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Alex in Wonderland: 

TV’S NEWEST SHOCKWAVE 


WHY U. N. RAPS U.S.ON VICE GIRLS • HANDBOOK FOR PRACTICAL JOKERS 


OCTOBER 

FIFTY CENTS 


DESERT 
ISLAND 
PLAYMATES 
In Color 



TEO GOTTFRIED • editor 



MARVIN GREIFINGER • art director 

OCT., 1 959 

VOL. 3, NO. 3 JACK BLAGMAN • advertising director 


table of contents 



ARTICLES 


ALEX IN WONDERLAND By Steve Dickson 12 

HANDBOOK FOR PRACTICAL JOKERS By Harry Gregory 40 

THE ART OF R1CHMANSHIP By John Porter 52 


FICTION 

THE REBEL’S LAST REVEL 
THE IMPERFECT TRIANGLE 

RETURN TO PASSION 

DOUBLE STANDARD 

PICTORIAL 

BOW JEST 

THE SHOW THAT STOPS ROULETTE 
THE LEGEND OF MILADY’S BATH 

SPECIAL REPORT 

WHY U.N. RAPS U.S. ON VICE GIRLS 

FULL COLOR 

TWO FOR THE SHOW 

SIREN FOR A SUNDAY AFTERNOON 

STATUESQUE 

DESERT ISLAND PLAYMATES 
BEAUTY IN ORBIT 

SATIRE 

THE PUSHBUTTON PEOPLE EATERS 
THE FLATTED FIFTH 


By Vic Kaiser 

By Joseph Richards 

By Ben Harbin 

By Ort Louis 


Glamor Feature 

Entertainment Feature 
Glamor Feature 


By Loren B. Spangler 


Glamor Feature 
Glamor Feature 
Entertainment Feature 
Beauty Gallery 
Glamor Feature 


By Ted Mark 
By Willard Goodman 


8 

14 

22 

34 


10 

19 

56 


16 


26 

30 

37 

44 

50 


28 

48 


DEPARTMENTS 

SHOPPING ACES Best Buys 4 

ACE-HIGH BOOKS AND RECORDS By Sam Brewer 6 

THE JOKER’S GEMS Humor Potpourri 59 


COVER PHOTO by Ron Vogel 

ACE MAGAZINE, Vol. 3, No. 3, Oct., 1959 issue. Published bi-monthly by 
Four Star Publications Incorporated, 509 Fifth Avenue, New York 17, N. Y. 
Price per copy 50c. Subscriptions $ 3.00 per year of six issues. Second class mail 
privileges authorised at New York, N.Y. Postage paid at New York, N.Y. and 
Miami, Fla. Not responsible for the loss of unsolicited manuscripts and/or photo- 
graphs. Advertising Representatives, Jack Blagman, Inc., 509 Fifth Avenue, 
New York 17, New York. Printed in U.S.A. 


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Ace-High 

BOOKS AND RECORDS 


T ravelling on with the 

WEAVERS (Vanguard) is an- 
other of the delightfully unique lis- 
tening experiences that only The 
Weavers can offer. They are more 
than just singers of folk songs; they 
give new personality and lift to 
many an old favorite, and have even 
catapulted hoary old ballads into 
high popularity. What 
disc jockeys have come 
to call ‘the Weavers 
sound’ is indescribable; 
it has to be heard to be 
appreciated. Many of 
the songs in this latest 
album have been re- 
arranged to capture 
their quality, and have 
come out the better for 
it. 

THINGS ARE GET- 
TING BETTER (Riv- 
erside) is an all-star 
jazz session under the 
leadership of Cannon- 
ball Adderly, with Milt 
Jackson heading a not- 
able agglomeration of 
blues specialists. Wyn- 
ton Kelly is at the 
piano; Percy Heath 
plays bass, and Art 
Blakey does the drum- 
ming. When good men 
like this get together, 
the result is bound to 
be spectacular listen- 
ing — and it is. 

CHET BAKER IN- 
TRODUCES JOHNNY 
PACE (Riverside) to what prom- 
ises to be a distinguished career. Chet 
Baker, one of the top trumpeters of 
the jazz world, needs no introduction; 
it need only be said that he appears 
here with his quintet. The young 
singer he has chosen to support is a 
rarity in the jazz field; Johnny sings 
without a single gimmick, carrying 
every note of the melody, yet with a 
very warm, springy rhythm. 

CRAZY HE CALLS ME (Capitol) 
is vibrant Dakota Staton at her best 
in a showcase series of songs designed 


to display her talent at full range. 
And what a range it is: belting, whis- 
pering, tender, dynamic. In this al- 
bum, it takes three different orches- 
tras, those of Nelson Riddle, Sid Fel- 
ler, and Howard Biggs, to match her 
wide-ranging moods in love lyrics. 

MARIA GOLOVIN (RCA-Victor) 
presents Gian-Carlo Menotti’s un- 
ashamedly lyric, ro- 
mantic opera in a bril- 
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soaring, sweeping, dra- 
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singing theatre that is 
opera — and a good 
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act drama is rich in 
melody, in luminous 
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dramatic story. MA- 
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perfect blending of 
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by an expert cast. 

MARY ASTOR — 
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it turned out,, the joke was on him! 


A N ANACHRONISTIC idealism 
had lifted Tom Baxter from 
the soil of. his native Vermont 
and plunked him down in the 
middle of a Central American 
revolution. The fact that people 
had faith in his absolute integ- 
rity had in time elevated him to 
the role of leader of the rebels. 
All the rival parties which com- 
prised the rebellion had agreed 
that the gringo was the one man 
among them who could be trusted 
by all. And the downtrodden pe- 
ons hailed him as El Libertador, 
the Norte Americano who would 
remove the dictator’s heel which 
was grinding them into the mud. 

This mud was a physical real- 
ity in the pinpoint banana repub- 
lic, the result of sudden, explosive 
cascades of rain which drenched 
the land. The sheets of water 
were pouring down as Tom sat 
well under the awning of a side- 
walk cafe in a small village and 
waited for Clark Braintree. 

Clark was the only other Yan- 
kee besides Tom who was fight- 
ing on the side of the rebels. 
There was a closeness between 
him and Tom. Yet they were as 
different as any two men could be. 

In appearance Clark was tall, 
dark and rapier-slender, while 
Tom had the stolidity of stockiness, 
well-muscled but built close to 
the ground, pale-complected and 
sandy-haired. In character, Clark 
was as grasping as Tom was hon- 
est, as daring as Tom was sensible 
and as anxious for self-gratifiqa- 
tion in all its worldy forms as 
Tom was single-minded in his 
devotion to the cause of the peas- 
ants. Clark was a soldier-of-for- 
tune in the truest sense and his 
reasons for joining the revolution 
were purely mercenary. 

Now, eyes Continued p. 60 





W/HEN YOU TURN ON your TV set, do you 
W automatically slap leather and leap for your horse? 
Do you flinch at hot video lead and dig your spurs 
into the ottoman? Have television westerns got you 
heating your toddies with a branding iron and pouring 
the cat’s milk into a horse trough? In other words, are 
you up to here with the “Wagon Train” that never 
get where it’s going, “The Rifleman” who’s forever 
target shooting at human skeets, “Wyatt Earp” 
and his burping bullets — all the razzle-dazzle oaters 
that drawl and gallop and shoot their way across 
your 21-inch screen? If you are, you are not alone. 
There are quite a few of us viewers who long for the 
good old days of test patterns, grunt-’n’-groan 
exhibitions and a solid hour of Uncle Mil tie. We’re 
willing to dial north, south or east for our entertainment, 
but anything farther west than Philadelphia gives 
us the haybumer-jeebies. We feel it’s time these 
cowboys — the "Jefferson Drums” and the “Restless 
Guns,” the “Man Without A Gun” and the many 
with them — were driven from the video range. And the 
best way to fight cowboys is with Indians. However, 
so well entrenched are these buckos that no ordinary 
Indian can match them in a showdown — not even 
“Broken Arrow.” But we’ve come up with a format 
— bow-and-arrow and lush Pat O’Connell — which 
should make the roughest, toughest gunslinger throw 
up his gun. Here’s a show that has everything any 
male viewer could ask and there’s nary a gun in it. 
Pat’s rating will make “Maverick” take to cover and 
when she strings her bow, it may well start a movement 
to give “Cheyenne” and the rest of the west back 
to the Indians. There’s no sponsor problem, either. 

Pat’s a brave that can sell anything! • 


BOW JEST 

If westerns give you the TV-jeebies, 
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for giving video back to the Indians! 



10 














BY STEVE DICKSON 





TV’s Newest Shockwave: 


L©3® MM 




Alexander King has one foot in the grave, the other aimed at society's rump. 
Determined to die laughing, in the process he's bringing new life to video! 


Urk ON’T WRITE or print anything about 
me!” thundered a vibrant voice over 
the phone. Sounding like Ronald Colman 
with a Viennese accent, TV’s newest celeb- 
rity let forth a volley of invective that 
might have made a sailor blush. 

“I don’t want to be squeezed between all 
that ectoplasm!” he blurted. 

Obviously Alexander King is shy of being 
smothered by all the lovelies in ACE, but 
his story is too good to be left on the shelf. 
Here is a man, almost sixty years old, who 
has enchanted the world and amazed the 
medical specialists who pronounced him as 
good as dead two years ago. 

Because of a diseased and pain-racked 
kidney, no doctor believed King could sur- 
vive more than a month before uremic 
shock would put him away for keeps. They 
said his only chance — and a very slight 
one — was to undergo surgery. But medical 
knifery was not for Alex King. His distrust 
of the medical profession, with a very few 
exceptions, is legend. 

“Specialists don’t care a hoot in hell 
about what has broken loose in the adjacent 
county,” explains King. ‘The ulcer man is 
busy with his ulcer routine, the eye and 
ear man will go down as far as the throat, 
but the kidney man doesn’t give a rap what 
goes on north of the bladder.” 

If there’s a doctor in the house, he may 
be interested in the history of one who has 
gone on stubbornly living against the best 
medical advice. For his casebook, here’s the 
background of the nigh kidney-less King: 

Born in Vienna, young Alex came to New 
York at the age of fourteen, determined to 
paint. Since he was not a commercial suc- 


two-time loser in drug addiction and a 
four-timer at the altar. He’s also written 
plays — one with Claire Luce that became a 
movie — plus a series of profiles for the New 
Yorker. 

Recently, when both President Eisenhow- 
er and Winston Churchill took up paint- 
ing, King felt impelled to return to his 
palette. He decided it was necessary that 
artists hold fast to the arts in the face of 
encroaching statesmen. 

“After all,” he wrote indignantly, “I did- 
n't butt into the Suez Canal or disarma- 
ment. I left that to the politicians, although 
I could hardly have made a greater mess 
than they did.” 

The statement is but one of many that 
attest King’s strong individualism. The 
trademark of that individualism is his 
penchant for pink ties. King’s addiction to 
these rosy pastel cravats dates back to his 
youth. 

At 17 he worked for Continued p. 62 









64T>UT I ALWAYS thought you and Harry had the ideal marriage,” said Joanne. 

-D Amy bit her lip. “Well, maybe we did once, but things like that change.” 

The two women were seated across from each other at the kitchen table in Amy’s house. 

They were on their second cup of coffee and third cigarette. Amy was wearing an apron over blouse 
and slacks, her brown hair in disarray from a morning of housecleaning. With her thumbnail 
she was nervously picking at what was left of the polish on her nails. 

Joanne, as always, was in contrast to Amy. She was dressed stylishly, and sexily, in a simple 
print dress which hugged every curve of her slim, high-busted figure. Not a curl of her shoulder- 
length blonde hair was out of place. From the lacquered toenails peeping out of her open-toed 
shoes to the precisely right touch of rouge on her cheeks, Joanne’s grooming served to accent her 
considerable natural attractiveness. 

She was a divorcee, 25 years old. She and Amy and Amy’s husband, Harry, had known each 
other since childhood. As a matter of fact Joanne and Harry had “gone steady" back in high 
school. The lingering quality of that relationship manifested itself in light banter when they 
were together. Amy didn’t seem to mind it and Harry and Joanne found it nostalgically pleasant. 

But Joanne was also Amy’s friend and now she displayed concern at her marital difficulties. 
“Honey, I’m not prying,” she said, “but if it would help to tell me about it, then give.” 

Amy lit another cigarette, jerking the match from side to side irritably to put it out. 

“To put it simply, Joanne, Harry’s become impotent." Continued page 72 



Joanne had what it took to solve Harry's problem. She was just what 
the doctor ordered. But Harry's reaction wasn't what she expectedl 



15 



- 


S^' 


ill 
RAPS D. S. 
HI 

VICE GIRLS 

What's wrong with our laws? 
How bad are our police methods? 
Why is prostitution increasing? 
Here are the startling answers! 


BY LOREN B. SPANGLER 


W E AMERICANS are the most advanced people 
on the face of the earth — in every field but 
one: prostitution. 

Don’t take our word for it. Take the United Na- 
tions’. A report recently issued by the U.N. Economic 
and Social Council, under the imposing title of “The 
Suppression of the Traffic in Persons and of the 
Exploitation of the Prostitution of Others” makes 
it transparently clear that we’re doing everything 
wrong when it comes to the question of the play- 
for-pay girls. 

Our first big mistake, according to the report, 
is in calling prostitution a crime and in treating 
the practitioner as a criminal. Another slap in our 
direction is directed at the practice of vice squad 
detectives picking up a woman suspected of being 
a prostitute, escorting her to her place of business, 




! watching her undress, giving her money and then “combine forces in pushing for the U.N. proposal; 

arresting her. ' namely, that prostitution as a crime should be 

This, the august U.N. body avers, is not only in- abolished from our statute books and thinking.” 
effective; it is unjust. “Our police,” he proposes, “should find other and 

“The practice used in certain countries," it says, better things to do than to tap call-girl wires and 
“of entrusting the detection of such offenses to a make raids, and we should turn our energies to 
special police vice squad or to plainclothes police some of the sources from which the prostitute 
officers cannot be commended. (full-time and part-time) springs.” 

“Many people doubt even the wisdom or justice Mrs. Anna M. Kross, Commissioner of Correction 
of accepting in such cases the evidence presented of New York City, and Chief Magistrate John M. 
by the same police officer who has prepared the Murtagh agree that the “traditional police ap- 
charge and the courts before whom the cases are proach to the problem of prostitution is futile and 
brought generally frown on such methods of po- corrupting.” 

lice espionage and entrapment.” Another backhanded swipe at the United States 

Many Americans concur in this idea. Max Ler- is brought into the report by Soviet Russia, which 
ner, the outspoken columnist of the New York declares that prostitution has ceased to constitute 
Post, declares that city and state officials should a problem in the Continued on next page 




WHY U.N. RAPS U.S. ON VICE GIRLS continued 


U.S.S.R.” In its reply to a U.N. ques- 
tionnaire, the Communists declare 
that “radical changes took place in 
the country which included the elim- 
ination of unemployment, the in- 
tensification of social services, the 
raising of the level of living and the 
realization of the full equality of 
men and women. 

“The Government has observed,” 
they continue, “that these changes 
have eliminated the conditions giv- 
ing rise to prostitution; namely ma- 
terial insecurity and the lack of 
legal safeguards for women.” 

The Russians may have thought 
that was a pretty clever crack at the 
capitalistic system, but in another 
section of the report it is shown that 
all the advances they claim have 
little or no effect on the question. 

“Even in a country with a pros- 
perous economy, a high standard of 
living, a full equality of men and 
women and a well advanced pro- 
gram of social service, the problem 
of prostitution is not solved,” ac- 
cording to the U.N. 

Maybe the reason prostitution has 
been eliminated behind the Iron 
Curtain — if it has been — is that no- 
body can afford it. 

Under healthy economic condi- 
tions, the report goes on to say, “the 
pattern of prostitution has changed 
but the problem remains; the num- 
ber of street walkers and of persons 
who drift into prostitution through 
economic necessity has decreased 
appreciably, but the number of call 
girls who take to prostitution to ob- 
tain the luxury they crave has great- 
ly increased.” 

Or, to put it another way, when 
times are good, the courtesans move 
off the streets and into swank apart- 
ments, and the prices go up accord- 
ingly. 

Seemingly accepting the inevita- 
ble, does the U.N. Committee then 
suggest that the answer lies in the 
regulation and recognition of prosti- 
tution, as has been the practice in 
most countries at one time or an- 
other and is still a custom in many 
lands? 

Flatly no. “Governments,” the re- 
port sternly declares, “should . . . 
enact legislation for the abolition of 
any form of the regulation of pros- 
titution, and particularly for the 


closing of licensed or tolerated 
houses.” 

The report gives many reasons 
why the regulation of prostitutes 
doesn’t work and has never worked. 
The argument that it helps control 
the spread of social diseases is neat- 
ly smashed by the statement that “at 
no time and in no country has the 
system of regulation ever limited the 
ravages of venereal disease.” On the 
contrary, it goes on, it has been 
shown that "by far the largest num- 
ber of venereal infections are not at 
the time due to prostitution.” 

In other words, whether we have 
regulated prostitution or not, we 
will have venereal diseases. 

The stand of the Committee is 
against both the regulation of pros- 
titution and prostitution itself. It 
calls for the eventual complete abo- 
lition of the world’s oldest profes- 
sion, not by law, but by social pro- 
gress. 

‘The most effective way to eradi- 
cate a social scourge,” the U.N. Com- 
mittee report avers, “is to remove its 
cause. It adds that women become 
prostitutes through inclination, need 
or persuasion. But the final decision 
... is determined by their mentality 
and the circumstances of their en- 
vironment. 

