Benny vs Benny

Fans of old radio know all about the Benny-Allen feud. But what about the Benny-Benny feud?

There really wasn’t such a thing. A writer at a New York newspaper tried to concoct one out of nothing.

Jack Benny and Benny Rubin were friends for many years; there are stories that Rubin suggested Ben K. Benny change his name to “Jack” after orchestra leader Ben Bernie complained (“Jack” was military slang for a sailor, and Jack had been one in World War One).

Here’s a bit more about Rubin from Gene Handsaker’s column of October 14, 1946. I believe he was working for the Newspaper Enterprise Association at this point; he also worked for the Associated Press.

HOLLYWOOD — Benny Rubin has sad, baggy, brown eyes; a swarthy skin; handsome, graying hair; a big beak, and little chin. He is, in short, "a man who looks like a mouse."
"But let's say 'a nice mouse,' " Benny added; "not a rat."
Benny's been in show business 30 years. He has trouped on Mississippi and Ohio river show boats; told gags and hoofed in vaudeville; emceed nightclub and stage shows; had comedy roles in about 100 movies. Once he even directed the 100-piece Hollywood Bowl orchestra in Tschalkowsky's Fifth Symphony. That was a gag, however; Benny merely followed the semi-circle of sawing cellos. The applause was terrific.
• • •
Benjamin Rubin was born in Boston, 47 years ago, a door from the Old North Church "where Paul Revere did his stuff." In the neighborhood were Jewish, Italian, and Irish dialects; Benny picked 'em all up and, in time, many more.
Now, a fast talker, he switches easily from Negro to Scotch to Arabian to Hindu, if necessary, to tell his gags. Funny thing, though; he can't do any of the Scandinavian accents.
His many years at a dialectician have fitted him for his present job of movie dialogue director. He even coached Kenny Delmar's "Senator Claghorn" accent for "It's a Joke, Son!"
He has known all the greats and near-greats in the fabulous field called show business. Some years ago, down on his showman's luck, he was majordomo in Hollywood's Victor Hugo restaurant. A customer with a beard asked Benny if he wouldn't like to get back into showdom.
Benny said sure. The man was Orson Welles.
• • •
From then on Benny literally ran between radio studios, doing dialects for Welles' Mercury Theater, Fibber and Molly, Jack Benny, and many others. Once Benny played two characters at once, one of whom choked the other to death. Just before that scene, Welles handed him a glass of pineapple juice to ease his overworked throat. "That shows you the heart of the guy," Benny said.
Benny's had a hand in several "discoveries." The only time he ever paid his way into a nightclub, in San Francisco, he was impressed by a girl dancer's beauty and talent, and wired a Hollywood producer. Moviegoers know her now at Ann Miller.
Benny, a happy man, would live his life all over again—in show business.

Rubin appeared on Jack’s radio show off and on through most of its existence, and then on television, generally in small parts. Rubin once wrote about how upset and angry he was about the Benny TV show’s cancellation by NBC in 1965. Rubin had been a vaudeville headliner; he hosted an amateur hour radio show in the mid-‘30s and had two half-hour shows on TV (NBC/WPIX) in spring 1949 but never got close to Jack Benny’s fame (or money) in broadcasting.

With that, here’s the manufactured feud from the Brooklyn Standard-Union of October 11, 1929. I have no doubt the quotes are accurate but I suspect the two Bennys were laughing about it, not angry.

Jack Benny Gets Benny Rubin's Bills
By FRANC N. DILLON
Staff Correspondent.
Hollywood, Oct. 11
A feud as bitter and endless as that reported to be in existence between Alice White and Clara Bow, is impending between Jack Benny and Benny Rubin, both of whom are now making pictures for Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer.
"I don't see how people could confuse us," Benny Rubin says. "We don't look alike and we don't act alike, but I get his mail; I get his telephone calls and I even get his laundry."
"That's nothing," complained Jack Benny, "I get his bills!"
"TAKE IT BIG"
Jack Benny, by the way, says that he has his first part in a picture. Instead of being a master of ceremonies, he has a real part, that of a stage manager, in “Road Show.”
Benny Rubin says that he never has a part either. The director always says, "Go on Benny and do something funny." And Benny does, and steals the scene, if not the picture.
"I'm never written in the script," he wails, "I just go on and do something." That is what he is doing now in "Take It Big" with Bessie Love and Van and Schenck.

