of green Army men into the shrine: A bargain to keep the military on the sidelines.

Here's what we know: Whether it's a board game, a doll or a old-school item, this year's field guarantees two happy toys that will be high as a kite (2007).

But making the final choice is as difficult as solving a Rubik's Cube (2014) or jigsaw puzzle (2002).

Play time ends Thursday.

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

Time capsule musings of a 13-year-old me

Editor's note: The following column was found in a time capsule that indicated the author was 13. The thoughts and predictions contained are not necessarily those of the Daily Republic or even the present-day Brad:

Hey everyone, I'm putting this column in a No. 2 mayonnaise jar on Funk and Wagnalls' back porch (like Johnny Carson says!), so I can tell you what I think sometime in the future. Like maybe the year 2000.

• I read "The Sporting News" every week and Dick Young never runs out of column topics, so I can't image the older version of me ever running out of things to write about. I love notes columns, although Herb Caen in the San Francisco Chronicle writes about stuff I don't understand.

• Other than that, I'm like J.J. on "Good Times": Dyn-o-mite!

• So what should I write about? How about the most influential person in my life: Al Michaels.

Yes. Al Michaels. You might know him best from "Wide World of Sports," but I know him as the San Francisco Giants play-by-play announcer. Since that's what I'm going to be when I'm an adult, I pay close attention to everything he does.

When I sit down in front of the TV and practice announcing games into my awesome tape recorder, I think about Al Michaels. How he announces things. The stories he tells. I suspect that he'll still be the announcer for the Giants when I get the job as the No. 2 man.

• I just hope I'm there in time for John Montefusco, my favorite Giants player, to be inducted into the Hall of Fame.

• Al Michaels isn't the only thing I know. For instance, here are five people who will still be stars when I'm old:

5. Carl Douglas. "Kung Fu Fighting" will be the first of many hits for him.

4. John Lindsay. The former mayor of New York is going to be president.

3. Lynda Carter. You can't tell me that "Wonder Woman" isn't going to be a great, long-running TV show. It has everything!

2. Pete Rose. His style of baseball will never get old and his attitude guarantees him a place in the game after retirement. He's "Charlie Hustle!"

1. Gabe Kaplan. He's not only a great actor, he's funny! Every week on "Welcome Back, Kotter," he tells great jokes about his relatives.

• Here's something you may not know: If you chew a bunch of saltine crackers and don't swallow them, they stay in your mouth and can make it look like you're chewing tobacco. Like a baseball relief pitcher.

• My AM radio picks up stations from as far away as Denver and Seattle. I like listening to sports talk radio shows when I'm supposed to be asleep.

• The price of gas keeps going up. If we don't do something about the Arab Oil Embargo, it could cost more than $1 a gallon – and it's already caused my dad to cancel our plans to rent a Winnebago for our family vacation this year.

• I will never get sick of eating macaroni and cheese. And when I'm an adult, I'll eat Appian Way pizza and Kraft cheesecake every day. I love food that comes with all the ingredients in one box.

That will  be dyn-o-mite!

• Until next time, keep on truckin'!

Brad Stanhope is a former (and future, for the 13-year-old Brad) Daily Republic editor. Reach him at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Creative solutions for House speaker quandary

One of the most powerful jobs in America is open and nobody wants it. With good reason.

It's about politics, but stick with me. It's worth it!

Republicans in the U.S. House of Representatives spent the past few weeks hoping that a good candidate – anyone – would step up to succeed John Boehner as speaker of the House. Boehner announced Sept. 25 that he was stepping down after realizing he couldn't unite the party behind him. It looked like Rep. Kevin McCarthy of California would take the job, but he decided not to do it.

Then . . . nobody. Paul Ryan is the top candidate, but he doesn't want the gig.

It's third in line to the presidency and nobody wants the job!

Admittedly, politics is an uncharacteristic subject matter for this space, which more often focuses on how to exploit Mars' water supply or how great it would be to have a monkey servant. But stick with me, because I have suggestions that could solve everything.

For the Republicans.

For Congress as a whole.

For the American public.

I have some nominations for speaker of the House, based on something I uncovered in my research (thanks, Wikipedia!): The speaker of the House doesn't have to be a member of Congress.

