Dear Diary,

Jimmie Fidler told a cute story about Bob Hope tonight. He said, “Bob Hope surprised a waiter recently by ordering a piece of Mussolini cake. The waiter, rather taken aback by the request, replied that the restaurant didn’t serve anything like that. Bob said, ‘Sure, you sever it, but you probably know it by another name. You probably call it crumb cake.'”

I saw “My Favorite Blonde” for the ninth, and probably the last, time today. I just saw it once today, because I went rather late in the afternoon. But who knows? I may go again tomorrow.

Dear Diary,

I got dozens of pictures of Bob Hope today. Well, I got ten pictures of him, plus two articles about him. Most of the pictures were from the Victory Caravan, and they showed him in the Mussolini costume he wore in his act part of the time. I had seen so many pictures of him in that particular costume and I had heard so much about the act that I could hardly wait to see it. Then that little so-and-so had to go and change his act. I didn’t get to see him in the uniform after all.

Boy, did I do something unusual for me tonight. I took the first in a series of eight dancing lessons. Me, of all people!

 

Dear Diary,

Hedda Hopper was talking about the Victory Caravan today. She said she heard Bob Hope and Jerry Colonna rehearsing a telephone conversation in which Bob is supposed to be Mussolini trying to get Hitler on the phone. (He never does.) Then she went into detail about Bob’s plans for the next two or three weeks. She said he would take his entire radio show with him to eight major cities  on the route, act as master of ceremonies for all performances of the Caravan, take his radio show to army camps while on the tour, and come back immediately to start work in a Sam Goldwyn picture. (She named other things, too, but I can’t remember them all.) She called it the most ambitious program ever undertaken by a Hollywood personality.

Dear Diary,

1941, without a doubt, has been one of the most eventful years that I can remember. Not only such things as the U.S. declaration of war on the Axis, and vice versa (is that the way to spell it?), but also in smaller ways—like my meeting Pat O’Brien, for instance. Or like my getting the nerve, after all these years, to send Bob Hope a yo-yo, and believe me, that took nerve whether you think so or not. Every once in a while I get to wishing I hadn’t done it, but I did done it, so I suppose it’s a little late to start worrying about it now. After all, who is this guy Bob Hope that he gets me so flustered? He’s no better than anybody else. (Am I kidding?)

There’s no telling how many (51) times I’ve heard Bob on the air or seen him in pictures this past year, but I’d be willing to bet that I did both of them a lot more than the Average American Girl—or anybody else for that matter. I’m telling you there’s nobody who could possibly feel the way I do about Bob. I wouldn’t be foolish or childish enough to call it love, but it’s the closest I’ve come to it up to now, and I like it.

To get away from such stuff as that for a while, I will refrain from mentioning Bob Hope’s name for a few seconds—a very few seconds—and talk about more serious things, such as the war. About all I can say on the subject is a lot of talk that’s been said over and over again, so I don’t guess that would be very interesting. Since I can’t say anything about Bob Hope or the war, about all there is left to say is this: In 1942 may the United Nations hit Hitler, muss Mussolini, and set the Rising Sun.