Tag: Sidney Skolsky

Times Square Tintypes: Jim Tully

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In this chapter from his 1932 book, Times Square Tintypes, Broadway columnist Sidney Skolsky profiles Jim Tully, hobo, pugilist, journalist, and author.
 

THE VAGABOND KING

The American Gorki. He found that hoboing was the road to success. JIM TULLY
The first thing one notices about him is his flaming red hair. He is five feet three and weighs 163 pounds. His skin is sun drunk. His hands are small and pudgy. He has the thighs of a burlesque queen. Standing, his body like a question mark, he appears ready to leap.
He works and talks at a breakneck pace.
He bites his finger nails.
His mother died when he was four. His father was a ditch digger. His uncle a horse thief. He was in an orphanage until eleven years old. Here, for his ability to memorize the preacher’s sermon and say catechism he won a rosary. But a more pious kid stole it.
Wears only five-dollar neckties and has his suits made to order by an anarchist tailor in Hollywood.
Is very proud that Mencken and Nathan are his pals and drink beer with him. Is prouder of this than their esteem for his books.
Started his literary career by writing fake stories for a “True Confession” magazine. One of his prize yarns was The Memoirs of a Japanese Geisha Girl.
His philosophy of life is: “What the hell—the grave ends everything.”
As a youth he looked forward to becoming the world’s greatest bank robber. Gave up the idea when told by a railroad detective he would be caught easily. Because no other person on earth could possibly look like him.
His first book, Beggars of Life, he submitted to four publishers simultaneously. The four accepted.
Likes to write in the first person. Believes a direct lie is always more convincing.
Was once a prize fighter. His pugilistic career ended in a California ring when he was knocked out in the first round and remained unconscious for twenty-four hours.
Combs his hair once a day whether it needs it or not.
The only thing he fears is a smart-aleck interviewer.
He has slept on a park bench, in H. L. Mencken’s bed, under a freight train, at the Algonquin, and on cold, barren ground, his closed eyes staring at the stars. No matter where he sleeps, he snores.
His name when a hobo was Cincy Red.
Always finds out where people were born, their ages, likes and dislikes, and secret sorrows by the second meeting.
He would like to conduct a society column for a newspaper.
Never wore a dress suit in his life. Thinks he would look like a chorus boy if he did.
His father, 78 years old, is still alive. He sends his dad press clippings, good and bad, periodically. His father is a bit disappointed because Jim didn’t become a champion prize fighter.
James Branch Cabell is his favorite American author.
He is very moody. Has intense fits of melancholy and terrible laughter.
Doesn’t think he should be judged by what he says about former friends in interviews but by the way he writes.
When interviewing he never takes notes. A week later he writes the interview from impressions.
He easily recognizes his own ability and is annoyed by those who don’t.
He wears high-laced tan shoes. They are made to order for him and imported from London.
From force of habit he greets an old friend with: “Did you eat yet?”
He lives and works in Hollywood. Writes in a big, oblong room on the second floor of his house. The room is lined with books from floor to ceiling. Has a flat, square desk with a swivel chair. A beer barrel is within swinging distance. He calls his house “One More Illusion.”
In writing a book he does not strive for literary style. Claims he writes naturally. Just as if he were writing a letter to a harlot.
He doesn’t smoke.
Jarnegan is his favorite character in all history. Claims that whenever he feels lonely and depressed he sits down and talks things over with him.
Makes women think his novels belie him because of his soft speech with them. When with men, however, he is just like his novels—turbulent and violent and cussing.
The two greatest guys in the world as far as he is concerned, are George Jean Nathan and Oklahoma Red.
He has a yen for beautiful and beautifully dressed women.
He dreads the thought that some day he won’t be alive.

Times Square Tintypes: Earl Carroll

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In this chapter from his 1932 book, Times Square Tintypes, Broadway columnist Sidney Skolsky profiles Earl Carroll, theatrical producer, director, songwriter and composer.
 

THE LIFE OF THE PARTY

 
Earl CARROLL. He has a throne, a palace and a title. His throne is an antique Chinese chair. His palace is the theater bearing his name. His title is “The Earl of Seventh Avenue.”

