The Era -- Day By Day

[LizzieMaine]

("I wisht I was goin'a public school like Willie," laments Leonora. seated next to Mr. Ginsburg aboard the rattling BMT train to Manhattan. "Public school is fine," nods Mr. Ginsburg. "But it is like a job you woik. Are you ready to woik at a job?" "Ma woiks a jawb," frowns Leonora. "Pa woiks a jawb. Gramma runs a stoeh. Unca Frank woiks a jawb, kinda. Bink even woiks a jawb. I could woik a jawb if I wan'ed'ta. But I'd rat'eh go t' public school." "Four days a week you will go to the clinic this year," reminds Mr. Ginsburg. "And next year, public school you will begin. But this year, you will prepare. Doctor Minkoff tells me you will loin many things this year about othar children." "Awlem kids at t'clinic," scowls Leonora, "is snawbs. T'ey tawk funny." "To them," reminds Mr. GInsburg, "maybe you talk funny. Maybe I talk funny too. But always remember please -- HOW you say is not hef so important as WHAT you say." Leonora absorbs all of this as the train grinds into the station. "Eight' Street," bellows the conductor. "Awff heeh f' N-Y-U!" The doors roll open and Mr. Ginsburg takes Leonora's hand to guide her across the platform to the stairs. "What kin'a school did YOU go ta?" queries Leonora as they climb toward the sunlight. "A very long time ago it was," reflects Mr. GInsburg, "in a leedle town far away. But never since then did I ever run out of things to loin....")

("Lemme see ya haieh," insists Alice, flourishing a wet comb. "My haieh's OK," wriggles Willie. "Lemme slick it down again," demands Alice. "Y'wanna look nice. A boy stawrt'n 2A wants t'look nice." "You t'ink Pap looks nice," argues Willie as he submits to the combing, "an' he ain' even GOT haieh." "T'eh now," declares Alice, revolving the boy to face a mirror. "Ya look like Van Johnson. Don'ee, Siddy? Don'ee look like Van Johnson, cept wit' black haieh?" "Yeh," chuckles Krause. "Siddy," continues Alice. "Whezzat Kodak? I wanna get a pitcheh, out awnna stoop. A pitcheh'ra Willie Van Johnson Krause on'nis fois' day in 2A." "Maaaaaaaaaaa..." whines Willie. Krause shoots him The Look, and hands Alice the camera......)

("Don't tell me whatchee THINK ye c'n do," growls Ma. "Tell me whatchee CAN do. If ye CAN'T do th' jaahb, say so." "It's simple enoof t'stick an aaaaarl baaaarner ahhn th' barrler, an' poot a tank in. It's joost gett'n th' parts!" "Suuuuurely," smirks Ma, "nooo jaaahb is too difficoolt farr th' Sarrploos King'a East Flatboosh. I waaant t' make a room farr Barbara doon th' basement so Oi c'n get'arrr oota me back room, boot I doon't want'arr coomin' oop here each maaarnin' filthy with soot! Boot Oi can't do that till we get an aaaarl barrner s'teada that daaarty cool bin." "Oi'll see," sighs Uncle Frank. "Boor Oi can't see noo good reason whoy we..." "Oi got three reasons," frowns Ma. "An' two oo'vm b'long t'you. Loike it arr not, th' gaarl an' her baby is oor respaaaansibility." Uncle Frank gives her a long look as he slowly unwraps a Tootsie Roll and jams it into a corner of his mouth. "Oi'll see," he sighs, "what Oi can do....")

("Eight hamboigehs," calculates Joe, tapping his pencil on the counter, "t'one pound'a hamboigeh, at twenny-seven cents a pound...")

(There are baseball towns and there are football towns. Brooklyn is not a football town.)

("No man refuses -- AND LIVES!")

("Blue-Britches???")

(That's a mighty cunning scheme all right.)

("After all, you've been fooling them for years into thinking you're YOU.")

(If this doesn't push them into revolution, nothing will.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News....

Ahhhh, card hustlers back in the news. Maybe LaGuardia won't retire after all.

"She's calling collect? Never mind!"

