Judy Takes TV

by Edgar Penton
Oxnard Press-Courier
November 2, 1963

In the premiere of the new weekly Judy Garland Show in September, guest star Donald O’Connor got a howl from Judy and the hep studio audience by telling her he doubted the possibility of a Judy Garland show because “you wouldn’t show up.”

The line reflecting the feeling of many in show business who remembered the star’s sometimes doubtful dependability over the years. Now, after half dozen solid performances, the skepticism as to La Garland’s sustaining a weekly series is pretty well erased.

True, skeptics did have their day early in August. They exchanged smug shrugs when the series went out of production after five shows had been videotaped at CBS Television City in Hollywood.

But these “told-you-sos” were proved premature when difficulties were soon ironed out and production resumed.

However there still remains a wondering curiosity among some viewers about why she has embarked on the grind of a weekly series at all.

“She’s already a legend,” people say. “How can that much popularity be enhanced by weekly exposure?”

Miss Garland, whose spirited performances belie her great personal modesty, laughs at the sobriquet, “The legend.”

“So why,” the same people continue, “does she let herself in for all the hard work connected with doing a weekly series?”

“Who’s afraid of hard work?” Miss Garland counters. She never lets her modesty interfere with her determination — and she has been dead-determined from the begining to make “The Judy Garland Show” the best thing she has ever done: week after week after week.

“I was born in a trunk,” she says, so involved in making her point that she doesn’t realize she has used the title line from one of her most famous concert numbers, or, if she does realize it, she brushes the association aside and continues to define the metaphor:

“I was raised in a vaudeville family; we had lunch for breakfast, dinner for lunch and a show for dinner. From age five my appetite for entertainment was keener than my taste for food.

“Work? I’d work twenty hours a.day on the series if they’d let me.”

And sometimes she does — union regulations notwithstanding—simply by singing at home.

Her boundless energy is coniagious, and many nights people with whom she works and the production staff, will drive out to her house for a spontaneous rehearsal. On this venture Judy exhibits real “devotion to duly.”

Some people, contending that she has gone as far as any star can go, are afraid that she is endangering her public image by exposing herself to nationwide scrutiny every Sunday night.

“I hope I’m endangering my public image,” she explodes. “I’d like to do away with it!”

Not even aware that she has rocked her listeners back on their heels, Miss Garland half closes her long lashes and speaks out with earnest conviction:

“I’m a cheat. That’s what I am. Public image: it’s a phony! My public image isn’t anything like me. People think I’m either a breakable Dresden doll or a wide-eyed Kansas, teen-ager. I haven’t been a teen-ager for a long time, and if I were breakable, I wouldn’t be here now.”

Her public image—what Miss Garland calls her “half-image” —has been molded from her appearance in three television specials, her record-breaking performances in concert halls and theaters around the world and the necessarily immature personality traits of little Dorothy in the annually televised “Wizard of Oz.”

“Come to think of it,” Miss Garland muses, “my entire repertoire is made up of just two kinds of songs: sad songs and holiday songs.

“So naturally people think I’m either unhappy or on a toot. There’s no middle ground. But I’m not that. . .that. . .mercurial. Really I’m not.

“You really want to know why I’m tackling a television series? Because CBS is letting me be myself—letting me be a whole, total, complete person.

“I can sing anything I want to sing. ‘Old Man River’—I’ve never sung that before, I don’t think any woman has.

“But I’ll sing it in one of our shows.

“And I want to talk, just talk. Not come out and say, ‘I’m Judy Garland and that’s that and now I’m going to sing a song.’ Not just that.

“I want to carry on a conversation with someone. You know,

I’ll bet before the series went on the air that a lot of people had no idea 1 could carry on a conversation without having someone write the script.”

This is the other side of Miss Garland—the sometimes quiet, sometimes-mischievous converversational side—that is having its first public showing in “The Judy Garland Show.”

Two parts of each Judy Garland show are designed specifically to let Miss Garland talk.

One is the “trunk spot,” the final segment of each production during which she talks directly to the audience.

It gives her a chance to tell some of the heretofore quite personal incidents of her widely publicized career.

The other is the “Tea for Two” spot, where Miss Garland spends from six to ten minutes in relaxed conversation with a special surprise guest.

It is completely ad lib.

Indeed the guest is often as much of a surprise to the star as he or she is to the audience; so not even Judy has any idea what Miss Garland is going to say.

Though it may be disturbing to viewers who insist on having their heroes (and heroines) shrouded in mystery, there isn’t a lot more to Miss Garland than meets the eye—certainly very little more than will meet the CBS Eye…this season on “The Judy Garland Show.”

This Is What I Believe

October 1946

[Note: This article was originally posted on judygarland.net (original website is no longer online) by Rita Piro––thought it was worth reposting and credit should go to her for collecting said article and scanning it to text]

WHEN SCREENLAND asked me, on the set of “The Harvey Girls,” to talk about what I believe about life, love, religion, happiness and immortality, I was flabbergasted by the immensity of the subjects covered. But after I caught my breath, I was glad that I was given this chance to express my ideas. Usually an actress is asked about nothing more vital than whether she prefers coffee with sugar or without, crystal ash trays to silver ones or blondes to brunettes. I realize that this subject takes a great deal of thought, but I will try my best to put on paper what I believe.

Life? I believe that happiness can be achieved if you don’t get in your own way. You should always keep your sense of perspective, both about yourself and about things outside yourself.

I believe you should be critical of yourself but not over-critical. The latter inhibits you too much. You avoid realism and wrap yourself in a cloud of misery. If another person is in a bad mood, you think it’s because of something you have done, when actually he or she may have had a quarrel with someone else and is not thinking of you at all. Or if you’re in a bad mood, you expect the whole world to share it, and take personal offense at everyone else who seems reasonably happy. You say to yourself, “Nobody cares how I feel.”

Such a perspective is completely distorted and selfish. Being over-critical of yourself brings it on. I remember between the ages of 14 to. 20, I went through such a stage. I was particularly sensitive about my nose and teeth. My teeth didn’t all grow in at the same time. I thought I was snaggle-toothed, and often used to put my bands over my mouth to hide my teeth. ‘I was like the girl in the ads who was afraid to smile.

Perhaps every girl goes through a period in adolescence when she is over-critical of her own looks. That viewpoint is just as bad as being too conceited. Actually it’s a form of conceit selfishness because it means you’re concentrating too hard on something about yourself that isn’t really terribly important.