“Prostitutes have generally slight 
mental or physical abnormalities 
(instability, abnormal lack of emo- 
tion, excitability, pronounced ner- 
vousness) and a great number of 
them suffer from psychosexual im- 
maturity. The number of prostitutes 
who are psychologically and emo- 
tionally normal appears to be very 
limited. On the other hand, the num- 
ber who are actually ‘feeble-minded’ 
is relatively low.” 

In other words, the average pros- 
titute is more inclined to be nuts 
than most women, but she isn’t so 
daffy that she can’t enjoy her work. 

The cure, obviously, is to unleash 
a horde of psychiatrists, psycholo- 
gists and social workers upon the 
girl who has fallen, so to speak, into 
the easy-money sex racket. This 
might prove specially beneficial to 
the younger prostitutes, who are 
drifting into that line of business in 
large numbers. 

“Most prostitutes,” the report ob- 
serves, “start their calling at an ear- 


ly age, and there is evidence in re- 
cent years of increasing prostitution 
among girls of 15 or younger.” 

Also pointed out is a definite con- 
nection between prostitution and the 
twin evils of alcoholism and narcotic 
addiction. In Sweden, the report 
notes, there was an alarming simul- 
taneous rise in both juvenile prosti- 
tution and the traffic in drugs and 
narcotics. This imposes “a great dan- 
ger to young people; tablets of vari- 
ous kinds change hands at cafes, 
dance halls and in open streets. 
Over-indulgence in alcohol has also 
increased in all categories of homes, 
especially among young women, a 
highly demoralizing factor being the 
use of alcohol in connection with 
narcotics.” 

Likewise, in the United States, 
“approximately 50% of the prosti- 
tutes are drug addicts.” What is par- 
ticularly alarming, however, is the 
fact that the number of juvenile ad- 
dicts has increased significantly in 
recent years and that there has been 
a simultaneous rise in venereal di- 
sease infections in the age group of 
11 to 19. 

The involvement of children led 
the Committee to the source of the 
problem, the man who patronizes 
joy-girls. “In recent years more at- 
tention has been given to the pros- 
titute’s customer and various studies 
have been conducted with regard to 
the fundamental causes of the sex- 
ual behavior of the male who satis- 
fies his sexual desires with prosti- 
tutes.” 

Kinsey pointed out, and the report 
quotes him, that “men go to pros- 
titutes because they have insufficient 
sexual outlets in other directions, or 
because prostitution provides types 
of activity not readily available else- 
where . . . because of a physical de- 
formity . . . because they can pay for 
sexual relations and forget other re- 
sponsibilities, or because it is cheap- 
er to have intercourse with prosti- 
tutes than court a girl for a long 
period.” 

After citing statistics to the effect 
that 69% of the male population of 
the United States ultimately has 
sofne experience with prostitutes, 
the U. N. report comments on the 
reasons underlying the high per- 
centage. Continued p. 70 


18 







O NCE, not so long ago, a fellow trekking 
across the Nevada Desert could get mighty 
thirsty before he found a water-hole. Then 
some old prospector stumbled on a trickling 
oasis and the place became a stopover for 
travelers. Pretty soon somebody threw up a 
general store and somebody else supplied a 


little alcoholic flavor for the HjO and a town 



began growing up around the water-hole. A few 
decades went by and an ambitious fellow put 
up a hotel. A few more passed and a real smart 
operator installed a roulette wheel in the lounge 
of the hostelry. And Las Vegas as we know it 
today dates from the moment that first wheel 
began to spin. It’s the symbol of the tourist 
paradise, and its sister wheels— particularly 
the one at the plush Dunes Hotel— pile up the 
greenbacks that make the one-time oasis the 
prime attraction in the U.S.A. The tycoons who 
run Vegas shudder to think what might happen 
if the roulette wheel ever braked to a halt. Yet 


that’s just what happened recently at the Dunes 



and — to their gratification — it proved more of a 
boon to the establishment than a catastrophe. 
The reason the grooved disc was stopped in 
mid-revolution was that there were no players 
plunking down their shekels on its ball-bounc- 
ing whim. And the reason the players had de- 
serted the wheel was the spectacular show the 
Dunes was offering in its fabulous night club. 
Headlining Tempest Storm, the lavish produc- 




deserted the gaming room to view the fabu- 
lous spectacle. At first the proprietors found 
the stilled dice cubes and undealt cards de- 
pressing, but later — after word had spread of 
the wondrous performance and attracted scores 
of additional guests-they looked forward to the 
nightly pause in roulette and other games of 
chance as the best publicity break they ever 
had. And they found that once the last shapely 
chorine had retreated behind the final curtain, 
the gambling-minded flocked back to the rou- 
lette wheel in far greater numbers than before. 
The excitement of the show carried over to the 
excitement of the games of chance and, oh, how 
the money flowed— and is still flowing— into the 
till. It isn’t just the additional take that glad- 
dens the hearts of the men who run the Dunes, 
though. The money is nice of course, but what 
really gives them a glow is the knowledge that 
they’ve produced one of the sprightliest shows 
to grace Vegas — or any place else — in many a 
year. It’s something to be proud of, all right- 
putting on the fabulous show that stops rou- 
lette in the city where the wheel is king. • 







When a man's far from home, who's to say how he should greet temptation? 
When his passionate wife's all alone, who's to say how she should cope with desire? 
When they face their guilty secrets, who's to judge them but themselves? 



*V[0P4r 


22 


$Mr 



FICTION 


T HE passengers crowded against 
the starboard rail as the liner 
slowly glided into New York Harbor. 
They oohed and ahed at the beauty 
of the skyline. Their voices grew 
husky as they pointed out the Statue 
of Liberty to one another. They 
strained their eyes to pick out fa- 
miliar faces in the crowd on the 
dock. 

Norman Dalton felt the press of 
the people behind him as they push- 
ed and shoved to try to see around 
his broad shoulders and over the top 
of his head, which was six feet, two 
inches above the deck. He stood 
composedly, a deeply suntanned, 
even-featured, lithe-muscled, out- 
doorsy young man. But inwardly he 
wasn’t calm at all. Excitement was 
racing through his veins at the 
thought of seeing Susan again. 

Three years was too long to be 
away from a wife as pink and 
white and deliciously curved as Su- 
san. Three years in Egypt, Turkey, 
Crete, Iran; interesting years, ad- 
venturous years, but too long. Much 
too long, even for an archeologist. 

Not that Norman Dalton was most 
people’s conception of a typical arche- 
ologist. He wasn’t near-sighted and 
professorial and stodgy. He wasn’t 
absent-minded and monotone-voiced 
and pedantic. He wasn’t wrapped up 
in yesterday’s civilizations to the ex- 
clusion of the pleasures found in the 
present. He was as an alert, healthy 
young man of 29 years with normal 
appetites. And, oh, it would be good 
to feel his arms around Susan again! 

His reverie was interrupted by a 
set of long-nailed, unmistakably 
feminine fingers running up the back 
of his neck and entangling them- 
selves in his curly, jet-black hair. 

“Hi, Ruthie,” he said without turn- 
ing around. 

The young woman attached to the 
fingers was everything that is meant 
by the word ‘alluring.’ She was slim, 
long-legged, full-breasted and had 
shiny auburn hair, long-lashed, in- 
sinuating eyes and the moist, pout- 
ing mouth of a Circe., The way she 
dressed, the way she carried her- 
self, everything about her was chic. 
“Hi, Norm,” she answered. 

“We’ll be alongside in another 


kRBIN 


half-hour,” Norman said, indicating 
the dock. 

“And then goodbye,” she saicl 
lightly. 

“And then goodbye.” 

“No complications,” he repeated 
firmly. 

"C’est la vie.” She smiled a little 
sadly. 

“C’est la vie.” 

Then they were silent as the 
crowd pressed around. 

That, Norman was thinking, was 
the trouble with Ruth. She felt duty- 
bound to play every scene to the 
dramatic hilt. They’d had their ship- 
board fling — some ten days of it — 
and she had to build it up into some 
all-consuming passion and then 
knock herself out playing the ‘Tll- 
be-brave-I-won’t-make-a-fuss” part. 
She was old enough — and certainly 
experienced enough — to know bet- 
ter. 

Still, he mused, it had been fun; an 
amatory adventure he wouldn’t have 
missed for the world. Those times 
when the two of them had huddled 
together in her stateroom — or his — 
giggling like children at the thought 
of her husband earnestly playing 
bridge two decks above them. My, he 
thought wryly, that man had cer- 
tainly liked his bridge. 

He supposed he should have felt 
guilty about cuckholding him, but 
his conscience about such things 
seemed to have vanished over the 
past three years. During that time 
he’d found, somewhat to his surprise, 
that women were necessary to him. 
He’d determined, after a bit of trial 
and error, that married women were 
by far the most practical with which 
to dally. They were more experienced 
and therefore more enjoyable. They 
made less demands on his time and, 
since they rarely wanted to be seen 
in public with him, put less of a strain 
on his purse. They were more apt to 
take things casually, to accept the 
end of an affair philosophically, than 
their single sisters. 

Of course, there were drawbacks 
to a romance with another man's 
wife. There was always the chance 
of being caught by an irate husband. 
There was the threat of violence hov- 
ering in the background. There were 


sometimes guilt feelings on the part 
of the woman; feelings which she 
might insist he share. 

On the whole, though, he had lived 
a full, varied and well-oriented sex 
life for the past three years. He had 
sampled the charms of women in 
many of the countries of the near- 
East. He remembered his paramours 
fondly. 

There had been the Countess Gret- 
chen in Istanbul, plump and flaxen- 
haired and knowing in the ways of 
love. There had been Maria, the wife 
of a diamond merchant in Cairo, a 
wiry, intense Eurasian girl who was 
almost too passionate. There had been 
Shasha, a veiled Arabian with skin 
like velvet who had sent him scurry- 
ing under the bed night after night 
with the warning that she heard the 
footsteps of her husband. The hus- 
band never came, but ever after, no 
matter who the woman, Norman had 
found himself listening for footsteps 
at the damnedest, most inconvenient 
times. 

There had been others too, but all 
that was over now. Soon he would be 
holding Susan in his arms and, de- 
spite his casual infidelities, Susan was 
the only woman for him. She was a 
good girl, pure and sweet and loyal. 
She was an innocent girl; a one-man 
girl and he was exceedingly lucky to 
be that man. 

He was lucky because beneath the 
sweetness, the purity, the innocence, 
burned a lustful fire for him alone. He 
had kindled that fire but a few times 
before he’d gone abroad. Their hon- 
eymoon had been cut short by the 
demands of the institution which en- 
dowed the expedition of which Nor- 
man had been a member. And, he 
reflected, he’d been too young, too 
callow, too unseasoned to make the 
most of Susan’s passion in those days. 
But, he’d learned during the past 
three years and he’d apply that 
knowledge. He knew instinctively 
that it would be like it had been with 
no other woman. 

His peering eyes probed the dock 
in anticipation. And suddenly, there 
she was! There was Susan, standing 
on tiptoe, wearing something light 
and summery and all-American girl- 
ish, yet Continued on next page 


23 



RETURN TO PASSION continued 


subtly sexy. She’d seen him too and 
was waving a handkerchief. Her long, 
golden hair was rippling in the wind 
and her body was taut with excite- 
ment. He sighed happily. She was so 
young, so pure, so desirable. And she 
was all his . . . 

On the dock, Susan’s excitement 
and yearning matched his own. At 
last Norman, her Norman, had come 
back to her. At last the lover and hus- 
band who’d loosed the forces of pas- 
sion within her had come back. Once 
again she’d know the oneness of being 
with Norman. 

She too had her memories of the all 
too brief time they’d spent together. 
It had been a time of awakening for 
her. She’d never known sex was like 
that; never known a man could elicit 
such responses as Norman had. Yet, 
she knew now, that Norman had had 
his rough spots. In reality, he’d been 
an inexperienced lover, rousing, but 
rough around the edges. 

Well, she’d smooth out those edges. 
It would be fun turning his youthful 
lovemaking into the full-bodied, 
knowing sexuality of a mature man. 
She knew the potential was there. 
She knew their early marital rela- 
tions had been but a promise of bet- 
ter things to come. She knew it now, 
even if she hadn’t been aware of it 
at the time. 

She remembered how heartbroken 
she’d felt when he’d had to leave so 
abruptly, just when they were really 
discovering each other. She remem- 
bered how three years without Nor- 
man, three years without the fulfill- 
ment of the desire he’d aroused, had 
stretched before her like an eternity. 
How, she’d asked herself then, would 
she be able to survive without the sex 
life he’d initiated? 

But, she’d found an answer. She’d 
found it first with Tom, a friend of 
Norman’s who’d set out to see that 
she didn’t grieve his absence too 
acutely — and seduced her in the proc- 
ess. She’d cried with remorse all the 
next day, but Tom had come around 
to assuage her guilt that evening and 
his suavity had dried her tears. 

She’d soon grown tired of that 
suavity though, and the sameness of 
Tom’s technique bored her. With 
vows to turn over a new leaf, she 
sent him packing. But, under the leaf, 


she’d found yet another lover, Jerry. 

Jerry was a muscle-boy, narcissis- 
tic to an extreme and his very pre- 
occupation with self-satisfaction had 
given Susan’s affair with him a maso- 
chistic kind of fillip that was some- 
thing new in her experience. But she 
was far too normal to enjoy that kind 
of emotion for long. Jerry followed 
Tom along the road leading beyond 
the perimiter of her life. 

Arnold had been next and really 
the first of the men who’d taught her 
how to enjoy sex — excepting Nor- 
man, of course. There was only one 
trouble with Arnold — and it was a 
failing which also seemed to affect 
the lovers who followed him. He — 
and they — were always worrying 
about her husband coming home un- 
expectedly. 

"What if your husband discovers 
us?” they’d ask nervously. 

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about 
him,” she’d merrily reassure them. 
“My husband’s overseas.” 

“My husband’s overseas . . .” How 
many times had those words passed 
her lips in the past three years? And 
now she would never have to say 
them again. Norman was home. And 
with her subtle coaching, Norman 
would be enough man for her forever 
more. 

She rushed forward as he came 
down the gangplank. Then she was in 
his arms and her body was on fire for 
him. All the business of going through 
customs, of finding a taxicab, of drop- 
ping their luggage at a hotel and go- 
ing out to eat — all those wasted hours 
she went through in a fog, her mind 
focused on that moment when they 
would at last be alone, in their hotel 
room, united in the embrace of Eros. 

It was the same for Norman. 

At last the moment came, ecstatic, 
but all too fleeting, a rapturous whis- 
per of the lifetime of lovemaking 
which lay before them. Then they 
lay side by side, smoking cigarettes 
and chattering as though to make up 
for their three-year separation, and 
all the time waiting for the renewal 
of desire. 

They had not long to wait and the 
second time was sweeter and more 
fulfilling than the first. It was an 
experience such as neither of them 
had ever known before. 


And Norman thought to himself 
that his three years of infidelity had 
already added a tang to his lovemak- 
ing with Susan. It was really amaz- 
ing that she, who was so inexperi- 
enced in the realm of sex, should 
reach such heights with him. Really, 
he thought, it was a tribute to his 
prowess and know-how as a lover. 

Susan too was pondering the joy 
which was theirs. After all’s been 
said and done, she reflected, it’s really 
the woman who sets the pitch of pas- 
sion. These years of experience with 
different men had taught her just 
how and when to scale the pinnacle 
of ecstasy. And best of all she’d been 
able to take Norman with her. 

Finally, each mutually secure in a 
feeling of condescension towards the 
other, they dozed off. It was some 
hours later that Norman’s slumber 
was disturbed by the sound of foot- 
steps in the corridor outside the room. 

Under the best of circumstances, 
Norman was a slow waker, the kind 
that walks around in a daze until 
after he’s had his morning coffee and 
cigarette. And, this wasn’t morning. 
The night outside the window was 
still black. Also, Norman was ex- 
hausted. 

In his half-awake state, a familiar 
panic fluttered in his stomach at the 
sound of the footsteps. He had not yet 
oriented himself with his surround- 
ings, or perhaps he might not have 
spoken. But, speak he did. 

He nudged Susan in the ribs with 
his elbow and in a hoarse whisper 
said: “Wake up! It’s your husband!” 

Yanked so rudely into a semi-con- 
scious state, Susan’s reply was auto- 
matic: “It can’t be,” she purred 
drowsily. “My husband’s overseas.” 

The footsteps receded down the 
corridor and suddenly they were 
both wide-awake. One of them — 
neither was ever quite sure which — 
switched on the lamp. Their eyes met 
in stunned comprehension. Their 
gazes riveted together, each search- 
ing the others eyes, each finding the 
suspicion confirmed there. 

And then they lowered their eyes. 
One of them switched off the lamp 
and they went back to sleep. When 
they awoke, it would be with a new 
knowledge; a knowledge that idylls, 
like idols, often have clay feet. • 


24 




For some net profit, Stephanie 
dons tights to give viewers 
added zest. She's a top pinup 
poser on Coast, also works 
as a stocking model. Hose 
makers (not the garden variety) 
all want her legs in their 
business. Blame them? 