Here’s an example of Rubin working with Jack, though not on the Lucky Strike Program. It’s from the Long Island Star-Journal of November 17, 1954.

Big Spender Benny Needs the Money
By JOHN LESTER
Jack Benny has been doing a great deal of television lately, either because he has been suddenly seized by an inordinate affection for the medium, or because he can use the money, even as you and I.
The latter is probably the case since the Waukeegan [sic] wit, contrary to the stingy character devised for him for public appearance purposes, is one of the most generous of men and, in addition, his wife. Mary Livingston, is well known to be America's No. 1 shopper.
Her charge accounts and assorted expenditures even throw those of Fulton Lewis Jr., ($1,600 a day for hotel accommodations! So says Boot Herndon in "Praised and Dawned," the latest Lewis story) into the shade.
• • •
WHATEVER the reason for Benny's increased activity in TV, it's his business and the public isn't suffering. Most of his extra shows have been good and last Sunday's. CBS-TV, 7:30 to 8 P.M., on which he did "The Giant Mutiny," a take-off on "The Caino Mutiny," might have been exceptional but for the ending which fritted away to nothingness when it should have contained a climactic yell or, at least, an unusual twist of some kind.
Leo Durocher, manager of the world champion New York Giants, was the special guest along with a half-dozen or so ether ball players, and the plot centered around Benny's decision—he portrayed Alvin Dark—to take over the Giant team during a crucial moment in the world series. Durocher charged this constituted mutiny.
Durocher's "acting" was both unusual and unusually good under the circumstances and the entire half-hour was loaded with clever lines and situations, until, that is, the end when Durocher, who was found guilty in a sudden reversal of favor, merely walked from the stage and through the audience.
THE SHOW on which "The Giant Mutiny" took place was which he has exactly doubled this season, going from one out of every four Sundays last year to two out of four this year, alternating with Ann Sothern's "Private Secretary."
He's planning quite a few guest appearances for himself, too, in addition to a "spectacular," on which he will star and be supported by nearly everyone in Hollywood and New York.
The master comic and wit will undertake one of his more elaborate guesting Sunday coming at 9 P.M. over CBS-TV when he stars in "The Face is Unfamiliar" on the General Electric Theatre.
This is a filmed program and it certainly looked like a smash to me, but one never knows in show business.
• • •
IN IT, Benny appears as one "Tom Jones," a very undistinguished waiter whose manner and appearance are so routine that he is seldom recognized by anyone, typical of millions who go through life cloaked in anonymity. But this pronounced talent is recognized by a gangster boss is planning.
Benny, as the nondescript waiter, is duped into robbing the bank—no point in revealing the details—and does, but not without first running into the normal hazards of millions who patronize banks daily: such as waiting in line behind a vending machine man (Benny Rubin, a life-time friend of Jack Benny) about to deposit a large sack of uncounted pennies!

And, finally, a little squib from Hank Grant’s syndicated column, December 2, 1961.

ON THE JACK BENNY show a couple of weeks ago, comedian Benny Rubin played a panhandler who asked Jack for a dime so's he could get a cup of tea. Jack gave him a tea bag, saying: "I don't think you'll have any trouble finding a cup of hot water." Well, to date, viewers have sent Rubin a total of 487 tea bags! "Next time," says Rubin, "I'm going to panhandle for champagne!"

When Rubin wasn’t acting, he was writing. He put together a memoire of his experiences in vaudeville; some say he stretched the truth a bit. He provided the voice of Joe Jitsu in the abysmal Dick Tracy TV cartoons of 1960. A heart attack claimed him in 1986, seven years after he retired.

Pizzicato Pussycat Backgrounds

Friz Freleng’s cartoons of the mid to late 1940s had lovely background work by Paul Julian, but as the ‘50s bumped along, Freleng evidently wanted more modern designs, with outlines and representational shapes.

