Real outsider presents tax reform ideas

When people talk about changing the tax code, they always say the same thing: Our federal tax code shouldn't pick winners and losers.

Baloney.

By the very nature of taxes, they do that and always have. When we tax people's income (or anything else), we pick winners and losers: What do we tax? What do we ignore? At the same rate or at a varying rate?

I mention this because we're in the middle of the biggest push for comprehensive tax reform in Congress since 1986, when "Say You, Say Me," was the second-most popular song of the year (and we learned that to say it for always is the way it should be).

I know about tax reform because my day job involves the subject . . . and because it's in the news. Tax reform this, tax reform that, corporate rate this, itemized deductions that, pass-through rate this, alternative minimum tax that.

Confused? Me, too. But I have a plan, if it's not too late for Congress to make some changes.

We can do this!

The first issue we must agree on is that the purpose of the tax code is twofold: Raise money for the government and encourage certain behavior.

Why do we get to deduct home mortgage interest? The government wants us to buy houses.

Why do we get a deduction for each child? The government likes children.

Why do birds suddenly appear every time you are near? Just like me, they long to be close to you.

We can agree that we pick winners and losers. We just need to agree on what they should be, which leads to my first proposal:

Proposal No. 1: Tie the individual tax rate to the taxpayer's BMI.

The current tax code taxes us between 10 percent and 39.6 percent of our income (with all kinds of confusing deductions and other options). At the same time, the government wants us to eat healthy and exercise. Under my plan, if your BMI is "healthy," your tax rate will be 18.5 percent to 24.9 percent. If you're way out of shape, your tax rate will be high.

We don't want to encourage unsafe dieting, so I would set the low at 18.5 percent. (By the way, I'm not saying you should be thin. The government is. I think you look great.)

Under my tax plan, you would visit the doctor in January of each year and get a BMI number. That's your tax rate for the previous year. Think that might affect your holiday diet?

Proposal No. 2: Tax-free lottery.

Under my plan, we'll have an hour-long TV show each year, capped by a low-level Internal Revenue Service employee pulling out a four-digit number (maybe one every 15 minutes, building suspense). Anyone who has that sequence of four numbers to finish their Social Security number gets a full tax refund.

Bonus idea: Tell taxpayers they must file by March 15 to be eligible for the drawing. That would speed up the filing of returns.

Proposal No. 3: Make tax form smaller than a postcard.

People have advocated a simpler tax system for years – but they nearly always dictate what that means: It needs to be three pages or it needs to be the size of a postcard. How about this? We make it smaller. Much smaller. You can shrink anything – heck, a guy copied the entire Hebrew text of the Jewish Bible on a grain of rice. Let's shrink taxes by shrinking the tax forms.

If our tax code is broken, the solution is simple: A BMI rate (for corporate rates, too. We'll see if they're really fat-cat rich guys), a lottery show. And for those obsessed with size, a tiny tax form.

I guess this column should have appeared on the business page.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

When Thanksgiving Day changed our lives

My favorite holiday of all time is Thanksgiving, 1990, which involved a middle-of-the-night drive down Interstate 680, dinner at Denny's and a night at a cheap hotel.

It was a life-changing event.

Just a few months prior, Mrs. Brad and I dived into the world of adoption. We had done as much infertility treatment as we could stand (not that much) and made contact with lawyers who dealt with adoption. Within a few weeks, we miraculously met a brave 21-year-old pregnant woman named Denise who made the painful, best-for-the-baby decision to allow a family to adopt her child.

Us.

It was rapid-fire: We fell in love with Denise, we feared she might change her mind, we raced to get our home set up, we met with lawyers, we told our families, we worried again that Denise would change her mind. She was due to give birth Dec. 3, so I went to an electronics store Nov. 21 and picked up a pager, so we could be reached at any time. That night – the night before Thanksgiving – Mrs. Brad and I watched a TV movie, then went to bed, knowing our prospective child wasn't due for two weeks.

At about 1 a.m. the pager vibrated, waking us.

There was only one possibility: Denise was in labor. My hands shook as I tried to dial the number from the pager (great technology!). It took multiple efforts, but finally I reached Denise's sister and found out it was true: Denise was in labor.

