Matt Weinstock, Oct. 30, 1959
In case you’re too young to understand Matt Weinstock’s reference, Crest toothpaste had a famous – and frequently satirized – ad campaign in the 1950s.
Seized by Indians* Last Saturday as Hildred M. Hodgson, a lively grandmother, was walking along N. Beverly Glen Blvd. near her home, a big yellow bus marked "Special" stopped and a friendly gentleman inquired, "Where are you going, my pretty madam?"
"I'm going to the village to shop, kind sir," she said.
At first she wondered if anew bus service had been established in the Glen. Then, from the convivial singing, with banjo accompaniment, emanating from the bus, she realized she'd been captured by a band of Stanford Indians -- alumni, that is, some of whom were neighbors.
"You don't want to go shopping on a day like this," the man continued, "in fact, how would you like to be kidnapped and taken to the football game?"
"Oh, my," Hillie said, "I haven't been to a football game since I left Lincoln, Nebraska, 23 years ago!"
"Consider yourself kidnapped," he said. She couldn't think of any reason to decline so she went. Inside she was handed a pennant and urged to enter the spirit of the occasion.
En route to the Coliseum she was warned that Stanford didn't have much chance against the terrible Trojans. "I'll send out hypnotic suggestions," she said. "Maybe that'll help."
Another man asked with some concern what her family would do when she didn't return home. "Oh, they'll probably check the jails," she replied, looking around the bus.
As everyone knows, Stanford frightened SC badly before loosing 30-28. And each time Stanford made a large gain or surged ahead, her exuberant companions marveled, "Wow, that woman's sure sending out those wave lengths!"
Tomorrow Hillie again will embark on her weekly hike to Westwood Village to shop. She expects to make it. This week it's UCLA and Washington. Stanford is playing up north.
TWO YOUNG MEN who yearned for the casual living they couldn't afford singly some time ago pooled their resources and rented a cottage in Malibu. They found life ideal but recently one of them reluctantly announce he'd have to pull out. He was taking a new job which made living at the beach out of the question.
The other, unable to go it alone, and disquieted at the prospect of leaving the place, got an idea. He posted notices in nearby stores stating, "Help. I can't pay my rent!" and announcing a rent party. The deal: "All the beer you can drink - contribution $1."
Last Saturday 200 understanding persons, mostly strangers, showed up at his place and contributed, many without taking any beer. And so the happy beachcomber's rent is paid up three months in advance
A HARD WORKING writer I know recently hit a jackpot. His agent sold his book to a studio for $25,000. Then the author sat down with pencil and paper and his jubilation turned to despondency. His agent will get $2,500, the publisher another $2,500, about $6,000 will go for income tax and he is paying off a loan and other debts contracted to enable him to work on the book. He has never been able to afford a new car and he had his eye on a cute $2,500 number -- but won't have enough.
"But for a while," he philosophizes, "I certainly felt rich."
He sits upon a nearby roof
Drinking drafts of
Not hundred proof of rye,
But hundred proof of sky.
MISCELLANY -- Apparently the war of slogans has started among the "compact three." George Nakamura, a Ford mechanic, calls the Corvair the "Shrivelet" (shriveled Chevrolet) . . . Speaking again of that offensive TV commercial, a man named Smith appeared at his office with a new set of china clippers and, smiling expansively to show them off, shouted, "Look, everyone, no cavities!" . . . Cryptic penciled message on an anonymous postal card: "There's one thing you can believe for sure -- you can't believe nothing you read." Nope.
RIP Stanford Indians.
*And no, Stanford isn't the Indians anymore. It's the Cardinal.