Hollywood, California –
Goodness, I wish those radio commentators would be a little more careful about their pronunciations.
Our cook was upset enough when Crosby stayed in England so long, but last night she really had a fit. She heard a commentator say that the British were going to take Sinatra. It wasn’t until this morning that George explained that it wasn’t Sinatra but an island called Sumatra.
It’s a blessing the Allies chased the Nazis out of France so quickly too. The only French town most commentators could pronounce was Paris. And heaven help them now that they’ve got to pronounce cities like Düsseldorf, Kassel, Kissen and Essen. That will really make them sound like they’ve got upper-plate wobble.
Hollywood, California –
Well, if you ask me, what the field of international diplomacy really needs is a woman here and there to put some real common sense into it.
For instance, our country had been having a lot of trouble recognizing Gen. de Gaulle. Goodness, I’d know that big, handsome fellow anywhere.
And speaking of recognition, take Turkey.
If you’re talking about fancy diplomacy, there’s a smooth one.
In fact, Turkey has been so clever about being neutral during the entire war, that it’s hard to tell whether the Allies or the Nazis are getting the part that comes over the fence last.
Hollywood, California –
We housewives don’t mind rationing, and we smile cheerfully when the clerk sneers and says, “No face tissues.” But one byproduct of this war that’s driving us crazy is the husband who has become a military expert… a parlor paratrooper… an armchair admiral.
I must admit that my husband, George, is one of the charter members of the “Kibitz with Nimitz” and “I’m Palsy with Halsey” clubs. But I will say that George is one of the few coffee-table colonels to be wounded by enemy action.
It was during the fierce fighting around Aachen last week. He was moving the pin representing the Germans when it slipped and jabbed his thumb. We’re giving him the Purple Heart.
Hollywood, California –
Have you seen the bulletin just issued to employers by the Office of Defense Transportation? It warns them that men and women are different. Now there’s a piece of news. Thank goodness they’ve made it official. I’d hate to go through life thinking of George as a sister.
The bulletin concludes by advising women to “wear long underwear when working outdoors in winter, and behave in a businesslike manner.” Well now, make up your mind. Personally, I’m still going to wear an overcoat and galoshes.
Hollywood, California –
Goodness, there’s a desperate naval recruiting drive on in Japan right now. The slogan is: “Join the Navy and bring your own ship.”
Adm. Nimitz has got them so scared that Japanese admirals are refusing to get into the bathtub without a convoy.
The Japanese diet consists chiefly of raw fish, and our sailors are certainly putting them where they can get them.
But don’t think our own Navy isn’t having trouble, too. It reports a shortage of cigars and chocolate-covered raisins. Well, if someone else will send raisins, I’ll be glad to send a couple of boxes of George’s cigars. But boys, if I were you, I’d smoke the raisins.
Hollywood, California –
Well, let’s have no more complaints about food shortages in this country. A German news agency has just announced that the Japs have created a “wonderful new food concocted of rotten wood, sawdust and starch, seasoned with sunshine.”
Now there’s a tasty little dish. Being naturally curious about new recipes, I decided to trey this one. But living in California makes it difficult. How long can I wait for sunshine?
The Germans go or to say that one week of this diet and the persons eating it… “No longer complain of hunger.” Guess why?
The Japs should have no shortage of rotten wood – sea water rots it quickly. But it must be a funny sight to see those Nip cooks in diving suits following their fleet around to do their marketing.
Hollywood, California –
Well, I’ve never heard of so many election bets. Why, even Ann Sheridan has promised to go down Hollywood Boulevard made up in blackface if her candidate is defeated. But if she loses the bet, she won’t lose any “oomph.” It’s not the color of her skin that interests the men; it’s the way it fits.
President Roosevelt bets a quarter on each election and admits that he loses every time. My goodness, if he bets a quarter every time he runs, that could run into big money.
George and I have a bet on which candidate will carry California. If I win, George has to give me the money for a new hat. If I lose, I’ll just charge it.
