Judge — September 1937 — page 28: what you’re looking at

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

MILESTONES wit we've finally succeeded in getting the nation’s economic structure back on a firm foundation, even if we did have to dig the ground out from under the next generation to do it. v Of course our foréfathers could hardly have imagined the time would ever come when we'd have taxation with entirely too much representation. v An invading army would be given short shrift in this country. Once in, it would wear itself haggard looking for a place to park. Times have changed. Once our great men appeared in odd poses in statues in public parks, instead of in candid camera magazines, v At most of the cocktail parties in our neighborhood, once the ice is broken the dishware and furniture go next. v And every time we read in the papers about some chap who has gone for twenty years without a wink of sleep we think of what a marvelous running mate he'd make for the people ia the apart- ment above us. v Times are good on Broadway when the booming of the champagne corks drowns out the moans of the guys who have to pay the checks. v Love is like a roller coaster. The sec- ond ride is always easier than the first. v Then there's the sad case of the fellow who landed in the hospital trying to carry his bride across the threshold of his trailer. v Explorers never let up searching. If they're not searching for a lost continent or the missing link they're searching for a backer for a new trip. v And now the street cars are being abandoned. Formerly it was just the people waiting on corners for them. v Some of the horses we bet on run as though they had already been to the glue factory. v If efforts are still being made to split the atom, the really logical thing would be to turn it over to a committee of those fellows who slice the tomatoes for drug- store sandwiches. 26 SMOCK GETS IN YOUR EYES ‘HE use of the title or a snatch of the lyric of a copyrighted song to desig- nate print designs will extend Tin Pan Alley's copyright protection to dress ma. terials, if we are to believe a recent news- paper article. So what? So, as the curtain rises, we find George Goodman, style designer for Lorden Goodman's seated at the piano composing a cool, snappy little tailored ensemble with turf green jacket and belt in E minor. As his fingers run over the keys we hear the chorus, guaranteed not to muss on hot, sticky days, and as he brings up at the hem with an expertly tailored arpeggio, the telephone rings. SALESLADY (over the phone)— Lorden Goodman's . . . Theme Song Print department . . . Good afternoon. MRS. BOGGHAM (a customer)— This is Mrs. Boggham. A friend of mine was whistling the most adorable dress last night and I wonder if you can match it for me. Not the same key, of course, but the same words and music. SALESLADY—What is the name of it, Mrs. Boggham? MRS. BOGGHAM—I don't know the name of it, but I think the blouse is from the new picture at the Roxy. SALESLADY Can you hum part of it just to give me an idea of the material? MRS. BOGGHAM—Garacious, if I hummed it I'm afraid you'd send me a piece of linoleum. SALESLADY—How about whistling a few bars from the neckline? MRS. BOGGH A M—No, I can't whistle. SALESLADY (humming a snatch from a@ popular tune)—That's a catchy little, ready-to-wear thing by Cole Por. ter, in Harris tweed with bone buttons. The part where I went boop, boop, a- doop opens with a zipper . . . Are you listening, Madam? MRS. BOGGH A M—Would you mind humming the flounce, or whatever it is, through once more? SALESLADY—Certainly not. Sup- pose we pick it up from the neckline. I want you to pay particular attention to the lapels. ey're by Irving Berlin. On second thought how about a nice, cool fox trot, like “They Can’t Take That Away from Me,” that won't shrink. MRS. BOGGHAM—Don't mention any Fred Astaire dresses to me! All the color ran out of my “Fine Romance” the very first time I sent it to the Bendy, SALESLADY—I'm sorry, Madam. Most of our customers seem to think the RKO tunes wash very well. MRS. BOGGHAM—Well, there's nothing left of mine but part of the vestee which goes ‘‘—no, you like cactus lants."" SALESLADY—I have an awfully cute rayon rhumba you might like for casual afternoon wear. MRS. BOGGHAM—Hum it please. (The saleslady takes the model out of the music rack, clears her throat and hums it through from collar to hem.) MRS. BOGGHAM—I'm afraid it's too tight for me. SALESLADY—Oh! I know now what the trouble was. MRS. BOGGHAM—Asthma? SALESLADY—No, I was humming it with a mouthful of pins. —Jack Ciuetr. SPEAKING OF HATES I HATE persons who use pencils for bookmarks, slam doors, sing and ° joke early in the morning, suck their teeth, increase and prolong the sound of a sneeze. And a lot of others. But most of all; I hate those evilly accomplished zealots who sickeningly brag, in private conversation and in print, that they read a sentence, a para- graph—even a page—"‘at a glance.” I do not say the feat is impossible. I say it is ridiculous, foolish, stupid, a plain indication of lack of the finer sensibilities, like swallowing a small steak at a gulp without chewing it to savor slowly its goodness. Like drink. ing fine old whiskey by the cupful. Like going to the theater to see Katherine Hepburn and then perversely closin; your eyes and stuffing your ears with cotton. Good writing must be read word by word, or at most, phrase by phrase, if you would appreciate the cunning and skill of the writer. As the disinterested champion of true artistry, I publicly de- plore this swing toward barbaric literary gluttony. How can anyone who reads on the run comprehend the brilliant perform. ance and incredible economy of the Swift Eight, the luxurious convenience of the Hotel Bigwig, the human intelli- gence of the Servebetter Toaster, the compelling, exotic fragrance of Eros Perfume, the mellowness and aroma of Cheapie Cigars, the matchless tone and simple tuning of the Best Buy Radio and the tempting flavor and incompar- able health-building qualities of Bark- er's Dog Food? Certainly I hate and despise these one-glance scoundrels. Why wouldn't I? I am a copy writer in an advertising agency. —Eart W. Witkins. comicbooks.com