He borrowed Dick Thomas from the McKimson unit for Pizzicato Pussycat, released in January 1955. Thomas gave Freleng stylised backgrounds. Here are some examples.



Here’s a nice representation of one of Hawley Pratt’s layouts.



Pratt’s main characters don’t have the same kind of appearance as Sylvester or, say, the mouse in Mouse Mazurka (1949), which have a fairly traditional Warner Bros. look.



Being the 1950s, it is necessary that a piano is decorated with a candelabra. Thanks, Lee. Thomas manages to get some colour variation in this panned background.



Yes, music is involved in this short. It’s a Freleng cartoon, after all. And being a Freleng cartoon, the Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2 by Liszt figures into the score. But the classics get tossed out the window. When the cat uses sticks to try to bash the highbrow piano-playing mouse running around a drum kit, the music suddenly switches to jazz. And that’s what we hear to end the cartoon.



Milt Franklyn is given the on-screen music credit and I suspect he arranged his own score. It seems a little odd a 1920s bandleader would come up with a ‘50s jazz arrangement. But the tune in question goes back to the ‘20s. It’s “Crazy Rhythm” by Irving Caesar and Roger Wolfe Kahn. (The pizzicato string/flute cue over the titles is a Franklyn original. He digs back to 1905 for the next piece of music, the well-used “Me-ow” by Mel Kaufman).

This short was made around the time of the six-month Warners cartoon studio shutdown (a year for the McKimson unit). Manny Perez and Virgil Ross are the only animators mentioned on screen; Gerry Chiniquy and Ken Champin are gone (Chiniquy returned when the studio re-opened). Warren Foster, one of a handful of people kept on during the shutdown, wrote the story.

Besides Mel Blanc, the wife is played by Marian Richman, who was also employed by UPA and various commercial studios. The narrator is Norman Nesbitt, who is heard in a number of Warners cartoons around this time. Nesbitt was a newscaster and actor whose cartoon career ended when he left Los Angeles for KOA-TV in Denver at the end of July 1954. Nesbitt retired in 1959 to look after the estate of his brother John, who was the narrator of The Passing Parade radio/MGM shorts series, then came out of retirement in 1964. He died in Los Angeles on January 26, 1975.

Listen to “Crazy Rhythm” below. This version is a little less crazy.

A Furry Fuhrer

Jerry gets Tom kicked out of the house in The Lonesome Mouse (1943), then goes over to the cat’s basket and draws a Hitler hairstyle and moustache on it. He stops to admire his work.



Jerry then treats the picture like anyone would if it were the real Hitler.



Scott Bradley’s score treats us to “Auch Du Lieber Augustine.”

This is the cartoon with a disembodied voice talking to Jerry. I have no idea who it is (see the helpful comment). Jerry whispers to Tom outside the house; Tom has a dopey voice, like Meathead in the Screwy Squirrel cartoons Tex Avery was making about this time. Inside, Tom shouts a radio catchphrase of 1943—Phil Harris’ “That’s a lu-lu!” That voice is one of the MGM regulars of the period but I can’t be certain who it is.

No animators are credited. That’s not a lu-lu.

Firehouse Ostrich

A panicked ostrich turns itself into a pole that firefighters slide down in Walt Disney’s The Fire Fighters (1930).



I like how the pants walk in on their own and the firefighters land in them.



This is part of a 30-frame cycle. Disney’s crew tries to vary the look a bit by having one fireman coloured white and the next coloured black. But it’s the same animation.

Various inanimate objects come to life in this cartoon, which makes it enjoyable.

Not-Laugh-In Looks at the News

Producer George Schlatter and comedians Dan Rowan and Dick Martin combined to put Laugh-In on the air. After a rather unpleasant split, both sides tried to recreate it. And not very successfully.

Schlatter revived the show for the 1977-78 season with an all-new cast, including Robin Williams. Meanwhile, Rowan and Martin signed a deal with ABC to develop a weekly comedy series starting January 12, 1976—but a week before, asked out of their contract.

Why? George Maksian of the New York News wrote at the time it was because the network changed its mind about another Rowan and Martin venture.