Mrs. Brad and I threw everything we could in our Hyundai and headed toward San Jose, where our child would be born. At a convenience store, we bought some terrible coffee (it had grounds in it!) and made the 70-minute drive to Alexian Brothers Hospital with our conversation bouncing between terror and excitement.

We rushed in, Mrs. Brad served as the labor coach and I watched the miracle. Just after 3 a.m., our son was born. He was beautiful.

A birth is always chaotic, but ours seemed more so. The nurses weren't sure how to handle us (were we stealing the baby? Had we brainwashed the birth mother?), but Denise was fantastic in what had to be one of the roughest moments of her life. We held Chad (Chad!), helped wash his hair, made a series of phone calls from a pay phone and floated through the morning, exhausted.

We were too tired to drive, so we got a cheap hotel in San Jose and collapsed for a few hours, then returned to the hospital. That night, we ate Thanksgiving dinner at Denny's (turkey!), then returned to the hospital before finally going back to the hotel. And collapsing. Again.

A day later, we drove home, worried all the way that baby Chad might need something we couldn't do. Did we know how to be parents? We weren't sure, but we knew one thing for sure: Our lives were changed. And we loved our son.

That was 27 years ago Wednesday.

Now he's married and expecting his first child (!). We've lived through the childhoods and teen years of him and his younger brother (born on April Fools Day, 1993). We celebrated Christmases and birthday parties and Fourth of July celebrations and, yes, 26 Thanksgiving dinners.

I love holidays. I love celebrations. I love getting together with loved ones.

But every Thanksgiving reminds me of 1990, when we ate at Denny's, slept in a cheap hotel and met our son.

We're still thankful.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Why I like chasing cats, napping and . . . sit!

Editor's note: Brad Stanhope is on vacation. Per usual, his dog Brandy is sitting in for him this week.

I'm sitting in for Brad.

Get it? Sit?

Sit!

Hah hah hah hah hah hooowwwwl! That's a good one!

Let's reacquaint ourselves. I'm a dog and even though I can't really sniff you from here (and for some reason, humans get upset when we try to sniff them, so maybe I'll sit this one out. Get it? Sit!), I presume you're a reading human.

Lucky dog (no pun intended). Because that's one of the things I wish I could do: Read. Sometimes I get bored with just sitting around. And napping.

Not really! I love napping! It's one of the best things about being a dog.

You know what else is great about being a dog? Let me count the things . . . or better yet, bark the things:

• We can poop anywhere, not just in that small, confining room with the scary rushing water. Although it is fun to play with that roll of paper you keep there.
• Napping.
• Getting scratched.
• Chasing cats.
• Napping.
• The fun of barking at each other through the fence while you yell at us.
• Sit!

Hah hah hah hah hah hooowwwwl!

Anyhoo, I live in Brad's backyard. And house. And sometimes the garage when someone comes to the front door and Brad gets mad at me for warning him that it could be dangerous. Especially when it's the guy in the big brown truck who brings those interesting boxes.

Do they hold bones? Cats? Cats' bones? That would be great.

I don't like cats.

Sit!

Hah hah hah hah hah hooowwwwl!

Dog jokes are the best. Here's one: What do you get if you cross a cat, a giraffe and a can of food?

I don't know, but it has a cat, so I'd chase it. Get it?

My neighbor Scruff likes that joke. He's the one who told me the one about the tree: Why did the cat run from the tree? Because it was afraid of the bark!

That's a great one, although I have never heard a tree bark. It would be funny if it happened, though.

Which reminds me of a story. I don't know why, because I don't know what "reminds" means, but I just thought of a story that you might enjoy.

Sit!

Hah hah hah hah hah hooowwwwl!

Anyhoo, I was patrolling the backyard one day while Brad and Mrs. Brad were both gone and suddenly I heard Scruff trying to escape. He does that every once in a while.

So I ran over and barked encouragement to him. While we were barking at each other ("Go Scruff, go!" "I'm almost out, Brandy" "Here comes a cat . . . just kidding" "What?"), suddenly I heard a weird noise.

So I barked at it instead.

