Our Survey Says ...

I'm not usually all about online surveys. This one is cribbed from a HuffPost article about 35 things that engaged couples should agree upon. Since I have no desire to be engaged, I thought it would be perfect for me to indulge. All answers are true ... or close to it.

Does the toilet paper go over or under the roll?
Over. But no big deal.
Cats? Dogs? Both?
Neither, for now. Like cats better.

Can you eat breakfast for dinner?

Absolutely. Especially omelets.

Cold pizza: yes or no?

Yesiree. Especially from Beverly Pizza in Black Rock.

Is it acceptable to open presents as they arrive or do you have to wait for the actual birthday or holiday?

NEVER OPEN EARLY!

Should the dirty forks and knives go in the dishwasher with the handle sticking out of the utensil tray or down in the utensil tray?

Handle up, so you remove it hygienically.

Is it acceptable to leave dishes in the sink to "soak" overnight, or do they need to be cleaned before bed?

Soak. Especially if postprandial canoodling is involved.

Toothpaste: cap on or cap off?

On.

Again on the toothpaste: roll it from the bottom or just squeeze really hard?

Both. First squeeze hard. Then roll up as it gets lower. This technique can be used in many situations.

Are towels a one-time use item or do you use the same towel until laundry day?

I air-dry towels properly so I can reuse.

How about washcloths?

Simply put: They shkeeve me. My sea sponge is my sole ablution implement.

Road trip or flying?

Road trip unless destination involves crossing water.

What's the right thread count for sheets?

Flannel. All cotton. I ain't counting.

What brand of toilet paper?

Scott.

Mayo or Miracle Whip?

MW got its name because it is a miracle than anyone would eat that shit. This would be a deal-breaker for me. Addendum: Duke's mayo, if you can find it.

Pepsi or Coke?

I don't drink soda.

Can you eat the holiday candy out in the display bowl or must it be left there for display?

First off, I don't say “holiday” instead of the day's/season's actual name. I rarely eat candy and have never displayed it.

What is YOUR definition of camping?

Very simple. In no particular order:

• a secure, cozy cabin, fenced in to deter varmints
• no farther than five miles from shopping, excellent food and drink, and a decent liquor store
• excellent central heat and A/C
• a real fireplace, preferably with a plush rug nearby for secret moments
• a massive TV in great room with cable/sat, DVR and full collection of DVDs that aren't The Sound of Music
• smaller version of same in huge bedroom, which, by the way, has an outdoor porch with famously scenic views, perfect for breakfast
• a Brobdingnagian bed for separate, sound sleep OR spooning, with aforementioned flannel sheets and umpteen pillows for fort-making
• a bath and a half, the small one for me to get busy; the other has shower, Jacuzzi and shvitz with plenty of room for two
• a gourmet kitchen with an AGA stove, Viking appliances and a pantry stocked from Balducci's
• a wet bar, with Pilsner Urquell on tap, a nice selection of Pinots Noir, and a hogshead of Woodford Reserve bourbon

That's all.

Turn the thermostat down when you go out or leave it alone?

Down, of course. Like I own an oil company?

At what point is a garbage bag too full to stuff more trash in it?

Five minutes before removal folk arrive.

How many times is it acceptable to hit the snooze button?

I don't own an alarm clock. So there.

Thrift store shopping: great deals or gross?

Great deals. Dollar and “junk” stores, too. I revel in them.

How far in advance is it OK to plan a vacation?

One hour.

Restaurant reservations: necessary or too restrictive?

If I'm going to get world-class food and service, I have no reservations about making reservations.

Roller coasters: love 'em or hate 'em?

They nauseate me. I don't believe in paying money to get sick and frightened. I don't actually HATE the devices, though. Honey, you can ride the Kevorkian Loopdy Loop (made in Latvia) all you want. I'll be in the beer garden.

More chocolate chips, less cookie or more cookie, less chips?

Meh. Okay, more cookie, fewer chips

How much orange juice must be left in the container for it to be returned to the fridge?

One deciliter. And I don't drink directly from the box, thank you.

Chip clips or just roll the bag up?

I use these guys, and then hang 'em by eyehooks. Ingenious, eh?

Call the doctor or just take some medicine at home?

See final camping note: Woodford Reserve is a world-class panacea.

Where is the prime location for the TV remote to stay?

Under my sofa blankie.

Is it OK to have a TV in the bedroom?

OK? It's mandatory. We can turn it off. But I might want to watch Masterpiece Theater while you're immersed in Glee.

