The Era -- Day By Day

[LizzieMaine]

("Numbeh one Dodgeh fan," snorts Sally. "Atsa laugh. I know t'at guy. He's a joik. Awrways runnin aroun' blowin'at p'lice whistle right in ya eeh till ya wanna shove it down'is craw. T'at day I wen' inta labeh wit' Leonoreh? He was runnin'naroun'eh when we was goin' up't t'seats, an'ee runs right inta me. Nine mont's pregnan', an'na guy runs right inta me. Who knows what coulda hapn'ta kid?" "Maybe t'at's why she come out so smawrt," shrugs Alice. "She's gonna know enough t'stay away fr'm guys like'at." "He couldn' carry Hilda Chesteh's bell," scowls Sally. "An' -- hey, t'at gives me'n ideeh. Any chance you might know weh Hilda lives?" "Ebbets Feel?" shrugs Alice. "Atsa on'y place I eveh seen'eh. Whatcha wanna know fawr?" "Joe needs t'get t'woid out about 'is sanwiches," explains Sally. "What about a -- c'lebrity endawrsmen'? I don' mean no hokey c'lebrities like, oh, Bob Hope awr Miss Rhiengol'. I mean -- Hilda Chesteh. Ev'rybody knows who she is, an' I bet she knows ev'rybody. We get her t'go aroun' tawkin' up Joe's sanwiches -- he'll get awl kin'sa business?" "Huh," huhs Alice. "She'd do it too," declares Sally. "She likes Joe. She'd do it f'r'im. But we gotta find'eh. An' -- y'know who might know? T' Dodgehs might know. T'at rabbity guy t'at useta write f't' papeh. Parrott. He'd know if anybody does." Sally's eyes begin to dilate, and Alice takes a deep breath. "We'eh gonna absentee t'marra," Sally enthuses. "Wee'h goin' downtown an' we'eh gonna go up t'eh an' see Parrott." "I dunno, Sal," winces Alice. "Ev'ry time we get mixed up wit' t' Dodgehs, sump'n hap'pns, an'..." "T'is ain' like awlem times," dismisses Sally. "T'is is f' Joe. Now hee'hs what we'eh gonna do. Put awn ya best cloe's, an'...")

("You Joe?" queries a wiry youth in an imitation leather jacket as he saunters up to the counter. "Yeh," nods Joe, reaching for his spatula. "How many?" "I'm Heckie," ignores the youth. "Rosa Capiello's me sisteh. Says ya payin' a buck a day t'carry a sign. So I'm 'eeh. Whatt'w' I do?" "Jus' take t' sign'neh," shrugs Joe, "an' wawk up'n downa street, tawk t'people, tell'm how good t' sanwiches is." "Who sezzeh good?" challenges Heckie. "I don' know t'eh good. I don' jus' say sump'n's good less I know it's good." Joe frowns, and prepares a sandwich. "Heeh," he sighs. "Awna house. GIve it a try." Heckie consumes the sandwich with the all the alacrity of a fourteen-year-old, and reaches for a toothpick. "Nawt bad," he acknowledges, delicately clearing an incisor. "But I tell ya what, how bout I take a few alawng wit' me. T'at way I c'n han' out samples, y'know?" Joe studies the youth for a long moment. "Ah, what t' hell," he exhales, reaching for a paper bag. "Yeh," grins Heckie. "T'ey ain' bad at awl...")

("No," fumes Uncle Frank,"Oi ain't boyin' no raffle tickets aaahn no tarrkey! Not an' end oop with a paaartridge again!" "It was a good partridge," argues Shaughnessy the Butcher. "It was barely," scoffs Uncle Frank, "a pigeon." "Oi nivvar sold YOU no pigeon!' defends Shaughnessy. "All me pigeons went t' Doyle!")

("And whatever you do, don't let anybody give you any D bars.")


(Ahh, Tommy, you can't predict the future, but don't feel bad. You can't even predict who's going to play third base next year.)

(Just another Page Four Judge.)

(Reading this story is like drinking maple syrup straight from the bottle.)

(That's about what it's like, all right.)

(Who says Sandy knows nothing about being a detective.)

("Vanity of vanities, all is vanity and a striving after the wind!" -- Kitty.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Ah, the Golden Age of Divorce Lawyers.

Some didn't make it home.

Sandy's new contract is non-exclusive. Good move, pooch.

This one hits home. The smell of a wet snow suit, once inhaled, does not easily recede from memory.

