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!
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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.