Confidential File

Mash Notes and Comments

"Dear Mr. Coates,

"As a student of one of our nation's most 'liberal' universities, I am at times confronted with strange class assignments.

"One such assignment I have is to give a positive seven-to-10-minute persuasion speech on becoming a nudist.

"Not being a nudist myself, I've found it rather difficult to find material concerning the subject.

"I remember, however, that you once did a television program on it, and interviewed some nudists."

"Could you possibly help me in researching the subject?"

(signed) Brenda Harris, UCLA.

-I'm surprised at you!

::

(Press
Release) "The odds against a Samoa-born singer becoming a major artist
on a major record label are, conservatively, about one million to one.
Those things just don't happen.

"But in the case of Mavis Rivers, they did.

"Late in 1958, Mavis' agent brought her audition record to Andy Wiswell, a producer in Capitol's New York studios. When her voice came through the speaker, Wiswell immediately knew that here was a new star with overwhelming potential. Immediately, a contract was signed.

"Mavis was born in Apia, Upolu,
Western Samoa, of English, Chinese, German, Samoan, Swiss and French
ancestry. In addition to Mavis and her parents, a dozen more children
filled the Rivers' home — and nearly everyone sang or played.

"The Rivers family's regular Tuesday evening clambake became the event of the week on the island…

"In 1942, with the war at the height of its fury, 'Mavis and her family moved to Pago Pago, American Samoa, a staging area with thousands of troops surging in and out each week.

"'I've
never in my life seen so many soldiers and sailors,' Mavis recalls.
"We'd wake up in the morning, look out in the back yard, and find it
full of tents.'"

(signed) Publicity Department, Capitol Records, Hollywood.

-Those weren't soldiers and sailors. That was the Arechiga family.

::

"Mr. Coates:

"As a taxpayer, I would like you to read this about the street maintenance crews that work around the Civic Center.

"Every morning there are two men who are forever leaning on their street brushes.

"They
sweep together for a distance of 6 feet, very leisurely. Then some
pretty gal comes along who works in one of the offices and the men stop
their work for 10 minutes to talk to her.

"After a few more leisurely sweeps of their brooms they stop and talk some more.

"In another 30 minutes, maybe, they will have reached the corner.

"By
then their other partner, with a stick and a box who is supposed to be
picking up pieces of paper and debris from the grass and shrubs, has
intercepted them several times and they've all leaned on their brushes
while they chatted.

"All day long they loaf and ogle pretty girls and I'M PAYING THEIR SALARIES!"

(signed) D. T., Los Angeles.

-You're a real sport, mister. If you get any more openings, call me.

Confidential File

A Borderline Case That IS Borderline

The keepers of the keys at Tijuana jail have finally pulled a blunder of major significance.

In
the past they've confined their harassment of tourists to arresting
hapless crapshooters, traffic victims and bullfight aficionados.

But
last week they committed the serious diplomatic blunder of tossing
Benny Stone into the clink. And Benny is no man to trifle with.

This whole thing, believe me, will cause international reprisals even more devastating than the time we beat the pantalones off Leo Carrillo's great-grandfather at the Battle of Cahuenga Pass.

My
friend Benny is a gentle-hearted but volatile sidewalk pitchman,
dealing in penny balloons, nylons, candy bars, razor blades and badges
with funny sayings on them.

Maybe you remember Benny. He made headlines one day back in 1947 when he set up his suitcase department store at the corner of 6th
and Main. Suddenly overwhelmed by the sight of so many sad-looking
people walking by, Benny began tossing them candy bars and rolls of
nickels. It started a small riot in which one lady was briefly
hospitalized for cuts and bruises, and Benny Stone was briefly
hospitalized for observation.

"They said they wanted to find out
how nuts I was," Benny told me later. "What's nuts? Because I like to
make sad people happy? Rockefeller gave away money. They called him
nuts?"

Benny shrugged. "Rockefeller gave away dimes. Stone gives away nickels. You got to start somewhere."

After
that bitter taste of fame, my friend Benny was able to stay out of the
headlines. But he continued his relentless pursuit of making the sad
people happy.

The last I heard, he had become the self-appointed protector of Casa de Cuna,
an impoverished little orphanage on the outskirts of Tijuana. Each week
he'd go around from store to store in L.A. begging food and clothes.
And each weekend he'd bring what he collected down to his orphans.

But
yesterday, Benny, the Patron Saint of the Sad People, came storming
into my office. He blew two blasts on a thin whistle from his stock of
merchandise to make sure he had my complete attention. "Look at me." he
commanded. "You're lucky I'm alive. I was seven days in the Tijuana
jail and I lost seven pounds. I'm like a bag of skin and bones."

Benny did a furious pirouette for my inspection. "What'd they arrest you for?" I asked.

"Who knows what'd
they arrest me for?" he shouted. "I brought the food to my orphans and
I was on my way home. I was standing on a street corner looking in a
window when a cop came over and asked who I am. So I told him. So he
starts questioning me what am I doing in Tijuana. So I told him I'm not
doing nothing. I'm just standing. Is something wrong with that? It's a
free country. So he tells me I'm arrested for having in my possession
lewd literature."

"Benny", I said, "you?"

He waved his hand impatiently. "I had a copy of Playboy magazine in my back pocket."

Not Eating Can Be Fatal

Benny
sat down for a moment, then jumped up. "I told him I had important
friends, if he tried anything on me, he'd wind up pounding a beat in
Staten Island somewhere. But they put me in jail. Seven days, I almost
starved to death from not eating."

He began pacing up and down. "They won't get away with it," he cried. "I'm gonna close that border once and for all."

Benny
thrust a soiled piece of notebook paper in front of me. "Look at this,"
he said. "I got 15 signatures from people who want to join my
committee."

"What committee?" I asked.

"The committee," my friend Benny said, "of volunteers to stand at the border and keep everybody from getting in or out."