Lovin' the 'Lympics

[AceNote: Someone is guaranteed to be offended by this screed. Bring it on!]

First off, that Olympic song they play (which is actually “Bugler's Dream” by Leo Arnaud—who says I don't do research?) needs some words:

Come watch the swell Olympics

It's on tv no matter how much it's delayed

Just Yanks, perhaps some allies

Plenty of ads and wacky games are played

[then the fast part]

The 'Lympics, the 'Limpics, it's time for the Olympics [repeat]

Then you've the John Williams ponderous fanfare that seems cribbed from a medley of his 839 movie themes, perfectly sanitized for your ennui. Meh.

Of course, each city must outdo the previous one when it comes to staging an overblown, nauseating opening ceremony. This year, Old Blighty went all out to stage a grandiose gallimaufry of goo. I guess there was a plot in there somewhere. Marching through history? Mr. Bean? Okay, I dug it when a QE stunt double skydived into the stadium. My idea: Just parade in the athletes (all of whom, except the Kyzkjistanis, carry video-capturing cell phones), shoot off some fireworks, and get 'er done.

I especially like the marginal events, such as croquet, macramé and speed barbecuing. These folks get the spotlight only quadrenially, so they deserve some juice. I even go for the dressage (which name Harvey Fierstein must have concocted), which is like a dance scene from a Gilbert and Sullivan work, except on horses. These athletes must be lauded for giving up two weeks of prime time on the Vineyard and the Hamptons to starch their spines and compete for the yew ess of ay.

Other sports could use some alterations, methinks. In fencing, take away the pads and use real swords. Draw blood and you get a point; take someone out and you win. Think of what they'll save on all that electronic crap the contestants wear now. Plus, you'll see real swashbucklers: Think Errol Flynn and Ty Power, not some fancypants preppies.

Adding the cannonball to the diving would eliminate some of the nancy boys in that sport. Hold the swimming in the same venue as the whitewater canoeing and you'll save another bundle on chlorine alone.

Seen those bows in archery? Stevie Wonder could hit the bull’s-eye. Those things have more gadgets and gizmos than Ron Popeil's pantry. Robin of Locksley didn't need all that junk to take out Nottingham's minions.

Can we stop the chop sides in hoops? Keep the NBA Self-absorbed Team (remember when Shaquille O'Neal was asked if he visited the Parthenon? His response: “I don't know. I can't really remember the names of the clubs that we went to.”) at home and send collegians. On the distaff side, you've already got Coach Auriemma in the house, so why doesn't he just bring the UConn women?

On that note, bring back women's softball and send the Brakettes as our reps.

Call me Ben Arnold, but I don't always root for the Americans. Instead, I cheer for the country with the smallest population. I want Bhutan to win everything. Take a look at my boy, judo maven Tuvshinbayar Naidan. All he did was win Mongolia's first gold medal—in anything.

Track stars seem to be the biggest preeners. To wit: Britain's Jessica Ennis, who won the pentathlon. She was still panting from the 800 meter when someone draped a preprinted, self-aggrandizing Union Jack over her shoulders. Wonder how long she would have kept it had she lost? Usain Bolt holds poses for longer than his event takes. Relax, buddy, next week you'll be about as popular outside of Negril as Patrick Duffy.

NBC's programming is as predictable as the somnambulistic talent in its booths. They'll cut away from a thrilling rowing repechage to show women's beach volleyball, which sport, for some unfathomable reason, has garnered roughly 1,936 hours of airtime already.

And yes, every gymnastics has its darling ever since Jim McKay drooled over Nadia Comaneci in 1976; this year it's Gabby Douglas, who's a dang mile winsomer than Gabby Hayes. What would happen if a champ had a zit-laden face and a schnozz like Marge Hamilton as WWW? Would she still “capture our hearts?”

Now, for improvements: I think there should be separate audio feeds where announcers actually speak the truth. Some examples:

“That dive bit the big weenie, Joe.”

“Sprinter Billy Bob Carbuncle has the biggest collection of child porn in the Olympic Village.”

“Of course, swimmer Stephanie Gidget would have fared better if she hadn't had those eleven Jaeger Bombs at the King's Arms last night.”

“When she's not competing, shotputter Bertha Brobdingnag enjoys female stonemasons, Cuban panetelas and truck pulls.”

“Lookit the size of that ass.”

And the like.

I also deem we could do with some additional sports. Herewith:

• Synchronized skateboard
• Wal-Mart Black Friday snatch-and-grab
• Half-pipe wheelchairs
• An all-NBA spelling bee
• Full-contact karaoke
• Nude kayaking

… and events to help certain special-interest groups win:

• Accounting (Israel)
• Speed Guinness (Ireland)
• Silent bocce (er, no; this would disqualify the Italians)
• Senseless guitar jams (Deadheads)
• Sprint to a Royal Caribbean buffet (seniors)

Gotta love dem 'Lympics. Every four years, something for everyone, except that Japanese hurdler who botched his first jump.

