Tag: Los Angeles Record

365 Nights in Hollywood: Kalsomine Kitty of the Kleigs

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Jimmy Starr began his career in Hollywood in the 1920s, writing the intertitles for silent shorts for producers such as Mack Sennett, the Christie Film Company, and Educational Films Corporation, among others. He also toiled as a gossip and film columnist for the Los Angeles Record in the 1920s and from 1930-1962 for the L.A. Herald-Express.
Starr was also a published author. In the 1940s, he penned a trio of mystery novels, the best known of which, The Corpse Came C.O.D., was made into a movie.
In 1926, Starr authored 365 Nights in Hollywood, a collection of short stories about Hollywood. It was published in a limited edition of 1000, each one signed and numbered by the author, by the David Graham Fischer Corporation, which seems to have been a very small (possibly even a vanity) press.
Here’s “Kalsomine Kitty of the Kleigs” from that 1926 collection.

KALSOMINE KITTY OF THE KLEIGS

 
When they made Tommy Green a director the sun beamed a satisfied smile on the big white stages. The birds which infested the trees along the avenue running through the studio, talked about it in chirps.
The white-haired gateman stepped from his self-made pinnacle of pride and told the extras in the waiting room.
The noon whistle seemed to scream its congratulations at twelve o’clock.
They had finally made Tommy Green a director.
It was discussed over the lunch counters, in the studio cafeteria and over the white tablecloths at Mother’s Inn.
Everyone was talking about it.
Everyone was glad—glad for Tommy.
After eight years he had gained the position he had always dreamed of and worked for. Yes, it had been worth while. It seemed a long time, and Tommy had struggled hard. But it had not been in vain after all.
Eight years ago he walked into the studio and asked for a job. Lady Luck had presented him with a prop assistant’s broom and apron and told him to work eight hours a day for twenty-five dollars a week.
Today his salary began with fifteen hundred dollars a week. His contract stated this for one year and an option on five years.
Tommy sat gazing out of his new office window into the studio street. Electricians with leather vests scuffed by. Office boys with Oxford-bag trousers and patent leather shoes strolled slowly, carrying notes to directors.
Girls flickered past in fashion’s latest, carrying manila envelopes with photographs. Some had make-up kits.
Old men with unpressed clothes and Merry Christmas whiskers hobbled by. Young men with highly polished hair and trick suits wandered up and down the street.
Trucks with props whizzed back and forth.
Actors with pink make-up and funny looking clothes hurried from stage to stage. An orchestra was playing “Hearts and Flowers” on Stage One.
On Stage Two a snow scene was being put on. The cameraman cranked away in his shirt sleeves while an electric fan played upon him.
The girl in the salt snow shivered and thought of an ice cream soda.
Tommy looked at his stenographer who wore massive earrings. She was typing out the working synopsis of his first story.

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365 Nights in Hollywood: The Most Passionate…

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Jimmy Starr began his career in Hollywood in the 1920s, writing the intertitles for silent shorts for producers such as Mack Sennett, the Christie Film Company, and Educational Films Corporation, among others. He also toiled as a gossip and film columnist for the Los Angeles Record in the 1920s and from 1930-1962 for the L.A. Herald-Express.
Starr was also a published author. In the 1940s, he penned a trio of mystery novels, the best known of which, The Corpse Came C.O.D., was made into a movie.
In 1926, Starr authored 365 Nights in Hollywood, a collection of short stories about Hollywood. It was published in a limited edition of 1000, each one signed and numbered by the author, by the David Graham Fischer Corporation, which seems to have been a very small (possibly even a vanity) press.
Here’s “The Most Passionate…” from that 1926 collection.

THE MOST PASSIONATE . . .

 
 
The blue smoke hung low in the large club room. The radio was tuned in softly. A beautiful melody was being rendered on the violin.
Two men sat in massive over-stuffed chairs. Both were silent. Both were smoking.
They were literary men. They were discussing women. (Men do.)
One man was heavy-set and smiling. He wrote humorous stories for a living. The other was thin and sad-looking. He wrote anything that happened to come into his mind, and the public cried for more.
They were talking of the most passionate women in the cinema colony. She was well worth discussing. Everyone talked of her, and everyone had a different story. She was like that.
“Her present husband and I were very good pals at one time,” said the sad-faced man. “We used to run around together, before he married her.”
“I knew him, too,” murmured the other.
“Well, one night up at their house, we all got drunk. He got me in a corner and told me a story.”
The other man was listening intently.
“The next day, after I had sobered up, I wrote the story as he had told it to me, using, of course, fictitious names. I have often intended to sell it to some magazine, but I can’t make up mind to it.”
“I should like to read it.”
“Okay. Come on over to the house and I’ll get it for you,” he said, rising slowly from his chair.
 

