Judge — September 1937 — page 22: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

RADIO—And What to Do About it The Show Must Go on N interne—one of those fellows who can’t take money—emphatically in- formed us that, what with so many in- disposed broadcasters insisting that noth- ing be permitted to interefere with their broadcasts (thus putting themselves in the mail carriers’ class as public servants and heroes) and broadcasting from their hospital beds, the places were getting to resemble studios more than hospitals. But, the show must go on, even if the broadcaster has to give his performance while coming out of the ether. Thus he can kill two birds with one stone by coming out of the ether and going out over the ether at one and the same time. And this is the radio which, in its in- fancy, was supposed to be for the bene- fit of the ridden, those unhappily hospitalized who could not get out and enjoy the pleasures of those in full life, health and strength. Now they are com- plaining, these persons on their backs, that the broadcasting annoys them, not as it comes through the receiving set, but as it emanates from the hospital (stu- dio). While a tonsillectomy or an oj eration for appendicitis is hardly fit subject matter for even radio entertain. ment and the microphone does not be- long in the sickroom along with the thermometer, ice bag, hot water bottle and bedpan, anything is still good for a stunt ind the broadcasting series must be sustained. It’s the old tradition of the trouper; the show must go on; only there is the novelty of having his dying gasp broadcast. The whole thing sets a bad precedent. The same rules that apply to Civil Serv- ice employees should be made to apply to broadcasters: they should have to pass a physical exam. Otherwise we shall some day read items like this: Receiving Hospital. Tuesday: Johnathan (Gabby) Weaselwords, celebrated cross country commentator and conversationalist, was severely beat- en in the studios of Station WHY by an irate listener who forced his way in, over- powering the broadcaster's constant body- ard, and left the poker for dead. The Broadcast was heard by the listeners of the ninety-seven stations of the broad- casting system, many of whom started telephoning and writing in that they were enjoying the program. There was little interruption. Studio attendants rushed to the announcer’s aid and re- vived him by holding first a glass of water and then a microphone to his lips. “The show must go on,” he said, wittily, as he continued his discourse. Arrange- ments were made to have the microphone held over the stretcher as he was carried 20 out, as his broadcast still had forty min. utes to go when he was so savagely at- tacked. Advance agents hurried to the hos- ty to arrange for the broadcast from is hospital cot when he arrived there. Thus hardly a moment was lost and the entire program came off without a hitch. The series will be continued at the regu- lar time from the hospital. Thus, a great tradition is carried on. None of Weaselwords’ important talk was omit. ted and listeners as far away as Siam re- ted that they caught every word of is really charming discourse on the life of the penguin, a walk he took over the Brooklyn Bridge in 1906, his pet poodle, literature and art and other topics of moment. A milestone in commercial broadcast. ing has been passed. Heretofore it has been only the listeners who have suf. fered. But, in this instance, the com. mentator was the one in pain. Maybe there is such a thing as poetic justice after all. —R. C. O'BRIEN. Is Radio Slowly But Surely Killing Us All? VERY once in awhile some prom. inent native medico who likes to think he is a step ahead, or some bearded specialist from Vienna who knows darn well he is a step ahead, comes forward with the assertion that radio waves are causing some of our most highly respect- ed diseases. I used to make a noise like Donald Duck upon being confronted with this theory—but no more. Certain events have taken all the Donald Duck out of me. Awhile back I began to have occasion- al dizzy spells, accompanied by nausea and spots before the eyes. At first I merely took a few of my favorite pills and thought little about it. After a bit, however, I began to notice that the spells occurred regularly every Monday, Wednesday and Friday night at 9:45, and always lasted about ten min. utes. This puzzled me, but I still didn’t think much about it. I make it a rule never to think much about anything un- til I absolutely have to. It wasn’t until we went on Daylight Saving Time that I began to think not only much but a great deal about it. For when we went, on Daylight Saving Time, so help me, my dizzy spells went on Daylight Sav- ing Time, too. After a few dizzy spells on D.S.T., I went to see my doctor. When I had explained about the spells, he picked up a fast evening's pa- per without a word and began looking through it. Presently he found the page he wanted and ran his eyes up and down it for a moment. “Um-hum,” he said at last. “Just as Ithought. That's the time Snowball and Eightball, the new blackface team, come on the air.” “Snowball and Eightball? I've never heard them,” I said. Doc eyed me enviously. “Ihave. They're the worst blackface team that ever blackened God's good air. In fact they're absolute bottom.” “Worse than So.and-So, Such-and. Such, and He-and-Him?” I asked in. credulously, naming off three other blackface teams which will probably come to your mind and make you wince. “Yes, even worse than them.” “Think what you're saying!” “Tam. And they are.” “And you say they're on each M., W. ind 400" “—and F.," Doc finished for me, nodding. I turned this over slowly in my mind; about 3 R.P.M., I gave it, allowing plen. ty of time for everything to sink in. “But,” I said finally, “what have they to do with my dizzy spells and nausea? I don’t listen to them.” “You don’t have to. Radio waves do their work anyway, in this case.” “Radio waves?” “Exactly. The radio waves set up by their program are little short of poison- ous, and in your run-down condition—" he didn’t have to look me over; I always am, “—they’re simply too much for you.’ I shuddered and buried my head in my hands. “However, don’t worry,” he said quickly. “I can fix you up.” And, praise Hippocrates, he did. I'm wearing some sort of filter business now —a sort of chest-protectorish looking thing; I don’t quite understand it, but I know it certainly does the business. I haven't had a spell since I put it on. 9:45 P.M., M’s., W’s., and F’s., finds me with untroubled brow. It is wonderful what science can do these days, in the way of combating science. My doctor tells me I was lucky, though: I caught it in time. There are lots of other poor devils, he says, who are going around in total ignorance of what it is that is undermining their constitu- tions, and one of these days, he says, they are going to start dropping like flies. —Scorr Corsett. Judge comicbooks.com