Life — April 5, 1928 — page 28: what you’re looking at

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

Life Along the Main Stem EAR Pat Witrarp: Orange Juice Gulch has been missing you since the old man made you come home to go to work. The mob wonders how you're bearing under the strain and the Little Girl with the Swell Knees has been in- quiring After Her Great Big Mans Who Went and Left Her Behind. When she pulled that gag all of us folded in two because we know that nothing burns you up and knocks you so cold as girls who wonder if you're true to them. Ain’t they the ones, though? You know me, Wil- lard, I claim that the guy who said, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder of absinthe” knew his unfair sex and you can quote me as telling the world that the Broadway phrails who are true to a guy can be counted on the hands of Venus. The old street hasn’t changed much, Willard. The Paramount Clock still gives the incorrect time and Peggy Joyce still has her figure —in fact, she’s doubled it. Peg was up at Chez Florence the other ante- meridian with a duo of Wall Street brokers, and she nailed me and said: “Why on earth do the newspaper- men take digs at me, anyway? They keep harping on the fact that I've had a few husbands. I don't see anything in the papers about the movie stars who love ‘em and leave ‘em. RETTY PEGGY said a mouth- ful, I suppose, but you know as well as I do that La Joyce is internationally known and when she clips a lad it’s news! The Hollywood femmes don’t matter so much. At that, I’d like to kiss Peg again to make it an even once—she’s really enticing, and she has almost as many bracelets on her good arm as Texas Guinan. Ah, Texas Guinan! There’s a guy for you. From where I’ve been ring- siding at her Salon Royal on 58th Street (where the curfew doesn’t count, as it is in a hotel), she isn’t calling the boys and girls by their real names any more. Nope, good old Texas has dropped her well- known grecting of “Hello, Sucker!” —she took a tip from writers who wrote that that was the reason the alleged suckers didn’t come to her place as frequently, so she quit being so flip. Now, however, the crowds flock to her whoopee parlor and stay until sun-up, but it all goes on their checks, anyway. ARRY K. THAW still is as incoherent as ever. Talk about getting a chill or two from that bird. The other dawning in a café where they use toy pistols in a bandit number, Harry grabbed one of the fake gats and pointed it at a fellow, pulled the trigger and yelled: “Bing, bing!” It didn’t get a rumble from the crowd because I guess they all thought of the same thing, but how can you figure a chump like that? “QTRANGE INTERLUDE,” a play by Eugene O'Neill, still is the chief chatter among the shows in town. It starts at 5:30 in the after- noon, you go out for supper at 7:30 and come back at 9, and the nine- act play ends at 11. The so-called wiseguys said that it wouldn't get over, but Mr. and Mrs. New Yorker, Tre Amateur Cumser: That's funny! They told me it would be harder coming down. not being the smartest people in the world, are packing the house at every performance. The boys tell a sweil crack about it. It seems that the Shuberts, who haven't had so many hits this year, tried to get “Strange Interlude,” and, failing to get it away from the Theatre Guild, opened a restaurant across the street! Incidentally, the Shuberts recently barred a dramatic critic from all of their theatres (thirty-three of them) because he referred to them as Jake and Lee. It served him right for showing such bad manners in public. Why couldn’t he have been polite and called them Mr. and Mrs. Shubert? George Olsen and his band are drawing the better class of joy peddlers up to the Club Rich- man. The couvert is reasonable and the music swell. Helen Morgan is doubling at her own place on 51th Street and in Mr. Ziegfeld’s “Show Boat,” which has some dandy tunes, particularly “Why Do I Love You?” “Old Man River,” “Let Us Make Believe” and “Can't Help Lovin’ That Man.” It’s a hot troupe. Oh, yes, get Brunswick’s record of Al Jolson singing “Blue River’—it's a classic—and Ruth Etting’s numbers on the Columbia discs. She was (until it closed) a Ziegfeld folly and she packs a wallop into the new version of “St. Louis Blues,” which, if you ask me, is really the national anthem. SUPPOSE you've heard by now that Eddie Cantor has made over a million on investments, and they are saying Hearst did something the newsboys couldn’t do and that was to sell the Mirror. You can't stop the flip-crackers, Willard—any- thing for a titter, as when Russ Crouse chirped that the world needs more Bowlegs—like Clara’s; or Sid- ney Skolsky’ “The reason the movies are silent is because if they weren't they'd be in dialect.” Well, I must scram and scrow, old timer—I have an apperntment to choke on some giggle water at a laughing-soup place with the Woman with Those Great Big Brown Eyes for whom I have the tremors. When you write be sure and tell me what ever in the world became of “Va- lencia”—thank God! Walter Winchell. comicbooks.com