Should folded clothes be put away, or is it OK to just pull as needed from the basket of clean laundry?

I prefer to stow clean clothes.

Do you need to write a grocery list or just wait until you're walking around the store to figure out what you need?

I could live happily without any sort of list.

Making the bed: must-do or waste of time because you're just going to get back in it?

Single: permissable. Couple: wait and see. What if, say, after a terrific breakfast and co-shower, we might want to revisit the sheets?

Is it OK to shave/clip toenails in the living room?

Never. I use the back porch for that. Finches love 'em.

Why Baseball Is the Best Sport ... Ever

Submitted for your (dis)approval...

BASEBALL	FOOTBALL
Heroes	Statistics
Players judged by talent, not championships. Ernie Banks	Players ridiculed for not having rings. Jim Kelly
A great time for the family.	You tell me...
Seventh-inning stretch.	Super Bowl halftime.
Every score counts as one. Very little betting occurs. It's about the game.	If every score counted as one, bookies would be out of business. The sport is driven by gambling.
Affordable, minor-league ballparks.	[None]
Sox bullpen comes to aid of injured Torii Hunter. This is called sportsmanship.	Or, act like a boy named Suh.
Millions watch LL World Series.	Um, the Pop Warner Super Bowl?
In general, fans travel to games and actually enter stadium.	Only sport in the world where party takes precedence over the actual game.
No cheerleaders, just a few corny, fun-loving mascots.	Saucy tarts, one sprained ankle away from careers as trollops.
Willie Mays throws out first pitch at Mariners/Indians game. STANDING OVATION	Johnny Unitas does coin flip at Seahawks/Browns game. GOLF CLAP, AT BEST

And finally, to deal the deal

Bring it on...

The Best Scrambled Eggs in Shamokin

Well, maybe Coal Township and Brady, too. I dare enough to share my first recipe on H&H. And check out the calorie count ... Apologies in advance for TMI.

INGREDIENTS
2 chicken eggs
1 Tbsp. 2% milk
Semi-oily pan spray
1 Tsp. light margarine (I use Oliva)
1 slice Velveeta cheese (yes, you heard me) or scant ounce, shredded
Seasoning of yer cherce

1. I wholly recommend a non-stick pan. Spray that stuff on it. Place over medium heat while you proceed.

2. Whisk the eggs and milk in the proper vessel. Boldly. Jacques Pepin is right--this does not toughen the eggs. When you pick whisk up, the product should fall in a steady, unclotted stream. DO NOT SEASON YET!

3. Pour your perfectly whisked eggs into pan. Swirl to distribute. DON'T GO ANYWHERE. Have at the ready a proper whisk for pan.

4. As soon as some curds begin to form, pull pan from heat and whisk madly. In the next couple of minutes, move pan off and on the heat. You do not want the eggs to scramble too quickly. Keep whisking as necessary to produce the smallest possible curds.

5. While the eggs are still somewhat liquidy, toss in the cheese, which you have previously ripped into dainty shreds. Do not wait too long to do this; the eggs will be cooked and the cheese might not have melted. Whisk again, with vigor, to mix cheese in.

6. Right before you think they're done, add the margarine. Yes, whisk.

7. If you're a hard-core, hard-curd scrambler, please try it my way. I take eggs off the heat when they are very soft, but not runny. Now season; whisk one last time. Place onto a warm plate (I use a silicone spatula to get all the goodness out). Use fork. Ingest. Go nuts. Get back to me with the tons of praise I am expecting.

NOTES: You may laugh at the Velveeta, but it melts divinely. If you don't mess up, you will see no cheese in the final product; everything will be incorporated. I use Tony Chachere's Cajun seasoning blend.

THE GOOD NEWS: 
Eggs: 140 calories
Milk: 9
Cheese: 60
Margarine: 15

= 224 CALORIES!

Q. E. D.

Next: Baba and Maga's mac salad to kvell over

17 Things Every Man Should Learn

… about women. This screed was inspired by this outstanding article from Emma Gray. Strap it on, buck up, and get with the program.

1. Stop thinking with your willy. If all you expect from a partner is Sealy Calisthenics, you are proving your shallowness. You'll never find out the true depth and beauty of a woman by wrangling her onto the percale as soon as possible. Let it be her idea, and then you'll both feel the magic. Addendum: If you need it that badly, go to the Bang Kok rub 'n' tug.

2. Listen. This does not mean “obey.” Especially when she wants to talk about the relationship. Turn the game off (see # 9). Hold her close and let her talk. In the end, you'll have a stronger bond. And, Mr. Macho-Six-Pack-Hung-Like-Hillshire-Farms, this is what you really want.

