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Showme October, 1956; by Students of the University of Missouri Columbia, MO 1956

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Showme Here we are.so what issue 25 cents Having a party or formal ? Call FRANK SULLIVAN you'll be glad you did Puckett's the novus shop letters 5 Oct. 1956 Editor, Showme (By telegraph and telephone) Esquire magazine is planning to run a college fashion section next March. We are polling the editors of what we consider the better college magazines. Return the requested report to Fred Birmingham, fashion editor. I read Showme during my recent college days and think you put out a top-notch college magazine. Harold Hayes Esquire Magazine New York 5, N.Y. Dear K. C. Barwriter: Next month. Eds. Dear Nanci: Upon reading in the newspa- per of your accepting the co-ed- itorship of Showme I was over- whelmingly gratified. I can think of no one person who can more adequately fill the responsibili- ties and problems that go with the office. Surely, you have the ability, the brains and the aggressiveness that must go with the job. On top of being gracious and beauti- ful, you will no doubt be one of the most outstanding editors in the history of the magazine. Good luck! Nanci Bob Williams, Editor Showme 302 Read Hall Dear Bob: Hackneyed as it sounds, this is my first letter to an editor, so please excuse me if I fail to fol- low the prescribed form. I can't help but express my pleasure and satisfaction with the May 1956 issue of Showme I feel that you and your staff de- serve a word of praise. I don't usually buy the Show- me and it was only by chance that I borrowed a copy here from a friend in the dorms. I was truly pleased and surprised with this month's product. Especially, did your article, "Swami Throws a Mad," hit the spot. In the two years I've been here, I've notice how much alike everyone looked. It even reached the point where I had to take a good second look to see if it was a friend or just another product of the mass production mold call- ed M.U. Being a lowly freshman, I felt I had no right to criticize. This year, again, I've said nothing be- cause I didn't know where or how to go about it. All this is leading up to this: I want to thank you for saying so eloquently and well what I've wanted to for two years. I realize you'll probably get a lot of - thrown your way, so I thought I'd add a wilted rose to stick on top of the pile. I sincerely hope you can and will follow thru on your fresh slant on things here on campus. Sincerely, Jerry Clack 302 Cramer Hall May 21, 1956 Jerry: Praise for "Mad" should go to Skip Troelstrup, who labored so long and diligently to produce the work that you enjoyed so much. He has an eye for the out- of-the-ordinary, and you can ex- pect to see more in the series by him. For the record, we didn't get a lot of - - thrown our way, but your wilted posie is welcome just the same. Matter of fact, everybody pretty much came through with praise on Skip's work. Ed. ROMANO'S ROMANO'S BOWL McAllister's MANEATER 1957 MISS MIZZOU Editors' Ego This did start out to be a back-to-the-grind issue, as the noble MANEATER reported, but due to minor turnovers in per- sonnel, publication was delay- ed and here we are with a month chewed out of a new semester. We intend to account for this delay by bunching up a few is- sues, so all you subscribers will get your nine months' worth. The first issue of a magazine under new editorship is inevit- ably met with an over-critical eye. People over in J-School keep telling us they are expecting Great Things from two such fine journalists. (Just hope they don't think this is going to be the Missourian in magazine for- mat!) However, we will try to follow deskbook rules for punc- tuation and abbreviation and we vow to check all names with source and directory. We think you'll find a great variety of entertainment in this "Here We Are-So What Issue". There's a fine short story by old SHOWME staffer Ginny Turman, who's also our Joke Editor( she gets to read all the dirty maga- zines.) Of course Dick Noel is back Around the Columns again, drawing mad cartoons and drink- ing SHOWME beer with wild abandon and little concern for Carl Weseman's bookkeeping. Ron Soble gets the credit for our two picture parodies. Watch future SHOWME'S for a new slant on magazine photo coverage. And be sure to see next month's issue for a hilarious satire by Richard Manning, entitled The Canterbury Tail. (It's amazing that no one ever thought of that play on words before!) Being a little prejudiced, we are probably overly proud of this month's cover by Skip Troelstrup (the male half of the Ego). We think it's good enough to be cast in bronze and erected as the symbol of the spirit of Mizzou. The administration could even use it on letterheads or as the official seal. Everybody's sick of the Columns anyway. And it would give Waldo some- thing new to think about. Before we forget, many thanx to Bob Williams for helping us put this magazine together. He also left us enough of his own stories to fill SHOWME for a year. In consideration of his great contribution to our publication, we confer upon him the honor- ary title of Editor-Emeritus. (Note: honorary means gratui- tous, without recompense: no pay, Williams!) ALRIGHT, what we really need is new talent. If you're in- terested in working for SHOWME, come up to 302 Read Hall any- time and don't let any of the lower-case bohemians hanging around the office scare you a w a y. They're harmless. If you're interested in writing, il- lustration, selling ads or doing copy and layout, photography or secretarial work, come up and see us - or phone 3-7675. If you don't find anyone around the office (we sometimes get tied up in J-School), call Nanci at 2-9855 or Skip at 3-4053. We haven't thrown out center- spreads. We were just caught in a time squeeze. They'll be back. As a matter of fact, the tenth anniversary issue of our first centerspread, originated by Mort Walker, is rolling around. We're planning a centerspread issue which will be loaded with the best ever run. Collector's item. We welcome criticism as well as compliments, so mail or drop your letters by. Showme EDITORS Skip Troelstrup Nanci Schelker BUSINESS MANAGER Carl Weseman PHOTOS Dick Shoemaker Bob Garrett OFFICE MANAGER Pat Deatherage EDITORIAL ASSISTANT Dick Noel PUBLICITY Ken McWade SUBSCRIPTIONS Joanne Petefish FEATURES Ron Soble CIRCULATION Bob Clatanoff EXCHANGES Nancy Bales ADVERTISING Ed Minning ART Tom Watson JOKES Ginny Turman FEATURES THE SAD SAGA OF THE 7:40 --------- 14 MAKING THE AMUURICAN GRADE ----- 26 SEQUENCE OF A SUMMER DAY ----------18 NO HUMOR FOR THE TOKEN ----------13 THURLOW ---------------------- 21 BALLADEER'S BARSTOOL ---------------30 SHOWME is published nine times during the college year by the students of the University of Missouri. Office: 302 Read Hall. Columbia, Mo. All rights reserved. Unsolicited manuscripts will not be returned unless accompanied by a self- addressed, stamped envelope. Advertising rates furnished on request. National Advertising Representatives: W. B. Bradbury Co., 122 East 42nd St., New York City. Printers: Modern Litho-Prnt Co., Jefferson City, Mo. Price: 25c a single copy; subscriptions by mail, $3.00. Editors' phone numbers G1. 