The Era -- Day By Day

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Fred MacMurray the third highest earner in the country? That's what happens when you don't hang around racetracks!


Yeah, but who has the red points for five pounds of steak??

I dunno, Breath, those things are always so dull and rusty...

Don't you have a flag stitched to the back of your jackets or something?

Don't they have any newspaper reporters in this town?

In the suburbs you have to take what you can get.

You meet such nice people in the Army.

If we had a piano, that is...

"All right, let me figure up the storage charges..."

It's great exercise for the back, knees, shoulders, and wrists...

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

There's a New World Coming....

 

[LizzieMaine]

And here's where Joe and Sally spent their evening...

Two blocks from home, and affectionately known around the neighborhood as "the dump." Sally's never thrown a brick thru their screen because she feels sorry for the place...

 

[Trenchfriend]

And here's where Joe and Sally spent their evening...

View attachment 712899
Two blocks from home, and affectionately known around the neighborhood as "the dump." Sally's never thrown a brick thru their screen because she feels sorry for the place...

Wikipedia even has a german article about "Sara Lee"!

Did shops, like that in the pic, rent dresses/frocks to adience just for an evening?

 

[Fading Fast]

"Mickey's gaahn." "Jeezuzchris', Frank," gapes Alice. "You -- DIDN'...." "Nooo," eyerolls Uncle Frank



' An'nez a seal -- jeez, Frank, I din' know you was a notary. " "Joost a hobby," shrugs Uncle Frank.

I'm sensing the work of our friend Ignatius J. Quinlan

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

Oh, and pick up a case of beer, we'll make it a party!

It's all thuggery and stealing, but boy did that warp from "soft" blackmail to "stick 'em up" quickly.

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

Don't you have a flag stitched to the back of your jackets or something?

"Hotshot, you go stand way over there with your arms down; it's something I learned in survival training – it's a signal to the pilots not to shoot if we three stands just as I described... what? .... yes, way, way over there. And don't forget, arms at your sides."

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

Two blocks from home, and affectionately known around the neighborhood as "the dump." Sally's never thrown a brick thru their screen because she feels sorry for the place...

That's awesome. Shame the marquee didn't have the pics they saw, but of course the odds on that were a billion to one.

If you are of a certain age, you can remember in the 1970s feeling sorry for those small one-screen old theaters trying to survive in the aborning multiplex world.

And God bless whoever owns "Sara Lee Frocks" as that could not have been an easy business to have kept going through the war.

 

[LizzieMaine]

They could, but more often they sold off-the-rack fashions to lower-middle-class/working class women who bought their fancier stuff at Namm's.

Hierarchy of Brooklyn department stores --

Namms -- The Joes and Sallys of the world.

A&S -- Solid middle-class folk, and occasionally the working class for special occasions.

Loeser's -- Middle class with airs.

Martin's -- Arrivistes of the upper-middle.

Oppenheim-Collins -- Uppe-middles.

The true uppers, of course, the Brooklyn Heights crowd, they go to exclusive little shops on Fulton Street, or if they're really upper, they hire a modiste.

 

[Fading Fast]

They could, but more often they sold off-the-rack fashions to lower-middle-class/working class women who bought their fancier stuff at Namm's.

Hierarchy of Brooklyn department stores --

Namms -- The Joes and Sallys of the world.

A&S -- Solid middle-class folk, and occasionally the working class for special occasions.

Loeser's -- Middle class with airs.

Martin's -- Arrivistes of the upper-middle.

Oppenheim-Collins -- Uppe-middles.

The true uppers, of course, the Brooklyn Heights crowd, they go to exclusive little shops on Fulton Street, or if they're really upper, they hire a modiste.

Good stuff. I would assume the upper-middle and "true uppers" would also take trips into Manhattan to shop at stores like Saks and Bonwit Teller both for the upscale merchandise and so that they could say, "Oh, this, I picked this up at Saks when we were in Manhattan the other day."