An actress is apt to suffer from this over-sensitiveness. The average girl can look at herself in a mirror, and by picking the angle, see what she wants to see. But in the movies your face is magnified, every little defect shows up multiplied a thousand times. So being an actress is a terrific test of your ego. No matter how your face looks on the screen, however, have to remember that people are going to judge you by your personality and the way you act, as much more than by your looks. Certainly the girl who isn’t an actress is going to be judged more by her personality than by her looks. A boy once told me that when he goes to a dance he never tries to pick out the prettiest girl at the party or dance; he just picks out the one with the nicest smile.

Death? I don’t believe that dying is the end. There is too much preparation in life for something else.

Immortality? I believe that there is such a thing as personal survival. I believe in Heaven and that there is some- thing afterwards. I find it hard to believe that there is such a place as hell in the afterlife.

Prayer. Prayers are important, particularly in war time, and a great comfort to people at all times. When I was little and said my prayers every night, I once got the idea that if I prayed for somebody else each night I would appear unselfish. So I asked for nice things for other people, always adding, “But I don’t need anything” and hoping that I would get nice things as a bonus for my supposed unselfishness. Of course I was just little at the time.

Perhaps I shouldn’t tell this on myself, but once I didn’t get something wanted badly, and then I stopped praying for a while. Of course, I resumed my prayers again after a few days. Now I don’t say bedtime prayers every night, but pray at other times. I know now that some prayers are answered affirmatively by God and others are answered otherwise, because it’s God’s will, but no matter how they may be answered, there is still comfort in the prayer.

Religion. I believe that the real expression of your religious beliefs is shown in the daily pattern of your life, in what you contribute to your surroundings and what you take away without infringing on the rights of other people. I don’t disapprove of people who make a habit of focusing all their thoughts on religious ideas, unless they let religion become an opiate with them and do harmful things to other people. No one should feel that because he goes to church every Sunday he can do critical things which people are not ordinarily supposed to do and that God will overlook his bad behavior.

I like going to church at Christmas, Easter and when I’m not working, because it is peaceful there and a place of good will, where some the nicest people in the community congregate. But real religion is in your mind and in your heart and can’t be judged by the number of times you go to church.

War. You can drive yourself crazy trying to figure out why God allows wars. Once I heard a group of women discussing this and one of them (not myself) said, “How can there be a God when these terrible wars go on? How could He permit it? My own attitude toward war is fatalistic. I feel that human beings create the machines of destruction; we make the troubles that cause wars. True, people are dragged into war who have no control over it, but man, not God is responsible. We haven’t progressed far enough from Neanderthal man to permit all craving for violence to disappear. Some day in the future, when beings are are born without tonsils, something we probably don’t need, and without appendices which we certainly don’t need, our physical brains may be developed to the point where all savagery has disappeared. But at the present time there is still something in man’s nature which permits the violence of war.

So much for my larger beliefs. All our lives we wonder about these things, but have to wait for that after-life, in which I believe, to find the answers. However, there are some things we all seek––success, love and friendships, about which an actress can speak up boldly, since everyone of us tries to achieve these things.

I believe that success is fun, but can be a burden if it is not handled right. If success is won along one line, that automatically requires the successful person to achieve it along other lines.

Successful people are often very versatile. Vincente Minnelli, my husband, for instance, besides being a fine director, paints exquisitely. Of course, I may be prejudiced, but I wish you could see the painting which Vincente did of a set he designed for Beatrice Lillie’s play, “At Home Abroad.” That painting hangs in my dressing room, and captures an atmosphere which is just as authentic as the family atmosphere captured by Vincente in “Meet Me In St. Louis.” Of all the pictures I have ever made, I think “Meet Me In St. Louis” is my favorite, because I felt that was the nicest family I ever met in pictures. They all fought together and had disagreements, but you knew that in time of trouble they would all stick to one another. I’ve been very lucky in my family life, I must say, both on and off the screen!

The man or woman who achieves a successful career must be successful also in his handling of his own mentality and ego. Being an actress is the most grueling test for the ego, for the success of being an actress floods you. When you are a success in some other line, your intimates know about it and the people in that line, but the world as a whole doesn’t necessarily make a fuss about you. An Einstein, whose success is actually much greater and whose work is much more important than that of any actor, isn’t followed by crowds of admiring fans. The success of an actress is seen. Her work is constantly exhibited. So if she loses her sense of perspective, she may begin thinking how great she is, when actually her success may be just a matter of luck and a few pretty close lips. But that kind of success doesn’t last long. To win real success as an actress, you have to learn to act. I didn’t learn in dramatic school but through making bad pictures. When I was giving some very bad performances, I got quite a bit of fan mail. I could have let things go at that, telling myself, “A lot of people like me just the way I am. I guess that’s good enough.”

An actress cannot afford to be fooled by a certain amount of public adulation. You have to have a perspective on yourself. And that’s true of men and women in every other line, too. I believe that a sense of perspective will help you more in getting the most out of life than almost any other quality.

One of the nicest things about success is the chance it gives you to do things for your family. I don’t like big fat expensive things or living on a grand scale, but it is pleasant to be able to buy pretty clothes, and to be able to invest your money so as to have some degree of security. When on top of that you can do things for your family, well, that as Tom Drake said in “Meet Me In St. Louis,” is ginger-peachy. My mother wanted a house in Hollywood, and I was very happy to be able to get it for her. My sister, now known as Miss Dorothy, is starting a career as a singer strictly on her own, but it’s nice to know that if she ever wanted any help, I’d be in a position to help her.

I believe that your family, (if you let them) can be a great comfort to you in time of trouble. Of course, if you get very dramatic about your best beau’s going out with another girl and lock yourself in your room, there isn’t a blessed thing your family can do, even if they want to. But if you learn to take family teasing in the proper spirit, well, I believe that families are wonderful.

I believe that fanily groups are really the basis of our whole country. You begin life as a member of a family, you go on as a member of a family, then eventually, if you’re lucky, you have a chance to start your own family. The kind of person you are throughout your whole life depends to a large extent upon the kind of person you are as a member of a family group. In a family you learn selfishness or unselfishness, consideration for others or lack of consideration––why, your whole future is mapped out by the way you treat your family and the way they treat you. That, I believe, is our American way of life.

However, no matter how wonderful your family is, no matter how much success you achieve in your career, you won’t be a really happy person unless you also achieve success as a woman. And for most women, that includes a happy marriage.