3. Appreciate the bifurcation of the sexes. Women are different than us, in myriad ways. Instead of lamenting this, celebrate it. For instance, only women can say, “Awwwww.” If you were down in the dumps, from whom would you rather receive consolation (see # 14 ): your mega-farting buddy Sully or the woman whom you love?

4. Ask her. Out on a date. For a kiss. Her opinion. Not only will she appreciate this, but you'll find out quickly whether she has sentenced you to Friend Prison or not.

5. Lose the hoodie. Enough said.

6. Employ the mini-compliment. Lay off the “you're the most beautiful, gush, gush, blah, blah” shit. This is hyperbole. Notice the earrings, the hair (ESPECIALLY the hair), the shoes. And yes, you like them. Every time. And don't wait for her to mention the item at hand. Detect it, Sherlock. And don't gush.

7. Cook. This does NOT mean grill. Any Natty-Light-swilling idiot can do this. Start with easy dishes (not Ragu!) and work your way up. Yes, this can be used as a ploy, but think bigger. Many women I've known would rather enjoy your veal marsala with a nice Pinot than go to Chez Fancypants. The only time this backfired on me was when a woman told me she was intimidated by my knife skills. Sic transit gloria mundi.

8. Beware of alcohol. Especially in the beginning. Feel this out with her. Do not drag her down to Filthy McNasty's on the first date. Too many times, I have seen a woman toying with her Chard at a table while Datey and his slovenly boys, fueled by multiple Jaeger Bombs, debate the worth of Eli Manning at the rail. See # 9. As far as recreational drugs go, you're on your own.

9. Tame your sports obsessions. Am I saying stop supporting your team? No. But putting your life in total-stop mode to watch endless games can rupture a blossoming relationship. Perhaps she has a favorite game you both can enjoy. If she understands you (and yes, you can foster this by being open with her), going with the guys on an occasional outing won't be such a big whup. Plus: You're, say, 45. Do you really need that $275 custom-lettered official jersey? For the same price, you two can go to a B&B.

10. You can't buy her. Perhaps moneyed investment bankers and washed-up film stars can do this, but it doesn't last. Baubles, gewgaws and other impedimenta should be avoided, especially early on. Too often, you'll embarrass her with something she is hesitant to accept. Later on, surprise her with something small and inexpensive. You'll get a laugh and a hug.

11. If she cares about you, she'll show you. Meaning: Don't expect Sweetie to come out right away and tell you anything romantic. Women are not conditioned to do this. Look at the whole shebang as an adventure, not a chase. For example, on an early date, my soon-to-be gal invited me in and, wordlessly, served us a glass of wine. The same wine we had at our first dinner. Then I knew that this was going to be a BIG ONE. And she was one of the finest women I have ever known.

12. Don't make demands. Corollary to #1. I know an absolutely wonderful woman whom I loved back in the day. I guess I always will, in a way, because she is such a woman of substance. We reconnected a few years ago, and it's been fabulous to have her back in my life. One night she called me, sobbing, to tell me about a guy she had been seeing. After a furious flurry of solid, meaningful dates, he—out of the blue—demanded that they roll about on the Serta. She tried to explain that she was enjoying this nascent relationship but wasn't quite ready to conjugate the verb. This douche-nozzle then abruptly announced this was a deal-breaker and stormed away. If you act like this, stop reading this piece. Right now.

13. Iron. The verb. Especially for her. It's not cryogenics. My grandma taught me this, in about fifteen minutes.

14. Compassion. I think this is one of the most admirable traits anyone can espouse. She might just need a hug, some soothing words … or your veal marsala. If you're both not giving—and getting—this from your partner, something is awry.

15. Cuzzy. This is not my term; it's via my old roomie, Johnny Dateless. It's a combination of snuggling, holding, warming, with maybe a soupçon of osculation. Often, this is just what she needs. Then you'll find out that you're not a wuss because you enjoy it, too.

16. Be noble. Admit your faults without over-apology. Find out what you've done wrong (which may prove difficult) and fix it. Is it really going to kill you to pick up your Jockeys off the floor and put them in the hamper? And if she errs, accept her words, don't berate. Talk. Listen.

17. Remind her. Remind her that she is beautiful and loved. Every day. I wish I had known this when I was younger.

Sister Margaret (and Rossini) Save the Day

A pretty-close-to-true story (as well as I can remember it)

We had an unusual second-grade day at St. Ann's, highlighted by an unexpected visitor. An almost-dapper, brillantined man came in, speaking loudly. Sister Margaret was our boss, and she scowled in disapproval as the stranger set up shop at her desk and went into his spiel.

