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tepping Out
By Marquis Busby
with June
Once more
our boy
plunger tempts
night life
with a star
THERE'S no other conclusion to draw. You can't spend a lot of money in Hollywood for an evening's entertainment. You might, of course, if you gave a dinner in the Cocoanut Grove for forty guests. But then you couldn't give a dinner party for forty. At least eighty would arrive.
I'm talking about a fellow and a girl — out to go places, ring doorbells and see people. In New York if you blow the girl friend to a really swell evening, dinner, theater, night club, flowers and a taxi, you wouldn't have enough change left from a hundred dollar bill to buy a morning paper.
In Hollywood it is decidedly more economical — but I'm not actually complaining, understand.
In my ardent crusade to prove that it doesn't take a Rolls and a roll to step out with the famous movie stars, example number one was Sally Eilers. Sally and I had a simply grand evening at the beach and it cost $6.10.
I still don't know what the ten cents was for. Odd sums always worry me, like compound fractions. Example number two in this take-heart-young-man campaign is June Collyer.
Now, June, before she sold her profile down the river to William Fox "pitchers," was a New York society girl. She seems to belong in the atmosphere of Assistance League teas, smart cafes, and the diamond horseshoe at the Metropolitan.
I couldn't imagine June eating a hot dog at the beach, although if she were faced with the necessity, she would undoubtedly do it with all the grace of a duchess sinking a tooth in a truffle at Marlborough House.
June Collyer and our "Wild Mark" Busby, the Boy Plunger, stepping out of HER Packard at the door of a Los Angeles theater. Is the lad weakening seriously?
THE DAMAGE
Theater Tickets $10.00
Dinner 7.20
Tip 1.00
Corsage 5.00
$23.20
He bought
June Collyer's
flowers — but
he rode in her Packard!
There's nothing wrong with Sally Eilers' table manners, either. She knows a salad fork from a fish spear, but she just happens to be a bit less formal than June.
My date with June was to be no peanut affair. We would do the things that June would like to do, and go the places where June would like to go. Expenses were to be no object. For once I wouldn't worn' about money, if my Scotch grandfathers turned in their graves. We had dinner at the Ambassador, which is the local RitzCarlton; ten dollars' worth of two tickets to the premiere of Marion Davies' picture " Marianne"; flowers, and all the necessary incidentals.
AND it cost $23.20. An odd number again, dash it! I might add a couple of dollars for getting my evening duds rehabilitated, and getting the tomato soup stains off my starched shirt and vest.
It may seem like a lot of money for one evening, but the college boy spends more than that when he takes his little Eta Zeta Thcta to the big game, and to the College Inn afterward for
dinner and dancing. I should know. Anyway, it's worth SS23.20 just to be seen in public with June. She's actually so beautiful that it hurts.
June said she would be ready at seven o'clock. She was, on the dot, and looked like four million of Uncle Sam's berries in a gown that bespoke Rue de la Paix, and a velvet wrap thingamajig to which several white foxes had contributed their skins. Ah, noble cause !
A prim maid ushered me into
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