Life — June 21, 1928 — page 16: what you’re looking at

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

00017 Rey oe Mrs. Hucenirs (to friend): I have to be most careful about my diet. I've always had a tendency to flesh, ALONG THE MAIN STEM Dear Pat Wittarp: Hullo abba dabba! I'm glad to hear that you're feel- ing so well. If any- body happens to bring it up, tell him formethat I've got the miseries again because the Girls Who Won't Be True to a Guy have been getting in my hair, which is why I'm feeling as old as the other fel- low’s latest gag. I don’t want to bore you with any sentimentalities, Willard, old man, and get as uninteresting as an empty flask, but There Should Be a Law. If I were king, women who insist upon the light being on in a taxi would have to go outdoors with their petticoats showing. Girls who keep rouging their lips between kisses wouldn’t be allowed to use mustard on their delicatessen. Those phrails who have to go home early would be forced to read Frances Newman, or sit through “The Ladder,” and the aggravator who distinctly has you understand that she is not that kind of a girl would never be allowed to put any cracked ice in her highballs, if I were king. Oh, I could rave on for pages like this but when I think of that sweet potato I went for the other night at Helen Morgan’s new place on 52nd Street, I give in. I'm That Way over her, Willard, and I think she likes, also. They were playing ‘“There’s a New Love on My Mind and an Old Love in My Heart,” from ‘Here's Howe!” when I first got a load of this new tease, so I immediately turned on my Desert Look and bing!— just like that, she went limp. Well, after we had a saucerful of java and some hen-fruit and ham at Reuben’s we 15-and-5’d up to Inspiration Point on upper Riverside Drive but it appears that it isn’t there any more. Nope, the neigh- bors squawked and beefed about The Newer Generation parking there and pet- ting, so they have boogey mans there now to give you plenty of air. Butta! Yes, there’s a butta. Mrs. Winchy’s little upstart, Walter, discov- ered a new hideaway in this man’s town where the necking and moogling are go- ing on terrific. But whatever you do, big boy, don’t let people read your mail be- —=—= cause those of us who are having the time of our lives at this spot want to k it as exclusive as the neighborhood is ae posed to be. 4 It is Exterior Street. You can ask al most any New Yorker if he ever heard of Exterior Street and I'll wager he wouldn't comprehend. Well, it is one block lon, near 65th Street, right alongside of the East River next to the Rockefeller Insti- tute. It is near here that the best are dwelling and they call it Sutton Place, where Old New York really started to grow. It’s grand, however, Willard. These warm nights right there where it is plenty dark next to the river, watching the lights flicker on the boats, tugs and trafic going over the Queensboro Bridge gets you, especially if the gal in your dreams is the gal in your arms. There I go panting again. Poddon me. There isn’t much other news, except that Arthur Caesar, the enthusiass, still is suffering from epi- gram poisoning. The Gordon Gin people of England are preparing their giggle water in frosted bottles to distinguish it from Yankee bootleg. The N. Y. Times, which once spanked superstition editori- ally, eliminates the thirteenth floor from its skyscraper. Plagiarists, style-thieves and paragraph burglars are now called “echoes.” When you get “the ice” from a snob on Broadway it is equivalent to getting the chill or the freeze, and among other hill-billy ditties now being sung is one that concerns a wayward lassie, the finish of the chorus going, “Then somebody's sister says: ‘What's your hurry, mister?’ And a nifty which the second-rate clowns are claiming is: “To a speakeasy owner—every knock is a customer.” That, Willard, was just as funny when it was pulled around the Friars’ Club and the Automat in 1920. However, many a fourflusher wishes he didn’t have to. Please give my regards to the mob who hang around the town pump and tell them I'm tickled to death I’m here. Walter Winchell, SUPPORTING CAST Botp Svrtor: Dearest, I love you! What is more, I’m going to marry you. Movie Actress (registering ennui): You and who else? 7 Just a sometl speak Liv: We every § hearte work Fee! difficu them to do The when ing th litle | An those know: Sur in the uses b tenem terrifi Th formi these when know exty, ness. Bu Th Su: can s and i comicbooks.com