Spencer Heath Archive

Item 3114

Newspaper column showing the imagination of Heath’s hostess in Southern California, publicist Frances Norton Manning

 

Orange County Register, October 22

 

NIGHTSIDE

Orange County

By Forest Kimler

 

What with the bomb shelter craze, Mrs. H. T. Manning still insists she has the great­est gimmick going for a night­club.

 

The transplanted New York­er can’t understand why some enterprising developer doesn’t sink an entire club under­ground and start a chain of bomb-proof “Carlsbad Tav­erns.”

 

You have to admit it’s an intriguing free enterprise an­swer to the fallout shelter bit. The food, drink and entertain­ment would be right on hand in case of an attack and if the customers ran out of mon­ey during the contamination period, the barkeep could al­ways honor credit cards and run up tabs until the all-clear sounds.

 

And what an audience for an entertainer! Not one cap­tive member could walk out on him for at least two weeks, and with every new edition of a newspaper, the place would be packed with customers afraid to take a chance that this might not be the night.

 

And who would dispute the fact that a supply of bot­tled beer would be more intrig­uing than bottled water during such a depressing period.

 

The demand for membership in such a club would ri­val the popularity of the old prohibition day speakeasys — what with everyone shouting down the ventilation tubes that “Joe sent me.”

 

And what a way to put a little life into staid little hous­ing tracts. What city planning commission could deny such an underground commercial bistro in every residential community that demanded such a private enterprise safe guard against the threat of nuclear attack.

 

A “car for every garage” and a “chicken in every pot” would give way to cries for a “club under every com­munity.” It solves the problem of what to do with the bomb shelters when the bombs aren’t falling. The sub-sur­face clubs would be the best excuse since golf for drinking away from home.

 

Wives, who feel they don’t get out enough, would have a perfect excuse to get hubby to take them out to dinner every night. What husband would dare risk an “I told you so,” if he stayed away from the club on the very night he should have treated the little woman to a subter­ranean soiree.

 

What with Conelrad reports interspersed between piano bar numbers and waitresses supplying radiations counts with each new round of drinks, the edge would be taken off the fearsome strug­gle the mad men of the world had perpetrated topside — and the whole idea of just hiding in a hole would be al­leviated.

 

And the money people had already invested in bottled water wouldn’t be wasted. The customers could always bring along their Arrowhead and Sparkletts as a set-up for a round of uncontaminated Jack Daniels on the rocks, even more popular each night.