The following article is the first of a series that will depict the more intimate life of the movie actors and actresses who make their headquarters in the vicinity of Los Angeles. This series is in no sense to be considered “press agent dope.” The Whiz Bang, in this series, proposes to tell its readers of the little romances of their favorite screen star—of lives strewn with mobilized immoderation, fickle faithlessness and dark desolation. As an actress once told me: “Our step is pep; our creed is speed.”—The Editor.

HOLLYWOOD, beautiful little suburb of Los Angeles and famous as America’s leading movie hot-house, is running pretty nowadays with its many wondrous autos and, Oh! those numerous and naughty little, palpitating bungalow intrigues.

The Mary Pickford-Doug Fairbanks romance, is almost old stuff with Mary and Doug on a bit of a honeymoon in New York and London, while forty eleven representatives of the daily papers accompanied them as far as Arizona to watch the Moki Indians get their first glimpse of the screen.

One of the merriest rumors just now extant regards another member of the Pickford family, to-wit, Lottie. Lottie is a live wire in the parlance of the country clubs and cafes. In southern California, until the “prohis” bore down, the word “country club” meant one of the nightly places of revelry, stretched all the way from Vernon to the beach. These places are somewhat on the blink now, but it has been known that a stray “shot in the arm” has been seen to take effect. In fact a wagon load recently was taken to the police station from Vernon.

But getting back to Lottie. For a considerable number of moons the night black eyes of Mary’s sister beamed favorably upon a certain handsome Apollo of the screens. It wasn’t a case of, wherever Mary went the boy was sure to go. It was a case of, wherever Lottie went she took the boy along. At ball games, country clubs, bungalow dances, midnight revelries, Lottie and her lad were together. Then came dame rumor, and she is a busy dame in these parts. Lottie’s man was playing with another. So far as the public was concerned that was about all there was to it.

But know ye, that Fatty Arbuckle, Roscoe he wishes to be called of late, rented the handsome home on West Adams street, formerly occupied by Theda Bara. In fact it is said that Fatty sleeps in the vampire’s bed, which may or may not, weave his dreams with vampires and their dangerous moods.

Fatty recently gave a party. He gives a lot of them. There were picture girls galore and the wine flowed red and every other way, for Roscoe is no derelict of a host.

It didn’t take twenty-four hours for Dame Rumor and her children to scatter the news that “there was some ruction among the ‘Janes’ out to Arbuckle’s joint last night.”

Just how it started was lost in the hurry of getting down to the absolute certainty that Lottie Pickford and another girl staged one of the prettiest scraps seen since Charlie Chaplin tried to lick his wife’s manager at the Alexandria hotel recently. In fact the efforts of Charlie as a pugilist are said to have been nil compared with the flavor that Lottie and her rival put up. It wasn’t exactly Lottie’s rival either, so the story goes.

Seems that Lottie and another girl were talking in one of the bedrooms regarding the “cat” who had vamped the temporary affections of Lottie’s former beau. A third girl was lying, supposedly asleep. She arose suddenly and challenged, in behalf of her vamping friend what Lottie had said. Then the riot started. One of our well-known artists stated next day that it was the best he had seen since Young George and Steve Dalton first met at Jack Doyle’s. Anyone taking a good look at Lottie would opine that the girl, when angry, might be worth a bet in the real money book.

Not much has been heard of Jack Pickford since he became mixed up in the war time mess. It was no Hollywood secret that Jack was not an over welcome visitor at the home of Mary and her mother for some time. Things may have been calmed over since Mary settled down with Doug, or rather tried to settle down with him.

Olive Thomas, Jack’s wife, recently returned from New York and Jack met her with a Whiz Bang of a new car. Jack claims it cost him bucks to the number of ten thou. Speaking of automobiles, Roscoe Arbuckle recently received a specially designed motor car that is a humdinger. The price is reported at $25,000. If it didn’t cost that much it sure looks it. Thousands of people viewed the monstrosity for a week in the windows of the motor works where it was turned out.

Of course the machine is simply to be used as an ad for the prolific Fat. Some of the last words in autos have been seen around here, but they all faded to a sickly, measly brown when Arbuckle’s came into prominence. Arbuckle says he intends dazzling Broadway with it. What may help some, if he uses it in New York, is the license number, which was displayed while the car stood on exhibition here. The number was “606.”

“United Artists,” the “Big Four” and “Associated Directors” are familiar terms here. Speaking of United Artists, we must pause at mention of Charlie Chaplin and Mildred Harris. They are not united, not so anyone can notice.

Shortly after their marriage last year, the doll-like little Mildred and her mother were the observed of all observers at the fashionable St. Catherine hotel, the Wrigley’s island palace at Catalina. Wistful indeed, appeared the little girl as she sat day after day gazing across the Pacific blue whence fly the famous Chaplin hydroplanes from the mainland. The hydroplanes are a venture of Sid Chaplin. Charlie is not in on the deal, though he makes the air trip occasionally.

But never did Charlie appear to the knowledge of the vastly interested hotel habitues. Ever with her slender, keen looking mother, the bride waited in vain for her Lochinvar. Occasionally she danced with a visiting picture personage. But Charlie—he came not.

Friends—friends always spread bad news—whispered that something was wrong. The St. Catherine seemed a haven, welcome or not, of disconsolate women. On the broad veranda sat the woman discarded by Earl Williams. Inquisitive society dames raised their very proper eyebrows as they passed and the mournful looking girl appeared as lonesome as any girl could feel, even though Earl had, through his lawyers, handed over a settlement admitted to be at least $40,000.

