Screenland (Nov 1941-Apr 1942)

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My FREE book, "How to Overcome the Superfluous Hair Problem", explains the method and proves actual success. Mailed in plain envelope. Also trial offer. No obligation. Write Mme. Annette Lanzette, P. O. Box 4040, Merchandise Mart, Dept. 37, Chicago. 78 his second year at the University of Southern California. At which time he enrolled in the Henry Duffy drama school. Outside of being a champion skeet shooter, Bob has won his letter in varsity polo, he has won the outboard motor championship at Venice, Italy, and with his racing hydroplane, The Thnnderbird, he has done everything but break the world's record — which he cherishes ambitions to break. In 1939 he was the holder of the Lake Muroc roadster speed record of 115.68 miles an hour. An entire room in the Stack home has to be given over to Bob's numerous trophies— which, incidentally, have been insured for $25,000. His hobby is collecting guns, and to date he has over fifty of them. His other hobby is building and driving hopped-up automobiles. When he's working in his garage he is undoubtedly the dirtiest "grease monkey" you've ever had the displeasure of shaking hands with. He likes to tell about the time a harassed driver_ mistook him for a repair man and told him, "Say, you, do a rush job on that car and get things fixed by six o'clock and there'll be an extra buck in it for you." Bob claims he fixed the car up fine and got the "extra buck." At home Bob is one of the sprawlingest people you've ever seen. He practically sits on his neck when he talks to you, and is so perfectly relaxed that you would never suspect that he is a dynamo of energy. The most embarrassing thing that has happened to him since he started his movie career, he thinks, was the personal appearance junket he went on with Louella Parsons. "Everybody in the act could do something," he says, "they could sing or dance or do imitations — I just had to stand there and smile. I felt like a dope." Maybe the actors who could sing and dance and do imitations got all the applause in the theater, but according to all reports, it was Robert Stack the fans pounced on with autograph books every time he popped out of the stage door. He must have something. Bob's friends will tell you that he is very bad about opening letters. Sometimes they lie around on his desk for weeks before he gets around to opening them. He probably never gets around to answering them. He is also very bad about returning phone calls. But he makes up for these faults by having one of the most pleasing, genial dispositions in captivity. Even his mother has never known him to be sulky or disagreeable. "I know when he's up in the mornings because he starts singing," she says, "and I know when he comes in at night because he starts singing as he comes up the driveway and keeps it up until he falls in bed." Fortunately for his family Robert has inherited from his musical grandmother a very good voice. It's practically impossible to get Bob all heated up in an argument. When he finds that a situation is arising that he can't cope with his eyes just go blank and he walks right out of the room and the situation. He wants to be happy, and he wants everybody around him to be happy. And the simplest thing can throw Bob right into a great seizure of happiness. The last time I had dinner at his home he was as delighted as a school kid over a pair of cowboy boots he had just bought for practically nothing. They smelled to high heaven, but Bob was so enthralled with them that you would have thought they were studded with rubies. When he is working jn a picture, it seems, he forgets all about girls. He spends his evenings at the movies or the bowling alley. But the very minute he finishes' a picture he wants the phone to start ringing— and it usually does. Cobina Wright, Jr., has been his only "sort-of romance" so far. But there will be more. Oh, my yes. SCREENLAND Dorothy Lamour Plays Cupid! Continued from page 29 much Gertrude, like you, was simply the youth's "best girl," and while he may have always been planning toward a future time when their friendship might develop into romance and marriage, she was thoughtlessly putting too much emphasis on having a good time. But I can't blame her. or you, too much for that. Nearly every girl goes through that phase where she wants to have a good time. When night clubs, and snappy cars mean much more than sitting at home listening to records. The boy became jealous and demanded that the girl stop seeing the older man. Yet he was too proud in both instances — since he was not in a position then to marry— to tell her of his love. It took Gertrude only a few months to begin to realize her mistake. She missed terribly her friendship with Bill. Going to night clubs and dancing until late hours with the older man was all right and lots of fun — until the newness wore off. But soon that exciting night life that had thrilled her so much at first became as ordinary and commonplace as the simple pleasures she had once enjoyed with Bill had seemed. She missed the others in her crowd too. Suddenly the Sunday hikes and Saturday picnics our gang were accustomed to go on began to seem the exciting adventures that night life — seen from the outside— had once appeared. Our crowd was already divided into twosomes and there was no place for Gertrude in it, now that Bill was going with a new girl friend. Bill, his pride hurt, was not ready to make up. One time, Gertrude did come on one of our picnics and brought along the older man as her escort, hoping no doubt that Bill's jealousy would overcome his pride. But Bill was only extra-attentive to his date, and that method didn't work. The older man didn't "fit in" with our crowd, and Gertrude didn't try to join again. About this time Bill got a swell job offered him in the West. He left without even telling Gertrude goodbye. She didn't see him again for two years — when one day he returned to New Orleans as a department manager with the same firm where he had once worked in a very unimportant job. So now Gertrude's pride entered into it. Although she had loved Bill all the time, she felt that she couldn't possibly seek out the successful man the poor boy had become. Then one night at the newest and gayest night club in New Orleans she saw Bill dancing with one of the season's debutantes, and in an unguarded moment she detected an expression that told her that he was as bored as she was. "Why, Bill doesn't like this party life any better than I do," she thought to herself. "We are alike. We always were, really. That's why I love him. And how I love him!" And she determined then and there, that by hook or crook, she'd manage to meet him again in the simple surroundings they both enj oyed. This didn't prove difficult. She humbled herself a bit and appealed to one of the girls in the old crowd who had married a boy in the old crowd. Bill was invited to dinner and Gertrude very casually just "dropped in" for the evening. By her sweet unassuming manner and her interest in her friends, their home and their children, Gertrude convinced Bill that she had grown up into the woman he had felt she would. He asked to take her home that night. And to dinner the next. And neither ever dated anyone else again. How about it, Rose Tagner?