Radio and television mirror (July-Dec 1951)

with Walter Winchell. Joseph Schenck, Vice President Alben Barkley, Louella Parsons, Leslie Biffle, Glenn McCarthy —these and dozens of others of the biggest names in Government, show business and industry have gathered there this winter. Walter sees them all. Sometimes, however, the crowd consists of people like the lady who was embarrassed at the night club, and today Walter is in no mood for that. By an odd chance, only three old friends are waiting now; so he climbs into swim-trunks and sets forth. Stop now, for just a second, and recall the beautiful June morning when you stepped out of your front door and thought, "Why, it's the first day of summer!" Remember how blue the sky was, with just a few puffs of whipped cream clouds on the horizon? How fresh the air smelled? Well, add a tang of sea salt to that, substitute a few royal palms for the chestnuts and maples on your lawn; put white coral sand under your feet and adjust the thermostat in your mind to about 78 degrees. Then walk with Walter out to his cabana on this fine afternoon. Until this moment he has been relatively alone. He would like to stay that way, and there is every chance that he will. His usual "gang" — Scheffels, Irving Mandell (a public relations man) and two or three other pals who come and go throughout the season — will be in attendance. And since he has decided not to go to the track today, a mere dozen or so local and visiting personalities will join him as he suns himself. Arthur Godfrey will probably drop in for a few minutes, and Milton Berle, and Sophie Tucker with a wonderful new story, and Joe E. Lewis. A senator with something to say about the current cold war situation; a couple of dancers from a new act at one of the late spots, asking advice; a representative of a committee working up a local benefit show; someone with a new idea on how to make money for the Runyon Fund — . these will stop and talk and move on. He's in luck, his privacy practically undisturbed. But the sun goes down in Miami too, even if the Chamber of Commerce would have you believe otherwise, and Walter's true day will start within another hour. He changes from trunks to slacks and shirt, and makes for his daily date with the barber. There's a phone in the barber shop, of course, one he can't turn on or off . . . He has made a date with his wife and daughter (his son hasn't returned from the fishing trip) for dinner ^le drives them in his sleek convertible to Ciro's, where the food is excellent, the service superb and the atmosphere quiet because the evening is still but a pup. Not more than five people come up to his table to talk to him while he is dining, and such a small number doesn't count. He has had a quiet dinner with his family, after all. While the day is still so young Walter, back at the hotel once more, would like to get in some practice on the putting green. Golf is his newest enthusiasm. He hasn't reached the point where he feels qualified to try himself on a full-sized golf-course, but he is going to try this one, anyway. (Earlier in the season, just after famous golfer Walter Hagen sent him a putter, Walter found his putting practice curtailed by the fact that night usually fell before he had a chance to limber up on the green. The Roney's amiable manager quickly corrected that situation. He installed lights.) Frank Stranahan, another golfer of national repute, is around to give him some pointers and to make a contest of the game. Stranahan wins, of course, and Walter will report the fact in his column next day. If and when he beats Frank he'll report that too — in italics. But it is time to start the rounds of the clubs, and now the Winchell day begins to take on pace, the rhythm of a busy man having a busy holiday. The first stop is Copa City, designed by Norman Bel Geddes. A visiting wit, upon viewing the acres of glass front, dance space and numerous lounges comprising this palace of pleasure, recently remarked, "Now I'm really convinced that Norman has an edifice complex," and you can well believe it. One show is going on in the enormous cocktail lounge, another in the club itself. W J alter doesn't stay long, having seen ' both shows. Mrs. Winchell and Walda want to hear Joe E. Lewis and sit listening to his elfin whimsies while Winchell talks to a man from the Miami Beach Police Department Benevolent Association. He's in a sad way, it seems. "We're putting on our annual show next week," he explains, "but the chief doesn't want us to sell tickets directly — lots of people take that as strong-arm stuff — and it looks like a flop. It's a good cause and a lot of deserving people are going to take the rap. Have you got any suggestions?" "Hm," says Walter, getting the old Winchell glint in his eye. This is strictly his meat. "Tell you what I'll do — suppose I round up some radio and picture stars who're in town, put the show on the air and emcee it myself? I'll plug it in the column plenty of time in advance. As a starter, you can send a thousand buck's worth of tickets over to the Vet's Hospital in Coral Gables, and bill me. Now let's see, will Martin and Lewis still be here — ■?" (The show was a sellout, with hundreds turned away from the doors.) The next stop is the Beachcomber, where Walter loses his tie. It is made of a dollar bill, Walter wears it tonight with a special idea in mind. The idea works. A rich tourist sees the tie, likes it, and asks to buy it. "Twenty bucks for the Runyon Fund buys it," Walter says. Whereupon someone reminds him that it is time for the private showing of a movie at a local theater. He can't see every play and movie produced, or watch every TV show or read every book, so he is willing to quote cumulative opinions for his column. Really important pictures, however, he does see. A print has been flown down from New York and will be run off for him and his party as soon as the last stragglers have left a local theater. It is two A. M. when he finishes this. Time for a quick bite of supper somewhere nearby — then at three, home. Bedtime will be an hour later tonight. He has, a few days before, read into his tape recorder a portion of next Sunday's broadcast — the editorial section— and now is a good time to play it back, make corrections, cut out a line here, add one there. But by fourthirty the lights are out, the phone is cut off, the only sound is the rustling of curtains in the soft early morning breeze and the murmur of surf. It has been a quiet, easy day and he's had a real rest. Tomorrow, of course, he'll have to get busy again — but for the moment he is mightily pleased with himself. 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