T HROUGH the years, the emphasis on different areas of a lovely lassie’s anatomy has shifted north, 
south, east and west. But those old standbys that made beauties like Betty Grable so popular with 
G.I.’s are still very much in evidence. We’re referring, of course, to a glamorus pair of legs, such as 
those sported by Stephanie Benson here. A well-turned ankle, a curvy knee, and so forth can win a 
fella’s heart where all else might fail. But he’s gotta see ’em first. That’s why our blonde and bouncy 
Benson is a firm believer in showmanship. She feels that if a girl is well-endowed, why not share the 
wealth? With that end in mind, she decided to become a pinup model. The results can be duly noted 
(if Duly is in the audience) in the scenes on these pages. Not content to rest on her laurels, Stephanie 
also shows off her luscious limbs in the flesh, as a stocking model for leading nylon manufacturers. All 
this legwork keeps her very busy, as you might imagine, but she still finds time for her favorite sport. 
What is it? Why, hiking, of course. When it comes to glamor, here’s a gal with plenty of leg to stand on. • 


27 




1 NMITffl PEOPLE eras 


T HE AUTOMATIC clock-radio blasted me out of my 
dream world. "Succulent Mother Paula’s Deviled 
Crabs combine tanginess with nutrition . . the an- 
nouncer’s voice screamed and the beautiful blonde in my 
arms was once again just a pillow. I groped for the but- 
ton which would silence that damnably cheerful voice. 
I pushed the button. The voice kept yammering. 

Desperately, I twisted a knob. “A Breakfast of 
Crunchies, the only cereal shot from a jet turbine, is 
your insurance of regularity . . insisted another voice. 
This one had an authoritative medical twang that com- 
pletely destroyed all hope of sleep. 

I pushed the button that was supposed to turn off the 
clock-radio again. “And here’s Uncle Ethelbert to tell all 
you kiddies why Ratsketeers have to drink Vita-Gurgle 
if they want to grow up heal — ” I didn’t care if they 
never grew up. I pushed the “off” button again. No re- 
sults. Finally, unable to kill the damn thing, I fled to the 
bathroom. 

I soaked my commercial-beset head in cold water. 
Then, not quite dry, I plugged in my electric razor. One 
hundred and ten volts of electricity coursed through 
my body. I picked myself up off the tiled floor and went 
in to make myself some breakfast. 

The juice squeezer squashed the tip of my pinky to 
an interesting shade of purple pulp. The electric perco- 
lator spewed forth an ooze of thick tar into my coffee 
cup. The pop-up toaster popped up when I wasn’t look- 
ing and tossed a charcoal-like slice of toast onto the floor. 

I dumped breakfast in the garbage pail and went out 
to my car. I pressed down on the accelerator. The car 
wouldn’t start. I pressed down on it again. It still would- 
n’t start. I pressed down on it a third time — and smashed 
halfway through the back wall of the garage. 

Aw, come on now, you’re probably saying to yourself. 
No one man could have that much trouble with gadgets. 
The hell you say! 

I can. And I do. Every day of my life! 

I could go on describing the successful war the ogres 
of our mechanized age have been waging against me for 
pages and pages. Take the electric blanket that went 
berserk one cold night and tried to stew my kidneys 
while I was sleeping. Or consider the toilet that got even 
with me for flushing it too hard by deluging me with 
offal. And how about all those candy and soda vending 
machines and pay telephones that swallow my coins like 
freeloaders at a cocktail party and never give anything 
in return? 


I used to wonder about my difficulties with thinga- 
majigs. But I arrived at two important conclusions and 
now I wonder no more. 

Firstly I realized that I alone was not being singled 
out as a victim for mechanized mayhem. I learned that 
other people were also taking a beating from the wheels 
and cogs which run our world. I even found a few who 
were as downtrodden by gadgets as I. 

The second conclusion I came to was most important — 
and it’s one which most people simply refuse to believe. 
This is a shame, for it represents the crux of the struggle 
between men and machines. It is that machines are alive! 

They live! They think! They plot! And the master 
plan behind their malevolent hijinks is aimed at taking 
the world away from us. Frankenstein’s monster was a 
benevolent tot compared to these well-oiled schemers. 

If you doubt their reasoning power, let me introduce 
you to a few Mechanos that I have known personally. 
Very personally. 

The first is a washing machine that shared my kitchen 
with me for ten years. During that time I found it almost 
human — nay, super-human! When it was first installed, 
it was attached by a hose to a drain from the sink. This 
arrangement didn’t suit it. At first it merely gurgled 
and frothed by way of complaint, but finally it took 
action. It flipped its lid and disgorged oceans of sudsy 
water onto the linoleum. As I ran to pull its plug out, I 
skidded across the floor and landed with a spine-jolting 
thud. Angrily, I kicked the side of the machine. 

I never should have done that. For the next ten years 
it devoted itself to getting even with me. It snapped its 
agitator at me whenever I was foolish enough to grope 
into its innards. It deliberately mangled my shirts and 
tore holes in my socks. And ultimately, in gear-grinding 
triumph, it destroyed the entire plumbing system of 
my house. 

Of course in doing so, it burned out its motor and 
also destroyed itself. But suicide is the greatest weapon 
machines have against us. Their willingness to commit 
hari-kari is the reason why eventually they will 
conquer us. 

I knew a vacuum cleaner like that once. Self -castiga- 
tion was the theme of its short life; self-destruction its 
one aim; gluttony its method. Voraciously it would con- 
sume buttons and cocktail mixer tops and other indi- 
gestible materials. Stubbornly it would force down 
nails and the cords from lamps and smashed electric 
light bulbs. In the end (I’ve no doubt Continued p. 66 


BY TED MARK 


They burn you, shock you and snap their gears at you. And some day, 
you can be certain, the gadgets 'II get you if you don't watch outl 


29 




TF YOU’RE anything like us, those hours be- 
X tween Sunday brunch and the time the eve- 
ning television shows start are a period reserved 
for one of life’s greatest pleasures, the fine art 
of relaxation. Now this can take many forms, 
but the finest way we know of spending that 
time is with a lovely lass named Julie Case. 
We’re glad to be able to share this pleasure 
with you, ’cause Julie’s kindly invited us to pay 
a visit to her home in the Belvedere suburb of 
San Francisco. All week long she acts as chief 
steno and gal friday for a trio of young legal 
whizs in the city, and Saturday’s usually caught 
up with dating one or two of her many ad- 
mirers. But Sunday is set aside for the simpler 
joys of living. 

The Sunday papers read and the brunch 
dishes washed and dried, Julie always tries to 
get in a few hours of fun in the sun on her 
patio. With that traffic-stopping Case shape, 
you’d naturally expect the male neighbors to 
take a more than routine interest in her sun- 
bathing. A quick check of local stores, in fact, 
shows that sales of binoculars and telescopes 
have taken a sharp rise ever since Julie moved 
in. Can’t say that we blame the guys, either. We 
brought our camera along and recorded the 
scene for posterity. Julie’s not new to the pos- 
ing game, though. She’s much in demand with 
fotogs, but likes her legal work and hasn’t 
much time for camera sessions. When they 
come, the results are pictures of rare beauty. 

Julie has a roommate, name of Tadzio. He’s a 
Maltese poodle, an old fella of six months. After 
the sun soaking session, she attends to this 
gentleman’s grooming, and the Case charm is 
so much in evidence that Continued p. 32 




30 



a, Suindciy Afternoon 




Sunday is traditionally known as a time for rest and relaxation, a respite 
from the cares and travail of the week. And what better way to pass a delightful 
afternoon than with captivating Julie Case? Join us now as we pay a social 
call on this curvy charmer, who makes every Sunday a guaranteed fun-day. 






Her pet Maltese poodle, Tadzio 
gets his weekly bath. Julie named 
the pooch after a character in 
the story "Death in Venice" by her 
favorite writer, Thomas Mann. 


I 

I 




you’ll hear nary a whimper from the lucky canine as he’s dunked 
and dried. Oh, it’s a dog’s life, sure enough. 

Now comes the part of the afternoon that Julie likes best. She 
hops into her red Thunderbird and zips over to nearby Golden Gate 
Beach, to catch the remaining rays of Ol’ Sol and frolic in the clear 
blue Pacific surf. The swimming isn’t so hard to get, but trying to 
acquire a tan while a bunch of beauty-loving beachcombers hover 
over your blanket can be mighty exasperating. If there’s time, 
Julie tries to get in some water skiing, which is fast becoming her 
favorite sport. And you’ll always find her portable radio tuned to 
the Giant game of the day, too. 

Back home again, with only a few minutes left of a lovely Sun- 
day afternoon, our curvaceous Miss Case turns to her library for 
company. She’s an avid reader, and digests everything from James 
Joyce to Agatha Christie. In the back of her mind, scheduled for 
some distant day when the affairs of business and pleasure are 
not so pressing, is a plan for a novel of her own, something along 
the lines of John Dos Passos’ “U.S.A.” trilogy, with the leading 
character a career gal not unlike herself. 

You can't spend any time at all with Julie Case without realizing 
that here is a girl of rare qualities. And Sunday is a fine time to 
sit back and reflect on her many attractions. We’re sure you’ll 
agree, now, as to why we picked her for our cover. • 



!« 






The end of a perfect afternoon comes with a trip to nearby 
Golden Gate Beach for a quick dip and some more sunning of 
that fabulous Case chassis. The magic numbers are 37-23-36. 





i HE WAS a summer-stock actress. I was a writer on the local newspaper. I sent a note 
• backstage at the end of the show saying I’d like to meet her. 

She came out twenty minutes later, wearing blue jeans; her flaming red hair pulled 
back in a pony tail. “Hi. Like the show?” 

I nodded. The show wasn’t the only thing I’d liked. “Can I buy you a drink?” 

“I’ll have to change my clothes.” 

“Okay.” 

She disappeared into the broken-down hotel across from the theatre, and I 
waited another twenty minutes. It was worth it. 

She came towards me, wearing a tight green cotton dress, her well-rounded 
thighs and breasts moving softly, sensuously beneath it. Her hair reached 
her shoulders, a copper frame for white skin and green eyes. 

“Hi again.” She smiled. 

We got into my car; a ’56 Chevy convertible. 

“Hot night,” I commented, for lack of a more constructive approach. 
She smiled, resting her head lazily against the back of the seat. 
“I don’t care. The heat keeps reminding me that it’s summer." 

We turned onto the highway. “What’s so special 
about summer?” 

“It’s temporary and forever.” She sighed. 

/ “Huh?” 

yjtd “There’s no tomorrow. Continued on next page 



DOUBLE STANDARD continued 


The green and the heat and all the 
beautiful things that are a part of 
summer die with summer. Then it’s 
gone, and the feeling’s never the 
same next time. Do you know what 
I mean?” 

“Nope. To me, the end of summer 
means I’m three months older and I 
gotta get out the snow tires.” 

She laughed. “You’re not very 
romantic.” 

I grinned. “How would you 
know?” 

She swiveled around on her left 
hip, leaning her elbow over the back 
of the seat. “Maybe I should have 
said poetic.” 

“I’m poetic — 

'Little Willie, fond of gore 

Nailed his sister to the door — ’ ” 

She slumped back into her former 
position. “Forget I said anything. Got 
a cigarette?” 

“Sure.” I handed her one, pulling 
into the parking space outside the 
Lizard, a local roadhouse frequented 
by the poor-in-pocket. 

She glanced at the red neon sign. 
“I should have worn my jeans.” 

I shrugged my shoulders. “That’s 
what you get for dating a low class, 
underpaid newspaper hack.” 

She laughed and climbed out of 
the car. “I thought writers were 
artists— proud of their work.” 

“Not this writer.” 

We found a table near the back 
and sat down. I slouched into a com- 
fortable position. “What’ll you 
have?” 

“Scotch and soda.” 

I ordered a beer for myself. “Tell 
me about your career.” 

She did. Standard stuff. A few 
TV bits, one small part in a Broad- 
way show that closed after seven per- 
formances and half a dozen breaks 
she’d almost gotten. Her voice was 
like honey — thick and sweet. 

We started back to the hotel at 
twelve. I’d just about decided not to 
make a pass — yet — when she moved 
closer to me on the car seat. Her 
line of patter stayed the same, but 
those lazy green eyes met mine with 
a challenge. 

One advantage of summer stock 
in Small Town U.S.A. is that there 
is usually a woods near the theatre. 
This, theatre was no exception. 


I pulled off the main drag, and 
parked under a tall, romantic-type 
tree. She stretched, her body strain- 
ing its green cotton covering. 

I moved closer, taking her in my 
arms. Her lips were warm and soft 
— the kind I used to dream about 
when I was overseas. 

My hands moved up her back, 
searching for the zipper. I found it 
and yanked. She broke away, slam- 
ming her hand against my face, but 
it was too late. The dress fell over 
her shoulders, revealing a trans- 
parent black bra. Fortunately, she 
couldn’t go on fighting me and hold 
the dress up at the same time. Un- 
fortunately, the dress won. 

“You animal,” she cried! “You 
have no sensitivity; no appreciation 
of the ethereal aspects of love!” 

“Huh?” 

“Here we are, surrounded by the 
wonders of summer and nature, and 
all you think about is sex! Take me 
back to the hotel.” 

I did. She stomped in without 
even saying good night. 

I tried to see her every night for 
the rest of that week. No luck. I 
wrote the most magnificent summer 
theatre review the town had ever 
seen and sent her a copy. Still no 
luck. 

Then I decided on a new approach. 
Ethereal love — my new slogan. I 
spent three hours in the library and 
came out of it with one quote; “If 
thou can’st love me, then love my 
love for thee.” I sent it to her with 
half a dozen roses. 

It worked. She condescended to 
see me. 

I took her out. She spent most of 
the night talking about all kinds of 
abstract values which, frankly, I 
just didn’t dig. I nodded agreeably, 
and maintained a solemn, deep ex- 
pression. 

I turned off the road at the same 
spot; playing it by ear this time. 

“When we’re out here under the 
stars like this,” I began, wondering 
what the hell I was talking about, 
“I feel a real rapport." 

“Oh, yes,” she answered fervently. 

I let my arm encircle her shoul- 
ders and she snuggled close and en- 
larged on what I’d said, dredging up 
all sorts of deep meanings I hadn’t 


known were there. She became ex- 
cited as she talked and when she 
paused for breath, I kissed her. 

She kissed back and then kept 
talking, but with a certain excite- 
ment. I guessed that her talk was a 
sex stimulus to her and tested the 
theory. When she didn’t object, my 
hands began caressing her body in 
earnest. 

Congratulating myself, I began 
fumbling at the buttons of her 
blouse. That brought her up short. 
She pushed me away. I stopped try- 
ing immediately and babbled some 
nonsense to cover up. I thought she 
almost looked a little disappointed. 

That night set the pattern for the 
ones which followed. Under the 
stimulus of intellectual chatter, she’d 
let me go so far — but no further. 
Before I knew it, it was the night of 
her last performance, her last night 
in town. It was then or never. 

I picked her up in the lobby after 
the show. The audience was swarm- 
ing around the theatre. 

“I’m not going out with you to- 
night,” she announced. “I have an- 
other date.” 

I was startled. “What’s the mat- 
ter? Aren’t I ethereal enough for 
you?” 

“That’s the trouble,” she said. 
“Some sensitivity is nice, but a girl 
expects a man to act like a man.” 

“Huh!” 

“She likes to think she’s irresist- 
ible — that a man can’t stop.” 

“But you stopped me — ’’ 

“I wanted to be sure you respected 
me enough to stop.” 

“What the hell — ” But I was talk- 
ing to her back. She was already 
making her way through the crowd. 
I stood there stunned, telling myself 
that all women were nuts. When my 
eyes refocused, they were aimed at 
a blonde standing nearby. She was 
all curves and theatrical appeal. 

“Only a real person with real 
values can function in the theatre,” 
she was saying to somebody. 

I recognized her as the ingenue 
of the play starting the next night. 
I moved closer, fascinated by the 
rapid rise and fall of her blouse as 
she talked. Somewhere, in the back 
of my head, a small voice was whis- 
pering, here we go again. • 


36 



STATUESQUE 

If you don't think statues come to life, you can 
be proved wrong— and here's the story to do it! 


There are those that insist it's 
glamor model Jean Bradley chucking the 
stony old gentleman under the chin, but 
the fellow who really knows claims she's 
actually a statue of an ancient Greek 
goddess of love come to eye-filling life. 




