Eyebrow cure worse than the problem

She said she wouldn't laugh. Then she laughed so hard she couldn't speak, which just goes to show you: Never let your wife apply eyeliner to your brows.

Wait. There's a story behind it. There's always a story behind it.

It starts several years ago when I realized that my eyebrows (or iBrows, if the deal I'm negotiating with Apple Inc. comes through) are extremely light on the outside. It's hard for someone to notice – partly because no one looks closely at me and partly because I wear glasses.

But it's true. When I mentioned it to Mrs. Brad after my discovery, she doubted it. Then she looked closely. And laughed, because it's true.

Over the years, I've often mentioned it. Other than my ears (lower on my head than they should be, creating a Frankenstein shadow when I walk), my pale, wispish eyebrows are the dominant weirdness on my head. Other than my gray hair. And the deviated septum on my nose. And other stuff.

But the eyebrows are the most conspicuous, because to me, at least, their sparseness on the outside emphasizes the rest. I sometimes feel like either Martin Scorsese or a Muppett character who ripped off part of the brows with duct tape.

Move ahead to a few weeks ago. Having long assumed that my eyebrows were lighter on the outside because they were gray, I looked at them closely and came to a different conclusion: The outside parts of my eyebrows (or iBrows) were wispy and thin.

I smiled.

"My eyebrows are more like baby hair," I emailed Mrs. Brad from work.

(And yes, I'm spending this much time talking about my eyebrows. And no, we don't normally communicate about such things a lot. But yes, I thought it would make her laugh, so I emailed.)

She disagreed.

I insisted.

I showed her them that night.

They are thin, blondish and wispy like a infant's hair. Soft as an angel's breath.

That night as we brushed our teeth before going to bed, Mrs. Brad made a suggestion.

"Let me pencil them in and see what they look like," she said, pulling out the eyebrow pencil.

It was bedtime. I wasn't going to see anyone else. I would shower and wash my face in the morning. After getting assurance from her that eyebrow pencil washes out, I allowed her.

"I won't laugh. I promise," she said.

Sure.

Mrs. Brad concentrated, drawing in the eyebrows to make them darker. She stepped back and looked.

And erupted in laughter.

I looked in the mirror. I looked like my evil twin. Menacing. Or insane. The eyebrows looked wrong.

I tried to tell that to Mrs. Brad, but she couldn't hear. She was literally doubled over, laughing. To her credit, she was apologizing for laughing. Or trying to, but unable to fully speak because she was laughing so hard.

I shook my head, got some soap on my thumbs and scrubbed.

Fortunately, the eyebrow pencil came out. But Mrs. Brad kept laughing. More and more.

My extended eyebrows were gone, but she could still picture it.

Days later, she still is amused by it.

Here's the lesson: You may think things on your face or body are weird. You may think that there's something unnatural. You may shout at TV when guys with long, full eyebrows appear. You may compare yourself to a Muppet.

But if you really want to make your spouse laugh, let them try to correct your defect with makeup.

I'll live with my wispish iBrows. If they're good enough for Apple (hopefully), they're good enough for me.

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

Name your job? Maybe the other way around

It turns out that your name might be your destiny.

Or at least there's a correlation. According to a study done by Verdunt Labs (which is also a good description of a green Labrador retriever, assuming that you're OK with misspelling "verdant"), there is a connection between names and professions. The group studied the Social Security Administration's database of names and the Federal Election Commission's list of professions and found that certain first names turned up far more often in certain professions.

This isn't anything new. Back in the day, it was the last name – people named Mason were masons, people named Farmer were farmers, people named Smith were smiths and people named Guy Who Eats Other People's Food From The Company Refrigerator worked at your office. That was a standard naming convention.

This is different. This suggests that your first name leads you to a certain profession.

I spent a long time looking at the graphic that ran with the article, mostly it was to see if "Brad" appeared.

It didn't, but my guess is that most Brads are rich, arrogant characters at a country club in California-based coming-of-age movies filmed in the 1980s. But that's a guess based on my history.