2-4053 or G1. 2-9855. 5 Says Swami, this bold knight Symbolizes your plight Schools here, we shout, The bottom's dropped out. Around The Columns September 18, 1956 . . . . . I am out at the Stables engaged in my favorite pastime of counting the belts in the back and Wheeler just said the Cards are ahead 4 to 2 in the eighth which isn't particularly significant except perhaps if you are confronted with. a lull in a conversation and then you can come out with the fact that they are ahead 4 to 2 . . . Elvis is making rutting noises on the juke-box and just a minute ago a girl with a belt in back of her skirt came by and if she comes by again I will rise up and beat her about the head and shoulders if I can . . there is a new song on the juke-box now and it is being sung by several individuals whom I would wager to be members of a youth choir . . .but no doubt Elvis will come on again and drown them out . . . he always does, . my cigaret went out and I am getting out my lighter which says Ronson on it but if you read it sideways it says Zonzod and that is the way I am reading it naturally . . . yep, I knew it . . a guy came by just now and he had on one of them sweaters which looks like you got it on backwards and I told him the Cards were behind 4 to 2 in the eighth but he just sort of sneered at me so I attempted to thrash out and stomp on his white shoes . . there are some guys out in back playing horseshoes and hollering and going on and I can hear some- body in the other booth telling a girl about the African version of Russian roulette . . . hoo ha . . . well . . . Garret just came in so I think I will go over and talk to him . so I'll see you around . yeah . . .I'm in school again . . . OK . . . see ya THIS YEAR the Showme has a new editor - or editors, rather, since there are two of them - which may or may not be signifi- cant to you people. They are the sixth and seventh editors I have worked under and from what I can perceive thus far they are fairly normal, healthy, ridiculously red-blooded individ- uals, as were the other five. And, possessing the attributes I have named, they will no doubt do all the things editors are sup- posed to do; ergo: sell maga- zines and make coin. I mean they know which side their mel- ba is buttered on. So they will try to please you. Shape up. Be pleased. I realize there are those among you who are addicted to the Dairy Goat Journal, The Ad- ventures of Edward Shotgum. and other such literary accom- plishments, but as I said, Be Pleased. THIS MONTH, friends, is the ha p y contented sparkling bright clear fresh crisp month of October, so take advantage of it. When you wake up in the morning, look in the mirror and tell yourself that TODAY I WILL BE CRISP Go wild. Make crisp noises. Fall down. Break your hip. When an instructor asks you what Mr. Dryden's objective was in writing The Hind and the Panther, go Snap, Crackle, Pop! at him. He will be perplexed. He will be angry. He will cut them off. Be crisp. YOU KNOW, every year about this time, I have a great tendency to go into the book business. The reason is apparent. I know of no other venture that would return more on the capi- tal investment. The people who sell books make money. OUR money. Frankly, it is a very amazing thing to me that in a school as large as this one there is no bet- ter arrangement for selling and buying books than there is. Now I realize the people who sell books got to make money. That's alright. But it seems to me that while the Great State U. is build- ing hospitals, purchasing barren tracts of land, enforcing traffic regulations, and hiring ex-police- men, they could maybe find time to give the students a break. Now I know that some of the people who attend this enormous tread- mill of learning are financially able to spend thirty-five or for- ty bucks on their books, but I'm not. And darn near everybody I know isn't. 7 Seven dollars and fifty cents for a book. Two dollars and fifty cents when you try to sell it back. I don't know, friends, I just don't know. But if anybodys' got any ideas, I'll help. Even a lynching. I'll help. IN THE April 30, 1956 issue of Sports Illustrated, there is an article about Humphrey (snarl) Bogart, 54, and his 55-foot yawl Santana, Bogart, perhaps one of the meanest individuals ever to leer down the barrel of a loaded automatic, speaks of the peace and solitude of a boat, and ad- vocates only the strictest busi- nesslike seamanship on his yacht. Says Bogie: "I figure you can stay around the bars five days a week, why fuss up a nice day on the sea." Says wife Lauren Bacall: "I think sailing is an acquired taste." Says Bogie: "A good wife (snarl) sails where her hus- band sails." Says wife: "I know, and I throw up. I tried. I tried to love it, but I just don't. I get positive- ly green and then Bogie leers at me and says, 'How would you like a nice warm cup of fish?' " Says Bogie: "Snarl." YOU KNOW, some days I feel I am nothing but a hound dog. (crocking all the time.) A N ANTHROPOLOGIST- PRIEST who recently returned from New Guinea says he ob- served among pygmies the ap- parent workings of a "happiness vitamin." The Rev. Martin Gusinde des- cribed the source of pygmy hap- piness as "vitamin T" - and he told reporters they get it from eating beetles. There now. See? Now, to be happy, you don't have to go Lucky Strike. You can go bee- tles. A FEW WEEKS ago, people in the Welsh town of Llanfairp- wllgyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwll- antysiliogogoch became very an- gry because railway authorities had taken down their famed 26- foot-long railroad station signs. The signs were reduced to a mere 20 feet and the townspeo- ple are still agitating for a re- turn to the good old signs. The town's name means "The Church of St. Mary in a Hollow of White Hazle Near to a Rapid Whirlpool and to St. Tysilio's Church near to a Red Cove". This is no doubt fraught with significance to certain parties. Llanfairpwllgyngyllgogerychwy- rndrobwlllantysiliogogoch. I'll bet five bucks I can chug three glasses of beer before you can pronounce it. ONE BAD thing about writing this is that this year we are hav- ing Showme printed over at Jeff City - rather than here in Columbia, as it was last year. This presents problems. In order to get it to Jeff, have it printed, and get it back without compli- cations, we've got to turn our copy in about two weeks in ad- vance. A lot could happen in two weeks. The Bomb might drop. We might win two foot- ball games in a row. Some idiot might leap off Memorial Tower at high noon. And, if something of that nature did happen while we were in the process of print- ing, nothing would be said here about it. And you would think, "Why don't that Noel keep his eyes open." So just remember: we've got a two week time lag. Waitaminute. I can feel a ques- tion coming. Why did we move our printing over to Jeff City? It's cheaper, friend, cheaper. THROW away that torturous truss. Get a wheelbarrow. I SEE in the M Book, Your Hannde Booke of Information, where the good people here at our State U. can fine up for breaking certain traffic regula- tions. That's unfair. I mean, you sort of lounge around all summer, doing things both interesting and ridiculous, and then you come back here all un- suspecting and relaxed, you know, and