Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang employs no solicitors. Subscriptions may be received only at authorized news stands or by direct mail to Robbinsdale. We join in no clubbing offers, nor do we give premiums. Two-fifty a year in advance. Edited by a Spanish and World War Veteran and dedicated to the fighting forces of the United States _Drippings From the Fawcett_ It is a long jump from a one-horse town like Robbinsdale to the land of deciduous fruits, forbidden fruits, fruitless fruits, movie stars, reformers, abilone cuff links, outdoor plumbing and all-night burglar service—meaning California, of course. I am at this writing occupying a room in that well known San Francisco hostelry which “Fatty” Arbuckle tried to convert into an ice-house. The only kick I have against the St. Francis is that the room clerk assigned me to twin beds. Being of a bullsheviki theosophical frame of mind and also very lonesome, I moved the other twin alongside my twin and slept soundly ever after. Lolled around for two weeks at the Alexandria, in Los Angeles, and before that at a hotel at Coronado that fairly “oozed” hospitality, although older than the handles on Solomon’s wheelbarrow. There is an ancient quip about the three divisions of liars—plain liars, d—— liars and Native Sons. Also there used to be one that went something like this: “The miners came in ’49 and the janes in ’51,” etc., etc. But they are both all wrong. Despite what Gus’ brother said about Robbinsdale not being a one-horse town after he had spent a week wearing the “white wing” vestments, I am willing to admit that Los Angeles and San Francisco have opened the eyes of an inquisitive farmer from the aforesaid Robbinsdale. They seem to have everything here including the Whiz Bang—and in this connection permit an old farmer the privilege of remarking that the leading California news distributors, Egbert Brothers, tell me the little old Banger leads all 25-cent magazines in California in the matter of circulation. So Robbinsdale is on the map in California even if we don’t call our hen-coops “Renaissance architecture” and our dog-houses “Colonial garages.” * * * * * We landed in Los Angeles just in time to plunk down in the center of a quarrel between expert fanatics and the motion picture people. A flock of moonbeam-chasing neurasthenic preachers insist that evil was not brought into the world by the serpent in Eden but was created by Thomas Edison, who invented the motion picture machine. The latest synthetic scheme of the reformers calls for Los Angeles censorship for every picture manufactured and exhibited in the city. If the “long hairs” get away with it—and we don’t think they will—it will be a huge moral victory. Los Angeles youth will then be limited to such amusement as may be gleaned from shooting craps, joy-riding, dancing at road-houses, poker and looking for one’s umbrella.