Middle children will do anything to get a storyline.

Aaaaaaaaand we're off....

Ever have one of those days?

"Pfft, as if you ever dressed this snazzy!"

Isn't that a warrant tacked right to the door there? Oh, wait....

See, Joe, this is how you do it.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Worker...

Gyps is ready to make her postwar comeback, but Savo is a poor subtitute for Bobby Clark.

 

[Fading Fast]

Hilda Chesteh. Ev'rybody knows who she is, an' I bet she knows ev'rybody. We get her t'go aroun' tawkin' up Joe's sanwiches

The idea is sound on paper, but boy do I see some "issues" cropping up in execution.

************************************************************

Reading this story is like drinking maple syrup straight from the bottle.

Oh God yes – the strip has lost its way completely. But no dating at work does read ahead of its time in 1945.

************************************************************

Ah, the Golden Age of Divorce Lawyers.

Live chastely forever? Sure judge, that's how it works.

************************************************************

Some didn't make it home.

He makes it all through the war only to crash during the peace. A guy my dad went to high school with also made it all through WWII and then got killed on his way home jumping for a train when he slipped and fell under it.

************************************************************

Sandy's new contract is non-exclusive. Good move, pooch.

"Notice the way I built up to the louder bark. That's what they're paying for when they get me — a professional. Any hack dog can bark, but a pro puts the lines over."

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Awright," exhales Sally, pulling a residual mothball from the pocket of her prewar blue gabardine suit and flipping it into a gleaming aluminum ash receptacle. "B'foeh we go in'eeh, r'membeh, lemme do awla tawkin'. You jus' agree wit' me, awright? An' smile, like't'em gals do inna Mawrtin's ads." "Awright," grimaces Alice, resplendent in 1942 Lane Bryant. With a deep breath, Sally grasps the brushed-chrome handle and pushes open the door. "May I help you?" queries Jane Ann Jones. "Season ticket inquiries are upstairs, on the fifth floor." "We'eh heeh," flutes Sally, trying her best to sound like Dorothy Kilgallen, "t'see Mistah Howard Parrott." "Harold," whispers Alice. "T'at is t'say," corrects Sally, "Mistah Harold Parrot." "Ah," replies Miss Jones, her face a professional mask. "And may I tell him who is calling?" "Um," hesitates Sally. "My name is Sal -- ah, t'at is, ah -- Leonoreh -- um -- Sweeney. An'nis is my -- um -- p'fessional associate, um -- ah -- Est'eh Ginsboig. "Uhhhh," stammers Alice. "Uhhh -- ich veys nicht?" "Yeh," nods Sally, as Miss Jones leans forward with intense interest. "We re'prsent t' Bensonhoist C'mittee f' t' Reckanition of Outstandin' Young People Inna Woilda Business, an' we awr plannin' a dinneh in honeh of Mistah Parrott as an indispensible pawrta t' Brooklyn Bawl Club's success, an' we'eh linin' up awl kind'sa c'lebnrities t' speak atta testehmonial dinneh at -- um -- t' Boss'et . We'eh gonna get -- ah -- Misteh Cashmoeh'll be' t'eh, an' -- um -- O'Dwyeh, 'sumin' he wins -- an', oh -- um -- Eleaneh Roosevelt, an' -- um -- Freddie Fitzsimmons -- an' um -- Gypsy Rose Lee -- an' -- um -- Mike Gold, an' --uh -- Hildeh Chesteh, awl kin'sa people. But we hadda few questions t' ask Mistah Parrot, so..." "Miss Jones!" comes a sharp call from behind the door marked PRIVATE. "Excuse me," nods Miss Jones, as the door swings open and a set of enormous bushy eyebrows juts out. "Miss Jones," repeats the owner of those brows, "please locate --- " The rumbling voice trails off as Mr. Rickey recognizes the callers. "JUDAS PRIEST!" he yelps, his head jerking back like that of a startled tortoise as the door slams shut. "Oy gevalt," murmurs Alice...)

("T' ad is runnin'," sighs Joe. "An' so fawr I had one guy come in, an'nee says 'hey Joe, whatta ya know, I jus' gawt back fr'm a vaudeville show,' an'ee runs out." "Ahhh," dismisses Solly. "Ya boun'ta get jokehs at fois'. Give it time." "I hope so," exhales Joe. "I had a coupla people come in yestehday, said t''ey gawt free samples fr'm t'at kid Heckie, an' said'ey wazza bes' sanwich t'ey eveh ate. I says 'well, have ano'teh, ten cents apiece.' Anney says 'nahh, I'm awl full.'" "Hmm," frowns Solly. "Whezzis kid? Is'ee comin' in t'day?" "Yeh," nods Joe. "Awtta be'eeh in about ten minutes, in fack." "I'll wait," frowns Solly....)