W ELL SIR, I’m on’y the watchman hereabouts, 
an’ nobody sets much store by what I’m a 
sayin’, but if you be wantin’ to lend an ear. I’ll tell 
you a tale the likes o’ which you never did hear. 
Jus’ pass the bottle, son, an’ I’ll get on with it. Ahh! 
Twas on just such a night as this an’ I’m a-settin’ 
in the warehouse with all the dummies — all the 
nekkid bodies without heads and heads without 
bodies and it’s peaceful and quiet, just like it is 
now. Well sir, I make my rounds like always and 
I come up to this room where the new statue we 
just got is supposed to be — a genuine old Greek 
figure, full-size of a woman, a real beautiful woman 
— and I’ll be hornswaggled if the dang thing ain’t 
gone. I looked all about, but that priceless piece 
o’ art is gone. Jus’ another wee swig there, boy. 
Thankee. Well, I was just gettin’ set to turn in an 
alarm, when I spy somethin’ movin’ a-hind one o’ 
them alcove curtains. I think sure it’s thieves, but I 
ain’t a-feared. I pull out ol’ Betsy here an’ push 
aside that curtain bold as you like. Another? Don’t 
min’ if 1 do. ’Scuse me. ’At’s what comes o’ eatin’ 
at that one-arm joint ’cross the street. Where was I? 
Oh, yes. Well, when I peer a-hind that curtain, 
you coulda bowled me over with a feather. There’s 
that missin’ statue all right, but it ain’t a statue no 
more. It’s a livin’, breathin’, woman! An’ what a 
woman! If’n she wasn’t a statue to begin with, you’d 
say she was statuesque. What I mean, she wasn’t 
just well-made, she was absolutely sculpted! 
Ev’rythin’ ’bout her was nigh perfect. She was 
a-settin’ on the floor a-talkin’ to a bust o’ some ol’ 
geezer that looked mighty wise. Seemed like she 
was a-askin’ him for advice an’ though I couldn’t 
see as how he moved his stone lips nor could I hear 
him say nothin’, she acted like as if he was tellin’ 
her somethin. After awhile she smiles at him an’ 
throws on a sorta gown an’ begins dancin’ around 
the place. Jus’ 'nother short one for my rheumatiz, 
if you please. Ahh. Much obliged. Well, like I was 
sayin’, she sorta floats in ’mongst ’nother batch o’ 
statues-clothing dummies they was — an’ sets her- 
self down to talk to them like as if they was human. 
An’, same as with the old geezer head, she sorta 
waits for answers and cocks her head and nods like 
she’s a-gettin’ ’em. She flounces around in that 
sleezy material an’ tries on a string o’ beads an’ 
sings to herself somethin’ like you’d maybe hear on 
a flute. I tell you, ’twas beautiful to behold. What 
happened then? Patience, son, patience. My whistle’s 
a bit dry ’gain. Reckon as how it needs lubricatin’. 
Umm! That’s right good. Well, nothin’ much hap- 
pened. I jus’ watched her awhile an’ drifted off to 
sleep. When I waked up, she was right back where 
she belonged, jus’ a-standin’ there. No, she wasn’t 
human no more. She was a statue again. Stone-cold 
an’ beautiful as ever an’ — what’s that word again? 

— statuesque. Bein’ pretty conscientious, I tol’ the 
owners what I seen, but you know somethin’? 
They didn’t believe me. Tried to claim I musta been 
drinkin’. ’Magine! Me! Why I never touch a drop! 
All the same, you shoulda seen her. She was jus’ 
rightly statuesque! Yep, statuesque! • 


■ 



For a moment there, at the very end, she remained a flesh-and-blood beauty, vibrant and alive, 
pulsating with allure among her inanimate companions. And then, if you credit our story, she became one 
of them. If you doubt the tale, just think of the enchanting dreams that you've been missing. 


39 




It isn't all banana peels and itching powder when 
the jokesters whip up pranks for the memory. 


T HE LOCAL Lover’s Lane was a large, secluded 
clearing in the center of the woods that was reached 
by an old dirt road. Darkened cars dotted the area and 
from their confines came subdued squeals mingling with 
the more liquid sounds of love. A pre-war Chevy sedan 
eased down the road, cutting its lights as it came into 
the clearing and stopped. Unnoticed by its occupants 
was the car which followed it and glided to a halt at 
the entrance to the clearing. 

After quite awhile, the side door of the Chevy opened 
and a sailor got out. A girl with smudged lipstick, her 
clothing in some disarray, followed him. His hand rest- 
ing familiarly on her right buttock, he helped her into 
the back of the car. 

For perhaps thirty seconds, everything was silent. 
Then, suddenly, the horn of the Chevy began blaring 
with the rhythmic cadence of a Sousa march: HONK- 
Honk! HONK-Honk! HONK! HONK! HONK! 

All over the lot headlights began going on. One hot- 
rodder sought the cause of the disturbance with his 
searchlight. He focused on the offending car just as 
the sailor and the girl were exiting in embarrassment 
from the back. Laughs and catcalls went up from all 
over the lot. 

But nobody laughed harder than the occupants of the 
car which had been following the Chevy. Only they 
knew that the disturbance had been caused by tying 
a length of copper wire from the horn under the hood 
to the springs in the back of the car in such a way that 
anything more than ordinary activity in the rear of the 
vehicle would set the horn off. 

They’d gimmicked the car some hours before, while 
at a party with the sailor and his girl. They’d had to 
miss most of the party to do it, but when practical 
jokers are determined, almost nothing can deter them. 
They considered their time well-spent, for the gag went 
off perfectly. 

It was a lulu. It had all the elements of the perfect 
practical joke. It took its victims by surprise. It had 
the soupcon of malice which is always present in the 
best of such pranks. And it was predicated on sex. 

Sex is always a good atmosphere for the practical 
joke. One of the classic gags of all times, involving 
England’s first Duke of Buckingham, also grew from a 
sex situation. 

The Duke, known to intimates as “Steeniebucks,” was 
probably the most ambitious roue of his time. Count- 
esses, duchesses and princesses flocked to his boudoir 
like jewel thieves to a Monaco wedding. But it was 
when he went abroad that his reputation reached its 
peak. 

No less a personage than the Queen of France suc- 
cumbed to Steeniebucks’ amorous charm. This, under- 
standably, gave him a swelled head. He set out to seduce 
the crowned female heads of Europe and the next on his 
list was the Queen of Spain. 

At first his endeavors with Continued on next page 


BV HARRY GREGORY 


41 



HANDBOOK FOR PRACTICAL JOKERS continued 


the dark Spanish beauty were fruit- 
less. She seemed cool, to say the 
least, to his suggestions of amour. 
But Steeniebucks was nothing if 
not persistent. 

Evidently his persistence paid off, 
for the Queen finally consented to 
an assignation with him at a remote 
country inn. The Duke was elated. 
First the Queen of France and now 
the Queen of Spain. Surely he was 
the most irresistible of men. 

When he entered the room at the 
inn, it was pitch-black. He began to 
complain that there were no can- 
dles, but a voice from the bed 
begged him not to waste precious 
moments on such trivialities. Steenie 
wasted no time whatsoever. Consci- 
ous that this was no less than Eng- 
land seducing Spain, he performed 
to the best of his considerable 
ability. 

Later he went downstairs to the 
innkeeper for some candles. Light- 
ing one, he re-entered the room and 
walked to the side of the bed. Lying 
there was the ugliest, most scabrous, 
obviously venereal old crone he had 
ever seen in his life! 

The Duke had learned that a large 
sexual appetite can leave a man 
open to being a prize patsy in 
the realm of practical jokes. It was 
a lesson which was also brought 
home to a wealthy Long Island man 
recently. 

This playboy is known among his 
society friends for his instant libido. 
To see a pretty girl is to set the 
wheels in motion for him. He is 
quick to action and slow to regret. 

But on one occasion, when his 
friends decided to teach him a les- 
son, his regrets were almost as 
instantaneous as his action. Out 
yachting with some male acquain- 
tances one day, he spied an ap- 
proaching boat which was seeming- 
ly loaded to the gunwhales with 
half-clad females. When they were 
within hailing distance, the girls 
began yelling to him to join them. 

The structure of the two boats 
made it impossible to cross directly 
from one to the other. The pas- 
sionate man of action immediately 
lowered a dinghy single-handedly 
and began rowing for the chippie- 
loaded craft. 


However, no sooner had he bent to 
the oars than the cargo of feminine 
pulchritude was steaming off in one 
direction and his own yacht was 
racing away in the other. Floating 
back over the water from both was 
hearty laughter at his predicament. 
A couple of hours later, his friends 
returned to pick him up. 

It’s easy to see that this kind of 
practical joke is expensive. The men 
who pulled it had to pay for the 
girls’ time and for hiring the boat 
and the total cost was perhaps 
something more than the gag was 
worth. 

Still, it should be remembered that 
to men of this income group, the 
cash outlay was comparable to that 
spent by the average man to pull a 
prank with itching powder or a 
mechanical mouse. Most practical 
jokes involve some cost to their 
perpetrators, and the more money 
a man has the more he’s likely to 
be willing to spend for a gag. 

Keeping this in mind, it’s easier 
to understand the socialite who went 
to considerable expense to install a 
“hangover room” in his Connecticut 
mansion. Whenever one of his guests 
imbibed to freely, this fellow would 
have him carted off to the “hangover 
room” to sleep it off. 

The conception of the room is sim- 
ple enough. Everything in it is up- 
side down. Thus a victim of demon 
rum would wake from his alcoholic 
coma to find himself lying on the 
ceiling halfway between one wall 
and the chandelier. Seemingly look- 
ing down at the floor, he would see 
a chair, a table, a sofa and some 
ashtrays — all upside down. The door 
opposite him would have a transom 
almost flush with the ceiling on 
which he was reposing. 

The befuddled, possibly panic- 
stricken victim has three choices. 
He can try crawling down the near 
wall. He can make for the transom 
and try to hoist himself through it. 
Or he may make his way to the 
chandelier and cling to it desperately 
until help arrives. 

The “hangover room” is the crea- 
tion of an amateur jokester with 
money to spend. But most dedicated 
practical jokers manage to keep ex- 
penses at a minimum. Thus a fellow 


named Hugh Troy, perhaps the most 
incorrigible practical joker in New 
York, pulled one of his best gags 
for a cash outlay of only 90 cents. 

One election night many years ago 
Hugh bought a mixed batch of 
papers bearing the headline 
“ROOSEVELT ELECTED” and put 
them away to wait for an oppor- 
tune moment. Some years later, on 
New Year’s Eve, he felt the moment 
had come. He handed out the papers 
to guests at a party he was throwing 
and they embarked on a tour of 
the New York subways. It’s easy to 
picture the effect on a New Year’s 
reveler who upon entering a sub- 
way car was greeted by the sight of 
some 20 or 30 people each reading 
a newspaper with this headline. To 
say that he might feel disoriented 
would be putting it mildly. 

On another occasion Hugh and a 
friend were seated on a bench in 
Central Park when a policeman 
came along. Getting to their feet, 
they calmly picked up the bench 
and began walking off with it. The 
cop protested and when they refused 
to put the bench down, he escorted 
them to the station house. Here 
Hugh produced a bill of sale proving 
that the bench was his. He and the 
friend then went back to another 
section of the park and repeated the 
prank. The third time they pulled it, 
the precinct lieutenant personally 
threatened to beat their brains out 
if he ever laid eyes on them again. 

The gag was wearing thin anyway, 
so Hugh desisted. It involved time, 
trouble, and some expense, and it 
raises the question of whether Hugh 
was engaged in some sort of mild 
revenge against the New York Po- 
lice Department. Only Hugh himself 
knows the answer to that, but cer- 
tainly many other practical jokes 
have been prompted by the desire 
for revenge. 

Nothing arouses such a desire so 
much as the resentment a man may 
harbor when he’s fired from a job. 
If he’s ingenious enough, such a 
man may leave a lasting memory. 

There’s one large advertising 
agency on New York’s Madison Ave- 
nue that will never forget the part- 
ing gesture of one disgruntled em- 
ployee. In mid- Continued p. 68 


42 



"It's going to be a business doing pleasure with you." 


43 


Desert 


As Crusoe's dreary life was brightened by those footprints 

in the sand, so this bevy of beauties makes any isle sublime 



Island 

Tlanmates 


What every shipwrecked sailor should have— 
a harem of lovelies like Lisa St. Clair, left, 
and Lydia Jean, above, to keep his mind from 
pondering the cares of the weary world. 


Seaching for water you might come 
across Jo Wesson (right) taking 
a dip, or Kay Nichols decorating a 
cool glade with her torrid torso. 


44 


O NE WAY to test a guy’s taste in 
literature is to ask him what 
three books he would choose to take 
with him were he shipwrecked on a 
desert island. Along these lines, 
we’ve come up with a method of de- 
termining a man’s A.O.O.S. (Aware- 
ness of the Opposite Sex). If you 
happened to find yourself washed up 


on the beach of a lush tropical para- 
dise far from civilization, which of 
the 13 luscious lovelies on these pages 
would you pick for a playmate? 
Would it be sultry Lisa St. Clair, or 
blonde and bouncy Kay Nichols? 
Super-shaped Laurie Shane, or may- 
be the pixyish Sandy Lane? How 
about Susan Blair, Marta Ford, or any 


of the other beauties? It’s tough to 
make a choice, we know. That’s why 
we’re presenting them all to you for 
your selection. What’s that? You 
want all of them? Why, you greedy 
little . . . Come to think of it, who can 
blame you for wanting all of Heaven’s 
blessings right here on earth? We all 
can dream, can’t we? • 


On your desert island, what could be more heartwarming than to pass a few lovely hours with luscious Laurie Shane? 





Desert Island Playmates 


continued 


How to make the most of what you can find is shown by 
Blaze Starr's leopard-skin outfit. And how about seeing someone 
as svelte as Sandy Lane washed up on a stretch of beach? 


Oops! 'Scuse us, Susan Blair. 

We didn't know anybody but us was 
takin' a dip on this beach. 


China Gerard dances for joy on 
discovering there are men on this 
island. We're pretty glad, too. 


A lovely on the rocks on this 
little bit of heaven is the fresh 
radiance of curvy Jean Carroll 



y * 















Last but by no stretch of the 
mind least in our bevy is scintil- 
lating blonde Cynthia Carter. 


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WOULD IT BE 
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HOW IT IS A 
LIBRARIAN 
EARNING 
$30 PER 
WEEK 




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HAPPEN TO BE A VERY GOOD SALESMAN!! 


MANAGES 
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MAINTAIN 

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APARTMENT 
ON PARK AVE.? 
(AND A CHAUFFEUR!) 




...WERE YOU 
BORN? 




WOULD THE GENTLEMEN 
OF THE COURT KINDLY 
PICK UP THEIR 
HARDWARE 
BEFORE 
LEAVING 
THE COURT? 












0/tbi£ 

For out-of-this-world eye appeal, the sultriest Space 
Cadet we know is a luscious lovely named Lynda Scott. 


O PEN letter to the Chief of the U.S. Space Program: 

Knowing how difficult it is to find recruits who are will- 
ing to brave the dangers of the outer reaches, we respectfully 
offer the following solution to your problem— Why not put a 
beautiful girl into each space ship to keep up the morale of 
the crews? For the first Queen of Outer Space, we nominate 
sensational Lynda Scott. Her qualifications? A streamlined 
37-24-36 form, guaranteed to put any rocket jockey in the 
mood for flyin’ high, plus a first-hand knowledge of the latest 
advances in the field of space travel. The first she got from 
Mother Nature, but the latter talent was acquired at her place 
of business. When Lynda’s not busy decorating a piece of sensi- 
tive paper treated with a silver compound (film to you), she 
works as secretary to the Science Editor of one of the major 
wire services. There, she keeps in touch with all that goes on 
at Cape Canaveral, and wherever else those blast-off boys send 
their missiles into the blue. From velocity to trajectory and 
back again, Lynda’s a whiz when it comes to rocketry. 

Come to think of it, sending smashing Scott up in a Vanguard 
or Thor would be pretty much of a waste. We’ll admit that the 
guys who wander way up yonder beyond the stratosphere need 
cheering up, but there are so many more of us here on earth that 
could use her sunny services. Why, just by looking at a few 
pictures of her charming self puts us in the mood for bigger 
and better things. She may be a universal sweetheart, but 
we’d prefer to keep her right nearby, so we can gaze to our 
heart’s content. • 



51 





Bona fide rich man (a) disdains headgear, (b) slouches Poor man's conception of rich man includes (a) stylish fe- 

fashionably, (c) can afford to smile, (d) favors open-collar dora creased just so, (b) unsmiling outlook, (c) button- 

sport shirts, (e| has time to be a hairy-chested athlete, down collar, (d) conservative tie, (e) exclusive fraternity 

(f) is careless about buttons, (g) sometimes loses them, pin, (f) drab vest, (g) Ivy League suit, (h) gold cuff links, 

(h) doesn't care if his shirt hangs out, (i) keeps up on (i) leather-bound first edition of a rare classic, (j) ex- 

the Windsors (j) eschews rings, (k) doesn't give a damn if pensive ring, (k) walking stick, (I) razor-edge trouser 

his pants are creased, (I) his socks are in style, or (m) his crease and (m) highly polished shoes. The genuine rich man 

shoes are shined. Neatness counts— but not among the rich! hardly ever looks like this— but many a poor man does. 


52 



The road to wealth winds through fabulous estates, exclusive clubs and 
plush resorts. The first step on that road is the study of richmanship! 


BY JOHN PORTER 

S EE THAT FELLOW riding by in 
the chauffeured limousine? Re- 
member him? That’s right, he was 
one of the kids on the comer, one 
of the kids without two nickels to 
rub together. Today he’s worth mil- 
lions. 

How’d he do it? He married a 
rich girl, that’s how. And how’d he 
manage that? The answer, friend, 
lies in The Art of Richmanship. 

Richmanship is the knack of ap- 
pearing wealthy when you’re not 
and of convincing people who really 
are rich that you are one of them. 
Only through richmanship can a 
poor man wed a rich girl, or get in 
on the ground floor of a big stock 
deal, or finance his own idea for 
making a million dollars. In short, 
only through richmanship can a poor 
man become rich. 

To successfully practice richman- 
ship, it is necessary to study the 
genuine rich man, the fellow born 
with -a silver spoon in his mouth and 
a diaper-load of gilt-edged securi- 
ties. How does he act? What makes 
him tick? 

The answer to both questions may 
be summed up in a single word: un- 
derstatement. It’s the key to his 
character, the key to richmanship, 
and it works as follows: 

In matters of money — The rich 
man is casual about money. He rare- 
ly talks about it. He never carries 
a great deal on his person. (He does- 
n’t have to; his credit is good wher- 
ever he goes.) He doesn’t wave 
around a bankroll trying to impress 
people. 

