DIG THIS
POPS
By A. Smart Alleck
With the idea of an extrey spe
cial edition in mind, we wouldst
like to devote the better part (if,
shall we say, any part can be
deemed better) to discussing an
extra special cat.
That cat, gates, is strictly a
groovily constructed character
who fronts one of the decidedly
hots crews of the nation. When
he rides, Jack, it’s like Buck
Jones. The monicker is Miller,
Glenn Miller, and that’s the real
lick.
Nothing but fine take-off men
in this band. F’rinstance this Tex
Beneke. Jack, he blows that gut
horn like St. Peter, only louder
and dirtier, and he sings like Pete
Johnson. To get sent out of this
world, gatemouth, dig Tex’s tre
mendous solo on “Yes, My Dar
ling Daughter,” or “Deep In The
Heart Of Texas.” Both are Blue
birded platters, with the former
boasting thirty-three coca-colas
consumed and the latter, three
black coffees ai)d a short beer.
And Rhythm . .
And what a rhythm section that
Glenn has snagged. They don't
play loud very often, and what if
you do think it’s Krupa’s crew.
Take that Maurice Purtill on tubs.
Finished? That cat is so polished
his shoe strings shine. Subtle too.
Yes sireebob, or Robert as the
case may be, them cats is go men,
no ickies or paper men there. Just
a fine all-around jazzy crew. And
though he isn’t to play for Mor
tar Board, he is just as good,
every bit as good, as Art Hol
man.
But even eclipsing Glenn (as if
any one could, and you all know
we are just trying to be fair all
around.) there is another coming
aggregation that shows a great
deal on wax, on the air, on the
screen. It’s Texaco—er—no—
that is, it’s Sammy Kaye. Have
you ever heard those Kaye men
go in a session, well neither have
we, but you can just imagine how
they would jam, after hearing
that fine Dccca of “Winter Win
derland.” Isn’t that a fine side,
huh ?
Yes siree, that’s really a band
that makes you want to hold your
girl close and whisper sweet ev
erythings in her ear. And if there
is anything we like to do, it’s
hold our girl close and whisper
sweet everythings in her ear. Be
cause, actually the music isn’t
very important by itself, it’s the
dance floor and the lights and
things like that there that make
the whole difference between a
good dance and a bad one.
Good Fellow
Yes sir. And that Sammy is
really a jolly follow well met too.
We can remember one night when
he played “When The Blue of
The Night Meets The Gold Of
Your Hair" in F, and the guy
didn’t slip him a pfenning. It's
just all around good music.
Sticking your neck out, we
would like, at this time, to select
our five top bands in the nation,
at this time. We realize (ha-ha)
that there will be some differenc
es of opinion on the matter, but
after all (ha-ha) that makes a
democracy, now doesn't it ? For
the top slot we would suggest
Glenn Miller and his sixteen cats.
For second place, for his distin
guished work in the field of “mel
low" music, Sammy Kaye. Third
ly, ever present, reliable Guy
Lombardo. At fourth base it’s
close between Duchin and Jur
gens, with Eddie our favorite
(heh-heh). And last, but surely
not least, the band you have all
had lots of time to grow and love,
as will your children, the one, the
inimitable, Art Holman.
Oregon
Emerald
SIGMA DELTA CHI EDITION
Buck Buchwach, Editor
J. Wesley Sullivan, Managing Editor Stan Weber, Night Editor
B. Engel and F. Timmen, City Editors Herb Penny, News Editor
Lee Flatberg, Sports Editor
Members of the Staff
Bob Frazier
Russ Hudson
Ray Schrick
John Mathews
G. Dune Wimpress
Erling Erlandson
Lynn Johnson
Francis Tuckwiler
Ken Christianson
Fred Treadgold
Chuck Boice
Lee Flatberg
Jeff Kitchen
Ted Goodwin
Don Butzin
E. P. Hoyt, Jr.
Ted' Harmon
Russ Hudson
ivi. Jtiuiten, cupy uuy
The opinions expressed in this edition are those of the en
tire campus, and do not necessarily reflect those of any pres
sure group such as Sigma Delta Chi.
