Names make news. Last week these names made this news:
In Panama, Juan Peron applied for a permanent-residence permit, anted up a $225 deposit (from the mountain of loot he light-fingered from Argentina's coffers before fleeing) to stand as security against his becoming a public charge.
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In Hollywood, Hungarian Charmer Zsa Zsa Gabor, thrice-wed (to Turkish Senator Burhan Belge, Hotelman Conrad Hilton, Cinemactor George Sanders), proudly confided: "I have never married a man I didn't like." Then she told how chummy she still is with her three ex-mates. She is working on a movie (Death of a Scoundrel) with Sanders, and "he phones me all the time." As for the other two: "Connie Hilton built that hotel of his in Istanbul because of my suggestion. So at least Turkey has a monument of my affection for their Senator."
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Gasping and guffawing, Miami playgoers were watching reckless-driving Actress Tallulah Bankhead run A Streetcar Named Desire completely off its trolley. In the role of beaten, world-weary Blanche Dubois, Tallulah was heartily playing Tallulah. She roared over the boards, always managed to be upstage, downed her onstage liquor as if it were the real stuff, generally hammed her way through the part in a spirit of riotous deviltry. In the play's climactic scene, where the script calls for Blanche to be set up for a rape by brutish Stanley Kowalski, most viewers feared for poor Kowalski. As Streetcar's wild run began, Playwright Tennessee Williams had unwarily cozied up to Tallulah in her dressing room (see cut). After catching her first performances, he began attending a nearby bar. Groaned he into his cups and to all who would listen: "That woman is ruining my play." Later, unable even to bear reports of the nightly spectacle, Williams left town. But, ruinously or not, Tallulah kept packing them into the theater. Next destinations of her wayward Streetcar: Palm Beach, then Manhattan's City Center.
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Dr. Paul Dudley White, President Eisenhower's civilian heart specialist, sailed from Los Angeles for an ocean rendezvous with some grey whale cows, now calving off the Pacific coast of Lower California. Armed with two electrode-bearing harpoons, Heart Researcher White hoped to spear the cows lightly, chart the pulses of the 50-ft. (maximum) beasts while trailing them in a dory equipped with an electrocardiograph. Asked about his most important patient. Dr. White assured newsmen: "I'll be on call for the President all the while."
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In 1952 Cinemactress Judy (A Star Is Born) Garland, veteran of two broken marriages, a half-hearted suicide try, long sieges of nervous illness, married Agent-Producer Sid Luft. When it seemed that a star had died, Luft resurrected her, put her back on her feet in big-time vaudeville (audiences at Manhattan's Palace and London's Palladium wept on hearing again her old, nostalgic Over the Rainbow), catapulted her higher than ever in movies and on TV. But somehow the Lufts' rainbow ended in a pot of debts, piled up, according to Luft's friends, because of his unhappy knack of betting on also-ran horses. Last week, after nearly four years of marriage and two children, Judy, 32, sued Luft, 39, for divorce. Grounds: extreme mental cruelty.
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Intelligence from Indiana University's Institute for Sex Research: royalties from Dr. Alfred C. Kinsey's two tomes on the erotic behavior of U.S. males and females declined last year. Gravy from the books was a passionate $309,079.64 in 1954, a gelid $3,001.27 last year.
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In a commonplace domestic predicament, NBC's Board Chairman Sylvester ("Pat") Weaver noted that the dress of his wife, exActress Elizabeth Inglis, was entirely unzipped in back, fumbled to rezip her, bungled the job. Tensely whispered Liz: "Why don't you put your arm around me?" Pat Weaver instantly did so. The main reason the incident proved embarrassing was that some 20 million TV fans were watching it on a rival network show, CBS's Person to Person.
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It was a bleary, boozy morning-after in a Harlem after-hours club. "They were arguing about chicks," reported one jive-talking eyewitness. "One thing led to another and this cat whipped out the difference [i.e., a gat] and started firing away. Everybody ducked for cover and I got so scared I ran up my buddy's back like a window shade." Accused as the cat with the difference: Negro Bistro Singer Billy (That Old Black Magic) Daniels, 40. Daniels, to whom it was "all a blank," was soon free on $2,500 bond. But the victim, a 33-year-old drifter, slightly wounded in the shoulder, was jugged as a material witness, with bail set at $5,000 (later halved to the amount that sprang Billy). At week's end, Daniels, his local cabaret entertainer's card lifted, hopped off to Hollywood. Before he left, he was asked about rumors of a $10,000 hush-hush payoff to the cops. Shrugged Billy, who had been knocking down $10,000 a week at a brassy Manhattan nightclub: "I don't have that kind of money."
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