As a rule — any waiter or cab 
driver will bear this out — he is not 
a good tipper. If dissatisfied with 
service, he may not tip at all. 

He is loathe to lend money to even 
the best of his friends and looks up- 
on a request for such a loan as being 
in poor taste. On the other hand, he 
is capable of bickering over the price 
of something with the fervor of the 
most experienced peddler in an Arab 
marketplace. He is always determin- 
ed to get his dollar’s worth. 

His attitude about money has been 
conditioned from birth. Far from 
taking the green stuff for granted, 


it is the mark of the rich man that 
he knows the value of his wealth. 
Yet, always, his outward attitude 
must be casual. This attitude is car- 
ried over to — 

His manner of dress — The rich 
man does not wear Ivy League suits 
and button-down collars. He does 
not sport vicuna overcoats. He does 
not favor a Homburg and carry a 
cane. In short, he does not dress ac- 
cording to the popular conception of 
the man who can afford to be well- 
dressed. 

Just because he can afford to, he 
dresses to suit his comfort and a 
near-sloppiness is his hallmark. He 
favors sport jackets and flannel 
slacks (usually uncreased — he does- 
n’t have to impress anybody). He 
goes hatless when he feels like it 
and at other times he is apt to wear 
a beat up old chapeau that he’s 
grown accustomed to through the 
years. His shoes are usually scuffed 
and he likes open-neck shirts. 

In the daytime, while his clothes 
are suited to whatever activity he’s 
engaging in, they aren’t shiny-new, 
nor in the latest style. His riding 
togs are nondescript (fashionable 
riding habits are for Central Park, 
not the wealthy, private estates of 
Long Island). His tennis shirt may 
have a small rip in the armpit. His 
beach jacket is faded. 

However, come evening, his attire 
is usually impeccable. He dresses for 
dinner — even if he’s just dining 
with his family. If there are guests, 
he wears a tuxedo — or possibly tails 
— with the air of a man who is used 
to such formality. He never runs his 
finger around the inside of his collar 
or strains at the confines of his 
starched shirt. 

Whether dressing down or dress- 
ed up, he is at ease in what he 
wears, just as he is at ease — 

With other rich men — The rich 
man is unimpressed by his equals, 
even those who might be considered 
his betters by reason of having more 
money. No matter how well he 
knows them, a certain formality of 
politeness is always maintained with 
men of standing. Also, he is up on 
the latest topics of conversation 
among the rich, something the stu- 
dent richman must learn. 


The conversation of the wealthy 
falls roughly into three categories: 
society; the stock market; and the 
ins and outs of golf, tennis, or polo. 

The first topic, society, does not 
just mean people with whom the 
rich man is personally acquainted, 
but rather includes the luminaries 
of the world of the rich. Thus one 
at all times should be up on the 
whereabouts of the Duke and Duch- 
ess of Windsor and what they’re 
doing, on the latest scandals of high 
society and on the doings of the fami- 
lies of the men one finds oneself with 
(a negative, but important point 
which may keep the novice richman 
from committing a faux pas) . 

The second topic, the stock market, 
is far safer. The genuine rich man 
automatically commits to memory 
the ups and downs of the day’s trad- 
ing. The student must develop this 
knack in order to intelligently dis- 
cuss the market with those in the 
know. (This may prove extremely 
profitable if a fellow’s on his toes.) 

Topic Number Three is a snap 
compared to the first two. All it re- 
quires is the ability to listen. The 
rich man’s face is a polite mask 
when he’s cornered with the story 
of “the longest drive I ever made,” 
or “how my slashing backhand won 
the day,” or the pony that “was like 
greased lightning.” The tyro richman 
doesn’t even have to know anything 
about the sports involved. He just 
has to develop the mask. 

Actually, it’s easy to talk to rich 
men. It’s much more difficult to 
make conversation — 

With rich women — The rich girl 
is the end product of suffragette-ism 
and has the money to make it stick. 
She’s independent to an extreme 
and she makes sure that any man 
she comes in contact with — rich or 
poor — knows it. One must tread on 
eggs when talking to her— especially 
if one is practicing richmanship and 
doesn’t want to be found out. 

Her speech may be soft, cultured, 
polite — and suddenly punctuated by 
the purplest four-letter word. Thus 
she drives home the fact that she is 
an independent spirit. However, 
should a man be uncouth enough to 
use the word first, she will fall back 
on her ( Continued on next page) 


53 


THE ART OF RICHMANSHIP continued . 


femininity in shock and outrage. And 
it will tip her off to the fact that he is 
merely a bogus member of her class. 

She is always on the lookout for 
this anyway. Deep down, she fears 
that any man who is interested in 
her may actually be after her mon- 
ey. That’s one subject that’s tabboo 
with rich women — particularly if 
one is seeking a rich wife. 

There’s no taboo on discussing 
sex, though. This is undoubtedly one 
of the favorite topics of the wealthy 
young woman. The thing to remem- 
ber is that such discussions should 
always be roundabout on the man’s 
part — no matter how frank the girl 
may seem to be — and well-laced 
with highflown innuendos. 

When they are in the mood, rich 
girls can afford to shed their morals. 
However, when that time comes, 
they will let the man know. A pre- 
mature proposition is a sure tip-off 
that a guy is no gentleman. And 
even though she may agree, the man 
has hurt his status as a member of 
high society irreperably. 

Yes, pitfalls mark the course of 
the student richman in his dealings 
with the fair sex. They are as apt 
to give him away as his relations — 

With servants — The rich man has 
had servants around him all his life. 
He is so used to them that he rarely 
sees them as people. This, despite the 
fact that he may ask after their 
health, inquire for their families, or 
ask their advice about household 
matters. 

This blindness does not necessarily 
mark the rich man as a snob. On 
the contrary, it is the servant him- 
self who maintains the distance in 
the relationship. He has nothing but 
contempt for one who would try to 
treat him as an equal. There is no 
greater snob than a valet, a head- 
waiter, or a butler. 

It follows that there is nobody as 
likely as a servant to spot a phoney. 
In the presence of a menial, rich- 
manship is put to its severest test. 

In such a presence, the richman 
should speak as little as possible 
and try to avoid addressing the serv- 
ant directly. He should watch his 
manners, take the host’s lead as to 
which article of cutlery is called 
for, be careful not to overtip if tip- 


ping is in order and never say 
“thank you” for those services which 
should be taken for granted. If, how- 
ever, a slight extra service is in- 
volved, or an additional courtesy 
rendered, a “thank you” is indicated. 

Only by constant association with 
the' rich can one master all the in- 
tricacies of coping with servants. It’s 
the one important bit of background 
one can’t get by — 

Reading the society columns — Ev- 
ery newspaper has one of these col- 
umns, and they’re invariably written 
in a jargon all their own. It is a jar- 
gon readily understood by the genu- 
ine members of society who read the 
columns regularly to keep up with 
the doings of their fellows. But to 
the uninitiated, the language may be 
misleading — or downright Greek. 
The better to understand, let’s look 
at some key words which are con- 
stantly cropping up in these col- 
umns. For instance: 

Mayfair: Actually a fashionable 
residential district comprising part 
of the West End of London, it is 
frequently used by society column- 
ists to describe that which is exclu- 
sive and luxurious. (Example: Mrs. 
H. Stokes-Crankshaw hostessed a 
Mayfair ball at her home in Palm 
Beach.) 

Cottage: $100,000 estate. (Exam- 
ple: The Van Smythes gave a party 
for an intimate group of friends at 
their cottage on Long Island.) 

Intimate group: Five hundred 
people; four hundred of whom they 
never met before, and the other 
hundred being people they loathe. 

Sought after: having snob appeal. 
(Example: The Duke and Duchess 
were the most sought after couple 
by the nouveau riche of Cannes last 
season. 

Glimpsed: caught in the act. (Ex- 
ample: Mr. John Chaser and Mrs. B. 
Cort, whose husband is in Philadel- 
phia on business, were glimpsed 
holding hands at the Harwyn last 
night.) 

Shed: ridding oneself of one’s 
mate. (Example: Having shed his 
eighth wife, Tommy Manville . . .) 

After mastering the lingo of the 
society columnists, the student rich- 
man will come to realize why their 
daily scribblings are basic reading 


for one who would invade the world 
of the wealthy. From them are 
learned the who’s-who and what’s- 
what of society. From them may be 
gleaned the true nature of — 

The "400”— Back in 1888, Ward 
McAllister told a New York Tribune 
reporter that “there are only about 
400 people in fashionable society.” 
To this day, the term is used to de- 
note high society and many people 
think there are still only 400 people 
in that select group. 

It just isn’t so. There are closer to 
40,000 people than 400 in society 
today — and that means bona fide 
members, not including the richmen 
who are not yet rich. It’s easy to see 
that a few fellows practicing The 
Art of Richmanship should be able 
to go unnoticed among so many of 
the genuine article. 

Remember though, going unno- 
ticed means passing as a rich man 
among rich men. It does not mean 
being unknown to them. Any poor 
man can do that. 

But the poor man using richman- 
ship must bring himself to the at- 
tention of those who count. He must 
court invitations to exclusive affairs. 
He must subtly insinuate himself 
into bridge foursomes. He must cul- 
tivate a ready wit and a likeable 
personality so that when the all- 
important guest lists are being 
drawn up, his name will be on them. 

To insure his popularity, he must 
first of all insure his availability. He 
can’t hold a nine-to-five job and ex- 
pect to practice richmanship. The 
wealthy don’t play at regular hours 
and the richman has to suit their 
convenience. 

It may involve some hardship at 
first, but the rewards are great. They 
include summers in Newport and 
winters in Palm Beach, champagne 
breakfasts and steak dinners, Rolls 
Royces and Jaguars. They will gain 
you the respect of the mighty and 
the adulation of the many. And 
when you’re riding down the street, 
sombody’s sure to say — 

See that fellow riding by in the 
chauffeured limousine? Remember 
him? That’s right, he was one of the 
kids on the comer, one of the kids 
without two nickels to rub together. 
Today he’s worth millions! • 


54 





Laurie Amberson 


couldn't have known 


there was magic in 


her bathtub that would 


wish come true. She was 


but not as dazzled as 


Laurie herself casts! 





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O NCE UPON A TIME, way back in the 20th Century 
when all manner of strange and miraculous things 
happened, a glamor princess known as Laurie Amberson 
lived in an enchanted cottage in the fairyland of Miami, 
Florida. Of course, she didn’t know that the cottage was 
enchanted. Nor was she aware that the spell was par- 
ticularly strong in the chamber set aside for bathing. (In 
those days, surrounded by all sorts of magical contriv- 
ances— small amulets that burst into flame at the touch of 
a thumb, bewitched spigots that spouted water at a 
flick of the wrist and curious cabinets that produced 
daemons in one’s living room without so much as an 
incantation — people scoffed at the very idea of sorcery.) 
The idea that the bathtub itself was possessed of the 
power to bring her luck never occurred to Laurie 
as she set about preparing to bathe. “Methinks 
Milady will draw herself a bath,” she murmured to 
herself and filled the tub with warm water. She 
sudsed up a bubble-bath and stepped delicately into 
the frothy concoction. Continued on next page 














“I wish I could get a modeling job,” she thought wistfully as 
she lolled in the tub. “I could sure use the money.” Immediately 
the phone rang. Dripping rainbow bubbles. Milady answered 
it. It was top photographer Bunny Yeager. “Can you pose 
for me right away?” she wanted to know. “Well, I’m taking 
a bath” Laurie started to say. “Swell. I’ll be right over,” Bunny 
answered and hung up. She found Laurie in the suds when 
she arrived. “How are you?” she asked, snapping a quick 
shot of unplanned allure. “All right except for the heat,” 

Laurie answered. “I wish it would rain and cool things off.” 

As if in answer, there was a loud clap of thunder and a deluge 
of raindrops pattered against the window. “There’s service,” said Bunny. “Rain, rain, go away,” answered 
Laurie playfully and — to her astonishment — the rain stopped. She decided to test her new-found power. 

“I wish Bob would call and ask me out tonight,” she said. The phone jingled. It was Bob, asking her out. 
“That’s really something you’ve got going for you there,” said Bunny, still clicking away. “It sure is,” said 
Laurie delightedly, “You know, this bathtub must be enchanted.” And she laved happily ever after . . • 


58 




* 



George was notable for three things: 
his glass eye which hobbled loosely 
in its socket, his capacity for Mar- 
tinis and his carelessness. The three 
combined one day when the glass 
eye fell out and landed in his cock- 
tail. George unwittingly drank it. 
A few days later, George began ex- 
periencing extreme pain. He hied 
himself to a doctor. The medico 
peered down George’s throat and 
pulled back in surprise. 

“What’s the matter, Doc? What is it? 
Can you help me?” George prattled 
nervously. “Please, can you help 


The doctor peered down his throat 
again and again saw the glass eye 
looking back at him. He drew him- 
self up with dignity and addressed 
George. “I may be able -to help you,” 
he said, “but first you have to learn 
to trust me!” 


One poverty-stricken fellow we 
know ts always raving about what 
a great doctor he has. Seems the 
doctor told him he needed an oper- 
ation and the fellow couldn’t afford 
it, so the considerate medico re- 
touched his X-rays. 


The American tourist escaped from 
his wife just long enough to peruse 
the streetwalkers of Paris. One of 
the comelier wenches approached 
him. 

“Twenty-five dollar American, Joe,” 
she propositioned him. 

‘Too much,” answered the penuri- 
ous Yankee. 


THE JOKER'S GEMS 


“Fifteen dollar.” 

“Too much.” 

‘Ten dollar." 

“Still too much. All I want to spend 
is five.” 

She turned on her heel and left him. 
He went back to his hotel, rejoined 
his wife and escorted her out to 
dinner. As they were walking down 
the street, they bumped into the 
same lady of shame. She surveyed 
the stingy fellow’s dumpy, dowdy 
spouse and addressed him contempt- 
uously in these words: 

“See what you get for five dollars!” 


fresh, but you remind me so much 
of my mother.” 

He was rewarded with a deadly 
sweet smile. “Now isn’t that odd,” 
she purred. “I’m married." 


Did you ever wonder where moth- 
ers learn the things they tell their 
daughters not to do? 


A musician is a fellow who wakes 
up fit as a fiddle and goes to sleep 
tight as a drum. 


He’d tried every approach he could 
think of, but the Monroe-esque 
blond was chillier than the soles of 
an Eskimo’s feet. Finally he angled 
up to her for the fourth time and 
said, “I’m really not trying to be 


THE MORNING AFTER 
The glances over cocktails 
That seemed to be so sweet 
Don’t seem quite so amorous 
Over the Shredded Wheat. 


They played it fair. They played it 
square. Naturally they lost. 








“Our distinguished visitor, missing since eight o'clock, 
may be the victim of foul play, says the mayor—" 


59 



THE REBEL’S LAST REVEL 

(Continued from page 9) 


sparkling, he materialized from be- 
hind the blanket of rain and strolled 
towards Tom. He eased the ammo 
belt off his shoulders and slipped 
into the chair opposite him. “Waiter! 
Another glass!” Clark was in high 
spirits. 

Tom looked at him tolerantly. 
“How did it go?” 

“How did it go?” Clark laughed 
jubilantly. “Well, amigo. You won’t 
believe how well.” 

Tom smiled. Clark’s reports were 
never simple. It was never just 
“Mission accomplished.” It was al- 
ways a fabulous adventure to Clark 
and he had to tell it with flourishes 
and little intimate touches to make 
it come alive. Tom waited patiently 
while Clark drained his glass of 
wine in one deep swallow and 
stretched his arms above his head 
in the characteristic gesture of a 
story-teller organizing his material. 

“We ambled into the city singly 
and in pairs,” he began. “Like long- 
suffering peons, peasant hangdogs 
licking urban hands for pesos to buy 
food. So help me, I felt like a pro- 
paganda poster dressed in that tat- 
tered serape and cringing along with 
my tail between my legs.” Clark 
laughed. 

“It took two days before we’d all 
managed to slip inside the city walls 
without arousing suspicion,” he con- 
tinued. “The night of the second day 
we gathered in Manuel’s warehouse 
and I outlined the plan. It went off 
like clockwork — about one the next 
morning.” 

“The soldiers gave you no trou- 
ble?” Tom asked. 

“The girls had gotten the sentries 
nice and drunk. Now they are nice 
and dead. A pity. Without ever hav- 
ing tasted the fruit of some of those 
senoritas. This country has the most 
beautiful women I’ve ever seen. And 
that brings me to the part of the 
story you won’t believe — ” 

“Just a minute,” Tom interrupted. 
“Tell me about your amours later. 
Right now I want to hear about the 
armory.” 

Clark shrugged. “A dull tale. We 
killed 13, possibly 14 soldiers. We 
came away with 200-odd rifles, over 
a thousand rounds of ammo, a small 
but select assortment of grenades 
and high explosives.” 

“There was no outcry?” 

“The men in the barracks snored 
through it all like asthmatic babies. 
The judicious use of knife and gar- 
otte kept their sleep from being dis- 
turbed by unseemly noise. Our men 
slipped out of the city with their 
deadly toys like the quiet mice they 
are.” 

“All except you.” 

“All except me.” Clark chuckled. 
“Now, General mio, I know I’m a 


day late, but believe me, I’ve got an 
excuse — and a truly fantastic story.” 

“Okay,” Tom sighed good-humor- 
edly. “Let’s hear it.” 