One of the regular segments on their old show was “Laugh-In Looks at the News,” with an opening musical number, followed by (at least in the early years) phoney headlines and sketches based on news of the past, present and future. Rowan and Martin decided to rework the concept and took it to ABC.

Here’s the Associated Press talking about it in a wire story dated October 22, 1975.

TV News Funny Stuff Set by Rowan-Martin
By BOB THOMAS
Associated Press Writer
LOS ANGELES (AP) – Is the nation ready for a weekly Rowan and Martin review of the news? Rowan and Martin think so, ABC heartily agrees, and the network will present the pilot show Nov. 5.
"Two years ago we couldn't have done a show like this," says Dick Martin, the basset-faced zany of the comedy team. "Watergate was still going on, and people were too uptight to laugh at the news."
"Now the timing is just right," agrees Dan Rowan, the smooth straight man. "We're coming into an election year, the Fords are doing things you can make jokes about, and the Democrats are funnier than ever."
"The Rowan and Martin Report" next month will set the pattern for a series expected to reach the ABC network in January. Both comics and producer Paul Keyes declare it will be unlike anything television has ever seen before.
Does that sound like show biz hyperbole? Perhaps. But eight years ago all three were saying the same thing about their new show "Laugh-In," and their prediction turned out, to be true.
"When we went on the air with 'Laugh-In,' critics tried to compare it to early Ernie Kovacs, 'Hellzapoppin' or whatever, but it bore no relationship to anything that went before," says Martin. "Nor will the new show."
Rowan, Martin and Keyes bristled at the suggestion their show might resemble "That Was The Week That Was."
"TW3 used sketches to satirize the news," explained Keyes. "It was a failure because it had an Englishman (David Frost) telling us what is wrong with America, and the principal target of the sketches was President Eisenhower, whose popularity was 65 per cent in the polls. Besides, the show wasn't funny.
"Our show will have no sketches, no music, no laugh track, no guest stars, nothing but funny stuff about the news done the way television normally handles the news."
After their enormous success with "Laugh-In," Dan and Dick kept a low profile in television.
"It would have been ridiculous for us to do stand-up comedy routines on variety shows," said Rowan, 53. "Except for the Emmy show which we did for Paul (who was producing) we've tried to stay off the tube as a team. But both Dick and I like to do the game shows as singles."
Two months ago, the pair and Keyes took their idea for "Report" to Fred Silvermann newly moved from CBS to ABC as chief programmer.
"Fred said he could only give us 20 minutes because his schedule was tight," Rowan recalled.
"Silverman bought the show seven minutes after we entered his office," Keyes added.
Now they're in the process of assembling a team for their show. They were over in Burbank, Calif., of all places, the other day to audition performers at a tape studio.
Unknown actors and actresses from local improvisation theaters and nightclubs trooped before the camera and read gagged-up news items. Out of the candidates may come the future Henry Gibsons, Lily Tomlins, Arte Johnsons and Goldie Hawns.
“We’re looking for people can seem to be newscasters but have a way with comedy,” said Martin, 53. “They will also have to think fast on their feet, because the show will be live, and we may throw in last-minute news items.”

A test episode aired as scheduled. If anyone wondered where Cousin Oliver of The Brady Bunch went, he was hired by Dan and Dick. Robbie Rist, age 12, was the show’s TV critic and wrote his own material. 11 writers were hired and the show was taped only 24 hours in advance to be current. Keyes told the Gannett News Service prior to the broadcast there would be five reporters, but didn’t name them. He described the segments at “Rumor Corner,” “Man in Washington,” “Statistics,” and “Names in the News.”

As for the reviews, Percy Shain of the Boston Globe proclaimed “It’s all pretty static and not very funny. Sometimes, in its ethnic shots, it’s rather tasteless. Nothing emerged to stick to the memory, except for those flushing numbers at the bottom of the screen, which revealed that while the show was on the national debt increased $3 million. There’s certainly nothing humorous in that.”

But Win Fanning of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette called it “a sure winner,” adding “The fast-paced, up-to-air-time combination of actual news stories and inspired, witty commentary recaptured the best of the ‘Laugh-In’ excitement—without being in any way derivative.”

