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EDDIE 'LIVES IT UP’ ...AND LIKES IT not Fisher asks himself serious ques¬ tions when he goes to bed at night is something only he can say. On the surface, he is a happy young kid who is delighted with the way things are going. “I love every minute of it,” he says, the innocent wide eyes belied just a little bit by a knowing grin. He should, for he is living the dream of every young kid—money, fame, fortune, adulation, all in gross lots and none particularly hard come-by. This past summer Fisher spent in Beverly Hills, Cal., where the people who live north of Sunset Boulevard are just a touch more conscious of their social status than those who live to the south. Fisher rented a medium¬ sized white colonial mansion in Cold- water Canyon, north, and spent six weeks living it up. There was a touch of the phony in the whole setup, although it was not anything that sprang from Fisher himself. The house, with its pool and terrace, was something of a mecca. Song pluggers, record executives, disc jockeys, reporters, TV people—all had a way of dropping by. Nobody bothered with introductions. The center of attraction, Fisher carried it off with an easy grace. If he has not yet acquired the polish of an older man, he comes off even bet¬ ter with his natural air of friendliness. The fact of the matter is that he is wholeheartedly in love with his good fortune, and it shows without being offensive. He is a kid having a ball. His feet have yet to start hurting. When they do start hurting, young Eddie will be face-to-face with the Debbie and Eddie: romance with Miss Reynolds? He just smiles. brass tacks of show-business life. Frank Sinatra, the last genuine Gold¬ en Boy prior to Fisher, wasn’t quite up to taking it, and went through a long and unhappy siege of bad press relations, unfortunate gangland asso¬ ciations and a Sunday-supplement marriage that did him no good what¬ soever. The initial glitter, in short, went straight to Sinatra’s head. The head of the current No. 1 Mil¬ lion Dollar Golden Boy seems,for the time being, still pretty well set on his shoulders. Actually, he is too bjisy to do anything except what he is told and his advisors to date have been on the right track. He has two radio and two TV shows a week for Coca-Cola and records for RCA Victor. He does personal appearances when he can squeeze them in and makes at least a pretense of reading movie scripts submitted to him. His business man¬ ager has the final say on them—and the final say thus far has been no. This, too, has been all right with Fisher. A dozen years ago he was a huckster—literally—helping his fa¬ ther with a fruit-and-grocery wagon in the streets of South Philadelphia. His first singing job was with a local radio station for $18 a week. And in 1949, when he and a boyhood friend, Bernie Rich, were entertaining the tourists at Grossinger’s in New York’s Catskill Mountains, Eddie Cantor found