Great story, right? Scruff thinks I'm a good storyteller, although I think he's better. He's the one who told me that the desert lion is everyone's favorite at Christmas. Because he has sandy claws.

I don't know what that means, but Scruff thought it was great.

Sit!

Hah hah hah hah hah hooowwwwl!

Anyway, here comes Brad to pick up my poop. I don't know why he does that, I just want to bury it.

Sit!

Get it?

Reach Brandy Stanhope's human, Brad Stanhope, at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Irrational war on germs a form of self-hatred

We all know, "it takes a village to raise a child." But how about this: "It takes 14,000 times the world's population to create a body."

Because that's literally true. Not a population of humans, but (and germophobes, please grab a paper bag into which to breathe to avoid hyperventilating), microbes. The average human has more than 100 trillion microbes in and on his or her (let's face it: His) body. Put another way, we're 90 percent microbial, 10 percent human, according to several studies.

We're more microbe than human!

Even if those statistics are slightly off, they're close. According to another study, we're made up of 40 trillion bacteria and 30 trillion human cells – still more bacteria than human, but closer. It's a 40-30 split, favoring bacteria. (And in the spirit of transparency, microbes and bacteria may not be the same thing. In fact, they're probably different. But they're both germy.)

The main takeaway? Quit worrying about touching the restroom door at work. Those aren't your enemies, they're your brothers!

Consider this fact, shared by the leader of the National Institutes of Health's Human Microbiome Project: Each of us carries around 3 to 5 pounds of bacteria. Three to 5 pounds! That's like a bag of sugar, but filled with bacteria!

Think about that the next time you're squirting Purell on your hands. Or eating a bag of sugar.

The extreme battle against germs has long been confounding to those of us who are rational. Germs are impossible to avoid (again: you have more bacteria cells than human cells in what constitutes "you"). Exposure to germs helps build up your immune system (unless your immune system is compromised to the extent of the character played by John Travolta in the 1976 TV movie "The Boy in the Plastic Bubble"). Your ancestors lived in dirt hovels, bathed monthly and ate food with filthy hands – and survived to create the next generation.

But this new information (at least it's new to me) changes everything. It confirms that I'm right when I make fun of people who refuse to touch the door handle while leaving a public restroom or who shriek when I pick up food off the floor and eat it.

Because the fact is we're somewhere between 57 percent and 90 percent germs (or microbes, in case they're different). Those little fellas in public restrooms are really our cousins.

You could make the case that if we eliminated all the bacteria/microbes in our body, we'd be better off if for no other reason than we'd be about 5 pounds lighter.

But you could also make the case that by proclaiming our disgust with germs, we're practicing a form of self-hatred.

I agree with the second approach.

Science tells what the wise already knew: When we stress out about a few germs, it's the same thing as spiraling into distress because we'll never be back at our high school weight or because our hairline is rising. We're disliking ourselves.

I, for one, welcome the germs.

To the bacteria and microbes that make up between 57 percent and 90 percent of my body, I quote the opening lyrics from the Doobie Brothers' iconic 1976 (Hey! Two references to 1976 in the same column!) hit, "Takin' It To the Streets": "You don't know me, but I'm your brother."

My brother and sister germs, I just want to be a good host.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Threat to coffee makes climate change real

My introduction to the idea of global warming (2017 version: climate change) came during childhood, when the big threat to the environment – other than thermonuclear war and the fact that people could smoke anywhere – was aerosol gas.

By using aerosol cans for deodorant, hairspray and cleaning products, we put a hole in the ozone. It was heating up the planet.

My dad's reaction? Since we lived in a town that rarely warmed beyond 70 degrees, he was all for it. "I go outside every day and spray several cans," he would tell his buddies. "If it gets about five or 10 degrees warmer here, it will be perfect."

Hah, hah, hah.

My amusement – and distrust – of his views manifested themselves in my adulthood. Like most people, I believe the world is warming. Like most scientists (I'm not a scientist, despite my predilection for white coats), I believe humans are responsible for much of it.

But like most people, I tend to ignore it.

It will get fixed. Smart people will figure out a solution. We're getting better. This won't affect us for generations . . . blah, blah, blah.

