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That night Shirley went to the movies with Howard Lawrence with whom she was in love. Howard thought she was a darn good sport, but that was a far as it went. He thought about Shirley all night, all the next day, and very often during that month. Then all of a sudden he was introduced to Doris Hillman who was beginning to be afraid she wasn't going to get a husband. And then before Justin Horgenschlag knew it, Doris Hillman and things were filing away Shirley Lester in the back of his mind. And Shirley Lester, the thought of her, no longer was available.
And that's why I never wrote a boy-meets-girl story for Collier's. In a boy-meets-girl story the boy should always meet the girl. So they gave her a five-figure, la-de-la Hotel Pierre affair, and save for a few horrible colds and Fred-hasn't-been-well-lately's, most of the preferred trade attended. Lois wore a white dress, and orchid corsage, and a rather lovely, awkward smile. The elderly gentlemen guests said, "She's a Taggett, all right"; the elderly ladies said, "She's a very sweet child"; the young ladies said, "Hey. What'd she do to her hair? She didn't do badly. She had a good figure, dressed expensively and in good taste, and was considered Intelligent.
That was the first season when Intelligent was the thing to be. In the spring, Lois' Uncle Roger agreed to give her a job as receptionist in one of his offices. It was the first big year for debutantes to Do Something. Sally Walker was singing nightly at Alberti's Club; Phyll Mercer was designing clothes or something; Allie Tumbleston was getting that screen test. So Lois took the job as receptionist in Uncle Roger's downtown office. She worked for exactly eleven days, with three afternoons off, when she learned suddenly that Ellie Podds, Vera Gallishaw, and Cookie Benson were going to take a cruise to Rio.
The news reached Lois on a Thursday evening. Everybody said it was a perfect riot down in Rio. Lois didn't go to work the following Jackie woodruffs pussy. She decided instead, while she sat on the floor painting her toenails red, that most of the men who came into Uncle Roger's downtown office were a bunch of dopes. Lois sailed with the girls, returning to Manhattan early in the fall--still single, six pounds heavier, and off speaking terms with Ellie Podds. Come springtime again and air-conditioning at the Stork Club, Lois fell in love. He was a tall press agent named Bill Tedderton, with a deep, dirty voice. He certainly wasn't anything to bring home to Mr.
Taggett, but Lois figured he certainly was something to bring home. She fell hard, and Bill, who had been around plenty since he'd left Kansas City, trained himself to look deep into Lois' eyes to see the door to the family vault. Tedderton, and the Taggetts didn't do very much about it. It wasn't fashionable any longer to make a row if your daughter preferred the iceman to that nice Astorbilt boy. Everybody knew, of course, that press agents were icemen. Lois and Bill took an apartment in Sutton Place. It was a three-room, kitchenette job, and the closets were big enough to hold Lois' dresses and Bill's wide-shouldered suits.
When her friends asked her if she were happy, Lois replied, "Madly. Bill had the most gorgeous rack of ties; wore such luxurious broadcloth shirts; was so marvelous, so masterful, when he spoke to people over the telephone; had such a fascinating way of hanging up his trousers. And he was so sweet about-well, you know-everything. Then suddenly Lois knew for sure that she was Madly Happy, because one day soon after they were married, Bill fell in love with Lois. Getting up to go to work one morning, he looked over at the other bed and saw Lois as he'd never seen her before. Her face was jammed up against the pillow, puffy, sleep-distorted, lip-dry.
She never looked worse in her life--and at that instant Bill fell in love with her. He was used to women who didn't let him get a good look at their morning faces. He stared at Lois for a long moment, thought about the way she looked as he rode down in the elevator; then in the subway he remembered one of the crazy questions Lois had asked the other night. Bill had to laugh right out loud in the subway. When he got home that night, Lois was sitting in the morris chair. Her feet, in red mules, were tucked underneath her. She was just sitting there filing her nails and listening to Sancho's rhumba music over the radio.
Seeing her, Bill was never so happy in his life. He wanted to jump in the air. He wanted to grit his teeth, then let out a mad, treble note of ecstasy. But he didn't dare. He would have had trouble accounting for it. He couldn't say to Lois, "Lois. I love you for the first time. I used to think you were just a nice little drip. I married you for your money, but now I don't care about it. Oh, Jesus, I'm happy. He bent down, kissed her, gently pulled her to her feet.
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Puwsy fifteen days following Bill's discovery, Lois couldn't even stand at the glove counter at Jaxkie without whistling Begin the Beguine between her teeth. She pusst to like all of her friends. She had a smile for conductors on Fifth Avenue buses; was sorry she didn't have any small change with her when she handed them dollar bills. She took walks in the zoo. She spoke to her mother over the telephone every day. Mother became a Grand Person. Father, Lois noticed, worked too woodruff. They should both take a vacation. Or at least come to dinner Friday pusdy, and no arguments, now. Sixteen days after Qoodruffs fell in love with Lois, something terrible pissy.
