Swing (Jan-Dec 1953)

20 win that subject. "Quite a lot of people," he explained in his diffident way, "have asked me when I was going to be back on television. Well, actually, it was my landlady asking me if I had anything lined up." He paused and considered life for a moment, then observed mildly: "Can you imagine a man just standing around giving away money? I don't know how President Truman can give it up." He thrust his hands in his pockets a little deeper and added: "If we're going to give away money, we might as well give it away while it's still worth something." That led into the first contestant, a man who exports milking machines. The contestant had a female consort as is customary in these quizzes. "How do the cows feel about milking machines?" Shriner inquired. "After four or five times, they forget they've ever been milked by hand." "Shows how fickle cows are," murmured Shriner and plunged into the questions. This particular game — I never thought I'd wind up in the newspaper business describing parlor games — demands that the contestants supply, say, the names of as many European capitals as they can muster before the bell rings. Well, this couple was hot as a pistol on European capitals and on a lot of other things. In fact, at one point, Shriner, who had furnished the couple with a carton of his sponsor's cigarettes as an opening inducement, declared meekly: "I think you better give us back those cigarettes, please." They'd won $585 — and that was by no means the end. They went on to garner $2,384. Even by modern quiz standards, that's quite a score. "Well, that's a wonderful start," said Shriner helplessly and passed on to the next contestant, a button manufacturer. "I hope you do as well as the other folks did. If you do, we'll have to make the cigarettes shorter." Whereupon he fell to interviewing the button manufacturer's quiz partner. "What do you do?" he asked a lady who worked in a department store. "We advise brides what to do." "Department stores do that now? Their mothers used to." 9 That's the sort of humor it is. And Shriner, who has the most disarming face in this racket, delivers it so gently that you almost approve of him doing this sort of thing for a living. I still wish he had his other show which gave him more scope. His other show, a sort of "Our Town" in miniature, was really one of the most winning and original and — well — wholesome television shows ever put together. I mourn its passing. In fact, when I stare into the bottom of a drink late at night, I get mournful over the fact that so many of our comedians are up to this. Groucho Marx, Fred Allen (if he'd stayed sound), Herb Shriner are always asking ladies from Kenosha what their husbands do for a living and why they settled in Kenosha. I can't help feeling they should be doing better things. This Isn't a Bit Believable, Mort I'M AS interested as the next man in science fiction and sometimes a little more so. (That next man has been caught nodding over "Space Cadet," a heresy in science fiction circles.) There are more things in science fiction than are dreamed of in your philosophy, Horatio. One of them was little Glenn Walkin, age seven, a cute freckle-faced urchin who not long ago appeared on "Tales Of Tomorrow." A tough job of acting for a seven-year-old or — for that matter — for Bette Davis. It was little Glenn's job to play the role of a sphere from another planet — a small round pulsating object which moved, had a superior intelligence