("Well, here's hoping we get another one going soon.")

(Poor Mickey Owen. We'll never forget.)

(Ella Cinders, Avenger.)

("And not only that she's bringing a friend! A real Indian chief!")

(You know, Janie, you could get a ****** permit.)

(The Three Mile Limit -- Where the Fun Is!)

(You know, Kitty, you could go on strike...)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

At long last, proof that The Butler Did It. Oh, and Sonj -- it's about time you ditched that louse.

"Back to the grind, Kay!" "And back to the bump, Mae!"

"It's just not the same selling shoes at A. S. Beck!"

"And the nominees for best supporting canine in a guest star role..."

"No, I'll be nothing like him at all."

Pride goeth....

Corky went to the Halloween party as Harold Teen.

Battle hardened veterans go into action.

"Friend of yours?" "Never seen him in my life."

There is no love like family love.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Dave Egan is a sportswriter who has gotten a very raw deal from history as Ted Williams's arch enemy. But more often than not, he was on the right side.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Harold," whispers Alice.

"Oy gevalt," murmurs Alice

God luv her.

*********************************************************

Poor Mickey Owen. We'll never forget.

Watching the World Series this past week, I was thinking how so many plays have the chance to become a Mickey Owen play. Last night was a great example: had Hernandez dropped the ball or made an errant throw to second; or had Rojas dropped the ball or pulled his foot off the base a second too early, the Jays could easily have gone on to win the Series right then and Hernandez or Rojas would have become this series' Mickey Owens. Man, that is a lot of pressure.

********************************************************

How Kitty started a philosophical and political movement.

*******************************************************

"And the nominees for best supporting canine in a guest star role..."

"I want to thank..."
(twenty minutes later) "Excuse us, Sandy, but we went to a commercial five minutes ago."

 

[LizzieMaine]

Incidentally, I am not responsible for replacing, in my comment on Jane Arden today, a word referring to a small hand-held device that propels a lead projectile by means of an explosive chemical reaction with asterisks. The board software seems now to have an extremely prissy automatic word censor in effect.

 

[Fading Fast]

Incidentally, I am not responsible for replacing, in my comment on Jane Arden today, a word referring to a small hand-held device that propels a lead projectile by means of an explosive chemical reaction with asterisks. The board software seems now to have an extremely prissy automatic word censor in effect.

I've had the same thing happen to words, mainly, in my movie comments. Words that trigger can be a common one for forced *********** - which comes up often in a mature discussion of movies – and sometimes the word that means taking one's own life, and even variants of the three letter word for ***********. It's nuts IMO as these are all things adults talk about when discussing movies or comicstrips or the news, etc., and none are curse words or insults.

 

[Fading Fast]

I've had the same thing happen to words, mainly, in my movie comments. Words that trigger can be a common one for force *********** - which comes up often in a mature discussion of movies – and sometimes the word that means taking one's own life, and even variants of the three letter word for ***********. It's nuts IMO as these are all things adults talk about when discussing movies or comicstrips or the news, etc., and none are curse words or insults.

And I just learned that the word that combines "inter" and "course" is not allowed anymore either.

 

[LizzieMaine]

I noticed this a while back in comments about that Gumps story dealing with that guy who looked like George Bernard Shaw who was involved in selling alkaloid derivatives of the sap of the papaver somniverium, but I thought it was just a random glitch. I have laid my concerns about the matter before the proper authorities.

