Don’t Ban Women--You May Need ‘Em

Recently my wife and I drove out to the Smoke House in Burbank for the monthly luncheon meeting of the Old Farts Society, a group of over-the-hill newspapermen.

I say newspapermen because women are not admitted to the group. I am against that rule, or any rule that excludes women. It was voted in before I became a member, and I hope to change it. When I first went to work at The Times, there was only one woman on the cityside staff. Now there are many, and they are just as good if not better than the men.

Besides, I have never enjoyed social events from which women are excluded.

It is thought that when there are no women present, men are likely to indulge in off-color jokes and vulgar conversation, neither of which I care for.

My wife had to drive me to the Smoke House because I don’t drive. In the past, she has eaten alone in another room of the restaurant, or with other banished wives. She regards this as silly, and so do I. There was also a compelling reason why women should be allowed at this meeting. The guest of honor was to be a woman, Margo Magee, a pseudonym for Catherine Seipp, a senior editor and columnist at Buzz magazine. I wanted to hear her speak.

Since my wife had to drive me to the restaurant and would have been isolated during the luncheon, she thought she ought to be admitted too. In fact, she telephoned Dick Turpin, the president of the society, and told him she thought she should be allowed to attend and indeed was coming.

We arrived a few minutes late. The men were seated around a long table in a banquet room. Their guest was the only woman. We stopped in the doorway. Somebody said, “Who’s the tomato with you, Smith?” And I said, “Men, this is my wife.”

Nobody said anything hostile, so we went in and found two chairs. As I usually do when I am going out to a social luncheon, I ordered a vodka tonic. So did my wife. We were admitted.

Shortly after we sat down I became faint. Very faint. I had taken an insulin injection in the car, and thought that I was experiencing hypoglycemia or low blood sugar. I was soon unable to sit up. My wife called for assistance and two men lifted me in my chair and carried me into an adjoining room and laid me on a couch.

Meanwhile someone had called 911. I had had a similar experience several months earlier when I was lunching with my wife, Phyllis and George Jenkins, and Jane Wyatt. I was taken to Hollywood Presbyterian Hospital, all three going with us and without their lunch. Before the paramedics came a waiter had given me a glass of water with several spoonfuls of sugar, and by the time I was in emergency my blood sugar was normal.

This time my wife had ordered orange juice and dumped sugar in it before the paramedics arrived. There were six of them, from the Burbank Fire Department. They had come in two vehicles, one being a fire engine, which made a great deal of noise. Meanwhile some of the men had left the dining room and were gathered around my couch. I urged them to go back to their lunch and finally they did.

This time I was taken to St. Joseph Medical Center, where the six paramedics turned me over to the staff. A doctor and a couple of nurses began giving me several tests, sticking numerous needles in me.

It turned out, once again, that my first aid had raised my blood sugar to normal, but my blood pressure was dangerously low. It had been terribly hot in the restaurant. The air conditioner was evidently not working. The doctor said my faintness was probably caused by the combination of heat and alcohol. I still think it was the insulin. I’m not a doctor, but I do know something about the curative effects of vodka. (Herb Caen calls it Vitamin V.)

Anyway, I apologize to the members of the OFS for disrupting their luncheon, and I apologize particularly to their guest. I would like to have heard what she had to say. Also, I hope her presence will move the club to reconsider its sexist ban.

I would like to point out that my wife’s presence probably saved my life. If she hadn’t been there I might not have had that sugared orange juice, and might have died of hypoglycemia.

* Jack Smith’s column is published Mondays.