John J. O’Connor of the New York Times also approved. “[T]he two comedians and a small but choice cast of funny people commented on a wide range of current events, from President Ford’s latest press conference to Jacqueline Onassis’s new $200-a-week job in book publishing. ‘The Rowan and Martin Report’ brought some badly needed topicality and nice lunacy to the battered concept of ‘family hour’.”

Jay Sharbutt of the Associated Press was concerned about the stupidity of viewers: “What with its realistic-looking anchorman’s set, its joshing and its reporter who is seen across the street from the White House, ‘The Rowan and Martin Report’ is a frightening prospect for TV. People might mistake it for a local nightly news program.”

And what did George Schlatter think? He told the New York Daily News “It will make things better for me if I want to do ‘Laugh-In’ again.” He stayed away from a direct comment about the content.

But maybe Freddie Silverman’s golden gut couldn’t stomach what he saw. He passed on finding it a January time-slot, so Rowan and Martin went from potentially two shows to none at the start of 1976. Ironically, Schlatter's effort at ABC a few years earlier, Turn On, lasted one show as well.

Jump ahead 40 or so years to an era of Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert. Maybe Dan Rowan and Dick Martin were way ahead of their time.

Teabiscuit's Record

Some of you reading here are old enough to remember when a real organ used to play at baseball and hockey games. Eventually, organists got fired and replaced by someone in the press box with a CD player. The CDs have been replaced with audio files on a computer.

Here’s a musical gag along those lines from Porky and Teabiscuit, a 1939 effort by the Hardaway-Dalton unit at Warner Bros. The bugler in his traditional outfit appears to make the call to the post. Except instead of blowing, he puts the needle on the 78 on a record player on top of the horn.



Some old Carl Stalling favourites show up in the score after this happens. The parade of horses takes place to the strains of “Sabre and Spurs.” After the starting pistol fires, we hear two pieces from silent film composer J.S. Zamecnik. First is “Western Scene.” After the shot of the Danger sign, when the camera cuts back to Porky and Teabiscuit, the tune switches to “In the Stirrups.”

There are some non-Mel Blanc voices here. Joe Twerp, who you’ll recall from I Only Have Eyes For You (1936) is the spooneristic race announcer. The sound of Porky’s car and the horse whinnies are courtesy of Pinto Colvig. The car start-up noise was made by Colvig blowing into wrong end of a trombone he bought for $2 at a pawn shop. He used it for Jack Benny’s Maxwell on a pair of shows in 1937 and elsewhere. The auctioneer is another non-Blanc voice, but I don’t know who it is.

Tubby Millar received the story credit and Herman Cohen the animation credit.

And for anyone not aware of it, “Teabiscuit” is a pun on the name of championship race horse “Seabiscuit.”

Nazis Destroy Outhouse

Outhouses in the distance showed up in a number of Tex Avery cartoons at MGM—The Screwy Truant, The Last Angry Bad Man, The House of Tomorrow. And there’s one in Blitz Wolf (1942).

This is the one where the Big Bad Wolf is Adolf Hitler. He signs a peace treaty with two of the Three Little Pigs. Well, everyone in 1942 how trustworthy Hitler was.

The wolf uses a machine to blow down the first pig’s house of sticks. You know the story. The first pig runs to the second pig’s house of sticks. “The wolf’s coming,” he yells and points. (Note the dry brush to quicken the animation)



The pigs run off before the bomb hits the house. Avery uses a yellow colour card to emphasize the light from the explosion.



MGM’s effects department is at work here.



The flames burn out, leaving just charred sticks. They collapse, revealing the outhouse. After enough time for you to notice the burned outhouse, it collapses as well.



Preston Blair, Ray Abrams, Ed Love and Irv Spence are the credited animators.

What Are Those Comedians Really Like

You’ve probably heard stories about comedians who are always “on.” It’s a trait seemingly limited to entertainers. I don’t hear of people who work in a car wash who obsessively wash everyone’s cars after they get home from work.

The New York World-Telegram was famous for its annual nation-wide poll of radio editors of the top programmes and people on the air. Who better, then, than the paper’s radio editor to ask what the radio comedians were really like. That’s the subject of his column on January 10, 1942.

