Volume 2 — Pajama Parties ’n Everything

Hollywood is still talking of the “wonderful” social season that surrounded Hallowe’en, Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year’s. Even away out here on the snow-covered Minnesota prairies there filters through a story or two. But the best one we’ve heard is the pajama affair tendered by one of the real picture queens. The party was probably not as rich as really painted, but it is known, however, that in the wee sma’ hours anyone in pajamas could glide into the festivities whether invited or not. The hostess, we are told, is such a grand little lady that we will not embarrass her by any undue publicity.

It appears that during the course of the evening one of our best actorinos struck up a friendly flirtation with a prim and very agreeable married woman. That is, it was friendly at first; becoming so lovely later on. For reasons best known to themselves, the pair decided to leave the storm and fret and booze behind and go and find—but that is the first part of the story.

Along about five in the morning, an hour or so after he had returned with his fair conquest, Mr. Man, now rather bibulous, was reciting some alleged woes and calling down his wrath upon the “long hairs.” “Long Hairs” is right in Los Angeles just now, except in high society. There isn’t a night but that the “morals squad” or “break-in cops” charge down on some rooming house and there do batter and probe, dragging out the unfortunate wights who cannot show a wedding license. It appears that the actor and his fair conquest, after leaving the pajama party, had experienced some embarrassment, at least such was the impression the man left by his startling conclusion. He said:

“It’s getting so you can’t take a decent married woman to a rooming house in this town without running into some cops looking for a bunch of painted dames.”

Needless to say the fair charmer, who had been listening somewhat nervously to the initial outbreak, all but collapsed when she heard the final denunciation. If her husband hasn’t heard the story, he’s the only one in town not laughing about it.

The midnight bathing parties in Los Angeles and Hollywood are a little passé just now, on account of the weather for one thing. Since one of our best known citizens was suddenly taken with cramps in one of the Romanesque pools without wearing even his B.V.D.’s, the sport has assumed a classification regarded as “dangerous indoor sports.” In this instance most of those who ran to the troubled man’s assistance are said to have been ladies with—well, the wife of one of our leading politicians was nervous for some weeks lest the newspapers print the names of those present, so we’ll pass her up this time.

The ladies who bathe in midnight pools, especially if considerable liquor has been provided, are not particular about their sea-going attire. They quite often prefer the no-piece bathing suit, although the shock of the water often arouses a sober moment. Then milady wonders with dismay how she can emerge amidst the highly interested group of lookers-on.

The cops who raid the little rooming houses and resorts of the less elite would reap a mighty harvest if they cared to intrude upon Wilshire or Hollywood. But what’s a little party of pajama-clad men and women bred in the purple if the copper gets a few choice jolts.

* * *

Talked Like a Tailor

The members of the choir were practicing the well known anthem “As the Hart Pants After the Water Brooks.”

The rendering of the opening stages was apparently not quite to the satisfaction of the gentleman who wielded the baton.

He considered it necessary, therefore, to tender some advice to the soprano section, and caused great consternation and not a little embarrassment among his flock by the following announcement:

“Ladies, your expression is simply splendid, but the time is very poor—really, your pants are far too long.”

* * *

How Perfectly Lovely

“Is this—can it be love?” sighed Angebella, as she sat on a seat in the park with MacCuthbert’s arm around her waist and his soft voice whispering fondly in her ear. Oh, it was lovely! “It is, my darling,” MacCuthbert assured her. “But tell me, sweet one, how do you feel?” “I feel,” cooed the lady, “as though my heart would leap from my throbbing breast! My parched throat contracts and then expands, while my breath comes in quick, choking sobs.”

There was a sudden rustle in the bushes behind them as a sleeping tramp crawled forth and glowered at them. “I’d take something for it, miss,” he growled. “That ain’t love you’ve got; it’s hiccups.”

* * *

Ruined Reputations

“Whisky has ruined the reputation of many men.”

“Yes,” replied Broncho Bob, “and at the same time, I ain’t so sure that a lot of naturally no-account men haven’t done their share to ruin the reputation of whisky.”

* * *

Do You Blame Them?

A “strong-man” actor, wishing to demonstrate his strength, made the following announcement from the stage:

“I would like to have three young ladies volunteer from the audience to come up on the stage, stand on my chest and I will then sing a song.”

Needless to say, none responded.