Still the One

We lost one of the good guys last week. I realize that the name Larry Hoppen doesn't make most people's carillons ring or give Access Hollywood any pause, but this doesn't make it any easier for me to write these words.

Yes, he made his bones as the lead singer for the band Orleans, the Woodstockers who gave us "Dance with Me," "Still the One" and "Love Takes Time." Distilling a man's life into nine minutes of music is hardly fair.

I first saw Orleans at the University of Bridgeport back in 1975. This was a memorable night for me, for I also got to see a quirky Boston band named Goodnight Louise. GL's lead singer was a vivacious brunette named Karla Jayne DeVito. In the next two years, she would change my life.

In short, Orleans was all that. I saw the original lineup (Rolling Stone would say "seminal") with John Hall on guit and Wells Kelly on drums. The vocals especially dazzled me. This was due to Larry Hoppen's amazing range, timbre and technique. For example, listen to "Dance with Me," and when the end of the bridge rolls around, try to match Larry on "I can take you where you want to go ..." And not in falsetto, cheaters. He's crossing the Sting-ian river with those notes. For the record, it's just short of a double high C. Heck, most women can't go there.

I didn't get to meet Larry--or any Orleansians--that night. But I did get to meet Karla. The next year, she recruited me for the most wonderful band I ever banged the tubs for--Orchestra Luna.

I didn't see Orleans again until 1984. At that time, my bud Michael Mugrage was on the band. Muggs is a producer, singer, songwriter, guitarist, pianist ... and I'm cutting it short. He had I had worked together quite a few times, both live and in the studio.

Muggs knew that I was courting a coed at a college in Worcester. And Orleans had a gig there. I was the wheel man from Beepo. As I hung out in the dressing room, waiting to surprise my gal, Larry Hoppen came in.

I started to mumble some compliment, but Larry burst in to a big grin. "Hey, you're Ace, Michael's friend. I hear you're some drummer." He was that warm and open. I'm talking friends-in-a-minute here. That kind of warm.

Not too long after that, a friend of Mike's and mine, "Hollywood" Steve Gaspar, was planning his wedding. He approached Muggs, asking how much it would cost to get Larry to sing "Dance with Me" as the first dance at the reception. I was surprised to hear that Larry's response was, "No fee. Just an invite to the wedding."

He made good on his word. Although Michael took ill and couldn't make the day, Larry, myself and some others got up and did the tune. It was a thrill for me to try to replicate the late Wells Kelly's drum part. Larry sat next to me at the dinner, and, again, he was open and gracious. We traded music biz war stories. Musicians are prone to such banter.

Larry even got up again and delivered some more Orleans chestnuts--wowing the mostly musical crowd.

In the years that followed, Larry and I stayed in touch, albeit sporadically. I once journeyed a few miles from my home in Connecticut down to Westchester, where veteran r-and-b drummer Billy Reed had assembled a quartet. The great keyboardist Bobby Leinbach was on board. And Larry Hoppen. The band was nothing less than fabulous. I remember seeing myriad gaping jaws when Larry would let his tenor fly. He sounded as good to me as he ever did. Maybe better.

Once we happened to meet each other in New York; he was shopping agents, as was I (for literary purposes). We shared a bite and some old times. When we parted, I had no idea it was the last time I would ever see him.

Just last Saturday (July 22), I ran into Nicole Wills, a long-time Woodstock-based singer. We were introduced by her partner (and an old bud of mine) Blaise Sires. We soon discovered that we had zero degrees of separation, with many mutual friends. Of course we spoke of Larry--trading our own stories.

Three days later, he was gone.

Just because you haven't seen a friend in years doesn't diminish the grief. I have learned this in the past week.

I'm going to reach a little bit higher, old stick. I hope we can jam again one day, somewhere.

Don & Me

It was at a cool little club in West Hollywood, The White House. A session-musician hangout, studded with second-string gigmen such as myself, with the occasional appearance of Someone Bigger ("Hey, that's Boz Scaggs's tambourine guy!").

No liquor license there, but some of us would brown-bag it in the teensy dressing room. After the regular gigs, a few guys would hang out to jam, mostly in the jazz vein. Which was, after all, the music we really enjoyed playing, even though it usually earned us no remuneration.

On one such night, I headed back out to my car to get some sticks for Harry Stinson's (Al Stewart's drummer at the time) kit. Standing under a streetlamp, he wore khakis and a London Fog 'Cuda. He looked like a college guy, out of place from the early 60s.

Sheesh, it was Robbie Douglas. As I fetched the sticks, he ambled toward me. My brain burrowed more deeply. What's his real name?

He said, "Hi!"

Years of cramming minutiae into my cranium finally paid off. "Hi, Don. Howzit goin'?"

"Do we know each other?"

"Nope, but I did own a TV not too long ago." I was amazed at how young Grady (he was about 34 at the time) looked. He could have just walked off the set after trading quips with Uncle Charley.

He laughed. "Sorry about that. It's just that the only people who call me by my real name are friends of mine. Not the ..."

"RD thing," I said.

A grin. "You must be good at trivia."

