San Francisco's ebullient Mayor Joseph Alioto was arraigned last week in Seattle on charges of bribing a Washington State official and using the mails for that purpose. Nothing daunted, Alioto stoutly maintained his innocence of what he called a "14-carat fake" accusation "filled with absolute falsehoods." Would he, despite the charges, run for re-election next fall? Alioto, noting that he had been "not just a full-time mayor but an overtime mayor as well," avoided a straight answer, but let his guard down enough to tell reporters that he had no plans "to resign over this filthy business in Seattle."

When he became secretary-general of France's Radical Party more than a year ago, Politician-Publisher Jean-Jacques Servan-Schreiber promised to lead the decaying organization to victory in the 1971 municipal elections. He campaigned lustily; the Radicals lost overwhelmingly. In the wake of that letdown, J.J. S.S. expressed a somewhat disdainful attitude toward the legislative process in France. "I don't have the right," he said recently, "to waste my time and the money of my electors by attending the National Assembly." To avoid a wrenching showdown within the party, Servan-Schreiber last week took what was politely called a leave of absence. "This is not some sort of going into the inactive reserve," he insisted. Of course, it wasn't exactly re-enlisting for a new tour of duty either.

When it comes to outdoor sports, Brigitte Bardot can take soccer or leave it, and she has always chosen the latter. In Paris last week, however, a French all-star team met Brazil's flashy Santos team, starring Pele, the game's greatest player. Brigitte was coaxed into sprinting across the field, clad patriotically in blue sweater, red boots and tight white hot pants, to kick off the first ball. Her inspirational toe power prevailed. The French booters held the powerful Brazilians to a scoreless tie.

It wasn't so long ago that conformity at Smith College meant lots of pearls, cashmere twin sets and an Ivory-soaped glow of health. According to Julie Nixon Eisenhower (Smith '70), all that has now been changed. She found her senior year "very oppressive . . . there was so much emphasis on conformity. You had to be involved in a strike, you had to be involved in a fast for peace. There really was belligerence against those who didn't want to be part of this." Julie also raised a few eyebrows when she said that it "was disappointing not to be able to attend graduation ceremonies last year" (there was fear of anti-Administration demonstrations). At the time, the White House said that Julie did not care about the ceremonies.

Pop Artist Andy Warhol, who elevated ennui to a principle of aesthetics, is bored again--this time with his own name. Andy wants to change it, he said last week, because "it seems like a good idea. I don't want to be associated with that awful person Andy Warhol any more." But the underground film maker who christened Ingrid Superstar and Viva showed a depressing lack of originality when it came to picking a new name for himself. Warhol's choice: John Doe.

The Saturday Review ad was mixed in among pitches for Hex Signs, Outrageous Things and Authentic Edwardian Embossed Labels. "Bill Benton wants a top assistant," read the top line. Qualifications? Well, a skilled writer who scribbles poetry on the side, likes to sell and is interested in business, knows how to add and subtract (but this is "not essential") and is able to counsel on personal investments. Applicants were invited to name their own salary ("from $100 to $1,000 per week or $2,000. Probably should start around $500"). Working for Encyclopaedia Britannica Publisher William Benton, the message cautioned, can be frustrating but provocative--rather like his ad.

In common with most playwrights, Edward Albee is known to feel--at least after getting bad reviews--that the stage really might be better off without critics. His latest effort, All Over, opened on Broadway to what might kindly be called mixed notices. Pouted Albee: "I go back to my theory that all critics should be judged by their betters, that is, the playwrights. And if they don't measure up, they should be shot."

The Manhattan saloon and restaurant run by Toots Shor has long been a rallying point for athletes (champions and also-rans too), convivial sports lovers, businessmen and celebrity-minded tourists. The ever-present host, a bluff former nightclub bouncer, made it a point to fuel his chums, who ranged from newsmen to archbishops, with good steaks and better booze. Patrons knew that they had won approval when gravel-voiced Toots began calling them "crum-bum," "meathead" or "ya bum ya." Last week the ambience was changed. Drink in hand. Toots sat morosely at a table saying, "we're rehabilitating for three or four weeks." His place closed down under the weight of a tax lien and amid rumors of bankruptcy. The situation was brightened only slightly by a story that the place might reopen under new owners in a month or two.

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