At my worst, I bring echoes of my dad: If the oceans rise, it will just make my Suisun City house that much closer to the ocean. It will drive up my home's value.

Hah, hah, hah.

Recently, I saw something in the newspaper that made me panic. It made me the Al Gore of Solano County.

Did you know that global warming threatens the ability to grow coffee beans?

Oh. Em. Gee.

A study found that Ethiopia, the world's fifth-largest coffee producer, could lose up to 60 percent of its suitable farming land by the end of this century because of climate change.

Another report from World Coffee Research (which has offices in the break room of the Gallup Organization), says the demand for coffee will double by 2050, but the suitable land to grow it will be cut in half.

This makes sense, because most of the world's coffee is produced near the equator, which is where climate change will have the quickest effect. A recent study by the University of Vermont found global warming could reduce coffee-growing areas in Latin America by as much as 88 percent by 2050.

That is a long time from now (although I remember when 2000 was impossibly in the future), but this is reason to panic. Do you think President Donald Trump would have pulled us out of the Paris Accord (which I thought was a Toyota model until I learned otherwise) had he known that it could ruin coffee? Well, probably, but go with me here.

The news about coffee may be a game-changer. This may finally engage people in the quest to slow climate change. Those who ignore the threat of catastrophic weather events and the danger of coastal cities being overtaken by the seas will react to the threat of bad, expensive coffee.

I know this: In post-apocalyptic books, coffee is always one of the most valuable items on Earth. Now we learn that global warming, not global war, could cause the coffee crisis.

Save our coffee, even if it means we need to rip that aerosol can of Right Guard out of my dad's hands as he tries to warm up my hometown by five degrees.

Hah, hah, hah.

Future generations of coffee drinkers will thank us.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Wildfire reactions, play-by-play announcers, more

It's just over a week until Halloween, which means it's time for me to empty my theoretical notebook of column tidbits.

It's a theoretical notebook. I live in a digital world, next door to Max Headroom. So it's not a real notebook, but on to the topics du jour . . .

• The recent nightmarish wildfires reminded us of at least two important things:

• We're more vulnerable to nature's whims than we think.
• Our community still responds well when others are in danger.
• In an era when we often dismiss others for their political views and spend more time creating conflict than resolving it, it was refreshing to see the empathy and help given by all kinds of Northern Californians.

Now we can get back to bickering.

You know, back to normal.

• High five: The greatest play-by-play sportscasters in national TV history.

This requires people who do play-by-play on the national level. For my purposes, the broadcaster must do at least two sports – proving versatility.

5. Joe Buck. Giants fans hate the voice of Fox coverage of Major League Baseball and the NFL, but it's undeserved. Buck isn't perfect, but he tells stories, anticipates drama and captures the moment. Giants fans want a cheerleader and he isn't one. Because he shouldn't be.

4. Keith Jackson. Before he became a little bit of a caricature – "rumblin', bumblin', stumblin!"– Jackson established himself as the voice of college football. He also was the initial play-by-play man on "Monday Night Football," a longtime ABC baseball announcer and was staple on "Wide World of Sports," where he covered cliff diving, demolition derbies and anything else.

3. Curt Gowdy. He was NBC's voice for every major sport in the 1960s and 1970s. A Wyoming native who was a radio play-by-play man for the Boston Red Sox (Wyoming to Boston!), his nasal delivery personified the AFL, Major League Baseball and Saturday afternoon bowling.

2. Bob Costas. A network announcer before he turned 30, Costas was NBC's Olympics host from 1992 until he stepped down from that role this year. Put him behind the microphone for any major sport and he's a fantastic storyteller with a great pace.

1. Al Michaels. The voice of "Monday Night Football" is also America's greatest baseball announcer and has been the play-by-play man for the national NBA games. After 40 years on the air (he was a Giants radio announcer in the mid-1970s before joining ABC), he's still the best. Ever.

• I hate it when actors on TV shows or movies pretend to drive, but look at their passengers when they talk without checking the road. In fact, I yell at my TV: "You're going to crash!" They don't listen, but I'll keep doing it, just in case.