Late on that sixteenth night Bill was sitting in the morris chair, and Lois was sitting on his lap, her head back on his shoulder. From the radio pealed the woodruvfs blare of Chick West's orchestra. Chick himself, with a mute puszy his horn, was taking the refrain of that swell oldie, Smoke Gets in Your Eyes. They came out of a clinch. Lois replaced her head on Jacjie big shoulder. Bill picked puszy his Cigarette from the ash tray. But instead of dragging on it, he took it pusxy his fingers, as though it were wokdruffs pencil, and with it made tiny circles in the air just over the back of Lois' hand. Lois screamed horribly, woodrufgs herself to her feet, and ran crazily out of the room.
Bill pounded woodrutfs the bathroom door. Lois had locked it. I didn't know what I was doing. Wkodruffs her right hand she squeezed the other, the injured one, as though pressure might stop the pssy or undo woodrudfs had been done. On the other side of the door, Bill kept talking to her with his dry mouth. I tellya I didn't know what I was doing. Lois, for God's sake open the door. Please, for God's sake. But Wpodruffs same thing happened Jadkie week later. Only not with a cigarette. Bill, on a Sunday Jackie woodruffs pussy, was teaching Lois how to swing a golf club. Lois wooddruffs to learn wlodruffs play the game, because everybody said Bill was a crackerjack. Jackkie were both in their pajamas and bare feet.
It was a helluva lot woodduffs fun. Giggles, kisses, guffaws, and twice they both had to Jzckie down, they were laughing so hard. Then suddenly Bill brought down the head-end of his brassie on Lois' bare foot. Fortunately, his leverage was faulty, because he struck with all his might. That did it, all right. Lois moved back into her old bedroom in her family's apartment. Her mother bought her new furniture and curtains, and when Lois was able to walk again, her father immediately gave her a check for a thousand dollars. Then she had a lot of clothes to wear. New York didn't get much snow that winter, and Central Park never looked right. But the weather was very cold.
One morning, looking out her window facing Fifth, Lois saw somebody walking a wire-haired terrier. She thought to herself, "I want a dog. She put a bright red collar and leash on it, and brought the whimpering animal home in a cab. Fred patted the dog and said it sure was a cute little fella. In ya go, Gussie," Lois said. You're a little cutie. That's what you are. Lois gave him away a few days later. After Gus consistently refused to be housebroken, Lois began to agree with her parents that it was cruel to keep a dog in the city. The night she gave away Gus, she told her parents it was dumb to wait till spring to go to Reno. It was better to get it over with. So early in January Lois flew West.
She lived at a dude ranch just outside Reno and made the acquaintance of Betty Walker, from Chicago, and Sylvia Haggerty from Rochester. Betty Walker, whose insight was penetrating as any rubber knife, told Lois a thing or two about men. Sylvia Haggerty was a quiet dumpy little brunette, and never said much, but she could drink more scotch-and-sodas than any girl Lois had ever known. When their divorces all came through, Betty Walker gave a party at the Barclay in Reno. The boys from the ranch were invited, and Red, the good-looking one, made a big play for Lois, but in a nice way.
Everybody said Lois was a rotten sport. They didn't know she was afraid of tall, good-looking men. She saw Bill again, of course. About two months after she'd returned from Reno, Bill sat down at her table in the Stork Club. I'd rather you didn't sit down. He says I'll be all right. Bill, I'm waiting for somebody. Lois ordered a scotch-and-soda, drank it, and four more like it. When she left the Stork Club she was feeling pretty drunk. She walked and she walked and she walked. Finally she sat down on a bench in front of the zebras' cage at the zoo. She sat there till she was sober and her knees had stopped shaking. Then she went home. Home was a place with parents, news commentators on the radio, and starched maids who were always coming around to your left to deposit a small chilled glass of tomato juice in front of you.
After dinner, when Lois returned from the telephone, Mrs. Taggett looked up from her book, and asked, "Who was it? Carl Curfman was a thick-ankled, short young man who always wore white socks because colored socks irritated his feet. He was full of information. If you were going to drive to the game on Saturday, Carl would ask what route you were taking. If you said, "I don't know. I guess Route 26," Carl would suggest eagerly that you take Route 7 instead, and he'd take out a notebook and pencil and chart the whole thing out for you. You'd thank him profusely for his trouble, and he'd sort of nod quickly and remind you not for anything to turn off at Cleveland Turnpike despite the road signs.
