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| July, 1949 Hi, gang! Every year at this time, I order $50 worth of fireworks and a refill for the family First Aid Kit, and Nancy checks all the fire extinguishers and looks up the number of the local hook and ladder company. My brood has learned the hard way that Daddy and firecrackers have nothing more in common than an explosive attitude toward each other. I have been the victim of more short fuses than probably any other man who has sacrificed his eyebrows for his country. Two years ago, I decided to give our neighbors on Toluca Lake the thrill of a lifetime—my lifetime. All day I worked setting up fireworks displays on a little raft-sputtering fire, skyrockets, heavy bombardment stuff, Roman candles. I was ready to show California how we celebrated the Fourth of July back in New Jersey! I should have stood in bed, because that’s where I wound up anyway. My labors of the day finished, I went back to the house, took a shower and put on my brand new flannels and sport coat. The guests arrived for the Giant Barbecue & Fireworks Display. At this point, I still didn’t know that the fireworks were going to try making me part of the barbecue. Dessert and darkness arrived at just about the same time. The guests were asking for water chasers to follow Nancy’s famous rum cake when I strode purposefully to the lakeside, leaped into the rowboat and towed the fireworks-laden raft to the center of Toluca’s private little ocean. Once aboard the raft, I reached down in the darkness and untied the painter connecting the rowboat to my home-made Vesuvius. I wanted to be ready for a quick getaway. I took a long, last, satisfying look around the edge of the lake. The neighbors had been alerted and, with their guests, were watching and waiting for Professor Sinatra’ Mammoth Pyrotechnic Display! This was my moment! I reached into my pocket, pulled out a match and searched for the key-fuse which would set off thirty minutes of chain lightning. I set the match to the fuse, reached or the rope I’d untied, pulled the rowboat toward me and, as the first bit of fireworks blazed up in a quick flare, saw to my horror that there was still one more rope tied to the raft! It was like being caught in the crossfire between the Monitor and the Merrimac! I just beat the first skyrocket off that raft, brand new. flannels, sport coat. and all, and during the long, hard swim some sneaky fish even picked my pocket of a hundred and eighty dollars. I had just time enough before touching shore to make up my mind what would say to Daddy’s little boy Frankie, Jr., about practicing Boy Scout knots between Daddy’s little boat and Daddy’s little raft. This year, here’s wishing you (and me), a safe and sane Fourth of July! Names From My Autograph Book: For a near and dear pal, I had to go and pick Bing Crosby’s personal songwriter. As the melody man of the team of Burke and Van Heusen, Jimmy Van Heusen has coauthored nearly every one of Bing’s motion I picture scores. It’s nice being proud of your friends. Jimmy makes that easy. He’s a man’s man. First of all, he has a great talent. From there on in, the guy gets really interesting! During the war he was a test-pilot for Lockheed. Today, he flies his own Navion. riding co-pilot with Jimmy through rough weather you never lose confidence. You always have the feeling that he can spank the clouds into submission with the flat of his plane’s wing. Around the ladies, Jimmy cuts a dashing figure—dashing away from them. They love him! Long ago, I learned not to be surprised when telephoning for Jimmy to get an answer that he’d just taken off for Alaska or Acapulco. Mr. Van Heusen is a charming gent who is leading life around by the nose. If you’d like a list of his friends, just send for a copy of the West Coast census. My schedule at MGM forced me to cancel my proposed trip to England about which I told you last month. Know anybody who wants to buy a monocle and eleven pounds of seasick pills? During the run of Take Me Out to the Ball Game, an Ohio theater manager reported a shifty-eyed fellow standing outside the box-office selling scorecards! He should have saved his time: Esther Williams’ husband, Ben Gage, is the only guy who can get to first base with her! The sound laboratory at MGM is working on a new invention that will help theatergoers to hear the people on the screen more clearly—noiseless popcorn! While I was shooting It’s Only Money with Groucho Marx at RKO somebody asked Groucho for his idea of a well-rounded actress. "The Mustache" rapped out the retort improper, "Jane Russell!" Yours, 
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