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Oi guess that's what happ'ns," chuckles Uncle Frank, "when ye gaaht a surrrrpless a' candidates!" "Fonny, fonny man,," frowns Ma. "Nivvar moind playin' Baaahb Hoop, I wan'chee t'tell me whar ye sent Michael. He's me soon, Oi gaaht a roit t'noo." "Mickey is soomwhar that'll do 'im soom good," reassures Uncle Frank. "Ye said that aboot th' Aaarmy," is Ma's sour reply, as the door skeens open. "Hey!" heys Bink Scanlan, tossing the canvas bag on the counter. "Whe'z Slick? I ain' seen 'im aroon, an' a coupla boys onna rounds says t'eh lookin' f''rim. Sez'ee welshed on bets a'sump'n." "Ye see?" nods Uncle Frank. "Th' fewaaar people knoo wharr Mickey is, Oi figyarr, th' bettar farr Mickey. Ye get it?" "Oi get it," frowns Ma, unzipping the bag to examine the day's take. "Boot Oi doon't loike it." "Hey Fatty," inserts Bink. "Whez Jimmy? I ain' seen'im aroun'." "Oi spose," scowls Ma, "ye sent him away too." "Doon't give me idearrs," frowns Uncle Frank. "Or Danny," shrugs Bink. "I mean when ya t'ink about it, t'eh t' same t'ing." "Hoo'djee loike t'goo on a little trip ye'self," mutters Uncle Frank, as Ma slides a fresh pack of Tums across the counter...)

("Hey joik!" calls Sally across the car at a blue-jawed personality ******* on a cigarette. "Can'cha read? T'ez no smokin' awna subway!" The smoker blows a stream in her direction and snickers. "Sueh t'eh'r is," he grins, showing yellow teeth. "I'm smokin' right now, ain' I?" "I sweahtagawd," sighs Sally, folding her arms in disgust. "T'eze trains gett'n woise awla time. An'ney t'ink they oughta make it a dime. I ASK YA." "Um, Sal," injects Alice, whose mind is very much not on the problems of the transit system. "I gotta absentee offa woik again t'marra. Me'n Siddy gotta go downtown." "Again?" frowns Sally. "Hey, what's goin' awn? You seein' one'a t'em marriage coun'slehs a' sump'n? Lissen, whyn'cha lemme tawk t' Docteh Levine. She does 'at stuff. She gives me a break awn what I pay when we -- um -- tawk, so t'leas' I can do is t'row 'eh'ra lit'l business." "Nah," nahs Alice. "Nut'n like 'at. Jus' sump'n." "I sweah," sighs Sally. "Clam right up when somebody asks y'ra simple question. Ya woise'n Ma." "Jeez," sighs Alice. "I hope nawt...")

(Hey Doc, go write a pamphlet about hemorrhoids of the brain.)

("Hmph," hmphs Leonora, looking up from her mother's copy of 'New Masses.'")

(And for long after, losing your job to some young upstart because you took a day off was "being Wally Pipped.")

(You haven't figured, ****y, on the power of simple-minded stupidity.)

(I'll say it one more time. A sharp blow to the back of the head just behind the ear. And f'gawdsake, don't use a giant tuning fork.)

("Tables for Ladies." If Schrafft's turns out to be too rough.)

(Boy, those lobster tails sure were good.)

(AMERICA'S NUMBER ONE HERO DOG shows you his ****.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Did you know Audie Murphy is only 5 foot 5?

Sorry Pat, you don't get the "Miss Rheingold" sweater. There's still a war on!

"Yeah, I sure will be glad to get back to good ol' Tottenville!"

Ahem. Change of venue. Ahem.

Look at those scissors twitch. Mr. Gould never misses a loving detail.

In every family, there is a balance of virtue.

CALLED IT!

It was smart of April to pack the sweater.

Well, at least he doesn't play the accordion.

Don't make that face, toots. You knew what it meant to be a B-girl when you took the job.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

"Cram it, joik!" -- Sally.

The Boys of June. I must admit a sneaking fondness for Eddie the Fiddler Basinski, the only concert violinist ever to play major league ball.

"Well don' lookit me!" scowls Bink Scanlan, opening a fresh pack of gum...

 

[Fading Fast]

"Tables for Ladies." If Schrafft's turns out to be too rough.

Watch enough old movies and you'll run into bars (well into the 1950s) that had separate entrances and, sometime, separate areas for women.

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

Sorry Pat, you don't get the "Miss Rheingold" sweater. There's still a war on!

"It's beer as beer should taste!"

What the h*ll does that slogan even really mean?

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

Ahem. Change of venue. Ahem.

Seriously. Don't they teach that in law school anymore, Mr. First-Time Lawyer?

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

Look at those scissors twitch. Mr. Gould never misses a loving detail.

It's good Gould has this outlet – that might have save the world from a few tragedies.

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

CALLED IT!