He is extremely polite to everyone. Expects people to be that way to him. Nobody can really get close to him.
He suffers from insomnia.
Was born in Pittsburgh, September 16, 1892. Has two brothers, Norman and James, and one sister, Alice. The brothers don’t look like him or each other. The sister could pass for his twin. When a small boy he was dressed in a white sailor suit.
If he sees a pretty girl on the street he will stop her and ask her if she wants to go on the stage.
At the age of sixteen he stood in the center of Nanking Road, China, with only forty-five cents in his pocket.
His office is backstage of his theater. A rug, the color of pigeon blood, covers the floor. His desk is enclosed in a wall. The pressing of a button shoots it forward. He uses a sword for a paperweight. Has a statue of Buddha here. And a refrigerator with Chinese letters written on it. The letters spell—happiness. In the rear of the office there is a secret panel through which he can make a hasty exit.
He can’t wear a shirt with a collar attached. And all of his vests must be double-breasted.
Once wrote a song with Enrico Caruso. It was “Dreams of Long Ago.” Immediately after joining the army he wrote a song called: “When I’m Through with the Arms of the Army I’ll Come Back to the Arms of You.”
Always throws a party for himself on his birthday.
His favorite type of beauty for the stage is a tall blonde. His own personal taste, however, runs to slender brunettes.
During the war he was a lieutenant in the United States Air Service. He was the first man to land an airplane in Central Park.
While rehearsing a new show he wears a sand-colored smock. His shirt is minus collar and tie. He stands in the orchestra. Has a telephone operator’s apparatus on his head. Through this he gives instructions backstage, under the stage and in the electrician’s booth plastered on the back wall of the balcony. To his left is a small table. His secretary, Miss Ruth, sits here and takes memos. During all this he is continually drinking Poland mineral water and chewing gum.
Likes to use perfume. His two favorites are Caron’s Acaciosa and Gabilla’s Jasmin. He sprays his throat with perfume daily.
On April 10, he and his two brothers and sister always journey to Pittsburgh to visit their mother’s grave. On Mother’s Day he sends flowers.
Was the first man in New York to own a “Starlight Bungalow,” now known as a penthouse. His was located on the roof of 729 Seventh Avenue. He called it “Top o’ the World.” He likes to live high and now resides on the top floor of a tall apartment hotel.

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Times Square Tintypes: William A. Brady

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In this chapter from his 1932 book, Times Square Tintypes, Broadway columnist Sidney Skolsky profiles William A. Brady, prominent actor, theatrical producer, and sports promoter and father to Hollywood actress Alice Brady.
 

“THE GAMBLER FROM THE WEST”

 
William A. Brady. Everybody calls him “Pop.”
He owns five watches but never carries one. Always guesses the time, and is fairly accurate.
Was born in San Francisco, June 19, 1863. Until he was five years old he had a Chinese lady for a nursemaid.
Lost a million dollars many times. He owned Within the Law and sold his rights to Arch Selwyn for $10,000. The play netted over a million. Jeanne Eagels brought him the script of Rain to produce. He said: “I no like.” Had Broadway in rehearsal and shelved it on the advice of George M. Cohan. That was another million. He was to be one of the promoters of the Carpentier-Dempsey fight. Had words with Jack Kearns and withdrew. The gate for that battle was a million and a half.
Last year while in a hospital nursing a broken leg, his doctors allowed him to read plays instead of taking sleeping tablets. He the much rejected Street Scene. He is now on his way to another million.
That A in his name is for Augustus.
Always has been interested in sports. He managed James J. Corbett, Jim Jeffries and Youssouf, “the terrible Turk.”
He wears a large brown felt hat. Always has a cigar in his mouth. Even when sleeping. Once was discovered in bed in a mass of flames which a friend put out with a fire extinguisher.
His idea of a good time is to buy champagne for the house. His favorite drink is a tall glass of rye. During the Corbett-Sullivan fight he consumed two quarts of whiskey.
Never carries a cane. Except when looking for a fight.
Alice Brady is his daughter by his first wife, Rose Marie Rene. William Brady, Jr., is his son by his present wife, Grace George.
Hasn’t an automobile, although he did own one for twenty years. His doctor ordered him to give it up because he never took a walk. He seldom crosses the street alone. Always waits for the red light.
He once cut cards with Arnold Rothstein. One cut for $45,000 and won.
Is sad because he isn’t allowed to attend prize fights. He takes and gives every blow himself. The last fight he saw was the Dempsey-Sharkey encounter. After it was over he was so exhausted that he had to be carried three blocks to a taxi.
Loves music. His favorites are “Faust,” “Killarney,” “Massa’s In The Cold, Cold Ground” and “Believe Me If All Those Endearing Young Charms.”
He likes to act and resents being called a ham. His most recent performance was in A Free Soul. Jumped into the leading role on only an hour’s notice. Placed the script on a table in the scene. Whenever he forgot a line he walked to the table.
When a young man he was a natty dresser. Today clothes don’t interest him. Used to wear many diamonds. Recently gave them all to Grace George for a necklace.
Reads all newspapers, trashy magazines and the highbrow ones. His favorite reading matter is the Congressional Record. Reads every line of it during sessions of Congress. Senator Heflin is his favorite comic.
Cleveland, Harrison, McKinley, Roosevelt, Taft, Wilson, Harding, Coolidge and Hoover are the Presidents he knew and knows personally.
His choice of food depends upon what he is drinking. Has a cast-iron stomach. Is especially fond of Mexican tamales.
He claims the toughest job he ever had was managing Louis Mann for five years.
With Sir August Hannis he sneaked into Windsor Castle and disguised as a chorus man appeared before the King and Queen of England in a command performance of The Bohemian Girl.
Once desired to be the youngest man to climb Pike’s Peak. Halfway up he changed his mind and took the train back.
Can recite offhand any speech that Shakespeare ever wrote. Loves to see Shakespearean plays, but not to produce them.
Was arrested and put in prison once. That, when he broke up a street meeting of Dowie, the Evangelist, who was lecturing in front of the old Madison Square Garden.
He started wearing glasses at forty. He was told to do so when he was twenty.
Lives in a penthouse atop a fifteen-story building owns in Fifty-Fifth street. Spends his evenings there listening to the radio and looking out over Broadway. Wants the last thing he looks at before he dies to be a flash of the White Lights.
His credo is, “The Lord is always good to honest gamblers.”

