FOR SOMEONE who used to be Dean Acheson's roommate, Cole Porter has come a long way. In the Grand tradition of hula hoops, the Twist, and Batman, he has become a raging American fad, and, although the Porter fad will probably wear out its welcome with the great American populace as quickly as its predecessors, we may as well drink the wine while we have it, Nunc est bibendum.

The sheer pretension of the man! The bravado of his lyric, the daring of his melodies. Porter's talent knew no bounds, his wit knew no shame. He was an egregious anachronism. No, not that either, for it is hard to think of any time when he might have been completely at home, totally at ease. This man who made Scott Fitzgerald look like Jonathan Edwards lived in an age and a world unto himself.

But what lyrics. "Were Thine that Special Face"; "Katie Went to Haiti", "Too Darn Hot". Porter raced between the ever-so-artfully ridiculous:

Just declaim a few lines from Otheller

And they'll think you're a hell of a feller....

With the wife of the British Ambassader

Try a crack out of Trollus and Cressider.... and the almost sublime:

Our little love affair

Will make us cease to care

How many parties they're giving.

We're done with being smart and so we're going to start

To learn the gentle art of living.

There was a distinct Porter style, of course, but Porter could never be counted on to stick to it. The same Cole Porter wrote "I've Got You Under My Skin" and "Don't Fence Me In", about as dissimilar as two songs can be. This was the same Cole Porter also, who wrote the eerie, macabre. yet somehow awfully touching "Miss Otis Regrets"

The crowd came today and dragged her from the jail, Madame:

They strung her up on the old willow across the way: