Family Weekly J June to, i96t
FM THE WORLD'!
While you dream about meeting John Glenn or dancing w
GREATEST GATE CRASHER!
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Ushering at (ho Lucille Bull-Gary Morton wedding.
Night clubbing with Rita Hayworth.
Strolling with ex-President Truman.
Rubbing elbows with the Kennedy clan at
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Berman after bestowing fake Oscar at the Academy Awards.
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the Inaugural Ball.
Welcoming
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Hobnobbing with Ted, Bob Kennedy.
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astronaut Glenn at New York's ticker-tape parade.
I Marilyn Monroe, a jaunty taxi
Thousands were cheering as astro
naut John Glenn, the first American
to orbit the earth, climbed onto the re
ception platform at New York's City
Hall. I walked over and shook his hand.
"How are you, Colonel?" I said. He
smiled noncommittally.
I then shook hands with the others on the plat
form: Vice President Lyndon Johnson, Mayor
Robert Wagner of New York, Mrs. Glenn and
her children, and the six other astronauts who
were taking part in the ticker-tape parade
through Manhattan. They all smiled.
- As we were being seated, I suddenly reached in
front of Mayor Wagner and handed Colonel Glenn
a small trophy. It was an imitation-gold statuette
I'd bought the previous night in a novelty store.
The inscription on the base read: "To Col. John
Glenn, World's Greatest Astronaut, From Stan
Berman, World's Greatest Gate Crasher."
What happened after that is incidental to the
story. Mayor Wagner stared at me in shock and,
the next thing I knew, three burly Secret Service
men had yanked me off the platform. But I had
accomplished what I had set out to do. Despite
hundreds of police and Secret Service men, I'd
slipped through the barricades and crashed the
Glenn parade. Thousands gathered at City Hall
and millions watching on tv had seen me there.
I'd done the impossible.
Several weeks later I did the same thing at the
Academy Awards presentation in the Santa Mon
ica Civic Auditorium. Bob Hope, master of cere
monies at the event, has often joked about his
long wait for an Oscar of his own. So when the
awards were being handed out this year, I sud
denly appeared on the stage and announced:
"I'm here to present Bob Hope with his 1938
award." As the audience of movie stars gasped, I
plunked a miniature Oscar on the podium and
disappeared. Shelley Winters thought I was a
winner as I came on stage and almost gave me
the Oscar for black-and-white photography.
Later in April I was back in New York for the
televised presentation of the Tony Awards, the
legitimate theater's equivalent of the Oscars.
That time I got on stage twice and presented
flowers to two award-winning actresses.
In the past 18 years, I've crashed more than
3,000 "uncrashable" parties. I've eaten more than
1,000 free meals, rubbed elbows with statesmen,
queens, movie stars, socialites, famous athletes.
I've been seen with every President since Herbert
Hoover. Last year, during the Inaugural Ball, I
sat in the Presidential box next to Joseph Ken
driver is doing just that
as told
nedy, the President's father, and only a few seats
away from President Kennedy and Jacqueline.
I crash everything movie premieres, political
rallies, championship prize rights, diplomatic re
ceptions, and weddings and funerals of the fa
mous. I've dined and danced with such beauties
as Rita Hayworth, Elizabeth Taylor, Marilyn
Monroe, and Princess Grace of Monaco.
Some people deny that I crash all these events.
But I make it a point of getting documented evi
dence whenever possible. After Lucille Ball's re
cent wedding to Gary Morton (which I crashed
disguised as her bodyguard), Lucy swore I had
not been there. She kept on swearing until I
produced pictures showing me helping her into
her limousine at the church.
Some of my friends and relatives think I'm
crazy to have spent 18 years crashing parties. My
mother is afraid the FBI will get me eventually.
"Why, Stanley?" she asks. "Why should a 36-year-old
bachelor with a good job as a cab driver
and a good home with his parents in Brooklyn
want to be a gate crasher?"
I can only tell her it's exciting to prove to my
self that a humble cabby can hobnob with the
great. It's my hobby, just as some people collect
stamps, and I know plenty who envy me.
It All Started with Roosevelt
Our country's Presidents and political leaders
always have had a special fascination for me
probably because my career as a gate crasher
started in 1944 when I went to a political rally
in Brooklyn to get President Roosevelt's auto
graph. I managed to slip by the guards and get
close enough to pass a note up to the President's
box. I didn't get the autograph, but it was a
thrill seeing him. I decided then I was going to
be important and mix with the famous.
Since then, I've been a dedicated Presidential
gate crasher. Once, I strolled into the White
House grounds to meet President Truman, but
the guards nabbed me before I got to him. I
caught up with President Eisenhower several
times on the golf course, and I've shaken hands
with arid waved campaign signs for every Presi
dential candidate since 1943. When Gen. Douglas
MacArthur came back from Korea, I hitchhiked
to the West Coast so I could be one of the first
people to greet him. I dropped a note into his
pocket. It read: "MacArthur for President."
But my biggest crash took place when Queen
Elizabeth II visited this country in 1957. The
Queen was the best-guarded person I've ever en
countered. Because this represented a challenge, I
decided I would try.
I slipped through a side exit of the Waldorf-
By STAN BERMAN
to Marya Saunders and Bob Gaines
Astoria Hotel in New York the evening an official
banquet was being held there in the Queen's
honor. Once inside, I worked my way down to
the kitchen. There I picked up a tray, draped a
napkin over my arm as if I were a waiter, and
walked out into the crowded ballroom. A detec
tive even held the door for me.
I marched up to the dais where the Queen was
sitting with W. Averell Harriman, then governor
of New York. I handed the Queen my autograph
book and said, "Your Majesty, may I have your
royal signature?'"
She said, "Ugh" her exact word and gave
the book to Governor Harriman. He said, "No,"
and gave the book back to me.
Scotland Yard Had a Waiter, Too
Not wishing to make a scene, I turned away.
Another man dressed like a waiter came up be
hind me, pressed something in my back, and said,
"Keep walking, chum. This is Scotland Yard."
I spent the rest of the evening in the 64th
Street police station. The police grilled me for
four hours. They wouldn't believe I was just a
gate crasher and autograph collector. Finally,
they took me to Bellevue Hospital. There, the
examining psychiatrist talked to me a few min
utes, then turned to the police and said, "Why do
you waste my time? There's nothing wrong with
being an autograph collector. I'm one rr.ysclf."
Gate crashing is essentially hard work. I wear
out three suits a year, and my pants are usually
shiny from all the banquets I attend. Clothes are
important, and I spend $20 a week for the best
shoes, shirts, ties, stockings. When I go out to
society parties, I act and dress the part.
I always keep a good dark suit and a shaving
kit in the back of my cab when I'm cruising in
case I bump into a good party. Since most of the
hotels have at least one function a night, I'm
never short of parties.'
To be a successful gate crasher, you must
throw out your chest and say, "I'm as good as
anybody, and I'm better than most." I carry all
kinds of press cards to get me past ticket col
lectors and police barricades, but I rarely depend
on them. My real tools are timing, cool nerves,
and a faith in myself.
If anybody does stop me, I have dozens of
alibis ready. I say I'm a reporter or a relative, a
bodyguard, a caterer, a doctor, a fire inspector.
I have become so well known to guards and
police that I sometimes use disguises. I have a kit
containing a fake mustache, a goatee, a pipe, and
pancake make-up to give me a darker complexion.
In the past year, an exciting thing has hap
pened. People have begun welcoming me to par
(Continued on page 12)
Family Weekly. June 10, 1M2 J
family Weekly, June 10. 1S6J
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