Word: 80th
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Dick Howe recovered from a cold night, sprinted out with the leaders, but fell back to 71st place. As with everyone but Baker. Howe's time was off his Hep's mark. Tim "Spider" McLoone dragged himself in 80th and Kentuckian John Heyburn crossed the line 107th, consigning Harvard to its lowly finish...
...need it." Sounds kinda pinko, eh? It was Alf London speaking, the unreconstructed prairie Bull Mooser who went on to become Governor of Kansas and Republican candidate for President in 1936. Laughing fit to bust britches, Landon tossed out a bagful of prickly pears as he celebrated his 80th birthday in Topeka, including a couple for today's Republicans: "They've got to quit kicking labor in the pants; they've got to quit kicking farmers in the pants." As for the notion that he had somehow turned leftist, Landon snorted: "What was the old Bull Moose...
...publishers profess to be perplexed about whether this is 85-year-old Author Wodehouse's 70th or 80th or maybe even 90th book. No use trying to count, they say, because in Wodehouse's puzzling world, as in Einstein's, one and one don't always add up to two. Quite true. Old Wodehouse-masters know it is equally fruitless to try to unravel the plot in one of his potty idyls. In this book, he sets out to tell the tale of a cuckoo American millionaire's efforts to steal an 18th century paperweight...
...President, in public at least, maintained a stoic silence. Unlike Winston Churchill, who so hated his 80th birthday portrait by Graham Sutherland that he kept the original hidden until his death, Johnson cannot conceal the "ugliest thing" he ever saw. Hurd is putting the painting on public display this week in the Columbus (Ohio) Gallery of Fine Arts, and-thanks to its recent publicity-it eventually will be seen across the country. Meanwhile, the current wisecrack in Washington is that artists should be seen around the White House-but not Hurd...
...tedious, heaps a hillock of fresh laurels on Balzac's grave. André Maurois, an old hand at literary biographies (Shelley, Byron, Dickens, Dumas, Hugo, Proust), disavows that intention. "This is a life of Balzac, not a critical study," he says in a foreword and, having passed his 80th year, announces that it is the last biography he will write. Nevertheless, Prometheus is strewn with the kind of judgments that a disciple makes at the feet of the master: "A super-novelist," "the greatest novelist of the century." Balzac's very faults become virtues: "The enforced disorder...