i e eh PONS SS SES eae Pit Garden City, New York GARDEN CITY PUBLISHING GO.,, ING. 1945 GARDEN CITY PUBLISHING CO., INC. COPYRIGHT, 1944 BY LOUELLA 0. PARSONS ALL RIGHTS RESERVED PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES TO HARRY AND HARRIET CHAPTER I AFTER HALE A CENTURY on this earth (which is all I intend to admit to, being a firm believer in the school of thought that a woman who tells her age will tell anything) I am continually amazed by Louella O. Parsons. Both of them. Now that I have arrived at the age where it is imperative to talk about myself, I find there is not a single ME—but two of us. There is the Louella O. Parsons of popular—or should I say unpopular—fable. And then there is me—the woman I live and work with and who is sometimes hurt, and sometimes fighting mad about the idea of the Lady Ogre Columnist who _ €ats little actors alive. I have been described—and perhaps too accurately for com- fort—as a gay illiterate. ‘There have been articles written about how I split infinitives with rare abandon and treat history with a gay disregard for dates and places. Some of these boners I admit to. Others are typographical errors. That’s my story, and I am going to stick to it. The story has always been the most important thing to me —and to Shakespeare! Let the King’s English get in the way of the news, and the participles can dangle where they may— ~ in the ruins along with the split infinitives. For the thirty years I have been writing a newspaper column on motion pictures I have been too busy to build any false 2 | The Gay Illiterate illusions about my literary talents. If I have any particular style it is a form of “chatting” with my readers about the best known glamour personalities in the world. Such “chatting” has to be informal—as all the best gossip is, whether in a column or over the back fence. Once the reader accepts you as yust another one of “us girls,” how far your career may take you depends a lot on luck. There has been plenty of it con- nected with my “fabulous” career, and, if I say so “as shouldn’t,” there has also been an enormous amount of hard work, I have written my column and news stories breaking from Hollywood on trains, in airplanes, on make-up kits in dressing rooms, on personal appearance tours, at the Santa Anita race track, and in the ladies’ room at Ciro’s. My day has no real beginning or ending. Barbara Stanwyck and Bob Taylor eloped right between the fish and entree courses when I was a guest at Constance Bennett’s house. Anne Shirley and John Payne separated while I was in the middle of a gin rummy hand at Gracie Allen’s home. I have traveled three hundred and fifty miles to catch a preview of a big picture. Once I dictated my review from the men’s room at.a near-by gas station—it housed the only avail- able telephone. Fortunately, I emerged before rumor could develop this into a scandal. The picture had received an even shorter review than it merited. Myrna Loy and Arthur Hornblow separated for the first time while I was in the middle of my stage act in New York. I was forced to dictate my news story then and there, which entertained the paying customers no end. I never teally know what I am going to do next, because I never know what my little chums in Wonderland are up to. When times and tides are normal, I have a pattern for doing my column, surprising as that may sound. My day starts at The Gay Illiterate 3 eight in the morning, but, since Hollywood is slower getting organized, I should say that my daily column is collected, sorted, and written in the three brief hours between ten in the morning and one-thirty in the afternoon, when my secre- tary files it on the teletype for newspapers throughout the world. Three hours is not a great deal of time in which to turn out literary masterpieces. It grants quite a bit of rope for hanging _oneself. Rewriting and polishing the column is practically impossible. And so, rather than disappoint word watchers at this late date, I promise to gaily split my infinitives and mix my metaphors as always. My official office is in my Beverly Hills home. It is a pleasant place to work—in fact, it is my favorite room. The color scheme is maroon and blue. I have photographs on.a table near my desk of my daughter, Harriet; her husband, King Kennedy; my husband, Dr. Harry Martin, who is now a Major in the United States Reserve Medical Corps; my boss, William Randolph Hearst; and an autographed sketch of George Bernard Shaw, which, as has been so painfully proven, is of no particular literary inspiration. Visitors stepping into this room have often claimed an in- ability to see my pajama-clad form. This is by no means a deft compliment. I know my measurements far too clearly for such nonsense. What my guests mean is that my letters, papers, and desk debris constitute a more formidable mountain in front of a less formidable me. This, of course, is absurd. I am always able to catch a glimpse of my visitors. Meanwhile, to make things more disconcerting, my two dogs, Molly and Patty Parsons, usually are somewhere under- foot, and in my hair I frequently find the Kitchen Menace, who wants to know what we are having for dinner, even as I talk over three telephones at once. 4 The Gay Illiterate There are some magnificent rumors floating around that I _ have from fifteen to fifty “helpers” on my staff. Counting heads (and, even more important, salary checks), I have a secretary, June Marks, an assistant reviewer, Dorothy Manners, who claims I always take the best pictures, a “leg” man, Neil Rau, who gathers news, a girl reporter, Sara Hamilton, who covers the cafés, and a gal’s best friend in triplicate—three telephones “on my desk. I talk over the phone for hours. It is a talent with me. When I am really busy I can keep these conversations fairly short— and must, because the phones ring constantly. I love to work under high pressure, this fact probably