• Similarly, Mrs. Brad has the unusual ability of spotting when people "drink coffee" on TV while using empty paper cups. How hard is it to add water or something, so they don't lift air-filled cups, making it obvious they are empty?

• Yes, we criticize TV shows while we watch them. Just like you.

• In a world where we criticize road planning all the time ("who decided to do that construction now?"), we should acknowledge the job transportation experts did to make the Interstate 680 drive from Concord to Fairfield work better. From the expanded Benicia Bridge to the 680-80 interchange, it's dramatically improved from a decade ago.

• Three foods still remain among my favorites, as they have been in every decade: Pizza, peanut butter and milk.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Should we worry about Elon Musk's AI warnings?

Elon Musk is a smart man. He's the brains behind Tesla, SpaceX, Neuralink and Musk fragrance (maybe not the last one). He's just 46 and already an iconic figure in American business.

(I wonder if Musk changed his name to seem cooler, like when Laurence Turead became Mr. T. Apparently not, according to Wikipedia. However, Wikipedia once briefly listed me as a famous graduate of the college I attended and a frequent contributor to the Gary Radnich show on KNBR, back in the days when it was easy to change things.)

Anyway, I reached two conclusions: Elon Musk is the Thomas Edison of the 21st century, and Elon Musk makes me afraid.

Not because of what he does, but because of what he thinks.

Recently, he warned us about the dangers of artificial intelligence.

He commented on Twitter that AI (what we call artificial intelligence, although I habitually think of former NBA star Allen Iverson when I hear "AI") is more dangerous than North Korea. That might come as good news to South Korea, but is bad news for the rest of us.

Musk's tweet came after a product from his OpenAI company appeared at a $24 million video game tournament, beating some of the world's best players. (Frankly, the fact that I just typed a sentence that includes the phrase "a $24 million video game tournament" frightens me more than artificial intelligence.)

Musk warned that AI should be regulated. This echoed his statements a year earlier, when he said if IA is not regulated, humans could devolve into the equivalent of "house cats," compared to computers. (One plus: House cats wouldn't hold a $24 million video game tournament.)

Musk's campaign isn't just about video games and house cats, although that would frighten most right-thinking Americans, who don't like either. Musk joined other CEOs in signing an open letter to the United Nations, calling for a ban of the use of AI in weapons. The letter said, "lethal autonomous weapons threaten to become the third revolution in warfare," following the gunpowder revolution and Prince and the Revolution, if my grasp of history is correct.

This wasn't the first time. Musk joined a bunch of other smart people who wrote a similar letter in 2015.

So what should we do? From my perspective, here's what's important: The source. This warning about artificial intelligence posing a threat to humanity isn't coming from someone who watched too many science-fiction movies or one of the nabobs on an internet message board. It's not from someone who wears aluminum foil hats. It's not from your crazy brother-in-law who thinks 9/11 was an inside job.

This is from Elon Musk, a successful, forward-thinking entrepreneur.

This is from the guy who is possibly changing the energy game with solar-powered batteries. This is from the guy who suggested a "hyperloop" from Northern California to Southern California and no one laughed, because he had a plan.

That's the guy who warns about artificial intelligence taking over the world and turning us into house cats.

So what to do?

Don't go to all the websites recommended by your computer. Don't let the navigation app on your smartphone dictate where you drive. Don't . . . ahh, what am I saying? I will continue to do all those things.

Anyway, who is Elon Musk, anyway? Did you see the hyperloop thing he proposed? What a nabob.

I read on an internet message board that this isn't real and I shouldn't worry. Of course, the phrasing seemed slightly less than human, so . . .

I'm sure it's nothing.

And you can count on me. I used to be a famous graduate of my college.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

America has fallen for pumpkin spice ruse

Let's get this much clear: Pumpkin spice is fake news. It's like calling a vanilla milkshake (milk, ice cream, vanilla extract and sugar) "chocolate spice." Because, of course, there is rarely any pumpkin in pumpkin spice.

Pumpkin spice is usually some combination of cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, allspice and the eye of newt. Calling it pumpkin spice is like calling the NBA team in Utah the "Jazz."

Nonsensical.

