Screenland (Nov 1950-Oct 1951)

seem to be indifferent to the results, naturally the boy is going to want to come up to your apartment. But if you make it clear that you're not the type, the matter won't be too difficult to handle. It all depends on how much control you want to have. A girl influences the course of an evening. I may be old-fashioned, but I still believe that such things as the nocturnal apartment rendezvous are best delayed until after marriage. Before a girl leaves home. then, she should ask herself these questions: "Is my will power strong enough in all respects for me to go out on my own?" "If it doesn't work, will I admit it and go back home before trying again?" "Will I be willing to call my folks and ask them for advice if problems get too difficult for me?" There's no need, you know, to divorce yourself entirely from your family just because you take on the world alone. "Is the reason for wanting to leave to better myself or is it just to have the so-called freedom I may not be ready for?" If it's just to do things your folks don't want you to do, you'd better stay home because probably they're right. "Am I really mature enough for such a move?" Think over these questions and then you should be able to decide for yourself. This being on your own isn't all fun — and don't forget it. If it hadn't been for my career I might never have made the >tep. Now I'm in Hollywood and am lucky enough to have been in such pictures as "Happy Go Lovely" and "Belle Of New York" — and I'm living with my family. Not that I'm home all the time because I'm not. No girl need stay by the fireside entirely. But after being on my own, I like this arrangement better. Me leave home now? I'll leave that deal to others. "I'm Tired Of All The Talk" Continued from page 41 every one happy — every one, that is, except Mr. Brando. In his apartment on West 57th Street one night, "Bud" Brando was the identical picture of what column items and random gossip had painted. In jeans and a faded grey shirt, he sat crosslegged on the living room couch, jumping up every now and then to change a mambo record or get a cigarette. The apartment looked as if a cyclone had hit it, and through the French doors I saw one underfedlooking young man — known to smarter night club goers as Wally Cox, one of the best comedians to appear on the scene in a long time. Attired in little more than a hand towel — on him it looked good — he was working diligently on a play, and an occasional grunt or groan told you he was still breathing. Sprawled there on the couch, Marlon didn't look as if he were about to have a complete nervous breakdown at any moment, but had the newspapers of the last two weeks or so been anywhere near right, Mr. B. should have been relaxing in a neat white straitjacket at a quiet country retreat. For in the short period of seventeen days, the following items had been lapped up by the ever-believing gossip-column-reading public: "Marlon Brando has just had a minkcovered seat made for his motorcycle, which he rides along Broadway at eighty miles an hour." (Brando wouldn't knoio a mink if it walked up and bit him and, so far as eighty miles an hour — have YOU ever tried even getting your car out of "first" in congested Broadway traffic?) "Marlon Brando is sharing an apartment with Montgomery Gift." "Marlon Brando is sharing an apartment with Elia Kazan." "Marlon Brando is sharing an apartment with his sister and her husband." "Marlon Brando is sharing an apartment with his ex and present wife." "Marlon Brando is sharing an apartment with two ballet dancers from the City Center who dropped in for a short beer . . . with the credit manager from Abercrombie & Fitch, who happened by one day inquiring about an unpaid bill." It \va« also reported that he was holding forth in a building on MacDougal Street which, for the record, is empty because the Health Department condemned it some years ago. (This had nothing to do with Mr. Brando aiid I only mention it as it's a great address to give to creditors and people you don't ever leant to see again; — that, or 10 Greenwich Avenue, which is the women's prison.) To continue a bit further with these quaint little tidbits which are continually cropping up: "Marlon Brando sends his entire salary home, keeping only enough for his meals — which he eats at Riker's on 55th St. — and his mambo records." "Marlon Brando never eats anywhere but Humpty Dumpty in Greenwich Village, and always with the same mysterious blonde." "Bud Brando's real love is an exotic brunette, who walks the French poodle he gave her in Washington Square." "Marlon Brando's only gal — a redheaded secretary — is showing off the afghan-hound she received from him from Pango-Pango." "Marlon Brando says there is no one in his life and doesn't know where people get the idea he has a secret heart interest." "Marlon Brando is going to do "Viva Zapata." "Marlon Brando won't do a picture for another year." "Marlon Brando is considering becoming a monk." The same week that he was reported in Glennon's. P. J. Clarke's, the Blue Angel, Birdland. the Vanguard, the Palladium, and the Men's Bar at the Bilt Her earrings are flaivless diamonds her nail polish is beautiful Cutex "Earrings by Cartier THE LUXURY POLISH AT A BUDGET PRICE! Highest quality isn't always a matter of highest price. That's why truly discriminating women buy low-priced Cutex for lovely nails. Only Cutex givesLonger wear. Made with Enamelon, Cutex has a jewel-hardness that's a wonder for "non-chip" wear! Perfect manicures. Exclusive "Nail-Measure" neck controls amount of polish on brush! Insures flawless manicures! Lovelier colors. Soft pastels — lively reds! A variety so wide it rivals a rainbow! 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