"Gimme thet kind Mr. Warbucks wears!"

So much for parental responsibilities.

"Barber shop? They won't even know who you are!"

Oh, you know Walt. Always an instigator.

Meanwhile, Miss Chili Pepper enjoys her newfound freedom.

I always knew Min would finally crack...

**SQUELCH**

Some say pickle brine is a fine cure for a hangover. But then, you two already know that.

 

[Fading Fast]

Bink even woiks a jawb.

Technically, sure.

Separately, I love Mr. Ginsburg.

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"Suuuuurely," smirks Ma, "nooo jaaahb is too difficoolt farr th' Sarrploos King'a East Flatboosh..."

"Loike it arr not, th' gaarl an' her baby is oor respaaaansibility."

Ma and my grandmother would have understood each other.

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"She's calling collect? Never mind!"

Those watches in the ad cost about $400 in today's terms, not a small price for a "kid's" watch.

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

Oh, you know Walt. Always an instigator.

I like Walt and we know who these chiselers and schemers are, but this is class-A *sshole behavior by Walt.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Oi foond an aaaahl baaaarner," sighs Uncle Frank. "Boot whoot'are ye goin' to do with th' cool left doon in th' bin? Thar'ss gaaaht t'be at least haaalf'a toon left doon tharr." "Yaaaar th' Saaaarploos King," shrugs Ma. "Sell it. Trade it. Get it oota me basement." "Hmm." hmms Uncle Frank. "Trade it." "Whoooooootareye plannin', Francis Xavier Leary?" glowers Ma. "Merely ****sidarin' th' paaasibilities," shrugs Uncle Frank. "As looong," Ma insists, "as th' paaaaasibilities include th' boys haaaaulin' that mess away an' poot'n in th' barrrner." "Oi'll have t' barrooow a troock," Uncle Frank hesitates. "What's wraaaang with yoors?" demands Ma. "It still moves, doon't it?" "Well," wheedles Uncle Frank, "Oi was thinkin' I knoo a man oovar to a wreckin' yaaard oot in th' Flatlands. Oi joost moit be able t' trade 'im that cool farr a new set 'a springs farr th' troock. Thim springs is haaard t'coom by y'knoo." "1924 was a loong toime ago," snickers Ma. "Listen, Nora," suggests Uncle Frank. "Whoy even baaather with aaahl this. This is a three-stoory buildin'. Why doon'chee clean oot that mess aaahn th' top flarr an' make a room farr Bink oop tharr?" "An' have'arrr eavesdroopin' in aaahn aaahl oor proivate affairs!" snaps Ma. "Oi DOON'T think! Why d'ye think Oi nivvar rented it oot in th' faaarst place?" "B'soides," mutters Uncle Frank, "we gaaaaht noo proivate affairs t'begin with, evr'ybody aaahn th' block c'n hear ye!" "What?" "We'll get th' cool hauled this weekend...")

("How'd it go?" greets Sally, as Joe returns from his first night back at New Utrecht. "Eh," ehs Joe, hanging his cap on the peg by the door. "'S'okay. I got homewoik. 'Sposta write 'n essay awn what I wanna do now t'at t'wawr is oveh. I hate junk like t'at, I ain' no writeh." "Write about t'at ideeh y'gawt," suggests Sally. "'Bout toinin' Ma's place int'wa lunch coun'eh." "Nix onnat," declares Joe. "I ain' givin' out my ideehs t'no buncha chumps t'at'll swipe it." He steps to the icebox and pours himself a glass of milk. "Hey," he resumes, taking a seat at the kitchen table. "How'bout'choo? You sign up f'collitch yet?" "'I foun' out t'registrawr oveh t'eh ain' open 'cept durin'a day," frowns Sally. "I'd hafta absentee fr'm woik, so..." "So what?" inserts Joe, thru a sip of milk. "Hey, we gawt any'a t'em Hi Ho crackehs left?" Sally shrugs and fishes in the cupboard. "Anyways," continues Joe, "like I was sayin', so what? Absentee." "Awr you KIDDIN'?" gasps Sally, sliding the box of crackers across the table. "Don'cha know t'ezza wawr awn?" "No t'ehr'ain't," observes Joe, dunking a Hi Ho in his glass. "Oh yeh," realizes Sally.....)

