We use Optical Character Recognition (OCR) during our scanning and processing workflow to make the content of each page searchable. You can view the automatically generated text below as well as copy and paste individual pieces of text to quote in your own work.
Text recognition is never 100% accurate. Many parts of the scanned page may not be reflected in the OCR text output, including: images, page layout, certain fonts or handwriting.
"Guess I Wont C/o Ujown Today"
Guess I'll stay home and cuss the radio.
by GEORGE F. MAGILL
WHEN an advertising man is laid up at home with a cold or maybe having his lower plate sharpened, he can be counted on to react according to pattern. The first morning he dutifully takes his aspirin and milk of magnesia, stays in bed or pretty close to first base anyway, and gets himself well on the road to being straightened out.
The next morning he puts on his bathrobe and moves to the living room and the radio. He knows he ought to be back at the office but he salves his conscience by checking up on day time radio trends. One by one the soap operas parade past our applemunching (or appk'gumming) critic. "Bill's Other Wife," "Second Spouse," ■'Uncle David," "Lu' cia's Loves," "The Lady in Red," "The Romance of Rosy Rooney." He sneers as he hears and a , few days later at the office, ignoring little facts like Hooper Ratings, dictates a hooper-do of an article entitled "Gimme Another Aspirin,"
and sends it off to Printer's Ink, or if he's really hep to the reading habits of the advertising intelligensia, to Swing.
I almost went through this cycle myself recently. Up to the point where you put on your bathrobe and come down to the living room to cuss the radio and convalesce, my case followed the usual behavior pattern. I even got a program tuned in, but it didn't have a chance. All I could hear was remarks about guimpes, gussets, and whether faille would be better than ruching for the formal . . . not from the radio, but from the other end of the living room which had been turned into a sewing establishment and where the feminine members of the household were working desperately to whip the oldest daughter's college wardrobe into shape by Thursday. My experience in this mysterious female business consisted of going to Gould's Dry Goods Store as a boy for a spool of No. 50