Spartanburg Herald-Journal/May 12, 1940
Mary Garden fingers her pearls constantly, not to see if they’re still there, but to let you know you are getting on her nerves.
Wayne Morris, of Hollywood, has never been abroad, but his luggage is crowded with stickers from the European capitals.
Sarnoff knows his radio business, but he shouldn’t rush headlong into that television setup . . . Because if he does—before he knows it—everybody will know who the mother is in those sister-teams.
George White, the producer, has a mean nightclub swing, but he shouldn’t brag about golfing in the low 80s. His caddies laugh.
Mrs. Vincent Astor is one of America’s outstanding ladies, but she eats her avocado salad with a spoon! Imagine!!!
Deanna Durbin likes chorus girls, but her front name (Edna Mae) was scrambled “because too many” chorines had that tag
Theodore Guild, a New Yorker, is tired of getting letters addressed to The Theater Guild, and the Theater Guild is tired.
Claudette Colbert gets the palm for filling ’em well, but she insists on hosiery made from a castor oil compound.
Tommy Manville, who is front-page mad, is unhappy over the way they’ve been ignoring him. He just hired Marion Murray as his newest Girl Friday, without benefit of mention in the headlines . . . He groaned: “They only write about me when they have nothing else!”
Edward G. Robinson never walks on Park Avenue in his pictures, we know, but that’s no reason for him to douse his stoves in coffee. Unless he has a personal grievance against ash-tray manufacturers.
Orson Welles is another nice boy, as far as plump boys go, but he shouldn’t refer to N. Coward as “the Orson Welles of Yesterday”
Russel Crouse, co-author of “Life With Father,” is one ex-columnist who made good, but he probably will never learn that a pair of deuces, backed up, is not a good risk in a table stake stud game.
The Social Register’s Jessie Woolworth Donahue is no jitterbug, but she has a collection of records in her own voice. One is “Minnie the Moocher,” and she sings it almost the way Cab Calloway does.
Peggy Joyce is one who could do it, but she should either open up that “smart” night spot or quit talking about it. A 5-years threat, lady, is too much wear and tear on the nervous system. Mine, that is.
Lady Thelma Furness and Gloria Vanderbilt, Sr., are the most attractive twins in town, but they are big girls now and have been in “theece here coon-tree” long enough to lose that Frantch ocksent.
Maxine Sullivan sings ’em the way I like to hear ’em, but she shouldn’t wear her hair in bangs just to put over “Confucis Say.”
Hope Hampton’s toy Pom is a cute thing, but Hope shouldn’t feed it chocolate as she did the other day in a restaurant. It gives dogs rickets, it really does. I know, I was a dog once myself.
Lily Pons, the tra-la-la lulu, makes her own shampoo out of six eggs and a tablespoonful of rum—the lucky eggs!
Hope Williams has been away too long, but she’s happy. She can roll a ciggie with the makin’s with one hand—faster than Gene Autry.
Alice Marble, as everybody knows, has the shapelist Zorinas, and it is all right with most of us if Alice doesn’t care a hang about skirts above-the-knees being out of date. A pretty leg is like a melody.
Bonnie Baker, the “Oh, Johnny, Oh” lass, is a delight to the ear, but we’d like to meet the lug who advised her to tell interviewers that her favorite pastime was knitting. Oh, Bonnie, OH!!!
Sam Goldwyn may murder your English, but the laugh’s not on him. When asked by a mag for a list of the 50 best films of all time, he said: “E’em-possible, I don’t think I made that many!”
Charlie Butterworth is most folks’ idea of a nice feller, and all that sortathing. But if he doesn’t start buying his own cigarettes for a change, he will be carrying a good thing too distant.
Joe Louis, the champ, is humbly grateful to his trainer, Jack Blackburn, but that’s a heluva reason for them to go around wearing identical green herringbone suits. They look like a comedy act.
Elas Maxwell loves us (said so in Look Mag so there!) but we wish she wouldn’t wear those little flower-pot hats. Make Elsa look like Lew Lehr doing an imitation of Julian Eltinge over at the Diamond Horsehoe!
Boris Karloff used to scare the daylights outta me and my whole family, but not since we learned that his real name is Pratt!
Theresa Helburn was asked by the World-Telly her opinion of Robert E. Sherwood’s new hit, “There Shall Be No Night,” and she said it was a swell show. She’s merely the show’s producer!
Paul Douglas is one of the melodious radio announcers, and we hate to blemish his honeymoon. But in the current newsreel narration of the Kentucky Derby, the gent he called Gerard Swope is Herbert Bayard Swope. It’s things like this that make some people think there are better announcers—which there are. Thank goodness!
Arline Judge is a cutie-pie (as the saying goes) but she is quickly acquiring the reputation of being the No. 1 front page bore—with her Tommy Manville-Elaine Barrie antics.
William Saroyan, the playwright who was honored with the Critics’ Circle award and the Pulitzer Prize for “the best play of the year,” is respected more than ever by this column for carrying out a threat. A few days before the Pulitzers decorated him, he stated publicly that he wouldn’t accept their prize if he won it . . . But we can’t resist feeling that the Pulitzer Prize Committee made up their minds after reading his insult. They knew he wouldn’t accept it, so they pushed it in his face.
(Source: Google News, https://news.google.com/newspapers?nid=SFOYbPikdlgC&dat=19400512&printsec=frontpage&hl=en)