You did indeed - kudos.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Too drunk, too loud, an' too unrefined," agrees Miss Kaplan. "Boy, ain'NAT'ta trut'!" Mozelewski looks up from his sketch book, fully occupied with autumn designs, and mutters something that escapes notice. "Y'know I wen' out t'toteh night with a lieuTENAN'," Miss Kaplan continues. "Awright? An OFFICEH, but brot'eh, he wasn' no gennleman! I'll tella woild! Butcha know who I bet ain' like t'at?" "Joe's married," sighs Mozelewski. "Yeh," nods Miss Kaplan, "an' does she DESOIVE it? Loud? I'll show ya LOUD. Y'know what, t'eh'r'is no justice. Somebody like T'AT ends up wit'a swell guy like Joe, an' lookit me. Home ev'ry night wit' me embroidery. Cept f't' lieutenan'. I bet afteh t'wawr he's gonna en' up a subway conducteh'ra sump'n stupid like'at. Oh, t'at remin's me. Y'know what I hoid? See, I know t'is gal woiks at Roulston's awn 65t' Street, OK? Joe's wife, she's too lah dee dah t'trade t'eh, but t'is gal knows anot'eh gal woiks at Bohack's. An' SHE hoid t'at Joe is woikin' innat canny stoeh 'is mot'eh'rin'lawr runs in Flatbush. C'n ya beat T'AT? A bright guy like Joe, slingin' sodehs f' joiks an' bums. It's a damn shame, you know t'at? We gotta do sump'n." "I am," nods Mozelewski. "Yeh, yeh, ya gonna open'a dress shawp wit' Joe's fawrteh'r'in'lawr. Yeh yeh. But whatcha gonna do 'bout JOE? Right NOW? Whatcha gonna do NOW?" "I'm gonna," sighs Mozelewski, "go sit oveh t'eh." "HEY!" shouts Miss Kaplan at the retreating figure. "I AIN'T GONNA BE YA MODEL!")

(In the downtown chambers of Magistrate Charles Solomon, Alice squirms and Krause nervously picks at his two-toned Father's Day jacket as the Magistrate examines a certain document. "Who is this Michael P. Sweeney?" he queries. "How were you associated with him in 1938?" "Heeziz guy," murmurs Alice, her face flushed. "We kin'a wen' aroun' t'ge'teh, y'know? Kin'a, um -- y'know." "Ah," nods the Magistrate. "Where is Mr. Sweeney now?" Alice and Krause exchange hesitant glances. "Um, tella trut', um, I dunno," Alice stammers. "Um, t'at papeh was got by a -- um -- t'oid pawrty?" "Yeh," nods Krause, dabbing his forehead. "I see," comments the Magistrate, lying the sheet on his desk. "Where is the boy William today?" "Um," ums Alice, "y'know, school's still got a coupla days t'go, so he was in school, y'know, P. S. 48. He's in 1B, an' gonna be in 2A nex' fawl. An'nen when school gets out, um, he's gonna go upstaiehs t't Ginsboigs. T'ey gotta tawkin' boid, right, t'is boid name'a Zippy, Willie sits an' tawks t'wim, 'ni'ts like a reg'leh convehsation. "I see," nods the Magistrate, suppressing a small smile. "Yeh," continues Alice, sensing a crack in the magistrate's stern facade. "An'nat coat," she continues, pointing to her husband. "T'at coat Siddy's got awn, Misteh Ginsboig made'at coat. Show 'im ya coat, Siddy, hey, lookit'em sleeves. T'at's real houn's toot'. Ain'nat a nice coat?" "Mmm," mms the Magistrate. He takes off his glasses and wipes them thoughtfully with his handkerchief, as Alice and Krause sit in tense silence. The Magistrate dons his glasses and squares the papers before him. "This is an unusual case," he comments, choosing his words carefully, "both in the circumstances and in the -- ah -- parties involved. As I told you before, the fact that Mendel Ginsburg vouches for you both carries great weight in my consideration of this matter. I have investigated your record, Mrs. Krause, and how you have adjusted following your release from prison. I have found you, Mr. Krause, to be a man of fine character, well spoken of by your neighbors, and I have examined William's school record and find that he is making satisfactory progress there. This document you have provided to me today does cast new light on certain aspects of the case, and it may well be that you have been done, Mrs. Krause, an injustice. But this document does not influence my decision to --" "WHAT?" gasps Alice. "But t'at's a CONFESSION! It says right t'eh I ain't ---" "As I started to say," interrupts the Magistrate, holding up his palm, "the reason I summoned you here today was to tell you that I have decided to recommend the approval of this adoption. Your family may well be -- unorthodox in certain respects, but it is my judgement that you are both capable parents. I congratulate you, and I offer you my sincere best wishes." "Yeh," grins Krause, as Alice sinks back in her chair in relief.....)

