Word: randolphs
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...Morgan. Slowly, John W. Davis of West Virginia and New York began to pull ahead of the other also-rans, until William Jennings Bryan, den mother of the Democrats, cast aside his palmetto fan and rose to denounce Davis as the advocate of Wall Street. Next day William Randolph Hearst's supreme pundit, Arthur Brisbane, reported it: "Instantly, Davis' vote dropped away to practically nothing, and there it will stay. For. as Mr. Bryan said, you can't nominate the lawyer of J. Pierpont Morgan for President of the United States." The following day, Davis...
...week. After 15 years as general manager of the Hearst papers, J. D. Gorta-towsky, 69, gave up the job (though he will remain as titular Hearst chairman). To Harold G. Kern, 56, a Hearstling for 30 years, went the title of general manager. To 47-year-old William Randolph Hearst Jr., just back from a tour of Russia (TIME, Feb. 21), went a title that has been unused since his father's death in 1951: editor in chief...
...embassy parties, Khrushchev-likes to buttonhole diplomats, talk to them endlessly in badly phrased, ungrammatical Russian. Only a few days before, he had joked and winked with foreign newsmen about the idea of capitalists and Communists sitting around a table talking together, and as he assured visiting Publisher William Randolph Hearst Jr.* that there was no possibility of a rift between himself and Malenkov, his blue eyes were as candid as a baby...
...Dimes fashion show in Manhattan, well-known ladies from all walks of U.S. life dressed them selves in newly designed getups, paraded about the grand ballroom of the Waldorf Astoria to help raise money for a final victory over polio. Among the models were austerely beautiful Mrs. William Randolph Hearst Jr. (who displayed what Couturier Charles James called "the highest bust line in 125 years"), socially registered Mrs. Cornelius Vanderbilt Whitney, TV Star Margaret Truman, and split-bustled sometime Stripteaser-Novelist Gypsy Rose Lee. Bubbled Gypsy: "I don't worry about shoes. When they start looking at my shoes...
From its clattering bowling alleys to its reeking card rooms, Bensinger's Recreational Amphitheater on Chicago's Randolph Street is a male refuge in a world that is rapidly going to the dolls. There, fly-blown velvet curtains shut out the flickering neon of The Loop; cigar smoke hangs like a grey curtain of decency between the elbow benders and the ripe, oil-painted nudes behind the bar. Cluttered with old-fashioned sporting prints and spittoons, Bensinger's is a comfortable clubhouse for pool sharks, poker players, three-cushion wizards, and foul-air fiends of every variety...