I said, "I'm a musician, so sometimes I have to support myself via game shows."

"I can hear music," he said. "What's the deal? Can I come in?"

I explained that it was just an after-hours jam. And that he was welcome.

Back in the club, I jumped up and threw down with Michel Jackson's keyboard player and the Pointer Sisters' bassist on Chick Corea's "Spain." Grady sat in the back of the house, shy-like, leaning forward, intent on the music.

About fifteen minutes later, things started to wind down, Grady waved to me and left. I tried to catch up with him, but by the time I got to the door, he was already walking down Pico, hunched into his jacket.

One of the other guys came out and said, "Hey Ace, was that..."

"Yes," I said. "It was."

Sports Is Wrong

Yes, bad grammar. Yes, bad sports. Pardon my skewing off the usual track of mainstream snarkdom. If you're not a sports fan at all--as I am becoming--you might still want to read.

The monetary chunk is ridiculous. To aggravate matters, I live in the New York ADI (media-ese for "television market"), where they'll charge you for mustard. Napkins next? Does that $8 beer have truffle oil floated on it? You can save an extra two bucks by stooping so low as to go to a minor-league game. There are some real nuts out there who determine the "fan cost index," i. e., what it would cost a family of four to go to a game, with parking and minimal refreshments, etc. You can do this for the New York Jets for the mere price of $628.00. Like the Yanks better? Just a pittance at $338.00. Mind you, these are Ed Hillary-level seats. If you actually want to see a semblance of the game, take out another mortgage. See for yourself at www.fancostexperience.com.

Are the players overpaid? Huh? Forget the big names. Ever heard of Joel Przybilla? He plays professional basketball. Last year, he earned $238,000. Every time he laced up his sneakers. 36 games, $7.5 million. His career scoring average is 4.0 points per game. Joel, my man.

Alex Rodriguez is the highest-paid baseball player in our fair land. Now, over his career, he has earned a paltry $15,356. For every pitch he has faced. A called strike three, a bunt foul. No matter. Oh, the humanity.

Nice guys, some of these athletes. Take Karl Malone, the second-leading career scorer in pro hoops. As a sophomore at Louisiana Tech, this student-athlete impregnated a 13-year-old girl. She bore a boy, Demetrius Bell, who now plays with the Buffalo Bills in the NFL. Malone, even though named the father by a court of law, has never acknowledged Bell. The father even refused to pay the mother $200 a week for support. Karl Malone earned over $100 million in his career, not counting endorsements and such. He reached a confidential settlement with the mother in the late 80s.


Norwalk native Calvin Murphy, another NBA Hall-of-Famer, has fathered 14 children by nine different women, none of whom was his wife (according to FanIQ.com).


QB Art Schlichter of the Colts has been convicted of over 20 felonies related to gambling, forgery and theft. He served 16 years in stir. Ex-Yankee Mel Hall (and stories about his dalliances in Fairfield are myriad) has been convicted of various exual assaults; one victim was aged 12 at the time. He is away for a 46-year stretch. Can anyone spell "OJ?"

Just the athletes? Look at Penn State.



If I were to venture into the world of steroids and HGH, this screed would transmogrify into a Beowulf-length manuscript. Cue Brady Anderson in 1996. FWIW, he's the only player in baseball history to hit 50 dingers in a season and never have 25 in any other. What's in that Gatorade, Brady?

Just the thought of some of these "students" actually getting some knowledge into their noggins is a joke. It's as funny as Conan interviewing Jerry Lewis. A friend of mine was once a counselor to a big-time college football program. He told me of a situation where freshmen were asked to write a brief essay about themselves. One athlete just sat there and cried; he couldn't write a lick. The player later became an All-American and eventual NFL star.

And I'm wondering where college students get the jingle for all that ink all over their corpuses.

Even the games themselves have, I think, deteriorated. Can anyone shoot a jump shot? Tackle below the shoulders? Bunt? Everyone's-darling-Butler made it to the NCAA hoops final last season vs/ UConn (where laptops are now stored under lock and key). Butler shot 18.8% for the game.

Think it's all about the big boys? Look at Danny Almonte, who shone at the Little League World Series at two years over the age limit. I even know youth-league coaches who tell their benchwarmers to stay home from (or give them the wrong time for) key games so coach can keep his studs in the game.

I knew a young star who played basketball at a private high school. He and some of teammates where African-American. I asked him, "Are there any young men of color in your school who are NOT on your team?"

"Nope."

I said, "Are there any young ladies in your school who are black?"

"Not a one, Ace."

I'm tired of watching men desert their families on Sundays so they can watch their beloved Giants, Jets or whomever. I know people who have ruined their lives placing bets with bookies. People who spend hundreds--if not more--on authentic "gear" just look like buffoons to me.

And I'm even more tired of fans who use the first-person plural as if they had a stake in their favorite squad. "Oh, we're gonna beat Boston on Sunday." As Spanky said to Scotty, "Whaddaya mean, we?"

Where once you had heroes, now there are drug-addled, skirt-chasing, tatooed preeners.

Synchronized swimming anyone?