"Hello kids, I am Mr. Bentpenny of the Acme Flute Company. [Okay, I am making up the name]. He then produced a plastic flute-type object and started tootling it. Something at breakneck pace. Something awfully familiar. From a TV show! I remembered watching it with my dad. He would count the number of consecutive shots from Clayton Moore's six-shooter.

"Seven, eight, nine ... jumpin' Jes- er-geeze-jay-al-bleeding-mighty," he would say. I was always amazed at the number of ways Dad could circumlocute a curse.

"How many bloody bullets can he have in that gun? Mary Ellen, see who produces this show. I'm gonna call them from work tomorrow. The son of a Bridgeport has one gun. Six bullets. SIX MUTHER A GOSH BULLETS."

Mom came into the parlor from the kitchen nodding, "Yes, Dennis," and then return and set about cleaning the seemingly endless supply of dishes and flatware that we had sullied.

I digress.

Mr. Bentpenny finished with a flourish. He looked fairly pleased with himself. Sister stared at him, a faint hiss seemingly emanating from her eyes, mere slits under the massive white wings that the Daughters of Charity of St. Vincent DePaul wore. I could almost read her mind: "I've got Palmer script to teach, mister. Get outta my room, moneychanger!"

"Now, for the cost of only one dollar..." The class gasped in concert. A dollar? We could go to the movies four times for that; buy 25 packs of baseball cards at Nick's ("How many Yankees ya got?). 

The interloper backed off. "Of course," he said, "a portion of this goes to your school."

This did little to mollify Sister, who was brandishing her yardstick, as lethal as Nike-site missile—and twice as accurate.

The man continued. "AND, I will give away a free flute to any student who can name the song I just played."

A massive inhale from the sixty students (yes, 60). Another withering glare from Sister, who was tapping her graduated machete against her voluminous skirts.

Dark Mark Longeuil jumped right up, "THE LONE RANGER!" he boomed. Sister looked at Mr. Bentpenny, who beamed beneficently, "No, young man, that is incorrect."

A gray groan filled the room. Inky Rondino whispered, "It is too. I seent it last night. Da Long Ranger shot his gun umpteen times! My Dad said so." Evidently my father was not the only man in Black Rock who counted broadcast ordnance.

Sister said, "Well, does anybody else have a different answer?" Arms became flaccid; hands drifted lazily to desks. Mr. Bentpenny smiled even wider.

Being the most height-disadvantaged in the room, I managed to lift my palm above the desk. Sister, who had remarkable rearward vision, wheeled, then daggered me with a baleful scowl. It said, "Mr. Holleran, you'd better get this right. I want to see this malefactor shamed. Woe betide you if you fail."

I don't why, but I gave her a small nod. I was stunned when she moved her head ever so slightly. She announced, "Sir, Mr. Timothy has a different answer. Stand up, please."

Of course, the desk top came up to the "SAS" on my school tie as I stood, so I edged out into the aisle, smelling the fetid aroma of Maggot McBride, who kept a full larder of desiccated treats in his desk."

Mr. Bentpenny grinned. "Okay, kid. What is it?"

I tried not to yammer, to bring my squeaky soprano down to an alto.

"THE WILLIAM TELL OVERTURE!"

I never knew it was anatomically possible for a standing adult's chin to hit the floor, but this almost occurred. I could hear a few tiny whoa's back by the cloakroom.

He Ralph Kramdened a couple of homina homina's and dribbled other mumblings.

Sister tapped her yardstick against her free hand. Staccato slaps. Unhappy sounds. "That is correct, is not, MR. BENTPENNY?"

I think the man quivered. He said, "Well uh, Sister, I don't see how the young man could--"

Still standing, I added, "By Gioachino Rossini!" Feeling the Arctic stare from Sister, I sat while the sitting was good.

"Okay, kid," yammered the salesman. He picked up the pennywhistle he had been playing and proferred it.

THWACK!

The sound richocheted like a report from a bullwhip. The yardstick found home. It nicked the flute only, sending it flying. Mr. Bentpenny recoiled in horror, clutching his unscathed hand.

Sister's voice deepened into a feral growl. We all knew she meant business. "Not THAT one, sir. You have already soiled it. He gets a new one--IN A BOX, PLEASE!"

