Hibachi Rebellion

    The other night a man I know stoked up his hibachi for the first time this year.  He did so with certain qualms, having read not long ago that authorities in Pennsylvania were considering a proposal to crack down on outdoor barbecues as sources of air pollution.

    The wonderfully elusive flavor of the coals-seared steak lingers in the taste department of his memory and he has served notice, at least on me, that smog fighters and revenue seekers better not get the notion of outlawing or  taxing barbecue braziers.

      He destroyed his incinerator like a little citizen, he is prepared to buy an auto exhaust device to control smog when so ordered and he has paid his taxes — but he will not forgo his hibachi.

    That's what we have this bright Saturday, incipient rebellion.

    A PICNIC in the country means different things to different people.  A lady seeking isolation took an unmarked road off the Ridge Route north of Bakersfield and came upon a delightful place with singing birds and wildflowers.

    "You haven't lived," she exulted, "until you've sat on the edge of a deserted lake, eaten an onion sandwich and drunk Chablis out of the bottle."

    She didn't say whether she'd put mayonnaise on the onion sandwich, without which it's only half good.

    DAY IN SAN DIEGO
Little monkey in the zoo,
Pardon if I stare at you.
Watch you on an endless
    spree,
Food and rent and love all
    free.
But here's what I'm in
    doubt about —
Who's looking in, who's
    looking out?
        HOWARD BLAKE

    ANONYMOUS letter traced to a Sunset Blvd. iconoclast: "Our anti baseball plot failed Tuesday at the Coliseum.  The bomb didn't go off.  And so we are faced with months of hysteria.  Think of it, if the detonation had been successful we would not have to deal with thousands of border line mental cases, doctor bills would have been cut by thus eliminating the sale of indigestible hot dogs, we would have been spared the noisy, meaningless barroom conversations and we might have made progress toward rescuing the language from baseball slang and cliches.  But we are not through.  Our time will come."

    A DOWNTOWN horse player, who has been hitting winners like crazy, has kindly consented to reveal his system here.  He has two friends who fiercely study the nags but haven't picked a horse in the money for weeks.  So each day he craftily learns their selections and picks a different contending horse.  Only thing is, he won't know when their losing streak ends and his begins.

    LOST CAUSE DEPT. — This corner held its own this week in its losing battle over the spelling of the word for abduction.  On page 1 in the coverage of the Peugeot case, it was, as usual, spelled "kidnaped," which I contend can only be pronounced "kidnayped."  But the Vogue Theater as for Robert Louis Stevenson's classic, back on the movie page, kept the banner aloft with "kidnapped."  Good old Steve.

    FOOTNOTES — In case anyone wanted to know the outcome of the contest held by station: WAGA-TV in Atlanta to name a live rabbit, as promotion for the cartoon strip Bugs Bunny, Bill Graydon found it in Sponsor magazine.  Winning name:  Rabbit E. Lee . . . Do you get carried away with your job?  Pat O' Donovan, veepee of Home Builders Assn., does.  When his secretary told him he had a phone call he asked, "Who is it?" She replied, "It's your mother."  He asked automatically, "Is she a member?" . . . A downtown secretary has a desk sign, "Out to munch."