It's pretty funny that in 2025 we have far more aggressive word-shooshing in place than the Daily News did in 1945. Page Four would be nothing but asterisks.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("A lotta noive t'ey gawt, t'at's awl I'm sayin'," fumes Sally. "Runnin' us outa t'at place like we was common bums. Y'know how much money I spent inta Ebbets Feel? Nex' yeeh, I'm gonna root f' t' Bushwicks." "At leas' t'ey din' arrest ya," offers Alice. "I wasn' gonna HOIT t'at big fathead!" sputters Sally. "I jus' t'ought, lawngs' we weh t'eh, I otta congratulate 'im f' signin' Robinson! I'm biggeh'nough t'admit when I judged somebody wrawng. C'oese, he's still a bum f' tradin' Petey." "I t'ought MacPhail traded Petey," observes Alice. "T'ey was in awn it t'ge'teh," dismisses Sally. "An' MacPhail's a bum too. Him, I'da hoit." "An' we neveh even gawt," sighs Alice, "t'ask Parrott weh Hilda lives." "Yeh," frowns Sally. "We gotta come up wit' anot'eh way t'find 'eh. She mus' have a jawb. I wondeh weh she woiks?" "Aqueduc' racetrack," offers Alice. "She sells hot dawgs 'n peanuts t'eh." Sally gapes at her friend. "Wheh'd you heeh T"AT," she demands. "Ya Uncle Frank tol' me," shrugs Alice. "He seen 'eh out t'eh." "What's Uncle Frank doin'," demands Sally, 'atta RACETRACK??" "Um," ums Alice. "Fixin'a terlets? I hoid'ey was pretty bad. I mean, y'know, um, wit' awlem hawrses aroun...")

("I can't get oveh'rit," chuckles Joe. "T'at kid Heckie come in'eeh t'day an' gimme half a buck f'rawlem sanwiches. An'nen he brung in awl'is brot'ehs 'n sistehs an' bought 'em lunch. What'd ya SAY t'wim?" "Ahhh, nut'n," demurs Solly. "Jus' help'd'im see t'ings a d'ff'nt way." "Jeez," exhales Joe. "Ya bettehr'n Sinatreh." "I'd like t'hope so," nods Solly. "Hmph," hmphs Bink. "WELL I AM," snaps Solly...)

("Aboot ****** toime," scowls Ma. "Oi aaahlways thaaat," suggests Uncle Frank, "that waatarr give ye two-cents-plain a saaartain sparkle. Ye could hoold oop th' glass an' see it." "That's the bitsa lead," eyerolls Ma...)

("I'd pull my hair out, but I already did that in 1937.")

(Somehow I doubt Connie Mack would have the patience in his old age to deal with Lou "The Mad Russian" Novikoff...)

(Magistrate Solomon would slap you right off that bench if he could.)

("Countess Chichi?" Are you SURE your name isn't Langford??)

(If you're only going to get in one kick, make it count.)

(Someday, Professor, the world will be overrun with corrupt talking robots, and when that day comes we'll all remember your warning...)

(Catenfreude.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"Hmph," hmphs Leonora. "Nobody tawks like t'at." "What'sa tizzy?" wonders Willie." "Yawr so stupid," scoffs Lottie Schreibstein. "A tizzy is when ya so dizzy ya gonna tip oveh. A tippin' dizzy. A tizzy!" "No it ain't," argues Leonora. "Who tol' YOU," huffs Lottie. "Ya crazy mot'eh? She'd know awlabout a tizzy!" "Less see how fas'," growls Leonora, reaching for a chunk of brick, "YOU tip oveh." "MAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" bellows Willie....

That's that.

Positive Thinking in action.

Shouldn't you be in school?

"And I don't get half the jokes!"

Wheels within wheels.

And you just know that in 1905, Pop was an awful masher.


You could smuggle her aboard in disguise. NO ONE WOULD EVER KNOW.

What, a conscientious cop who strictly follows procedure? These fantasy comics are so ridiculous.

Hey, you know, this would work.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Worker...

Artie has time to write? Who knew?

 

[Fading Fast]

Um," ums Alice. "Fixin'a terlets? I hoid'ey was pretty bad. I mean, y'know, um, wit' awlem hawrses aroun..."

I think today we'll go with Alice is the best.

*********************************************************

"Ahhh, nut'n," demurs Solly. "Jus' help'd'im see t'ings a d'ff'nt way."

Solly is so the right man, at the right time, and in the right place to succeed in post-war Brooklyn.

*********************************************************

"Aboot ****** toime," scowls Ma. "Oi aaahlways thaaat," suggests Uncle Frank, "that waatarr give ye two-cents-plain a saaartain sparkle. Ye could hoold oop th' glass an' see it." "That's the bitsa lead," eyerolls Ma...

That is one horribly written article. You have to try to twist the pieces of logic back into place to follow it.

********************************************************

"Countess Chichi?" Are you SURE your name isn't Langford??

Absolutely amazing how that story went from total coverage to nothing in what seemed like one day. Everyone just quit investigating and covering it. How fantastic would it be if they get a break and it comes back?

*********************************************************

You could smuggle her aboard in disguise. NO ONE WOULD EVER KNOW.