Yet we've fallen for it, in the biggest triumph of American marketing since we thought "Happy Days" was funny. Watch "Happy Days" sometime. It's not funny. Never was, but we were told it was funny. We obliged.

We're now told pumpkin spice flavoring is great and is what autumn tastes like. We oblige.

The pumpkin spice ruse started with Starbucks in 2003. It's the same company that told us that "venti" is a size, frappuccino is a word, that it's a "mistake" when they foul up writing our names on the cups (and we share on social media, giving Starbucks free advertising) and that there was a controversy over their holiday coffee cups, requiring us to buy their coffee to prove we're open-minded.

Starbucks told us in 2003 that pumpkin spice latte was how to celebrate autumn.

People like it, which is fine – no different from Starbucks selling eggnog lattes in December and McDonald's selling Shamrock Shakes around St. Patrick's Day. It was a seemingly harmless diversion.

Then it spread. Pretty soon, you couldn't walk down the street without seeing advertisement for a pumpkin spice product.

Pumpkin spice tea. Pumpkin spice pancakes (well . . . sure!). Pumpkin spice gelato. Pumpkin spice peanut butter.

It continued.

Pumpkin spice cough drops (cough drops!). Pumpkin spice pretzels. Pumpkin spice butter. Pumpkin spice Pringles chips. Pumpkin spice Cheerios. Pumpkin spice Oreos. (OK. The last three have plenty of flavor varieties, so it's OK. Even though pumpkin spice, again, isn't really a spice and rarely contains pumpkin.)

It's over the top. It's marketing. Starbucks launched a campaign that has us craving something that didn't exist in 2002. It created the illusion that their product is linked to the arrival of autumn and Halloween and the holiday season and cool, crisp nights.

Fine for coffee, maybe. But butter? Cough drops? Gelato?

There's no end in sight and it's getting worse.

The idea went fully off the rails earlier this year when San Francisco-based, all-natural deodorant maker Native, which previously offered such scents as coconut and vanilla, apricot and white peach, and cypress and cedar, launched a new line.

Pumpkin spice latte deodorant.

Seriously.

Not only does it smell like pumpkin spice (again, not really a spice. And pumpkin is rarely included), it allegedly smells like a pumpkin spice latte.

Your armpit can smell like the most popular drink of autumn.

This is no knock on companies that are using pumpkin spice flavors and scents – they're just chasing the market.

This is a cry for the America consumer to see clearly. We're being exploited. We're being played. We're being molded into what Big Coffee and Big Cookie and Big Butter and Big Deodorant want us to be, so we'll buy their products.

Stop the madness. Buy a pumpkin spice latte if you need it, but stop there.

Take back fall. Take back pumpkins. We can do better than this.

And when we win, remember that the revolution was started by me, the official pumpkin spice columnist of autumn.

Reach Brad "Pumpkin Spice" Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Ranking Solano's seasons, worst to first

Mrs. Brad and I were in the Sierra Nevada on the first day of fall. It snowed.

Meanwhile, in our hometown of Suisun City, it was in the mid-70s and sunny, which goes to show you at least one thing: Your perception of a season largely depends on where you spend it. Winter in Wisconsin is not winter in Hawaii. Summer in Alabama is not summer in Alaska. Falling in a sand pit is not the same as falling into a wood chipper, although that's a different issue.

Since I live in Solano County and I like to rank things (I've previously ranked generations, decades, punctuation marks and holidays, for instance), it's natural to rank the four seasons in our region (summer, fall, winter, spring. Not Frankie Valli's singing group nor the 1981 Carol Burnett-Alan Alda film), based on a scientific compilation of selective facts, feelings and personal history.

Starting from the bottom:

4. Winter: The best thing about winter here: It's better than elsewhere. It's not as cold, our rain isn't as plentiful, our fog isn't as bad.

Still, that's like saying that Hot Pockets aren't as bad as hot dogs . . . a dubious honor. When you support something by saying it's not as bad as it could be, you make a losing argument. Winter is dark, wet, cold and dreary. It includes all of January and February, our worst months. The best day of the season is Christmas, which comes four days into winter and is followed by three months of dreariness.

