Judge — April 1937 — page 14: what you’re looking at

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

3 \ "I'm smoking Grandpa out—it’s time for his medicine.” | HOPE I'M BEING PERSONAL BY TED SHANE Ae that predatory scourge, Income Tax Day, passes over it, Holly- wood is filled with the low moans of the wounded and dying. Those mental giants, the producers, have their car- penters throw up huge wailing walls at which they proceed to’belabor their fine brows. Garbo stalks her hermit's lair with pantherine strides. Crawford tears her present shade of hair and imitates Garbo, Beautiful Lombard has a face as long as your grandmother's drawers. Dick Powell being no actor calls in Archie Mayo to direct his rage. While Louella Parsons screams “Communism!”, Marion Davies applauds, Mae West puts on black underwear in mourning. Louis B. Mayer has his hand held by the sainted Hoover; the democratic Warners cannot understand their pal Big Rosie letting them down like that. Rob Taylor pouts prettily and threatens to go on relief. Will Powell has had to pad his marble halls lest he bash his handsome brains out in baffled rage, Others swear to suicide, or leave the country for some place like England where it looks easier from a distance (i.¢., taxes are only 25% 12 higher). Still others cancel contracts that would boost their earnings over the dreaded $250,000 a year mark and cause them to /ose money by working. In other words, leave them with a paltry $60,000 a year forspending money and their old age. Naturally, since such moneys go to the absurd uses and mysterious purposes of government, my heart bleeds for these golden lads and lasses. When one has earned his or her money by such drudg- ery as Gable, Beery, Loy, Colbert, Simon, Warner, Zanuck et pals are submitted to, it goes hard to see one’s dough disappear down the inefficient craw of Washing- ton. For, everyone knows that govern. ment is sheer graft and the dough will be thrown away on WPAsininity, sena- tors’ mistresses and will wind up in Mr. Mellon's pockets anyway. How much nicer for instance would it be for the Hollywoodies to spend the money on their favorite charities: them- selves? Two swimming pools are better than one. Shirley Temple could buy herself a thousand more lollipops; Caesar Romero could use $20,000 more hair oil, toothpaste, patent leather shoes, cigarettes for case tapping. Dietrich would like more leg insurance, George Raft is badly in need of a hundred more suits and wants to remodel his house so's it would have 78 closets. Will Hays would rather spend his money on biblical tracts for improving producer morals; ‘Warner Baxter could use a few tons of moustache wax; while Freddie Bartho- lomew needs many more jackknives. Or it would be much pleasanter to donate the money to the professional gamblers of Hollywood. Needy fellows, these sharks deserve it. Every year they take away millions of dollars of movie money, via roulette and dice, and devote it to such worthy purposes as charity, support of aged parents, endowments of uni- versities. They pay no income tax. Vis I think something ought to be done about it. It seems there's an aw- ful lot of prejudice around Washington against rich people being allowed to grow richer, but what no one seems to take into consideration, is the intolerable sweat shop conditions under which the star works. An average picture takes about 3 weeks to 4 years to complete. During this period, the star is forced to go thru the harrowing experiences of having his or her picture taken while he or she utters tedious sayings, often couched in words of several syllables! After which the star is forced to sit down and take his ease. This easetaking, as everyone knows, can take it out of a per- son. Look what it has done for the southern negro! These picture snappings and mum. blings sometimes last right thru the day till about 4:30, two hours of this time the star has drudged, and seven he has gotten bunions on his spine. After- wards a star is forced to go to bed with but a capon and a dash of champagne for supper. He or she then gets but 12 hours sleep—to keep unwrinkled and tight with Hays, a hardship that cuts into his or her natural inclinations and time which might be more profitably put to the marriage or divorce plans of the day—or the events leading up to same. Yes, I think it all mounts up to the scurviest trick pulled on the laboring classes since tear gas was invented to chop down demands for 5c an hour increases. I wish every floorwalker, waitress, shoe- salesman, garment worker, laundress, coal miner, stoker, office scrub lady and dime store salesgal would write Senator Wagner, John Lewis and other labor- conscious gents about such unconscion- able exploitation of human effort. For it seems that every floorwalker, waitress, shoesalesman, etc., has a lot in common with these glamour children, who, had not the roulette of chance been so gener- ous, might themselves be juggling flap- jacks, shoveling coal, sewing buttonholes along Seventh Avenue, rising at 6 to rush to the laundry and directing fat mamas to the ribbon counter. Judge comicbooks.com