Times Square Tintypes: George White

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In this chapter from his 1932 book, Times Square Tintypes, Broadway columnist Sidney Skolsky profiles George White, a theatrical producer who is perhaps not as well remembered today as the man who served as his primary competition in the 1920s and ’30s, Florenz Ziegfeld.
 

SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL

 
A HOODLUM was picked up on the streets of Toronto for raiding fruit stands. A stern judge saw that the law took care of him and said: “You’re a bad egg. No good will come rom you.” The bad egg was GEORGE WHITE.
He has 140 neckties. They are all black.
Weighs 140 pounds. Has never been known to eat fast or walk slowly.
His father was a Jewish garment manufacturer on Delancey Street. There were ten other children in the family. He stole fruit, blacked boots, danced, sold flowers and papers. As a kid he had no great ambition.
Delights in playing practical jokes on his stars. Almost to the point of ruining their performance in his own show.
He has a patent-leather hair comb. Pays great attention to his hair. Always carries a bottle of petroleum oil which he alternates between rubbing on his hair and drinking.
His début as a dancer was made in “Piggy” Donovan’s saloon on the Bowery. He was then “Swifty,” the messenger boy. Was delivering telegrams when he asked the piano player to let him hoof. He collected 12.30 which was tossed at him. He threw away the remainder of the telegrams. Two were marked: “DEATH—RUSH.”
Is thirty-eight years old. The first thing he notices about a woman is her legs. Then her form. After that her face. Is on the credit side of the matrimonial ledger and never expects to get married.
He has a Jap butler, Shei, who gets tight on his best Scotch. He won’t fire him. He likes his cooking.
Once was kicked out of a saloon by a singing waiter named Irving Berlin.
Was a stable boy and a jockey. He followed the horses around the country. Later, his love for the races cost him $850,000 in eighteen months. Once dropped $100,000 on one race. Then he swore off. Hasn’t been at a race track for the past five years.
He was the vaudeville performer to do a dance on skis.
Generally gets to bed at about four in the morning and is up at twelve. Spends a part of each day playing with the mechanical toys he brings back from his yearly trips to Paris.
His hobby is selling tickets in the box office. Some day he hopes to be able to tell Ziegfeld there is “Standing Room Only.”
Does things on the spur of the moment. Five minutes before he sailed for Paris a year ago he purchased a Park Avenue apartment house. Merely because he liked one apartment in the building. He lives in an apartment on Seventh Avenue because he doesn’t want to pay the Park Avenue rent he charges.
His middle name is Alviel which he uses only on checks.
Among his major hates are first nights, paper napkins, barbers with a selling complex and crowds—except at his own shows.
He owns a Rolls-Royce which can be seen standing outside of his own theater. He generally walks home between the car tracks in Times Square. He won the auto on a bet. On first hearing “The Birth of the Blues,” he bet a music publisher a Rolls-Royce it would be a song hit. It was.
Produced and operated six annual editions of his Scandals, each doing an approximate gross business of $1,250,000 without an office. In those days his office was in his pocket.
In selecting chorus girls he generally allows Lew Brown to help him do the picking.
He hasn’t read a book for as long as he can remember. He never attends a performance of a dramatic play. He sees all the musicals.
Cried only once in his life. That was when he read Burns Mantle’s criticism of his first show which said: “The Scandals of 1919 prove that a hoofer should stick to his dancing.”
His sole exercise is a walk around the Reservoir in Central Park. On these occasions he takes along a male companion or a thin walking stick.
Always wears blue serge suits, black shoes, white silk shirts and black ties. One day he wore a gray suit and the stage doorman, failing to recognize him, wouldn’t let him in.
His favorite meal is one consisting of caviar and champagne. He can eat a pound of caviar at a sitting. Is a very slow eater. It takes him an hour to consume a sandwich.
Not so long ago a women, Rose Janousek, sent him a package containing a revolver and a few rounds of ammunition merely because she admired him.
On Sunday nights he generally takes his best girl to the Roxy. While looking at the picture they hold hands.
When his ego rises, he modestly enough calls Broadway—The Great White Way—believing it was named after him.