“Well, I was with Jose’s cart mak- 
ing for the East Gate, where we’d 
bribed the guard, when we spotted 
this bunch of fancy-tailored Army 
officers coming up the street. They’re 
half-crocked, but you know how 
those bozos are. They had some girls 
with them and I was afraid they’d 
get officious and start investigating 
the cart just to show what big men 
they were. So Jose took the cart into 
a back alley and I walked up to the 
brass to distract them so he could 
make a break for it.” 

“That was clever,” said Tom 
wryly. “With your Spanish accent an 
infant muchacha would peg you as 
a Yankee.” 

“I figured that, so I walked right 
up and introduced myself as a visit- 
ing American.” 

“You what?” Tom looked at him 
in amazement. “All dressed up like 
a pampas peon you told them you 
were an American. Weren’t they 
suspicious?” 

“Naturally. And that was just the 
distraction Jose needed. While they 
were bullying me, he got away with 
the cartload of booty.” 

“I see.” Tom was amused. “And 
how did you explain your peasant 
costume?” 

“I told them I’d been beaten and 
robbed of my clothing-that I’d bor- 
rowed this outfit from a trusting 
bartender. As a matter of fact, I got 
quite indignant about it. Asked them 
what the hell kind of a country they 


were running here, where a visiting 
gentleman wasn’t safe in the streets. 
Threatened to complain to my con- 
sulate, to Washington, to the U. N.” 

Tom sat back and laughed. “Clark, 
you are fabulous. Did they really 
swallow that hogwash?” 

“Well, they were kind of dubious, 
but now comes the really fantastic 
part. One of the women speaks up 
and they all step back to let her 
through. She walks up to me and 
I tell you, for once I was speech- 
less. It was Dolora Destaro!” 

Tom whistled. “The dictator’s 
lady! I’ll be damned!” 

“You may well be,” agreed Clark, 
“and when you hear the rest of my 
story, you’ll know why.” 

“Go on.” 

“Well, she stops practically nose- 
to-nose with me and looks me over 
like a farmer sizing up a stud bull. 

I wouldn’t have been surprised if 
she’d pried open my mouth to look 
at my teeth and I half-expected her 
to pinch my leg muscles. 

“Finally she turns to the bunch of 
uniformed dandies and says, ‘This 
man is obviously a Norte Americano 
and a gentleman. You sons of fath- 
erless pigs will stop harrassing him!’ 

‘They backed off and she turns to 
me and says just as sweet as could 
be, ‘You will come with me, Serior, 
and I will see that your garments 
are replaced and perhaps a hot bath 
and some food and wine will make 
you look more kindly on the hospi- 
tality of our poor country.’ 

“Well, what could I do? She had 
a car, one of those foreign sport 
jobs, around the corner and we went 
to her place.” 

“The dictator’s palace.” Tom shook 
his head to clear it. “Was Destaro 
there?” 



“No. He’s down south playing 
footsie with a brother rat and try- 
ing to raise some lucre to keep the 
palace running. El Presidente trusts 
Dolora to run things while he’s 
away.’’ 

“Why not? She’s capable. And you 
have to admire her loyalty to her 
husband.” 

“In matters of government only,” 
Clark leered. “In matters of the 
heart she’s as faithful as an alley 
cat.” 

“Oh, come on now. You’re not go- 
ing to tell me you — ” Tom began. 

“I said you wouldn’t believe it. 
But honest, Tom, it happened. She 
took me up to this sitting-room and 
ordered the servants to bring food 
and drink and prepare a bath. And 
she had them bring me down a suit 
belonging to El Presidente himself.” 
Clark stood and threw open the pea- 
sant blanket he was wearing. “How 
do you like it? It’s a little large in 
the belly and the cuffs have to be 
let out, but it’s genuine imported 
Scottish tweed.” 

Tom wiped his hand over his fore- 
head. “What a revolution!” 

“You can say that again. Anyway, 
I ate and we both drank some wine 
and then she cuddled down next to 
me on the couch. You know Tom, 
she’s really a damnably beautiful 
woman. She can’t be over thirty and 
she has skin like velvet. And those 
eyes! They look right through you 
and on the way they tell you just 
what she wants and how she wants 
it.” 

“I presume you gave satisfaction.” 

“I did. And received the same in 
return. When Castilian and Indian 
blood is mixed well, the results are 
truly wondrous. She has a body like 
one of those ancient Italian statues. 
Everything large and firm and 
voluptuous. And she has the rhythm 
of that early New Orleans jazz . . .” 

“Spare me the sordid details.” 
Tom held up his hand. 

“They’re the best part, but if you 
insist — Anyway, later we sat there 
and sipped more wine. Then she 
turned to me and said, ‘You know, 
Yankee, I didn’t really believe your 
story about being beaten and rob- 
bed.’ ” 

“Oh fine,” said Tom. “And what 
did you say?” 

“I admitted the story had been a 
lie. I told her that I was really an 
American working with the rebels 
and that we had just raided an ar- 
mory.” 

“Come again!” 

“That’s right. I told her exactly 
what really happened and she 
thought it was all a joke. We had 
a big laugh over it. The idea of El 
Presidente’s lady entertaining a pro- 
fessional revolutionary.” 

“And after that she let you go!” 
exclaimed Tom. 

“Sure. After I promised to return 
again in a few nights. She said I was 


the best lover she ever had.” Clark 
stretched his body with self-satis- 
faction. “She said I’d given her more 
pleasure than any man she’d ever 
known and that if I was a rebel, 
she’d pardon me. Of course she was 
kidding when she said that, but you 
never know. 

“Now comes the funniest part of 
the whole story, the part that-’ll give 
you the biggest kick, Tom. See, when 
she asked — ” 

The sudden jerking up of Tom’s 
head kept Clark from completing 
the sentence. He swiveled around in 
his chair to see the reason for Tom’s 
change of expression. Sixteen pon- 
cho-clad soldiers had appeared at 
the edge of the cafe patio and six- 
teen rifles were now leveled at 
Clark and Tom. 

A seventeenth man, an officer, 
stepped out from between two men. 
“You are under arrest. You will 
come with us,” he said, not without 
politeness. 

Clark looked at Tom who shook 
his head slightly. It was useless to 
resist. They were trapped. 

They were led off to the rain- 
pocked adobe building which served 
as the local jail. As they were 
ushered through its portals, Clark 
spied a chrome-covered foreign 
sport car parked in the mud. He 
nudged Tom. ‘That’s hers. Dolora 
Destaro’s. She must have had me 
followed.” 

“That’s just great, lover-boy.” 

"Silencio/” ordered the officer in 
command. Then, in a more reason- 
able tone, he added, “You will please 
not speak without permission.” 

They were put in a small cell and 
a guard was posted outside the cor- 
roded bars. “Tom, there’s something 
I have to tell you,” Clark began. 

“El Capitan says silencio,’’ inter- 
rupted the guard. “You will not 
speak.” 

Tom shrugged his shoulders. They 
might as well be quiet. No sense 
asking for trouble. He squatted on 
the floor against the wall and closed 
his eyes. Clark perched opposite 
him, nibbling his nails nervously. He 
didn’t mind danger when he was 
active, but he had no stomach for 
this. Justice was swift in the ba- 
nana republics. And what could a 
man do against a firing squad? 

Clark started to speak two or 
three times, but each time the guard 
silenced him. Perhaps an hour pass- 
ed. Finally the captain who had 
arrested them appeared outside the 
cell. 

“Senor Baxter?” He looked from 
Clark to Tom. 

Tom got to his feet. The guard 
opened the cell door. 

“You are a fortunate hombre, Se- 
nor Baxter" the captain said. “I 
have been detailed to escort you to 
the border of our country. There 
you will be set free. However, 
should you ever attempt to return. 


your head will be the price you 
pay." 

“What about my comrade?” Tom 
indicated Clark. 

“The firing squad is being read- 
ied.” 

“No!” Clark’s protest was loud. 
His face was white between thte 
bars. “No! There’s been a terrible 
mistake. I demand to be taken to 
Senor a Destaro! It’s a mistake, I tell 
you! A mistake!” 

“What kind of a mistake, Senor?” 
The captain was still polite. 

At the reasonableness of his tone, 
Clark calmed himself. When he an- 
swered, his words were directed at 
Tom. “I’m sorry, Tom, but I tried 
to tell you before. Remember I told 
you Dolora said she’d pardon me? 
Well, as part of the gag, when she 
asked my name, I gave her yours. 
She knew who you were, of course. 
Every peasant in the country whis- 
pers of the Yankee who’s come to 
set them free. At the time she 
thought it was very funny that the 
rebel General should make love to 
El Presidente’s wife — and she for- 
gave you the revolution because of 
your prowess as a lover. 

“But it wasn’t you, Tom! It was 
me! It’s me she thinks she’s saving 
now. I’m sorry, Tom, but it’s either 
my life or yours." He turned back to 
the captain who hadn’t at all followed 
what he’d said. “I must see Senora 
Destaro!” 

The captain hesitated a moment. 
Then the sound of marching boots 
turning into the corridor made up 
his mind. “I’m sorry, Senor, but that 
is impossible. The firing squad is 
waiting.” 

‘What do you mean? I must see 
her! It’s a mistake! A terrible mis- 
take!” Clark’s yells rang in Tom’s 
ears as the captain escorted him past 
the squad of soldiers. But for Tom 
there was only one choice. A fool’s 
choice perhaps, but the only one a 
man like Tom could make. 

“I want to see Senora Destaro 
while there is still time to save my 
friend,” he told the captain. 

The officer motioned to a soldier 
to guard Tom. “I will see if she will 
see you,” he said and entered the 
door leading to the jailkeeper’s of- 
fice. 

He returned quickly and escorted 
Tom through the door. Tom looked 
straight into the eyes of the darkly 
beautiful woman seated behind the 
battered desk. “I’m Tom Baxter,” 
he said firmly. 

“I know that,” she answered. 

“You know that? But my friend? 
Didn’t you think he was me? I mean, 
didn’t you mean to spare his life?” 

She looked at him with amuse- 
ment. “You would really die in his 
place, Senor Baxter? Ah, si, I see 
you would. I did not know there 
were any men like you left in this 
pigsty of a world. 

“In any case, do not trouble your- 


61 


self. No mistake has been made. 
Your comrade is dying because he 
dared oppose the government with 
violence. And his dying has my par- 
ticular sanction because he is a con- 
ceited dog who thought he could get 
away with making a fool of me.” 

“But I don’t understand,” said 
Tom. “I too have opposed your re- 
gime. Why are you sparing my life?” 

“Ah, you visionaries.” Dolora De- 
staro shook her head in amusement. 
“When all your revolutions are won, 
how will you ever govern? You have 
no head for politics. 

“Senor Baxter, you are idolized by 
the rebellious peasantry. The quick- 
est way to insure the success of the 
revolution against us would be to 
make a martyr of you. As a matter 
of fact, I’m surprised that some of 
your more zealous fellows haven’t 


had you assassinated long ago and 
put the blame on us. As a dead rebel 
leader you would be the symbol of 
our own death warrants.” 

“Won’t you please reconsider spar- 
ing my countryman’s life?” 

“No. He has killed. He has plun- 
dered. He has dared to make a fool 
of me. And he has not the excuse 
of your idealism. 

“But,” Senora Destaro added re- 
flectively, “I have no doubt he will 
make the ladies of Hell supremely 
happy . . 

A volley of bullets from the court- 
yard outside put the period to her 
words. Tom followed the captain 
from the room. 

t 

A 


ALEX IN WONDERLAND 

( Continued from page 12) 


the New York Sunday World as a 
cartoonist. He’d walk all the way up 
to the Fifties on 5th Avenue on his 
payday lunch hour and window 
shop. Captivated by the elegant silk 
ties at Sulka’s, King fingered his $25 
salary in his pocket as he rifled 
through the $20 Sulkas on the count- 
er. A clerk King describes as having 
a face “like a shinbone with eye- 
brows,” showed him two dozen 
crepe de chine pink ties which he 
kept under the counter for his spe- 
cial friends. For one dollar apiece, 
how could anyone go wrong? King 
picked up half-a-dozen and went 
back to work, proud of having got- 
ten such a bargain at such a swank 
store. 

But, the office clowns couldn’t let 
the pink neckwear pass. They kid- 
ded King unmercifully. He found 
one of his ties, which he had taken 
off prior to washing, in a large glue 
pot. Still Alex wouldn’t bend to the 
throng’s jeers. 

After six months had gone by, the 
ribbing gradually died down. The 
day came when the ties needed a 
cleaning, so he brought them to a 
dry cleaner on West Fourth Street. 
A day later the place was gutted by 
fire and all the pink ties were de- 
stroyed. 

Not wanting to look like a reform- 
ed character at the office, King 
bought three yards of pink crepe de 
chine and had a custom tie maker 
fashion 62 ties for a mere $15! 

Some thirty years later, in 1947, 
an airline misplaced King’s luggage. 
All but one of his pink ties were in 
the lost suitcases. So, back went 
Alex to the same custom tie maker 
he’d been patronizing through the 
years. Instead of the elderly man, 
King found the owner’s son there. 
He was about to close up the little 
place once and for all. It seems the 
business had been a losing proposi- 


tion for years, but the old tie mak- 
er’s sons had kept it going to keep 
him active. “But,” said the son, “for 
the last eight or ten years, the only 
jobs that came his way were your 
(King’s) pink ties . . . My father 
was convinced that you painted 
naked girls on those ties, and that 
you sold them at stag parties.” Since 
then King has never bought an- 
other pink tie because he’s never 
had the heart to take his business 
elsewhere. 

When King told this story and 
other, equally droll tales of his 
misadventures over the Jack Paar 
show on TV, audience response was 
tremendous. He’d come on the show 
as a guest to publicize his best- 
selling autobiography, “Mine Ene- 
my Grows Older” and Paar was all 
too glad to have him back a second 
time. The two visits aroused the 
interest of WNTA-TV in New York 
and soon King was launched on his 
own show, “Alex in Wonderland.” 

It was an immediate hit, although 
its format is like nothing else tele- 
vision has ever known. It consists 
mainly of King simply talking for 
an hour, with an occasional inter- 
lude during which his wife sings or 
the network slips in an occasional 
commercial. 

What does he talk about? Any- 
thing and everything. His faithful 
fans never know what to expect. 
Indeed, King himself has no idea 
what he’s likely to say until he says 
it. Thus delighted listeners are apt 
to hear his sardonically good-natur- 
ed harangues on a variety of sub- 
jects. 

Lashing out at advertising, King 
told viewers that with a few million 
dollars “you could make the chew- 
ing of king-sized goat droppings a 
national hobby that would put Wrig- 
ley out of business.” 

Men in white jackets, he contin- 


ued, would authoritatively state that 
“the Greeks worshipped the goat as 
a god and that it is the most an- 
cient symbol of virility. Let this 
powerful symbol carry the burden 
of your worries and anxieties. Let 
this be your Scrape Goat . . . Scrape 
Goat for livelier liveliness!” 

Apropos of marriage. King said 
that “because two people have been 
lugging the same cart for years to- 
gether and are now afflicted with 
similar harness sores, it’s not enough 
reason to continue with the burden, 
particularly if their load is slowly 
turning into garbage.” Boasted the 
thrice divorced Alex, “I never was 
married less than five years to any- 
body, which proves that there was 
nothing trivial or temporary about 
my love affairs.” 

He also prescribed a practical for- 
mula for happiness in love. “I would 
just as soon be loved for my money 
as for my looks. Once looks fade, 
you can’t get them back. Money, you 
can make and lose, over and over.” 

Just before Frank Lloyd Wright 
died a few months ago, King aimed 
a few broadsides at the master 
builder’s latest shelter for modern 
art, the Guggenheim Museum, on 
upper Fifth Avenue. 

“It’s not a silo, but an absolute 
horror. It was designed by a very 
great man . . . who designed the 
Johnson Wax Building, which looks 
like a baby powder box. It’s interest- 
ing. It leaks a little. Yes, they have 
to use wax all the time to straighten 
it out. But this thing on Fifth Ave- 
nue ... if it were a paper weight, 
if it were in a park — it’s an absur- 
dity. The only thing that makes me 
feel good is that the stuff that’s go- 
ing into it is just as disastrous.” 

Describing Wright as a great ar- 
chitect, King added, “but like all 
avant guardists, he has to overstate 
his case. That’s the nature of all 
prophets. They have to get hoarse 
shouting.” 

But if King’s barbs at famous peo- 
ple and hallowed institutions are 
sharp, his adherents point out that 
in using his acid wit, he rarely spares 
himself. He has a wife less than 
half his age who appears on his 
show with him and one night he 
wryly informed viewers that “if 
they thought ‘Lolita ’ t was a piece of 
fantasy, let them look at us!” 

In needling himself, King’s video 
vitriol splashes wittily about his nine 
years of drug addiction. Doctors 
started him on morphine to ease the 
pain of his kidney ailments and he 
soon developed an addict’s craving 
for the stuff. He has been in Lexing- 
ton, the Federal Narcotics Institu- 
tion, four times. However, he has 
not been back since 1954 when he 
managed to “kick the habit.” 

His views on junkies, himself in- 
cluded, are unique because his is 
possibly the only humorous outlook 


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on the subject. His account of why 
he was the sole genuine mourner at 
the funeral of a doctor who had been 
supplying him with dope is both re- 
vealing and hilarious. And when he 
gave TV its first lowdown on the 
difficulties a junkie faces when he 
tries to give himself up (there was 
a big raid scheduled for Harlem the 
day he tried to turn himself in and 
nobody could be bothered with 
him), the word portrait he painted 
was as funny as it was pathetic. 

