PM, August, 15, 1946
“Of 411 letters to the editor of the Tokyo newspaper Yomiuri on whether kisses should be permitted in traditionally kissless Japan, 73 per cent opposed, 23 were for. Said one: Japanese “will be treated as country bumpkins” unless they sanction osculation;” said another: “They do not know the forms of kissing and how to practice them, and the technique of actors and actresses is clumsy and base.”
“Always willing to help, Round-up comes to the assistance of the Japanese with the above demonstration by Bogart and Bacall. (Note to Johnson Offices: They are Married.”
Bowery’s Mayor Sammy Says It With Champagne
Three-Hour Show Celebrates Rise to Title
“The forgotten man was remembered yesterday on the Bowery.
He was a guest at a cocktail party where champagne, scotch and beer were served lavishly to wash down huge helpings of corned beef and hot dogs – and it was all free!
The forgotten man – one of the many individuals who come to that gloomy street under the noisy Third Ave. El in downtown Manhattan to forget their pasts – shuffled in with other derelicts and bums into Sammy’s Bowery Follies at 267 Bowery, because the host, Sammy Fuchs, was celebrating his accession to the honorary title of “Mayor of the Bowery”…”
(Coincidentally, we walked the length of the Bowery last night, and 267 Bowery is open again, with out hizzoner and the character(s)…)
PM, June 6, 1946 (photos by Steven Derry)
“Under the command of Gen. Eisenhower, Allied naval forces, supported by strong air forces, began landing operations this morning on the northern coast of France.”
Two years ago this morning that communique was all a waiting world knew of the most ambitious military undertaking ever launched. Now most of the facts are known and, by many, are half forgotten. The men whose pictures appear on this page are not apt to forget, because they were there on D-Day. Most of them lived through it, only to be wounded later in the battles that followed the successful landing. they were interviewed at the Army’s Halloran General Hospital, on Staten Island.”
“… I think we can keep another war from happening if we keep the defeated countries defeated.”
“… I still hate their guts.”
“… I think folks have been taught a lesson – this war was too costly in lives and money. Nobody ever really wins a war.”
“… I think the war was worth fighting and I sure hope it’s the last one.”
After leaving Halloran, he wrote me, “It was the first place in America I hit after more than a year out of the country. Coming back wounded, I was afraid that I’d enter a vacuum, that nobody would give a damn. But at Halloran I never had a chance to be lonely and there were times I actually forgot I was in a hospital.” Recently I spent an afternoon at Halloran and found out what my friend meant.
Halloran lies approximately in the centre of Staten Island, about a half hour by bus from the ferry terminal at St. George. It’s a sprawling group of low, red-brick Colonial buildings, dominated by a seven-story structure with four wings jutting, like spokes, from the middle. I was met at the main building—the seven-story one—by one of its officials, Captain Max Lipsky, a stocky, jovial man, who suggested that the Red Cross recreation building would be the best place for me to talk with some of the patients and see how they spend their free time. Most of the ambulatory patients, the ones who can get around, drop in there during the afternoon and early evening, Captain Lipsky told me, and free and easy is the rule.
“Nobody ever really wins a war.”