That's right: While all 61 speakers in history have been members of Congress, there is no rule requiring it. The speaker can be an outsider.

And this might be exactly the time that we change things. We could be like George Mikan, who gets credit for popularizing the 3-point shot in basketball. Or Charley Douglass, who invented the laugh track for radio and TV shows. Or Barry Mann, who put the bomp in the bomp bah bomp bah bomp.

We could change history.

If the leaders of Congress want to be famous for something other than adding to government gridlock, they should consider appointing an outsider from the following list:

• Samuel L. Jackson. We would watch every press conference by the speaker of the House if it was Samuel L. Jackson. Seriously. Can you imagine him presiding over a congressional hearing? You would never know when he might go off and drop a profane, amusing, sinister threat. To anyone.
• Hugh Laurie. He played the titular character on "House," so he's already a speaker on "House." Why couldn't he be speaker of the House?
• Tony Wade. My rival Daily Republic columnist could likely persuade Congress to do anything. If not, I'd enjoy seeing him under attack.
• Don Rickles. Same as Samuel L. Jackson. I'd watch every session of Congress to watch him work.
• Don Draper. Really, it's actor Jon Hamm, but I'd be comfortable also hiring the writers for "Mad Men" if it meant we get a speaker who goes to a meeting, lets things get out of hand, then comes up with a brilliant, last-second idea that leaves everyone shaking their head in wonder.
• Snoop Dogg. The spizzle of the hizzie!
• Jed York. Anything to get him away from running the 49ers. Even if it means making Congress worse.
• Sara Lee. One of the biggest problems for the speaker of the House is automatic unpopularity. So why not Sara Lee? As we learned from advertising, nobody doesn't like Sara Lee!

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

Mars presents solution to our problem

Scientists think there might be water on Mars, making it the greatest opportunity since gold was discovered at Sutter's Mill 160 years ago. Or when Lewis and Clark explored the West. Or when Lewis and Martin perfected the buddy genre during the 1950s.

This is Manifest Destiny for the 21st century. It could be a game-changer for Earth, if we play things right and seize the day.

And the water. As much of it as we can.

Stick with me on this.

The initial report came from NASA, which was bold, if naive, about the discovery. At least according to a report in The New York Times, which I read every day while wearing a sweater and smoking a pipe.

“This is tremendously exciting,” said James L. Green, the director of NASA’s planetary science division, at a news conference. “We haven’t been able to answer the question, ‘Does life exist beyond Earth?’ But following the water is a critical element of that. We now have, I think, great opportunities in the right locations on Mars to thoroughly investigate that.”

Oh, yeah. A great opportunity. The greatest opportunity ever to solve our water problems.

Scientists, taking a break from conducting studies about whether coffee is healthy or unhealthy, said that the water on Mars is not in oceans, lakes or rivers – although those all existed in the distant past (the 1970s). They say the water is in the small patches of damp soil, indicating Mars may be a lot like drought-stricken California.

The scientists indicated that they are unsure of from where the water came, saying it comes from "above or below," an answer that would be disqualified on most game shows.

Anyway, here's the opportunity: Water. On Mars.

Think about it.

We need water and a neighboring planet has it. Mars could solve our drought problems.

I suggest that we launch a plan similar to President Kennedy's in 1960, when he announced that we would land a man on the moon by the end of the decade (a less-known Kennedy guarantee during the same speech: That we would wear bell-bottom pants by the end of the decade. Both were right.).

This is our time. Mars is ripe for exploration and exploitation. It's floating in space, with plenty of water, taunting us.

Let's take it!

If we launch a spaceship to Mars, carrying drills and 35 million miles of pipe, we can mine that planet for water and use it to fill our hot tubs, water bottles and hanging planters. Imagine a long pipe, like the proposed XL Pipeline – but have it running from Mars to a huge set of reservoirs in California.

It's simple. We have rockets. We have plenty of PVC pipe. In a zero-gravity environment, the wear and tear on the pipes would be minimal, so they'd last much longer than the Bay Bridge.

This solves several problems:

It gives NASA something tangible to do.
It creates jobs in the construction industry.
It gives us water.
And if we foul up Mars' atmosphere, who cares? It's just Mars – and the start of "global warming" there might bring the average temperature from the current 67 degrees below zero to something like Earth's. Does anyone else think it might be a vacation paradise?

