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The Torrents of Evening. Edie spends her mornings in a pink satin double bed in her Beverly Hills home, gathering her column over two telephones. Out of the ripe grainfield sown by studio executives, wives, movie stars and pressagents, she may reap 30 or so printable bits. She never goes to studios or press parties, because "they bore the you-know-what out of me." But at night Edie goes everywhere with one of her bewilderingly large number of escorts, considers three parties or as many nightclubs a routine evening. Her nimble tongue can hold its own with Hollywood's best. (Just before Errol Flynn's acquittal on charges of consorting with a minor, she quipped: "I hear you took a party of 14 to the Mocambo and couldn't get a table.") One of the few times she came out second was when Restaurateur Mike Romanoff ended an argument by kicking her in the foot.
Edie prefers to drink coffee laced with rum, never lets the house pick up the check. Says she: "When a guy takes me out, he takes out a girl —not a column." But the "Rambling Reporter" goes along too. As Edith says: "Everything I hear goes in one ear and out the column."