("I'm tellin' ya, Joe," sighs Sally, "we gotta do sump'n. Lenoreh's gett'n too old t'sleep in oueh room. T'at papeh screen ain' no good f' -- you know -- um -- privacy. An' we can't keep sendin'eh down'a t' Ginsboigs wheneveh --" "Ah," ahs Joe. "Well, it ain' like we c'n move, not wit't'is housin' shawrtage." "I do'wanna move," shrugs Sally. "I t'ought you wanned t'move t'Flatbush," replies Joe. "Awla time you useta say you wawned to move out t'eh, maybe get a house a'sump'n. One'a t'em houses awn Midwood Street." "Yeh," acknowledges Sally, "but I don't wanna now. I know t'is place is too smawl, but -- I mean, I do'wanna leave -- well, t'people. Alice 'n Krause, n'na Ginsboigs. Mrs. Nucci, well, OK, she ain' so hot, but -- I mean, if we move, how'eh t'ey gonna get alawng wit'out us?" "Ah," agrees Joe. "So maybe we get one'a t'ese couch t'ings t'at folds out an' ya make it a bed," suggests Sally. "An' we make t'livin' room Leonoreh's bedroom." "Folds out t'make a bed," marvels Joe. "S'bettehr'n'at bed we gawt," nods Sally. "T'at bed ain' so bad," counters Joe. "It's too noisy," argues Sally. "Soun's like t' BMT when -- um -- " "I hadn' noticed," maintains Joe. "Well me neiteh," flushes Sally. "I mean, um --" "Express awr local?" demands Joe. "T'AT'S ENOUGH!" blushes Sally...)

(You really don't hear much about the 'co-prosperity sphere" anymore...)

(That'll be Wally Schang, one of many heads to roll when Connie Mack recovered from the shock of the mighty A's being swept by the Miracle Braves of 1914. Mack sold off almost his whole roster in disgust, and plunged for the next decade into the basement, teaching Philadelphia fans a lesson they never forgot...)

(Where can WE get a copy of Wilbur Wackey's Jive Talk? Don't plug your merch, Mr Krebiehl, unless you actually have it to sell.)

("The cheaper the crook the gaudier the patter." -- S. Spade.)

(The Eastern Star? Don't they meet every second Tuesday at the Masonic Temple?)

(Let's see Tracy try THAT!)

(Dumb dad, smart ma.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

I wonder if Bernarr Macfadden ever met Mrs. Langford?

The Eagle would never print this letter.

For the stepdaughter of a famous con man, Breathless sure is dumb.

"And it's sponsored by the Hotel Margeury!"

"Bottle caps. She collected bottle caps. Oh look, Feigenspan's Pride of Newark Beer!"

THIS ISNT WHAT WE NEGOTIATED WHERES MY AGENT!! -- Sandy.

"Blenda?" No wonder she's so mean.

Even April is getting tired of her routine.

"A barrel organ? Hm. This little suit the monkey wore might just fit you at that."

Ask About Our Convenient Monthly Payment Plan!

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

Up yours, Robert Moses.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Yeh," nods Miss Kaplan, "an' does she DESOIVE it? Loud? I'll show ya LOUD. Y'know what, t'eh'r'is no justice. Somebody like T'AT ends up wit'a swell guy like Joe, an' lookit me.

Bitter much?

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

I have decided to recommend the approval of this adoption.

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

I wonder if Bernarr Macfadden ever met Mrs. Langford?

Who is this "Mrs. Langford" of whom you speak? Has she been in the news lately?

One thinks the desire to print the photo drove the bikini story and not the other way around, and it might be wrong today, but even without the byline, you can tell the reporter on that story was a woman.

Lastly, Elyse Knox and Tommy Harmon, who would remain married until his death 46 years later, had a son in 1951 who would grow up to be the actor Mark Harmon.

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

"And it's sponsored by the Hotel Margeury!"

What is this "Hotel Margeury" of which you speak? Has it been in the news lately?

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

"THIS ISNT WHAT WE NEGOTIATED WHERES MY AGENT!!" -- Sandy.

"Quiet down. If this works out, there'll be an opening for a new strip: how does 'Little Orphan Sandy' sound to you? — Sandy's agent.

