Word: blots
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...Blot sat in the Great Hall, silently mulling over the galley proofs of the April Lampoon. In the corner propped up behind him was a large cardboard thermometer, colored up to 12.1 percent. Around it were slogans: "Let's hit fifteen in '53!" "Upward with Updike!" "Mother Advocate gains readers...
...Blot finished the proofs and drew a long sigh. We'd better get some readers before the Chief graduates, he thought, or we'll really be in trouble. Look at this issue--six of ten cartoons, five out of seven stories, three poems. Of course, Edwards helped him on a couple of stories but you'd never know it from the style. And what is there beside his stuff? The Wentworth piece, sure, probably the best he's done so far. Good sketch of an ill-clothed, ill-fed French family which waits months for a CARE package. When...
...Blot's eyes wandered to the wall, where John Updike's picture had already been hung between Benchley and Gluyas Williams. Some of his stuff fell flat this issue, he thought. You really can't blame the Chief--he's so overworked. But the Chinese birthday party cartoon ("Happy Birthday, Tu Yu") was great. The lead poem on Spring was smooth and sensitive. And the Schism in the Church story--about the Pennsylvania Germans (Blot's eyes filled with tears as he thought of how well the Chief knew and loved them.) The way he wriggles the poor minister...
...Arquango Adventure" by a reactivated, graduated editor, and "Ten Toes" by E. Wentworth deserve mention only because they elaborate, humorlessly, the theme of the issue. "In Corporation Assembled" pokes mordant fun at the efforts of the Corporation to choose a new president. I think Blot and Jester try to warn the reader about the harm of bathing beauty contests at Harvard, but their subtle suggestion is not clear...
...traditional Blot-Jester dialogue this time finds the Lampoon in uneasy editorial agreement with the CRIMSON concerning the new parietal rules. As the Jester says, "Well, they've decided to let you have them in your rooms from eight to eleven Saturday night, when everyone who has any sense is in the Ritz Bar anyway, and not to have them there at all in the afternoons, which is the only time you can copy their Fine Arts papers...