Judge — January 10, 1931 — page 22: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Kahn Game W217" to be done about poor old Otto Kahn? A few years ago this noble, white-mustached fellow would listen to the plea of any Gree wich Villagey artist who approached him with a hard-luck story, digging into his jeans to help out with an odd thousand or so. Any indigent cause, if it smacked of the slightest nobility (and queerness) of artistic purpose, received his aid. The further below MacDougal Street the project for im- proving the world thru, for insts plays that broke the conventions of the theatre (i.¢., characters who came on the stage not from the wings but via chutes)—the more he gave. ee, But now alas! Greenwich Village is no more, even as a curiosity. The long hairs have been neatly barbered and work for the Ladies’ Home Jour- nal. The radical movement in the theatre has found its Nirvana in Hol- lywood, and the Ben Hecht school of poetic prose has coupon-cutting cramp. The golden of the artist is here. And so Mr. Kahn doesn’t make the front pages any more but sits alone idly with his bags of gold lying around him. “If only the telephone would ring,” he probably thinks, “and GENEMAN deliver up to me some worthy cause! If only some artist has discovered a mountain he would like to paint batik designs all over, lacking only funds. If only some writer with plans for a play to take 366 days to produce would come to me, lacking but a few cents. If only some architect would turn up who would like to build a modern apartment house out of cork- screws, gin bottles and Korans!" Yessir. The poor are poor in money only. Trony (rsa in New York you rarely, if ever, see the same person twice (excluding, of coss, ticket specs, doormen, dramatic crit- ics and mendicants). But hasn't it happened to you that every so often you keep running across some stran- ger again and again in the darnedest at the darnedest times? Some time ago I had such a strea I kept stumbling upon an odd character who was evidently a health fiend. Winter, summer, rain or murk, he was alway dressed in a pair of duck pants, san- dals, a shirt open at the throat and a shock of whitish-gray hair. His com- plexion showed the result of a lot of leg-work, and his eyes, fastened on some fa y fantasy, never seemed to be tak- ing in the external world. I used to speculate about him, but never could make him out. Then one day, while strolling round the reservoir, he suddenly loomed up in front of me. At last I would see him at close quarters and maybe talk and finally passed me I didn't have the heart to stop him. He was intent in a daily pape It was the Morn- ing Telegraph. And the Morning Telegraph, dies and gentlemen, is ng paper! Good- ss me, but the city is full of drama, isn’t it, duckies? 20 The Furious Life THINK gestures are dying out and I don’t like it. The most notable and recent of gestures that I will never cease admiring and wish I'd performed concerns that Jewish cen- turion, Myron Selznick, of the old Selznick Pictures and Hollywood. Driving down a Los Angeles boule- vard at a furious pace, he was sud- ARTY! —ex. 21s RooPADOOP! denly set upon by the Motorcycle Moguls. Instead of pulling up to the curb, he increased his pace and soon had put his speedometer up to 80. Traveling thru red lights, si hind him going, bullets flying, in and out of traffic, the chase grew hotter and merricr. Finally the young mad- man was forced to stop. And the cops raced up alongside him at the curb, They were furious, murder in their eyes. They yanked the door open and as they were about to blat their Imly turned Have you s be ot a cigarett It cost him These Hardened Times Ere’s a strange one which proves there are high-hat poor. In the comicbooks.com