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.
HIS parents really aren’t to blame for his name. They called him Harry L. — and thought they had done a good job, too, until the infant Crosby changed their minds. At the age of three he developed into a blood-thirsty cow¬ boy with a lust for Indian scalps. He scoured the plains of his front and back yard in Tacoma, ferreting out the savage redskin. From morn to night his voice announced the endless battle, “Bing, bing, bing!”
And Bing he has been ever since.
He attended Gonzaga College in Seattle, Wash., doing a little studying and a lot of singing. The money he made helped to pay his way. On the side, he clerked in a law office.
When he left school he joined a couple of other fellows, two pianos and a pair of cymbals in producing a variety of harmony new to the West Coast. It caught on in vaud houses, movie palaces, and night clubs. Paul Whiteman signed them. Don’t you remember the records of the Rhythm Boys?
Last year, while entertaining at the Cocoanut Grove, Los Angeles, he attracted wide attention.
He has more golf clubs than any other person on the air. And uses fewer of them. Not long ago he played Bobby Jones and Johnny Farrell. “Well, it was a nice walk anyhow,” he says.
His car is one of the fastest — and the basis of the queerest ambition outside a sanitarium. He wants to get enough summonses for speeding to paper a room. He’s already got most his ceiling finished.
His weight is 165 pounds. His height is five feet and nine inches. He never wears garters.
There is a story about the manner in which he became radio’s crown prince. William S. Paley, president of the Columbia Broadcasting System, was en route to Europe on the S. S. Bremen. The third day out he heard a victrola in an adjacent cabin playing a record. It was Bing Crosby singing “I Surrender, Dear.”
. . . Paley surrendered.
BING CROSBY d oesn't wear garters. His real name is Harry
6