monkey glands

[franksolich]

My recent research into the efficacy of goat glands caused me to remember monkey glands, and so I went to the bookshelves here to look up something.

Gene Fowler (1890-1960) was a well-known newspaper reporter, raconteur, and Hollywood publicist, during the earlier half of the last century.  My father had all of his books, although by the time I came along, they were old books.

The first book I ever read by Fowler was a biography of the famous actor John Barrymore, which was tough going for an 11-year-old.  I didn't think any book could possibly be more dreadful than this, and gave Fowler a second chance, by reading another of his books.

I was wrong; his biography of Jimmy Walker was even worse.

My mother was concerned that an 11-year-old was reading Fowler, a raconteur after all, fears which my father dismissed.  "He can't understand what he's reading, and besides, he's been reading Ludwig Bemelmans since he was 8, so no big deal."

Happily, I was later to discover that Fowler wrote only two dreadful books, the aforementioned biographies, all the rest of his literary output, which was copious, glittering and sparkling with wit and merriment.  His biography of Frederick G. Bonfils and Harry Tammen, owners of the Denver Post circa 1895-1935 (I forget exactly), two of the finest gentlemen Colorado ever produced, to this day remains one of my favorite books.

So I went to the bookshelves, to see what Fowler had to say about monkey glands.

The below is from Skyline: A Reporter's Reminiscence of the '20s, (Gene Fowler, 1960, Viking Press), his last book, and since the copyright is in his wife's name, one assumes it came out after he died.

I am "locking" this thread to comments until the end of my next comment, after which it will be "unlocked" for comments; also, this is a franksolich-edited version, because Fowler oftentimes interlaced other stories with the one he was telling, and a full transciption would confuse the reader, with all these other bits-and-pieces.

[franksolich]

as best as can be determined, this took place circa 1926

the background, mentioned in places earlier in the book, was that the editor of William Randolph Hearst's New York American--the Hetman, or Mr. Watson, here--wished to have a headline-busting story, and came up with the idea of having monkey glands transplanted into a less-than-virile human male, a story which surely no other newspaper would have.

Apparently this "project" was looked into, off-and-on, for a couple of years, as Fowler attempted to recruit a patient, but failed.

.....Instead of rewriting this stale material, I decided to catch up with my personal correspondence.  And now I heard voices.  I looked over to the city desk to see a thin gentleman with snow-white hair.  He was trying to interest Mr. Tuttle in a series of articles on the reformation of the calendar.  He had introduced himself as Irving Bacon, and said that he wanted to put thirteen months into the calendar, the thirteenth month to be called "Sol," and each month to last for a cycle of the moon.

"We are not interested in the calendar or its defects," said Mr. Tuttle.  "Mr. Hearst does not like the thought of time passing, because it suggests death, and Mr. Hearst is definitely opposed to death."

The Hetman now arrived after a rice-pudding session at Childs.  When he glanced my way, I began a pantomime which, in my opinion, portrayed a monkey scratching its torso for fleas. 

Mr. Watson came over to where I sat.  "Something wrong?" he asked.  "A skin disease?"

I directed his attention to the scholarly old fellow at the desk.  "There, if I am not mistaken, is the man who needs a thousand dollars, and some new glands."

"You are not mistaken," said the Hetman.  "Bring him to my office."

Mr. Bacon was about to leave the premises when I intercepted him.  "Would you like to make a thousand dollars?"  Apparently he thought that I was jesting, but followed me to Mr. Watson's lair.

The Hetman patiently explained the situation, then led Mr. Bacon into a question-and-answer report on his love life, or lack of it.  Mr. Bacon said that he was now working for a low wage at a monastery up the Hudson.  He was a Latin expert, and translated communications from Rome for the Catholic brothers.

"As for women"--and he seemed reluctant to speak of them--"well, I....."

"Please continue," the Hetman urged.  "Anything you say to us is sacred."

"Well, then"--and Mr. Bacon thought things over--"I never was what you might call a full-blooded man.  But I do have an occasional carnal thought.  And I am ashamed to admit it."

"How often does this occur?" asked the Hetman.  "Once, twice a month?"

"Oh, no!  No!  About once a year, or at the most not more than twice."

Mr. Bacon left the office with a signed agreement.  He also took with him a hundred dollars as a down payment.

The Hetman said, "Now, let us clear the decks for action."

