Volume 3 — Drippings From the Fawcett

Readers of this little bundle of farm-yard foolishness and filosophy may have gotten a kick out of some of our jabs at the movie colony that hangs out at Hollywood—on the Pacific Coast near Los Anglaise.

There are estimated to be about 30,000 people engaged in the motion picture industry in Hollywood and environs. Out of this crew there are a lot of lame-brains, a goodly sprinkling of nincompoops, who flaunt their peccadillos with a too-apparent wish to have them noticed and press-agented. They wear brass-band clothes, ride around in noisy cars with license tags like “Fatty” Arbuckle’s “606,” and live noisy lives.

By the very nature of their employment they are in the public eye and everything they do comes under the public’s microscope. Every move they make is published to the eager world by their zealous press agents. A home-brew party in a bungalow comes forth a “Neroesque orgy in a mansion,” as Waldemar Young put it. And yet, goodness knows, they probably have enough of the real kind—and we envy them.

* * *

However, what are we coming to, is that the noisy movie people have their prototypes everywhere in society and its numerous substrata, and we for one are not going to make any scavenger’s holiday out of the William Desmond Taylor murder mess in Los Angeles.

Taylor appears to have been an artist of high calibre—hard-working, earnest, capable and a gentleman. But he permitted himself to be murdered—and he was a movie director. Consequently the public immediately put Taylor on trial. They dragged his name through the mud, swishing, swashing. Having put Taylor on trial, it was found that he had taken a stage name—a common thing in the movie and the fight game. But when a man gets murdered he ought to be more careful.

Man of mystery, “Dual life.” Perhaps yes and perhaps no.

But a lot of buncombe, any way you look at is—Imbecilic, puerile. That’s what we think of the campaign of calumny against the motion picture colony growing out of the Taylor murder.

* * *

The other day we read a statement from Frank Mayo, a movie actor, who burst out with this denunciation: “The Hollywood film colony is a pernicious influence. Scatter it, abolish it, burn it up—I say.” Mayo ought to be ashamed of himself. We might just as sensibly orate Robbinsdale—burn it up, scatter red pepper in every front yard and squirt formaldehyde through every key-hole. Somebody tried to rob the Robbinsdale bank and got killed at it.

As we have hereinbefore set forth, there are a lot of tramps in Hollywood—just as there are a lot of undesirables in Robbinsdale, in Minneapolis, in Chicago. And there are just as many honest, decent men and women in the picture business as in the ranks of the sanctimonious reformers, even if they do not go around mouthing the scavenger’s chant “I am holier than thou.”

If Mayo had said: “Run out the undesirables,” we might have joined with him in a hearty “amen.” But it is childish and surely unfair to damn the good with the bad.

The mayor of Los Angeles insists that the actresses and actors of Hollywood are fine citizens, good neighbors and respectable ladies and gentlemen. Adolph Zukor, who is head of the Famous Players, declares: “There is no more immorality in Hollywood than in the New York Stock Exchange”—not much of a boost for Hollywood but a powerful statement just the same.

* * *

Finally, you find Hobart Bosworth throwing the responsibility squarely in the faces of an audience that listened to him: “You think that we of the motion picture world are rotten. Through the confessions of the box office we know that you, the public, are rotten.”

Mayo’s statement is not true. The man who agrees with him has forgotten that things exist because certain definite forces have brought them into being—and Hollywood, even though rotten to the core, burnt up or scattered would arise again somewhere else. The mayor of Los Angeles spoke half the truth, at least. The motion picture people are folk like all the rest. Bosworth is blind. He is angry when he should be sympathetic, despising when he should be greatly moved by the pathos of the spectacle.

If there is weakness in the movie picture colonies the imperfections are not the result of viciousness and immorality in the public that Bosworth calls “rotten.” It is the effect of loneliness and frustrated hopes that sends the starved ones to the movies. It is no small thing in each human being—that longing for beauty and the allurements of wealth, love and triumph. But the sum of all this longing combined and packed into the streams that flow toward Hollywood is stupendously powerful.

It makes life what it is in the motion pictures, brings out the noise in those who have not had proper advantages and makes puppets of men and women who ought to be just “plain folk” and ruins their lives.

* * *

But so far as William Desmond Taylor is concerned—We are unable to see that the movies made a puppet out of him. He was in life respected by his associates—a leader, a man of ideals. And that is why the little old Whiz Banger refuses to be stampeded with the gang that is burrowing in the Hollywood garbage can, seeking delicacies of juicy, ripe dirt to twist their long tongues around.

* * *

We’ve heard the story of the lions and the lionesses, tigers and tigresses, and bears and bear cubs, but not until we became a guest on board the U. S. S. Niagara in Havana harbor of Lieutenants Parsons and Faga did we really discover the superintelligence of wild animals. The first member of the crew we met was a jovial gob, Jack Sellers, who introduced us to his Pride and Joy, the mascot, a big black bear.