In the study, some of the name-career choices seemed obvious, like the fact that rabbis are disproportionately named Shlomo, Judah and Chaim. And the most popular names for golfers are Tommy, Bobby, Johnny and Bud.

But what about guitarists? The study cites Mick, Richie, Trey, Sonny, Buddy and Eddie, which squares up with my experience. It wasn't Sholom Van Halen, was it? Or Bud Vedder? Historians are most often Herbert, Emma or Henry, which fits with the stereotype of old-fashioned names being interested in history.

Still, I was surprised by the fact that Penelope, Stella and Constance are more likely to be social workers. I guess their former jobs as characters in 19th century novels probably didn't last.

I'm fascinated by names. I love the annual lists that the Social Security Administration releases each year of the most popular names. I love when people have great stories about how they got their name or how they named their children. I spend a disproportionate amount of time wondering why people give their kids names that are hard to spell or that are a bad combination with their last names.

But the fact that certain names seem likely to lead you to certain professions is a game-changer for parents. When you're naming your kid, you may be helping them head toward a surprising career choice.

Based on the graphic, my sons were most likely to be a drummer or a football player, neither of which has happened.

Yet.

One last thing that's interesting to me. If this chart were accurate 45 years ago, "Sanford and Son" would likely have been about a lawyer and his son.

Don't bother me with facts. I'm thinking about Fred Sanford as an attorney while contemplating whether we made mistakes in naming our sons.

Shlomo Stanhope?

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

Cautionary tale about using spell check

Many years ago, in a story that lives in infamy within the halls of the Daily Republic, the spell-check function on our computers was given too much power and we paid for it.

And I say "our" and "we" in the most royal way possible, since I wasn't involved. At all. Thankfully.

The result was catastrophic, resulting in humiliation, apologies and community shame. It remains a cautionary tale for anyone who writes.

By that, I mean if you write anything. Including emails, text messages, Facebook posts or graffiti. A spell-check function (often unavailable for graffiti) is helpful, maybe necessary. But not perfect. Far from it.

Just spend some time reading social media posts and you'll see the need for spell check. (A hint: Please read what you write before you post it.) But trust too much and it's equally bad.

Like the aforementioned disaster at the Daily Republic. It involved a list of winners for the Arty Awards, which the Daily Republic sponsored, hosted and honored. It was, and remains, a big deal in the local theater world – the local version of the Academy Awards. The year in mention, the big winner was a play called "Bullshot Crummond." The other big winner was "Pippen."

The major mistake came on the list of winners. The regular article about the actual Arty Awards ceremony was correct, with plenty of references to the night's winners by their correct titles. But the winners list that ran in the paper with the story had been spell-checked into misery and listed the names replaced by the first suggestion from the spell-checker. Over and over. And then the "correct" words weren't flagged anymore and nobody noticed.

You can probably guess what the first word in "Bullshot Crummond" came out as in print ("Crummond" remained unchanged). "Pippen" came out as "Pigpen" on every reference.

If memory serves (Hey! I was the sports editor! We just kept our heads down and hoped to stay out of trouble), the newspaper changed policies, had a public shaming and forced one person to spend an hour in the stocks at City Hall, while wearing a sign that said, "It's my fault."

The lesson was learned: You always use spell check. You never trust spell check.

Like money, spell check is a great tool and a terrible master. Use it well and it helps you avoid mistakes. Trust it too much and you wind up apologizing for what makes no sense (or worse, makes sense).

The same thing happens with auto-correct on smartphones. There are some great websites that list outrageous text messages sent by parents or grandparents that are unintentionally extremely racy or embarrassing.

Avoid having that happen to you. It can even happen to big organizations, such as The Associated Press, which had to send out the following correction a few years ago: "An early version of an Associated Press story about the David Petraeus resignation and ensuing scandal mistakenly referred to Jill Kelley as a 'socialist' rather than a socialite."