[Sandy make a gesture with his paw of locking his lips and tossing the key away.]

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Yeh," continues Sally, "me'n Joe's gonna go upta Namm's Satehday night, an' buy one'a t'em couches t'at folds out'wa bed. F' Leonoreh, see." "Why don'cha give Leonoreh ya room," suggests Alice, "an' t'two'a you sleep onna couch t'at folds out t'wa bed." "Well," shrugs Sally, "I guess we neveh.." "I know why," snickers Alice. "Ya 'fraid it ain' strawng'anough!" "Now just a minute," flushes Sally. "Hones'ly, Sal," adds Alice, "ev'rybody inna buildin' c'n heeh'rit. Mrs Nucci come downstaiehs t'ot'eh night an' complained t'pipes was bangin'. We tol'eh, 'no, it's just t'em Petrauskases again. What can ya do?'" "YA DID NAWT!" flares Sally. "I guess Joe's feelin' betteh'rabout stuff now," observes Alice. "He don' seem so -- well, like he was when 'ee fois' come home." "Yeh," nods Sally, "I guess'ee is. He still wakes up at night sometimes. Sometimes 'e gets up an' goes out'n sets onna fieh'scape an' chews 'at tobacceh. An' sometimes -- well, he don't." "Sounds jus' like t' BMT," chuckles Alice. "Oh, now don'choo stawrt," eyerolls Sally. "Jeez, yawr in a good mood awlova sudd'n." "Yeh," grins Alice. "I got a lawt t'be in a good mood about...")

("Well," frowns Ma, as the door skeens open. "Yaaaar late. Ye was s'posta be here at sivin AM t'oopen oop befarr ye do th' rounds." "Oh," ohs Bink Scanlan, her voice uncharacteristically sudued. "Sawry." "See here," squints Ma. "You ain't joost gett'n in froom ya --evenin' activities are ye? Ya hair's a mess, ye look loike ye been sleepin' in them cloothes. Which farr you would be soomthin' new, Oi guess." Bink slumps on a stool, her face clouded. She looks up at Ma, starts to say something, reconsiders, and sits chewing her lower lip. "What's got inta'ye, garrl?" demands Ma. "Speak oop." "I t'ink..." hesitates Bink. "I t'ink i might be -- in trouble." "Oi TOOLd'jee naaaht t'pick paaackets on th' soobway," snaps Ma. "Thim transit coppars got oyes in backa..." "No," exhales Bink. "I think I might be -- in TROUBLE." Ma blinks, looks at Bink, flares her eyes, and Bink nods slowly in response. "You mean..." exhales Ma. "Ohhhh, Jaaaayzuz, Mary, 'n Jooseph....")

(Cream of Spinach? Ew.)

(You say horseradish like it's a bad thing.)

(I had no idea Mr. Medwick is a literary critic, and I don't care because I really enjoyed that book. "Mother Finds A Body" is fun too.)

(Those look like pretty pedestrian steps, actually. I bet Joe and Sally in their prime could dance rings around these hicks.)

(Well that's a convenient out. I was something more Page Four.)

(Can't I eat ONE MEAL in peace?)

(A good detective knows when to jump at conclusions.)

(AMERICA'S NUMBER ONE HERO DOG needs to understand that there are no "just cats.")

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

A numbered outline, and I bet we'll get a diagram tomorow. The News has definitely moved on...

A. S.???? Artie, you should be ashamed of yourself.

"And I'm not so sure about you!"

Well, it worked for Van Lingle Mungo.

Regards from Kay and Mae.

It's even funnier when you imagine the judge with Joe Besser's voice.

The little hypocrisies of social life....

Her heart's just not in it anymore...

Try that at Ebbets Field and see what you get from Leo...

"Where'd I put that, anyway? Oh, it's behind the roulette table."

 

[Fading Fast]

We tol'eh, 'no, it's just t'em Petrauskases again. What can ya do?'"



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

Ya hair's a mess, ye look loike ye been sleepin' in them cloothes. Which farr you would be soomthin' new, Oi guess."

And there is no way on God's green earth that Bink can't find someone to "take care of it." Frank has to know someone.

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

A numbered outline, and I bet we'll get a diagram tomorow. The News has definitely moved on...

It really seems that way, but events will, at some point, bring that story back. There is no way this is the end of it.

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

A. S.???? Artie, you should be ashamed of yourself.

"E. M. , an actor." Could that be a typo and the "M" should be an "F?"

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

Well, it worked for Van Lingle Mungo.



