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Special editions came off presses from Taiwan to Fleet Street like confetti. Records for circulation, promotion, mass staffing, and words written were broken everywhere. At week's end the Miami News delivered to its readers a staggering 16-page, 33,000-word narrative describing the Apollo 11 mission. In New York, the Times devoted 18 pages to moon news. Even with a press run increased by 75,000, the Times literally disappeared from newsstands Monday morning—some copies going for upwards of $1 on the black market. Both the New York Post and Daily News datelined landing-day issues "Moonday, July 21."
Almost alone in the world, the main land Chinese press virtually ignored the moon landing, though one Hong Kong Communist daily headlined: THE AMERICAN PEOPLE PRAY: GOD GIVE ME A PIECE OF BREAD, DON'T GIVE ME THE MOON. On the other hand, Italy's Paese Sera, the unofficial Communist evening paper, devoted twelve pages to Apollo and ran a complimentary picture of Richard Nixon. In Paris, even the Communist paper L'Humanite called the moon walk a "dream from the depths of time realized"—although it managed to keep the words United States and American off its front page.
As with any overwhelming event, the fallout was widespread and sometimes offbeat. Scores of children born last week were named "Apollo" or "Moon," "Tranquillity" or "Luna." The Siam Motor Works offered scholarships from primary school through university for the Thai children born nearest the exact moments of lunar landing and splashdown. The Berlin Zoo christened three wildcat cubs born during the moon walk Neil, Buzz and Mike. For a "moon happening" in Vienna, a bakery produced a 300-lb., 6-ft. cake decorated with marzipan craters.
Bits of Franglais
Parisians complained that it took longer for them to place calls to friends in the provinces than for President Nixon to reach the astronauts on the moon. It took no time whatever, though, for new bits of Franglais to crop up, such as "Voilá la go." Trader Vic's restaurants around the U.S. and in London served a tiny American flag in every cocktail; Harolds Club in Reno offered Moonshots of vodka and apple juice served in a glass shaped like Apollo's command and service module.
Other entrepreneurs hastened to make the most of the moon shine. One Los Angeles breadmaker placed a TV commercial extolling "Helms—the bread on the moon." A New York supermarket chain ran a picture of the moon—"238,000 miles from Waldbaum's"—and beneath it advertised extra-large cantaloupes at three for 89¢. A Long Island harness-racing track accompanied a picture of an astronaut stepping off the base of an LM mockup with the advice: "Hey, finish it later—Roosevelt Raceway opens tomorrow night." TWA and Pan Am eagerly accepted a spurt of new applications for the first commercial flights to the moon; one recent booking was made by California's Governor Ronald Reagan. Medals, pennants and assorted trinkets suddenly developed a moon motif—and found hordes of eager customers.
Bitter Message