Three years ago, Manhattan Adman David Ogilvy, 54, completed his Confessions of an Advertising Man, and decided to make a fatherly gesture. "I guessed it would sell about 3,000 copies," he ruefully told the Association of Canadian Advertisers. "So I gave the copyright to my son David for his 21st birthday. This was a ghastly mistake. The book sold 400,000 copies. The net result is that my son has spent two years on safari in Africa and skiing in Austria, while I've been working my fingers to the bone. The least he might do is to stop calling me from Austria, collect." O.K., Dad, but how far do you expect a guy to stretch $60,000?

Just eleven months ago, Rocker Jordan Christopher, 25, had to stand up there and howl with the rest of the Wild Ones. But ever since he married the boss, Sybil Burton Christopher, 37, Jordan has been privileged to sit around her Manhattan bedlam, Arthur, and admire the plangent din. Last week the Wild Ones were wilder than usual as the ridiculously successful joint celebrated its first anniversary. Jordan and Sybil sliced into a birthday cake to the cheers of such music lovers as Leonard Bernstein and Disk Jockey Murray the K, who kept trying to discuss esthetics above the entertainment. Caterwauled Sybil: "If you can talk, there must be something wrong."

Iowa's Representative H. R. Gross was in higher dudgeon than usual. "I couldn't believe my eyes," he told the House, "when I saw the Reverend Moyers, White House press secretary, gyrating halfway down on his knees, doing the watusi. The Reverend Moyers is another of those twinkle toes that inhabit the White House." At that, Baptist Bill Moyers, 31, inhibited himself into the depths of the West Wing and refused any comment on his performance at the Smithsonian Institution bene fit ball. White House Adviser Bob Kintner just burbled: "No matter what dance Bill does, it always comes out looking like a square dance anyhow."

"For the first time in your life, you are wrong," the voice of the 36th President of the U.S. boomed through the amplifier in Kansas City's Muehlebach Hotel. "I'll never be too busy to pay my respects to a great American." The 33rd President, Harry Truman, need never have doubted that the phone call would come at his 82nd birthday party, for Lyndon Johnson holds no man living in greater esteem. "We've had 13 years to see the wisdom of your policies," said Johnson. Then he chuckled: "I have often thought you'd rather have your friends cussing you than praising you, but you'll have to go right on paying the price of greatness." Beamed Harry: "I can't agree that it was great, but I did the best I could."

If you find yourself grabbed and slammed hard against the railing or banister of a staircase, you might well feel fairly helpless--unless you know about the NASAL-PRESSURE AND INTERIOR LEG THROW.

That's certainly true. So to help out the poor lass who finds herself in this and 26 other uncomfortable situations, ranging from rape to purse-snatching, Actress Honor Blackman, 38, who as Pussy Galore gained ambiguous distinction by flipping James Bond on his backside in Goldfinger, has prepared a perfectly ludicrous manual entitled Honor Blackman's Book of Self-Defense--125 bone-cracking pages of judo, jujitsu and karate calculated to make a chap keep his clammy paws to himself. "An undertone of violence is implicit in any male-female relationship," says Pussy primly.

In the past, Artist Andrew Wyeth, 48, has immortalized the landscape around Chadds Ford, Pa., in his lovely, haunted paintings. Now he is fighting quite literally to preserve it. The Fibre-Metal Products Co. asked the township supervisors to rezone 25 acres of meadowland near Wyeth's home to permit construction of a factory. To Wyeth, who has done the meadow many times in tempera and watercolors, the idea was a sacrilege. "The coming of the factory would turn this rural area into a smoke-filled industrial place," he cried. "My neighbors and I are like the embattled farmers at Concord Bridge. We are going to fight."

When he was Vice President, Lyndon Johnson had his Pakistani camel driver, Bashir Ahmad. Now, sure enough, Hubert Humphrey has an international sidekick, Jerusalem Barber Ephraim Mizrahi. The barber doesn't match the camel driver for native eloquence, but he is sufficiently effusive about his hero, who first dropped into the King David Hotel's tonsorial parlor in 1957. "The Vice President is my whole life," glowed Mizrahi, now a steady pen pal who keeps Humphrey's autographed portrait in a place of honor above the hair tonic. "Even Americans do not know what a great man he is." Such a great man, in fact, that Ephraim dreams fondly of clipping in the White House some day.

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