.  .  .

 
Paula Monroe was the most passionate woman in Hollywood!
There was no doubt about that. She admitted it. For once her press agent had told the truth. If Hollywood had not talked about her and the world had not listened, where would she be today?
She wouldn’t be, that’s all.
Only a few months had passed since she had been entirely unknown. Now she was a star,—a real exponent of the flickering drama. She had her cars, her maids, her bank accounts and her lovers!
Ah, her lovers! If it had not been for them!
Even now she was not satisfied. (A woman seldom is.) Paula was a passionate woman—and more than that!
(For she had to get along in the Movies!)

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365 Nights in Hollywood: Reckless Reels

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Jimmy Starr began his career in Hollywood in the 1920s, writing the intertitles for silent shorts for producers such as Mack Sennett, the Christie Film Company, and Educational Films Corporation, among others. He also toiled as a gossip and film columnist for the Los Angeles Record in the 1920s and from 1930-1962 for the L.A. Herald-Express.
Starr was also a published author. In the 1940s, he penned a trio of mystery novels, the best known of which, The Corpse Came C.O.D., was made into a movie.
In 1926, Starr authored 365 Nights in Hollywood, a collection of short stories about Hollywood. It was published in a limited edition of 1000, each one signed and numbered by the author, by the David Graham Fischer Corporation, which seems to have been a very small (possibly even a vanity) press.
Here’s “Reckless Reels” from that 1926 collection.

RECKLESS REELS

(A resume)
 
. . . a jazz band . . . colored spotlights . . . evening gowns . . . and stiff shirts . . . laughter . . . silver flasks . . . smacked lips . . . bluish-grey clouds of lingering smoke . . . The Biltmore ballroom on Saturday night . . . the new playground of the movie folk . . . Art Hickman . . .
Alma Rubens strolls along with Ricardo Cortez . . . softly on the heavily napped carpet . . . her gown of silver cloth and royal blue sparkles . . . Rick with his polished black hair . . . immaculate shirt and carefully fitted Tux . . . sparkles . . . murmurs of the “outsiders” sitting along the sides in deep chairs . . . Alma and Rick smile and speak to one or two couples passing. . . .
A very young chap and “deb” are about to enter . . . he notices a small sign—very small—“Couvert $1.50” . . . feels for his checkbook . . . a forced smile . . . she rambles on with a meaningless chatter . . . he rambles back . . . the gay “hello’s and how-are-you’s.” . . .
. . . the dance again . . . Priscilla Dean and her husband, Wheeler Oakman, are the first on the shiny floor . . . Hobart Henley, director, wanders over to Virginia Valli . . . he and Virginia dance . . . Hobart is amused at the throbbing, hot crowd . . .
Constance Talmadge enters . . . there are smiles . . . whispers . . . gasps . . . she is clinging to Norman Terry’s arm . . . he looks satisfied . . . the flappers’ hearts flutter . . . they join Mr. and Mrs. Earl Williams . . . Constance nods to a few around her . . . her press agent is there with a well known society girl, Dot Hubbard . . . Constance calls to him. . . .
A young man with streaks of grey at his temples sits alone in the far corner . . . he seems to be gazing at the interior decorations . . . they are beautiful and sparkling . . . he shifts to watch the constant stream of humans passing the entrance archway . . . there are actors, writers, business men, members of “The Nothing-to-Do-Club,” stately dowagers bedecked with diamonds, tottering old men still sowing their wild oats; gag men with serious faces; heroes with disgusted countenances, villains with heroine-winning smiles; comedians with Blue Law expressions; extra men and girls with eyes for those who “wonder who they are?” questions. . . .
Colleen Moore and her husband, John McCormick, saunter in . . . Ben Lyon is with Dorothy Dore . . . his latest wise-crack is “Since James Kirkwood made a picture entitled, ‘Discontented Husbands,’ what is Lila Lee doing?” . . . his friend Jack Santoro doesn’t laugh . . . Ben, however, is prepared and does his own laughing . . . he sucks grenadine punch through a straw in a tall, delicately wrought glass . . . Ben tells another one: “Now that the Culver City studio is making ‘The Purple Bathtub,’ can Harry Gribbon play the part of the color-blind plumber?” . . . Jack almost smiles . . . Ben laughs and decides to dance with Helen Ferguson again . . . Jack does ditto with Dorothy. . . .
Georges Jaimaie, expert on Paris lingo, does his stuff in French at the next table . . . Baroness d’Estreilles, American representative for Boue Soeurs in Paris, is displaying a new Parisian creation at Priscilla Dean’s table now. . . .
. . . the hurrying waiters add to the zest of the excitement . . . there is always excitement . . . roving eyes . . . searching for things to talk about . . . catty remarks . . . compliments . . . impromptu speeches on the film slump . . . unanswered questions . . . bits of scandal . . . criticisms on The Modern Girl . . . views on Life . . . invitations for next week’s dinners and parties . . . flirtations . . . lovers’ quarrels . . . slang . . .

