“She didn’t break into a bead of sweat. She had him in an hour and 14 minutes,” crowed proud pappy Gregg Allman, remembering wife Cher’s express delivery of son Elijah Blue 16 months ago. Despite their three separations and his hospitalization for drug rehabilitation, the memory evoked the good ol’ boy from Macon, Ga., savoring his barefoot babymaker. “I’d like her to be pregnant all the time. She’s so happy then. Our astrologer told us we should have five kids anyway.”
Bone of Contention
Ted Haydon, the U of Chicago coach sometimes known as the Casey Stengel of track and field, says that, at 65, he’s figured out why marathoners willingly run to the point of total wipeout. “Their leg bone is connected to their hipbone,” he explains. “Their hipbone is connected to their pelvic bone. Their pelvic bone is connected to their backbone. Their backbone is connected to their neck bone. But their neck bone is connected to nothing.”
Hat in Hand
At a Washington men’s store, a longtime customer returned to buy a hat. The initials he wanted inscribed in the band were WDM. Yep, it was Wilbur D. Mills, 66, looking 10 years younger than when booze and the Argentine Firecracker cost him the chairmanship of the House Ways and Means Committee. Wilbur has some trepidations about Jimmy Carter’s performance to date (“He’ll be a good or bad President based on how he does with Congress, and he’s not doing it”). Now on the wagon and back to work, Mills is returning as a tax specialist with the Washington office of a New York law firm, and he insists he has no plans ever again to fling that WDM hat into the ring.
There’s a little bit of Christmas in the protocol of summits even when Jews and Muslims are involved. As Nina Katzir, wife of the Israeli president, strolled arm in arm through the official residence with Egypt’s Anwar Sadat, she gave him, along with the official gifts, a booklet she had personally composed entitled Hebrew with a Smile. “I hope you on your side will publish a book called Arabic with a Smile and send it to us,” she said. Then Madame Katzir impulsively began twisting from her finger a small ring with an ancient Nile green stone. “I know the protocol chief will kill me, but I’ve decided to do this my way,” she declared. “I want you to have this for your granddaughter who was born while you were here with us.” Sadat, obviously affected, smiled in reply: “Women, women. It’s women who do everything.”
“There was absolutely no way I was going to lose,” said the fighter, whose looks were even more familiar than the tune. He was Frank Stallone, Sly’s 27-year-old kid brother, who required just 85 seconds to TKO his first opponent on a Police Athletic League benefit card in Trenton, N.J. With a start like that, was a real Rocky rising in the family? Again, no way. “It’s out of my system. I will never fight again. To understand why, you’d have to get in the ring. Out there every punch hurts,” declared Frank, fingering an angry welt on his nose. “The adrenaline was flowing so fast, I felt like a madman and I can’t even remember exactly what I did.” Concluded Kid Stallone, after hanging up his real ones as well as the fancy red gloves Sylvester gave him from the ’76 Oscar winner: “It was a very frightening experience.”
•After taking well-fueled heat from businessmen, Treasury Secretary Michael Blumenthal bucked some advice to the Boss: Don’t try to sink the so-called three-martini expense-account lunch. But President Carter figures that voters at large thirst less for marts than for fat cats’ blood, and he’s adamant about submitting that abstemious tax reform clause to Congress. Its likely fate? Admits a Treasury insider: “There’s not a chance of passage.”
•She was no doubt the only heiress in the whole joint convicted of robbery (with a gun, anyway). But Patty Hearst, 23, recently dropped in on Pips, Beverly Hills’ toniest private club, accompanied by a date, Lonnie Stein (not to mention a bodyguard). Patty, free on $1.5 million bond, kicked up her unfettered heels for an hour and a half before boogying back to seclusion.