The Era -- Day By Day

[Fading Fast]

"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??????"

This is going to test Ma's on-her-feet-thinking skills.

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Status, meet Quo.

This is also playing out as a meta abandoned baby/child story, which we do see in these papers from time to time.

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All's well that ends.

I guess, but it seems like this storyline had a lot of fuss for not much payoff.

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

Andy is an idiot, but anyone who knows him knows he's not a murderer.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("I'm tellin' ya," sighs Sally, "I'm gett'n tiehd of it. Awlatime it's like people ain' tellin' me what's goin' awn." "Well," queries Dr. Levine, "exactly what did she tell you?" "I run int'w'eh at t' racetrack," repeats Sally, "an' she tells me she's out t'eh t' save t'at fathead Jimmy fr'm 'a life 'a sin.' Like awluvva sud'n she's inna Salvation Awrmy a' sump'n." "But you said you saw Jimmy there too," notes Dr. Levine. "Yeh," acknowledges Sally, "but Ma's givin' 'im 'tis funny look when she's tawkin'ta me, an' at one pernt I sweah I seen'eh kick'im inna ankle when'ee's 'bout t'say sump'n. I dunno, I mean, Jimmy IS a fathead 'nawl, an' maybe she's tellin'a trut'. But awl my life it's been like t'ez sump'n she ain' tellin' me. Y'know, I was fifteen 'foeh she even come clean about what hapn'ta Pa, an' even'nen it felt like she was hold'n sump'n back. An' one time I ast'eh why she come t''tis country. She was on'y fifteen when she got onna boat', come 'eeh awl by 'ehself, y'know, an' seems'ed be a stawry t'eh. But she clammed right up, jus' said 'I felt like it.' An'nen awlem t'ings wit' Mickey, I mean, jus' 'is summeh, he comes home fr'm t'at prison camp, hangs aroun' a few weeks, an'nen bang, 'e's gawn. I mean, not a lit'ral bang, he jus' lef'. An' nobody tol'me nut'n. An'nen Alice, my bes' frien'. She's awrways givin' me t'ese screwy stawries. T'is t'ing wit' her an' Krause an' Mickey's kid. Awluvva sud'n his name is 'Willie Krause,' Mickey's right outa t' pitcheh, an' nobody tells me nut'n. An'now t'is gal Bink Scanlan, makin' goo goo eyes at Solly Pincus, an' nobody tells me nut'n. T'only poisson I know t'at was awrways squaeh wit' me is Joe, an' sometimes I wondeh'ra 'bout HIM." "Hmm," hmms Dr. Levine. "T'at's about'a size'v it," grumbles Sally. "Even my little goil is holdin' out awn me. She jus' looks at me sometimes an' shakes 'eh head." "You do have an interesting family," concedes Dr. Levine. "An' I dunno t'half'v'it," sighs Sally...)

("Yeh," yehs Joe. "Sal was tellin' me 'bout how t'two'a yez run inta Hilda." "She said she'd come by t'is week," nods Alice. "She says she wawnts t'try one'a ya sanwiches fois', y'know, she don' endawrse nut'n she ain' tried fois'. But t'eh was anot'eh t'ing. We run inta t' ol' lady out t'eh." Joe's face blanches at this. "Sal din' tell me t'at," he replies. "What hapn't." "Ma give 'eh'ra stawry," shrugs Alice. "Did she buy it?" questions Joe. "Um," ums Alice. "Joe, she's nawt gonna buy awlese stawries f'reveh. She ain' dumb." "Sometimes I wisht," exhales Joe, "I didn' know nut'n eit'eh. But Ma don' wan'neh t'know, an' -- well, you know how Sal can be when she's - t'way she c'n be. Who knows what'd happen? I dowanneh t'end up in Bellevue again." "If anybody's gonna tell 'eh," nods Alice, "it's gonna have t' be Ma t'at does it." "T'at'll neveh hap'n," dismisses Joe. "I had'dis convehsation wit' Uncle Frank, y'know, 'foeh I wen' inna Awrmy. He says 'don' rock t' boat.'" "You sueh gawt'n innehrestin' fam'ly," acknowledges Alice. "On'y one I gawt," sighs Joe...)

("That Dressen!" fumes Mr. Rickey. "That chattering jackanapes!" "How do you know it was him?" argues Mr. Parrott. "It was only he," glowers Mr. Rickey, "who knew. I directed him to speak to Campanella at that all-star series, and to instruct him to report to me for a discussion that might bear on his future. But the babbling oaf no doubt IMMEDIATELY relayed the story to one of his scabrous newspaper friends. A verminous lot they are, boy, the very scum of creation." "Yes, sir," sighs Mr. Parrott....)

