Her voice, as she freely admits, is as awful as her father's was good—a circumstance that in the world of pop has hurt her not one whit. With such best-selling noises as How Does That Grab You, Darlin'?, Nancy Sinatra, 25, can now claim to have made it in her own right. In fact, she does so well pressing platters that she is now hotly pursuing another pop line of work. In Manhattan with her mother Nancy, 47, Frankie's daughter witnessed the world premiere of her first starring film, The Last of the Secret Agents?
Writing prose as mauve as he does, it's no wonder that Novelist Irving Stone, 62, is salting away some of the profits from his biographical fiction against the day when his muse gets too flushed to continue. Now he's the proud landlord of a new $210,000 U.S. Post Office building in Sacramento, Calif., a fairly common circumstance these days, with the Post Office Department leasing many of its stations. The investment will enrich his royalty pile by $15,000 a year. Cracked Assistant Postmaster Gene Gibham, "If something goes wrong with the plumbing, we'll call him. He'll have the agony, and we'll have the ecstasy."
Ah, what a merry night it was in Vintners' Hall in London. The hearty Falstaffs of Franc-Pineau, a winegrowers' organization devoted to the promotion of happiness, were initiating new members into their jolly ranks. Alack, they had one joiner whose visage no vintage could sweeten: Oillionaire J. Paul Getty, 73. Beside him, U.S. Admiral Charles Griffin looked like Bacchus in his ceremonial garb. Poor Paul looked like Robin Hood with heartburn.
Piqued by the sort of obituary notices his father, Novelist Evelyn Waugh, had received, young Auberon Waugh, 26, displayed some of the malicious wit that he inherited, writing a series of parody obits for London's Daily Mirror, in which he buried some of the "dead" who are still quite quick. He took special delight in his "scabrous epitaph" for Critic Malcolm Muggeridge, 63, who had done one of the obits offensive to Auberon. "In an unsavoury and fashion-obsessed period of history," wrote Evelyn's lad, himself a novelist and journalist, "he taught us all how disgusting we were. It may well have been the case that in the last years of his life, he laid in front of the fire growling at anyone who approached him, losing great patches of fur on the carpet and only stirring himself occasionally to relieve a slight odour."
I love the feeling down inside me
That says to run away
To come and be a gypsy
And laugh the gypsy way.
The iambic trimeter is charming, in a wistful, childish way—like something from the bottom of a young Emily Dickinson's trunk. In this case, the poetess is Jacqueline Kennedy, whose two quatrains, titled Dream, are published in the June McCall's. She wrote them at 14.