The neat little drawings accompanied the article.

COOK’S TOUR of RADIO
By ALTON COOK
Someone asked the other day whether the offstage humor of the comedians ran in any proportion to their radio popularity. The answer is a strange paradox.
With a single exception, the wittiest among the comedians are the ones who have had indifferent success with their radio programs. The exception is Fred Allen.
Comedians in general, like most actors, are ready conversationalists and because of their background of dealing in jokes as staple merchandise they more than hold up their end of the talk in any gathering. But few of the real great ones spontaneously spout humor.



Among the comedians themselves Jack Benny probably has greater personal popularity than any of the others. The reason is easy. Jack is a great listener and an easy laugher. The only disadvantage about Jack’s company, his friends say, is that sometimes he falls asleep in the midst of a merry gathering he has assembled.
Edgar Bergen has occasional flashes of a sly, subdued wit. It he gets out in a party Charlie McCarthy is likely to appear on his knee and punctuate the conversation with boisterous sallies that the quiet-spoken Bergen never would undertake himself. Off-stage Charlie serves as a release to strip away the shyness that Bergen has to a much greater degree than most actors.
Fibber McGee and Molly are quiet, homey people. Their straightforward simplicity is likable and makes them pleasant companions, but no one ever comes away quoting cracks these two have made. Bob Hope sheds his jumping-jack jubilance as soon as he steps away from the microphone. He is soberly intent on his business, and much of his conversation runs to how he can maintain the great peak he has hit.
Bob Burns never loses his air of leisurely drollery, and it is equally effective off the air. He makes homely complaints about his expenses seem very funny at the moment, but if you try to repeat them later your usual climax is a dull thud of silence. The unwary raconteur realizes then that it was the artfulness of the telling more than the wit that drew so much laughter in the first place.



Eddie Cantor is another good story teller if you get him sitting in a quiet concer. Revealing an unsuspected skill at mimicry, he might tell stories about Will Rogers, W.C. Fields and other great ones he has known in his wanderings through all branches of show business. He knows the value of all his animated gestures and leaps around the place crazily, if the point calls for it. He is a funny man to have around because probably better than any of the others he understands the mechanics of funny business.
Stoopnagle is a strange combination of pixie and sobersides. He may go into a long and tediously details account of a movie he has just seen and the switch into a complete hysterical story about the conduct of some men he watched digging a hole near his house the other day.
Gracie Allen is a guiet little body, more interested in her home and children and new hats than in jokes. George Burns has a glib memory that has him ready with quip whenever conversation calls for it, but he doesn’t pose as any great creator, frequently punctuating his jokes with such remarks as, “There’s that old story” . . .
Milton Berle is likely to be the life of the party, spouting more or less familiar gags all over the place. Ed Wynn seems to be happiest when he can go into a sad mood about the troubles that beset a man who has become rich and famous.



They are good conversationalists, these comedians, but not great wits. After all, they don’t need to be—any more than Toscanini and Stokowski must go around whistling original music all the time. Like the conductors, these comedians are interpreters.
All of them have something to do with the writing of their programs, but, again, with the single exception of Fred Allen, the bulk of the work is done by a writing staff. Fred has writers, but he leans on them less and changes their pieces around more.
In comedy, as in concert music, the main rewards go to the interpreters, not to the composers and creators.

Bending An Elbow With Bullwinkle

It’s a comforting sight to tourists and local residents alike, standing firm at 8218 Sunset Boulevard in West Hollywood.

It’s the Bullwinkle statute (with Rocky the Flying Squirrel atop his left palm).

The spinning statue returned to its home last year after restoration work that began in 2013. It was created by Bill Oberlin, who had designed sets for Bob Clampett’s A Time For Beany puppet show, had worked at Leon Schlesinger’s cartoon studio around 1940 and was named assistant producer on The Bullwinkle Show in 1961. Of course, the statue and the huge block party for its unveiling were part of Jay Ward’s outrageous publicity for the show.

The story of the statue and party are recounted in Keith Scott’s book The Moose That Roared (which we once again urge you to own). One of the invitees was Allen Rich, who related his experience in his “Listening Post and TV Review” column in the Hollywood Valley Times.