You don't want to make that kind of mistake. People will think the rest of what you write is bullshot.

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

Lawsuits, 'Mad Men' finale and more

Time to empty out the columnist notebook with notes, quotes and anecdotes.

It's Mother's Day, which is appropriate, since this is the mother of all notes columns.

On to the topics du jour . . .

• • •

The Golden State Warriors and ticket-seller website StubHub are involved in a lawsuit that every fan should follow.

It seems the Warriors sent notice to season-ticket holders that anyone who re-sells their tickets anywhere but through the Warriors' officially endorsed websites – which included co-defendant Ticketmaster – will be denied future tickets, which had a chilling effect on StubHub's ability to serve as a marketplace for tickets. The website, where the Stanhope family bought tickets to a few Warriors games this year, said its volume of Warriors tickets was down 80 percent.

Why should you care?

Well, if you buy tickets to sporting events or concerts, you benefit from competition. Even if you don't buy tickets from StubHub, the fact that some are sold there helps keep prices down at other resale sites (particularly those run by teams, which are in effect getting two "service fees" for selling the same tickets twice).

What the Warriors are doing is the equivalent of Toyota having the only car dealership in the entire Bay Area and requiring anyone who buys a Toyota to resell their car through a Toyota dealership or be denied the right to buy a second car.

Seems like an obvious outcome, but who knows?

• • •

"Mad Men," which has its season finale next week, is one of the greatest shows in TV history. But can the online fans quit treating the show like it contains the mysteries of the universe?

It's a TV show. And so is "Game of Thrones," "The Walking Dead" and "Hello, Larry."

Yes, I threw in "Hello, Larry" to see how many McLean Stevenson fans were reading.

My guess on the "Mad Men" finale? Don Draper wakes up to find Suzanne Pleshette laying next to him in his Chicago apartment. (Another old reference.)

• • •

By the way, I don't consider TV show creators geniuses. I subscribe to the Joe Theismann Theory. It was Theismann who once said "football coaches aren't geniuses. A genius is a guy like Norman Einstein."

• • •

True confession: When I was in elementary school, I thought that Mount Rushmore was a natural phenomenon. That's right, I presumed that the wind had somehow worn down the rock in South Dakota until it looked like four of our greatest presidents.

Of course, that also fed into my belief that God somehow loved America. He made the wind carve out mountains to look like our presidents, after all!

• • •

Am I the only person watching "American Idol" who sees the show flashing "XIV" (for its 14th season) who thinks it's showing Norteño gang graffiti?

I am?

• • •

If you want to have old-school cool, try this: Don't call the Giants ballpark "AT&T Park."

Those of us who have been around for a while call it "American Telephone and Telegraph Park."

I understand they're working on getting a telegraph office there.

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

Calico's legacy lives on to this day

She lived a full life, representative of her era: She ate a lot, was promiscuous and stayed out late. Yet she was beloved.

Today would have been her 50th birthday. She was gone too soon.

I write, of course, about Calico, my childhood dog. I don't know her death date, which is lost to history (sometime in early 1980). I also don't know how she ended up in our family, another story lost to history. But I know her birth date: May 3, 1965. Fifty years ago today.

Calico Stanhope was a beagle, part of the generation of dogs whose status in society was elevated by Snoopy of "Peanuts" fame. I've seen pictures of her as a puppy, when she was frisky and small. By the time I was old enough to remember, she disappeared from family photos, appearing only in shadows, a family version of the Loch Ness Monster. (In that era, adults didn't waste film on the family dog. Film was expensive to develop!)

Calico was the beloved dog of my childhood, but to my friends, she was an obese, wart-covered, snorting hound who never missed an opportunity to hump their legs.

She loved eating garbage. In the days before you had to leash a dog – I lived in a rural community, where there still is likely no leash law – Calico wandered the neighborhood. That meant that garbage night was often Mardi Gras for her – an opportunity to take advantage of mysteriously tipped-over cans and enjoy the spoils of coffee grounds, egg shells and other treasures. Like a generation of Americans that followed, she learned that if you eat garbage, you get fat.

