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

Having been grounded six months last year for buzzing the Teterboro, N.J. Airport control tower, TV's humbly arrogant Arthur Godfrey buzzed himself into another jam with the Civil Aeronautics Administration. The charge: flying so close to an airliner over Chicago's Midway Airport that he forced the plane to reduce its speed. "Oh, for Christ's sake," cried Godfrey. "We certainly weren't endangering him. I merely dipped my wing to say hello. It's like tipping your hat. How close could I have been, if the pilot had to call the tower to ask the identification of my plane? All I do is say hello to a guy, and he turns you in. It makes me sick."

British Novelist Alec Waugh, after writing for years in the shadow of his younger brother Evelyn, at last tasted fame and fortune. His new novel, Island in the Sun, to be published in January, has made an across-the-board clean sweep of U.S. literary jackpots: 1) the Ladies' Home Journal is serializing it; 2) the Literary Guild has chosen it; 3) the Reader's Digest Book Club will digest it; and 20th Century-Fox will film it.

Onetime Chorus Girl Evelyn Nesbit (Thaw), pawn in the famed Thaw-White murder 49 years ago, now the subject of a forthcoming movie biography, was chaperoned into Manhattan by movie flacks, told newsmen: "Nobody can live in the past or the future without being something of a nut. I live for the Everlasting Now."

One of Europe's shapeliest stars, Italian Cinemactress Silvana Pampanini (37-23-36), flew from Rome to the U.S. for a week of personal appearances in Denver's "Festival of Italy." "It isn't true," La Pampanini loudly cried, "that I think American men are lousy lovers. All the Americans I've met," she murmered, in a graceful non sequitur, "have been very fine and admirable."

Cheerily waving his hat to an admiring crowd at London airport, Sir Winston Churchill took off with Lady Churchill two days after their 47th wedding anniversary for a vacation on the French Riviera, less than three hours later was motoring from Nice to the Cap-d'Ail villa of Lord Beaverbrook, where he will put up for a while.

In Hartford, Connecticut's Democratic Governor Abraham A. Ribicoff came to a high boil when he read in a pamphlet put out by the state government workers' union: "The C.I.O. won't give up on major issues, and will connive, persist and annoy or do anything to get what you [the workers] have a right to have." Rumbled Ribicoff: "Anyone caught conniving or annoying ... in any department of the state government while I am governor will be fired on the spot."

Looking rather plump, former Vice President Henry A. Wallace stopped off in Des Moines to visit his son, Poultry Farmer Henry B. Wallace, and have a look at his grandson, Henry D. Wallace, nine months old. Wallace smiled proudly at little Henry, who regarded him gravely as news photographers' flash bulbs popped. Wallace told a Des Moines Rotary Club luncheon that President "Eisenhower's plan for mutual inspection of bomb installations in the U.S. and Russia is a practical first step toward making the world safe from one of its most explosive dangers," later added that he was through with politics. Hereafter he will just cultivate his garden (hybrid strawberries and gladioli).

In Johore Bahru, Malaya, Major General Sir Ibrahim ibni Almarhum Sultan Abu Bakar, better known as the Sultan of Johore, began a weeklong, million-dollar party to celebrate his 82nd birthday and 60 years of rule on the throne of the Malay state. During the festivities, his Sultanah, a Rumanian beauty named Marcella Mendl, who is the Sultan's fourth wife, will be crowned. Pounding the floor with his silver saber for emphasis, the Sultan got things going with a surprise statement attacking his own independence-minded government and supporting British imperialism: "Where are your warships, your planes and your armies to withstand and repel aggression from without? If the British were to go today, the Communists would be in tomorrow ... It would be 99 times worse than the Japanese occupation."

Vice President Richard Nixon and California's Governor Goodwin Knight, whose love for Republicans in general does not extend to each other in particular, had another little tussle for precedence. Asked to introduce Nixon at a G.O.P. fund-raising dinner in San Francisco next month, Goodie Knight found he had a "previous engagement." But he sent Nixon a telegram offering to introduce the Vice President at another Republican rally in Los Angeles where the governor would be the undisputed star.

On his way to Mexico to begin shooting a film version of James M. Cain's Serenade (about the meteoric career in opera of a farm boy who hits the skids in Mexico and is befriended by a Mexican beauty), badboy Tenor Mario Lanza was on his good behavior as he met the press in San Antonio. He explained that he was enthusiastic about making his first picture in three years: "I don't want to be inactive again. Inactivity breeds inactivity."

Looking pale and, as the tabloids put it, "unglamorous," Cinemactress Rita Hayworth arrived in Manhattan with her two daughters, their nurse, 17 pieces of luggage and jet black (instead of her customary flaming red) hair. Having walked out on Husband No. 4, Dick Haymes, in Hollywood, Rita was setting out for Europe to give her daughters a chance to visit with their fathers. There was no problem about Husband No. 2 Orson Welles's seeing Rebecca, 10. But Rita wanted to be sure that she got back Yasmin, 5, after the child's six-week visit with Husband No. 3, Prince Aly Khan, insisted that a $100,000 bond be posted to guarantee Yasmin's return. Aly, harboring no ill feelings, was so happy to be seeing Yasmin that he offered to put Rita up at either his Paris mansion or his Riviera villa.

In Manhattan, James Cash Penney, chairman of the board of the J. C. Penney Co., celebrated his 80th birthday and explained the principle on which he built an organization that now has 1,655 chain department stores (the country's largest) with 1954 sales of $1,109,000,000. The principle: make all the workers partners. Penney quit using the word "employee," called each of his 90,000 workers an "associate," gave each associate a share in the profits in addition to a salary. After the 1929 stock market crash, Penney lost his fortune, wound up beaten and despondent at 56 in a sanitarium, but proved his method was sound by borrowing money and staging a comeback in which he recouped his fortune.

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