Radio and television mirror (July-Dec 1951)

Women Are Wonderful! regard it as the definition of being a bachelor. Apparently, however, it drives women to frenzied counter-moves. Married, single, infantile, aged or just right, you women take it as a challenge and each of you makes it her primary business in life to emerge from the group of wonderful women and endeavor to become the most wonderful woman in particular. It's a trait which seems to begin in the cradle and end at the grave, and I want to tell you I'm one guy who thoroughly appreciates it. In your practical moments you concentrate great effort toward the one particular man you happen to want, but in addition, there's a sort of surplus left over for the rest of the male population. It's the thing that makes it possible for a man to walk down a street like Michigan Boulevard and get a terrific kick out of just looking at the pretty girls without leering at a single one of them. Any woman who is worth her salt appears to want all men to recognize that there's something about her, personally, which is especially wonderful— if, for no other reason than to make them envy the particular man she has chosen. It's her way of pointing out that her man, too, is pretty superior. That, thank goodness, seems to emerge as the true feminine objective in the battle of the sexes. At least it is the one which has endured into the second half a century which has seen decisive wars fought on the subject of woman's proper place — -wars which, as they occurred, called forth some male foreboding which now shows up to have been prodigiously foolish. Remember all the hullabaloo which went on about women's right to work and to vote? What happened? You girls got the right to vote and although we haven't yet had a female president, we do have some winning women politicians, glamorous as actresses. We do have Mrs. Roosevelt who, to my mind, is as charming and "womanly" a woman as ever lived. And we do have schools crowded with the children of the children of the women who were supposed to lead us to race suicide. You got your right to work and what do you do with your money? Well, Grandpa can have his Gibson Girl who ventured into business only if she were real daring or real poor. I'll take you cute kids with quick minds who efficiently earn your weekly salaries and then dash right out to spend as much as possible on clothes and those other artful things which advance your desire to emerge as the most wonderful of all wonderful women. I'm particularly aware of you lovely American girls right now, for I've just had a chance to make another comparison. Last Summer, for the first time, I managed to get both enough time and enough money to go to Europe. I'd seen the South Seas beauties while I was stationed in Hawaii during the war; I had been lucky enough to have a few very charming American women take an interest in me, but when I got to Paris and the Riviera, I thought the girls there must be by far the loveliest in the world. Even after I returned, I raved about them until one day at rehearsal I took a good clear look at the girls in our cast. As though I were seeing them (Continued from page 28) for the first time, I appreciated Bette Chapel's sweetness and Connie Russell's vivacity. But I also discounted my observation with the thought, "It doesn't count. Bette and Connie have always been pretty special, as every televiewer knows." But my wide open eyesight must have stayed with me, for when I left the studio that afternoon, I got all caught up in the closing hour rush and was sort of spun around by the thousands of girls who were leaving the Merchandise Mart. Their mouths freshly touched with lipstick, their hair smooth, their eyes sparkling, they all looked as though they were starting toward some great adventure. And then I saw it. All American girls are pretty special. They love competition. Every last one of those pretty things was sort of saying, "I double dare you." At the same time as she vied with other women for perfection, she also challenged every man to want to stay single. It's pretty wholesome that this attitude exists, I think, for there seems to be no present counterpart of it in male vs. male rivalry. In "progressing" from cavemen throwing rocks at other cavemen, to becoming citizens of nations threatening to throw atomic bombs, I fear we males have lost our light touch and become grim. We have abandoned crimson velvet doublets in favor of business suits which are virtually uniforms. We're scared to be different. It is regarded as a sign of objectionable eccentricity to admit to a yen to wear something which might make a girl look twice. Only when we are flexing our muscles in active sports do we find brightplumage permissible. We dress up more colorfully to play golf, pass a football or hunt big game than we do when we go courting. My last timid venture toward wild attire occurred while Charlie Andrews, my writer, Freddy Wacker, a fellow Chicagoan, and I were driving an open sports car during the European trip. I should explain, I suppose, that roaring a high powered sports car down the road is somewhat more strenuous than driving the family sedan around the corner for groceries. Wind provided excuse to compete with each other in buying uninhibited headgear. Igot a French sea captain's cap at Nice, a beret on the Riviera, and in London I bought the pride of the collection, a leather helmet patterned after the French Foreign Legion hat. It squares off at the top and drops a sort of curtain down the back to protect against sand, wind and sun. When assembled with the raccoon Daniel Boone job the kids on the television show gave me and the Scotch plaid baseball cap I bought at Marshall Fields, they made me feel like a knight looking over his change of armor. And then I realized I could never wear any one of them when calling on a girl. She would only giggle. Gaudy raiment today is reserved for fishermen and comedians. It adds up, I fear, to the fact that we men have become sheepish about admitting we would like to be attractive to the ladies, too. In the age when women frankly pay more attention to the intriguing business of being women, we men have grown self-conscious. If you don't believe me, read the ads and see what sort of double talk is going on. In only one daring instance did some copy writer assert his cream would make a guy's mug "more kissable," and even then he first assured males it "gave protection and left the race more comfortable." The "kissable" deal was stuck down in fine print. At first I thought, "Oh, oh. Some girl wrote the wrong copy." And then I changed my opinion. A woman is too smart for that. From infancy on, she's schooled to make a man think he's the one who starts the kissing. Take it from me, you girls have them beat. While a producer must say, "Do this; do that," you achieve the same effect without uttering a word. Take marriage, for example. By taking decisive action smoothly and gracefully, a woman makes a man think it was his idea. She arranges things so that a man falls right into step. But even the cleverest girl tips her hand. The sign that you're approaching the point of no return is when she starts saying we instead of you and I. When a man hears that, he'd better run while there's still time. While there's still time . . . What am I talking about? There is no escape, for every woman in pursuit of her man has powerful allies in circumstances themselves. A guy who can easily construct a bridge has a hell of a time pressing his own pants. And then there's the matter of laundry. You should have seen the spot I got into just before we left for Europe. Ted Mills, producer of our television show, his wife, Joan, and others of the cast went to New York. We planned to see the sights, the shows and some friends. I wound up in huddles over programs and thirty minutes before plane time I moaned, "I'm not packed yet." Joan Mills offered to help me. She didn't help; she packed, shoving Ted and me out of the way while she gathered up my gear. Then she asked, "Dave, where are your clean shirts?" I went through the motions of looking until she stopped me. With the attitude of one wise in male failings, she said, "You forgot to send them out, didn't you?" My single track mind just hadn't stretched that far. I arrived breathless at the airport, clutching luggage in one hand, laundry in the other, and wondering what import duty would be charged on soiled linen. Cooking is just as bad. Subscribing at one time to the idea that men were better cooks than women, I learned to make a meat sauce. To show off my skill, I invited a young lady to dine at my apartment. When the concoction was finished, she tasted it daintily, flattered me tremendously — and devastated me completely by asking, "But where's the meat?" I went out and bought a quart of ice cream. It also influenced my decision to move to a hotel with a restaurant downstairs. Although one attempt at marriage convinced me I . was the kind of guy who has no talent for it, I wouldn't be R too surprised if one of these days I found myself sticking around after a M girl starts saying we. Who wants to stay single anyway? o7