I believe that it is possible for a woman to have a successful career and a happy marriage, too. In the case of a career women marriage requires more patience, thought and understanding. But it can be done as witness the case of Helen Hayes who is one of our finest actresses and a great success as a wife and mother, too.

I imagine that it’s hard for a man to be married to an actress. He can’t feel, as most men like to feel, that everything depends upon him. He knows his wife is financially independent. She must therefore make him feel that even though she can stand on her two feet financially, she is emotionally dependent.

Since she can’t give her husband the satisfaction of feeling that she needs him financially, she must make him feel needed and wanted in every other way. and in no way shut him out from her life.

I think women get themselves mixed tip by making too many promises. There is something so romantic about promising your heart forever and ever to a person. Women are more honest about those things. Women often end up with guilty consciences because they have made too many promises to the men they love. They get carried away with themselves.

It’s always better to promise less and do more. So I believe in making as few promises as possible, even to myself. I’d rather do this than wind up with a guilty conscience because I hadn’t carried out all my plans. Make plans, certainly, but don’t be upset if something happens to make it impossible to carry them out.

We bear a great deal about love at first siglit, but I believe that a person is safer if love develops gradually. If people marry after knowing each other only a short time, they have to make all their adjustments afterwards. In the case of people, once they have known each other for some time, many of the adjustments can be made before they marry.

We know that a great many sudden war marriages have taken place, and often wonder how they will turn out. A minister who has made a study of hasty war marriages told me that he has seen many that have been very successful. I know of one personally. A friend of my mother’s married only three days after she met her husband and they are divinely happy. But I think the percentages are more apt to be in your favor if you marry after a longer acquaintanceship. It is safer if a lot of thought goes into your marriage. You should ask yourself: are you and the man you love going to match? How is your time going to work out, if you both have careers? Do you have similar religious ideas? Do you like the same kind of entertainment? How is the financial set-up? These things, when considered ahead of time, can do a great deal to start a marriage off right.

I believe that just being in love generally improves people 100%. They become happier, nicer, and more likable. There is a nice pink cloud over everything. A wonderful pink cloud! Everybody has some lovely moments in his life, but when you’re in love you don’t get lonely half as much, because you feel somebody’s standing by to help you, somebody with whom you can talk over everything, someone who cares.

I don’t believe in being too practical. Practicality balanced with a little imagination is more interesting. On the other band, I don’t believe you should walk around with Peter Rabbit under one arm. I believe you should see a vision over the rainbow; that you should keep a nice glow. No matter what your age, you can keep your youth in all its glory through your enthusiasm.

Let’s Get Personal

Modern Screen
October 1940


Revealing Intimate and Intriguing Tidbits About Judy Garland

Judy has what she calls “insane” food habits. She likes to eat corn on the cob with grape jelly. (She once dropped an ear of corn in some grape jelly by accident and it tasted swell) She never eats any two things together. If she has meat and potato on her plate, she eats all the meat first, then all the potato. She never eats on time. If dinner is at seven, she stalls around until eight. She loves to eat hamburgers (but not with onions!), little thin hot cakes and wienies just before she goes to bed. She says they make her sleep like a log.

When, she drives herself in her little red coupe, she has only one window open and all the doors locked. She sings with the radio as she drives. She likes to listen to the radio only when it is on as loud as possible. She has a portable radio in her room at home and two others in other parts of the house. She usually has all three of them going at once, at the top of their etheric lungs. She likes to feel that the orchestra is right in the room with her. She and Mickey have this bond in common: they both like noise and plenty of it. Her mother and sister are contemplating the addition of a sound-proof room to the house for the sake of their ear-drums.

She’s always going to the movies, goes at least three or four times a week. She likes double features; she wishes they would have “treble” features. She likes to sit in the fifth or sixth row from the front, eat candy, chew gum and put her feet up on the back of the seat in front of her. And she sees her favorite pictures over and over again. She saw Bette Davis in “Dangerous” fourteen times. She saw Bob Montgomery and Maureen O’Sullivan in “Hideout” six times. She has already seen “Rebecca” three times. She cries horribly in pictures when they are sad. She says, “I cry right out loud.” The only time she ever really laughs is when she sees a comedy film. Otherwise, surprisingly enough, she doesn’t laugh often. When she is pleased or amused her whole face brightens, but she doesn’t laugh aloud.

She bites her fingernails and stuffs money in her pocketbooks and sweater pockets and forgets she has it. Once a week she goes through all her pocketbooks and pockets and finds “a little fortune I didn’t know I had.” She steals combs. She doesn’t mean to, she just absent-mindedly picks them up at hairdressers and from her friends’ dressing-tables and makes off with them. She has a good memory for telephone numbers and addresses but a bad memory for names. She starts to introduce her best friend to someone and can’t remember her friend’s name.

Judy has lived in Hollywood, in Beverly Hills rather, for five years. She has had only one contract, a sevenyear one with Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, and still has more than two years to go on it.

Judy loves to go “basement” shopping. She always feels so good, she says, when she finds a bargain.’ Her favorite dress last summer Was a little cotton dress she found for $5.95. She wore it steadily for weeks. She always buys too many things, she says, things she doesn’t really need. Especially sweaters and skirts and shoes. More especially, shoes. She has a ridiculous number of shoes, seventy-three pairs at the last count. She has to buy her own shoes for pictures, “which accounts for the jillions I own.” She is always planning to give some of them away and then, at the last minute, changes her mind. She has a terrible time parting with anything old even if she can’t use it. Her dream is to have a house with a roomy, oldfashioned attic where she can store away the accumulation of her lifetime so that her great-grandchildren can find the things in the years to come. She is, she says, “a naturalborn ‘saver.'”

She loves to go shopping at the Five & Ten. Her bureau drawers are cluttered with little bottles of hand lotions, little boxes of powder and little packets of soap. She loves to shop in drugstores. In the “ritzy” drugstores she just “nose-shops,” she says. That is, she goes around sniffing and sampling all the expensive perfumes. She gets hay fever from some kinds of perfume. From Arpege, for instance, which is her favorite. Paul Whiteman gave her four bottles of imported perfume when he worked with her in “Strike Up The Band” and she went around sneezing for six weeks. “Better to sneeze than not to smell like that,” she explained.