helping to keep my nerves from short-circuiting. ‘The people who phone me during working hours range from my personal friends to avowed enemies, from conniving rats to purring cats. The good and the bad all come into my office, for better or for worse. What to do with this vast assortment of tips and news items is my next headache. Half the time I am on a very definite spot, keeping a confidence about a potential divorce, marriage, blessed event, or contract (“Please don’t print it yet, Louella”), then hearing it from another source almost immediately and knowing I may lose my scoop by keeping my word. Being both a friend and a reporter is no joke. I must be able to balance both elements in making my judgment. Apparently I do pretty well, because many stars and producers call me every day with “secrets” that can’t be printed at the time. When news is dull in Hollywood I find myself thinking about my bills, that I should go to the dentist, and how much I need a new hat with a red feather. Since all these subjects bore me, you can guess the state I am in on a bad day. I am an abominable typist—but that does not keep me from pecking out at least half of what I write, preferring it to dictating. My daughter says that I am the only living white The Gay Illiterate 5 woman who can make bows and arrows on a standard key- board. In fact, I am afraid I’ll'lose my secretary to the Army Intelligence. Code-breaking should come easily after serving an apprenticeship under me. My assistants, indeed, from sheer necessity develop both a sixth sense and a fair knowledge of Braille. The material for my column comes from visits on my part to the studios, news telephoned in, tips from friends, and from my pals, the press agents. I don’t always like their press agent material. But I like every one of them. They are the hardest working boys in any business. Harry Brand, of 20th Century- Fox, is one of our closest friends; so is Howard Strickling of M.G.M. I have always found that I can count on them and on George Brown of Paramount, John Joseph of Universal Studios, Alec Everlove of Warner Brothers, and while they may try to sell me on a story that I won't use, I know they'll never try the old Barnum and Bailey tactics of trying to get me to print stuff that insults my intelligence. But the story that thrills my heart and gives me the greatest kick of all is a “scoop.” I love them. I’m proud of my record, and I’m not going to pretend that I wouldn't fight for an im- portant Hollywood story with every ounce of energy at my command. 2 When contemporaries want to be particularly churlish they invariably refer to me as “plump, pompous, gossip-writing Lolly Parsons.” Being a woman, I accept the plump and pompous as insults. But what is wrong with gossip? History is filled with facts and figures. But how do you sup- pose we would know about Anthony and Cleopatra or Louis and Du Barry if historians hadn’t gossiped about them to their hearts’ content? 6 The Gay. Illiterate As long as personalities make news it is natural to be in- terested in what makes them tick as human beings. I wasn’t around when the good housewives of the Nile were chatting over the back dykes about Cleo and Anthony—or when the ladies of the French Court were embroidering the legend of| Du Barry. But I have lived in an era that has produced a whole in- dustry of heroes and heroines to talk about and admire, to laugh about and cry over, to thrill to or weep for their weak- nesses—the long parade of Movie Stars. To my way of thinking, idols of the screen are nothing more nor, less than fiction characters come to life. Golden Mary Pickford is as real to millions of people in her way as Cinderella. ‘The magnificent extravagances of Gloria Swanson were the 2oth Century version of the luxuries of a Grau- starkian Queen. Little Mabel Normand’s tragic life was a paper-back novel. Greta Garbo, in popular conception, is as remote as a lady Viking. I’ve seen them come and go—from Valentino to Clark Gable—and I have spent thirty years as a chronicler of their lives because people wanted to read about them! I might have written reams of copy to my heart’s content, but if there hadn’t been an eager and interested market there would never have been such a thing as a Louella O. Parsons syndicated column. Gossip, like death and taxes, is with us to stay! Looking back over my private evolution as a gossip writer, I believe that two factors have stood me in good stead—my health and my name. Louella, for instance, may mistakenly sound like a sentimental merger of two maiden aunts. The “O” is for Oettinger, my maiden name. The “Parsons” I ac- quired through marriage. Put them together and they may not be as exotic as Gypsy Rose Lee or as impelling as John D. Rockefeller, but—without putting too much stock in nu- The Gay Illiterate 7 merology folderol—I do believe my name has been lucky for me. Until a certain August 6th, in Freeport, Illinois, the day and place of my advent, my parents had been in a genteel war about my name. My father favored Sarah Louise, after his mother. Jeanette was the choice of my mother for the same reason. Hostilities were finally concluded when Mother, normally a very kindly person at heart, announced: “I am going to name the child after the first person who comes through that door.” A friendly Fate saved me from a name worse than Louella. I was exposed to Angie, Clorinda Jane, Lucretia, and Lena, all of whom were friends or relatives. But Louella Bixler visited Mother first, and—whether I liked it or not—there I was. I suppose all children are imaginative and stretch the truth. I went considerably further. I was an incorrigible liar to the point where my family and teachers were worried and a present-day child psychiatrist would have been a nervous wreck. Without the slightest pang of conscience I told strangers that my family was cruel to me. I insisted that I wasn’t their