“This bear is very intelligent,” vouchsafed Sellers. “You know we sailors sleep in hammocks on the decks. In the middle of the night when the bear gets cold he sneaks around and steals blankets off the sleeping gobs. He carries the blankets to a secluded spot on the ship and piles them evenly, one on top of the other, until he gets forty or fifty. He then retires for a comfortable nap on his downy bed. When the gobs are awakened from the chill and find their blankets missing they immediately search for Bruin. Would you believe it, that bear won’t let any jackie take his bedding until he first smells him and then sniffs at the pile of blankets? When he finds the rightful owner he pulls out his blanket from the pile and gives it to him.”

Woof! Woof! Woof!

* * *

A New York poet who knows the yearnings of a demi-virgin’s heart gave this verse the title “Naughty—But Nice,” a plagiarized version of an original poem under that title which was published in an early issue of the Whiz Bang and the Whiz Bang Winter Annual. The New York Times, in publishing this verse, believes a more fitting title would be:

It Can’t Be Done

* * *

“Dear Billy,” writes Chris Corey, a Minneapolis pill pusher, “You are always writing jokes about other tradesmen but nothing about we druggists. Now, you know we all handle the Whiz Bang and are great boosters for it, so please give us a joke about the pill pounders.”

All right, Chris, here’s one, having to do with your recent convention of druggists in Minneapolis—The chairman rapped with his gavel, “You are out of order, sir!”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Chairman,” responded the speaker, “I never felt better in my life.”

* * *

They have a new way of catching whitefish at Breezy Point in the winter months. The fisherman repairs to the frozen over river with a hammer, a saw and a can of peas. He cuts a hole in the ice, sprinkles the peas around the edge of the hole and when the fish comes up to take a bite he hits him over the head with the hammer.

* * *

Americans in Cuba for the most part are strictly business. I hadn’t been in Havana twenty-four hours until fellow citizens tried to sell me the Malecon; Morro Castle; the Almendares; a boneless elephant; some finless fish; fiddlers’ soup; and a throatless frog. I’ll tell you our brother Americans in Cuba are great for business.

* * *

“Humor”

The following is a vivacious little conceit, entitled “Humor,” culled from Laura Benet’s “Fairy Bread.” (Thomas Seltzer.)

* * *

Turn ’im Loose, Judge!

Judge—Are you guilty or not guilty?

Prisoner—I was going to plead guilty, yer honor, but my lawyer has convinced me that I am innocent.

* * *

The Boys in the Back Room

“Vat will you haf?”

“Vat haf you got?”

“Ve haf some nice ha’f and ha’f.”

“You haf? Ha’f vat and ha’f vat?”

“Ha’f ha’f of vun per cent dark and ha’f ha’f of vun per cent light.”

“Vell, I think I’ll haf to haf a seegar.”

* * *

“Maud kicked the bucket,” said Gus, as he sadly surveyed the spilt milk.

* * *

Sob Stuff

Dear Capt. Billy Fairfax—I’m on a visit from the East. Fell in love with a Western girl. For the past six months I have been faithful to her, I thought my love was returned and never looked at anyone else. Took her around the country some and to different places of amusement. Finally on a beautiful moonlight night I took her in my arms. Oh, my, I can see her now—her beautiful face, Oh, those eyes, those nose, those mouth, those beautiful hair.

I kissed her and she closed her beautiful eyes. She was happy I thought. Things went on fine but as I had not been in the town long I didn’t know much of what had been going on. Then to my sorrow I found there was someone else, a guy with a super-six and a tin ear. I was broken-hearted, she had lied, used me for a fool. Then this shy, modest thing I had trusted crushed me by telling others she had never cared for me and also laughingly told them of my lovesick talk. What do you think of that for honor and decency? She continues to talk and my life is a miserable affair.

Please advise me what to do, because if my wife ever hears what this girl has to say she’ll “raise ’ell.”—Pete Olson.

* * *

Iowa Frivol Pulls This One

An optimist is a man going up the river with a canoe, a girl, a basket, a blanket and a couple of pillows.

A pessimist is the same man coming back.

* * *

She was so bow-legged she could wear a pair of parenthesis for stockings!

* * *

The Height of Ambition

I sure got a fine job since I came out of the Army.

What’s that.

Well, you know the fellow that hammers underneath the passenger cars, well, I help him listen.

* * *

Ancient Stuff

El—“What did you give the baby when it was christened?”

Ella—“A silver spoon.”

El—“Was it a good one?”

Ella—“I’ll say it was. It had ‘Blackstone Hotel’ on it.”

* * *

Ikenstein—“Your new stenographer iss a beaut. Can she spell?”

Rubenstein—“Vat hass that to do vid it?”

* * *

Speaking of stingy people, I knew a fellow that had two teeth extracted and then wanted the price of his board reduced.