Hello, Good-Looking

Radio has at last made a good thing out of the American institution of the blind date (NBC, Thurs., 8-8:30 p.m., E.W.T.). Six servicemen (usually chosen from a nearby canteen) are paired off before a telephone in NBC's Manhattan studios. Each pair competes for a pretty girl at the other end of the line. Each man's vocal persuasiveness is his only weapon. Boy cannot see girl, and vice versa. She chooses one of the two, and the three winners take their girls to the Stork Club for a full evening of dining and dancing on the house.

Blind Date's unrehearsed dialogue is pure, offhand Americanese, unslicked by script writers. Studio audiences, who can see and hear everything, have a howling time following the young contestants. Most of the winning servicemen have viewed the girls and the whole affair as a G.I. dream come true. The girls, who are radio actresses chosen from A.F.R.A.'s enrollment, have offered no complaints. They are cautioned beforehand to be "perfect ladies," given a few stock questions to ask. The boys are provided with an opening salutation, reminded to watch what they say--parents, sisters, sweethearts may be listening.

Snatches of conversations so far:

Boy: "Do you want to know how tall I am?"

Girl: "I sure do."

Boy: "I'm tall enough."

Girl: "I like to meet men before going out with them."

Boy: "I lose more women that way."

Girl: "Do you ever go out with girl Marines?"

Boy: "No, I might have to kiss a sergeant."

Girl: "I don't think I'd like to go out with a perfect stranger."

Boy: "Gee, I'm not perfect."

Girl: "So you're a photographer."

Boy: "Yeah, I sure hope something will develop."

Girl: "What do you like in girl's clothes?"

Boy: "Girls."

Girl: "Are you good-looking?"

Boy: "Well, I don't think so. But there's a hundred other girls who think different."

Girl: "Tell me something about yourself if you want to have a date with me."

Boy: "Well, darling, there isn't a whole lot I can say. But I know that you and I would make a wonderful cooing system."

The program came out of a Sioux Falls, S.D. movie house. There it drew big, delighted crowds on once-dull Monday nights, was tied in with teapot station KELO. The enthusiastic contestants came from nearby Army camps, one barracks competing against another. A wandering advertising production scout named Tom Wallace had no trouble persuading the advertising agency Benton & Bowles that it was just the thing for their Maxwell House Coffee account.

NBC's high-collared radio men are not so sure. Ad-libbed shows give them the aerial willies. So far, the quickness of mistress of ceremonies Arlene Francis, radio & stage actress (The Doughgirls), has stood them in good stead. One losing serviceman, who won an unanticipated $15 consolation prize, gleefully grabbed the microphone and advised his favorite bartender: "Hello, Clyde, set 'em up down there!" Miss Francis recovered with: "He means Maxwell House Coffee, of course."

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