("T'at wasn'a bad pitcheh," declares Bink, as she and Solly exit the Patio. "'Cep' how com'ey had t'at ol' fashion haieh?" "T'at pitcheh was eleven yeehs ol'," shrugs Solly. "Dunno how t'ey get awff chawrgin' full price f' some ol' pitcheh like'at." "Y'don' say," shrugs Bink, popping a stick of Black Jack in her mouth as they stroll along Flatbush Avenue. "I was jus' a kid t'en, a lit'l kid." "Huh," huhs Solly, brought up short by the thought. "Lissen, Rattletrap," he queries. "Jus' how ol' AWR you?" "Twenny-two," snaps Bink. "About." Solly gapes momentarily, and then shakes his head. "Old enough t'know betteh," he sighs. "Tell me what it was like inna olden days, Gran'pa," snickers Bink....)

("Hon. Jive" is the illegible punch line. Time to move on, Mr. Lichty..)

(That DuPont heir who bought the Phillies has the best tax write-off ever.)

(I'm not going to say a thing. I'm not.)


(Sucker punch! Who do you think you are, Durocher??)

(I'm sure they'll recognize the body by its distinctive wardrobe.)

(Ann Sheridan wouldn't put up with this nonsense.)

(Oh, you simple boy...)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"Married his uncle???"

For those who are unfamiliar with Mr. Macfadden's outsize place on the American scene, he is the spiritual ancestor of about fifty percent of what the 21st century will encounter on Facebook on any given day.

There is no love like mother love.

Set a good example for the kids, Walt.

No one would blame him if it was rye.

At least he's stopped babbling out loud. That's something.

You can tell when Mr. Gray is really into something by how carefully he draws it.

"Now whaaar's that li'l ol' Col'nel?"

Appeal to probability!

"Pooeh guy!" -- Joe.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

"How was your first day at your new job, Kay?" "Terrible, Mae! I had to wear clothes!"

And in the Daily Worker --

Roy Rogers, Commie Pinko.

 

[Fading Fast]

"B'soides," mutters Uncle Frank, "we gaaaaht noo proivate affairs t'begin with, evr'ybody aaahn th' block c'n hear ye!"

Good for him, he takes about ten blows for everyone he delivers, but it's nice to see him still in there swingin'.

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

"Lissen, Rattletrap," he queries. "Jus' how ol' AWR you?" "Twenny-two," snaps Bink. "About." Solly gapes momentarily, and then shakes his head. "Old enough t'know betteh," he sighs. "Tell me what it was like inna olden days, Gran'pa," snickers Bink....

No no no no no no no no no no!!!!!!!!

Solly has a bright future if he doesn't ef it up with the wrong woman.

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Ann Sheridan wouldn't put up with this nonsense.

She could play it, but as drawn today: Hedy Lamarr' head with Lana Turner's body would about do it.

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Married his uncle???

Seriously, WTF.

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

You can tell when Mr. Gray is really into something by how carefully he draws it.

It's amazing how this storyline could be tweaked and written today. So little is new.

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

"How was your first day at your new job, Kay?" "Terrible, Mae! I had to wear clothes!"