then whamsockdolag- er boom! They hnd you a fine for merely driving your pink- and-black V-8 Spudmobile up onto Mr. Ellis' front yard. There ain't no justice. HAY, how are you guys get- ting along over at the dorms? Three to a room this year, isn't it? Nice and cozy? Getting to know your roomie pretty good? Want to strangle one of 'em? Well? Go ahead and do it. Go wild. Get your picture in the paper. Maybe the wire services will pick it up. Hell, you'll be famous. Won't have to go into the Army, either. Good deal. Use a scarf. SPEAKING of killing one an- other, I got a good movie you oughta see. The Bad Seed. It was a book, then it was a play, and now it's a movie. It's about this little girl, see, who's about twelve years old, and she's got this terrific mean streak in her. I mean she does, boy. She don't like hardly any- thing. She steps on bugs, and drowns her friends, and shoves her dog out of a five-story win- dow, and sets fire to people's houses, and, oh hell, everything. See, the catch is, you're sup- posed to think it's a big deal be- cause she's only twelve years old, but personally, I think they've kind of missed the boat on that. I mean, I know of some twelve year olds who are sort of like that. I don't mean they've killed anybody, you know. They haven't done that. Not yet. But you can betcher bottom dollar if they had the chance they wouldn't slack off. Nosir. You wouldn't catch them in bed. They'd be right out there, givin' it all they had, which is all any- body could expect, you know. I mean they might make a messy deal out of the first couple of times, but hell, they're only twelve years old. Whatayou ex- pect? A Saint Valentine's Massa- cre the first time out? But you just give 'em a couple of times, so as to get sort of warmed-up you know, and then you'd see fur fly. You bet you would. I'll stack my bunch of twelve-year- olds up against anybody in the country. The Bad Seed. See it. I GUESS I ought to say some- thing here about the beer prices going up. The price of beer has gone up. A nickel. No report yet on sody pop. THIS IS from the September 12 issue of Punch. Quote: Mr. Arthur Miller was referred to as "Mr. Marilyn" in front-page stories reporting his arrival in London "incognito un- der the name of 'Mr. Brown'." It is understood that in the future he intends to travel incognito un- der the name of Mr. Miller. little freshman don't look sad, send those big bills home to dad; he will have the needed ration for your four year paid vacation. I won't have to sweat at all . ... So welcome back to school, happy negative hours, save your cuts till you need 'em, don't blow your nose on your sleeve, cheat constantly on pop-quizzes, sew a belt on the back of your dog, have a bettle sandwich at least once a day, and don't vol- unteer for a damn thing . . . . . . adios, you motha . . nope! I promised I wouldn't do that. I mean they're bound to catch me sometime . . Be cheerful . Dick Noel 9 The Man With the Golden Thumb Believe It or Not Missouri Touchdown Wondering who should help thin girl who fell into beer bottle Out of Focus Photos by Dick Shoemaker Aw, c'mon . . . Put it back in the basket. Broadway at night . . . after Romano's Summer Session Some studied and some . Bring by your campus candids . . . Open to all. No Humor for the Token By Jane Glenn The girl sank despairingly to the park bench. He had gone and this sudden realization stunned her. A pigeon eyed her inquisitive- ly and cocked his head. But the girl was alone in thought. This was not the first time she had waited here. Each night for the past month he had met her at this bench. Most times she was the early one, for fear of missing him. But he had always waited for her to come when she was late before. He had not been far up the path when the girl arrived. She had called out to him and thought she saw his head turn. But he did not come to her. A cricket began warming his strings for his nightly concert. Along the freeway running par- allel to the park, cars carried the population toward the city's raucous nightlife. And the girl was alone. She shut her eyes from the flashing headlights and saw only his face. It had been sunny the first time she saw him. She had come to the park with a friend, and, while passing them, he had glanced her way. She recalled the embarrassment his glance had made her feel. For she was not able to give him anything that night in re- turn for the question in his eyes. Her heart had almost stopped beating as he continued up the path. On the next day she was there waiting for him. He was late, but she did not mind. Her joy in knowing that he would always come had far outweigh- ed her waiting . . . That was the first night the girl exchanged the token of friendship with him. She remem- bered how he smiled when he took it. But he had not smiled at her for a week now . . . Each day after that she met him. She always came alone, for her friend would give nothing for what he offered. Throughout the long, hot, summer month the girl brought him her token. And he had taken it happily - until this week. The girl thought perhaps he was angry with her. And, yet, she could see no reason for his not making an effort to be friendly. She had given so much of herself to him for so long . It was growing late and the pigeon had fallen asleep a long time ago. The girl had never stayed so late before, and she knew it was time to leave. There was no point in waiting; he had told her he never returned this way. Quiet sobs woke the pigeon and sent him crankily to his mate. Then another sound echo- ed above the tears. The sobs ceased as suddenly as they had started. It was he. She knew it was he. And as she ran up the path to meet him, her heart asked respite for a week of agony. She could see his face in the darkness . . she could not know until she reached him. The boy paused to wait for her. But he did not smile at the breathless figure running toward him with outstretched arm. "I'm sorry, honey" he said. Slowly the girl withdrew her hand. The boy passed quickly. He did not take her token. 13 The Good Humor man was out of chocolate-covered strawberry ice cream bars - AGAIN. The End The Sad Sage of It seems that this fair institu- tion has, for some reason not yet revealed, classes scheduled at the frightful hour of 7:40 Stu- dents are probably nearer their real personalities at this hour than at any other time of the day. At this ghastly hour you are liable to meet more campus characters with more idiosyncra- sies than the artists that inhabit the Left Bank. A man can't always look his best at this hour-usually what's hanging nearest the bed (if it isn't your roommate) will do the trick. Cutting class is frowned upon - therefore, the situation may re- quire a helping hand to start you off at this hour of oblivion. the 7:40 By Ron Soble For those who keep late hours, a more powerful stimulant than coffee may be needed to combat early morning fatigue. "Now wait a minute - have a little consideration for those who come in late. Who do you think you are anyway?" The instructor is usually a suave, well-dressed character who al- ways manages to look his best at the most ungodly hours. Kindly Replace Divots Murlin Gene Smith's Shooting Gallery University regulations state that no freshman under the age of 21 