Men, We Is Doomed!
HPH1S is the last time you may ever see men putting out the
A Emerald. We are not alarmists, but we ain't just whistling
Yankee Doodle or Blues in the Night.
We have it from an unimpeachable source, according to
the most reliable information, from a prominent official who
does not choose to be quoted—coeds are going to purge men
from this campus.
You can’t kid us men . . . first the editor of the Emerald
turns out to be a titian-tressed coed—then the educational ac
tivities board selects another coed to be. business manager of
the Emerald for next year (who, incidentally, very incident
ally, happens to be the gal friend—and boss—of next year’s
Emerald editor).
npiTE president of this year’s senior class is a coed . . . there
are two coeds in the first four Associated Students’ of
fices . . . coeds have called off desserts so the men will pau
perize themselves . . . the cochairman of this year’s Frosh
Glee was a coed . . .
Furthermore, the female sex hopes the movement will
spread . . . they’re taking- advantage of the wait to take over
men’s positions, such as cab drivers, welders, pinball machine
operators and other important defense tasks . . . horrors,
even running newspapers! They’re using the war to enrich
themselves. (This is not Adolph’s propaganda, nein, nein!)
rJ''HE secret blueprints they have would astound the unsus
pecting male. (Is there another kind?) . . . First the Em
erald, then the campus, then Eugene, then the state, and
then, with AIrs. Roosevelt and Myris Chaney at their head,
boot the males into oblivion. Take away equal suffrage . . .
women only will vote . . . women only will be politicians . . .
women only will be student body presidents . . . women only
will participate in sports . . . down with MAN. (That's M-A-N,
friends.)
Freedom of speech? We never had it with coeds around,
anyway. Freedom of the press? Not while coeds had two
good arms with which to defend themselves. Freedom of re
ligion? Sure, the one the gal friend wanted or none at all.
Strange creatures, these women who are going to take over
the world. No man could ever understand or satisfy them.
#
jyjIvET one on the street and tip your hat and she thinks
you are putting on airs; don't tip your hat and you’re
rude . . . ask her for a date and she's sure it's only because
her ohl man makes 120 grand a year; don't ask her and you're
a woman hater.
Offer her a drink and she thinks you're a drunkard; don't
and she swears you’re a prude . . . try to kiss her the first
night and be labeled as a wolf; don't and be regarded as a
dumb jerk . . . talk about books and drama and you’re a high
brow; don't and you're an uncouth savage . . .
Put her name in an Emerald gossip column and she raves
about being libeled: don't and get damned for writing pure
slop . . . be a big shot with lots of pins and titles and she
thinks you're conceited: don’t and you’re a below-ordinary
dope . . . spend a lot of dough on her and she brags to her
sorority sisters that you're a sucker for a compliment; don't
and site brands you as tighter than a rationing board with
tires.
* # «
npllis is man’s last stand . . . and we're going to lose. Even
now the Theta sigma Phis (our sob-sister journalists) are
closing in on us . . . kidnaping Palmer Ilovt. national president
of Sigma Delta Chi, for O.S.C.’s Matrix Table. We’re licked,
we’re beaten, we’re finished.
Woman . . . with a pen in one hand and a curler in the
other, conquering the universe.
Clad! Make mine straight. . . .—B.B.
To He-With Hitler
or ^
The International Bum
By Fritz Timmen
Adolf Hitler scowled. His rabbit-face puckered alarmingly.
He pounded his desk, cursed his bodyguards, chewed a few
inches of fringe off a rug, and detailed a regiment to bring in
Herr Goebbels. The propaganda dispenser ceased his dispens
ing and hastened to obey his beloved leader. Hitler banged his
desk again, for effect, and burst into a torrent of blasphemy.
uoeDDeis noctaeci in animation
and when the storm had subsided
he had a rough idea of what was
ailing the fuehrer. Not enough
favorable publicity. Too much
panning from the American
press. Would the good doctor be
considerate enough to see that
the censored United States hears
about the mighty commander’s
wish ? The good doctor would,
and post haste he dispatched a
dispatch to the newspaper that
would do him most good.