Heads all over Valley Stream nod in understanding.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Mrs....ah....Petrauskas, is it?" greets the clerk in the registrar's office. "I'm Mrs. Lussman. How may I help you today?" "Yeh," Sally nods, squirming nervously in the chair. "Izzis weh'r I, you know, sign up f' collitch, f' night collitch?" "We do offer night classes for college credits, yes," nods the clerk. "You are a high school graduate, I presume." "Yeh, yeh," affirms Sally. "Erasmus, t'at's Erasmus Hawl, y'know, Class'a June 1931. Um, wit' honehs. I mean, I wasn'no, y'know valedictorian a' nut'n, I mean, but I done awright." "Nineteen thirty-one," repeats the clerk, making notes on a form. "Have you had any further education since that time?" "I been married f'eight yeehs," shrugs Sally. "An' I got a littl' goil jus' toin't foeh. She's goin' t' N-Y-U, I mean, not t'reg'leh N-Y-U, but t'is clinic t'ey gawt f' real smawrt kids, y'know? She's read'n onna seven't grade level, c'n ya beat t'at. I was like t'at when I was lit'l too, y'know, but, I mean, I neveh went t' N-Y-U." "Ah," nods the clerk, taking off her glasses to polish the lenses. She replaces them and takes another look at her visitor. "Um," continues Sally, "I took a coupla coehses at Weste'n Electric out in Joisey. T'at's t' phone comp'ny, y'know, t' Bell System. I been woikin'eh f'ra coupla yeehs now, makin' radio tubes f' ya radawr n'awlat. I took t'ese coehses, loint quite a bit 'bout radio 'nawlat." "Hm," hms the clerk. "And what sort of course of study did you plan to follow with us?" "Um," ums Sally, "tell ya t'rut', I dunno really. I like t' read, an' maybe, I dunno, I like t' tawk, an' maybe loin t'write betteh, an' --well, I jus'wanna -- loin stuff. Doez'at make sense?" The clerk takes off her glasses again and taps them against the desk as she considers her response. She rolls back in her swivel chair and reaches into a drawer for a thick stack of forms, and slides them across the desk. "Please complete these forms, Mrs. Petrauskas," she instructs. "We'll need a copy of your high school transcript." "I t'ink Ma's gawt my ol' repawrt cards," shrugs Sally. A flicker of a smile plays across Mrs. Luttman's lips as she settles back in her chair, watching Sally riffle thru the forms....)

("May I help yeh?" queries Miss Kaplan, sticking her pencil behind her ear as a prospective Mozelewski's of Brooklyn customer approaches her counter. "Jus' lookin'," shrugs Bink Scanlan. "We featcheh exclusive originals," sniffs Miss Kaplan, "created t' awrdeh by Mozelewski himself." "T'at's nice," nods Bink, drifting toward a display rack of scarves in autumnal colors. "We awlso featcheh a limited s'lection of ready-t'-weeah, based awn awriginal d'signs," adds Miss Kaplan, her arms folded. "Mmm," acknowledges Bink, bumping gently against a display of gloves. "Well," she nods, "T'anks." She starts for the door. "JUST A MINUTE, HONEY," comes the sharp rasp of Miss Kaplan's voice. "Awrn'cha f'gett'n sump'n?" "Um," um Bink. "Ya drawpt," Miss Kaplan notes, "ya pock'ehbook." "Oh," inhales Bink, shoving the gloves a little further up her jacket sleeve....)

(There's always a Brooklyn angle...)

(What a great idea for Preston Sturges.)

(So in other words, just another Dodger-Cardinal series.)

(There's got to be a press agent hiding in the next room.)

(Great. We're done. Bring back Leona. Or I'd even settle for Angel Varden.)

(It's always a good idea to carry a pipe wrench under the front seat.)

(Well that was cold.)

(Come the revolution...)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Hey Uncle Frank, if you're looking for a new truck....

Boy, I don't wanna miss this one.

"Names? Hardly ever learn 'em. All the same anyway."

Deathbed conversion? Nah, Breathless has a shank in her hand, ready to go...

A whole acre? You give ol' Knobhead too much credit.

Never one to root for Chucklehead Chazz, but they did have it coming.

When Walt puffs out his chest, it stays puffed.

Lilacs, or Horace to his mother, is, as we may recall, Harold's annoying idiot cousin and Shadow's colleague in the beachfront hot dog business. Who seems, from his insignia, to have come back to us a decorated and battle-hardened veteran of the 1st Infantry Division. War certainly changes people.

Trolling, as with any other skill, requires constant practice to maintain a level of excellence.

"And he didn't even blink when I offered him two recapped tires!"

 

[Fading Fast]

"Oh," inhales Bink, shoving the gloves a little further up her jacket sleeve....

She really does need a jarring stint in the big house or something similar as she can't go through life stealing all the time – she's going to get caught one time when there's a real price to pay. Her issue does not feel, at least to me, like a mental one – she's just a petty thief. Plus, she's going to be a mother and NOT a wife to anyone named Solly.