We’re going to bait and switch here. This story isn’t about the statue or its party. It’s about a second party Ward threw a few months later to which he invited Mr. Rich. This was his column of December 18, 1961.

A Strange Tale Of Sunset Strip
The voice on the telephone was enticing. It said, “We would like you to bend your elbow. The Bullwinkle Show and its producer Mr. Jay Ward will be your host at Frascatis.”
After due consideration (three seconds) I said, why that is just fine. I will be glad to bend my elbow at Frascatis and I only hope they have my favorite brand. “No, no. You do not understand. The brand is only incidental to the main attraction,” said the voice.
"So what is the main attraction?” I asked.
"You. We want you to bend your elbow, put it in the cement in front of the large and imposing stature of Bullwinkle on Sunset Boulevard. Then we will write your name and the date in the wet cement and it will remain ever enshrined for posterity. This is an honor we are according to a few of the columnists, and it is a very great honor, indeed. Why, for the rest of your life people will point you out, even little children, as a man who has his elbow prints on the Sunset Strip ... you know, like the movie stars have their footprints at Grauman’s Chinese," said the Bullwinkle representative.
"Did you read my review on Bullwinkle? I asked timidly.
"Why, yes. Yes, indeed. But Bullwinkle is bigger than the both of us. He never holds a grudge.”
Thus assured, I found myself at Frascatis on the night in question. Mr. Jay Ward in person greeted me warmly. (All had apparently been forgiven.)
Curiously I asked why they wanted columnists’ elbow prints?
"Well, finger prints might be more appropriate, said Jay snidely, "but on the other hand, elbow-bending is a sort of badge of your profession."
For this noteworthy occasion, Mr. Ward thoughtfully hired the bistro’s cozy banquet room. Soon the party was swingin', complete with good food, favorite brands of this or that beverage, and a couple of lady photographers, one of whom was a beautiful doll named Miss Linda Palmer.
Mr. Ward, as host, was also his own best customer for the brands of this and that. After about two hours he sidled over and said, "You the guy that wrote that review?”
I parried this cleverly [sic]. I said, “What review?” and hid behind Miss Palmer’s skirts.
But by now it was time for the ceremony, so our jolly party at considerable peril to life and limb made its way en masse across Sunset Blvd. to the statue of Bullwinkle . . . which towers some 25 feet into outer space and cost $6,000 to erect.
In the forecourt we came upon a very energetic jaz [sic] band performing lustily although by now, what with one thing and another, it was approaching the witching hour of midnight.
More favorite brands were dispensed, the two photographers were taking pictures of everybody in sight including each other, the musicians continued to blare away, and I was somewhat surprised that nobody any longer seemed to care whether I put my elbow in the cement or not.
Pretty soon the fuzz arrived in their shiny new police car and wanted to know what was going on? They said the musicians were making too much noise. It was just like a party at the Garden of Allah (the former site of which is now occupied by Bullwinkle’s statue) during the halcyon days of kookie movie characters.
Miss Palmer, the beautiful femme photographer, asked the officers to smile pretty and took their pictures. They got back in their car, but like true guardians of the law stayed parked right there to keep the peace.
Finally, someone remembered why we had all gathered at the Bullwinkle statue.
By this time the wind was blowing up a storm and the mercury had lowered ominously. It was COLD, let me tell you.
But I thought of all the little children who would be deprived of the chance to point me out on the street in years to come . . . and bravely took off my coat and went through with it.
Unfortunately, the two photographers had at this point taken so many pictures—of the musicians, I think—that they had no film left for me, a man whose elbow marks will forever be enshrined and share billing with Bullwinkle on the fabulous Sunset Strip.
Shivering somewhat more than slightly, new horrors awaited me.
"Wheresa fella wrote ‘at review?” asked Mr. Ward.
It was then that I jumped into my wife’s fashionable DeSoto convertible—and sped to safety as Bullwinkle leered happily after me from his lofty perch.

Incidentally, Mr. Rich’s conclusion about the NBC debut of Bullwinkle was “the buildup was much funnier than the show” which he called too swift and jerky. I guess we’ll never know what Ward thought of the review.