Picture Play Magazine (Sep 1921 - Feb 1922)

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24 The Wildest Day in Hollywood A snapshot taken at the rodeo, showing Tony Moreno, in Spanish costume, and at his right, Douglas Fairbanks and Jack Pickford. the ranks. Ann Forrest made a brilliant sally and landed with her cigarette tray right in the middle of a large agrarian family. She placed a gold-tipped fag between her lips, lit it, and handed it to the patriarch of the clan. "Yours for a quarter !" she cried. "We give no quarter !" cried the valiant wife of the patriarch. But, despite his right guide, the old rascal dug into his wallet after good butter-and-egg indemnity. "Silas!" screamed his helpmate. "Remember you're a deacon !" Silas trembled for a moment, rallied, and bravely paid his tribute. "Somebody's pew rent gone for a pill," muttered the Lady Who Does Not Care, still suffering under her rhinestones. I already had one of my favorite-emmas in my mouth, but it was unlit. Ann snatched it away and put it in working order for half a dollar, which I thought cheap, considering I didn't have to take a gold tip. "Thank you !" shouted Ann, and was off after Samantha Allen. Samantha lowered her specs like a drawbridge, recognized Ann as the sweet little girl of the movies, and took one. Oh, what a scandal there would be in Thompkinsville if the villagers could have seen Sister Samantha purchasing a pill! "Write your name on it, will you, honey?" asked Samantha, true to her bargain instinct if not her moral. The vast bowl of the stadium was circled by side shows and concession booths, while mingling in the concourse were huckstresses, some in Parisian frocks, some in riding habits, and some in harem trousers. If spirits of departed mortals still hover over the earth, the shades of the Pharaohs and P. T. Barnum must have been doing tail spins over the stadium that day. It was ideal circus weather with the sun turned on full, breeding a lust for pink pop and ice-cream cones. Aeroplanes played in the skies and dropped paper. But when some confetti chanced to lodge in the imperial chapeau of the Lady Who Does Not Care she let out a squawk that would have made you think they were dropping window weights or ten-day eggs. The squawk so frightened the monkey who was assisting Raymond Hatton at the hand organ that he spilled his tin cup, and I was compelled to dig trenches looking for the change. With Mabel Normand as guide, we then did double time around the track, Mabel pointing out the sights. There was the Uplifters' '49 camp with dance hall, bar, dancing girls, et cetera — much winking over the et cetera — Sid Grauman's Million Dollar Beauty Show with orchestra; Dick Ferris' Harem Show with its hundredthousand-dollar collection of "art in the nude," which was exerting a potent lure on the gentlemen from Missouri ; Mrs. William De Mille's art studio with living artists' on display ; a cage full of trained and untrained authors in charge of Mrs. Rupert Hughes; Charlie Ray's country store with Charlie as hick clerk, assisted by "Los Angeles society girls" who seemed quite at home behind the counter ; Mrs. Charles Ray's embroidery booth ; a Spanish restaurant and fandango palace ; Charlie Murray's '49 camp with bathing girls, vaudeville show, and a mastodonic she-blonde, dubbed the Golden Nugget, who sang "Silver Threads Among the Gold" in a near-beer tremolo ; a Blue Law street patrolled by ex-bandit Al Jennings ; Dan Frohman's art theater with "The Triangle" drama enacted every thirty seconds ; an American bar with a home-brew tenor as rival to the Golden Nugget in Murray's place. "See the world's greatest authoress and have your fortune told !" bawled a ballyhoo. Sure enough, 'twas Elinor Glyn with an Egyptian front ! That is, her tent had an Egyptian bodice that made it look like the bungalow of Mr. and Mrs. Cheops. Elinor gave psychic demonstrations and proved a perfect charlatan. A full-bosomed matron steamed up, towing a rubbercollared gentleman and seven lollypopped offspring. She all but stormed Elinor's tent before the barker could yell, "Tickets here — only three dollars." The dreadnaught made an about-face in half a count. "We'll be back later," she said, and away steamed the convoy as though it had sighted a submarine. Rubye de Remer, golden and chic, paid the grandopera price and waited her turn, chatting with Gloria Swanson, a symphony in gray. Business was not rushing for Elinor, so Bert Lytell took the platform as barker. Bert seized the megaphone and yelled: "Come on in ! Elinor Glyn ! Palms down on the tiger skin !" Hearing this, Madame Glyn drained off a flagon of oolong. "Who is that vulgah puhson that shouteth without?" she demanded when sufficiently revived. When I passed the place an hour later Bert was not there. Next to Little Egypt's hangar was the house of the famous authors. The Lady Who Does Not Care insisted upon going in to have a look at Lord Byron. I guess she thought it was a waxworks. I asked her if she wouldn't like to take a peep at Chaucer's carcass also. Ignoring, as is her custom, she vamped the gatekeeper and entered. I followed, hoping to see Ring Lardner and F. Scott Fitzgerald. But the only ones who seemed to be eminent among the samples on display were Rob Wagner and Upton Sinclair. Up didn't look at all like the hero of "The Brass Check." He looked like a Humphry Ward gallant in cream dimity. The only person of distinction I saw was the girl who waited on our table. "Oh, I'm the only nobody here!" she said in a pretty English accent to match her complexion. "I knew you were distinguished," I said. Later I discovered her to be the daughter of Cleveland Moffet, whom I now esteem a great author.