may operate a car. There are less than 9,000 students in this hole, and some 10,000 cars des- cend on the campus each September. SOMEBODY'S LYIN'! The year seems to be starting out well for the dear old Alma Mater - our rugged, fearless, etc., etc., grid stars are losing steadily, the cost of living is ris- ing, the University has managed to sock the students for a few more bucks (nobody objects to a little $30,000-a-year slush fund), the freshman girl crop is no more exciting than last year and the city is going to put parking me- ters on Strollway and Conley. In other words, the season promises to be another smashing success. Cheers, dears. Was anybody here during rush week? Well, I was. Lovely sight. From my post at Read Hall I had a 270 degree field of view to watch the slaughter. There were droves of freshmen, all struck with the wonder of it all, dewy- eyed and eager to be led to the block. All around were sharp- eyed Greeks, pinching, prodding, poking, bidding, buying. What a sight! In their native costume (war paint, scalping knives, wampum and convertibles) they made a colorful pageant. UGH!!! Some of these freshmen are on the ball thought - they read the Joe College clothing ads. They already have their sweaters, sneakers and the anchor in the right place. You've really got to hand it to them. Bully! FLASH - Grace Kelly plans to stay out of moom' pitchers for a period. Says she wants to get back in "shape" first. Plans to stay married until she does. Speaking of pitchers, did somebody mention the Italian Village? If not, still on the sub- ject, Luscious Liz is on the lose again; line forms on the right, men, right behind Mike. Ready- made family and all, that's still a good deal. Westward ho! Cali- fornia or bust! Bust? Speaking of Liz . . . Somebody slipped me the word the other day on those bureau- crats in Jesse Hall - you know, the ones that always tell you, "Come back the second Tuesday in next week"? The ones YOU and YOU there are paying the salaries for (traffic tickets, you know). The word goes that there is one girl up there who was carefully watched for the last three months. Each morning she came to work, took her bubble gum out of the lower left-hand drawer of her desk, a copy of TRUE CONFESSIONS from the lower right-hand drawer, a cig- aret from her purse, and buckled down to another hard day at the office. According to statistical evidence, she should have absorbed the contents of every issue since it hit the stands, even if she works by os- mosis. Missouri state law says that all motor-driven vehicles shall be preceded at a distance of one hundred yards by a man with a lighted lantern. If you MUST drink beer, please refrain from practicing your evil habits in the woods. A man engaged in the nefarious act was recently laid low by a bolt from the blue. In this case the bolt was .22 caliber and its ori- gin is unknown, though some lowbrows have pointed out that the WCTU is known as a very determined organization. All eligible freshmen males MUST enroll in ROTC. I hate wah! Eleanor hates wah! Falla hates wah! Damn the Reds, and bully for dear old Winnie! Remember, all you Seminoles, the United States has never started a war and never lost one. Speaking of Seminoles, and for the information of all you AFROTC cadets, the Air Force Survival School says Florida rattlesnake meat tastes like chicken. I went to a movie once. Real- ly. The picture was called New Faces, and the admission was 75 centavos. There were various people swimming around through this hodge-podge and the whole mess was a waste of money. Then Eartha Kitt came on and sang "Monotonous. CONTINUED ON PAGE 32 17 One second it was there, the next it wasn't. Jane Ellen clutched - automatically at first, for her thoughts were buried in the pink cloud of cotton candy at her face. Then, frantically, she strained her hand upward through the maze of arms and legs and sky-faces. "Momma?" her heart caught. But her hand was empty. Sawdust was oozing into her sandals. Jane Ellen twirled her toes . . . should she cry? The ever- shifting crowd was changing so fast now. A wide pair of cover-alls was standing where her mother had been lifted into a completely different scene, as though she were dreaming and the dream patterns had been only seconds before. It seemed as if she were jumbling too rapidly to fit into a definite lo- cation. Sequence of a Summer Day by Virginia Turman At eye-level was a pair of twisted stocking seams, cheap ny- lon straining under muscles pulled tight by three-inch heels. No one seemed to notice the small girl with blue eyes star- ing under a tangle of blond bangs. Perhaps the cry of "Hur- ra, hurra, hurra, step right up ladies and gentlemen," spurred them on, forcing their attention to blatant billboards and mean- ingless promises of fantastic won- ders. Perhaps thoughts of money burning to be squandered were confused by tinny ragtime. But Jane Ellen was moving now, too, caught up in the fre- netic hurry to get to . . . where? Momma? A tinseled star wink- ed friendly like, breaking through her preoccupation. She laughed, forgetting, reaching for the pretty toy. A jostle from be- hind brought glitter scattering into her hand. "You! What're you doing, try- ing to tear up my stand! Fool kids! Little vandals! Get outa here, young'un!" Jane Ellen flinched, immovable at first. Then, darting quickly through myriads of legs, she continued her safari. The Alabama sun was so hot now. The remnant of cotton can- dy, her only luggage, was be- ginning to stick onto her pina- fore, pink running into red pol- Illustrated by Will Bittick ka dots. She toyed with the dress for a moment before be- ing jerked back to reality with, "Hey, whose little girl are you?" "Are you my mommy?" brought only a pitiful expres- tion from the haggard face bent so close to hers. The sun glared on make-up intended for footlights, distorting the painted smile. Whiskey breath fought with Blue Waltz perfume for precedence. Ellens' face, nostrils extended, pushed at the beads glinting in- to her eyes. The woman totter- ed drunkenly before rising on run-over heels. "I use to be a mommy," she repeated to her- self, waddling through sawdust to a dusty tent, its flap held back by a large brown bottle. Jane Ellen's thumb grew in- sufficient for her stomach. Suck- ing uselessly at particles of cot- ton candy picked from her 'skirt, she followed the crowd into a brick building. Food was every- where here . . . shelves and shelves of it. Fat cornlined be- ribboned walls, rich pies beck- oned from loaded tables. Her head barely grazed the pole erected to protect the exhibits from wishful hands. Tip-toeing to reach the largest pie, a hand caught her arm. "Now, honey, you know you can't do that," a soft voice drawled. "This food ain't for us. The shame is that it ain't for nobody. This here's for show, not for eating." "But I'm hungry," Jane Ellen spurted, hunger edging tears from sun-scorched eyes. "And I want my mommy." "So that's it. Well, we'll find your mommy for you. First off, though, I'm Leah. Quit that bawlin' now. Your momma's good as found." Jane Ellen's sobs stopped ab- ruptly as Leah pressed a large piece of sugar cane into her hand. Leah was nice. Surprising- ly white teeth sparkled as she took Jane Ellen's hand and said proudly, "I ain't