If we don't mine Mars for water, we're missing a huge opportunity, because where else are we going to get water?

Uranus?

That's would be gross.

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

Getting through grief of a bad commute

The only thing slower than morning rush-hour traffic is navigating an emotional response to it.

I've got a five-speed. Not a five-speed vehicle, a five-speed reaction. I think I'm in fifth gear now, which is acceptance.

But I could be wrong. It wouldn't be the first time. In fact, it wouldn't be the first time I was wrong about gridlock.

I thought last spring was a reasonable example of what to expect in traffic on my way to Walnut Creek.

I was wrong.

It goes back to mid-August, when normally slow morning traffic along Interstate 680 (and I-80, as well) got even slower. And slower. My drive, which takes 40 minutes with light traffic (almost always the situation when I come home in the afternoon), took about 50 minutes in the morning for months and months. And months.

In mid-August, it jumped to 70 or 80 minutes. And not just for me. There are four other Fairfield-Suisun City-Vacaville residents at my office, and all were shocked.

Our first reaction was simple: We told each other that it was a coincidence. There must have been an accident. School was starting. Once we got a couple of weeks into the academic year, parents would get off the road and it would go back to the way it was all last year – heavy traffic, but tolerable.

We knew it wasn't really a permanent change.

We were in denial.

As late-August arrived and things didn't change, denial gave way to anger.

"This is stupid!" I said several mornings after arriving late. "It's ridiculous. Weren't these people driving their children to school last year? How could it make this much difference?"

We complained about construction and bad drivers and inexplicable slowdowns. It was absurd. It didn't make sense!

We were angry.

By the time Labor Day passed, most of us began to think this might be a permanent change. We began to look for ways to navigate it.

"I would be willing to accept more traffic on Friday (when there's typically little traffic) in exchange for fewer drivers the rest of the week," I proclaimed.

We also began to look for alternate ways to get to work, thinking that if we took side streets or came another way (would going to Vallejo, then taking I-780 to the Benicia Bridge make sense?), it would be better. We would give up something – almost anything – in exchange for a shorter commute.

We were bargaining.

By mid-September, nothing changed. Maybe this wasn't a start-of-school event. Maybe this wasn't going to go away. Maybe this was the new normal – that it would take us 80 minutes to get to work, 40 minutes to drive home. Maybe we would be stuck in stop-and-go traffic before the Benicia Bridge day after day, month after month.

Our conversations about traffic were punctuated with sighs and groans. I told one co-worker that pretty soon, we'd have to leave home Monday morning to get to work Tuesday. Then I sighed and walked back to my desk, looking down, shoulders slumped.

It was depression.

Finally, we got to October and realized this: It isn't changing. Last year isn't coming back. We won't breeze through traffic and get to work before 8 a.m., unless we leave Fairfield-Suisun City at 4:30 a.m.

There's no use complaining, no use being mad, no use being sad. It takes more than an hour to get to work. That's how it is.

We reached acceptance, although there were still flashes of anger, bargaining and depression.

Especially anger.

But there was one day last week when traffic moved better. It only took an hour.

Is it possible things could go back to what they were before?

Or is that denial?

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

Secrets of El Niño winter, including forecasts

Our long California drought may soon be over.

In case you haven't heard, weather experts are nearly unanimous in saying that we're about to have an El Niño winter, which could mean the end of the drought and the arrival of flooding.

Or maybe nothing will change.

That's where I come in. I follow the tradition of Ben Franklin, who wrote Poor Richard's Almanack (Franklin lacked a copy editor to tell him that within a couple of centuries, the "k" wouldn't be needed) before he stopped publishing it to launch his famous late-18th-century blog "Ben There, Done That." Later, the Farmer's Almanac picked up the mantle, but without the brilliance of Franklin's lightning commentary (pun fully intended).

In the spirit of Franklin ("it's all about the Benjamin," I always say), I now take responsibility to explain and predict the weather months ahead of time.

First of all, some education: El Niño is a weather term that means "The Niño" in Spanish. It is based on the career of former Major League Baseball pitcher Niño Espinosa, who was noted for his ability to "make it rain" while attending clubs in New York City when he played for the Mets. Thus, the idea that a "rainy" year is an "El Niño" year.

You're welcome. Never forget Niño Espinosa, who died of a heart attack in 1987 at age 34.

Now the forecast, to give you time to prepare for the deluge of 2015-16.

October will be fairly dry, although an unexpected amount of Starbucks pumpkin spice latte will make it more humid than normal. We'll frequently be warned by TV talking heads that the drought is far from over, as if we didn't know.

November will bring the first hints of precipitation, with the chance of a deluge around midmonth – enough to bring a national day of thanksgiving on the fourth Thursday.

As December comes, the wet stuff will become more regular, to the point that you'll be able to get polite chuckles from your co-workers by saying "It's raining cats and dogs. I know because I just stepped in a poodle!" However, news media members will be unanimous in reminding us the drought isn't over. Not by a long shot.

As 2016 begins, we'll have our first wet January in years, with a few gully-washers. We won't be tired of it, although we will tire of hearing that the drought isn't over. And you'll break out this one for your co-workers: "When is Monday coming? MonSoon!" They will ignore you.

By February, we'll start getting cranky as the cloudbursts continue, making the Super Bowl at the 49ers stadium in Santa Clara even sadder than expected. In an effort to lighten the mood, you'll spring a new joke on your co-workers: "It's raining dogs. I know, because I just stepped in a pile of shih tzu!" That gag will result in a trip to HR and some mandatory classes on appropriate workplace language.

By March, we'll curse Niño Espinosa (see Paragraph 6) and wonder if it will ever be sunny again. It's the time we start breaking out references to "liquid sunshine," as we go through our second set of windshield wipers of the year.

April will, of course, bring showers, which will give you a chance to break out the line for your co-workers: "If April showers bring May flowers, what do May flowers bring? Pilgrims!" Their anger will make you wonder if it's politically incorrect to use the term "pilgrim."

May will bring the end of the El Niño as pilgrims invade America and force us to wear black, buckled shoes. Your co-workers will ignore you when you tell them you predicted this, but as we dig out from a winter of rain, one thing will remain true: The media will remind us that the drought is far from over.

Ben Franklin wouldn't have written that!

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

Camping trip almost blew us away

We thought we knew about wind. After all, we've lived in Suisun City for decades and endured year after year of gusts.

But this was different.

We found ourselves late at night, trying to sleep while also hoping that our tent wouldn't blow away. Huddled and shouting at each other.

But let's go back to the beginning of a medium-length story (about 650 words) about a couple, a camping trip and a cold, windy stretch of Northern California coast.

It began when friends at Mrs. Brad's workplace planned a camping trip for early September at Dillon Beach, near Tomales.

We have a history of camping, although we skipped it for several years after an unfortunate experience involving a mean raccoon, a bag of food, our two young sons, me hiding in the bottom of the sleeping bag and Mrs. Brad defending us with a tree branch. So we have the gear and experience.

It was the end of the week of a heat wave, when temperatures soared past 100 every day. Even Tomales, which is about 6 inches from the ocean, was reportedly hot – leading me to repeatedly use the phrase "hot Tomales" to describe our destination. We expected a break from the heat.

Then we arrived Friday evening. Tomales was like the set of a horror film, with waves of fog blowing across the road and scary organ music, although the music may have been inside my head.

The biggest problem? We only brought our hoodies – no coats and no headgear except our baseball caps. No problem. It would be nice.

Right?

It got colder. And windy. And windier. Putting up our tent was like wrestling with a rabid, nylon alligator. We scrambled to get our ice chest and backpacks in it to keep it from blowing away.

The wind died a bit and after sitting by the fire – made by Mrs. Brad's co-worker Joe, who had everything, including a big trailer, firewood and stakes we needed to borrow to anchor the aforementioned tent. Then we decided to go to bed. Then it began to blow harder.

Our tent, and this happened two nights in a row, was buffeted like a flag at Candlestick Park. It blew so hard and steadily that the tent looked like a shark fin. Or, as I described in the moment, "like Jimmy Neutron's hair." It would have blown away if it wasn't for our body weight.

"Are you sleeping yet?" Mrs. Brad yelled from 9 inches away.

"Not yet, but I'm tired," I shouted back, feeling my legs lift as the wind got under the tent.

We survived Friday night, then it happened again Saturday – after a sunless day spent huddled around the fire. (Note to self: Camp at least a mile from the ocean next time. Or bring a heavy coat.)

On Saturday night, Joe came out of his trailer and looked at our tent.

"Do you guys want me to pull my truck there to break the wind?" he shouted from somewhere out in the storm.

"No, we're fine," we both yelled, hoping we weren't airborne.

Joe ignored us and moved the truck, which managed to decrease the wind.

Somewhat. At least we could sleep, confident we wouldn't wake up somewhere in Oregon.

Ultimately, the gusts dropped to the normal Solano County summer evening – only 30 or 40 mph.

We survived.

Weekend report: We never saw the sun, survived a wind storm that would have defeated a lesser couple and we learned a valuable lesson: If our home ever gets damaged by a wind storm, we'll move into our tent, then call Joe and have him park his truck in front of it.

Oh, and we won't go to Tomales in September. At least without sandbags, parkas and safety parachutes, just in case we have to bail out of the tent from 1,500 feet.

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

NFL's slide, musical guilty pleasures and more

It's time to empty my reporter's notebook, which is now an app on my telephone that has virtual pages onto which I type by touching "keys" on a screen.

Ahh, technology. I love you and hate you at the same time.

Virtually, of course.

On to the topics du jour . . .

First, the NFL makes its debut this weekend at what feels a lot like a turning point. Three or four years ago, the NFL was the undisputed king of American sports and getting stronger.

Now? Concussions, player arrests and an inept commissioner have it feeling a little like Major League Baseball when the steroid era came into full flower: Nothing but bad news.

The big difference? There was a way to restore confidence in baseball by instituting drug tests (although they're clearly not infallible). How can you eliminate the risk of head injuries for a sport that relies on violent collisions? And how do you change the perception that management is out of touch and interested only in making a lot of money?

The NFL is in a precipitous position. It's still king of American sports, but it now feels more like a monarchy that's trying to hold onto power.

Next, something that's apropos of nothing – five musical groups from the 1970s and 1980s that I still like, despite public embarrassment in admitting it:

5. Christopher Cross. The singer of "Ride Like the Wind" and "Sailing" was the biggest victim of the rise of MTV, since he was a boring, unattractive performer at the exact time that those became unforgivable. I'm still not sure why he wasn't the James Taylor of his generation.

4. Kriss Kross. OK, they're in the 1990s, but I can't think of Christopher Cross without thinking of Kriss Kross. "Jump!" is one of the most ridiculed songs of its era, but when it comes on, everyone smiles. I guess I don't like Kriss Kross as much as I like "Jump."

3. Bee Gees. They spent decades identified as the ultimate disco group, but they were much more than that – their ballads were fantastic and they acted as producers for myriad stars. But let's admit it, their disco stuff was pretty awesome.

2. Hall and Oates. A favorite target of the "I hate the '80s" crowd, they recorded song after song after song that were catchy, fun and still hold up. I've never been totally sure of John Oates' role in the duo, but it must have been something, right? Maybe he sang on "She's Gone"?

1. Wham! Make fun all you want of "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go," but I loved George Michael's work during and after this group. Still a fan.

Next: One of my favorite political games is to figure out which presidential candidates match up with sports figures.

This year is a rife with options, but one is inescapable: Donald Trump is the political equivalent of late George Steinbrenner, former owner of the New York Yankees.

Two boisterous, obnoxious, rich New Yorkers who think they know everything. Both have (had) a large cadre of enemies, but also a large group of people who admire them for their focus on winning and refusal to be politically correct. Trump doesn't have Joe Torre, though.

Next up: Perhaps the greatest example of American ingenuity is in our industrial kitchens. Whether it's Cap'n Crunch Delights (at Taco Bell) or Bacon Mac and Cheese chips (from Lay's), we're forever finding new, enticing ways to eat.

My favorite new item is quick-serve pizza – the pizza version of Chipotle, where you pick toppings and they make your item in a few minutes. The local version is a place called Pieology (a national chain) in the Gateway area near the mall, but I suspect we'll see others coming.

It's a great idea – your personal pizza in five minutes or less.

Is it any wonder we love this country?

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