Then there was the night of August 29th in 1928, at the old--then new--Tee Hee Club, ruled and regulated by that snappy dresser, gangster Morty Post (now all the lovable hoods are gone). . . I was sitting at a table with an unforgettable woman-about town Hominy Grit and Alexander Woollcott, Earl Carroll, Joan Crawford, young William Saroyan, Harry K. Thaw, Walter Winchell, Benay Venuta, Joe Laurie, Jr., when Claire Boothe called out from the next table, ""Hey, Louis, come on Over here!"" Now the Tee Hee Club, the speakeasies, the glitter of the Great White Way, the friendly waiters, stars, gangsters, the golden chorus gifts with their stage door Johnnies are gone--all gone, with the relevance of name-studded jangle bracelets like Mr. Sobol's columns. Mr. Sobol, however, does have an endearing naivete, including as he does, some letters from the greats, amongst them some fine back-handed smacks. (""Why,"" growls Helen Keller, ""did you say you ghost-wrote my memoirs?"") As a sub-luminary of the egret-feather era, Mr. Sobol could have taken us further behind his column--unfortunately this is Monday morning hash.