• U.S.

People: Apr. 9, 1965

5 minute read

Producers have no trouble seeing her as Joan of Arc, Ophelia, Queen Victoria, and a neat pre-beatnik in I Am a Camera. But who in the world would ever cast her as a cowpoke? Herself, Julie Harris, 39, that’s who. She thought she’d like to try a bit more TV work, and asked her agent if there might be just a little part on her favorite show, Rawhide? Wai, sure, podnuh, and Julie not only gets to fall in love with Rowdy Yates; she gallops around a cattle drive besides. Nice cast, too. “Handling the calves was a delight,” drawls Julie.

They said they were minding their own business, just a bunch of guys named Roger Maris, 30, Clete Boyer, 28, Joe DiMaggio and Hal Reniff having a quiet snort in a dark bar after a hard day at the Yankees’ Fort Lauderdale training camp. But Male Model Jerome Modzelewski, at the next table, says somebody tossed a wild pitch at his girl. Maris says Jerome kept damning the four Yankees. Anyhow, Modzelewski wound up with a badly cut lip, eleven stitches and the distinct impression that Maris was going for 61. He charged Roger and Clete with assault and battery. Impossible, says Roger, who has only clouted one over the fence so far this year, “I thought everybody knew I’m not much of a spring hitter.”

Shanghai was the word for this operation. Some colleagues on Capitol Hill were dedicating a hearing room in honor of Carl Vinson, 81, retired chairman of the House Armed Services Committee. The crusty old statesman characteristically replied that he was “too busy” for such foofaraws. So out to Milledgeville, Ga., went an innocent phone call from the White House asking him to come spend the weekend. Of course Vinson accepted. And of course L.B.J. hustled him right over for the dedication ceremonies, where the President recalled his own days as a very junior member of Vinson’s committee. “I sat in silence for four years,” chuckled Johnson, until one day he started asking questions about a proposed base near Corpus Christi, only to be told by Vinson to “get rid of these local issues.” “That got my dander up,” continued Lyndon, “so I said, ‘Surely I am entitled to four questions—one for each year.’ ” Squelched Vinson: “All right. You asked three. You have one more to go.”

He might be married, with two kids, stand only 5 ft. 1 in. in his socks and wear his hair like a scrub brush. But he was obviously going places, and so Andrea Kline, a Queens teen, picked Astronaut Gus Grissom, 39, for her private hero four years ago, sent him letters and gifts and kept hoping that one day . . . Now Gus and John Young were safely down from their Gemini voyage into space, and in Manhattan for the parades and banquets. Into the Waldorf-Astoria marched Andrea, and ran right up to the dais, where she handed the startled Grissom a pair of square Florentine cuff links and a tie clasp, then burst into tears. No emergency procedures for Gus. He just introduced her as “my Number One fan,” gave her his chair and sat on the floor while the mayor spoke. “We made it, Gus and I,” sighed Andrea, 16. “We both made it.”

Prophets have it made compared to actresses when it comes to being honored in their own country, especially if it’s Italy. Those undressed scenes in Italian movies may be the ogle of all eyes abroad, but back home more than a third of the flicks are forbidden to minors, and half the rest are hotly attacked as immoral. Immoral? Rome’s weekly Settimana Incom thought the gals might have a few thoughts on that, and did they ever! “I do not think it is more harmful for a young boy to see my striptease than to see the James Bond movies, which exalt violence,” pouted Sophia Loren, 30, who cut quite a figure in the bordello scene in Marriage—Italian Style. Virna Lisi, 27, was hardly more penitent: “I have a severe husband, I am a good mother, and yet I absolutely do not feel guilty for having shown a little leg and a little back in a little amusing film.”

Don’t accuse G. Keith Funston, 54, president of the New York Stock Exchange, of not living in the computer age. He believes in computers as much as the next man, and in fact was telling a group of Clearwater, Fla., businessmen about the exchange’s plans for a new building with all sorts of electronic gizmos. So the stockbroker is on his way out? asked someone. Well, no, grinned Funston. “Not until we find a computer that can make a decision and take a loss.”

Mzee, the “old one,” as he likes to be called, was once a Communist, then leader of the bloody Mau-Mau rebellion, and finally the first Prime Minister of Kenya. It might have been those eight years in a damp jail cell that made him creak a bit as he dropped to his knees. But that only made the student body cheer and whistle all the louder when Jomo Kenyatta knelt to become a Doctor of Laws. Julius Nyerere, President of Tanzania and chancellor of newly founded East African University in Kampala, placed his own tasseled cap on Jomo’s head to confer the university’s first honorary degree. “Do we call you ‘doctor’ now?” a friend asked as he was leaving. “No,” said Jomo. “Call me Mzee.”

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