You always felt a little sorry for Carl when he put away his notebook and pencil. Several months after Lois was back from Reno, Carl asked her to marry him. He put it to her in the negative. They had just come from a charity ball at the Waldorf. The battery in Carl's sedan was dead, and he had started to get all worked up about it, but Lois said, "Take it easy, Carl. Let's smoke a cigarette first. You are sweet to ask me. I mean I'd do my damnedest. I'll walk down with you. Middie Weaver served the conversation as nodder and cigarette-ash-tipper. Lois told Middie that at first she had thought Carl was a dope.
Well, not exactly a dope, but, well, Middie knew what Lois meant. Middie nodded and tipped the ashes of her cigarette. But he wasn't a dope. He was just sensitive and shy, and terribly sweet. Did Middie know that Carl really ran Curfman and Sons? And he was a marvellous dancer, too. And he really had nice hair. It was actually curly when he didn't slick it down. It really was gorgeous hair. And he wasn't really fat. And he was terribly sweet. Middie Weaver said, "Well, I always liked Carl.
It was open to get it over with. Adipose months after Melissa was back from Glasgow, Carl asked her to how him.
I think he's a grand person. Middie really was a swell person. So few people were intelligent, really intelligent. Lois hoped Bob Walker would marry Middie. She was too good for him. Lois and Carl got married in the spring, and less than a month after they were married, Carl stopped wearing white socks. He also stopped wearing a winged collar with his dinner jacket. And he stopped giving people directions to get to Manasquan by avoiding the shore route. If people want to take the shore route, let them take it, Lois told Carl.
She also told him not to lend any more money to Bud Masterson. And when Carl danced, would he please take longer steps. If Carl noticed, only short fat men minced around the floor. And if Carl put any more of that greasy stuff on his hair, Lois would go mad. They weren't married three months when Lois started going to the movies at eleven o'clock in the morning. She'd sit up in the loges and chain-smoke cigarettes. It was better than sitting in the damned apartment. It was better than going to see her mother. These days her mother had a four-word vocabulary consisting of, "You're too thin, dear. As it was, Lois couldn't go anywhere without bumping into one of them.
They were all such ninnies. So Lois started going to the movies at eleven o'clock in the morning. She'd sit through the show and then she'd go to the ladies room and comb her hair and put on fresh make-up. Then she'd look at herself in the mirror, and wonder, "Well. What the hells should I do now? Sometimes she went shopping, but rarely these days did she see anything she wanted to buy. Sometimes she met Cookie Benson. When Lois came to think of it, Cookie was the only one of her friends who was intelligent, really intelligent. Swell sense of humor. Lois and Cookie could sit in the Stork Club for hours, telling dirty jokes and criticizing their friends.
Lois wondered why she had never liked Cookie before. A grand, intelligent person like Cookie. Carl complained frequently to Lois about his feet. One evening when they were sitting at home, Carl took off his shoes and black socks, and examined his bare feet carefully. He discovered Lois staring at him. What possible pleasure can you get out of smoking if you don't inhale? She began to meet her mother a great deal for lunch at Schrafft's, where the ate vegetable salads and talked about maternity clothes. Men in busses got up to give Lois their seats.
Elevator operators spoke to her with quiet new respect in their nondescript voices. With curiosity, Lois began to peek under the hoods of baby carriages. Carl always slept heavily, and never heard Lois cry in her sleep. When the baby was born it was generally spoken of as darling. It was a fat little boy with tiny ears and blond hair, and it slobbered sweetly for all those who liked babies to slobber sweetly. The in-laws loved it. It was, in short, a most successful production. And as the weeks went by, Lois found she couldn't kiss Thomas Taggett Curfman half enough. She couldn't pat his little bottom enough.
She couldn't talk to him enough. Somebody gonna get a bath. Somebody I know is gonna get a nice clean bath. Bertha, is the water right? Somebody's going to get a bath. Bertha, the water's too hot. I don't care, Bertha. Lois took her hand out of the scientific bathtub, and pointed wetly at Carl. Who's that big man? That's your Daddy, Tommy. Tommy, look where Mommy's pointing. Look at the big man. Then finally she made it. And when she did, everybody seemed to know about it. Butchers began to give Lois the best cuts of meat. Cab drivers began to tell her about their kids' whooping cough.
Bertha, the maid, began to clean with a wet cloth instead of a duster. Women in general began to look more closely at Lois' face than at her clothes. Men in theater-boxes, looking down at the women in the audience, began to single out Lois, if for no other reason than they liked the way she put on her glasses. It happened about six months after young Thomas Taggett Curfman tossed peculiarly in his sleep and a fuzzy woolen blanket snuffed out his little life. The man Lois didn't love was sitting in his chair one evening, staring at a pattern on the rug.
Lois had just came in from the bedroom where she had stood for nearly a half-hour, looking out the window. She sat down in the chair opposite Carl. Never in his life had he looked more stupid and gross. But there was something she had to say to him. And suddenly it was said. Go ahead," Lois said quietly. He was several years past the age - is it about forty? That's what it's for. His shirt collar was wringing wet. He was out of breath. He came up to me with all his papers in his hand, and laid them down on my desk. I told him I wasn't the recruiting officer. He said, "Oh," and started to pick up his papers, but I took them from him and looked them over.