During his junky days, King lived 
in various cheap hotels in midtown 
New York. The people who paraded 
through these musty hostelries were 
as fantastic an assortment of charac- 
ters as you’re likely to find. With his 
knack for just the right adjectives, 
King has introduced them to TV. 
They include: 

Pheeny, the desk clerk at the 
Minnetonka Hotel, whose hobby was 
collecting old jock straps from 
wrestlers. 

A dwarf who kept two aristocra- 
tic Russian wolf-hounds next door 
to King’s room. By day, the hounds 
would sleep. At night, the dwarf 
took ti.em out on a lizard skin leash. 
The hounds would be brushed and 
fluffed, wearing rhinestone collars 
around their sleek necks. King 
learned from the diminutive owner 
that he rented his pets out to two 
classy prostitutes, who’d pick up 
well-heeled business men around 
the Plaza Hotel area. The rhinestone 
collars helped up the price for an 
evening’s entertainment. 

A waitress whose one ambition was 
to become a successful prostitute. 
Her downfall was that every time 
she set out to make the grade, she 
fell in love with the customer and 
couldn’t bring herself to take money 
from him. King’s tongue-in-cheek 
lectures to her on the fine points of 
running a business — any business, 
including the world’s oldest one — 
did no good. Her heart was bigger 
than her ambition. 

Meanwhile King’s need for mor- 
phine increased. He began to forge 
prescriptions on blanks lifted from 
doctors’ offices. 

When he finally turned himself in 
to Lexington, King found that there 
were many doctors there taking the 
cure. Evidently, medics got samples 
of dope for nothing, so it was easy 
for it to become an “occupational 
hazard” for many. 

King believes that when one is on 
drugs, chances for a common cold 
are nil. It’s only when you’re taken 
off the stuff that you come down 
with the flu or something because 
there’s a breakdown of the body’s 
chemical equilibrium. 

If King’s views on even such 
usually non-debatable matters as 
the common cold are unorthodox, 
they are no wilder than the vig- 
nettes which have always marked 


his life. Seemingly some men are 
selected by the fates to live their 
days in anecdotes. Alexander King 
ranks high among them. 

Typical is his experience with the 
corpses of two kittens, his pet cat’s 
offspring who had died a few days 
after they were born. Wanting to 
dispose of the bodies, King was 
faced with the problem of a sculp- 
tor-neighbor he suspected of scav- 
engering in his garbage pail. He 
feared that if this fellow found the 
kitty cadavers, he would accuse him 
of “practising Satanic rites by sacri- 
ficing cats.” 

King put the feline remains in a 
shoe box, went to the corner drug 
store and left the box in a phone 
booth. The soda jerk ran after him 
and gave him the “forgotten” pack- 
age. After similar experiences in 
Grand Central Station and the Mu- 
seum of Natural History, King fig- 
ured the tips he had to dole out for 
the deliberately lost box added up to 
four dollars. 

Having an appointment to visit 
a friend and his wife for dinner in 
Staten Island, King put the box in 
a paper bag and boarded the even- 
ing ferry. On the way over he tried 
to bring himself to dump the bag 
over the side. “I was afraid they’d 
drag the river for the cats while 
looking for freshly murdered corp- 
ses. Just my luck. They’d find out 
it was my bag and return it.” 

When King got. to the Staten Is- 
land Pier, his friend, seeing the 
package said. “Aw. Alex, you 
shouldn’t have!” 

King told him they were two dead 
cats. His friend chuckled and threw 
in the package with his own groce- 
ries. At the home of his hosts, he 
expected his friend’s wife to let out 
a blood curdling scream when she 
opened the package. But it never 
came. Instead, she joyfully squealed 
“where did you buy these beautiful 
steaks?” 

The horrible reality finally struck 
King. “On the boat, I had sat next 
to some unfortunate schlemiel. I had 
picked up his steaks, and he had 
picked up my two dead cats!” 

Such things are always happen- 
ing to King. Even his seemingly 
worst disasters have a punch line. 
According to the doctors, he’s now a 
dying man. But what do the doctors 
know about what’s going on in that 
county north of his sinuses? If they 
took the trouble to find out, they’d 
probably uncover the quip he’s hold- 
ing in readiness for their demise. 

All Alexander King asks of Death 
is that it smiles. All he wants of life 
is to live it as long as he’s alive. 
And that’s the secret of why the 
world is Alex’s Wonderland. 








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CITY 


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STATE 




THE PUSHBUTTON PEOPLE EATERS 

( Continued, from page 29) 


it was after a gleeful peek at the 
waning balance in my bankbook 
which it had swallowed one day in 
a fit of frustration), it choked to 
death on the contents of my wife’s 
sewing box — two knitting needles, a 
pair of scissors and a pincushion. 

But that vacuum cleaner had no 
joie de vivre. It could have learned 
from the TV set which caused my 
myopia and turned my wallet into a 
smorgasbord for repairmen — with 
everybody coming back for second, 
and third helpings. 

It was truly diabolical, proclaim- 
ing its evil horseplay to the world 
at large by waving its antenna wild- 
ly in the wind. Mostly, it conducted 
its campaign by instinct. Was there 
a spectacular we wanted to watch? 
The vertical-hold (whatever the 
hell that is!) went kerflooey. One of 
my kids still thinks of Mary Martin 
as an elongated eel on a pogo stick. 

My wife and I are Jack Benny 
fans, so, every other Sunday night 
at 7:30, we watched the battle of the 
horizontal and vertical lines. Once 
Patrice Munsel was scheduled to 
sing some selections from a favorite 
opera. That’s the night the audio 
gave up the ghost. 

Then the day came when the set 
took the gaspipe (if you’ll pardon 
me for mixing my mechanisms) . The 
World Series was on. The score was 
tied and the bases were loaded. Just 
as Mickey Mantle came to bat, the 
picture tube blew and static took 
over the sound system. 

I called the repairman and there 
transpired one of those Machiavel- 
lian mechanistic tricks which some- 
times make me admire gadgets al- 
most as much as I hate them. The 
repairman inserted his screwdriver 
into the opened-up intestines of the 
TV set and several things happened 
at once. There was a loud electric 
crackle. A geyser of smoke shot into 
the room from the ailing monster. 
And there was a heart-warming ex- 
plosion. 

When I crawled out of my fox- 
hole, I found the repairman lying 
unconscious on the floor, still breath- 
ing, but having the complexion of 
an over-ripe lemon. I wasted little 
sympathy on him, traitor that he 
was. They are all quislings, these 
repairmen, giving aid and comfort 
to the enemy. I often wonder if their 
tremendous, but ill-gotten, gains can 
ever really bring them happiness. 

But they are only the evil jackals 
of Mechano-dom. The real culprits 
are those who created the gadgets 
in the first place. 

Just think, once the world was a 
nice, simple, uncomplicated place 
where a man could club his woman 
over the head in peace and tran- 


quillity. When he was hungry, he 
plucked an apple or slew a small 
rodent with a large rock. (And if 
you think rodents aren’t tasty, com- 
pare them with some of the instant 
muck which is a by-product of me- 
chanization.) When he was sleepy, 
he climbed a tree and went to sleep 
without worrying about whether his 
oil furnace was going to blow him 
to kingdom-come in the middle of 
the night. When he wanted to bathe 
(which wasn’t too often), he simply 
plunged into the nearest stream and 
never did he know the agony of 
modern man scalded by a perverse 
stall shower. 

It was Paradise all right, but then 
along came a jerk with an outsize 
brain and no foresight and ruined 
it all. This Paleolithic Einstein had 
to go and invent the wheel! 

From the first it was a device 
which could think for itself and the 
foundation for the battles of today 
were laid by that early, crude 
Mechano. Once-happy cavemen 
limped about with crushed toes. 
Their wives (I sometimes suspect 
the entire female part of the race 
of being in cahoots with the gismo 
gargoyles) found in the wheel an 
excuse for their husbands to haul 
their washing to the stream. It was 
too heavy for them to pull, they 
claimed. And soon the husbands were 
pulling wheel-carts with wifey and 
all the brats inside it. Also, the 
wheel was the first implement of 
organized warfare. In those days 
men fought with clubs and stones 
and a wheel-cart could carry enough 
to supply a whole aggressive tribe. 

From the wheel has sprung every 
mechanical device known to man. 
And through the ages the battle of 
Man vs. Mechano has been waged. 
Who knows how many Greek war- 
riors fell victim to the loose-springed 
craftiness of the early cranes? Who 
knows how many knights of old 
were tossed into moats by bucking 
drawbridges, sinking heavy-armored 
from sight and leaving naught but 
their last bubble to attest their fate? 
Who knows how many muskets 
backfired on Colonial soldiers and 
blew off their heads? 

But those early days were as 
nothing to the all-out war which 
started with industrialization. Sud- 
denly people were confronted by 
sewing machines (and how many of 
those early operators stitched their 
fingers neatly together), printing 
presses (oh, the bits of typsetters’ 
flesh mixed into the molten type), 
steam engines — 

(“Ooey Gooey was a worm — 
‘Cross the railroad tracks 
he’d squirm — 

Ooey Gooey!" 


— was a children’s poem more ap- 
plicable to people than worms), 
steamboats (and poison gas envel- 
oped the settlers on the riverbanks) 
and cotton gins (which put many a 
mangled Massa in de col’, col’ 
ground) . 

In the field of communications, 
the telegraph (how many people 
have died of heart attacks, unopened 
telegrams wishing them a happy St. 
Swithin’s Day clutched in their 
sweaty hands?) was followed by the 
Atlantic cable (which just recently 
got its revenge for a hundred years 
of serving as a comfort station for 
fish by fouling the rudder of a trans- 
atlantic liner and damn near sink- 
ing it). This in turn was followed by 
the telephone (even in the early 
days, people could never decide 
which was the greater annoyance: 
when it did ring, or when it didn’t) , 
which brings us up to the present of 
radio (is there any relationship be- 
tween the incidence of apoplexy and 
the preponderance of commercials?) 
and television (nuts to you, too, 
Mr. DeForest). 

In the development of convey- 
ances, speed was the factor concen- 
trated upon. The steam engine was 
to a large extent replaced by the 
electric diesel. (Ooey Gooey at 90 
mph barely left a stain.) Diesel 
power also replaced the coal fur- 
naces on boats and nary an iceberg 
was safe on the high seas. 

Dobbin was stabled in favor of the 
horseless carriage and Mechano-dom 
had its most potent warrior. The 
organs of pedestrians were strewn 
like wildflowers across the highways 
and byways of mankind. The screech 
of brakes and the crash of autos be- 
came as much a part of Baby’s lul- 
laby as the cricket chirping outside 
his nursery window. And — fighting 
fire with fire — the hearing aid was 
developed to relieve the horn-deaf- 
ened dwellers of the metropolitan 
areas. 

But there is one large segment of 
mankind that was more at the mercy 
of the cars than any other: the 
drivers. Insidiously the vehicles set 
out to destroy their so-called mas- 
ters’ sanity. With grinding gears, 
clogged valves, faulty pistons, ex- 
plosive tires and leaky brake cyl- 
inders they built — and are building 
— neurosis upon neurosis, implanted 
extreme feelings of inferiority and 
replaced the Oedipal with the gas- 
eatable complex. 

When they began sprouting the 
fungus of gadgets on their shiny 
interiors (like leeches living off a 
leech), the cars really insured the 
eventual and total madness of their 
owners. The floor shift (sometimes 
an aid to collegiate seduction) gave 
way to the wheel shift (when the 
hand on the end of the arm around 
the coed’s neck grabbed for third 
speed, she was in dire danger of 


66 


strangulation), which was followed 
by the automatic transmission lever 
on the dashboard (after awhile peo- 
ple stopped trying to shift into 
“drive” with the hood release) 
which gave birth to today’s mon- 
ster, push-button transmission (how 
those headlights leer when you push 
the “R” button by mistake and 
smear the attendant all over his gas- 
pump) . 

The cars also joined forces with 
the radio-and there’s a monster to 
be reckoned with. Pushbuttons 
sprouted on the auto-radio, enabling 
the driver to easily select the exact 
pitch of static he found most relax- 
ing. Rear speakers distracted him 
from imminent highway perils. Elec- 
tric antennas (which our Mechano- 
bedeviled teen-agers have discov- 
ered make excellent zip guns) re- 
vived the Freudian sentiments he’d 
felt as a child when showering with 
his father. 

The auto also electrified itself. 
Power windows decapitated a few 
absent-minded people, but nobody 
took much notice — they were too 
busy trying to extricate the parts 
of their anatomy which had become 
jammed in the power seats. Power 
brakes shot people through their 
front windshields like buckshot 
through a greenhouse wall and pow- 
er steering enabled the slowest 
driver to crawl up a telephone pole 
with no effort whatsoever. 

The car was — and is — an advanced 
mechanical warrior, but it is to the 
skies that most of us turn with our 
realization that machines are gonna 
get us if we don’t watch out. Way 
back in 1903 a farmer stood in an 
Ohio pasture chewing on a piece of 
straw and remarked to a friend, “I 
said it to Wilbur. I said it to Orville. 
And I’ll say it to you. The dang 
thing’ll never get off the ground.” 
Unfortunately, it did, and as Ogden 
Nash (who is obviously aware of the 
Mechano peril) has written, “Two 
Wrights made a wrong.” 

‘The dang thing’ got up there and 
stayed there. It shed one pair of 
wings and kept one, sprouted one 
more motor and then two more be- 
sides, and finally somebody gave it 
a jet suppository and it beat out the 
speed of sound — which might be 
useful to henpecked husbands, but 
leaves the rest of us wondering why 
the hell any New Yorker would 
want to be in Los Angeles in four 
hours. 

The scientists, always earnestly 
trying to help mankind, gave the 
winged monster atom bombs to drop, 
missiles to launch and bullets to 
spray and everybody in the U. S. 
said wasn’t it ginger-peachy that 
we were so smart. Then they dis- 
covered the Russians were saying 
the same thing about themselves and 
now folks are taking more than a 
casual interest in the security that 



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lies in underground caves. Kind of 
like full circle. 

But the Russians shouldn’t scare 
us as much as the machines. As I 
said before, the doohickeys are con- 
sciously waging war on us all the 
time. And lately they’ve come up 
with a lulu of a weapon: the me- 
chanized brain. Univac and its bro- 
thers not only think — they think 
faster, more directly and far deeper 
than the smartest man among us. 
Now of course problems are being 
fed into these brains all the time by 
men, but has anybody stopped to 
think of what they’re scheming in 
their leisure time? I have a theory 
that they’re busy finding a way to 
overcome the one advantage man 


( Continued from page 42) 

summer with the air conditioning 
system going full-blast, he jammed 
large, putrescent chunks of limbur- 
ger cheese in the main ventilators. 

Another fellow who felt he was 
fired unjustly from a printing plant 
took his revenge by anonymously 
tipping off the Treasury Department 
and the local police that the business 
was a front for the printing of coun- 
terfeit money. The owner of the 
place and his other employees were 
grilled for weeks before the investi- 
gators were satisfied that the charge 
was spurious. 

The practical joke prompted by 
revenge isn’t limited to the business 
world. Often it’s a means of com- 
batting a social snub. A good exam- 
ple is the series of gags pulled by 
the fellow whose nose was out of 
joint because he hadn’t been invited 
to a party. He got on the phone and 
by the time he got off, the party was 
being invaded by a stream of cops 
answering complaints, plumbers re- 
sponding to emergency calls, drivers 
of tow trucks wanting to know 
where the wreck was, delivery boys 
with COD orders from local deli- 
catessens, liquor stores and florists 
and a Salvation Army band who had 
been promised a generous contribu- 
tion if they’d sing “Rock of Ages” 
for the revelers. The climax came 
when four fire companies answered 
a series of false alarms. 

This last could have gotten the 
jokester in serious trouble. Most 
practical jokers-even those bent on 
revenge — are usually careful to keep 
within the law. And sometimes it’s 
easy to see where the joke is quite 
justified. 

Take the case of a fellow who had 
a run-in with the changemaker at 
the Rockaway branch of the New 
York subway system. It is necessary 
upon leaving this station to deposit 
a 15 cent token in the turnstile. This 
is in addition to the token that has 
been deposited by the passenger at 
whatever station he entered. 


has managed to hold over machines: 
the power of reproduction. 

They’ve always been dependent 
on man to give them life. But once 
they solve the problem for them- 
selves, they can dispense with us 
altogether. Perhaps they’ll keep 
groups of us around like herds of 
cattle to serve their needs or as 
occasional hors d’oeuvres when their 
diet of lubricating oils begins to pall. 

When that day comes, man will 
have no choice but to go back to 
nature. And the pushbutton people 
eaters will have put him there! 



This transit rider knew all this 
and upon finding himself ready to 
embark with one token and a ten- 
dollar bill in his pocket, he went to 
three or four candy stores to try to 
break the bill. He couldn’t change 
it and it was getting late, so he 
boarded the subway with his token, 
figuring he’d have to change the bill 
on the Rockaway end. 

When, after alighting, he produced 
it, the changemaker got very nasty 
about being expected to change a 
ten-spot. Finally he did change it, 
maliciously giving the man one 15 
cent token and $9.85 in nickles. 
Steaming, the passenger swept them 
into a paper bag and left. 

But the more he thought about 
it, the madder he got. The next night 
he went up to the changemaker’s 
booth and dumped the nickels in 
front of him. He added five pennies. 
“Give me 66 tokens,” he said casu- 
ally. Bound by law, the change- 
maker had to comply. 