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365 Nights in Hollywood: The Orange Cure

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Jimmy Starr began his career in Hollywood in the 1920s, writing the intertitles for silent shorts for producers such as Mack Sennett, the Christie Film Company, and Educational Films Corporation, among others. He also toiled as a gossip and film columnist for the Los Angeles Record in the 1920s and from 1930-1962 for the L.A. Herald-Express.
Starr was also a published author. In the 1940s, he penned a trio of mystery novels, the best known of which, The Corpse Came C.O.D., was made into a movie.
In 1926, Starr authored 365 Nights in Hollywood, a collection of short stories about Hollywood. It was published in a limited edition of 1000, each one signed and numbered by the author, by the David Graham Fischer Corporation, which seems to have been a very small (possibly even a vanity) press.
Here’s “The Orange Cure” from that 1926 collection.

THE ORANGE CURE

 
 
The last of the bright lights on Grant Avenue had just flickered out. Jerry Thorn half fell through a dark doorway to the sidewalk. The street was deserted and unusually quiet; it seemed uncanny that a street like this—the main thoroughfare of San Francisco’s Chinatown—could be so completely abandoned by the denizens of the quaint city.
Jerry shook himself and turned up the lapels of his much-worn coat. A heavy fog was coming in; a wet one. As he looked down the hill, he could barely see the illuminated clock of the Ferry Building. It was about one o’clock, he thought. The small dose of opium he had would last only about five hours, and he had dreamed off about six o’clock.
Jerry Thorn, once a famous clubman and society idler of the petted circles of San Francisco, was now a forgotten person. It had been nearly a year since he had sat in a wicker chair at the Polo Club near Half-Moon Bay. He had been a handsome chap then.
Ten months of cheap food, bad sleeping quarters, a nightly four-hour dose of dope and the thoughts of being a failure had made Jerry a hollow-cheeked person with sunken eyes. His once brisk, energetic walk was now a shuffle. His once erect carriage was now round-shouldered and slow. His once immaculate suits were now wrinkled, torn and ill-fitting.
Yes, Jerry had been a failure in business as well as in life. He was now as low as a man would go,—a fiend, a dirty, mind-wandering dope fiend. His name now meant nothing at the club, where once it had been mentioned with pride.
He leaned carelessly against a lamp post. The fog was extremely thick now. He was unable to see the end of the short street. The sidewalk was wet and the light made the small drops of water glisten on his coat. He fumbled in his coat pockets for a cigarette.
Jerry was at the stage where his body craved at least four hours of dope sleep a day. The other hours were spent in wishing for the next session of peaceful living and sleep. He was in a pitiful condition and there was none to care.
The big form of Harvey London, patrolman of the section for ten years now, came within Jerry’s view.
“Hello, Harvey.”
“Howdy, Jerry. Howzit tonight?”
The big officer stood in front of him, adjusting his heavy raincoat tighter at the neck.
“Not so good. Just got kicked out for the night.”
“Too bad, kid. Y’ought to get a home somewhere.”
Jerry struck a match and lit a pocket-worn cigarette.
“Thaz all right. I’ll get along, I guess. Sorry I ain’t got another fag for you, Harvey.”
“Never mind that; come on down and have a cup of mud at Charley’s.”
Together they walked down the slippery cement to the only all night cafe in Chinatown. It wasn’t like the old days, when they were open all night and slept all day. Times had changed this little city, especially the closing of the Barbary Coast. The tongs had departed and there was very little of the old life evidence.
Charley’s had just six customers when they entered. Jerry recognized two dope peddlers and three pickpockets. The other man was like himself,—a bum, a drain on the kind persons who inhabited the section.
Jerry drank his coffee slowly, while Harvey munched on two stale doughnuts. The officer then called Charley over to him. They were sitting a small table on the side.
“Charley, I want you to let the kid here sleep in that piano box of yours in the back. It’s gonna be a cold morning and he’s out for the night.”
Charley nodded and went back to his place behind the long counter. Jerry remembered that Charley had once been a prize fighter. Anyway he looked the part.
Presently Jerry wandered over to him.
Charley threw a dirty dishwasher’s apron at him and pointed to a pile of unwashed plates, cups and silverware.
It was two-thirty when Jerry had finished his work. he stacked the dishes in their places and went back to Charley in the kitchen.
He heard the front door open and the sound of loud female voices; voices hardened by cigarettes and modern gin. He turned, and recognized two former clubmen of his, another insipid chap and three scantily clad young women.

