Dino's 49th birthday party turned into quite a bash all right. Frank Sinatra, 50, and Manhattan Barkeep Jilly Rizzo were helping Singer Dean Martin celebrate in the Polo Lounge of the Beverly Hills Hotel when an argument started with the fellow at the next table, Fred Weisman, 54, retired president of Hunt Foods and brother-in-law of Tycoon Norton Simon. As Frank first told it, Weisman beefed about the noise at Martin's table. "The guy was cursing me," said Sinatra, "and using four-letter words. I told him, 'I don't think you ought to be sitting there with your glasses on making that kind of conversation.' The guy got up and lunged at me. I defended myself, naturally." But then as the story heated up, Frankie sang another tune. "I at no time saw anyone hit him--and I certainly did not," said Sinatra, who came out of the encounter with a black eye. Weisman was unable to tell his side of the story. At week's end he lay semiconscious in Mt. Sinai Hospital, his skull fractured.

Britain's Queen Elizabeth is certainly getting gear. Last year, at the behest of the swinging Labor government, she put the Beatles on her birthday list as Members of the Order of the British Empire, an honor the shaggies won for all the cash that their noise had contributed to the empire's balance of payments. This time, for rather the same reason, Her Majesty named fab Fashion Designer Mary Quant, 32, doyenne of the Chelsea group's knee-baring, hippy styles, as an officer of the O.B.E. Her fad is siphoning so much loot into Albion that the Queen ranked Mary one full notch up on the Beatles.

No matter that the fellow is under indictment for conspiracy, fraud, theft and tax evasion. Some of the folks in Ocean City, Md., think he'd make a dandy mayor, being such a famous local innkeeper and all. But, said Bobby Baker, 37, bustling around his ocean-side Carousel Motel, "I'm not a candidate for anything. I've got more problems than I can say grace over." Lyndon Johnson's former protege is awfully civic-minded, though. He thinks the Federal Government, for example, ought to develop nearby Assateague Island into "a major recreation center." Baker even offered to help the locals fund the project. "I know how to get federal money," he said, "if they'll listen to me." That sounds ominous.

Double, double toil and trouble;

Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

Cool it with a baboon's blood,

Then the charm is firm and good.

Britain's Labor Prime Minister Harold Wilson, 50, must have been feeling like a bigger monkey than the melancholy thane. The Oxford University Liberal Club, in which he'd enjoyed honorary membership "for his past and present services to the Liberal Party," decided in its elections this time that 'Arold had moved too far left of Liberal. "We felt his continued membership would be a blot on the club's escutcheon," sniffed the group's secretary-elect. Their replacement was sufficiently weird: Mrs. Eleanor Bone, High Priestess of the Worshipful Coven of London Witches. Croaked the Liberal witch at her Cumberland cottage, called "Witchwood": "Poor Mr. Wilson. I didn't even cast a spell on him."

Her 90th birthday was the best of all. Two weeks earlier, Princess Julia Dent Grant Cantacuzene had awakened in her Washington apartment and suddenly seen the canopy on her bed, her chest of drawers, the pictures on the wall and the sunlight through the window--for the first time in ten years. The granddaughter of Ulysses S. Grant and former wife of the late Russian Prince Michael Can tacuzene, the princess had somewhat mysteriously regained, at least partially, the sight she lost after an automobile accident. Her doctor offered no explanation, but asked her: "Do you believe in miracles?" "Indeed I do," said the princess. She spent her birthday arranging the great bouquets of flowers that arrived. "I have flowers everywhere, even in the kitchen," she smiled. The best gift was that she could see them.

"This is Dday, you know," said Dwight Eisenhower. "That's right," answered Harry Truman, "22 years ago." It had been 2 1/2 years since the former Presidents met at John Kennedy's funeral, and evidently that occasion ended the coolness. This time Ike and Harry got together at a Kansas City luncheon sponsored by an organization called U.N. We Believe. Bantering warmly, the old chiefs were so chummy that Harry's close friend Tom Gavin smiled: "I liked what I saw. I thought it was great. President Truman does too."

In his years as Harlem preacher and U.S. Congressman, Adam has consumed a good many apples. So after the Rev. Adam Clayton Powell Jr., 57, told a group of friends that he'll be peeling off from his third wife, Yvette Diago Powell, 35, the newspapers were full of the gossip that the preacher would be marrying Corrine Annette Huff, 25, a onetime Miss Ohio who was the first Negro to compete in the Miss U.S.A. contest. "Absolutely untrue," fumed Adam when the story caught up with him on a European junket. Having thus squelched the item, he flew off to attend a labor conference in Geneva. Right beside him was the apple he calls "Huffie," who labors away as an assistant to Adam's House Education and Labor Committee, at $18,600 per annum.

A Bond Honored, British Playwright John Osborne's tumid adaptation of an atrocious horror show by 17th century Spaniard Lope de Vega, has a hero who commits rape, murder, treason, multiple incest and matricide, and blinds his father--after which he is crucified in precise imitation of Christ. London's critics cast one look at the tasteless mayhem at the Old Vic and held their noses. Whereupon Osborne, 36, flipped his Angry Aging Man's lid, firing off telegrams to the London papers. Osborne declared an end to his "gentleman's agreement to ignore puny theater critics as bourgeois conventions. After ten years, it is now war, open and frontal war, that will be as public as I and other men of earned reputation have the considerable power to make it." He then disappeared, presumably to grease his hot-air gun.

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