Judy loves the “corner” drugstores, too, like the one in Hollywood where Cliff Edwards takes over the cash-register when the girl is off and Bob Taylor comes in and whips himself up a malted milk and everyone drops in and “dishes the dirt.” She’d like to live in a small town and hash things over the back fence.

She is five feet two and a half inches tall, weighs one hundred and eight pounds and grew just exactly an inch in this past year.

The singing Garland has never taken but one singing lesson in her life and that was in New York a year or so ago. She sings from her chest. The toney teacher” to whom she was recommended had her bring her voice up in her throat by inserting a pencil in her mouth. The result was that Judy couldn’t talk and the teacher criticized her “poor diction.” She also made her practise singing while blowing on pieces of paper! Judy got out of that atelier in an hour land a half and never went back.

She hasn’t any superstitions but she has quite a bevy of pet phobias. She can’t climb a ladder, for instance, she falls right off. If she stands on a chair, she falls, too. She has an “in-back-ofme” phobia. When she is driving she always feels that someone is about to crash into the back of her car. Head-on collisions never trouble her, it’s that in-back-of-me bogey. Sometimes, at home, when she’s the last to go to bed, she remembers that she forgot to turn off I the downstairs lights. She goes down to check. And feels sure that someone is in back of her. She tries to keep herself under control by saying, “There is no one in back of me, there is no one in back of me,” but all the time she is walking faster and faster until, like Dorothy in “The Wizard of Oz,” she looks as though she is being carried along by a hurricane until she is whisked into her room and the door banged shut. She also had a phobia about bumble bees or anything, except snakes, (she likes snakes) that crawls or flies. She gets hysterical when a bumble bee buzzes in her hearing. Spiders are her downfall. When she finds a spider in her room she calls her mother, her sister and the help to rout the invader. She doesn’t mind mice. She rather likes them. They have such cute ears, she says, and “look so hopeful.”

Judy hates to wear hats, except little “college” hats, the kind you wear on the back of your head, or turbans. She has a mean hand with turbans; she can swing them as no-one else can, her girl friends say. They’re always asking her to wrap theirs for them. She’s a very sympathetic girl, her friends also say. When they have any troubles or problems, they always take them to Judy. She somehow manages to straighten them cut.

Her watches never keep time. They’re always slow. Perhaps they’ve given up trying to keep up with Judy, who always goes fast. She never walks anywhere, always runs and usually the hop, skip and jump kind of a run. She has
seven watches—gifts from different people—including a lapel watch, a finger-ring watch and a key watch. The key watch is a tiny watch inserted into her housekey and was given her by the sponsors of the Harvest Moon Ball. When it’s five-thirty in the afternoon her watches always say it’s two-thirty—all seven of them. She never worries about anything. She thinks worrying is “so futile.” She says she always does the very best she can and, if that isn’t good enough, she forgets it.

Judy dreams almost every night. Always the same kind of a dream. She dreams that she wakes up and talks to somebody or calls someone on the phone. And then, when she does wake up, she can’t be sure whether she really dreamed it or not and has to call the person to find out. It’s very confusing!

When Judy goes on dates she doesn’t like to get all dressed up and go to swanky night clubs, except once a month. She likes to go to other kids’ houses or have them come to hers and just roll back the rugs, dance, play records and talk. She never was a violent jitterbug. She jittered some, but not much nor for long. She likes to rhumba. The week before she finished in “Strike Up The Band” she had all the kids in the cast, Mickey, June Preisser, Margaret Early, Bill Tracy, Leonard Sues and the others, up to her house. Mickey and about five other kids stayed on after the others left and played badminton and went nightswimming in the pool. Judy likes to swim at night because there are no bumble bees in the moonlight. She just acquired a swimming pool this year and now Sunday afternoons have become very “open house” at the Garlands.

One of her best girl friends is pretty little Betty Jane Graham. Judy’s best friends are her old friends, which tells a little tale in one sentence. Judy and Betty Jane first met when they were six years old and both tried out for a part in a Universal picture which starred Slim Summerville. Each youngster thought the other would get the part so they didn’t like each other. They were rivals in rompers. Neither of them got it (Cora Sue Collins did), and Judy and Betty Jane have been pals ever since. Betty often comes to the studio with Judy, sits with her while she has her hair done, her make-up put on, and stays with her on the set. Every hour or so, the girls send out for chocolate malted milks or cokes. Leonard Sues is another grade school pal of Judy’s and Betty’s. The three are inseparable. Leonard plays the trumpet in the band in “Strike Up The Band.”

Judy writes poetry. And loves to read it. She has written ten poems of her own—ten, that is, that she hasn’t torn up. She is her own severest critic and if she doesn’t like the poem, she destroys it. She has done an oil painting, too— a landscape.

She always reads the funny papers and buys comic magazines by the bale. Her favorite movie actors are Clark Gable and Cary Grant. Cary is on the M-G-M lot now, working with Katy Hepburn in “The Philadelphia Story.” Judy sees him in the commissary every day at lunch-time. He always says “Hulloa, Judy,” and she answers, “Hulloa, Mr. Grant.” Judy is frank and friendly, but there is none of this “Hi, toots,” calling people she doesn’t know well by their first names. She wears a pleasing mantle of dignity over her friendliness, and it is very becoming. Her favorite movie actresses are Bette Davis and Margaret Sullavan. Her favorite stage actress is Katharine Cornell. She has never met any one of them. She would like to be of “the school” of Davis and Sullavan. She is not, she says, “depending upon her singing.” She is delighted because, in her next picture, “Little Nellie Kelly,” she plays her own mother. It’s the first time she’s played a character part. She is taking it very seriously as, some day, she hopes to be taken. She trails around after her mother, copying mannerisms and “making notes.”

On the set of “The Wizard of Oz,” Director Victor Fleming always called
her “Ange.” She doesn’t know why. Busby Berkeley, directing “Strike Up The Band,” calls her “Butch” and calls Mickey, “Stinky.” Mickey always calls her “Jutes” and her mother and sister call her “Judaline.”

When Judy and Mickey are working together, the set is a three-ring circus, with one round of crazy acts after another going on. Judy helps Mickey with the songs he writes, making suggestions and recording them for him.
‘ She has a record machine in her dressingroom. Louis B. Mayer gave it to her on her last, her eighteenth birthday.