but eight years old, but I know how to take care of young'uns. Lord knows I've had enough experience at home." (Eight years old?) An older lis- tener than Jane Ellen would have wondered at this, for long hair curled around a face that was not eight years old. This face never had and never would be a child. Suffering had taught dark eyes to see reality, taught them as cruelly, as harshly as only life in starkly real form can. But Jane Ellen was not older, and she saw only that she had found perhaps not who, but what she was looking for. So baby pink hand nestled hap- pily in already strong one as the two turned away. While Leah led Jane Ellen out of the booth, she subtly questioned he r, squeezing first her name, which she knew only as Jane Ellen, then her age, which was given by holding up five pink-smeared fingers. Now they knew all they need- ed to know about each other. They were friends. Leah had presumed that Jane Ellen had lost her mother in the thick crowd of the building, and now was walking her from booth to booth, pointing out first one and then another like- ly-looking lady. At last Jane Ellen nodded. Leah touched the edge of a silk dress reverently. "Beg Pardon, but ain't this your little girl?" Icy eyes looked at long legs hanging from a hand-me-down dress. Leah's hand whipped to her already developing chest as the voice throated dangerously, "Get your dirty hands off me, you . . " But Leah had grabbed the startled Jane Ellen and was run- ning wildly past sweating Boy Scouts standing rigidly at atten- tion, past fat aprons, past blurs of quilted walls and crocheted doilies. At last! A door. Leah swung it quickly, pushing at blond tangles. A hand just as rapidly pushed them out. "The little girl can come in, but you must wait outside," she said, pointing to an almost illegible "Ladies" on the door. Leah remembered. The first time, she had come to her mo- ther's lap crying bewildered tears. Feather pillow bosoms had soothed hurt and torment, then blossomed to their full strength as she heard her child's story. The story was old now. Leah, the oldest, had watched her bro- thers and sisters go through the same ritual, year after year. But it all seemed a long time ago . It was only when Jane Ellen was again with Leah that the child remembered that she was hungry. Leah unpinned a small cloth sack from inside her dress and they approached a man whose shirttails bunched under the bottom of a too-short jacket. Continued Page 33 THURLOW Part I For the first time in collected form, SHOWME begins running in monthly installments the only cartoon series censored in book form during the Korean War. Thurlow was created by SHOWME co-editor Skip Troel- strup at Keesler Air Force Base, Mississippi, in 1951 and by late the same year began appearing in the Pacific Stars and Stripes once a week. Thurlow was killed in January, 1954, together with the syndicated comic strip "Bee- tle Bailey (drawn by former- SHOWME editor Mort' Walker). The cartoon panel was in proof form for publication in soft cover book form at that time and production was stopped. Then the feature was accepted by the Charles Tuttle Publish- ing Company of Tokyo and Rut- land, Vt. However, since the art- ist was still a Staff Sergeant in the Air Force, Stars and Stripes held the rights to reprint publi- cation. Major Joseph Morgan, commanding officer of the news- paper, refused to sign the papers giving Tuttle permission to pub- lish the material originally com- piled for publication by the book department of the paper itself. Thurlow, like Beetle Bailey, fell under a secret 1953 censorship policy of Stars and Stripes, the "newspaper for the soldier" which said that cartoons must not include Officers, Non-com- missioned Officers, Women, Asi- an People or "must not poke fun at the officer corps, or any arm or branch or unit of the service and must be liked by Maj. Mor- gan, Col. McGiffert, and the gen- erals and colonels throughout the Far East." A ban was issued on reprint- ing past cartoons, including the work of Bill Mauldin, and car- toon content fell to zero. Thurlow has been reprinted in Look, N.Y. Times Mazagine, Cavalier, This Week, Armed Forces Press Service, and the collections Out of Line and New Out of Line. The editors feel that most of these cartoons contain universal humor appealing to all of young blood or mind. They're also appearing be- cause Skip Troelstrup is an edi- tor . . . and he drew 'em. And this is his way to thumb his nose back. Photos by Ralph Wemhoener Nanci Cobb Like a Fine Timepiece. The Parts Fit Together Once upon a typewriter there arrived at this school, A muscle-bound jock and a cat who dressed cool. The jock had plans to set the school on fire, This other cat was just a plain live wire. Making the It looks like our boy has personality to spare, The students and prof look impressed with his air. His future looks solid, he's BMOC, What more could happen? Just wait and see. L. G. BALFOUR CO. Gordon's Restaurant Amuurican Grade What a kick - final grades show some ties, Both of our characters have come up with I's. The jock's made the team, he's riding high, With the coach, prof and gals he's number one guy. What's this? Our jock looks off the beam, If his grades aren't better he's off the team. The books give him nausea, the teacher's a ham, The cotton-pickin' school ain't worth a damn. The Stables MAKING THE AMUURICAN GRADE (cont.) Ye gods - our cool cat is tearing out his hair, With the broads and the campi he's really nowhere. The "I's" have slammed him down a notch or two, He's taken to the bottle-he konws he's through. Even though he may have the head of a rock, At graduation time he rates top jock. Straight "I" 's have put him on a scholarly cloud, "I've got my future whipped," he shouts out loud. Lamb's Jewelry THE STEIN CLUB In Tulsa he's hired by a firm rich in oil, Our Jock's got enough money to make your blood boil. "Hit those books in college," to his friends he would tell, We leave him now with, "Oil's well that ends well." Alas! Things are worse for our once popular friend, It looks like grades have forced his end. The "I" 's have made him a sorry lout, This poor cat's really gone far out. Moral: Studying is like quicksand - the more you get into it, the more you're sunk. NEUKOMM'S BROADWAY DRIVE-IN At Dusk Balladee'rs By Jerry Shnay There are songs that mother always teaches us, and then there are the kind found in Bawdy Songs an d Backroom Ballads sung by Oscar Brand on 10-inch Audio Fidelity (AFLP 906). Doubtless to say, if the good old lady ever heard this she would wash the phonograph needle with soap. Many of the songs in the al- bum have recently been redone into popular hits, but somehow they lose their flavor. The ten- derness and sincerity in such songs as "Roll Your Leg Over" or "Blow the Candle Out" is hard to duplicate now. If you have a good appetite and strong stomach this is your dish . . . rollicking songs and ballads of tough, hard-living and hard-drinking men and their wholesome winsome wenches. Not recommended for Stephens Home Ec. majors. It should be, though. $4.25. While following this train of thought, we cannot help being reminded of Richard Dyer-Ben- net's "Phyllis and Her Mother" which is on the first album made by his own company. (Dyer- Bennet 1) Mr. Dyer-Bennet, who is one of the, if not the finest folk sing- er in the world today, is ven- turing into a new field that may soon be a boon to all people in the trade. "Lonesome Valley," which in his own words, ". . is the most powerful and moving folk song I have yet encounter- ed," is a joy to listen to. If you want to get an educa- tion in how to sing songs like this, get the album. It is an un- forgettable experience. Query on price. Pete Seeger, an experience in himself, has recorded many al- bums. Among his finest is 10 inch Pete Seeger Concert (Stin- son SLP 57). Two ten inch rec- ords comprise the album, which includes songs from all parts of the world. To name one outstand- ing one would be bad; to name more than one, impossible. S3.00. 