Life, 1923-12-13 · page 8 of 36
Life — December 13, 1923 — page 8: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This page features a whimsical Christmas illustration titled "Santa Claus Bug" by Harry Cady, showing Santa's sleigh delivering presents across a snowy landscape with houses and decorations visible for miles. Below is an article titled "Page Mr. Gridley!" where the author humorously complains about being mistaken for or confused with someone else named "Mr. Gridley." The writer discusses how people buttonhole him claiming to know him, mentioning a supposed encounter with a famous movie star who seemed to recognize him—but the encounter created awkward confusion. The piece satirizes the common social embarrassment of mistaken identity and people's tendency to make false claims about knowing celebrities or important figures. It's gentle, relatable humor about everyday social mishaps rather than political satire.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
Santa Claus Bug: SOME FOL: CERTAINLY HAVE THEIR NERVE WITH T HEM THESE DAYS. NOW, HERE’S JIMMY CENTIPEDE HANGING HIS STOCKINGS ON THE TELEGRAPH WIRES, AND AS FAR AS I CAN F some one will kindly page Mr. Gridley, I can give him a job that will keep him busy and happy for years. Here! Little boy down in front, the one without a handkerchief! I'll let you page him. You know him, don't you? He’s the kind gentleman who always fires when ready. Of New York's population, I shall ask Mr. Gridley to shoot about four million. I shall spare the floating pop- ulation, because I’m not quite sure what it is. I have paced our busy streets for years, and never yet have I seen any one float. But these four million are the people who, in the past three years, have remarked within my hearing that they have a great idea for a play, or a movie, or a popular song. I once wrote a song myself. And by gum, it was published. But my life has been a horror ever since. For not only has it failed to make me as rich as Irving Berlin—my royalties for the EXPECTING ABOUT SIX MILES OF PRESENTS. Page Mr. Gridley! year were just sixty-six cents, to be exact—but it has laid me open to the bitter attack of scores of people, some of them total strangers, who have told me they had great ideas for songs if only some kind soul like me would help them to write them. I once spoke a few lines in a high tenor voice in a play on the well-known Broadw But since then I have not dared enter my club, because at least a hundred otherw sane and pleasant people are waiting to tell me some fool adventure or idea that should make a splendid plot for a play if only some one would help write it. I once admitted in an unguarded moment that I had met a famous movie star at a dinner. I stated flatly that I had merely met her, and that my name had apparently been to her either Say or You. But what was my fate? People buttonholed me for weeks, say- ing that they'd heard I was a friend of Miss Hoopus-hoopus and that they had some great scenario ideas for her When I, a mere unknown, have to suf- fer such indignities, the general state of affairs must be terrible. Most of us admit that the popular songs and movies and plays seldom show great originality; but the birds who have ideas for all these things and never write them aren’t going to raise the general standards any. And just think how much worse it might be if they did write them. That’s a horrible thought! I hope Mr. Gridley shows up before any of them try it. James Dyrenforth. The Six Best Sellers BOOTLEG liquor. Ford cars. Fake antiques. Subway tickets. Oil stocks. “Abie’s Irish Rose.” comicbooks.com