She was definitely portly. Her belly was inches off the ground and sometimes the warts on her paws nearly rubbed her stomach. Her weight made it tough for her to breathe, causing her to snort when she walked. My friends often thought she was growling at them, which they assumed was as bad as it would get. Wrong on both counts.

I loved Calico, despite her bad habits, which included a tendency to sit on the lawn in front of my bedroom window at night and howl, then respond to her echo. My sisters loved her, too.

Unfortunately, as much as she was loved, she gave love. Uncomfortably so.

Calico was "fixed" at an early age (Dogs undoubtedly don't consider that being "fixed."), but had no qualms familiarizing herself with the legs of my friends. The 10-year-olds who had earlier been terrorized by her growling (grunting) would suddenly find her attached to their legs, fully enjoying the sexual revolution of the 1970s.

"Just shake her off," I would tell them, unaware of how inappropriate it was.

Calico's later years saw her mellow. She slept more, ate more, and kept going. She lived past her 14th birthday (98 for dogs) as an indulgent, gluttonous, oversexed dog.

She was the canine Keith Richards, a dog who overcame all obstacles to survive.

We finally had her "put down" when the entire family left on a two-week vacation and determined that her quality of life was terrible, which sounds much harsher now than it did then. In fact, it sounds like we killed her so we could enjoy a vacation. Could that be right? Nevermind.

Regardless, her legendary life ended.

She has been gone for 35 years, but her influence endures.

Whenever a dog eats from the garbage or barks at something invisible or wanders a neighborhood, it is paying tribute to Calico. Anytime a dog familiarizes itself with the leg of a terrified fourth-grader, it's a tribute to Calico.

She lived slow, died old and left a hideous corpse.

But what a legacy!

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

Those addictive, terrible, wonderful smartphones

Don't let technology enslave you! #PutYourPhoneDown.

It's a quandary, isn't it? Even those of us who make fun of kids having their noses in their smartphones become slaves to technology. If you don't believe it, look up from your phone and look around.

The other day, I went walking outside my office complex and wasn't surprised. Every person – every single person – was looking at their smartphone screen. It was almost enough for me to post it on Facebook. Instead, I texted my amazement to Mrs. Brad.

LOL, as we say online.

Handheld technology has taken over the world.

This is where the old-timer is supposed to complain about society and how it's not as great as when people actually talked to each other. But to write about that, I would need to search Google on my smartphone for information about when cellphones reached the tipping point and whether there have been any significant studies about social interaction since.

If I find it, I'll tweet about it (You can follow me @bradstanhope), because the explosion of smartphones is the #biggestchange of my lifetime.

I've thought about this a reasonable amount lately – about how much we rely on technology in our everyday lives. I'm not alone – based on social media posts, a lot of people do so.

But I'll be frank: I'm as reliant on the technology as a garden-variety teenager. I don't know what I would do if smartphones were no longer available, but it would likely include a lot of fetal-position crying. And I'm not alone – witness the number of people who you'll see staring at their phones today.

Sometimes, it's ridiculous. Consider the scene at sporting events, where something dramatic happens and most fans are recording it on their phones. I guess they want to see a terrible video of something they could have watched live.

But that's what people do. If we have smartphones, we use smartphones.

I use mine for communication, maps, music, Internet access and to buy things. And that's all while I'm driving! (Just kidding . . . as far as you know. ROTFL.)

In fact, I recently started putting my phone in another room while relaxing with Mrs. Brad, because I was too often checking scores of sporting events instead of being present with her. But then I still sneak away and check my phone. Just in case, you know.

Has there been a revolution in history that changed our basic daily habits so fast? Fire was a game-changer, but it took decades before the caveman stopped using electric heaters. Centuries after the invention of the printing press, most people still didn't read. Automobiles were plentiful within a decade or two of their introduction, but there were still horse-driven buggies. Even personal computers, which came on at a breakneck pace, didn't move from luxury to necessity as fast as smartphones.