Charlie Chaplin has all the earmarks of a rather distraught young man. He lives at the Los Angeles Athletic club. From his studio comes the word that though he finally is working at another picture, his people never know whether it will be a week or a month before he shows up to don the old derby and the familiar shoes.

The fight between Chaplin and Manager Young of Mildred Chaplin was funny. Young is fat and the idea of Chaplin trying to use his fists is funnier than anything he ever did in pictures. Just what the real cause of combat was hasn’t been thoroughly dissected by the scandal mongers. Young says he was trying to protect Mrs. Chaplin from annoyance by her husband. Chaplin says Young is a big stiff and that he (Chaplin) certainly never annoyed his wife. He hasn’t—in public—because they never appear together.

Just how the divorce proceedings will work out nobody knows. It is true that Chaplin wishes he was out of it. It is believed that Mrs. Chaplin’s mother is somewhat of a business woman and will have considerable to say before the bones of the affair have rattled their last.

Fairbanks and Chaplin are very close friends. One of the newspapers recently published a picture of Mary, Doug and Charlie, purporting to be one taken immediately after the marriage, when Chaplin went to the train with them as they left for an alleged brief scurry to some quiet haunt. As a matter of fact the picture was one taken at the time the trio were leaving on their famous Liberty Loan jaunt, upon which momentous trip Doug and Mary are supposed to have “fallen” for each other good and hard.

Poor Owen Moore has become a public goat. The former husband of Mary is a likable enough fellow, quiet and with a winning way that can’t restrain the undoubtable sadness which lurks in a pair of wistful eyes. By the way, ninety-nine women out of a hundred probably would “kotow” to Moore so far as looks are concerned, rather than to Fairbanks. Moore is well set up and handsome in a masculine way. Doug never could be called a thing of beauty and most of his cowboys display better physical form than the agile laugh-maker.

All the testimony given by Mary at Minden would tend to indicate that the hour in which Owen did not inject a lot of booze into himself, was a rare hour indeed. If Mary asked Owen to come back to her as often as she says she did, figuring he was the lusher as she sets forth, then indeed Owen, if he loves the girl, hasn’t much of a kick coming.

The general opinion appears to be that Moore had the love of Mary very much at heart but through his tendency for liquor, finally lost out. Those who really know Mary Pickford swear by the character of the girl. Those who really know Moore can’t dislike him. They simply figure he was his own worst enemy and that in the desperate moments of her mental torture the girl grew to care for the light-hearted Fairbanks and his blithesome way.

Poor Owen is just now figuring in a suit for damages brought by someone from whom he rented a house. The owners claim that everything was in a mess when they came back and that an overflow of booze has considerably depreciated the furniture.

Another Hollywood “Secret” has been shattered. It seems that a perfectly good married man went on a visit to his “Secret” and before the evening was done he was driving a joyful bunch of other men, with their “Secrets,” in his latest buzz wagon.

Everything would have been O. K. but for the fact that the happy hubby permitted his own “Secret” to sit in the back seat while helping the other revelling benedicts to deliver their “Secrets” home. It appears that the “Secret” of the car-owner went to sleep in her recess in the rear of the car.

The night was foggy. So was the brain of this “perfectly good” married man. He parked the car in his garage, forgetting all about the “Secret” lying asleep in the back seat. Next morning a “perfectly trusting” wife was surprised, when she stepped onto the bungalow rear, to see a “perfectly wild Secret” dashing madly out of the garage, clad in anything but up-to-date morning garb.

The betting in Hollywood is 100 to 1 that Nevada prosecutors or politicians do not break the Fairbanks-Pickford marital relations. Los Angeles herself—that is the heart of it—says, “Let them alone. They’re married, aren’t they, however they managed to do it?”

Maybe Los Angeles prognosticators are wrong. Maybe Nevada means business. But the prevalent sentiment is that, unless their love-ship hits the rocks some other way, Mary and Doug may woo and coo until dooms-day—except at such times as they see fit to invite the newspapers en masse to dinner or load down autos and Pullman cars with scribes who would fain not invade their privacy.

Hanging and wiving go by destiny. For every Jonathan Wild there is somewhere an adequate John Ketch; from the ends of the earth, noose and neck rush to meet each other. For every Jack there is some compliant Jill; from all the plains and valleys the couples scramble up to the difficult ark of matrimony. Sheba travels to Solomon and the event is set down in the book of Kings. Caesar rules over Rome and Cleopatra over Egypt, but the wet sundering leagues cannot separate them.

Nat Goodwin, it is true, never married Lillian Russell, but the universe felt that something had gone amiss. So says an American journalist—one of the kind who knows everything. He continues: Destiny had fallen down. How then should Mary Pickford and Douglas fail to swing into the orbit calculated from the beginning? If she is not queen of her particular Sheba, Sheba never had a queen. If he is not the gayest of Solomons, at least he has written a book, and unquestionably he rules his jovial dominion in his own right. In this wedding the royal line crosses. It is as expected and as gratifying as the conclusion of a feature film.

Obstacles have kept the prince and princess apart, but obstacles do not last forever. After the conflict there must be peace, and before the final curtain there must be a happy ending. How evil are those dispositions which interpret this amalgamation of splendours in economic terms; which hint that the joint revenue of the pair—to judge by figures made elaborately public—will be three times what he earned before; which calculate that his income will actually pay her income tax.