Considering the 6-ft. 8-in. size of the man, it was like looking for a needle in a bonefish. Dining with University of British Columbia dons in Vancouver, Harvard Economist John Kenneth Galbraith, 57, choked on a bony hunk of the area's famed broiled salmon. As he told it, "There followed a contest, between myself and the salmon, that was a great sporting event on the whole. At the hospital, they tried casting for it; then they trolled for it, and that didn't work either. And then, after they used, a general anesthetic, I learned that they had tried a fly, but finally extracted it with an old-fashioned worm." Fish story or no, once unplugged, Galbraith politely took his hosts off the hook, said, "I'm sure my salmon was one of the finest local species."
Most of the alumni don't feel overly rah-rah about Tacoma's McNeil Island Federal Penitentiary; but for ex-Teamsters Boss Dave Beck, 72, the place was a veritable Vic Tanny's West. Released 22 months ago, after serving half of a five-year stretch for income tax evasion, Beck boasts that "I came out in better shape than I went in." Since the kind of Gemiitlichkeit that goes with his $50,-000-a-year Teamsters pension was out, he picked up "the exercise habit" in the hoosegow, made it a point "to be out on that exercise track every morning." Now in his Seattle pad, Beck can't shake the stir-born routine of stretching his legs without going anywhere, so he's bought an exercycle for a fast, 15-min-ute spin every morning.
Half a century ago, he started out with a banjo quartet in Altoona, Pa. The nation's most durable bandleader still hits 150 cities a year, playing mostly to packed houses. And so it was in Manhattan, where more than 900 of the faithful and 100 "Pennsylvanians" past and present gathered to toast Fred Waring's five decades on the bandstand. "The greatest thrill of my life," he said, and returned the salute by leading the Pennsylvanians in a nostalgic Waring blend of chorus and orchestra. Next week at 66, Fred's off on his 1966-67 country-wide swing, which he's calling "The First Fifty Years."
Suburban Chevy Chase, Md., was just fine for the Senator from Minnesota when he moved to the neat, two-story house there 17 years ago. But not for the Vice President: Secret Service men camped in the basement, and Hubert Humphrey rarely made the 45-minute drive home in time for dinner. He had turned down a $750,000 congressional appropriation for an official residence as unseemly in view of Viet Nam, so finally last week, "with the advice and counsel" of Wife Muriel, Hubert splurged $89,000 on a six-room co-op apartment in downtown Washington. "We just weren't able to see enough of each other," beamed Humphrey, obviously tickled at the mere nine-minute drive from his Capitol office.