Some Clippings About Myself

O.O. McIntyre

Palladium-Item (Richmond, IN)/October 30, 1926

In describing a first night audience, James K. McGuinness in the New York Evening Post writes:

“You saw Mr. O. O. McIntyre, who verifies for newspapers the hinterlands’ worst suspicions of this godless town, with a spry ear cocked for new witticisms. He went the whole way on dress, sporting the only tailcoat noticeably in evidence; and on his right wrist was strapped an oblong watch, which may, or may not, set a fashion for the bloods.”

That was not a wristwatch. It was a misplaced liver pad.

Writes Charles B. Parmer in the Morning Telegraph: “O. O. Mclntyre’s home has become the rendezvous of those men and women who are moulding thought for tomorrow. That is as it should be, for he is the only commentator on life and manners who is expressing the true spirit of the American people to the masses of the world today. The rest are mountebanks.”

Thanks, Col. Parmer! I can say that you wrote the finest piece lately about George M. Cohan that has ever been written. But I wish you’d warn the “thought moulders” to quit leaving their lighted cigarettes on the piano. It’s beginning to look scrofulous and only six payments have been made.

S. J. Kaufman in the Evening Telegram writes: “O. O. McIntyre continues to improve. Look for a serious novel from McIntyre one of these days.”

I’ve been working on it at odd times for several years. I went through it the other day. I’ll sell it for two marbles and a skipping rope.

In the Cincinnati Post: “When O. O. McIntyre met Michael Arlen it is said that after 30 minutes he said: ‘I like you. You are the only Armenian I ever met who didn’t try to sell me a rug.’ “

I couldn’t think up anything that witty in three weeks, let alone 30 minutes. But Irvin Cobb did say It and I happened to be there, sitting around as dumb and intelligent looking as an oyster.

Says a Philadelphia columnist:

“Of all the senseless drivel doled out to helpless newspaper readers the palm goes to that turned out by O. O. McIntyre in New York. He makes the metropolis just about as glamorous as a dead cat on a can of ashes and not half as interesting.”

Nize baby, et opp all the compliments!

There is something sad in the deletion of an electrical ad near Grand Central, bloming a Florida real estate venture. The line “Where Ocean Breezes Blow” has been removed.

I have often thought one of the most irritating things about New York was that sustained semi-pity it has for smalled cities. It is not a pose. It is genuine, and thousands here are convinced that those who do not live In New York are really missing the big thing in life. They cannot grasp the big fact that as a general thing people in such cities are far happier and contented and have just as many advantages as the metropolis.

A New York newspaper has run the deadly parallel column showing how some early prose of another writer was the same as the later poetry of Theodore Dreiser. This is not the first time Dreiser has been so accused. He was once accused of lifting a paragraph of George Ade’s description to fit a character in, if memory serves me, “Sister Carrie.”

Mr. Ade was not at all offended, but a stir was made. This apparent plagiarism is not at all infrequent. Many writers have done it. In the trade it is called “unconscious assimilation.” Some haunting lines or phrases remain in a writer’s thought, and innocently he claims it as his own, and no one is perhaps hurt.

Olga Nethersole, who pioneered in portraying the stage courtesan, has returned to America after a long self exile in England. She was in the ascendancy when I sat with the gallery gods, and she was excoriated by the press and pulpit. Her derelictions so far as I can remember consisted in being carried upstairs by her lover in “Sapho.”

That would be rather tame stuff now, with all the Rialto vulgarity and nakedness, but 15 years ago theatres were closed to this estimable lady. Yet today New York sits enthralled and applauding as a play with a lesbian theme is unfolded with no mincing of words.

“The Great American Ass” has created a stir in literary circles. It was written under the name of Roy Bradley, but the author is Instantly recognized by New Yorkers as C. L. Edson, a gifted homespun scrivener of Arkansas, who left Park Row in distrust several years ago. Edson handles a dour subject with amazing skill. Watch this prediction! Edson will become a commanding figure in. American literature. There is a savagery to his stuff that clings.

There is a record of 15 cafe fistfights on Broadway which had inceptions in arguments over the European debt settlement. It’s an excellent subject to avoid, and what most of us think will not count anyway.

t is like our tax problems. We see them one way and the tax officers see them another, but they are always right, which is not as it should be. My own opinion is that more people should go to court with income tax disputes. Many of the impositions are absurd and show a machine-like understanding that would not be tolerated in ordinary business. A nation expecting tolerance should show tolerance, and this income tax officials fail to do.

The other day a man showed me a letter from an income tax official, whose only job is to see that justice is done the taxpayer as well as the government. The letter was as intolerant as I have ever read, and the good man, who was permanently injured in the war, wrote on the top of it: “We are not in Russia” and sent it back.

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