30 Elektra has recently issued an album of songs, sung by Theo- dore Bikel, a well-known stage and TV star. The title - An Actor's Holiday (Elektra-105), is an apt description of the con- tents. Bikel sings songs in eight languages, ranging from English to Zulu. For a kicker, he mocks the all too-serious attempts of some folk singers. If you hate folk music, then the last two bands in the album are for you. $3.00. For the novices, who don't know what folk music is like, or dont' care, listen to Elektra's folk music sampler (Elektra SMP-2). You can tentaively re- title it "Folk Music for People Who Don't Like Folk Music," or has that been used? It offers se- lections from many of the com- pany's finest releases. Some of the highlights in the album are: Josh Whites' "John Henry", Los Gitanillos De Cadiz; and an orig- inal vession of "Capriccio Itali- en." $3.00. Hope you didn't miss the balladeering of Mrs. Bever- ly Dick on KOMU-TV a few weeks ago. "Showcase" fea- tured American ballads and folksongs with comments by Dr. Ed Weatherly of the English department, and Dr. Loren Reid. Tom Putney was good but we thinks Mrs. Dick superb. Hope they're scheduled again. Both are students. The intermediates in the field have their place here too. And for those who think they like the stuff, give John Jacob Miles' Camden recordings a hearing. (Camden 219 or 245). The main point in these recordings is not the songs but the singer. We cannot find the exact adjectives to describe his voice, but "strange" is as good as any. You are either for him or agin' him. It is not an easy thing to listen to, but it will be worth your time to see how Niles changes and shapes the songs to fit his own peculiar syle and voice. $1.98. Other recordings that we want to mention are: the Folksay se- ries on Stinson, featuring Lead- belly, White, Seeger, Ernie Lei- berman, Woody Guthrie and "Blind Sonny Terry". Speaking of Leadbelly, whom most people remember as the composer of "Goodnight Irene", try to get any one of his albums (Capitol, Stinson, or Folkways). A series which any folk song collector must have in a basic library. We will try to give you, from time to time, more selec- tions for such a library. Had enough of listening to folk music? Try reading about it! Richard Chase's American Folk Tales and Songs. A bright, sparkling book full of sories, songs and customs of the Kentucky ana Ozark hill people. If you haven't got a tin ear, try burl Ives' American Folk Songs or his Sea Songs. All three books mentioned are in pocket size in most lo- cal racks. The writer of the column would like to know who it is that plays folk songs in a house on the gravel road between Allen Place and Maryland, south of Strollway. Very good taste, too. All recordings are avail- able at the 30 per-cent-off prices above from' Sam Goody, 235 W. 49th St., New York 19, N.Y. Add 41 cents postage for each. Rowdy, Classic or Bawdy MARY ANNE LOWDER Unknown Here lies the body Of Mary Anne Lowder, She burst while drinking A Seidlitz powder. Called from this world To her heavenly rest, She should have waited Till it effervesced. SISTERS OF THE CROSS OF SHAME By Dana Burnet The Sisters of the Cross of Shame, They smile along the night; Their houses stand with shut- tered souls And painted eyes of light. Their houses look with scarlet eyes Upon a world of sin; And every man cries, "Woe, alas!" And every man goes in. The sober Senate meets at noon, To pass the Women's Law, The churchmen vote to stem The torrent with a straw. The Sister of the Cross of Shame, She smiles beneath her cloud, (She does not laugh till ten o'- clock And then she laughs too loud). And still she hears the throb of feet Upon the scarlet stair, And still she dons the cloak of shame That is not hers to wear. The sons of saintly women come To kiss the Cross of Shame; Before them in another time, Their worthy fathers came. And no man tells his son the truth, Lest he should speak of sin; And every man cries, "Woe, alas!" And every man goes in. THE DYING HOBO By Bob Hughes All in an empty box car one cold and weary day, Beside a railroad water tank, a dying hobo lay, His chum he sat beside him with low and bended head, And listened to the last sad words the dying hobo said. "I'm headed now for far away where prospects are all bright, Where cops don't hound a hobc, or pinch a man on sight, Tell Brooklyn Jack and Murph and Jo just what I tell to you, I've caught a fast train on the fly and now I'm going through. "I'm going to a better land where brakies ain't so mean, Where weiners grow on bushes and where dogs is never seen, Where no one knows rockpiles and when you wants a ride, The Boss Con says asmilin', "Partner, won't you get inside?" "Oh, pard, I hear the whistle, I must catch her on the fly, Its' my last ride- gimmie a drink of whiskey for I die." The hobo smiled. His head fell back, he'd sung his last refrain, His pardner swiped his shirt and coat and hopped the eastbound train. A TAKING GIRL Unknown She took my hand in sheltered nooks, She took my candy and my books, She took that lustrous wrap of fur, She took those gloves I bought for her. She took my words of love and care, She took my flowers, rich and fair, She took my time for quite awhile, She took my kisses, maid so shy- She took, I must confess, my eye, She took whatever I would buy. And then she took another guy. SUDDEN SERVICE DRIVE IN CLEANER & SHIRT LAUNDRY Continued From Page 17 Man, it was worth the price of the ticket just to SEE her war- ble through that ditty. On the subject of singing, strange sounds were heard -the other day issuing from an up- per window in a pile of brick over at Stephens College. Opin- ion is still divided, but it was either two cats tied across a clothesline by their tails, an init- iation party, or another Helen Traubel in the making. Gad! Have YOU seen the Pelvis? Much more fascinating than hearing him. Or it used to be before the censorship committee got him. For anybody enrolled in this educational institute get out now before you get brain-washed. The faculty is composed of ex- perts. Lock yourself in your room, you'll get a better educa- tion and a lot more fun. If you cant' afford that, try the For- eign Legion. It is obvious to any veteran student that the school year has started in earnest. The workmen are back on the job digging bunkers and tank traps in the streets again, and they've even got some new air compressors and jack hammers. By spring, Columbia should bear a close resemblance to Seoul after the third time through. It did last spring. All