Her favorite radio programs are the New York Symphonic Concerts. She always listens to them on Sundays. If she is up late enough (she goes to bed at nine o’clock when she is not dating), she always listens to the Rhapsody in Wax broadcasts. She also likes Information, Please and the Lux Theatre of the Air. She has two favorite types of books, biographies of musicians and memoirs of doctors. Judy used to want to be a doctor or a designer. Now she’s decided to “concentrate on my own career.” She loves pets but likes to have only one at a time. She has a little, blonde cocker spaniel. She doesn’t care particularly for cats because “they’re never friendly.” And she doesn’t like birds for pets “because you can’t pat them.” She likes pets you can cuddle. Her favorite song is “Over The Rainbow.” She does sing in the shower.

Judy has what she calls “happy unforgettable things” and “unhappy unforgettable things.” A “happy unforgettable” occurred when she made her personal appearance tour in New York three and a half years ago. For the first time, she saw her name in electric lights on Broadway, that dearest dream of all true troupers. An “unhappy unforgettable” is when the studio made her give up her new motor bike. It was a Christmas gift. It had a rumble seat among its many attractions. Into the rumble Betty Jane would hop and off they would go. One day they meant to drive into a Drive-in but somehow, they not only drove into it but over it, counters and all!

Judy’s biggest athletic thrill of the year was when she and Bill Stoefen played Paulette Goddard and Bill Tilden on the Ambassador courts and each side won one set!

Her room at home is very tailored. The color scheme is beige, chartreuse and dark brown. Jackie Cooper’s mother, who has gone into the interior decorating business, did Judy’s room. The chairs and divans are upholstered in a soft, dark brown suede. The drapes are chartreuse, unruffled, severe. There is a fireplace in the room and it works— overtime. There are no frills nor cushions nor little “hobby shelves” around and about. Judy doesn’t collect anything but books and records. The only visible trinkets on her dressing-table are some graduated saddle-boots holding perfume. One side of the wall is devoted to autographed pictures. Gable’s, of course, Jackie Cooper’s, Freddie Bartholomew’s, Robert Stack’s, Mickey’s also, of course, and Cary Grant’s which has recently been added. The others are pictures of non-professionals. Now Judy is planning to “go feminine.” She wants to do over her dressing-room, “like something Marie Antoinette might have whipped up.” She’s going to have thousands of yards of chiffon drapes and
mirrored walls and do-dads and gewgaws.

A little girl in a Santa Ana hospital could tell you how warm Judy’s heart is. The little girl was dangerously ill and in her delirium she talked constantly about Dorothy in “The Wizard of Oz.” The child’s mother wrote Judy a little note and told her about it and asked Judy if she would be kind enough to send the child an autographed picture of herself as Dorothy. She thought that when, or if, the fever broke, it might help her little girl through the crisis if she could find a picture of Dorothy where she could see it. Judy did better than that. She took the autographed picture to the hospital herself. And when the little girl came out of the fever, there was the living Dorothy standing by her bed. The doctors say there is no doubt but that the child’s recovery, certainly the rapidity of her recovery, is due in substantial part to Judy.

Unlike most screen youngsters, unlike most youngsters, perhaps, Judy has a horror of “going glamorous.” “In the first place,” she says, “I’m not the type. For one reason or another, glamour just doesn’t appeal to me. I’d rather bicycle across the country, or go on picnics, or play handball on the beach than any other things I can think of. And glamour girls aren’t supposed to do things like that.” As a matter of fact, Judy is so afraid that some day, albeit unconsciously, she may “hit the glamour trail” that all of her friends have been warned by her to be on the watch for any sign and, if any should appear, to squelch it before it gets a healthy start.

Judy graduated from the University High School in Sawtelle, last June. She wanted to graduate from a real school, not just from the studio schoolroom, so that she could have a real graduation dress, a real diploma tied with a white satin ribbon and all the fixings. She had them. And there were no photographers present. Judy had no more flowers than the other girls. And she got as many autographs in her Year Book as she gave. She wanted to be “just one of the class” that day, and she was. She had it. Now she is taking a post-graduate course in French.

Judy slipped out of the “sock stage” gracefully and quietly, making the transition so effortlessly that no one has been conscious of it. She looks younger than eighteen and acts younger than the average, sophisticated Eighteen of today. She doesn’t smoke. She doesn’t drink. She almost always wears sweaters and skirts. She uses lipstick for street wear but no rouge, mascara, nor eye shadow. When she’s making a picture she reddens her hair a little for the sake of the camera. She photographs better that way. When she’s not working, she doesn’t do anything about her hair. She never goes to beauty parlors. She can’t seem to “set a date.” Whenever she does, some of the kids drop by and say, “Let’s have a coke” and what is a girl to do? She says she knows she should diet, but doesn’t.

Her studio dressing-room is done in navy blue, red and white. It’s nautical, with anchors and ship lamps and things. She loves boats and the sea, but as she has never been on a boat for any length of time she says her dressing-room is the next best thing.

There is a swell understanding between Judy and her mother. Her mother never says, “You can’t do this or that,” because, says her mother, “Judy has never made it necessary.”

Judy has thought she was in love but knows she never has been, not really.

Cameramen can’t tell you whether Judy has a photogenic face or not. It’s never quiet long enough for them to tell—its expressions are constantly changing.

Judy puts dates under two headings, “Not A Special Date” and “A Special Date.” Most of her dates with Mickey come under the first heading. Most of them are “spur-of-the-moment-dates.” Mickey will call up at the last minute and ask, “What are you doing?” If Judy isn’t busy, he’ll drive over and Judy will come downstairs to find Mister Rooney raiding the refrigerator.

A Garland for Beauty

by Denise Caine
Motion Picture
September 1939


If you’re in those “terrible teens” or fast approaching them, here’s your chance to erase or avoid the problems you’re “faced” with. Judy Garland, Hollywood’s lovely young star, has offered to help our cause. We give you “A Garland for Beauty.”

THE autograph hunters were clustered so thickly around Judy Garland’s dressing-room that your beauty editor almost didn’t see her. But when I finally wormed my way through the crowd and met Judy, I realized why she’s idolized by the high school set. Judy’s a natural! She’s been in the public eye so long that she’s right at home there. She can make anyone she talks to feel perfectly at ease. Before I knew it, we were talking and laughing together like old friends.