To the Editor:
It reached the sanctum of the
editor of this struggling rag of
freedom. Not wishing to further
antagonize the beloved protector
of the innocent, the editor de
tailed a diplomatic staff member
to answer the request of the sa
viour of the poor.
The communique: .“His impe
rial dictatorship, Herr Adolf Hit
ler, requests that members of the
American press take more note
of his contributions to the be
nighted peoples of the world. He
does not believe that he is being
given a fair quota of the space
devoted to international affairs,
and that the general tone of your
writing has been derogatory
rather than favorable. Heil, Hit
ler!”
To Adolf:
The answer: “To you, Adolf, we
say: you have been given too
much space in the American
newspapers. Much more, in fact,
than you deserve. This country
has no use for such as you, but
you have forced us to take cog
nizance of you, just as a tooth
ache demands attention. You need
to be removed. Without doubt
you had a mother, and probably
a. father. In that case there was
once somebody who loved you.
We don’t, and we don't know any
body who does.
“Your contributions to the
world are certainly too numerous
to mention. We won’t attempt a
listing, but perhaps the foremost
of them is unity you have created
among those who feel the same
about you as we do. Before too
long we will be over there to
*7a the Bditasi
To the Editor:
We read by the Emerald that
each final exam week the aver
age college student loses two
pounds. This multiplied by the
no. of studes, equals in as round
figures as we can find approxi
mately 2,500,000 pounds.
Now let’s say that the average
person weighs 150 lbs. Dividing
into 2,500,000 this means or rath
er gives the quotient 16,666. In
terms of people we can readily
see then that 16,666 of them are
wiped out each final week. There1
are three final weeks each school
year giving a grand total of
16666x3 or 49,998.
Supposing we have an army
corps comprised of the 50th, 53rd,
13th, and 19th divisions. If the
divisions are rectangular each
has about 40,000 officers and men.
If they are triangular each has
nearly 15,000 men.
The city of Butte, Montana,
is vital to the National Defense
program what with all its copper
mines, drunk Irishmen, etc., and
has a population of 50,000 men,
women and children (not counting
the Irish). '
It has been pointed out to us
that this terrible waste of flesh
rapidly mounts to significant
figures. Approximately 1 plus
rectangular or 3 triangular divi
sions, and a city the size of
Butte, Mont., are blitzed without
an enemy raising a hand. In four
years this could lose the war for
us!
WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO
DO ABOUT IT????
Sincerely,
Lee F. Ghormley.
Reply: We never did like Mon
tana. Try the office of facts Sid
figures.—Ed.
present personally our opinion of
you, but until then all we need
to say is, have your fun while
you can, because you’re going to
get your toys taken away from
you.”
Time and Life March On
NO time is death pleasant . . . but there are.ways to die
. . . and there are ways to die.
Although sorrow is felt by every SDX’er and every news
paper man throughout the country because of the death df
Melville Jacoby, Time and Life correspondent, in an Australia
air crash, a certain, pride surges through every newspaper man.
For Melville Jacoby died a hero’s death . . . with Brigadier
(leneral Harold II. George . . . and of Jacoby, who covered the
defense of the Bataan peninsula until it fell, General Douglas
MacArthur said:
“He is cited herein not only for his literary talents, but
for his complete devotion to military standards. lie could well
have served as a model for war correspondents at the front.”
Melville Jacoby, newspaper man, died with his weapon in
his hands—wielding the typewriter in the service of his coun
try. if you please.
There are ways to die . . . and there are ways to die . . .
Buy defense stamps and liek ’em on the other side.
In tlie olden days, it took a V to represent a Uj nowadays
it takes U to make a V . . . for victory.
Remember: Don t sit on de-fense . . . work on it.