students are urged to take good care of their textbooks. If you do, you can resell them to either book store at the end of the semester and get a return of 9-1/2c on the dollar. Or you can burn them slowly during the winter and enjoy a little heat in your attic. If you'd rather, you can save the things to show your grandkids that you are an erudite specimen of homo sap. It'll also prove to them that their ancestors didnt' always speak Russian. A bill collector just drove into sight on the horizon. I know he's a bill collector because he has an envelope in his left hand, so I must be off and running. Good night, old bacteria. Remember, get in there and GRIND! The End Continued From Page 19 before, remembering, she held it toward Jane Ellen. Blue eyes smiled acceptance and, slowly, she stretched her hand to take it. It was a ceremony, the way she did it . . . almost as if she knew that, for the first time, she was meeting human kindness. And, somehow, that this strang- er being introduced was a very great and honorable one. And someone she might never meet again. She began to eat, in a moment. In her haste the balloon dragged at her side, dust subdueing the saudy color. She was gulping the food so fast that she was not chewing it, just letting the lumps slide down her throat. Leah watched. They were outside now. The sun was fading behind brown tents, silhouetting a mechanical skyline moving in shadowy sym- metry. Below, the people seemed different, quieter, tireder. They only glanced at the barkers enu- merating the merits of those won- ders inside the tents, intent on making their way toward the rickety shacks where hot dogs and the familiar aroma of coffee lured. In these few moments the glar- ing hilarity of the day and the colorful magic of the night, the world seemed to pause on its ax- is. Gradually eveningsong chang- ed from major to minor. As if a levr had been thrown, screams of the hucksters became soft ca- jolings. The blare of ragtime a soothing melody, and the stars a huge tent that made them all a part of the same show. Only the shuffling parade of people re- mained unchanged. Jane Ellen seemed to shrink in the darkness. Her eyelids wid- ened to accustom dilating pupils to the change in the light. Leah, seeing, clutched her hand a lit- tle tighter. Unconsciously, Leah's back straightened. It had been a long time since they had looked for Jane Ellen's mother, Leah realized. Nonthe- less, she did not mention this fact to Jane Ellen. Her first ex- perience in the search was too vivid. over over Holiday Pipe Mixture Ernie's Steak House Pretty soon, though, it would be time to meet her own family in front of the grandstand, and she knew that Jane Ellen could not go with her. Although her mother had a heart as wide as her body, some things upset her easily. This would be one of them. Jane Ellen would not be welcome. What could she do? Suddenly black sky where neon was not bubbling answered that it was late. She must be going. In her reverie, she had not noticed that the hand in hers had become limp. Now, it slid from her grip and, looking down, she saw a wilted flower of red polka dots peacefully in the bed of sawdust. Leah smiled. She gently roused her sleepy companion . . for they had no place to go . . simply to have her friend with her again They stood quietly for a mo- ment, before Leah sighed and said, "Honey, we're gonna have to get us some help here. I can't find your momma by myself." "Um," said Jane Ellen, sleep crowding out Leahs' question. Dimly Leah realized that the disheveled young man saunter- ing past them now had passed that way several times before. Now he stopped. Beady eyes gleamed from a dirty triangle of face as he took a sideways po- sition directly in front of the two and whispered "You kids need some help?" Leah instinc- tively said no, but Jane Ellen had begun to cry. "I want my mommy! Mommy, mommy, mommy" rushed in an almost undecipherable crescendo. The stubble of beard twitched in excitement. "Shhh, honey, you don't want your mommy. How would you kids like to go for a ride on the ferris wheel and eat a nice candy apple?" He paused to weigh the reaction before continuing. Little eyes saw Leah's face grow wary, then shifted quickly to her companion's more recep- tive one. A glow of interest was holding open heavy lids while facial muscles changed under tear-lashed dust. The little blond was interested! Rapidly tabulating the odds, he struggled for a friendly ex- pression and focused his atten- tion on Jane Ellen. Approaching slowly, he murmured, "Say, you're pretty. Are you married?" Jane Ellen giggled appreciative- ly . . . Casually, he slid a hand into his pocket and extended the other ratsnest of curling black hairs toward hers. Both pairs of child eyes had followed the ascent of the hand, watched it rise smoothly and hang suspended in the space be- fore them. It waited expectant- ly for a while. Then, eagerness seeped nervously down his re- flexes until, gradually, the hairs jerked with pleasing. Leah's head turned away. A glance from the man's hand to his face had sent repulsion screaming through every sense cell in her fresh body. Already distorted features were twisted into a car- icature of humanity by open passion begging for relief. Be- low eyes hypnotized with a long- ing that reached out of reality, drool dripped down an open corner of abnormally bloated lips. "Come on," he breathed as the hand grasped the tiny arm. Jane Ellen cringed automatically in- to Leah's wildly clutching em- brace. "Come on, dearie," he was whining now, "Let's me and you . . . damn! You little!" Leah had used the only weapon of defense handy - the balloon stick. Holding his bleeding eye, he whirled blindly in a circle. Leah's eyes jumped in their sockets as she futilily tried to push Jane El- len back into the lights of the building. The child just clung stubbornly to her legs, prevent- ing either of them escaping. He struck furiously with his free hand, finally meeting the object of his search. Leah and Jane Ellen fell together into the sawdust. "I'll show you I'll fix you where the hell are you, I'll kill you when I find you. Stop screaming, stop screaming, do you hear me, stop that . . . " Clarington Leah couldn't have stopped if she had wanted to. The recur- ring screams were not calls for help, just fear finding expression in sound. The screams went on and on, her throat feeling with each automatic burst that it was falling apart from the effort. A wasted, futile effort, for screams were commonplace here. Every- where, shrieks of patrons thrill- ing from the mad flight of the roller coaster or feigning fright at the irridescent skulls of the fun house filled a night already crowded to distraction by the monotonous "B 11, I 24, G 58, N 49, O 80" and prattling "Honey, show me whata big man you are by ringing the bell and winning little ole me a dreat big kewpie doll" and "Mommy, buy me one of those" and the chant handed down through gen- erations of barkers, "He walks, he talks, he crawls on his belly like a reptile - all this for only ten cents, one tenth of a dollah." A real emotion had no place here. There wasn't room for it. Still Leah screamed on. Jane Ellen lay beneath her, shielded from the blows that crushed with increasing violence at Leah's heaving