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

There's always a Brooklyn angle...

Can you imagine the social media storm and campus protests today. Not commenting on the right or wrong, just the the fact of what would be.

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

What a great idea for Preston Sturges.

Or just call it a documentary on England.

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

Great. We're done. Bring back Leona. Or I'd even settle for Angel Varden.

Amen.

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Jesus, that was Chester Gould worthy.

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Killed in Subway; Husband Held

68th and Lex is my subway stop and E 67th is the local police station, both of which are still in use. Often, when I'm standing on that subway platform, I think about all the history this platform has seen — it also serves Hunter college. Both the subway stop, reasonably frequently, and the police station, occasionally, pop up in old movies.

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

Deathbed conversion? Nah, Breathless has a shank in her hand, ready to go...

That would be so perfect.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("So lissen," begins Solly Pincus, leaning forward against the counter. "What'sa stawry wit't'is Bink Scanlan anyways? Whe'd she come from?" "Soich me," shrugs Joe. "She was hangin' roun'eeh when I come home. Sal tol' me Ma took'eh awn inna stoeh las' yeeh afteh Hops Gaffney -- I dunno, lef' town a'whateveh. I neveh seen'eh roun'a neighbehood'eeh befoeh'r I got drafted, but since I come home, I see'eh hangin' roun' sometimes wit' t'is gal woiks downa Bohack's. I dunno what else t'tell ya. She sueh don' knock 'ehself out woikin', 'sawl I c'n say." "Don' she strike ya," continues Solly, "as kin'a -- I dunno, squoily? Eveh notice when she's in'eeh sweepin' up, she neveh stan's wit'eh back t't' doeh? Like she don'wan' nobody sneakin' up on'eh?" "I ast Ma 'bout 'eh oncet," adds Joe. "See, me'n Ma gawtta undehstandin', awright? She knows I know t'ings I know, an' I know t'ez t'ings she knows t'at I *don't* know, an'nez t'ings she's okay wit' me knowin', but'tez soiten t'ings she don' want I should know. An' I know t'at she knows I know t'ings I know she don' want Sal t'know. So I know if she don' want me t'know soiten t'ings, well, ain' no use askin'." "Don'cha t'ink it's funny," ponders Solly, t'is kid shows up 'eeh right afteh t' Hoppeh takes a powdeh? An' wasn'it you tol' me she was runnin' aroun' wit' Mickey f'ra while, an'nen HE takes a powdeh too?" Joe blinks and exhales. "You awta sen'nat one inta Scawrlet O'Neil," he snickers. "Anyways, whatta you caeh?" "Ahhh," scoffs Solly. "Jus' curious, 'at's awl. We wen'twa coupla pitchehs t'get'eh, y'know, jus' f'sumpn' t'do. Gawt me wondr'in' what'eh stawry is. You know me, Joe, I don' like nawt knowin' stuff." "Ehhh," disdains Joe. "Some t'ings ya wanna know, an' some t'ings ain' woit'a trouble'a knowin'." "Hm," hms Solly. "Hey, gimmie a packa Camels, will ya? I wanna go do some t'inkin'....")

("Oi doon't knoo noothin' boot no black maaarket meat." -- J. F. Shaugnessy, Family Butcher, East Flatbush.)

("Brisket AGAIN?" sputters Uncle Frank. "It's th' SAME brisket," sighs Ma. "At twinny-six cents'a ****d, we goin' t'keep waaarkin aaahn it till it's gaaahn." "Whar's Bink," fumes Uncle Frank. "She needs t'be dooin'arr share a' th' waaark!" "Foony foony man," mutters Ma, slapping another soggy gray slice on his plate....)

("Let's ask J. Parnell Thomas of New Jersey how he handles that, I hear he has his whole family on the payroll!)

(How does Marty Marion get away with calling himself a shortstop? He's six foot two!)

(Take off that novelty nose, Bogie. We know it's you.)

(It could be worse, I hope.)

(Ew, you know how hard that is to get out of mohair upholstery?)

