Radio Digest (Nov 1930-Apr 1931)

104 Z8 « deduced %ites -. Hotel Woodstock 127 WEST 43rd ST. At Times Square NEW YORK CITY A Short Walk West of Grand Central Station ^ DAILY RATES Rooms with running water for one '2.002.50 3.00 for two 3.504.00 Rooms with private bath for one*3.50 4.00 4.50 for two 5.005.50i6.00 No Higher Rates All rooms have hot and cold running water and circulating ice water. T hough in the very heart of the famous Times Square district, close to the important shops, theatres and transit facilities, Hotel Woodstock has the quiet, genteel atmosphere so desired by our New England clientele. Guests are accommodated in rooms that are airy, spacious and most comfortably furnished. A particular feature of the hotel is itscuisineanddiningroomservice ^" Descriptive literature and map of Neu> York sent on request y^ High-Hattin< Hollywood (Continued from page 46) Martan arrived just a moment ahead of Jack Benny, who was to be master of ceremonies. The minutes sped past. It seemed that the hour of nine o'clock, like a living, conscious thing, was sweeping upon us. Finally a warning "Two minutes!" was shouted from the cage. There was a bustle of last minute activity. Like sailors at a life boat drill everyone hurried to his post. "Thirty seconds!" Thirty seconds and we would be on the air! You'd think the Kentucky Derby were about to start. Everyone was tense . . . Charlie King, Blanche Sweet, Jack Benny and all of them, from the boy with phones clasped over his ears and with his arm upraised ready to give the signal from the cage above, to the world prominent stars themselves. Sam Wineland, with his baton raised above his head, kept his eyes glued on the boy at the table. The moment was fascinating. Suddenly the boy's arm jerked. Sam Wineland's baton came down with it, as the orchestra broke into the pulse-quickening strains of the Metro-GoldwynMayer "signature song". The spell was broken. We were on the air. The orchestra swung into a fast jazz number. A moment later the doorkeeper opened the stage door quietly to admit a diminutive young lady in a smart tan sports suit. It was Bessie Love, big as . . . or, to express it more aptly, little as . . . life. She was accompanied by her husband, the popular young business man. Charlie Hawks. The pair tiptoed across to the broadcasting set, smiling greetings to numerous friends. But the jazz music was too much for Bessie. She retired behind the huge screen and went through some dance steps the like of which never graced screen or ballroom. Later in the hour Charlie King was singing one of the famous songs from Broadway Melody, assisted by the orchestra and chorus. There is a gripping fascination to these "movie" programs that is individual and entirely unlike anything else on the air. But that is enough of this program. When we had gone off the air the entire group, even the few of us who were nonparticipants, relaxed with a sigh that showed the tension we had been under and of which we had scarcely been conscious. What has all this talk about the Hollywood sound stages and the studios to do with the Radio program? It unquestionably is a vital part of the broadcast . . . perhaps solely through the romantic appeal of hearing something direct from Hollywood. There is magic in the name. Puppy Love (Continued from page 49) has happened to his playmate and relative. He misses Lobo during the play hours in Central Park; he misses him in the country, for then Lobo used to jump over high fences and bark a challenge to the younger dog, as if to say, "Let's see you do that." And he misses the harmless bites and nips Lobo used to torment him with at their home. Professional jealousy never crept in. Only once did Moore resent the presence of Lobo. A couple of years ago, more or less, Moore was courting a college co-ed in sunny California and Lobo became jealous of his master's attentions. The girl became equally angry at Lobo's impudence; he would decline — and it is the one instance of disobedience — to leave his master while he was walking with the girl. When Lobo's death was announced, tributes came from far and wide, from the Radio audience, friends and celebrities. Murray Roth, vitaphone production man; Miss Eva Clark, operatic soprano, and Rudy Vallee, all wired consolatory messages. Moore says that he received some 500 telegrams and letters. Moore himself was so grief-stricken that members of the orchestra were hard pressed to keep the ball rolling. The master preferred a quiet, solemn funeral for Lobo, a funeral that did not even witness the playing of a single air by Lobo's orchestra. So Lobo was buried in a New York dog cemetery — and now there is a movement on foot to place a fitting marker over his grave. He was a famed dog, second only to Rin-Tin-Tin in the eyes of the American public. Had he not amused many people — to say nothing of frustrating dogs and cats — by his barks over the air? He played the roles of an Eskimo malamute and a bloodhound, and, furthermore, it is a fact that he won the favor of the President of France and American Ambassador Walter Edge in Paris. Also he was photographed in several movie shorts. When Lobo won the favor of the President of France he saved a delicate moment for Horace Heidt and his Californians. The scene was the stage of a fashionable Parisian theater, the curtain was up. But the orchestra was not seated and a superimposed platform was inconveniently small. For a moment confusion reigned in the hearts of the orchestra members, all men with college educations, but Lobo, with the mind of a child of nine, stepped forward and bowed and wagged his tail. The French liked that and Lobo had saved the moment. There was nothing Lobo liked better than a good big bone. Likewise he relished raw meat, and it was that which led to his death. Lobo and Lobo II were both fed raw meat one Thursday night and Lobo II immediately took ill, but recovered in a few hours. Lobo did not become ill until the following night. During that night and up to the next Monday morning, when he finally died, six veterinarians were in attendance. Lobo suffered four hemorrhages and failed to sleep during the length of his illness. Nick Kenny, a New York Radio editor and columnist, wrote a little verse entitled The Empty Chair, at the time of Lobo's death. In conclusion, he wrote: "But if there's a dog's heaven Up there in the skies, We know good old Lobo is there." No, Moore did not have any insurance on Lobo.