A decade ago, almost no one had them. Now we all depend on them: They are our phone book, camera, video recorder, radio, music collection, stereo, TV, personal computer, bank and phone.

How do you react if you forget your phone at home? It's time to panic!

I guess this is a long journey to say this: We love our technology. We want our smartphones.

If terrorists really wanted to paralyze us, they would find a way to make it impossible for us to use them. How could we live if we had to go back to the old days?

#unthinkable.

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

Who is the Bay Area's most popular athlete?

The Golden State Warriors are the best team as the NBA playoffs start. They're the most exciting team in their sport. They have a charismatic star who will be named the league's most valuable player in a couple of weeks, a player who is perhaps the league's most popular.

But he's the second-most-popular active athlete in the Bay Area.

With the NBA playoffs opening, the baseball season getting rolling and the NFL draft approaching, it's time for my sort-of annual column – naming of the most-popular Bay Area athletes. It's based on how beloved they are among both casual and passionate fans. Disagree? Feel free to comment online and tell me about how I hate the Raiders or Sharks.

Here's the top 10 list, counting down, with apologies to Klay Thompson, Joe Thornton and the entire Oakland A's roster. After all, there are just 10 spots.

10. Departed 49ers. Frank Gore, Patrick Willis, Mike Iupati and coach Jim Harbaugh all would have been contenders for the list (well, all but Iupati), so they are placeholders at No. 10.

9. Draymond Green, Warriors. Among core basketball fans, he's higher up the list. By the end of the playoffs, he will likely also move up with general fans, too. He is a ball of energy, enthusiasm and diverse skills, universally considered "the heartbeat" of the Warriors.

8. Hunter Pence, Giants. The kale-eating, scooter-driving outfielder became a favorite with his preacher-like "sermons" during the 2012 playoffs and World Series. Now he's a fixture in San Francisco, a twitchy, energetic favorite who hits in the middle of the order and rarely has a day off (except now, when he's out with a broken forearm).

7. David Carr, Raiders. Makes it by default – the Raiders have a lot of fans and he's their best young quarterback in a generation. Carr could become a fixture on the Bay Area sports scene, assuming the franchise doesn't move away.

6. Mike Krukow/Duane Kuiper, Giants. The team's TV announcers have been together for two decades and fans feel like they're part of the family. They are, if you watch 150-plus games a year.

5. Billy Beane, A's. It's not by design, but Beane, the A's general manager, trades away every player who could possibly make this list. He's also the only Bay Area sports figure who's been the focus of a blockbuster movie.

4. Colin Kaepernick, 49ers. His position is as close as royalty as the Bay Area sports scene has: 49ers quarterback. While not Joe Montana or Steve Young (or even John Brodie), Kaepernick led the team to three straight NFC championship games. Next season will be crucial – will he become an elite quarterback or slide into being an average QB on a mediocre team?

3. Madison Bumgarner, Giants. His performance in the World Series was unprecedented – in baseball, not just Giants history. The fact that it came after a really good season and that Bumgarner has a John Wayne persona made it even more striking. And he's 25.

2. Stephen Curry, Warriors. If you're a Warriors fan, you're lucky: You get to follow one of the most remarkable careers in NBA history. Curry is creative, funny, likable and the greatest shooter in NBA history.

1. Buster Posey, Giants. Who else? He's played five years in the major leagues and has won three championships, a rookie of the year award and was MVP – all for a team that hadn't won a title in nearly 50 years. Young Giants fans think the team always has a great player with a perfect baseball name. They don't. Sometimes the best player is named Bobby Murcer or Randy Winn.

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

Does the ordre of letters in a word mattre?

For the past several years, a behind-the-scenes war played out between the acting world and traditional media.

The issue: Spelling. Of one specific word. Is it "theater" or "theatre?"

It's "theater," of course, but not everyone agrees. The tension is particularly rampant in Fairfield-Suisun, because the drama groups all decided to spell their facilities wrong. At least according to newspapers and Americans.