(Sorry hon, no sale.)

(Sometimes Trix is a lovable free soul, and sometimes he's just an a**hole. Oh, and I am so not surprised that Worst Dad Ever has to sleep in a twin bed.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Gobblepipe = Saxophone.

"New York's Picture Newspaper."

Hmph, just another dirty cop.

Page Four, Min.

How Shakespearean.

"Weeks of prophylaxis!"

"Just like the Tecums! Hey, whatever happened to them?"

Um.

"Serves you right for using this cheap, porous crockery..."

We become what we think about.

 

[Fading Fast]

Gawt me wondr'in' what'eh stawry is.

One, give it another month or two and he'll know a lot more about what her story is.

And, two, just a bit of advice as to what he should do.

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

Not commenting on the good or bad of it, but tweak this story – both the retail prices and housing controls a bit – and it could be written today. So little is new.

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"She needs t'be dooin'arr share a' th' waaark!"

LOL. Even if it's just helping to eat the chewy brisket, Bink knows how to get out of work.

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

Ew, you know how hard that is to get out of mohair upholstery?

Every comicstrip writer wants to be Chester Gould lately.

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

Hmph, just another dirty cop.

So B.O. Goes to all that trouble to change his appearance and then continues to use his real name?

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

She does look cute in her fatigues.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Yeh," nods Sally, brandishing the thick sheaf of papers. "I said I was gonna do it, an' I'm gonna do it. I'm signin' up f' collitch." "'Betty Co-Ed has lips'a red faaaa Haaaaaw-vaaaad...'" chortles Alice. "You'n Rudy Vallee!" "Ahhhh," snorts Sally. "Be funny. It ain' nut'n like t'at, it's night classes. But collitch is collitch. I jus' gotta figyeh out zackly what I wanna study. I could study lit'ra'cheh, hist'ry, sociology -- alla'tem whatchacawl lib'ral awrts." "I t'ought you was a A-L-P," observes Alice. "Not t'at kin'a lib'ral," explains Sally. "It's whatcha cawl -- well, loin'in about culcheh. Y'read a book, 'n unnehstan' what it's gett'n at, y'know?" "Eh," ehs Alice. "I read a book, I jus' wanna know who kilt t' guy." "Y'know," continues Sally, cocking an eye at her friend, "it wouldn' hoit'choo t'go back t'school. Lookit Joe. He neveh gawt past 8B, but now he's goin' back t' New Utrick, like 'e was doin' befoeh t'wawr, 'n inna yeeh'ra so, he oughta have 'is high school diploma." "Eh," repeats Alice, her face clouding. "I wasn' cut out f' school. T'sistehs tol' me once school was a waste'a time f'somebody like me." "T'sistehs," spits Sally. "Lot t'ey know. You don'know how smawrt y'really awr, y'know t'at? How lawng was you woikin' at t' plant befoeh y'made supehviseh? Six mont's? Y'picked'at right up." "I ain' supeviseh no moeh," shrugs Alice. "Yeh, well," fumes Sally, "jus' you wait. T'ings is changin'. T' time is comin' t'ez gonna be a lawtta oppehtunities f'a smawrt woman t'at ain' afraid t' do sump'n about it. You getcha'self some schoolin', 'neh won' be no stawppin' ya." "Huh," absorbs Alice. "You t'ink so? Even me??" "'Specially you," nods Sally. "Huh," repeats Alice, as the train rolls on toward home.....)

("I counted ev'ryt'ing t'ree times," declares Miss Kaplan, tapping her pencil on her clipboard. "Ain' no mistake t'wit. We'eh missin' a paieh'ra t'em gloves. Brown leat'eh, whip-stitched, size 7." "Huh," huhs Mozelewski. "An' no sale rung up, nut'n writt'n inna book?" "Nope," affirms Miss Kaplan. "Ain'nat a rip? We ain' op'na mont' yet, an' awready we got shopliftehs. Y'know what we need? We need a flooehwawkeh, somebody t'kin'a keep'n eye awn t'ings when I'm at t' counteh an' yawr in back." "Yeh," frowns Mozelewski. "I'll tawk t' Frank. I don' like t'is, s'bad enough t'at Missis Doyle still ain' paid 'eh bill. An'now t'is." "T'ez on'y one poisson I can t'ink of mighta done it," scowls Miss Kaplan. "I'll know 'eh if she comes in 'eeh'ragain. It ain' about t' gloves, it's t' principle a' t't'ing." "Ehh," ehhs Mozelewski. "T'mawrkup onnem gloves is a hunnet'n twenny p'cent." "Ya gotta pernt," agrees Miss Kaplan...)

