Ah,—men! Those wonderful se lective service specimens. Today is ours for putting out the sheet. The days of the old newspaper are lived again. The days when a a woman on the newspaper staff was as rare as something good in Nothing Sacred; when the rustle of a skirt through the maze of desks was akin to a presidential assassination. Today it is relived -—tomorrow it will be the man who is the one out of place in the news room. After all, Uncle Sam wants us. But be that as it may, we can remember, or at least history re members when only men were en gaged in the art of photographic reproduction. Today the Margaret Bourke Whites—true to their sex —continue to muscle in. But the male is still holding his own in our world of lens and film speeds. What woman can match Hurrell in the art of capturing that fleet ing quality called “glamour”? What woman has equaled the breath-taking news photos shot by Carl Mydans? Don't try to think of an an swer to those, there might be one. But to our subject: if by any chance you should happen to feel tire-rubber reckless and take a jaunt to the coast between show ers, think of your camera. Beach photography can be and is fun. At least the way they do it at Art Center in L.A. But models JU«L XllUIlCjr. However, you can make out jvith whatever you took with you ind experiment with interpretive photography. Things such as a hand suddenly rearing its grimy self from a mound of sand. Of bourse, grasping an empty beer mottle can signify the futility of ove or GPAs. Or you can try for Tick shots such as the old favor te in which a friend is buried in die sand with only his head stick ing out and another lying nearby but with hi shead out of sight because of hanging down in a ittle pit. The effect is a headless body with the head grinning 'oolishly nearby. Whether you dig :hem tip again we leave to your jwn discretion. You could wait :or the tide to come in. But the main to think about vhen taking pictures at the beach s your camera. Always protect t from sand. Tiny particles of ;and in the complicated mechan sm of the shutter can cause un :old damage. Not only that it's :xpensive to get the darn things 'ixed. An unprotected lens can be made into a marvelous ground ?lass focusing plate by letting a itiff breeze blows sand into it. Dropping the camera in water or m a stone is also good for the blood pressure as well as the ■amera. When you get home be sure to ■lean the lens and other parts of he camera. Salt spray, with vhieh the beach air is impreg lated, is as corrosive a bit of stuff as can be found, and it is mpossible to keep the camera Tee from it. Of course this entire disserta .ion is dependent upon the weatli >r, which of late has been con 'usion itself. Especially does it bUzzie our cousins from Califor lia who know' that the sun al vays shines down there in spite if the floor roaring down the nain street; and who also know hat it always rains in Oregon— n spite of the beautiful sunburn ed that the girls are now using m their noses. Dr. Hezzleton E. Simmons, iresident of the University of tkron, is the new president of he Association of Urban Univer ities. Brecon^Emerald The Oregon -Daily Emerald, published daily daring the college year except Sundays, Mondays, holidays, and final examination periods by the Associated Students, University of Oregon. Subscription rates: $1.25 per term and $3.00 per year. Entered as second class matter at the postoffice, Eugene, Oregon. tyan. jHadiei Only . . . jyjEN are Hie most indispensable things on this earth. Women are nice, too, but men are better. Lately (meaning the last 400 years), women have tried to usurp man’s natural place in this world. With the aid of Daisy Mae, she of muddy perox ide afterwash and the dotted swiss Sears Roebuck priorities special, they have sabotaged and nose powdered their way into all four of man’s estates. At this very moment they are drafting a special message to God, asking for an adequate biological adjustment; and threatening to set Eleanor up in his place should their re quest he denied. Determination is written all over their eyebrow-penciled little maps. Women are determined to wear the pants in the family, cuffs or no cuffs. True, women have made some great advances in the modern era—any fugitive from a sorority house dance will attest to that (providing a living example is still available). True, they have made love a thing it never could have been without them; but they are not satisfied. They want more. * * * (^OON women will have men where they want them—behind the sink and atop the scrubbing brush. They will not be content until the males have been organized into local House maid’s Knee and Monday’s Washday unions with Madame Perkins as dictatorial head. Then the women will he able to achieve their lifelong am bitions—-staying up all night with their sick grandmothers in dimly lit hotel rooms, fishing for deuces and one-eyed jacks, and consuming unlimited quantities of bathtub gin. Men, we cannot stand aloof and pat our pancake makeup complacently. We must rise from our sewing circle and sweater bees, east off our smocks and chintz housecoats, and put the women hack into their proper place . . . beside our mothers in-law, behind that unscraped pile of unwashed breakfast dishes on the unscrubbed sink. And in the future, so as to prevent any reoccurrence of this deplorable situation, let’s confine our relations with the nylon-swathed sex to such academic) researches as grave yardology and backseat-onomy. Here, however, let us be unconfined.—C.P. PlcMp QclLL 000 t^WOLLEN skies that threatened from time to time to let loose their watery content, stopped Oregon’s first thrust in their quest for the Northern division baseball crown. The milling fans, usually there with the alwavs-present coke and hot dog, were driven home. But they’ll be at it again tomorrow. Baseball has always been more to us than a game of brain and brawn. Its history and its growth have been an insep arable part of the growth of this country. It was born in an era long past, a day when Colonel Abner Doubleday took a group of lads out to an empty pasture one warm Sunday afternoon in 18119 and told them of a new game he had devised, and has grown with America and become a part of it. It has weathered wars and depressions. During the Civil War it was played often by the soldiers, and one memorable game was umpired by a tall, gaunt man dressed in broadcloth, with a stovepipe hat perched on his shaggy head. It survived the first World War and now faces the rigid test of another. It faces it. however, with the approval of the President. In a letter to Baseball Commissioner Landis he wrote, “1 honestly feel that it would be best for the country to keep baseball going.” * * # OAsEBALL has given richly to this country. It has endowed the people with an enjoyable pastime. Ideals have been born through heroes in its ranks, ideals which have been ac cepted by millions of kids. Baseball will contribute further to our country now that it is at war. Our team is playing a whale of a game in the Pa cific but it had two strikes on it before it stepped up to bat. It needs some of the things a baseball man can give; the guts to slap the ball on a runner when he comes into the bag with spikes flying: the nerve to stand up to a three and two pitch with the bases full. And it gives the man at home a chance to forget scream ing headlines while he sits in a crowded bleacher and yells at the ump and for his team. Yes. baseball is a part of America. It is as American as the shouting fan in shirt sleeves, a beer in one hand, a hot dog in the other. Play ball! uiiiiiiiii;iiii!niiiiuiiiiii!iiiiiiiiiiuiri!i!iiii>iiiniuiiiiiN!iiiuniuu!iiiui>uiuuiu> Jdaoal M. ,i*t . . . Road of Appeasement | Sets Up Nazi Stooge j 'll/hot Alacu? By DON TREADGOLD Well, Laval is in, and Leahy has been sent home. The long road of appeasement has come to a dead end. Whom did the State De partment think it was fooling, anyway? In Washington Mr. Welles clucks and solemnly rejects Vichy’s rejection of our rejection of something. Have our diplomats really given evidence that they knew who were our real friends ? Ever since the Spaniards were crushed for want of arms we denied them, these men have been stringing along with the fascists, trying to postpone what always inevitably came. Vichy, we hope, is the last time. Our Explanations Each time elaborate explana tions were offered. It simply wasn’t practical to be too chum my with de Gaulle, because Pe tain might dive right under Hit ler’s skirts and toss his fleet to the Nazis. Ship supplies to North Africa, pretend not to see