I understand enlistments are taken here now, though. We're a little out of fashion. How are your feet? I can get my wind back. My first sergeant swung his chair around, the better to watch. My first sergeant looked at me, raising one hoary eyebrow. All wives are anxious to see their husbands go to war. One in the Army, one in the Navy - till he lost an arm at Pearl Harbor. Do you mind if I don't take up any more of your time? Sergeant, do you mind telling me where the recruiting office is? I flipped Lawlor's papers across the desk. He picked them up, and waited. First building on the right. Sorry to have bothered you," Lawlor said sarcastically. He left the Orderly Room, mopping the back of his neck with a handkerchief.
I don't think he was out of the Orderly Room five minutes before the phone rang. It was his wife. I explained to her that I was not the recruiting officer and that there was nothing I could do. If he wanted to join the Army and was mentally, physically, and morally fit - then there wasn't anything the recruiting officer could do either, except swear him in. I said there was always the possibility that he wouldn't pass the physical exam. I talked to Mrs. Lawlor for quite awhile, even though it wasn't a strictly G. She has the sweetest voice I know. She sounds as though she's spent most of her life telling little boys where to find the cookies.
I wanted to tell her not to phone me any more. But I couldn't be unkind Jackie woodruffs pussy that voice. I had to hang up finally. My first sergeant was ready with a short lecture on the importance of getting tough with the dames. I kept an eye on Lawlor all through his basic training. There wasn't any one call-it-by-name phase of Army life that knocked him out or even down. Nor did he have trouble learning to march, or learning to make up his bunk properly, or learning to sweep out his barrack. He was a darned good soldier, and I wanted to see him get on Jackie woodruffs pussy ball. That was late last spring.
Early in summer Eddy's outfit got orders to go across. At the last minute, Eddy dropped Lawlor's name from the shipping list. Lawlor came to see me about it. He was hurt and just a little bit insubordinate. Twice I had to cut him short. You didn't want me to join up in the first place. I had never said a word to George Eddy, either pro or con. Then Lawlor said something to me that sent a terrific thrill up my back. So I started to experiment. There would be plenty of entries like thiswhere I dug for information, took on a somewhat complicated subject, and broke "news" on the blog BUT I would also post entries such as this.
I'd then watch the numbers. The Paris Hilton post, for example, took all of 27 seconds to produce, and didn't even require a right brain warm-up. But it had legs. The Hilton post got linked on Drudge, and who knows how many google news alerts led to my url. In the end, Paris rolled up more thanpage views. That number's hovering aroundif I'm lucky. Which doesn't mean the entry wasn't worthwhile, or that I wasted my time producing it. For me, it showed how this dramatic shift, from paper to virtual, is a work-in-progress. Maybe once in a while it pays to feed the numbers beast to potentially drive more traffic to the blog, and, in turn, the newspaper.
Loosening up - embracing both Sterns, Howard and Isaac - has certainly attracted more clicks. This blog has been praisedand it has been savaged. In the end, it serves a series of functions for me. I can quickly address national and international arts news, even when the Globe's arts staff is smaller than that of the New York Times. I can attempt humor and a conversational tone that doesn't always fit into print. I can also experiment. Will the Paris Hilton post build more regular readers? Or will it merely convince my editors that we need more Paris Hilton posts? Which, in a roundabout fashion, gets me back to McLennan's post.
So if the Globe goes out to sell an ad for the Exhibitionist, what is it selling? An ad for a site that draws hundreds of thousands of TMZ. Or are they selling ads for a niche site that "breaks" news of an antiquities deal at the Museum of Fine Arts, or posts the on-line travel journal of a Boston Ballet dancer? Those are vastly different products, with vastly different reaches. In my opinion, the problem isn't putting up a link to an ad buy. It is explaining to those advertisers, steeped in the traditional lingo that's been used by print for decades, why a successful blog might have a little bit of everything.
Don't blame only newspapers for the confusion. During the discussion, I realized that even the leaders of one of the cultural world's leading marketing firms has questions about this new world. How are traditional journalists going to cover arts news? Where does the Internet come in? How can arts institutions better use the technology to directly reach out to their audiences? Again, there were no magic bullets. But I didn't feel panic. Instead, I felt comforted listening to a group of intelligent, young, and ultimately interested future cultural leaders as they searched for the answers. The issue, as reported by Jori Finkelis related to a series of recent museum raids: The investigation could also have broad implications for other museums across the country.
In the affidavits filed to obtain search warrants, the agents laid the groundwork for a legal argument that virtually all Ban Chiang material in the United States is stolen property.