I forget, does she come from a wealthy family? It might be time for April to return home.

 

[LizzieMaine]

April certainly acts the part of a pampered Olde Southern Belle, but given the fact that her brother ended up running a rubber plantation in India and she herself hasn't been back in the States since 1938-39 or so, she certainly doesn't seem especially enthusiastic about returning home. Running from something, dear?

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Lookit awlese charactehs," frowns Sally, scanning the Saturday afternoon racetrack crowd. "Y'could run a Moon Mullins look-alike contes' an' evr'ybody'd win. Hey, now weh YOU goin'?" "I'm gonna go get down a bet," shrugs Alice. "One'a t'em guys hangs aroun' Schreibstein's gimme a tip." "NONE'A T'AT," roars Sally, snagging her friend by the coattail. "Siddown, an' keep ya eyes peeled f' Hilda Chesteh. She'll be selling hawt dawgs a' sump'n." "I could use a hawt cuppa cawfee," sighs Alice. "S'cold out'eeh. We'h you goin'?" "I gotta go downa -- you know," mutters Sally. "Probly catch a disease, but I gotta go. You sit'eeh an' keep ya eyes open. HEY BUD, WAWTCH WEH YA GOIN'!" Teeth clenched, Sally makes her way down the grandstand ramp and searches for the restroom as she elbows her way thru the crowd. "HEY!" she blurts again, as a woman in a heavy brown coat hip-checks her against a support column. The woman freezes in place, and turns. Their eyes lock. Sally gapes uncomprehendingly. "MA??????")

("These saandwiches," declares Uncle Frank, consuming his third of the afternoon, "arrr t' real stoof. Tharr now, thar's a name farr ye. 'Stoof yeself with th' real stoof.'" "Put it inna cawntes' bawx," grins Joe, ringing up thirty cents and sliding two dimes back across the counter. "Gimme a coople marr," munches Uncle Frank, returning the coins. "Ain'choo nawt s'posta be eatn' like t'is?" queries Joe. "Whattaboutcha ulceh? Ma finds out she'll raise hell witcha." "What Nora does naat know," proclaims Uncle Frank, "doos'arr noo harm. B'soides, she's oot'a th' racetrack t'day. Soom cloient oos'arr mooney an' she's gooin' oot'thar t'c'llect." "Awl by'eh self?" marvels Joe. "Jimmy went with'arr," shrugs Uncle Frank, "boot that's aboot th' same thing. He ain't noo good farr noothin' lately, moonin' 'boot Bink Scanlan." "I neveh see 'im aroun'," observes Joe. "He's afraid'a Solly Pincus," chuckles Uncle Frank. "Listen, ol' son, tell me soomthin'. Ye think Solly is -- well -- he sees a lotta Bink, an'...." "Solly?" snorts Joe. "Nawt awnya life. He was neveh one t'stay aroun' one gal f'too lawng." "Waar changes a man," notes Uncle Frank. "An' if 'e's plannin' t' -- well, Oi moost thinka th' business. Pr'aps a change in saarcoomstances moit be in aaarder. Ye knoo, Lowrey could use soom help in Chicagarr. 'Ere now, give me soom change farr th' phoon. Oi need t'call Lowrey an' tell 'im so.")

(Coming Events...)

(Come now, Mr. Burr. Check your facts. Mr. Campanella comes from Philadelphia, and his father is Italian. The closest he's ever come to Cuba is playing a year in the Mexican League. And he's twenty-four years old, he just seems like he's thirty because he's built that way.)

(Hey look, Zack Mosley works part time as a newspaper sketch artist.)

(Sue Carol? Isn't she married to Alan Ladd?)

(And don't turn off the radio yet, it's almost time for Lum and Abner.)

(So much for your solemn pledge not to reveal her secret identity.)

(Status, meet Quo.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"Artistic bums and cheap hangers-on." Well, they all had to go somewhere.

American Jewelers' Association take note.

All's well that ends.

And when you get home, she'll put out your lights.

Hey, try the bookcases. Find the secret torture room.


Watch out for cows!

Ahhh, without her you'd be a bum. Oh, wait..

Quoting Kipling? Here's another one: "Yet there be certain times in a young man's life when thru great sorrow or sin, all the boy in him is burnt and seared away..."

"Oh, again? Well, at least I won't have to feed him tonight."

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Worker...

The Sporting News, a St. Louis based paper, has long had a policy on integration that can best be characterized as "well, but..." So this is significant.