when Vichy let arms get through to the Nazis in Libya; after all, hadn’t the defender of Verdun Marshal Petail, given his word as a soldier? What to do when the Free French, who have fought and died all over the world as our allies, tried to take control of two islets off Newfoundland ? Why, slap them down, of course! Phoney reasons, all of them. If we were right in bottle-feed ing Franco Spain, Japan, Vichy •—then Chamberlain was right at Munich. If Marshal Petain, who loved democracy and the British no whit more than Hitler, had been awaiting an excuse to sign a hill of sale for the fleet, why didn’t he jump at the chance when the Allies fought the Battle of Oran, attacked' Dakar, invad ed Syria, bombed Paris ? Stiffen Petain’s backbone ? How stiff was it from all our good will, our food shipments, our Vicliyizing and our de Gaulle-baiting, when Laval sat down at the conference table with him ? *• With the French? Show the French people we were with them ? Their hearts are with de Gaulle, and then hopes are with us, and they have no love left for Darlan, Dentz, and Deat. If we want to give the French courage, let us acknowl edge the Free French govern ment as the true representative of France. If, as some predict, Laval tries to use force to recon (Plcasc turn to page seven) Jam fyosi Qfi&cJsJa&t By TED H A BLOCK Teagarden was in Salem last night, and we were all here. Today s colyum shall be impressionless due to circumstances entirely within our control. Items within this day shall be traceable to a very fine book written by the finest of guys, “Jazzem,” by Frederic Ramsey Jr., and Charles Edward Smith. Reminiscing All the stuff is very good, especially the reminiscing, which we snail now re-renumsce. About 52nd St. in the late twenties, says Wilder Hobson, contributor, “I remember Mike Riley playing fiendishly eclectic trombone solos in which everybody else’s style came in for a few bars, and right in the middle he would sud denly yell “Hello, Joe,” at an imaginary friend in the back of the house. And Benny Goodman's face wryly following the unpre dictable turns of Pee Wee Rus sell's clarinet line—would he get out of this one all right or would n't? He usually did. And Teddy Wilson telling off a nasty drunk who for the better part of twenty minutes kept yammering for a number which Teddy didn't want to play and finally, with a pat ronizing leer, stepped up and slapped a dollar on the piano. Wilson said quietly that the drunk had gotten more satisfac tion out of giving the dollar than he, Wilson, could possibly obtain by receiving it, and the dollar stayed on the piano top and the tune was never played.” And Shavers That isn't all, either. “And there was trumpeter Charlie Sha vers playing a wonderful, elab orate “Basin Street” with John Kirby's little band, and “Count” Basie's fourteen men playing “King Porter” with such steam that the leader’s hands dropped off the piano and he sat listening to them with a slight increduStes smile which reminded me of Fletcher Henderson in the same kind of situation.” And he doesn’t stop now, Jack. He plays it till 1951. ‘‘And there was Bessie Smith, one Sunday afternoon in the upstairs room of the old Famous door, singing blues without taking her furs off.” ‘‘After a while they even began to put in postage stamp dance floors and anyone who thought it was disrespectful to dance while Count Basie played the ‘‘One o'clock Jump” had to take it or leave the joint, thank God.” Take Nick’s Place And that’s how it was, alSF even still is, in spots. You should go to Nick’s some day. If you did you would have lived. I remem ber last summer, walking into Nick’s with Ed Johnson at about one o'clock in the morning to see the new and fine little seven piece Ray Coniff combo. Before that session was over, Bill Miller, Bar net 88er, Johnny Guarneri, Good man pianist, and Jack Gardner, ex-Harry James ivoryist, had played a three piano thing that drugged everyone listening. And (Please turn to page seven) _ Oregon ^fEMEHALn Editorial staff: Don Treadgold, Ted Hallock, Don Dill, Chuck Politz^ Staff for Men’s Edition; ~ ~ ” -- W , iJ'.v 1'JQlUCIg Associate Editor, Ray Schrick Managing Editor, Herb Penny [\evvs Editor, Jack Billings City Editor, Fred Kuhl NTight Editor, Jim Watson tu-^poris tailors: Erling Erlandson, Joe Miller.