child, having been left on their doorstep while still too young to do anything but kick about it. ‘To me this seemed far more dramatic than the cold truth, which was that we were a devoted clan, my mother, stepfather, my brother, Edwin, and I. But as many ascript writer has discovered in whipping up box-office hits for the Messrs. Cagney, Robinson, Raft, et al— where is the “punch” in sweetness and light? I was ten years old when I wrote my first story, what I modestly considered a beautiful and moving theme titled “The Flower Girl of New York.” It seemed wholly irrelevant that I had never been to New York. I had my own ideas about 8 The Gay Illiterate the Wicked City, and they were, to coin a phrase, really something. Once my masterpiece was completed, I wanted it published. So I took it to Dwight Breed, the editor of the Freeport Journal-Standard. “All right, Louella,” he said, “we'll publish your story someday. Maybe after you are dead and gone it will live on after you.” Even to satisfy my budding literary ambition I didn’t feel like dying to get in print—but an accident and an unforeseen piece of luck played into my hands. IT almost broke my neck! Breaking your neck for a story, as far as I can learn, is news- paper legend rather than fact. But luck was with me, even at this tender age. With a pair of garden scissors in each hand I happily backed up to a hole im the hayloft and went plunging through—to authorship. After the doctor had shut me up and started me on the road to recovery—I had broken a tooth, jagged a sizable cut in my chin, and fractured an elbow—I remembered what Mr. Breed had said about posterity and asked immediately if he could visit me. Even now it seems I can hear the stairs creaking as I awaited ‘ the approach of the cagey, small-town editor toward my death chamber. He was a mighty good actor, himself. He paused in the doorway to let me get under way—and believe me, he was not disappointed. I staged a deathbed scene that would do credit to Bette Davis, and to this day, sitting in a darkened projection room, I can favorably compare this poignant performance to those of some of our best actors. - “Louella,” said my co-star, in deepest sympathy, “you had a terrible misfortune. Just in case you don’t pull through, I want you to know your first story is published. We are printing ‘The Flower Girl of New York’ in the Journal-Standard tomorrow.” The Gay Illiterate 9 Later, I was to know the thrill of a newspaper scoop that was called, at the time, the biggest story ever to come out of Hollywood—the divorce of Mary Pickford and Douglas Fair- banks. But never have I experienced a deeper, more abiding _ glow of satisfaction than in my first by-line on “The Flower ‘ Girl of New York.” Three other short stories of mine saw the light of day in the _ Daily Democrat, a rival newspaper run by Charles Donahue. Glory and a by-line were the sole remuneration. I became commercial later. I spent hours writing plays and acting them out with paper _ dolls that had been given Cousin Sarah Louise and me. Gentle “Sussie” was my best and most admiring audience. It is common for most biographers to look back on the days of childhood as the happiest of their lives. I can’t truthfully say the same of myself. The sense of drama was too strong in me to permit me to enjoy the cramped opportunities of a juvenile. I wanted to grow up as quickly as possible and to be hailed —if not as the best writer in America—at least as the youngest and the most beautiful. ‘Toward this end I indulged in plagiar- ism at an early age and bodily lifted Frances Hodgson Bur- nett’s book, Editha’s Burglar, from between its covers onto my scratch-pad. I also reconstructed the plot of Cousin Kate from a show I saw in Chicago without bothering to mention the original author's collaboration. | Cold reason forces me to admit that I was not my favorite little girl—either in or out of fiction. 3 The first person I ever cared deeply and sincerely about was —myself. I say that from the vantage point of experience, for IO - The Gay Illiterate it takes time for other lives to root deeply into our own and for other people either to hurt us or to make us happy. Youth is single-tracked, involved in its own problems and heartaches. I was conscious of my family—but not particularly — as individuals. I was surrounded by warmth and tenderness and good care. We were not rich. But neither were we poor. We Oettingers were like millions of Americans who sat on the front porch in the summertime with a pitcher of lemonade —and who, in the winter, held family court around the dining room table. My mother, with her wide blue eyes and her dainty anima- tion, is a far more colorfully etched person to me today than _ she was in the intimacy of our family life. I see her now as an indomitable personality, hiding a deep-rooted frustration for the theater and an innate love of drama under the cloak of a firm disciplinarian who thought all my beaux should go home by nine-thirty because “good people retire at that time.” I am sure she did: not get this idea from her own mother, my adored grandmother, Jeanette Wilcox. In appearance my maternal grandmother resembled beloved May Robson, now gone. They had many characteristics in common—among them a firm belief that going to bed was a waste of time and energy. Grandma was an inveterate reader and consumer of gum drops. And despite a meager country school education she discussed any and all subjects fluently at the drop of a bonnet —or without it. Of my own father, Joshua Oettinger, I have few memories. He was a delicate man, very ambitious, and he became a suc- cessful merchant. He died at the age of thirty-one, leaving my mother with two small children and ample money to take care of us. Like most women of her generation, she took much better care of us than of the money, which was soon dissipated. Also, like most American families, we boasted a family