back. God, thought Leah, if anything happens to her, if he hurts her. Fury gave her needed strength and she rolled over to fight him with fingernails broken into effective weapons by long hours of plucking cotton. Perhaps God, the only really fair referee, had watched it all and decided that the man had fouled out. At any rate, Leah felt the hand of God lift her foe out of reach of her clawing hands. Dimly, she realized that some- how, someone in the teeming mass of preoccupied humanity had come to help her. A huge form battled briefly in the shadows with her enemy, and meeting little resistance from the now-cowering offender, quickly knocked him to the ground. "Are you hurt, honey?" a voice asked as strong arms lift- ed her to a sitting position. And seeing that she wasn't, he took her hand, picked up the whim- pering Jane Ellen and took them to a roomy ticket booth. "Sam, 36 take care of these little ladies while I escort somebody to the cops. I found something else be- side rope over there by that building." Leah watched her savior, a heavy-set man with shockingly red hair in need of a haircut, leave through streaming eyes. As Sam wrapped a rough blan- ket around them both, he said, "Barry'll be back, kids. I don't know what's happened, but I know he'll take care of it. Mean- while, let's turn off the water- works. You're O.K. now. Ain't nobody gonna hurt you here." He said this mostly for Jane Ellen's benefit, for the child was weaping uncontrollably on Leah's shoulder. Leah stroked the blond s t r a n d s lovingly, comforting through her own tears. "Shhhh. Leah's here. It's alright now." In a little while, Barry was back. With him was a brisk po- liceman who took a swift apprais- al of Jane Ellen and said, "Yep, this is the Ronsin kid." Then, frowning, he asked to hear Leah's story. When she had wandered through an incoherent tale of horror, he said, "Just wandered around before you met this man, eh. Why didn't you come to the police. That's what we're for, you know. "Do you realize that her mo- ther has done everything but call the FBI on this case? She thinks somebody's kidnapped her daughter. She's hysterical." He shook his head. "Frankly, kids, I don't see how we could have missed you. We've covered ev- ery square inch of this fair- ground, including the rest rooms. I just don't see how we missed you." He was still shaking his head in wonder when a delicately boned woman flew through the door, a large straw purse stream- ing behind her. She paused only long enough to locate her child. "Oh my baby, my baby!" smil- ing tears mingled with dirty tan- gles. "Mother thought she'd nev- er see you again." Although her arm had brushed Leah's bruised body as she rush- ed to hold her child, she had never noticed the girl. Now she saw her. "Is this the little Negro who was with her?" to the of- ficer. He nodded. "Here," she fumbled in her purse for a bill, "thank you". Then she cradled her child in her arms for a mo- ment before picking her up. "I don't even want to hear the story," she said, half to herself, half to the hiccoughing Jane El- len. "I just want my baby home with me." The officer nodded again and she carried Jane Ellen from the room. Leah felt the bill in her hand. It was crisp, new. She fingered it thoughtfully, eyes staring. Then, crumbling it slowly, she let it fall to the floor. - The End - Do you smoke? No. Do you drink? No. Do you neck? No. Well what do you do for fun? I tell lies. Brown Derby Swami's Snorts Seems George was playing his usual eighteen holes one Satur- day afternoon. Teeing off from the seventeenth hole, he sliced into the rough over near the edge of the fairway. Just as he was about to chip out, he no- ticed a long funeral procession going by on the nearby street. Reverently, he removed his cap and stood at attention until the procession had passed. Then he continued his game, finishing wtih a birdie on the eighteenth. Later, in the clubhouse, a fel- low golfer greeted George. "Say, that was a nice gesture you made today, George," he said. "What do you mean?" asked George. "I mean it was nice of you to take off your cap and stand at attention when the funeral went by." "Oh yes," said George. "We would have been married 33 years next month." There had been an accident. It was the usual thing - a col- lege student's convertible had collided head-on with the farm- er's Model A. The two drivers got out and surveyed the dam- age. "Well," said the farmer, "we may as well have a drink." He hauled out a bottle and passed it to the student who gulped down a stiff one. The farmer calmly returned the bot- tle to his pocket. "Aren't you going to have one?" asked the student. "Don't believe I will until the police have checked up." The Tri-Delt had just receiv- ed an engagement ring and wore it to breakfast next morn- ing. To her exasperation, no one noticed it. Finally, after fuming and squirming through the meal, a lull came in the conversation, and she exclaimed loudly: "My goodness, it's hot in here. I think I'll take my ring off." HI F1 HOUSE filched Town & Country TEXACO TOWN house beautiful DRAKE'S DRIVE-IN 39 No, Orphan Annie isn't writ- ing for SHOWME this year Everybody knows Orphan An- nie can't write. Hell, she can't ev- en read! Actually, a picture of GINNY TURMAN, complete with eyeballs, is supposed to be there. But she's the reticent type. She says she doesn't have any pictures (guess that calen- dar pose doesn't count). She wanted us to run a picture of Brenda Starr, Girl Reporter, but we fooled her. (Because no one on the staff knows how to draw eyeballs.) You may have noticed that so far we haven't said anything concrete about Ginny Turman. Mainly because we don't know anything about her. 'Cuz she's the reticent type. (See para- graph 1, line 8.) But she does exist. And she's Joke Editor of SHOWME. How- ever, at the time of the inter- view, she was engaged in a beery argument with Dick Noel and not receptive to probings by Your Reporter. contributors' page Theretofore and hence, we are just a'rockin' and scratchin' and chattin' about anything that happens to come to our mind. And so far, nothing about Gin- ny Turman has come to mind. Except - oh, yes - she's from Mississippi, a Chi O and she's in J-School. Hows that for in- formative reporting? ED MINNING is a frustrated journalist. He came alll the way from Cincinnati hot for J-School . . . then he didn't make it. So like the rest of the thwarted Horace Greeleys, he became an English major and sublimated his Missourian yearnings by scavenging up ads for SHOW- ME. (Right here we would like to interject that contrary to rumor, Ed is not a turtle.) Ed resides at 100 Stewart Road with a group of stalwart young SAE's. (Who also deny the ru- mors . . . in fact they'll deny most any rumor that comes along. You name it, they'll deny it.) All advertising men are viced- up but Ed is just a hot-bed of vices. Granted everybody drinks beer, but just how many refuse to drink it unless it's in a dirty glass? Or can belch at will? However, the main one is his disgusting normality. Surround- ed by SHOWME neurasthenics, he remains a flawless example of clean-cut American youth. Suit- able for framing. March of Dimes Its Tops! "Wonderful Town" Nov. 15, 16 & 17 Jesse Auditorium Missouri's second all student Broadway musical Salem