The man fumbled in his case. After an impatient few seconds, Sister smote the desk. Was that an M-16 yardstick?  She bellowed: "NOW MEANS NOW, MISTER!"

The stranger cowered, his hair flailing wildly, spiking his shoddy combover.

He withdrew a box. Sister motioned to me with her yardstick, which I thought was now smoking, to advance and accept. I averted my eyes, save for a furtive glance at my seating, disheveled donor. I remembered to thank him to avoid Sister's Richter-quality wrath.

"Now," said Sister, shaking her head from side to side, "does anyone want to buy one of these so-called instruments?" None dared raise a hand, which she would have probably detached at the wrist.

"Very well, then. Mister, you will now leave the classroom."

Mr. Bentpenny wordlessly stumbled out of the door. Sister slammed it behind him, which may have struck his gluteal area. None dared laugh. In fact, we all expected a tongue-lashing, for no particular reason.

Sister turned and miraculously shifted gears. In a calm voice, she said, "Now, the Palmer capital 'F' is one of the most difficult letters to form ..."

As we adjourned for lunch, Sister pointed a finger at me, then at the floor in front of her desk. I awaited my abasement. I could sense the gang crowding at the door. But they could escape Sisters world-class radar (was it in the wings?). With one, brief, very dark look, she dispersed my classmates.

Sister said, "Well, Mr. Timothy, we seem to have some knowledge of classical music, don't we?"

"I dunno, 'ster. Once when we were watching that show, my Dad told me about the song."

"Your Dad. I see. Hmmmm." A hmmmm from Sister meant almost anything could ensue, little of it good. Plus, I must add that all the Daughters of Charity of St. Vincent DePaul were in a cabal with my father. He would give them rides, fix stuff around the convent. They adored him.

She said, "Well, you seemed to have gotten lucky to day with that ... that ... that man." Then the porcelain palm hit the desk with yet another crack. "BUT NOBODY LIKES A KNOW-IT-ALL."

"No, 'ster."

"Now go to lunch."

Then she winked at me and almost smiled. The corners of her mouth, I imagined, turned upward by a nanometer. Were nuns allowed to wink?

On the playground, I proudly displayed my newfound wealth. I even tried to play it, without much success. The kicker was that Lucille LaRosa came over and asked me if she could see the flute. It is impossible to describe what it felt like to actually have her look at me ... and then TALK to me. Lucille was undoubtedly the prettiest girl in our class, which meant—for me—the entire universe.

I didn't bother to tell anyone that Sister winked (and perhaps smiled) at me. No one would have bought it.

When my father arrived home from work, I couldn't wait to show him my prize.

"How much was THAT?" he said.

"No, Dad. I got it, for free."

"NOTHING'S 'FREE,' TIMOTHY!"

I told him the story.

"Hmmmm," he said, almost nun-worthy. "And you told the man about Rossini, too?"

"Yessir."

"Well, you better practice the gosh-danged-flippin' thing." This was about as close to an affirmation as I would get from him.

Epilogue

I didn't really take to the pennywhistle. In fifth grade, I started on the drums. I eventually lost the flute, or my brother broke it, I forget which.

Sister Margaret left St. Ann's after that year. Inky Rondino died a hero in Viet Nam. Dark Mark Longeuil beat me up in sixth grade, and then we became best of friends. Maggot McBride made a career as a sanitation professional. Lucille LaRosa is still beautiful.

My father saw me play exactly once before God took him from us. After the show, he came over to me, looking stern, his thumb and pointer perhaps a half-inch apart. "When Buddy Rich does that press roll, his sticks are only THAT FAR off the drum."

The Old Ball Game

Yes, it had been years. Then my buddy Wis gave me the heads-up. Sunday, August 25. Orioles v. A's. Primo seats for matinee. As we used to say in Beepo, "I'm down!"

Still unfamiliar to Coal Country geography, I thought we were in for a real trek. Not so. After 2.5 hours, rolling from colm banks to the "metropolis" of Harrisburg (which looks like every TJ McOlivechilibys on the globe spawned there), through York and into Maryland, we pull into Lot A, which requires a separate sticker, a window-hanger, a blood sample and sworn oath that we are of the right provenance.

The day is glorious in its cloudlessness. In a few steps, we are on Eutaw Street. Now, this may provide confusement for some, but the street is inside the stadium. Instead of a pat-down and full-body scan, a smiling attendee took a cursory look at my fanny pack. [Please keep snarky comments to yourself.] I can see a bit of the greensward, partially blocked by batting-practice onlookers. I have never ceased to marvel at transition from asphalt to field; it stunned me as a kid; it still does.

