JOHNSON STARS IN ROLE OF "STAND-UP COMIC"
Admirers of Lyndon B. Johnson were greatly heartened by a sudden reversal in the steep decline of their hero's popularity. After dropping to a low of 23% in a Louis Harris poll of confidence in the president's handling of the war in Vietnam, a poll released December 4 by the same source showed a remarkable recovery of 11 points. Johnson now stands at 34%.
The leap upward from the bottom of the barrel came between the first and last weeks of November. Connoisseurs of political images were quick to point out that this was precisely when the "old" Johnson died and the "new" Johnson was born. November 17 was the historic day when Johnson appeared in public for the first time "wired for sound"; i.e., with a microphone hidden under his coat so that he became free to pace the stage and rise to the height of his unusual talents as an elocutionist.
Among the most elated of the president's admirers was Johnson himself. On the day the latest poll figures were released, he felt in such fine fettle that he even tried his hand at humor.
He started his day, reported Max Frankel of The New York Times, with "innocent merry-making." Before signing legislation, in a show of the president at work, "he played the role of stand-up comic, deftly tossing off a dozen gags that he and unknown writers had assembled for the occasion."
These went over so great, that the president put on another performance in the evening, again resorting "to the use of gags."
"This group of jokes was built around Secretary of State Dean Rusk, who, he said, had asked for offices and entertainment rooms on the seventh and eighth floors of the building because that was ‘too far to jump and too high for the pickets to climb.'
"'But Dean forgot all about the birds,' he said, noting that Mrs. Rusk gave the Secretary a bag of crumbs each day for which sparrows and other birds were grateful. But he discovered that there was ‘just no pleasing the appetites of these damn doves,' Mr. Johnson said.
However, on coming into New York December 7 to attend the rites for the late Cardinal Spellman, Johnson apparently decided that the crowds there, many of whom were in the streets demonstrating against the war in Vietnam, might not have a sufficient sense of humor to appreciate his jokes.
And so he slunk into town unheralded and unannounced, arriving in the greatest secrecy at St. Patrick's Cathedral. Although he braved entering by the front door, he decided it the better part of valor to leave in a less conspicuous way, slipping out under heavy guard by the rear door.
"This was a profound disappointment to the waiting crowds on Fifth Avenue who had applauded his arrival at the main entrance," said The New York Times, which is highly skilled at reading the minds of an assemblage of people in the street and totting up the consensus.
Five pickets, displaying placards, were hustled off in an unmarked car by the police. Their signs read: "Napaln: Johnson's Baby Powder" [a play on the trade name of a well-known talcum powder in the U.S.]; "Vietnamese Should Die So Good"; "LBJ, LBJ, How Many Kids Did You Kill Today?"
Evidently these five, like many other Americans, had not yet been turned on by Johnson's new image and his skill as a jokester.
Nevertheless, that eleven point rise on the popularity dial was a gratifying turn for a performer who had expected only a new hail of wilted vegetables and poorly preserved eggs from the audience.