Picture Play Magazine (Mar-Jul 1929)

The Stroller 65 star, but I gave it up. This man was too persistent for me, and I admitted his charge, blushingly. But I beat him to the punch this time, because I knew what the next question was to be and I answered before he could ask it. "Yes, I was connected — from time to time — with the pitcher business. You're right." "Funny business, ain't it?" I thought this over, before replying, with tremendous profundity, "Well, sir, now that you say that, I believe you are right, but I never heard the thought expressed in just that way before." This seemed to please him immensely, and he warmed up to his cross-examination. "Pretty wild place, I guess?" Every one who has ever been engaged in the studios of Hollywood for more than two weeks is frequently asked that question for the rest of his life. There are two answers to it. One is "Yes," and the other is "No." Both are right. I could not bear to disappoint my garrulous threshing-machine salesman, so I answered in the affirmative. Boy, boy, the third degree I "went through in the next two hours ! That guy knew the names of more stars than the Paramount casting director, and he had an erroneous report about every one of them. He understood that Gloria Swanson's husband's real name is O'Houlihan ; that Wallace Beery is the father of Ralph Forbes ; that George O'Brien is Jewish ; that Doug and Mary have really been separated for three years ; that John Gilbert and Greta Garbo are secretly married ; that George Fitzmaurice is a good director ; that Clara Bow died two years ago and a double has been taking her place ; that Marion Davies must have an awfully good press agent to get all the publicity she does ; that Hal Roach really taught Charlie Chaplin all he knows about acting. And so, on and on and on, far into the night, until I sneaked away and went to bed and looked out of the window and wondered why Congress, or somebody, didn't just mark Arizona and New Mexico off the map, as they don't seem to be of use to anybody. The next day I did better for a while. The head of the threshing-machine industry cornered a kindred soul who was on the road for the Finkelstein Shoe Company, and they settled business conditions to their hearts' content. I had been careful to conceal all identifying marks on my luggage and effects, and felt fairly safe. But you never can tell. After scrutinizing all the magazines — one gets out of the habit of reading books in Hollywood, because if the word gets around its likely to hurt you in a business way — I permitted myself to be trapped into a bridge game. My companions were two middle-aged ladies, both of whom no doubt are members of the Foreign Missions Society of their respective communities, and a gray-haired gentleman who could easily have been the husband; of either lady, but was not. I was a model young man, trying to look like one who had spent his entire life in Bellingham, Washington, and it all started off so innocently. But the gray-haired gentleman developed a passion for talking between, and during, hands, and All was lovely in Hollywood until a nutty inventor dragged in a talkie contraption. he started one of his observations with the preamble, "Now when I was in Los Angeles " was a double play from 3 to second base to The middle-aged who happened to be ner, caught him up immediately. "Why, now, that's funny. I just came from Los Angeles, or rather Santa Monica. We spent the summer there. My husband had to go back last week because of a business deal, but I wasn't prepared at the time to leave with him, so I remained another week." It developed into an unofficial game of truth. The gray-haired gentleman asserted that he lived in Galesburg, Illinois, that he had a son in San Diego, that he had gone to visit him, and that he had stopped over in Los Angeles a day to see the sights. The estimable lady on my left broke down and confessed that her home was in Newton, Kansas, and that she had been visiting relatives in Gallup, New Mexico. It was my turn. All eyes were upon me. I faltered under the scrutiny, and, I fear, trembled slightly. "Where are you from, son?" asked the gray-haired gentleman, in exactly the tone that the prosecuting attorney would say : "Where were you on the night of April 4th," or "Have you ever seen this meat-ax before?" I'm a bum liar, so I hid under the scant protection of the reply, "Los Angeles." "Oh, have you lived there long?" asked the lady who had spent the summer in Santa Monica. "Too long." "Oh, my, aren't you cynical ! I just adore Los Angeles. Tell me, whereabouts did you live?" I mentioned a street — the first one I could think of, and so help me Will Hays if she didn't have a sisterin-law living on that street. "Why, that's in Hollywood, isn't it?" I bowed my head in sorrow and resignation as I admitted it was in Hollywood. Continued on page 109 The Stroller gets the usual hint given Manhattan-bound travelers.