Roscoe Sarles, famous race driver; Bill Pickens, Barney Oldfield’s old manager; Julian Eltinge, the actor; Harry Grayson, sports editor of the Express; “Scotty” Chisholm, golf editor and star; King Young, publicity director for Kathrine MacDonald’s pictures; Ham Beall, another publicity director extraordinary; Bob Henderson, wealthy oil operator and owner of the most beautiful home I have ever spilled ashes in—these are only a few of the legion of good fellows with whom I had the pleasure of swapping stories at the Ferris chateau.
* * *
And speaking of stories, I attended a Motion Picture Press Agents’ banquet and heard a good one on the reformers. According to the story, Rev. Wilbur F. Crafts was addressing an audience of the hoi poili and he started off bombastically like this: “You cigar suckers; you cigarette suckers; you pipe suckers—” At this juncture a tenor voice in the rear of the hall sung out: “Hey, Doc, you ain’t going to forget us, are you?” Evidently a willy boy with an all-day sucker in his hand.
Getting back to Dick Ferris, the former Minneapolis theatrical magnate, is head of a big taxi concern and on the side is a “promoting fool.” Rummaging around in one of Dick’s dresser drawers, I ran across a box containing a pair of white silk pajamas. Inside was a card which, in feminine scrawl, informed Dick that they were to be worn when “Alone—and Feeling Blue.” Dick hasn’t been able to wear them—says he hasn’t felt blue since Mt. Lassen was a small hill.
* * *
During our busy two weeks in Los Angeles we found time to accept invitations to inspect several motion picture studios, among them Universal City and the Katherine MacDonald studio. Miss MacDonald is a very charming and very good-looking young woman—and we feel sorry that such estimable young artists as Miss MacDonald, Miss Bebe Daniels and others must suffer some of the reflected criticism that is brought against the motion picture colony by the antics of some of the lame-brained and low-browed satyrs and satellites.
Out at Universal, Director Eddie Laemmle grabbed a picture of us in a wild-west scene—a Minnesota farmer entirely surrounded by cowboys and “Injuns.”
While in the south I also enjoyed a trip to Tia Juana, the Mexican Monte Carlo, just across the border from San Diego. Started to fly down from Rogers’ airport in Los Angeles, but had to confine my aerial pilgrimage to a jaunt over the city and beaches. They don’t allow American planes to fly across the border because there is so much booze running.
* * *