Hollywood, California (UP) –
Well, tomorrow is Election Day and I’m going right out on a limb and make a prediction. The Democrats will carry three states. the Republicans will carry three states. The other 42 I can’t be sure of. But that’s the trend if you want to place a bet.
The important thing is that we all get out and vote tomorrow. George and I have our morning all scheduled:
6:00 a.m.: George leaps out of bed and turns on cold shower.
6:02 a.m.: I go in and take it.
6:30 a.m.: Breakfast.
7:00 a.m.: We vote.
Won’t it be restful next week when the political campaigns are over, and we can pick up a newspaper again and just read those quiet, peaceful descriptions of the battles in the Philippines?
Hollywood, California –
Well, so far as I’m concerned, the election is already a success. The official at the polls this morning asked me if I was old enough to vote.
I was so eager to cast my ballot that I told a little white lie and said I was.
George is terribly nervous waiting for the election returns to come in. And when he’s nervous he likes to smoke one cigarette right after another. Today he’s already gone through three cartons… But he didn’t find any cigarettes.
According to early reports, the Solid South is going the same way it has for the last 70 years… it still prefers Boubon.
Hollywood, California –
Well, the election is over and it’s high time we started thinking about who our next President is going to be. I’m in a hurry because Professor Hooton of Harvard says that it is entirely possible that a woman might become President of this country.
Let’s get started, girls, there are only 1,461 shopping days until the next election.
On the other hand, maybe we shouldn’t be too flattered. Professor Hooton is an authority on apes.
Besides, where are we going to find a woman with the brain, ability, personal charm and integrity necessary for the job of Vice President? And after that, where are we going to find a Vice President to run with me?
Hollywood, California –
Well, today George and I leave on a trip to campaign for the Sixth War Loan Drive and I hope we sell a hundred million billion dollars’ worth of bonds. We are going to visit Boston, New York, Cleveland, Philadelphia, and a lot of other towns on our old vaudeville circuit.
Goodness, if audiences throw half as much money at George as they used to throw other things, the financial part of the war is won.
I have to hurry now and repack some of George’s luggage. He’s complaining because I put his long underwear on top. He says he would be embarrassed on the train if he had to lift out the longies to get his shaving things.
Well, so long for now, folks. I’ll let you know how we make out on the road. I’m a trouper again – this time for Uncle Sam.
En route across the country –
Well, here we are going to Boston to start our bond tour. Before we left, we heard a lot of scary stories about how crowded the train would be, but George and I are in a great big drawing room – where seven people have a drawing to see which one gets the berth.
The other six go to the club car to sleep. But it’s very hard to sleep there because it’s full of Republicans reading the “Business Opportunity” ads out loud.
Everyone said we wouldn’t be able to get food on the train. But so far, we haven’t missed a single meal. We just wire ahead to the next town and have a man stick a sandwich through the window.
Heading East on our bond tour, George and I are now passing through the Indian country. It’s amazing how these simple people cling to the quaint customs of the past. Why, some of them are still wearing Dewey-Bricker badges.
But in most ways our Red brothers are becoming thoroughly modernized. They’re working in defense plants and have plenty of money to spend. It’s certainly a strange sight to see the squaws crowding around the incoming trains and trying to buy Pullman blankets from the passengers.
And these young squaws are real bobby-blanketers – they’re mad about Frank Sinatra. In fact, they’ve made him an honorary chief – “Leaning Bull.”
Of course, they like Bing Crosby, too. They call him “The Great White Father.”
George and I have just arrived in Chicago en route to our eastern War Bond appearances. I thought at first that Chicago men had become very fresh. I must have turned around and smiled half a dozen times before I realized it was the wind whistling at me.
We paid a flying visit to the famous Pump Room where I used to gather my inside information during the political conventions. The talk was all about the reelection of Illinois’ handsome Governor Green. That man is to politics what Lana Turner is to sweaters. He has Robert Taylor’s eyes, Alan Ladd’s smile, Cary Grant’s chin and a necktie like my husband’s.
In fact, George is a little upset about my feelings for Governor Green. My goodness, I’ve heard of making husbands green with jealousy, but this is the first time I ever made one jealous with Green.