Have you seen Judy in The Wizard of Oz? Then you know that her hair is red. It’s that way naturally—but she had to use a henna rinse to make it even redder for Technicolor. It’s a lovely color, and Judy makes up to it. The day I saw her she was wearing a chartreuse blouse that brought out its flaming red. Her lipstick and rouge (she was made up for a stage appearance) were both on the yellow red shade, her face powder peach colored, so they wouldn’t fight with her hair. She wears the same shades offstage, too, but applies them very lightly, because she and her mother are agreed that too much make-up doesn’t become a sixteen-year-old.

Judy has an advantage over most girls in their teens. She’s been around motion picture studios long enough to know that lovely hair and skin are just about as important as anything can be. So she’s always careful to remove every last bit of make-up with cold cream, then scrub her skin thoroughly with soap and water and a complexion brush before going to bed. She scrubs away with soap and water and the brush in the morning, then rinses her face two or three times with cool water. “Especially when I’ve washed my face in a hot bath,” she told me. “Otherwise the hot water would ‘steam’ my pores open—and I think there’s nothing uglier looking than large pores. Besides, they might fill up with blackheads!”

That red hair of Judy’s is permanented, too—but it looks naturally curly. That’s because she brushes it night and morning till it shines. She doesn’t give a single hair a chance to become dull and fuzzy. She has a hot olive oil treatment once a week before her shampoo, to counteract a slight tendency to dryness, and she massages her scalp nightly with her fingertips to stimulate the circulation and relax tense nerves after a hard day at the studio.

I couldn’t help admiring Judy’s charm bracelet. She makes it a point to get a new charm for every town she visits—usually one of the theatres she appears in gives her one too. Most of the bangles are books, and one (that her best beau ‘way off in England sent her) is a tiny letter. They all open up, and have real reading matter inside! Not a useless ornament, the bracelet shows off those nice smooth, wellgroomed hands of Judy’s.

“I always massage a cuticle cream on the nails at night and make it a point to push back the cuticle whenever I dry my hands,” she told me. “Then I don’t have any loose hangnails to bite off. I used to bite my nails, too, but I found a cure for that. I got a weekly manicure, and had the girl use a bright shade of polish on my nails. That made the broken and stubby nails awfully noticeable and made me ashamed of my hands. And every time I started to bite a nail that pimento red said ‘Stop.’ ” Judy has broken the bad habit so well that she wears a shell pink lacquer now (except for a glamorous evening) and rarely worries her nails.

ALL teen age girls have one problem in common—making mother realize they’re growing up, and persuading her to let them dress accordingly. Judy’s no exception. “One evening,” she told me, “I borrowed my older sister’s long slinky dress, high-heeled slippers and silk stockings to go out on a date. Mother had company when I came downstairs—so I thought I’d get by
with it. She was awfully nice about telling me how pretty I looked in front of them—but she took me aside to tell me I’d look much sweeter in my own things—so I had to change!”

Judy’s big hobby (aside from collecting charms for her bracelet) is perfume. And luckily her mother agrees with her that a young girl needn’t wait till she’s 18 in order to indulge in fragrance—just so long as she doesn’t go in for heavy oriental odors appropriate to slant-eyed sirens. Judy likes spicy scents and uses them in several forms—toilet water or cologne after her tub, perfume on her hair when she goes to a dancing party, scented bath powder before popping into a fresh nightie after the evening tub. She likes to carry a tiny flacon of perfume in her bag, so she can dab a bit more on her wrist or ear during the evening.

Judy has been lucky enough to have proper supervision of her diet and make-up during the “terrible teens” when so many less fortunate girls are running into skin troubles. I’ve gathered from your letters that many of you don’t realize that rich foods and improper cleansing methods are equally responsible for those bothersome blemishes. If you’re troubled with oily skin, blackheads, large pores and recurring pimples, why not try this method of clearing them up? Go in for fresh fruits and vegetables in a big way. Avoid fatty meats, starchy foods, pastries. Drink lots of milk and at least eight glasses of water a day. Scrub your skin three or four times daily with soap and warm water —and leave a fine film of the soap on the skin. This helps dry up the blemishes and tighten the pores. Then rinse several times with cool water. Wear a very light film of powder and rouge, and always cleanse your skin thoroughly before repowdering. A heavy layer of make-up may aggravate the skin condition. If your skin doesn’t clear up after this treatment, see your doctor.

You really ought to try a fine grade toilet soap I saw being made. It contains only the purest ingredients, so you know it can’t possibly harm your skin. The thick, creamy lather practically melts dirt and cosmetics away from the skin, leaving it clear, smooth and soft. After a face bath with this you feel as though blackheads and large pores were something someone else was bothered with—not you. And that will be pretty much the case if you’ll keep up the three-aday treatment, using a soft-bristled complexion brush to work the lather in well. The soap costs only a few pennies, of course.

CREAM your face before stepping into a hot tub or shower, if your skin is dry and sensitive. The heat makes the oils penetrate faster and further, softens the skin speedily. And use cream again during the day for a complete facial cleansing. I can recommend a super-soft cream that does an excellent job of cleansing and smoothing. A tiny bit of it makes a grand powder base and will keep your nose from shining for hours. Massage the cream lightly into the tender skin around the eyes to prevent squint lines and crow’s feet from appearing—and to help get rid of any you may have collected.

Probably the biggest problem for both fifteen and fifty year olds is choosing correct and flattering shades of make-up. Don’t let it bother your pretty head another moment. Because I’ve found a lipstick that will be perfect for you—no matter what your coloring. The manufacturer asked a famous colorist to test it on various complexion types. When the test was over, the colorist had discovered that the one lipstick had taken on 16 different shades to harmonize with as many skin tones. I think that’s pretty amazing, and pretty exciting news for all us lipstick puzzlers. The stick itself is creamy smooth—you’ll want to use it anyway to keep your lips soft and smooth.

And don’t forget, at the same time, to pick up powder and rouge. You can get the rouge in either cream or cake form, made on the same color principle, and the powder in several skin tones. One I think perfect for practically anyone is a peach shade, with just the right amount of pink in its tone. I’ve used it with great success, and tried it out on blondes, brunettes and red heads. The powder clings to your skin, yet is so light it can’t clog the pores. Price for the powder is 55 cents, for the rouge, 83 cents.

Bothered with grubby nails and rough cuticle? Why not try a new quick foaming nail shampoo? I’ll guarantee it will keep your nails looking immaculate. And more than that. It contains special reconditioning oils that soften the cuticle and help remove dead particles, and keep the nail itself shining and flexible. It can be used whether you’re wearing polish or not. The handy rubber tipped applicator is a wonder at getting stubborn dirt out from under the nails. The larger size contains a sponge rubber hand and nail scrub that you’ll want to use often to keep knuckles from getting that dingy look. In two sizes, at 35 and 60 cents.