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365 Nights in Hollywood: A City Without a Pawnshop

cladriteLeave a comment
Jimmy Starr began his career in Hollywood in the 1920s, writing the intertitles for silent shorts for producers such as Mack Sennett, the Christie Film Company, and Educational Films Corporation, among others. He also toiled as a gossip and film columnist for the Los Angeles Record in the 1920s and from 1930-1962 for the L.A. Herald-Express.
Starr was also a published author. In the 1940s, he penned a trio of mystery novels, the best known of which, The Corpse Came C.O.D., was made into a movie.
In 1926, Starr authored 365 Nights in Hollywood, a collection of short stories about Hollywood. It was published in a limited edition of 1000, each one signed and numbered by the author, by the David Graham Fischer Corporation, which seems to have been a very small (possibly even a vanity) press.
Here’s “A City Without a Pawnshop” from that 1926 collection.

THE CITY WITHOUT A PAWNSHOP

 
The boulevard was black and cold and shiny.
Once it had glittered.
Now it was deserted—unfriendly.
The rain tapped an incessant tattoo upon the street, the buildings and the window panes. It was a Ben Hecht rain—it was different.
Larry sat huddled in the doorway of an exclusive men’s furnishings store. The noise of water rushing down the metal drain-pipe kept him awake.
His shoes were oozing with water. His thin face was covered with a two days’ growth of beard. His colorless lips were tobacco stained.
What a creature!
A massive enclosed car swished by. Larry shivered and moved closer to the door.
The rain slackened. The sky was slowly growing gray. A heavy mist began to fall. The awning shook water on Larry’s haggard face.
He heard the scuffle of footsteps down the street. The street lamps seemed to be fighting for justice against the thick mist.
Larry was damp. He ached.
Old Joe, a studio watchman, stopped and looked at Larry. His blue eyes seemed to gleam in the obscurity.
“‘Lo Joe,” said Larry weakly.
“What’s the matter, son—no bed?”
“Hell, no, the damn car I slept in the last couple o’ nights at the auto park was sold yesterday and the rest of ’em have leaky tops.”
Larry grunted disgustedly.
“Well, come on, son, let’s have a cup of Java at John’s down the street.”
Larry shook himself as they entered the deserted cafe. Old Joe climbed upon one of the high stools at the counter.
A sleepy waiter set glasses of water before them.
“What’ll it be?” he asked.
“Cup o’ coffee for me,” muttered Larry.
“Naw, wait a minute,” interposed Old Joe, “make it two orders of ham an’ eggs. Do you want yours over, Larry?”
“Yes, thanks, Joe.”
The waiter slouched his way back to the kitchen. Soon he rattled a skillet.

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