Well, here we are in historic Boston where, according to some poet, the Lowells speak only to the Cabots. My dear Irish mother was born here but we aren’t exactly Beacon Street society. In our case, the Allens spoke only to the Sullivans – no one else would talk to us.
My husband has been telling me the fascinating history of New England. George is so smart; he knew the history of every state in the union when he was just a boy. Of course, when George was a boy, there weren’t so many states.
We’ve been seeing the historical sights here in Boston. We stood before the Old North Church from whose tower Paul Revere got his signal. We walked up Bunker Hill. And we peeked into the Harvard Club where are preserved the remains of some actual cigarettes.
Robert Lowell was a conscientious objector to WW2:
There were many changes to New England’s culture at this time that are really interesting to note. The secularized-Puritanism that influenced the dominant Yankee Unitarianism was rapidly fading in many key ways. Henry Cabot Lodge Jr., who’d become ambassador to the UN, was far more of a globalist than Henry Cabot Lodge Sr., who’d opposed US membership in the League of Nations, had been. The influence of the city of Boston began to increase a lot to create an enlarged metropolitan area, and this brought about many cultural changes. For example, municipal labor unions had previously been disliked in much of New England since the police strike of 1919, but were becoming acceptable once more in this era. Car dealers such as Andrew Boch were on their way to becoming some of the most influential men in New England. The 128 beltway in Massachusetts was set to become the first high-tech hub in the nation. There were a lot of changes.
George and I are having the most wonderful stay in Boston. They made me honorary mayor so I immediately lowered taxes, raised salaries and declared St. Patrick’s Day a legal holiday for the police force.
That handsome Mayor Tobin – who is Boston’s mayor in my absence – was very complimentary. He said my lawmaking was so progressive it would take years for them to figure out what I had done.
At the Greatest Boston United War Fund rally, I played my Concerto for Index Finger with Arthur Fiedler and the Boston Symphony “Pop” Orchestra. They told me I was going to play before Governor Saltonstall but I guess I was so good I scared the Governor. He didn’t play at all.
I see by the paper that pre-war girdles are back… and not a moment too soon either. The wonderful hospitality and food we enjoyed in Boston are expanding George right out of his old one.
Our radio sponsors gave us a real old-fashioned Irish shindig. Sure, ‘twas a bit of the Ould Sod with the beautiful songs and blarney bringing tears to the eyes of the good Boston folks. As usual, George’s singing was the hit of the party. That man does a song convincingly. All the Irish agreed that when George sang “My Wild Irish Rose” they could actually smell it.
Now George and I are moving on to sell more war bonds. They tell us to expect rain, sleet and fog on this trip. Pity us poor Californians – we came east for a change.
Well, here we are in New York and, my goodness, what a time we had getting hotel accommodations. Why, it’s worse than Washington. But George and I finally got a cozy little single room with hot-and-cold-running strangers.
The lineup of people waiting to brush their teeth in our room alone reads like a “Who’s Who.” We haven’t had time to unpack, as we’ve been introducing ourselves all morning.
Come to think of it, I haven’t seen George in some time, but I know he’s here in the room. We promised to meet over near the bridge lamp at five o’clock for coffee.
George was upset about all this and asked to see the manager. But it turned out the manager was in Albany. He lives there. It’s the only place he could find a room.
Well, the Christmas shopping season is underway here in New York and if I were Gen. MacArthur and the rest of the boys, I’d stay down in the nice, quiet Philippines until this thing blows over.
I never thought I’d be a war correspondent but this morning I witnessed the battle of Macy’s basement. A contingent of Brooklyn women launched a frontal assault on the pantie-girdle counter but found it strongly defended by the Bronx 176th Street Infantry who fought bitterly from behind previously prepared positions.
One sniper from Flatbush managed to pick off two girdles before he was located and brought down. She retreated hastily to the ladies’ room to regroup her left flank, it having been partially exposed.
When the smoke of battle cleared away, it was discovered that one carnation had three floorwalkers blasted out from under it.