3. Fall: Few things are more predictable than the insistence of women in their 30s and 40s that they love fall. The only problem? They're wrong (just like they're wrong about pumpkin spice flavors, Ryan Gosling's acting talent and "The Bachelor").

However . . . fall in Solano County is a time of glorious weather (usually in the 70s and 80s until early November), overshadowed by two negatives: Days get shorter and fall actually lasts until Dec. 21, which is dreary, cold and dark. The good things? High school football returns (we can hear the Armijo High public address announcer and the cheering crowds from our house), heat waves are largely gone and the best holiday (Thanksgiving) takes place.

Fall in Solano County is better than spring and summer in many other places. But not here.

2. Summer: I grew up in a town where summer meant fog and 60-degree days, so when Mrs. Brad and I moved here, it was glorious. One-hundred degree days? Bring 'em on!

Decades of living here changed my view. Somewhat.

I still love warm weather, but don't enjoy heat waves. And when we get heat waves (arguably the worst weather events in Solano County, which is saying something), they're in the summer. But here's what else is in the summer: Outdoor community activities, camping, plenty of 85-degree days, late nights of sunshine.

For my money, summer is a winner. Just not the winner.

1. Spring: Just the name seems great: Spring! The weather gets warmer and the days get longer. It means the start of baseball, the NBA playoffs, the end of the school year and the start of outdoor activities. We're never more optimistic than springtime.

Warm weather, vacations, more sunlight? Spring is the best season here.

And in just more than five months, it will return!

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Another tough year for most-popular baby names

I always defend millennials. But really?

Babies named Kylo? Zayn? Zyaire? Royalty? Itzayna? Poppy?

All of those were among the names that increased the most in popularity from 2015 to 2016, according to the Social Security Administration.

To be fair, none are in the top 100, but still . . . how is it possible that Royalty is a more popular girls name than Brittany and Anne? How is it that Grey is a more popular boys name than Bobby or Willie? Has there been a great San Francisco Giants outfielder named Grey? I thought not.

The annual list always causes intrigue. For instance, the 2016 rankings bring a question about whether the transformation of Bruce Jenner to Caitlyn Jenner affects things so much that the four girls' names that decreased the most in 2016 were Caitlin, Caitlyn, Katelynn and Kaitlynn?

Hmm. I would have thought the reaction would be the opposite.

It's time to admit the obvious: People don't know what they're doing when they're naming their children.

Of course when the "most popular baby names" list comes out every year, the focus is on the top. It's Noah, Liam and William for the boys, Emma, Olivia and Ava for the girls.

All fine. But I'm more concerned about the others, bubbling beneath the surface.

For instance, did you know that Valentino and Talon were both in the top 1,000 boys names? I mean, that's a good law firm (who would want to go to court against Valentino and Talon?), but would you trust your 5-year-old daughter in a class with a kid named Valentino? (Of course, the only people who understand that reference are dead).

On the girls' side, it's more of the same. Wren, Myah and Lennox. All top-1,000 names. Also potential names of kitchen appliance companies.

Of course, there's some good news for people who want it to be 1945 again. James, Daniel, David, John, Jack, Charles and Leo are all in the top 100. They sound like my father's friends. Evelyn, Grace, Penelope, Lillian, Eleanor and Lucy (all of whom could have been my grandmother's sisters) are top-60 names.

Names are obviously a personal choice. With my oldest son and his bride expecting their first child, I'll be quiet when they make their choice, even if it's Royalty. Similarly, I'm not criticizing you for giving your child one of the names I mocked. I was talking about other people.

However . . . when it comes to girls names, there's this: Charleigh is No. 500. That begs the question of why not Bradleigh? It's not in the top 1,000. Maybe in 2017?

My personal pet peeve is that Aileen is listed at No. 599. That's the name of my sister and lifelong nemesis. Although I'll remind her that Bradley has only been out of the top 200 once in my lifetime, and that was 2008 when it was 201st. That's the year the U.S. economy crashed.

Solid names are always good, something we need to remember in 2056 when people named Kingston, Jax, Daleyza and Dahlia are presidential candidates.

They'll be fine and seem normal, but I stand by this: Never trust someone named Royalty to be president.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.