The next night the fellow dropped 
the 66 tokens in front of the change- 
maker. “I want to redeem these,” he 
said. Again the changemaker had to 
comply — but this time he gave the 
man his money in bills and silver, 
for there was nothing to prevent him 
from repeating the whole gag. 

If you think this fellow went to 
lengths for revenge, consider the 
suburbanite who set out to get even 
with a neighbor who was a constant 
borrower. This fellow spent hours 
in his home workshop constructing a 
lawnmower which would attract the 
eye of the neighbor. Sure enough, a 
few days after it was completed, the 
neighbor asked to borrow it. But no 
sooner had he pushed it onto his 
lawn than the carefully gimmicked 
lawnmower fell apart in hundreds of 
tiny pieces. That cured him of bor- 
rowing. 

Not all practical jokes require so 
much painstaking effort. Many are 
conceived and executed on the spur 
of the moment, dictated by circum- 


stance, as it were. Often the best of 
them happen that way. 

Take the time Hollywood writer 
Charlie Lederer was lunching at an 
expensive restaurant with a socially 
prominent woman who had a fixa- 
tion on the rights of women. He lis- 
tened to her flaying the dead horse 
of suffragette-ism politely and did- 
n’t comment when she declared that 
the world would be much better off 
if things were run by women. But 
after finishing his coffee, Charlie 
rose, looked the woman straight in 
the eye and said, “Here, Madam, 
you wear these.” And he handed her 
his trousers, which he had removed 
under cover of the table, and stalked 
out of the restaurant in his under- 
wear. 

The boldness of the gesture was 
typical of Charlie, long known as 
one of the most non-conforming of 
Hollywood’s rebels. Another who 
had this reputation in his screen- 
writing days was Ben Hecht. And 
when he set out to pull a gag, the 
famed playwright-novelist was as 
bold — if not bolder — as Charlie. 

Thus when Ben encountered a fill- 
ing-station attendant with an impec- 
cable British accent, he concocted 
one of the greatest hoaxes filmland 
has ever known. He passed the gas- 
pump jockey off as a high-class 
British novelist who just might let 
himself be persuaded to write for 
the movies. MGM gobbled him up 
at a salary of $5,000 per week and 
counted themselves lucky to have 
stolen this prestige-loaded prize 
from under the noses of their com- 
petitors. 

Coached by Hecht, the ‘author’ 
never ceased to impress the movie 
moguls with his cultured voice, 
well-bred disdain and British cul- 
ture. Called in on story conferences, 
he contributed derogatory grunts in 
place of ideas and maintained the 
illusion that he was above it all. He 
never put a word on paper, but for 
over a year he continued the farce, 
collecting his five Gs each week. 
When MGM finally let him go, it 
was with regret that the movie me- 
dium was so far beneath his high- 
flown talents. 

It was a practical joke on a grand 
scale and it was perhaps unmatched 
for many years — until a fellow 
named Jean Shepherd came along. 
Shepherd, an iconoclastic fellow who 
broadcasts locally in New York City, 
singlehandedly started the "I, Li- 
bertine" prank which snowballed 
into national prominence and drove 
book store proprietors wild. 

Shepherd exhorted his exception- 
ally faithful listening audience to 
run out and buy a copy of a book 
called, “I, Libertine” and to per- 
suade their friends to do likewise. 
Soon booksellers were being swamp- 
ed with requests for the non-exist- 
ent novel. At first they told those 


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70 


who asked for it that there was no 
such book, but when the requests 
continued, they began to wonder 
and flooded the various publishers 
with queries for "I, Libertine.” 

When the publishers couldn’t help 
them, they found themselves receiv- 
ing protests about “underhanded 
censorship” of a frank work of art. 
They were at their wits end when 
Shepherd got them out of their di- 
lemma. Joining forces with a well- 
known writer, he produced a book 
called “I, Libertine” and satisfied 
the demand. Also, incidentally, he 
made a nice piece of change on the 
uninhibited story of an Eighteenth 
Century English roue. 

The "J, Libertine” prank, like 
Hecht’s hoax, was clever on a large 
scale. But cleverness is by no means 
restricted to the jokester in the 
public eye. Take the quite ordinary 
housewife we know who decided to 
teach her husband a lesson. 

Married for six years, she resented 
the fact that not once had hubby 
bought her a Valentine’s Day gift. 
Each year she hinted broadly and 
each year he forgot. And when her 
friends proudly displayed the gifts 
their husbands had bought them, 
she sat in embarrassed silence. 

One year she took action. She call- 
ed her husband at his office in the 
middle of the working day. “Dar- 
ing,” she said sweetly, “I just want- 
ed to thank you for the wonderful 
Valentine gift. It was awfully sweet 
of you, but why didn’t you sign 
the card?” 

The surprised husband’s first 
thought was that his secretary must 
have sent the gift for him and for- 
gotten to tell him about it. In some 
confusion he accepted his wife’s 
thanks and hung up. But when he 
summoned his secretary, she had 
no knowledge of the present. 

Arriving home that night, he 
found his wife dressed in a frilly 
nightgown. “I thought I’d model it 
for you,” she said coyly. “How do 

WHY U. N. RAPS U. S. 

(Continued from page 18) 

“The relationship between the 
prostitute and the customer,” it says, 
“is by no means the meeting of an 
abnormal and a normal individual, 
but both . . . show deficient integra- 
tion in the structure of their person- 
alities and of their sexual behavior. 

“Those who satisfy their sexual 
desires with prostitutes do not have 
an imperative sexual urge, irresist- 
ible and ungovernable, and a man 
of normal psychical and physiological 
constitution can and ought to resist 
the sexual urge.” 

However, they might have added 
that so long as the prostitute’s cli- 
ent can hide in anonymity, there’s 
little chance of anyone trying to 
| reform him. The only danger the 


you like it, my own Secret Lover?” 

“Huh? Secret Lover?” 

“Of course, silly. Don’t tell me 
you forgot what you wrote on the 
card.” 

“Oh. Hmm. Sure. Secret Lover.” 

Consider this poor fellow’s plight. 
On the one hand he’s embarrassed 
to admit that he forgot to get his 
wife a gift after accepting the credit 
for it. On the other, he’s wondering 
who the hell had the nerve to send 
his wife a nightgown. His wife let 
him sweat it out for a week and 
then finally told him the truth — that 
she’d sent it to herself. 

He was lucky. Truth is something 
that very often the victims of prac- 
tical jokes never learn. As a matter 
of fact, sometimes they never even 
learn that they have been the butt 
of a joke. Take the folks who may 
find themselves in an elevator with 
movie director Alfred Hitchcock 
when he’s in a playful mood. 

Turning to whoever he’s with, 
Hitchcock is likely to launch into a 
personal confession of a particular- 
ly gory murder, leaving the elevator 
when the suspense is at its highest. 
The glances which follow him are 
confused, amazed and heavy with 
frustrated curiosity. 

That’s how it is with practical 
jokes. They’re funniest to those that 
pull them. And if you doubt this, 
just remember how easy it was for 
the teacher to spot the kid who put 
a tack on his seat by his uncon- 
trollable laughter. 

Maybe the tack and the carefully 
planted banana peel and the squirt- 
ing boutonniere aren’t funny any 
more, but the day of the practical 
joke is far from over. As long as 
there are people, there will be those 
among them who get their kicks 
through practical jokes — no matter 
how impractical they are. 


ON VICE GIRLS 


male may face will come “when the 
customer as well as the prostitute is 
subject to repressive measures,” as 
the U.N. recommends. But there 
really seems very little likelihood of 
such a development in the forsee- 
able future. 

Turning to so-called “white slav- 
ery,” the report notes that interna- 
tional agreements arrived at some 50 
years ago have put the quietus on 
the ancient custom of transporting 
women from one country to another 
— often against their will — for im- 
moral purposes. In fact, the whole 
picture of enforced prostitution has 
changed greatly over the last few 
decades. Whereas it may have been 
true once that men who lived off 




the earnings of prostitutes were 
“exploiting” them, today it is far 
more likely that the woman herself 
is voluntarily entering an agreement 
to support the man who acts as her 
— to use a nice word for a dirty oc- 
cupation — manager. 

Today’s harlot is “a freer person, 
less regimented and in general less 
subject to coercion,” according to the 
U.N. Committee. “There are certain- 
ly exceptions, but the trend appears 
to be toward a freer prostitute, 
whose relationship with those living 
off her earnings is more or less 
voluntary.” 

The Committee also takes note of 
the fact that today’s prostitute often 
operates under what seems to be a 
legitimate cover-up. “The Govern- 
ment of Austria,” it notes, “com- 
mented that since the end of the 
Second World War there has been a 
considerable demand for young fe- 
male artistes and dancers. To satisfy 
this demand . . . agents formed 
groups of dancers and organized 
journeys abroad. 

“However, even at the initial stage 
of organizing these groups, consid- 
erbly more value has been placed 
on the personal appearance of the 
applicants than on their artistic qual- 
ities. Clauses are often cleverly in- 
serted in their contracts forcing 
them to entertain and this often 
drives them into prostitution.” 

In France, where brothels were 
long legal, a similar trend has been 
noticed, with prostitutes assuming 
the guise of actresses, waitresses and 
dancers. Luxembourg reported that 
“certain girls enter the country al- 
legedly as tourist visitors. They re- 
main for only a short stay in hotels, 
where they . . . engage in prostitu- 
tion activities under the management 
of traffickers who organize their 
trip.” 

Similar entertainment groups have 
been organized in the United States. 
They have traveled from state to 
state — in defiance of the Mann Act— 
and outside the boundaries of the 
country. 

In conclusion, the report recom- 
mends a number of courses to be 
pursued by the various member na- 
tions of the U.N. in order to stamp 
out the curse of prostitution, which 
it goes to some lengths to explain is 
not a crime, but an immoral act. 
There is nothing new or startling in 
the recommendations, nothing that 
many concerned Americans have not 
been proposing for years. Perhaps, 
though, with the weight of the U.N. 
behind them, we will at last act on 
the advice. If we do, we may yet see 
the day our country realizes that if 
a house is not a home, neither is a 
prostitute a criminal. 

A 

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THE IMPERFECT TRIANGLE 

( Continued from page 15) 


“Harry?” There was amazement in 
Joanne’s voice. 

“Yes, Harry.” 

“Oh, come on now, Amy. You 
must be exaggerating.” 

“I’m not exaggerating. We’ve been 
married for three years. For the first 
two and a half, Harry was every- 
thing a woman could want. He was 
considerate. He was passionate. And 
he was never overbearing. But for 
the last six months Harry’s been 
less and less romantic. And for the 
last few weeks, I’ve been the agres- 
sor, and he hasn’t been able to do 
anything about it.” 

“Has he seen a doctor?” 

“Yes. There’s nothing physically 
wrong with him. It’s all mental.” 
Amy’s voice quavered. “He just 
doesn’t want me any more. I — I 
guess he’s just stopped loving me.” 

“Oh, don’t be silly, Amy. Of course 
he loves you." 

“If he does, then he’s bored with 
me. And that’s almost as bad.” 

“It’ll work out Amy. It’s just a 
phase he’s going through. He’ll 
straighten himself out. Harry’s too 
much of a man to pass up love.” 

“Maybe he won’t pass it up,” said 
Amy bitterly. “Maybe he’ll find 
somebody else.” 

“Do you think he has?” 

“Not yet. But sooner or later he 
might be looking for someone else.” 

Silently Joanne agreed with her. 
Harry could be that kind of man. 
His drive was healthy and strong 
and he wasn’t enough of an idealist 
to ignore a romantic situation out of 
fidelity to his wife. 

Joanne thought about it as she 
drove home. Harry impotent! It was 
ridiculous! He really was probably 
just growing tired of Amy. What he 
needed was a real woman. That 
would fix him up. In the long run 
it would be good for Amy, too. 

Harry was one of the handsomest 
men Joanne had ever known. He 
could look at her in a way that made 
a blush creep up her shoulders 
and along her neck. There had been 
times when she’d envied Amy. But 
she didn’t envy her now. Yes, the 
girl who made Harry snap out of 
this would be doing Amy a favor . . . 

It was about a week later that 
Joanne’s voice caressed Harry’s ear 
through the receiver of his office 
telephone. “Hi, darling,” she said, “I 
had to come into town and I thought 
the busy executive might buy a poor 
old witch some lunch.” 

“Check your broomstick at Al- 
fredo’s and have a cocktail. I’ll meet 
you there in about twenty minutes.” 

“I’ll be waiting, light o’ my life.” 

Harry came into the dimly lit res- 
taurant and peered through the 
smoke for Joanne. She was sitting 


at a corner table and as he walked 
towards her, Harry’s mind regis- 
tered for the umpteenth time that 
she was a most desirable woman. His 
brain conjured up a brief image of 
that long ago time when they’d been 
going together. She hadn’t changed. 

“Hi, Prince Charming,” Joanne 
greeted him and held up her cheek 
to be kissed. 

He brushed her with his lips and 
sat down. “Well, Snow White, to 
what do I owe the honor? I haven’t 
seen you in so long I was beginning 
to feel like the eighth dwarf — the 
one they keep hidden in the cellar.” 

“I’ve seen Amy.” 

“Yeah, so I hear. But that doesn’t 
do lecherous old me any good.” 

“Well, she’s been keeping me up 
to date on lecherous old you.” 

“If you want to be up to date, 
why not get your data first-hand?” 

“That’s why I’m here, Grumpy.” 

“I’m flattered.” 

“Oh, I make it a point to keep up 
on all my old beaus. I want to be 
around when you develop the pot- 
belly and the receding hairline so 
I can feel superior.” 

“Will you listen to the old hag!” 

“I’ll ‘old hag’ you! I’ll have you 
know I’ve kept my figure nicely.” 

“Never fear, I’ve noticed.” Harry 
shot her a clownish leer. “Let’s see 
if I can feed you something nice and 
fattening so you’ll begin looking 
your age.” He turned his attention 
to the menu. 

They ate slowly and with more 
brittle conversation. While they 
were lingering over their coffee, 
Joanne grew more serious and when 
she spoke her voice was no longer 
light. 

“Harry, do you ever remember 
back? I mean, do you ever think 
about you and me?” 

Harry’s look was piercing. “Very 
often, Joanne,” he answered quietly. 

“You know, there was a time 
when I thought we might get mar- 
ried,” said Joanne reflectively. 

“We would have been miserable. 
I’ve never regretted marrying Amy.” 

“I know that. I wasn’t implying 
that you had. It’s just that, well, 
physically, we were really attracted 
to each other — at least I was to you.” 

Harry felt a strange stirring in 
him. “Me too. Was and am.” He 
stopped to read Joane’s reaction in 
her eyes. When he continued his 
voice was slow and halting. “I’ve 
often toyed with the idea of suggest- 
ing that we have an affair.” 

“What stopped you?” 

“I guess I was afraid; afraid you’d 
say no; afraid you’d laugh at me; 
afraid maybe you’d tell Amy.” 

“I’d never laugh at you. And I’d 
certainly never tell Amy.” 


72 



“But you would have said no?” 

‘That’s something I’d only answer 
when and if the situation came up.” 

The thought of his recent problem 
flashed through Harry’s mind again. 
This might be just the thing to get 
him over it. “Consider that it has 
come up.” He answered Joanne de- 
liberately. 

Joanne looked at him long and 
hard. “Are you sure?” she asked 
finally. 

“I’m sure.” 

“Then the answer is yes.” 

He took her hand and it was warm 
and eager. He leaned across the 
table and kissed her on the lips. Her 
mouth clung to his. 

"Very soon,” she said when they 
broke apart. 

“Immediately,” he answered and 
called for the bill. 

The hotel was just a block away 
— a hotel where Harry knew the 
manager. It was minutes later that 
they were alone together in the 
room. Harry held his arms out to 
Joanne. She came willingly . . . 

It was a little later. Joanne was 
patting her coiffure into place. Harry 
was sitting on the edge of a big 
chair, his shoulders slumped in de- 
spair. Joanne touched him gently 
and looked up. 

“Don’t feel badly,” she said. “It’s 
just one of those things.” 

“Sure,” he said. “Just one of those 
things. A big, strapping, virile guy 
like me who’s had a yen for you 
ever since we were kids. What hap- 
pens? I’m impotent. That’s what 
happens. I’m impotent. That’s what 
I have to live with. But don’t feel 
sorry for me, or even for yourself. 
Feel sorry for Amy.” 

“I do,” said Joanne. She squeezed 
his shoulder, turned on her heel and 
left . . . 

It was almost two weeks later and 
Joanne and Amy were once again 
having coffee in Amy’s kitchen. It 
was their first irieeting since Amy 
had told Joanne of Harry’s impo- 
tence. 

“You’re looking very well, Amy,” 
Joanne told her. 

“I feel just wonderful.” She 
stretched luxuriously. 

“My goodness.” Joanne laughed. 

Amy grinned at her. “I could just 
purr. You remember what I told you 
about the last time you were here? 
About Harry, I mean? Well, it’s all 
worked out. He’s my guy again — 
completely. Just like that. He’s so 
eager he makes me feel like a 
schoolgirl. And don’t I love it!” She 
laughed contentedly. 

What do you know, thought Jo- 
anne. I did do Amy a favor after all. 
Damn it! I guess I’ll always envy 
her. 




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74 





A Swrngin Affair 

When a swain decides to give a girl a whirl, 
he can take her to a swank bistro, snowerner 
with precious gems, orbe can do as this 
lithe lad d6es with his adoring eye-catcher. 




r 



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