Names make news. Last week these names made this news:

Publisher Bernarr ("Body Love") MacFadden, 85, whose foibles were mercilessly chronicled by his former wife Mary (Dumbbells and Carrot Strips) MacFadden (TIME, April 20), was beginning to look like material for a whole encyclopedia of Bernarrisms, one volume to a wife. In a Manhattan court last week, present wife Jonnie Lee MacFadden, 47, who is suing Physical Culturist MacFadden for a separation, recited all the makings of a slam-bang first chapter. Aside from such routine quirks as parachuting into rivers and sleeping on a hard pallet beside her bed, Bernarr, lamented Jonnie, had cultivated more than his muscles; he also developed some annoying "obsessions." In dead of night he once depalletized himself, got dressed and strode chestily off into the out-of-doors because Jonnie's apartment was "too fancy" for him. Mealtimes were trying: Vegetarian MacFadden peevishly accused Jonnie of trying to poison him, and, though she herself ate much of his portion to prove it was harmless, "he kept raving . . . [and] took the food and threw it in the kitchen sink." The last straw for Jonnie: Bernarr figured that she left her 15th-floor bedroom window open for her lover to steal in at night.

James Roosevelt, already accused by his estranged wife Romelle of wholesale adultery (with three named corespondents, nine also-rans), was also accused of being a millionaire. At a preliminary hearing last week in a Pasadena court, Romelle. who married Jimmy for richer or for poorer, reported that it had turned out richer: "Several years ago. Mr. Roosevelt said he was worth several million dollars, so we could live in a lavish manner." Then Jimmy took the stand and said with a grin that he was considerably poorer than that. His insurance companies (which Romelle assessed at $4,000,000) were "worthless"; his income was only $2,425.57 a month; he spent half again more than he made; he even owed his mother, Eleanor Roosevelt, a cool $100,000. Turning off the grin, Jimmy groaned: "I guess I'm getting poorer by the minute."

In Albuquerque to whoop it up at a Democratic dinner, National Democratic Chairman Stephen Mitchell announced that he will resign in November. Asked if Toledo's Michael DiSalle might succeed him, Mitchell huffed: "I haven't heard anyone talking about DiSalle except DiSalle himself."

Boston was in an uproar over a scheduled nightclub appearance of Christine (ne George) Jorgensen. After fiery debate on whether ex-G.I. Jorgensen is a female or merely a female impersonator, the Massachusetts legislature passed a muddled resolution which said that Christine's act might "adversely affect the morals of the youths." Then Boston's licensing board stopped the whole show by revoking the nightclub's entertainment license, and the club canceled Christine's contract.

Irene Castle Treman McLaughlin Enzinger, famed international dancer of World War I, pooh-poohed Chicago's current rabies epidemic, which is so grave that Illinois authorities have ordered all pet dogs and cats inoculated, all strays destroyed. Not unduly upset by the fact that 313 Chicagoans were bitten in four days last week, Antivivisectionist Castle (long egged on by the Hearst press), wanted pet owners to know that anti-rabies shots "would paralyze the hind legs of dogs." Though claiming to be no "damn fool," Irene, who in more than 25 years of running animal shelters has prided herself on an average of three bites a week, blithely offered to let any old mad dog bite her and to "put up $5,000 that I don't get rabies."

In Manhattan, William Anthony Burton, 11, raised by his maternal grand mother, Mrs. Lucile Burton, to believe that he was an orphan, got the good news that he was heir to a $6,800,000 brewery fortune left by his great-grandmother. Then Mrs. Burton had little choice but to tell William the rest: his father, Wayne Lonergan, 36, is still alive, serving a 35-years-to-life stretch for the mur der of William's heiress mother, Patricia Burton Lonergan, in Manhattan's most tabloid-hued crime of 1943.

Army Recruit G. (for Gerard) David Schine, 26, heir to a string of seven hotels but better known as investigator for Senator Joseph R. McCarthy's Senate subcommittee, was himself under investigation by the Army. At New Jersey's Fort Dix, where Schine had eight weeks' indoctrination, the commandant ordered some 200 of Schine's old barracks buddies to be quizzed on the question of just how basic Soldier Schine's basic training had been. Charges filled the air that Schine had goldbricked his way through his rookie days. Fellow draftees were quoted as saying that Recruit Schine got a pass every weekend (and left the post spectacularly in a chauffeur-driven Cadillac), skipped all but one stint at guard duty, goofed off on target practice and kept hinting darkly that he was really only hanging around to check morale. Snooping on his own, Columnist Drew Pearson had reported that Schine's old junketeering gumshoe pal, McCarthy Aide Roy Cohn, called the commandant often to inquire about Schine's welfare: "The Senator wants to know." This week Schine still seemed to be a soldier of good fortune. Most of his Company K comrades were in advanced infantry training. But Draftee Schine's eagle eyes proved weaker than most: put into a "Grade C" physical category, he found himself pursuing his old civilian line of work at the Army's Military Police training school in Georgia.

At the G.O.P.'s Lincoln Day box supper in the capital, where some 7,000 bigwig Republicans dealt with fried chicken (tickets: $1.50 each), Secretary of Defense Charles E. Wilson, in a frolicsome mood, fed his wife Jessie a tasty morsel without benefit of silverware.

Cinemactor Marlon (Julius Caesar) Brando, whose studious nonconformity (wearing T-shirts and sneakers, riding a motorcycle, hanging out in unfashionable bars) has long led Hollywood to regard him as eccentric, walked off the set of The Egyptian and did not come back. With a toothbrush for luggage, he flew to New York, where his psychiatrist issued a candid bulletin: "A very sick and mentally confused boy."

An Italian court weighed Cinemactor Errol (Crossed Swords) Flynn's $5,000 suit against Italy's Carpano vermouth house, which had ballyhooed its product with an ad showing Errol downing some sort of drink, with the caption: THE IDOL OF WOMEN TOASTS CARPANO. Not Only was the use of Flynn's name and picture unauthorized, cried his lawyer, but it also reflected upon his reputation as "a heroic knight, the defender and champion of most noble virtues."

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