O.O. McIntyre

Palladium-Item/January 7, 1928

NEW YORK, Jan. 7. Diary of a modern Pepys: Up to discuss a lecture plan with James B. Pond and numb at the thought of it. So to breakfast with Howard Acton and his son and back to my lodgings to do the daily chore.

In the afternoon it came on to snow and and the view from my window so entrancing I sat until dusk, doing no work but speculating on the phenomena beyond me, and was stirred out of my reverie with word my bank account was overdrawn.

To dinner with Lee Olwell and to the Winter Garden. Later joined my wife and some others at George Olsen’s club and a quartette sang a modern version of the chorus from “Rigoletto,” the most absurd bit of nonsense I ever heard. Late to bed.

***

Those performers known in the stage world as “hoofers” are enigmas even to their own guild. They generally come in pairs from nobody knows where. They are able to “stop” shows In innumerable instances with intricate dance steps and are essential ingredients of every revue. The hoofers off stage have none of the strutting manners of the usual performer. And seem apart from the world of Broadway. Often they create a big sensation for one season and are never seen again. They are usually in their twenties and due to exacting hysterical demands of “laying the leather” are mostly temperate and clean living.

***

A revival of fans is observed in smart places. And are being displayed in fashionable shops. A style expert declares fans come into popularity every ten years. O. K. with me and I can bear it if you can.

***

Last night in a supper club there was a human cameo out of the past. He was bald, old, parchment faced with a neck shriveled like a turkey gobbler. His eyeglass ribbon had a dollar-sized amethyst slide resting in the center of his shirt bosom and on the table before him was a snuff box from which he took frequent pinches while looking on. I expected him any moment to pop up and snap into a clog dance as a surprise comic of the entertainment. But the waiter said he came in now and then alone—sipped a drink which he poured from a canteen-like flask and toddled out to his waiting automobile.

***

Every now and then in New York will be seen a withered and fluttery old dodo capering about like a colt in Broadway pleasure marts. They are called “glandpas.” People laugh; but they offer an effable sadness. Some day I suppose all of us will want a last fling. Heigh ho and lack a day.

***

It is comforting to hear the famous name Delmonico is to flourish again—this time on Park avenue. “Dear Old Del’s” was for years a cafe that drew expert gourmets. It had a distinction and glamour that few American restaurants achieved. And a rather pitiable side of it is that the owners of the new Delmonico’s are said to have acquired the name by paying debts of the old company. It floundered several years before sinking.

I shall never forget my first meal at Delmonico’s. I thought it would be fancy to order a crème de menthe at the finish of the meal. Of all the sillies. The waiter desired to know if I wished it frappéd. I nodded pleasantly and added brightly that I would like it iced. I didn’t blush, but Allan Dwan, who was my host, did. Come to think of it, he never asked me to dinner again.