Into Rick Dempsey's huge groggery for a pre-game Yuengling (at only eight bucks!), where we meet an Orioles staffer named Chuck. He is an actual employee of the Birds. His job: to sit in the bar, help people (!), and man the outside door lest any malefactors tried to sneak into the bar...and thus the game. He's pushing eighty and regales us with stories of Jim Gentile and Gus Triandos, his voice drenched in Bawlmerese. He even offers to hold on to a purchase I made until after the game.

All over Eutaw are well-spaced employees, each holding a pole on top of which are signs that say:

HOW CAN I HELP YOU?

As a veteran of too many Gotham ballgames, I shudder at this anomaly.

Wis has this small, engaging smile that he allows infrequently. He displays it as we take our seats. They're right at the edge of the screen, between the dish and the O's dugout. The fourth row. I can see the stubble on Crush Davis's mush as he plays soft-toss a few feet away. The seats are padded; people say hello. And smile. By now, I am terrified. It's just too nice here.


It's all good cheer at home when lineups are presented. Laughs, smirks are exchanged between coaches and arbiters. An usher gently removes pre-game, Canon-laden gawkers from the first two rows. No complaints or contention.

A man named Glenn Donellan regales us with the anthem. He plays it on the viol--wait, it's an electrified Lousiville slugger with four strings! And he gets down with some eloquent riffing. The throng go Irwin Corey when he climbs up the neck for some high notes on "red glare" and "land of the free." I realize that they are conditioned to froth at musical fireworks by dint of OD-ing on American Idol.

Although the O's give up a run in an interminable first inning, they bounce right back, to go up 5-1. Davis crushes one--albeit foul--a zillion feet. It sounds like Navarone.

Then I get lost, in the best of ways.

I remembered going to Yankee Stadium in the early 60s on a PAL bus trip. We sat way up in the nosebleeeds, with posts obstructing our views. When it was time to leave, I tarried, so wanting to get a souvenir for my brother. I bought him a Mickey Mantle pin outside the stadium for a quarter. A Bridgeport cop snarled at me to get on the bus. On the way, I tripped and skinned my knee. I think I cried. But my brother got his button.

On Father's Day in 1964, Dad took us to a double-dipper at Shea. The Phillies were in town. In the lid-lifter, Jim Bunning, on the slab for the visitors, was twirling some magic. He didn't pull a rabbit out of his cap, but he retired all 27 batters he faced. I remember the electricity in the air when he came out for bottom nine. My father said, "You'll never see this again." He probably was right. I know I never saw another game with my dad.

Mid 80s: The Black Rock Bums' Club had a box at Shea. I was there when Jesse Orosco jumped toward the heavens at the end of game seven in '86. [Apologies to Sawx faithful.]

Eight years ago, I took my daughter Ellie down to Charm City. It was her first ballgame and my initial visit to Camden Yards. The day was more pure than Bunning's gem: She was picked to accompany a player (Steve Kline, a reliever) onto the field where he gave her the shirt off his back in a pregame ceremony. She slept in it.

Snapping out of it, I begin to enjoy the leisurely pace that is baseball. By the third, I can call pitches for dish ump Jordan Baker, a big, raw AAA call-up. There are no close plays, no rhubarbs and little drama. The entire tapestry is one of serenity, accompanied by glove-thumps, bat-cracks and the distant roar of the crowd above and behind us.

As I smack my lips after receiving a cold Lager (i. e.,  Yuengling), a concessionaire remarks, "Enjoy that beer, sir." I think: "You would see Derek Jeter at bat in a kimono and Manolo Blahniks before a vendor even hinted at politeness in the Bronx."

The usual intermezzos ensue: a kid has to grab second base and haul it back to the outfield in a minute (he does). Mr. Donellan hops on the O's dugout with the mascot (oddly named "The Bird") and throws down some chops in "Thank God I'm a Country Boy." And right in key. It is announced that the fiddler plays with the B(altimore)SO. No wonder.

The people around us are--need I say it again?--nice. And no fat cats. I figure they must be like Wis and I: regular shlubs who lucked into primo seats.

The vendors in the aisles dare to smile express their thanks. One looks suspiciously like a Connecticut mayor I know.

The Birds have the game well in hand. Better than than two at the Busch. No bullpen collapse. I go back to Dempsey's and claim my stuff from Chuck, who retrieves my bag as soon as he sees me--all smiles. Another staffer beams at the gate, asking if we had a good time.