The same manufacturer has one of the loveliest rosy pink polishes I’ve seen in a long while. It’s just the perfect shade to wear everyday to school, with fluffy evening dresses to the fall dance, or on dates. The color goes beautifully with violet, brown, green, navy or pale blue—and your boy friends will love it. The polish itself wears and wears, especially if you apply two coats of lacquer, and has a lovely soft sheen.

TRY matching your perfume with a scented cologne if you like to smell pretty. You’ll adore a spicy, romantic scent that comes in both forms. It’s light and whimsical—and yet tangy too. I think it’s a good idea to slap cologne all over your body after the morning bath—that perfumes you faintly with just enough scent to linger around you during the day. And use the perfume, too, for a more glamorous touch, when you’re going out in the evening. Dab a bit on your wrist, on your ears, a bit more on your hair. One attractive packaging of the perfume features the darlingest purse perfume container and applicator. It’s a tiny compact, with a sponge attached to the screw-on top. Before the big evening, saturate the sponge with perfume, and slip the “compact” into your bag. Touch the sponge to your skin whenever you want to renew your scent. A generous bottle of perfume and the “dabber” cost $1.75. The cologne costs about 65 cents.

Don’t fool yourself into thinking perfume will hide perspiration odor. It can’t. All the lovely scents in the world won’t disguise the fact that you’re careless about personal daintiness. And don’t think you’re too young to perspire. Everyone perspires at least a quart a day. Most of it evaporates immediately, but some of it may linger to haunt you. The best way to be sure it doesn’t, and to insure your own popularity, is to use a reliable perspiration corrective regularly. Write me if you’d like the name of a fluffy cream you can rely on to check and deodorize perspiration for about three days if you don’t perspire excessively, for about a day otherwise. It feels and looks just like a velvetypink vanishing cream, it spreads easily, and dries almost instantly. It can’t irritate the underarm skin, so you can use it immediately after shaving if you wish. You can be pretty sure you won’t be offending your chum or your best beau when vou use this cream.

Poor But Happy

by Jim Newton
May 1955
Modern Screen


They’re living on borrowed money—but Judy isn’t worried. She’s won back her public, there’s a new baby to dream about and all’s right with the world.

Judy Garland’s third husband, Sid Luft, strode into the California Superior Court several weeks ago. He was present to answer charges filed by his former wife, Lynn Bari.

Lynn wanted to know why Sid had violated a court order. He had failed to set up a $10,000 insurance fund for his son John as he had previously promised.


The Wizardry of Oz

by Dixie Willson
August 1939


The magic of modern movie-making
 at it’s miracle best breathes life into that beloved classic of childhood.

AND so M-G-M’s art department was given a script labeled “Wizard of Oz”; a movie script of that wonderous book, that grave and gay mixture of nonsense and philosophy which for forty years has been a juvenile best seller.

At last it was to be breathed into life in as miraculous fashion as ever story or picture imprisoned on film; the fantasy of a little lady from Kansas whom the tail of a cyclone transports to the mystical kingdom of those three musketeers, the Scarecrow, the Cowardly Lion and the Tin Woodman.

Soon there would take place in the huge city of M-G-M’s studio, such breath-taking, unbelievable sights as would have the very stars standing on the side lines to stop, look and listen! For where else, if ever, could eyes behold flying houses, apple trees which pelt you with apples, men whose complexions are green and whose heads are square! A forest of jitterbug trees! Horses in the gayest shades of the rainbow! Judy Garland whisked away by a cyclone! A fairy city built of emeralds!

The magic of modern motion-picture making at its miracle best! And beginning, of course, in the art department from whence all pictures start; that practical, hard-boiled, down-to-earth art department, where dreams are not only dreamed but come true; where cities, even whole countries are created for the asking. |

“So they gave us a script,” smiled handsome, brawny Art Director Cedric Gibbons, “in which a little girl from Kansas lives a great adventure in a country of her own imagination. But neither in the script nor in the original book was there any description to indicate along what lines her imagination might build such a country! Which left us, first of all, to do some imagining ourselves!

“Take one scene of the fifty, for instance, the country the book calls ‘Munchkinland,’ to be inhabited by Very tiny people called Munchkins.’ To fashion a ‘Munchkinland’ which a little girl from Kansas might have dreamed, we began with a premise that the smallest things she had ever seen were probably ants. And how do ants live? Under grass and tree roots. So with toadstools and anthills as our architectural pattern, we made proportionately larger grass and flowers, such as, for instance, hollyhocks twenty feet tall.”

So much for a thumbnail bit of the “Oz” problems of the art department. And remaining a moment longer in “Munchkinland,” what about Munchkins to people this delightful place?

During Producer Mervyn LeRoy’s entire shooting schedule for “Oz,” the Munchkins, finally assembled, were the gayest detail of all. In response to a call sent out by Casting, midgets from all over the world came trouping to Hollywood; little midgets, middle-sized midgets, lady midgets, gentlemen midgets, midget graduates of Universities, a midget window demonstrator from Chicago . . . The littlest ones smoking the biggest cigars, eating the largest pieces of pie.

But the midgets, while perhaps the jolliest casting problem, were not the most difficult. Midgets, after all, are easy to find, but not so the frowsy little mutt who was to play the longest screen role ever written for a dog! Through the entire hour and a half of picture he appears in every scene! He will be remembered in the book as Toto; the illustrations showing a bright-eyed Cairn terrier. After many tests and long consideration, the role was entrusted to an engaging little girl dog named Terry who, as boy dog Toto, has delivered a superlative performance.

In Hollywood, Terry’s owner and trainer, Mr. Carl Spitz, conducts a kindergarten, grammar school, high school and college for canines.

But, though Terry enjoys acting, the “Oz” role was something else again, the strangest background she has ever been called upon to understand! Our lady Toto found it obviously distressing, then suddenly everything was forgotten in complete devotion to the Scarecrow, the Lion, and the Tin Woodman. When the picture was finished and the four said good-bye it was a sad moment for all of them.

During the entire ten months of shooting, they seemed to fascinate Terry completely, a state of mind which I could well appreciate. Certainly on all Hollywood’s fantastic acres I have never come upon so startling an eyeful.

