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RADIO STARS What, >boe? The finale Piani: Altogether, now. Sh ush! One moment, pleasel The crowded . ." He wel- Look, look, look! Colonel Stoopnagle and Budd. In tuxedos with that Fifth Avenue cut and white carnations in their lapels that reek of prosperity. Budd is medium size, blond, shrewd and humor- ous of face. The Colonel is stockier, with a roly-poly countenance tanned still by Florida sunshine. There is their organ, their mighty gas-pipe organ that has played so many Publixy endings. The guy leaning on it is Louis Dean, good oP Louie, the Dean of all announcers. And his hand is going up . . . up and out seats become quiet. "In behalf of Pontiac comes us, tells us to applaud if we feel like it, to hiss if we wish. Finishing, he goes to a mike, a watch in his hand. Kostelanetz in tails and eyeglasses holds a baton over his crouching musicians. You can hear a pin drop. Mrs. Ora D. Nichols, mistress of Columbia's sound-making equipment, makes herself comfortable in a white fur coat. Her assistant, George O'Donnell, looks boredly at the big Pontiac Indian head painted on the back wall of the stage. A man with a wad of papers in his hand motions abruptly to Kostelanetz. The baton swoops floorward and rises on a flood of harmony. The music fades abruptly and Louis Dean leans toward his mike. "Ladies and gentlemen, Pontiac presents . . ." The music lashes itself into a tumult and a group of impeccably dressed men and women cluster like a college quartet before a mike and let their voices roar. Sound crowds the music chamber, whips into our ears and fills us with a stirring rhythm. Abruptly, it becomes a whis- 24 per. Uncle Louis Dean speaks again. "Ladies and gentlemen, Pontiac pre- sents . . . presents . . . er-r-r . . . um-m-m . . . presents . . ." Budd and the Colonel are at their own mike. "He must mean us," says the Colonel to Budd and a dozen million loudspeakers. "Maybe we should say something," says Budd. And they do say something. Have you heard of technocracy? Then you ought to know about Stoopnocracy. It is Stoopnagle's idea of the way to make life one long session of undiluted bliss. Just a week ago, he introduced it to his radio audience. Already, mail from every state in the Union is flooding his office. Mail that contains new suggestions. If you've got a pet peeve, now is the time to have it attended to. That is the business of Stoop- nocracy. To eliminate all harsh irritants. THE Colonel suggests that Budd read some of the letters. One chap wants the backward swing in hammocks abolished. "A forward step," praises Stoopnagle. Another letter writer suggests that Stoopnocracy eliminate the inside of cakes of soap so when the outside is used up the inside won't be left for people to step on. You get the idea, don't you? Real practical suggestions for the improvement of mankind's lot in this world. Strangely enough, they aren't from school kids or pranksters, either. Some of those letter writers, Budd told me the other day, are bank presidents and sales managers and lawyers. They finish their skit and Kostelanetz leads his men into a popular number. Jeannie (Continued on page38)