On the way home, the setting sun accompanying us on the left, racing through the tufted green hills of Pennsy, Wis gives me that small smile again. There isn't too much to talk about.

I see those games gone by with clarity. The perfect booster button. Perfection by Jim Bunning. The perfect smile of a young girl at her first game.

And the perfection of a simple, unremarkable day at the ballyard.

My Commencement Address

Prologue: I can't remember many speeches, especially those delivered in Ecuador-hot auditoriums, that have made less sense than commencement addresses. The theme is always the same: "Reach for the stars"; "You can do it"; "Love what you do" and myriad other vacuous Hallmarkian platitudes. After all, students can't wait for all this folderol to be over, get their sheepskin, insult a faculty member, pose briefly for photos, ditch the parents and go for Jaeger bombs with classmates.

Since no institution in its right mind will ever give me a podium and microphone, much less ask me to drone on for graduates, herewith my version of the ideal commencement philippic.

My Commencement Address, 2013

Dear graduates: Go make something.

Ace's Dating Tips for Men--Part 1

I decided this week that I should be an expert on something—especially after all these years on the planet. I have recently seen or heard self-proclaimed mavens on lint, Scott Baio and the Guatemalan ringtailed bat.

As a man of a certain age ( and many botched dates/romances), I'm ready to anoint myself a dating expert. Now ladies, don't get your Jockeys in a knot. Dating tips for females will be coming in this space ... soon.

1. Do your homework.
First, ascertain if she's married. This can be a serious deterrent to dating. I once was totally thrown for a loop here; I didn't effect any Holmesian investigation. An addendum to this: in today's climate, she might like other women. Walk away, Rene. And don't ask her, "Can I watch?"

Get to know her friends. Be discreet, but this is the best way to find out if she's: a) involved with someone or just casually dating.  b) possibly interested in you (tread lightly here).  c) a member of a cult that worships slasher films.

2. Put your face in the place.
This is a corollary to #1. Does she go out with co-workers (much better than just "the girls") to a happy hour or somesuch event? Then you can hang out there, too (NOT every week), and possibly get to know her AND do further research, such as the cult thing. Be very casual with her at such an occasion. Women NEVER give too much away. Neither should you.

3. DOING THE DEED, STEP A:
This is much better executed in person than on the phone. You can read her better. Following is the most salient piece of advice in this screed: Do not pin her down to a specific calendar date. Actually, women love it (if they're not interested) when you do this; they can just say they're busy. Even if the gal thinks you're a knuckle-dragging, oversexed troglodyte, it's much easier for them to claim a calendar conflict than say, "I'd rather go out with Harvey Fierstein." And, by the by, NO EMAIL OR TEXTING. Not until she says "yes."

If you simply say, "I'd love to see you sometime, maybe grab a bite," 99% of the time she'll say, "When?" That's when you parry back with, "Oh, anytime you're free. No big deal." As soon as you hear any stuttering, halting speech or the Death Word ("Well ..."), say, "Ok. Thanks anyway." Then execute a casual one-eighty, stroll away ... and let her come after you. If she doesn't, write this poor soul off.

4. STEP B: AN (ALMOST) FOOLPROOF APPROACH:
Offer to meet her somewhere. I almost hate to be giving this valuable tip away. It works, nigh infallibly, especially if she is on the fence about a date with you. Now, she can leave whenever she wants, especially if you turn out to be a world-class douche (which you aren't of course, if you're reading this).

Actual women have told me, after they were totally enchanted by me, that they admired this maneuver.

5. Judging the response ...
Only .00008% of females on this planet will answer you with: "WOW! I'd love to. I was hoping you would ask me out!" So, forget about that sort of feedback. Be happy with a simple assent. BUT DON'T TAKE THIS TO THE BANK! (See #6)

Once again, the word: "Well ..." when uttered by a woman, almost never has anything good following it. This augurs ultimate failure. Ditto any wavering or halting speech. Back off, boyo.

Also: Accept the "yellow light" and try, try again. What's this? A tactic that too few women understand—or employ. This means that they have a cogent reason why they are declining and do want to see you. An example: "Oh, I'm sorry. I'm in a wedding that weekend and I have the rehearsal dinner that night. Can we try for another time?" This is NOT a turndown; it's merely a woman, manning up. If anything, this should boost her stock value.

CAVEAT REQUESTOR: Beware the "Kleenex Alibi." This comes from a gal who's totally not into you, who's too inauthentic to give you a polite "no." Instead, she gins up a tissue-thin rejoinder. Witness this actual KA I received upon asking a woman out on a value-laden, VIP-style date: "Well ... [see?] I'm going on vacation three days after that, and I have to pack ..." This merits an immediate demotion to the Do Not Call list.