My first sight of them was one day during luncheon, which was always served in their dressing room. Because of make-up complications, they did not attempt to eat in the commissary.

Leaving a pair of straw legs, a lion’s skin and a framework of tin joints behind them, yet retaining from the neck up the resuit of a two-hour morning session in make-up, the three, at noon, would reair to their dressing room to sit around the luncheon table in well-worn bathrobes.

I was bound to know it was still Mr. Bolger, Mr. Lahr and Mr. Haley, as upon the day of my call they turned three pair of eyes toward the door to acknowledge my arrival, but never have I been so carried beyond the realm of anything I could believe. There they were, a scarecrow’s gunny-sack countenance, framed with wisps of weathered straw which plainly could only have escaped from inside his head, a lion looking through a tawny mane, and a third face contrived of rivets and tin, a funnel for a nose soldered snugly to an unmistakable aluminum head.

“I know what you’re thinking,” grinned Mr. Bolger, after an interim in which I could but silently stare. “When I saw the rushes yesterday where they took off my legs and threw them away I just about believed, myself, that I’m straw. When I go home at night I feel as if I’m still just flapping in the wind!

“The whole business seems real,” put in the Lion. “When we barged down a stone hall in the scene where we were to try and escape from the castle and the iron door swung shut just before we got through it, and those six-foot green-eyed Winkies ganged up on us, and the witch cackled in at the window, I’m right here to tell you it was something to shiver about!”

“In doing characters like these,” said Mr. Bolger again, “every little thing is so important. In an ordinary part, if you slip up on a gesture or a word, you can get away with it But, in a thing like this, you aren’t allowed a moment in which to be yourself.”

“And when you’re playing for kids,” added Mr. Haley, “you’re playing for the toughest audience in the world. The grown people look at it just to be entertained, but the kids look at it . . . to believe it!”



A voice called from downstairs to say they were wanted on the set. Three chairs scraped away from the table, three undefined creatures knotted the cords of their bathrobes and paraded out Following them to the set, I discovered later that Judy Garland as Dorothy, and small Terry as Toto, were the only members of the entire company unworried by trick make-up of one kind or another. But Judy had another plaint. The grownups could finish a scene and knock off, whereas for her, in that trim ever-present trailer which is labeled “Judy Garland, School,” the thrill of ad- venture in “Oz” was forever anticlimaxed by plain old-fashioned geometry.

Judy, however, was not the only scholar. There was also Mr. Wizard-of-Oz Frank Morgan, for whom weeks of serious coaching were necessary for a smooth delivery of the magic his title role required. He can now make a bird cage disappear up his sleeve with the best of the Houdinis, but it took four months of concentration and practice to accomplish it.

As for me, it seemed that all the magic in the world might be accomplished by just one wave of the wand of Miss Burke as the Good Fairy, her elfin Irish smile in the most perfect setting I have ever seen created for it; a cloud of shell-pink tulle, pale silver butterflies poised upon its delicate mesh.

“It makes me wish,” she said gently, “that I were sixteen again . . . that my feet didn’t have to touch the ground!”

But Billie Burke, as the Good Fairy of “Oz,” is sixteen again, and you are perfectly certain her feet never have touched the ground.

“It’s a divine part,” she said. “There’s child enough in all of us to be thrilled with the settings and the feeling of this picture. It has terrified me a little,” she confided, “to think of living up to the children’s idea of what a Good Fairy must be, but I can only hope with all my heart that I wont disappoint them.”
Alone on the great sound stage just then, she was waiting for her last scene, which was to be a montage of her face and her smile as it would drift across the picture to finish Dorothy’s dream.

The famous Burke red-gold hair rippling loosely about her shoulders’ shimmered with diamond dust and infinitesimal stars. Above, on the catwalk, the electricians waited with the necessary arcs and suns. She laughed and touched me with her wand.

“What “would you like?” she asked.

And indeed there was nothing for me to believe but that she could grant it, for if ever good fairies lived, this one was the epitome of them all; a sentiment subscribed to one moment later by Miss Victoria Fleming, five years old, as she approached with her father who had come to superintend this last shot

“Daddy,” she whispered, looking up at Miss Burke who waited in the single circle of light breaking through the darkness of the great empty sound stage. “Daddy, do you think I could touch the Good Fairy?”

Later, I watched preparation for a scene on the stage next door; a stage almost the size of a New York block, a stage transformed now into the Emerald City, a panorama of green glass domes, castle gates, tall towers, a floor of highly polished baked enamel, a windmill’s green glass arms slowly revolving against an iridescent sky.

The extras sat about in idle groups; men with green beards and purple feather hair, women wearing jewels which glowed like cats’ eyes in the dark. Alongside the eight-foot cabochon emeralds which marked the palace gates, the scarecrow’s stand-in stretched full-length asleep. Silently, methodically, unemotionally half a dozen workingmen pushed mops about the floor, making it ready for the coming shot when not a footmark would be allowed to mar its polished perfection.

Along the side lines parked a row of lighted trailers, the dressing rooms of the principal players, their exclusive little doors bearing the names “Mr. Bolger,” “Mr. Haley,” “Margaret Hamilton,” (Miss Hamilton playing your gorgeously wicked and relentless witch).

Outside Mr. Lahr’s door hung, limply, his lion suit. Presently it would take three dressers to get him into it. On a wig block reposed his tawny toppiece. Mr. Lahr himself, sitting just within his open door, bent his saffron rubber face over a typewriter upon which he was pegging out a letter,. And not at all surprising in this setting of complete fantasy, a sky-blue horse stood hitched to a barouche in which Judy, the Scarecrow, the Lion, and the Tin Woodman were to ride through the city gates.

A sky-blue horse? Yes, and complacently munching teatime oats, a scarlet horse, a lavender horse, a pink one and one of canary color. For the carriage
proceeding through the city was to illustrate that timeworn phrase “a horse of a different color,” the blue horse changing before your very eyes to pink, to yellow, to lavender! And which perhaps pigeonholes, as well as anything can, the picture itself, a production which is indeed, a horse of a different color, the new musical score, the half a hundred Technicolor scenes, laced together with elements which seem to promise something singularly delightful for us all; honesty, beauty, satire and philosophy for the grownups, with adventure and suspense for the children.

And every man to his own particular taste in whimsies, of course, but as for me, “Munchkinland” provides the one I am waiting for . . . flowers growing out of the holes in the toes of the midget Munchkins” shoes!