Mr. and Mrs. North America and all the ships at sea."" This is, well, you-know-whose random autobiography written (assembled) before his death in 1972 in that deathless subblurbese and mostly consisting of all the stuff he'd ""colyum'd"" through the years from the time when he stopped hoofing and began to write for The Vaudeville News, the Evening Graphic and Hearst's Journal. Not much about his personal life but all the poop he scooped from Lindy's to Jack Dempsey's to the Stork Club; candids of Runyon and Ed Sullivan and Capone; of Woollcott and Hemingway and Jimmy Walker--not to mention all those ""sweedees"" in Hollywood. Winchell is always arrantly fight and self-justifying and claims he won most of his lawsuits although you'll hear elsewhere (Barry Gray) that he sank without a trace of anything except enmity in all those lotions of love. Who's still around to care?