Girl of My Dreams Read Online Free PDF

assistant these lines: “Please don’t call me Shorty anymore:/ I find it nasty and it makes me really sore;/ If you must talk about my height,/ Be prepared for me to fight/ Until the day comes when I’ve left you on the floor.”
    Why did Palmyra pick on me in the first place? Out of gratitude for my funeral oration she hadn’t used? Maybe she wanted to help an eager beaver or didn’t want someone more established whose work she couldn’t discard. She wound up using only my first line, but when she threw the kiss at me in the commissary, I levitated. Having seen her in a couple of places, I now saw her everywhere, including all the places she wasn’t. I became a fantasy factory, a miniature of Hollywood itself.
    Elsewhere on the lot I looked for approval from any quarter—an illiterate producer, lazy actors, a short-order cook of a director. If the approval, in other words, came from morons, I valued it just as highly. I didn’t consider the vacuum where my moral conscience was supposed to be any more than I did the desert where my creative impulses, such as they may have been, lay starved and gasping.
    I will meet a girl at Mossy’s party who will change my life tonight, I thought as I jounced along to work in my Essex coupe, and her attentions will entice Palmyra to take notice. This morning I’ll make A Doll’s House , my first shot at an A picture, accessible to the unwashed and, more important, acceptable to Amos Zangwill. Other writers will observe enviously when I deliver my treatment to Gershon Lidowitz, husband of the daughter of movie pioneer Abraham Fine. Mossy disdained the ungifted Lidowitz but he needed Abe Fine, still trusted in semi-retirement by the New York bankers who financed Jubilee. Mossy knew that Fine knew Gershon’s limitations and was grateful he was retained as a weak-handed Jubilee producer. Lidowitz, said to be the original butt of the quip that the son-in-law also rises, was known by his many detractors as Littlewits.
    We reported irritably for typewriter duty every Saturday morning at nine and tried to leave by one. The other writers on A Doll’s House had all listened to Littlewits and like leashed dogs had Nora decide to stay with Torvald in the end, destroying the play. Mossy knew this was wrong but he didn’t know how to get around the puritanical mood of the new Motion Picture Code that was beginning to be enforced. No more loose morals or broken homes. The Roaring Twenties, the Fatty Arbuckle sex scandal, onscreen flaunting of Prohibition, freewheeling lives of the stars themselves—all this offended the religious core of America, which called for theater boycotts. Hollywood trembled. Movie executives, often Jews yearning to be accepted by Christian America, decided to police their industry before the offended Bible Belt and the inflamed Catholic hierarchy declared total war on their products and, by extension, themselves.
    The early screen versions of A Doll’s House had been reasonably faithful to Ibsen, complete with the overacting that nineteenth century European theater brought into the motion picture’s silent decades. I knew Nora had to leave Torvald; the story was Nora’s coming of age, not her relationship with her stuffed-panda husband who deserves abandonment. Littlewits fretted a hint of divorce would annoy the censorious new Code-keepers, and he insisted the movie not end with the door shutting behind Nora. That last part had to be attacked this Saturday morning before my other triumphs could follow.
    â€œWhere you been, Ownsie?” Mr. Royal said, welcoming me just before seven, long before any other writers had pulled onto the lot. “Don’t you know this third act needs more wrinkles before you can turn it in even to someone as dim as Littlewits? Can’t do it all by myself much as I’d like to.” “Shut your trap,” I ordered, “let’s see if we can light