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.

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.