Times Square Tintypes: Tex Guinan

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In this chapter from his 1932 book, Times Square Tintypes, Broadway columnist Sidney Skolsky profiles Mary Louise Cecilia “Texas” Guinan, a woman who was one of the most legendary figures in Prohibition-era New York.
Known for her signature phrase “Hello, suckers!”, Guinan was a former showgirl, vaudeville performer and movie actress—she was the first female Western star in motion pictures—who went on to own a string of speakeasies. Perhaps no woman was better known on the Great White Way in the late 1920s and early ’30s than Guinan.
 
 

“GIVE THIS LITTLE GIRL A GREAT BIG HANDCUFF”

Give this little girl a big hand. TEXAS GUINAN.
Never eats meats, but must have at least a dozen oranges a day.
She was raised in a convent. Loretta Convent, Waco, Tex. Was the same old kid even in those days. She would climb to the top of the church steeple and take the dinger out of the bell. Her real name is Mary Louise Guinan.
Once was in motion pictures. Made Westerns and was konwn as the “Female William S. Hart.”
Her home is New York is on Eighth Street. Just on the northern edge of Greenwich Village. Claims she wouldn’t live anywhere in this town of ours.
She possesses the quickest feminine wit on Broadway.
Lives alone. Her mother lives several doors away. Spends most of her time at her daughter’s place.
Her house looks like an antique shop. Pictures. Bric-a-brac. Mirrors. Odd furniture. Cushions. Gilded draperies. They all clutter the place. Chinese incense burns continuously.
There are nineteen floor lamps in the living room.
Recently she abandoned the expression, “Hello, sucker!” Customers began to take it seriously.
When she finishes at the club she goes horseback riding in Central Park or visiting. It is nothing for her to drop in on friends at seven in the morning and sit on their beds talking until noon.
She likes noise, rhinestone heels, customers, plenty of attention and red velvet bathing suits.
The hardest thing in the world she finds is sleeping. Always takes an aspirin tablet to quiet her nerves before retiring.
When not certain of a man’s name she calls him Fred.
Has a parrot who can say only two things. One is “telephone.” The other is “go to hell.”
At home she never drinks coffee. At the club black coffee is her favorite drink.
She never touches liquor.
Is very proud of her press clippings and keeps a scrapbook. So religiously does she keep this book that reference to the “Texas Chain Gang,” an article by Ernest Booth which appeared in the American Mercury, is clipped as personal publicity.
She takes three puffs of a cigarette and it is gone.
She once lost thirty-five pounds in two weeks by taking pepper and mustard baths.
In an interview she once stated that she wants her funeral to be the speediest ever given. A cop on a motorcycle is to lead it.
Since, she has more plans. Jazz syncopators are to render torrid tunes. College songs are to be sung boisterously as the coffin is lowered into the grave. The wake is to be held at her night club.
In her bedroom there is only one window. It is covered by four curtains to keep the sunlight out.
She is very fond of jewelry. The bigger it is the better she likes it. She wears jewelry on her bosom, fingers, wrists, arms, ears and occasionally the heels of ehr slippers.
She frequently wears red stockings.
Was shot once. By herself. It was a stage accident while she was on the road in The Gay Musician. She was rushed to a hospital in a locomotive engine. Today all that remains of that incident is a slight blemish, the only mark on her body.
She is only comfortable when sitting on two chairs.
She has six uncles. They are all Catholic priests.
Recently it was state that she sleeps on her left side and likes carrots. To which Mme. Guinan retorted:
“I wonder how that guy knew I liked carrots.”
She sleeps on her right side in a long silk gay colored nightgown and like strawberries.
She makes funny noises with her teeth when she laughs.
Her luck charm is a padlock.