When her dad said he would vote for L.B.J., the G.O.P. had the distinct sensation of being kicked by a mustang. Now a filly is bolting the stable too. Charlotte Ford, 23, Henry's eldest daughter, has joined a group called Young Citizens for Johnson.

Big fat cigars used to be Wall Street's symbol, but today they're the stuff that comrades are made of. Soviet U.N. Delegate Nikolai Fedorenlco, 52, lit up his Empresa Consolidada at a World's Fair luncheon last week, puffed a cloud of smoke at his U.S. counterpart, Adlai Stevenson, 64, and chuckled, "It's a Havana, of course, the best. Revolutionary!" Lately, however, Fedorenko has been indulging in a pretty counterrevolutionary bourgeois-capitalist deviation. In the Security Council, he has been seen chomping American chewing gum; and who knows, if word of that gets back to the Kremlin, Nikolai might wind up doubling his pleasure, doubling his fun, somewhere in outer Kazakhstan.

He has been dead only a year, but petitions from throughout Italy pour in beseeching the Vatican's Sacred Congregation of Rites to start proceedings for the beatification of Pope John XXIII. As the first step toward canonization, beatification requires lengthy investigations (lasting 40 to 60 years) and proof of two miracles; but the villagers of tiny Sotto il Monte, where John was born, are confident that one day he will be "Blessed John." Already, the parish priest says, he has heard of a girl recovering her eyesight and an aged man regaining his health through prayers to the late Pope for his intercession with God.

If you listen closely in Boston's Symphony Hall these days, you can sometimes hear a shy "yeah, yeah, yeah" from the fiddle section, as that master Fiedler, Arthur, 69, leads the proper Boston Pops in a bouncy, 90-man rendition of I Wanna Hold Your Hand, the orchestra's sleeper hit of the season. How does the top pop get in the mood for the mop-top hop? It's very simple. He puts on his thinking wig.

Way down in Greenwich Village, where the elite meet to beat, once stood an off-Broadway citadel called The Living Theater. Its keepers were Julian Beck, 38, and his wife Judith Molina, 37, and because they were "artists" they also kept their federal taxes. There wasn't enough money there to save The Living Theater (it died), but naturally the IRS haled them into court, and naturally they had a theatrical ball conducting their own defense, and naturally a bunch of squares found them guilty of avoiding taxes. "Victims of injustice!" squealed the Becks at the verdict. "Innocent! Innocent!" The long-suffering judge found them guilty of contempt as well, sentenced Julian to 60 and Judith to 30 days in jail. It would take more than that to upstage Judy. She soon had the galleries sobbing as she proclaimed how lucky she was to be loved by a man like Julian, who once "stood by while six men beat me with clubs and did not move--not because he is a coward, but because he loves nonviolence more than me."

Somebody must have known where the fire was, but it wasn't the driver of the big red fire engine on the road outside Athens, because he slammed on his brakes to ask which way. The Thunderbird trailing behind was tooling along at the usual fast pace of its owner, Greece's dashing bachelor King Constantine, 24, with his sister, Princess Irene, 22, and it did not stop on a drachma. Instead, it crashed into the rear of the fire engine. The reigning monarch and Irene came out of the accident with a few bumps, but the front of the car was a wreck, and Premier George Papandreou still has the shakes, because while Constantine may not be the world's greatest driver, he is the only male member of the Greek royal family.

Two years after his father was hanged in Israel for his role in the extermination of 6,000,000 Jews, Horst Adolf Eichmann, 23, a mechanic, hung a swastika flag in front of his Buenos Aires home and goose-stepped off to a nearby bar for a press conference. Announcing he had joined Argentina's

Neo-Nazi National Socialist Party, he declared that the reason for his adopted country's troubles was "the Zionists, who through their trusts and monopolies are carrying out their program for world exploitation. My father fought those who are suffering from the international Zionist conspiracy." Added Horst: "On this anniversary, I want to remember that he did not die in vain."

A guy can't eat lunch with his friends any more--not if the place is a Broadway chophouse, the friends are eminent Manhattan bookies, and the guy happens to be onetime Rackets King Frank Costello, 73. Poor Uncle Frank. (That's what the doorman at his Central Park co-op calls him.) The feds cut in at the gefilte fish, hauled the bookies down to the courthouse for failure to buy their $50 gambling stamps, brought Costello along on a vagrancy charge, being, as the law says, "without visible means of support." Fortunately, his attorney explained that he was "retired," and even the New York Civil Liberties Union came to his defense. "An outrage!" barked its counsel, Emanuel Redfield. "An action of a police state, not a democracy!"

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