The drama troupes call them "theatres." You know, the Downtown Theatre. The Missouri Street Theatre. Solano College Theatre.

Newspapers – particularly this one – drew a line in the sand. They said, in essence, that you can call the building a "theatre" if you want and you can call your troupe a "theatre," but we won't use "theatre" as a generic term, because we're not British. And it's not the 18th century. And we learned how to spell in elementary school.

Isn't this the kind of thing we fought the Revolutionary War to prevent? Wasn't King George III trying to force us to spell wrong? Didn't the Boston Tea Party have the desire for freedom to spell correctly?

Isn't this a step backward?

Then I thought about it. And realized I might be wrong.

We let groups self-identify all the time. Every few years, a subgroup of our culture comes out with a new way to describe themselves and we go along. The dictionary is filled with words that are considered outdated or even politically incorrect, so we don't use them anymore.

So maybe the theater . . . er, theatre . . . people are right. Maybe we should just give them a break and let them spell wrong if they want.

Aftre all, there's nothing that says you can't change the ordre of lettres in words, right? And we do speak English, which means that sometimes the people in the mothre country might be correct in how they spell things.

Whether the lettres are in the right ordre or not isn't really up to me. Or to you. Language changes ovre time and sometimes we should change with it.

When I say "we," I mean not only you and me, but newspapres, television reportres and even dictionary editors.

Perhaps the theatre people are on to something. Maybe our language is changing and they are making it bettre fastre.

Aftre all, they do a lot of great plays. You know, "A Streetcar named Desier," "Fiddlre on the Roof," "Jane Eyer" and "Petre Pan."

To deny them the right to spell the word incorrectly could create, to paraphrase Shakespeaer, "the wintre of their discontent."

I guess my point is to let the theatre people embrace their inner misspellre.

Then I thought about it and realized they're wrong. I'm American. We have rules. We spell words correctly.

I'm not ready to change the Constitution to say, "We the people, in ordre to form a more perfect union."

It's time to re-draw that line in the sand.

Otherwise, soonre or latre, we'll be spelling wrong and not know it.

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

Missing silverware mystery not so mysterious

It was like a science fiction movie where people start disappearing, but no one realizes it's widespread.

Except it was spoons, forks and plates, not people. And it was only at the homes of people who have a certain type of resident: High school and college-age students.

It's chilling. And it happened to us.

Mrs. Brad and I noticed it a few years ago. Our silverware, which we got as wedding gifts in the last millennium, started to disappear. First was spoons.

Then forks.

Making it worse? The gradual disappearance of a few plates.

What in the world? Where did our stuff go?

The first option of course is to check to see whether the hired help was stealing our silverware. The only problem was we had dismissed most of the servants during the Great Recession, when we had to cut the household staff to the gardener, my driver and our washer woman.

So we took the next obvious step: We asked our sons. They were in high school, the age where we were beginning to trust them to take food into their rooms (with the stern warning that mice and rats would come after any uneaten food left on plates). Perhaps they had some spoons, forks and plates in their rooms.

They had kitchenware in their rooms, but not nearly enough to explain all that was missing. When pressed, they said they were sure they hadn't lost silverware.

Silverware?

Missing?

Us?

No, we always return it.

We knew that wasn't really true, since Mrs. Brad and I had both seen plenty of dirty plates with silverware – and even some food (mouse food!) left in their rooms: Bowls with dried ramen noodles. Hardened cereal.

But when their rooms were cleaned and the silverware and plates were all in the dishwasher, a kitchen inventory revealed the truth.

We were down at least two plates. And we'd gone from 10 spoons and forks to three or four of each.

What was happening? Was a terrorist sneaking into our house and taking spoons and forks? Was someone using a giant magnet to suck them away? If so, how did they avoid knives? Were aliens harvesting our silverware to power a return trip to their planet?

We were baffled. Our sons insisted that they were innocent. The silverware was gone.

