Volume 3 — Our Movie Gossip
Reading edition
Trust Hollywood to have the latest in fads, but as in lots of cases, they are short lived. A few months ago Madam Edith Maida Lessing built her temple in Glasswell Park, high above Hollywood, and said, “Here will I commune with the eternal, here will I show the bungalow sweeties that I am no piker.” So she gathered her subjects about her and taught them that civil marriage is the bunk, ownership of land is terrible, churches, penitentiaries are awful, divine marriage is the berries, barter and exchange are the biscuits, free trade and religious transformation is the hot dog.
So divine marriage prevailed, it consisted of taking a person as your mate in the sight of God and when tired of them give them the gate, and daily and nightly they gamboled lightly on the lee, little elfins scantily clad could be seen flitting hither and thither in the moonlight and they held earthly communication in the doorways; in the early mornings could be seen the spirit dance around the red flag of love, and many a bungalow sweetie could be seen looking longingly toward Glasswell Park. It got so bad that the dearies thought they were going to lose their sweet man and they all began to squawk in accents bold.
They yelped so loud that they were heard in Los Angeles, and straightway two noble minions of the law set forth to quiet the rumpus. When they arrived and asked what it was all about, they were informed this was the temple of Helois where the disabled vets were soon to reside and where St. Mary’s cradle was to be founded to care for all the babies that were not otherwise cared for. Here was to be the goat farm to feed said babies that their mothers might commune with the spirits unhampered; here was to be the boat landing where the fishermen would land nightly after their day’s fishing to feed the vets and the other members of the colony. Here was everything.
The law was not satisfied and escorted her forth to durance vile, and accused her of lots of things she didn’t understand, but she remained unruffled and when safely situated in the county hotel, broke forth in a fit of poetry—
Red Is the Color of Love Because in the hope to save the world, She had questioned not nor fled, But only kept the banner unfurled, Whose only color is red. For red is the color of love, And red is the holy one’s desire, And red is the place where love makes his bed, And red is the color of fire. And red is the thing that we do and dare, When we snatch the fire brand And touch the flame to the devil’s lair, Who tortures its by his hand. And red is the hole in the depths of the earth, We would bury the demon in Who has laughed in such fiendish and lawless mirth At the wages of lust and sin.
Now all is quiet at Helios; no more do they dance in the pale moonlight; no more is the scorpion hurled forth to the bungalows, no more do the goats bleat and disturb he who would sleep; now the sweeties have returned to their previous love, and all is well.
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The other day the little town of Manhattan on the ocean near Los Angeles passed an ordinance setting a penalty for swimming without the sometimes necessary bathing suit, but they claim it was not without cause, for it got so bad that certain persons after swimming were going uptown for lunch without taking the necessary time to cover their earthly charms.
One night a party was held on the sands and every one disrobed and all were enjoying the cooling air of the evening when a stranger was seen in the offing. Everyone grabbed clothes and ran, intending to use another part of the beach to refresh themselves. One dearie was stranded in the dark, and as the rest of the party had her clothes, was forced to wander about until morning, which was only a few hours away. After daylight she set out to find some clothes.
Later the town heads talked it over and decided that a person ought to wear some clothing, if only to protect them from the chill night air, so now if you go to Manhattan to swim, take something along to wear, even if it is only an old shirt, for, quote they, if Mack Sennet can get away with it, “we” can.
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“The Four Cow Boys of the Poker Chips”
From “The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse”
By James Starr.
This is a great, massive feature directed by Dex Bygum, formerly a bartender in Cuba. This picture is the greatest society drama that has ever been produced about the cow country. The story is of a man that goes to Reno to get a divorce. Reno being a great cow town, he soon turns to be a cowboy. While he is chasing the “steaks” around the country, a beautiful girl comes to Reno to get a divorce or to get married, we don’t know which. The two fall in love with each other and he rides her around the town in a side car on a bicycle. They have great times together for a while until he starts to playing marbles for money. This gambling scene would make Monte Carlo turn green with envy. The girl tells the man that if he doesn’t stop gambling, she’ll leave him forever. He goes from bad to worse and starts to play lawn dice. She is heart-broken and leaves the town. That night he and four cowboys start to play poker. The four cowboys leave the dive with all of the poker chips. The man is broke and discouraged, so he takes a writing “Tablet” and dies in a few minutes. This is the only drama we’ve seen with a true-to-life ending. It is without a doubt the greatest non-star picture ever produced. We don’t see how they did it.
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“High Steppin’”
From “Deception”
By James Starr.
This is a story of the wild parties they had during the time English history was originated. From the looks of this picture they had a wild and wicked time. The hero had six wives; that’s enough to make any picture worth watching. The time is during the reign of Henry the Flivver. Without a doubt he was a rattling good King because he found the Ford that would go fifty miles on a bucket of oats. There’s a mystery about the old birds doing the “toddle” in the second reel; they pull a mean dance and if it hadn’t been for a gang of sub-titles we’d have seen a wicked time. Old Henry as a king was a much better joker. The greatest thing that he ever said was, “If I ever lose my Kingdom, I’ll sell shoe strings on Broadway so I can have my near-beer.” He meant every word of it, too. Old Henry was a real wicked hero, they usually let the villain have the part, but to save the cost of another actor, they had old Henry do it. The old Monarch was fond of playing crap and reading the sixteenth century funny paper. One of his favorites in the funny paper was “Omar, the tentmaker,” who is now still acting foolish on the American stage. This picture is not quite as wicked as “The Queen of She Bare,” but it will do just the same.
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Doesn’t it get your nanny to have a girl say, “Now quit, Charles!” when your name is George?
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Pour la Toddle
Oh, these professional propagandists.
Can nothing deliver us from them?
Our ministerial prolocutors again promulgate the purity dance.
They barked and barked at the spaghetti shamble shimmie until Sari Dennishawn tripped in and demonstrated the aestheticism of shoulder shaking.
But now the “toddle” comes—that ecstatic little eccentricity that proselytes us all, and makes us do those ticklish little shivers that the deans call “vicious.”
“Vicious”—propend that!
Is there anything more inspiring than two young people, cheeks pressed close, galloping about in syncopated contortions to the weird moan of a saxophone and the sliding blare of a trombone?
Is there anything more uplifting than the sight of a beautiful young girl with her head resting on the shoulder of a greasy-headed lizard who “toddles” around with closed eyes?
And the ministers would change all this. They call it “vicious.”
Now what do you think of that?
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A certain young lady named Funk, Was tricked into buying a skunk, She tho’t ’twas a cat, till it got on her lap, But now she burns Japanese punk.
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Crookedness never pays in the long run—Look at the corkscrew—out of a job.