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

"Where'd I put that, anyway? Oh, it's behind the roulette table."

Ed's gotta move on from this boring and pointless storyline pretty quickly.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("That's whoot she said, Francis," fumes Ma, smearing streaky margarine on her toast. "She says she doon't knoo far sarrtain WHO is respaaahnsible. Boot she says it's gahtta be woon'a three soospects -- James, Daniel, arr Moichael." "Tharr ain't noo oothars she's fargettin'," sighs Uncle Frank, poking at a soft-boiled egg. "Nooo sailaaars. Arr hoo aboot that ballplayarr Alice taahlks aboot, that Kaaarby Higsby?" "This is noo jookin' mattar, Francis," scowls Ma. "Oi thaat'chee was goin' t'do soomthin' aboot thim' rock-headed soons'a yaars." "Oi was too busy,' scowls Uncle Frank in return, "doin' soomthin' aboot'ch YAAAR rock-headed soon." He takes a sip of watery orange juice, and taps a fork against his plate. "Is she SAARTAIN aboot aaahl this? Has she beent'wa dooctar?" "It's too aarly," dismisses Ma. "She thinks it's been noo marr'n'a moonth. Boot a thing that occarrs, on a reg'lar schedule, has naaaht accarred, an' she says that doon't happn with harr." Uncle Frank flinches at the discussion of such matters. "Well, maybe it's noothin' boot a case'a -- well -- ahh -- a case'a th' mail bein' late." "SOOM male," snaps Ma, "wasn't late." "I thaaat," mutters Uncle Frank, "ye said this was noo jookin' mattar....")

("We oughta go see t'at show," suggests Sally. "Allan Jones ain' no Vallee, but 'e's OK." "Who's Grant Mitchell?" queries Joe. "Ain'nee t'one'at useteh play awlem business men an' 'zecutives, 'nawlat?" Awr izzat Grant Wit'ehs?" "I dunno," shrugs Sally. "Ain'ney t'same guy?" "Awr you," squints Joe, "allowed inna Kings?" "It's jus' t' Orien'al," frowns Sally, "an' you know it." "Tillya tr'ow ya sump'ins," snickers Joe, "at Allan Jones.." Sally's riposte dies on her tongue as the conversation is interrupted by a rapping at the door. Sally opens to find Sammy Schreibstein slouching in the hallway. "Hey Missis P," he begins. "Misteh P heeh? Oh, hey, Joe -- ya gawt a cawl down'a stoeh." "Who is it?" queries Joe, rising from his kitchen chair. "He wouldn' say," shrugs Sammy. "Jus' says ta tell ya get ready t'jump in, t'brine tank's fine." "Solly Pincus!" yelps Joe, hustling to the door. "I'll be right back!" "Grant Mitchell an' Grant Wit'ehs," mutters Sally as she closes the door. "Two diff'rent people. Who knew...?")

(Moses saw the Promised Land, but because of his own hubris he wasn't allowed to enter it...)

(Lichty's been casing my neighborhood again.)

(I think the first one is Jersey Joe Stripp, a pretty good third baseman who was a bit accident prone. He also ran a gym in Orlando Florida for a while where he was often looking at the waves. Ha Ha. The second one is easier, that's Jimmy Ripple who lives in Chester, Pa. when he's not accomplishing odd feats on the field. And of course helping the Reds win the pennant a few years back because MacPhail botched up the waiver wire.)

(And just like that, Jug Ruff passed thru a portal into a twisted alternate universe where nothing makes sense. In other words, he didn't go anywhere at all.)

(Must you?)

("As long as you're up, though, ask the waiter to bring over some more of that Parmesan cheese.")

(Well done, Scarlet. Once this missing persons office thing tanks, there's a job waiting for you as a forensic psychologist in "**** Tracy.")

(The boy is the father of the man.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

This story would be better with a baroness and an Indian chief.

Look for the Brooklyn Eagle, the Daily Worker, and the Hobo News at your favorite newsstand, candy store, or hotel lobby...

Mr. Gray can be brutally sarcastic when he wants to be.

When class consciousness dawns...

If Breathless was a jewel thief escaping in a laundry truck, it would be the most 1940s thing ever. But I guess the scheming daughter of a dead extortionist is right up there.


And it isn't even Kirkman's.

Don't rub it in.

When one knows only one social role even though the society that formed that role is gone...

Poor sad walrus Plushie. Eventually you just stop caring.

Don't be so snooty, Shostakovich. How do you think Fats Waller started?