Then we talked to some friends and found the same thing happened to them.

They were down to a few spoons and forks. The plates were gradually disappearing. And they had kids of about the same age as ours.

The reason was obvious. There is obviously some mathematical formula that combines the age of your live-at-home children with the number of forks and spoons. As the kids get older, silverware disappears. It's not their fault, it's just math.

Now I joke with young parents: "Sure, it's hard now, but wait until the spoons go!" They look at me like I'm crazy, but just wait. They'll see.

I realize that the disappearing silverware is God's way of making sure kids move out. If ours stay much longer, Mrs. Brad and I will be forced to eat with our fingers out of pans – which only happens now when Mrs. Brad is out of town.

Look at it this way: At some point, we'll lose two occupants of our house, but gain some spoons and forks. I'll miss my sons, but you know the old saying: It's great to have kids, but they're not much help when you're eating a bowl of ice cream.

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

Cheers for Jupiter – and roller derby

It's time to give Jupiter some props: Like a bodyguard in school who keeps the goons away, the planet may have cleared the way for Earth. To exist.

At least according to scientists, whom I never question. Even when they insist that canals exist on Mars, draining blood can cure illnesses or that a walk is as good as a hit. If they weren't smarter than me, they wouldn't be allowed to wear those white jackets, right?

Anyway, a couple of astronomers (which I'm told are different from astrologers) published a paper this week in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences. It's one of several magazines to which I subscribe, arriving Tuesday along with Grit and Cracked and a few days before The Saturday Evening Post. The astronomers say that our inner solar system once had a bunch of what they call "super-Earths." Those are planets larger than ours, but not as big as Neptune.

(Neptune is really big. When it sits around the sun, it really sits around the sun! When Neptune steps on the planetary scale, the scale says "one at a time please!" Am I right? Neptune is big!)

The point of the article was that at some point in ancient history (probably before the American Revolution and maybe before the invention of the fork) Jupiter bulldozed in and smashed those "super-Earth" planets into the sun, which laid the foundation for the creation of the Earth and other smaller planets . . . wait . . .

Did they really say creation of the Earth? Scientists said that?

Nevermind. I don't want to get sidetracked. But the Earth was created? Hmm.

Anyway, the idea is that Jupiter pushed toward the sun, smashed those would-be planets into the sun, then returned to its normal rotation – presumably with its hands in its pockets, whistling and hoping that nobody noticed.

The best parallel – and I'm sure you're already thinking this – is roller derby.

Jupiter played the role of the "jammer," who smashes skaters out of the way so that the "pivot" can skate ahead and score points. In this case (to use a 50-year-old metaphor), Jupiter was Charlie O'Connell and the Earth was Joanie Weston, both of the Bay Area Bombers.

Got it? Much easier to understand now, right?

Another interesting part of the theory, which is known as the Grand Tack scenario (because the "Gran Torino scenario" involves a racist character played by Clint Eastwood), is that Neptune was drawn toward the sun because of its huge mass. The only thing that stopped it was Saturn, which entered a "planetary dance" with it due to both planets' large mass, a dance that sent both farther into the solar system.

That's ironic, because I owned a Saturn for several years and find it unlikely it could travel anywhere without some sort of maintenance. Although perhaps the "planetary dance" would have been a better excuse for when my side-view mirror came off than the truth: I backed into the side of the garage.

But enough of that. Why do you keep side-tracking me?

My point is that Jupiter should be appreciated. After all, most of us have some love for Mars (great candy bar!), Pluto (cute dog, even if it's not a "planet" anymore), Venus (cool songs, one version by Frankie Avalon and another by Shocking Blue and Bananarama) and even Saturn (affordable car, even though the side-view mirrors seem defective).

Jupiter? Other than an occasional song mention (which prompts my first-ever mention of San Francisco-based band Train), it doesn't get much love.

But Jupiter made it possible for Earth to be created, according to scientists. Three cheers for Jupiter!

And roller derby, which made this science lesson understandable.

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