("Hey Pop," insinuates Jimmy Leary, "guess who I seen doin' what wit' who." "Leemee'lone," grumbles Uncle Frank, dropping two Tums into his two-cents-plain. "Thaaat brisket las' noit is killin' me." "I jus' seen," huffs Jimmy, "ya pawrtneh t'eh, Misteh Eehs, sitt'n oveh't Dewes Deli wit' y'know who? Bink Scanlan!" "Hope'ee waaaaasn' eat'n noo brisket," mumbles Uncle Frank. "She's prob'ly gonna rawb 'im blind," accuses Jimmy. "He's such a dope, he's gonna let'eh rawb 'im blind. Seein's yawr in business wit'im, don'cha t'ink yotta do sump'n'aBOUT it?" "Mggph," replies Uncle Frank as he drains his glass, punctuating his thought with a prodigious belch. "She's prawbly gonna stick 'im wit't'check too," snarls Jimmy. "Jus' like she awrways done me." "Leemee'lone," sighs Uncle Frank, his head slumping to the counter....)

(Without top level decision making nothing gets done.)

(Strange as it might seem, despite the Cardinals' long runs of success, and even with the Browns not being completely awful lately, St. Louis in our Era is not that much of a baseball town. Of course, not every town can be Brooklyn, but still...)

(I'm really surprised we haven't heard of a Society For The Prevention of Disparaging Remarks About Agents.)

(This has to have been a movie plot that I hated and forgot.)

(Remember when Gould did this a few years ago with 88 Keyes?)

(You know, you could have just dumped her in the river.)

(AMERICA'S NUMBER ONE HERO DOG LEAPS INTO ACTION! Um, as soon as somebody opens the cellar door...)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

In a last desperate attempt to make things right, Mr. Balmforth offers to put the entire bundle on 0-1-3 to combinate.

They're great except they bag at the ankles, and when they get wet, they get runs.

Yeah, Mother, bend down just a liiiiiittle closer....

Mr. Clark clearly doesn't think much of these new topknot hairdos, but he doesn't need to be so snide about it.

"Why, pretty soon I'll be able to abandon you at the speed of light!"

Hey Bim, you ever write fortune cookies?

Never mind the plot, where do you get a blouse with little pictures of corkscrews on it?

Things are different up here in the big leagues, kid.

I am suffering terribly with tendonitis right now, and seeing Moon swing his arm like that makes me ache just to think of it.

"Meet th' wife. Yvette. Or Colette. Somethin' like that."

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily Worker...

Psst, check his bank account.

 

[Fading Fast]

"...It ain' about t' gloves, it's t' principle a' t't'ing."

Call it "shrinkage" and you can feel a bit better about it — that's what other retailers do. In the nothing-is-new category, shoplifting has gotten so bad again in NYC that stores like CVS are closing stores that are near each other so they can consolidate their inventory, lock it behind closed cases, and hire more private security workers and clerks to both watch for theft and to get the stuff out from the cases for customers. That's what my local CVS manager told me. He said it's crazy how much more expensive it is to run a CVS in NYC now versus just five years ago because of the increase in shoplifting.

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"He's such a dope, he's gonna let'eh rawb 'im blind.

Either Solly or Miss Kaplan is going to "solve" the Bink problem. What does happen to you if you're sentence to jail time and pregnant?

Side note: "Lady on a Train" is a fun as heck Deana Durbin vehicle. Comments on it here: #29,602

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Strange as it might seem, despite the Cardinals' long runs of success, and even with the Browns not being completely awful lately, St. Louis in our Era is not that much of a baseball town. Of course, not every town can be Brooklyn, but still...