[franksolich]

I was to find a surgeon, a monkey, and an operating room.  "We shall earmark five hundred dollars for the doctor," said the Hetman.  "We'll need a surgical nurse, of course.  As to the monkey, get a good, vital animal, but don't go spending a fortune for one, or buy the Bronx zoo.

Dr. Gregory of Bellevue warned Mr. Watson that any member of the County Medical Association who even so much as spoke in favor of the operation risked expulsion.  I managed to find a young surgeon who said he could use the five hundred.  The doctor was an energetic and personable man, and our first story of the project described him as a disciple of Dr. Serge Voronoff, and an outstanding expert in the field of glandular transplantation.  Our story also described the "special" monkey we acquired for the operation.

I had come upon the monkey--a nasty-tempered fugitive from an organ-grinder's beat--in the window of a pet shop which did business at the head of the escalator leading down to the Long Island side of Penn Station.  I delivered the monkey to the "surgeon"'s office.  The monkey promptly bit the doctor in the hand, but took a liking to the nurse.

No hospital would allow us to operate on its premises.  I then made the round of hotels that I thought needed publicity.  To the Hetman's pleased amazement, the owner of a hotel off Central Park West agreed to let us use the bridal suite of his somewhat old place--this in spite of the fact that he had religious scruples about the practice of medicine or surgery.

Dr. Gregory said he would not be present as a spectator at the gland operation.  However, three other doctor-friends of Mr. Watson--including a doctor who was medical adviser to Florenz Ziegfield and to the Follies chorus--reluctantly agreed to look on, but asked the Hetman to keep their names out of the newspaper.  He promised.

[franksolich]

In recalling the day of the operation, I forget some of the details.  I remember however, that the donor was in one room of the bridal suite, and the host in a second room.  The monkey got loose again, and again bit the doctor.  The nurse captured him and lashed him by means of strips of surgical gauze to a rack shaped like a miniature sawbuck.  The monkey was chattering with rage, possibly sensing the loss of his keepsakes.

In the next room, Mr. Bacon had been placed on an examination table.  The Hetman stood at his head, offering words of encouragement.  The three doctor friends of the editor sat in chairs ten feet away.  They almost went out of their minds when a staff photographer took their picture.

At this time I was in the room where the doctor was putting an ether cone over the monkey's face.  The little fellow suddenly passed out, not only for the time being, but for all time.  He was as dead as Charles Darwin.  The doctor quickly removed the monkey's glands.  He popped them into a bichloride of mercury solution, then went to the next room to prepare Mr. Bacon's area of reception.

Mr. Bacon had been given a local anesthetic.  But he paled and began to prespire.  Mr. Watson applied a cold compress to the scholar's brow.  I was taking round-by-round notes.  The doctor decided that one gland was enough to suture to the vas deferens of the host.  Mr. Bacon fainted.  He was removed from the table and put in a bed above which there hung a picture of Catherine the Great reviewing her troops.

The Hetman ordered an eight-column, first-page headline for this story.  To the consternation of the three doctor-spectators Mr. Watson had their pictures printed on an inside page, as well as a statement by each.  All three were subsequently suspended by the County Medical Association.

For a week I was assigned to stay at the hotel to record the expected miracle of rejuvenation.  I lived very well indeed, that week in the bridal suite.  The room-service tab was enormous. 

Mr. Bacon suffered an infection.  The other newspapers got wind of this mishap.  We moved out of the hotel one evening, and went to Long Beach to hide there until the patient recovered.  Our staff photographer took a picture of Bacon to show that he "was in the pink," and enjoying a vacation at a "seashore place somewhere in Maine."  We stayed the week on Long Island while Mr. Bacon got rid of the infection.

After his "rejuvenation," Mr. Bacon looked ten years older than when he had first come to the American with his idea of calendar reform.  One result of the operation was the complete riddance of his carnal thoughts.  He had retired to a monastery, did a great deal of translation for the brothers, and finally died there while reading a Latin version of The Temptations of St. Anthony.

[franksolich]

Excerpt of this now posted at

http://www.freerepublic.c...chat/2279186/posts?page=1

in case anyone wants to see more comments, if any.

[franksolich]

Oh my.

This, from Constitution Day, a prominent and popular member of freerepublic.

Looks to be from the 1920s.

Thank you much, Constitution Day, sir.

edited to add: this apparently from the Washington Post, April 23, 1923.