6. Holleran's Law: The Unfair, Yet Simple Truth
When you ask someone out, you are tipping your hand. You are interested. She will probably be flattered, even if she's more into her Shih Tzu than you. However, the converse is not true: Just because she says yes to a chick flick and the Olive Garden afterward (don't you DARE--see Part 2), doesn't even means she thinks you're the Hunk o' the Month. She might just want a free, inedible, faux-Italian meal.

Finally, the ultimate Truth:

AS SOON AS YOU HEAR THE WORD "FRIEND"—IN ANY WAY, SHAPE OR FORM, YOU ARE TOAST.

You are now in Platonic Prison—Alcatraz is easier to worm your way out of. Fine, be her friend, Mr. Sensitive. Listen to Broadway albums with her; have a fondue party. Just remember, the F word is a terminal diagnosis when it comes to dating. You'd have better luck brown-bagging a Whopper to a PETA convention.

COMING SOON: Part 2—After She Says "Okay, I guess."

Stupor Bowl

Just stop.

This is no longer a football game. It stopped being that years ago.

It's a wham-jam-buffalo wing-Budweiser sodden-overblown exercise that happens to surround 60 minutes of football. Leave it to America to take a sporting event and inflate it with bombast, gimmickry, commercialism—in short, ugliness—until it no longer resembles what it started out to be.

Caligula would be poppin' a toga-riser right now.

It's for adults that will spend $128.50 on a replica jersey while their kids have no music or arts programs in their schools.

Face it, the actual game is only but a dim porch light compared to the zillion-watt Kliegs that illuminate it.

Look at people who spend hard-earned money just to go to the city where the game is played--and not go to the event. To wit, from one dullard (via KTLA):

About half the people we met on the street, don't have tickets for the game. Ashley Payne doesn't have one, but says just being in the host city with her 49ers is enough. "We got to watch the boys leave their hotel and get on the bus," said Payne. "Jim Harbaugh tipped his hat to everybody. Some of the players waived to us. They heard us cheer and send them off and chant," she said. "It's amazing to be here. It's a once in a lifetime experience, truly."

Gee, what a thrill. I'd rather take that money, and, I dunno, buy the entire Ron Popeil collection. And have enough left over for a decent above-ground pool. And some Styrofoam Wacky Noodles to float in it.

I mean, it's the one time a year when people applaud commercials. Do they realize that the Brobdingnagian amounts spent on these ads drive prices up? What new, intriguing tidbits will we learn about, say, Coca-Cola?

Face it, if every score in football counted one point, this would obviate the point spread. You could play the game at Podunk High School Memorial Stadium. Yes, I know you can place proposition bets that predict with which hand Ray Lewis scratches his package.

No, the inked-up, drug-addled, hair-extended "athletes" are the smallest part of the equation. Never mind that they subsist on slave wages. You've all heard of Haloti Ngata, haven't you? No, this is not a lyric from The Lion King. Mr. Ngata plays for the Baltimore Ravens. Defensive Tackle. He was paid a mere $662,000 this past season. Per game. On the 'Niners' side, benched QB Alex Smith was forced to live on a paltry $593K per game. I feel his pain. And he probably won't even soil his Underarmour today.

The NFL nabobs have even mined the salability of our anthem. This is now an event unto itself. Who's singing it this year? Beyoncemacykei$ha Fussbudget? Live? What's the over/under on how many players will sing along? I'm saying two, and they will be placekickers from Herzobosnistan. Note to NFL: Just have Aretha do it every year, live. Now that Lou Rawls has passed, she is the obvious choice, a slight edge over Kiri Te Kanawa.

And then there's halftime. Enter another lipsynching shrieker with prerecorded bed tracks. The budget for this bombast this year is estimated at $4 million. Heck, that might pay for almost half of Mr. Ngata's salary.

Just hire, say, the Blue Devils drum corps and have them blow the roof off the joint. I'll bet you can get them for twenty grand.

Other halftime show ideas:

• A Jim Nabors tribute, with computer-generated visuals of Rock Hudson.
• A Kardashian spelling bee.
• The NRA marksman team. With live ammo.
• Elton John doing Billy Joel. Literally.
• A Janet Jackson tribute to Velcro.
• Act II of Carmina Burana.

Just trying to help out here.

Oh, by the way, enjoy the game.