That's a great point. Towns have personalities and, like with people, it's not always obvious why some things matter to them and others don't. Rutgers University has a very large campus and presence in New Brunswick, NJ, yet the town doesn't have much of a "college town" feel to it at all.

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Mr. Clark clearly doesn't think much of these new topknot hairdos, but he doesn't need to be so snide about it.

If I were the wife, I wouldn't laugh off the fact that my husband was sending me pictures of the native women. The war has taught us how universal one type of "language" is.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Jus' t'inka t'at," muses Sally, as the rain sheets against the train windows, and the car wobbles in the howling wind. "T'whole team, t'whole bunch'v'm coulda been wiped out jus' like t'at." "I don' like t'is weat'eh," rumbles Alice. "Pr'obly get home an' Siddy's gonna be runnin' aroun' chasin' leaks, be up awl night." "I mean," continues Sally, "y' jus' neveh know what's gonna happ'n, y'know? Y'could be goin' alawng mind'n y'own business, ev'ryt'ing's jus' jake, an' awluva sudd'n, t' train runs int'wa truck, derails on' ya -- jeez, c'n'ya 'magine'at?" "I'd rat'eh nawt," frowns Alice. "I don' like t't'ink 'bout stuff like'at." "Awr, I mean," exhales Sally, "s'pose y'goin'a'lawng 'n, I dunno, get awna wrawng bus a'sum'pn, sump'n happens y'don' have nutn'a do wit', but y'get caawt up innit, an'nen -- well, ev'ry'ting jus' -- well, I mean, like what hapn'ta Joe inna Awrmy. He's sitt'n innat truck, an'nen -- well, I mean, don't it make ya wondeh how -- fragile it awl is? Y'life, I mean, n'ev'ry'ting. N' how y'betteh do whatcha gotta do while y'still can?" Alice glances over at her friend. "I'm glad," she sighs, "ya goin' t'see Docteh Levine t'marreh." "What?" "Nut'n.....")

("Wellll, FOIND th' ****** drain!" commands Ma, standing on the cellar stairs as Uncle Frank, up to his thighs in backed-up water, sloshes around the flooded basement of 503 Rogers Avenue. "WHOO'ZA ONE POOT AAAAAHL THIS JOONK DOON HERE???" roars Uncle Frank, jabbing into the murk with the end of a window pole and snagging a sodden, filthy section of Mr. Lieb's old awning. "Maaaaaaaaaaaaaa'aaaaam," adds a distant shout from Bink Scanlan, "I wanna take a baaaaath an' th' waaaaawteh's aaaaawl browwwwwn!" "CAAAAAHL A ****** PLOOMAR!" blasts back Uncle Frank. "YAAAAR A BLOOODY PLOOOMAR!" bellows Ma, as we mercifully draw the curtain upon the scene.......)

(There isn't going to be any end to this, is there?)

("Mr. Breadon in his feeble gate receipts reaps the just reward of his boundless cupidity," smirks Mr. Rickey. "The accounting department sent this over," comments Jane Ann Jones, handing Mr. Rickey a document. "It's the figures on our visitors' share for the St. Louis series." "Judas Priest," Mr. Rickey laments....)

(Roy Campanella "shared the hurling assignment?" As in he *pitched???* And we didn't get to see that? Just another regret....)

("Ah, hell, I don't care, just as long as we get royalties." -- Bogie.)

(If this *was* a movie, I bet Sally threw a brick thru the screen.)

(I dunno, Margie, but if I was you I'd take that hat off first.)

(AMERICA'S NUMBER ONE HERO DOG IS ON THE JOB right after breakfast.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"Paddy Crisco???"

Page Four Runneth Over.

"Oh, and while you're up, do we have any dog food?"

"We weren't planning to stay in the Army anyway..."

"B. S. McGook?" Slipped that one right by, dincha?

Where does Blenda get her clothes, anyway???

"Whew, I thought he'd never leave..."

Poor Bim.

"Itchy?" OK, whatever...

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

Or as Walter Winchell calls him, "Gerald Lucifer KKKodfish Smith."