(Red Ryder is Terry Lee's grandfather.)

(Don't knock it, a lot of people appreciate fine mohair.)

("Heh! Ain'nat you awna enda t' line?" snorts Solly. "I didn' know you knew Oinie Bushmilleh!" "I neveh weah my pants like'at," scoffs Bink. "At leas' no moeh'r I don't.")

(C'mon, show us The Ugliest Man in Italy!)

(Y'know, eventually you're gonna have to learn how to swim.)

(Rootbeert Hannegan.)

("This Countess racket is tough. Maybe I should become a jewel thief.")

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Didn't we have this same Washington dope story a year or two back? C'mon, Page Four, we want all-new material.

"Yarr gooin' t' HAVE t' tell'ar eventual," warns Uncle Frank. "Arr she'll foind oot '****lf." "Moind ye business," defies Ma. "She ain't foond oot in twenny foive years." "Oi'll betchee foive dollars," offers Uncle Frank. "Foony, foony man," frowns Ma. "Aaaahlways a foony, foony man..."

That must've been a very big fountain pen. Itchy must sign a lot of checks to his dermatologist.

The cop got a new club for his birthday and was looking for a chance to break it in. And pretty soon you'll see these "B29 and two atom bomb" deals at Davega.

Well, maybe Cheery Blaze is hiring.

So, Mr Gray is a -- monarchist? Not quite sure how else to read this. And it's never a "perfect" crime if two people know about it...

Pigtails are very uncomfortable, and it would serve Shad right if the pooch bites his face off.

"Now, about the bill.."

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Worker...

Hey Pink, when you clean this up, see if you can find April.

 

[Fading Fast]

"An' I dunno t'half'v'it," sighs Sally.



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"Heh! Ain'nat you awna enda t' line?" snorts Solly. "I didn' know you knew Oinie Bushmilleh!" "I neveh weah my pants like'at," scoffs Bink. "At leas' no moeh'r I don't."

If the visitor from England was really into fashion in 1945, she should have taken a much shorter boat trip over to Paris.

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Rootbeert Hannegan.

There have to be enough calories in that ice cream soda to feed a small village for a day.

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"This Countess racket is tough. Maybe I should become a jewel thief."

It's a more honorable profession.

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Well, maybe Cheery Blaze is hiring.

Before it comes to that, see if there's an opening in the Dragon Lady's organization.

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So, Mr Gray is a -- monarchist? Not quite sure how else to read this....

Tomorrow he'll switch sides. After reading his strip for years, it's fair to say his politics are amorphous and malleable.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("T'em new signs look pretty good, huh?" says Joe, looking up from the sidewalk at the freshly adorned storefront of 503 Rogers Avenue. "Lieb's Luncheonette. Sanwiches. Ice Cream. Sodas. Candy." "Ehh," ehs Ma, hoisting a bundle of newly-delivered Eagles off the pavement, and beckoning for Joe to take the bundle of World-Telegrams. "T'is t'ing wit' Sal is still eat'n ya, ain' it," observes Joe, as they drop the bundles in the rack and Ma severs the binding wires with her metal hook. "She's gaaaht noo business," huffs Ma, balling up the wire and tossing it forcefully in the wastebasket, "noo business a'tall hangin' aroon racetracks." "Someday, y'know," warns Joe, "she's gonna catch onta what's goin' on'eeh wit' t' numbehs an'na bookmakin' 'nawl'at. Maybe not t'marra, maybe nex' week, but someday somebody's gonna let sump'n slip, awr she's gonna fin'a bagga bett'n slips, awr she's gonna go innat back room when'nez sump'n goin' awn. An' you gotta be ready f't'at." "Moind ye business, Joseph," snaps Ma. "It IS my business," insists Joe. "What if Leonoreh says sump'n? She's awready too smawrt f'r'eh own good, you t'ink she's gonna fawl f'ra story like t'at one you pulled t'ot'eh day? You t'ink SAL fell fawr it?" "Let me tell ye soomthin' aboot Sally," interrupts Ma. "She sees what she waaaants t'see an' not woon thing maarr. Didjee evarr think p'raps she DOES know an' woon't admit it?" Joe is taken aback by this. "No," he maintains. "She ain' like t'at. You know how she is. She don' hol' back nut'n." "Thaaaar's a faaaaarst toime," intones Ma, "faaaar ivvrythin'....")

("Chicageh?" frowns Solly. "Now?" "Well, naaaht t'day," shrugs Uncle Frank. "But me'n Lowrey was taaahlkin', an' we agree ye need to goo oot thar farr a bit. He's havin' soom knaaaaatty praaablms with sooply an' aaahperations, an' we booth think, based, of caaarse, aaahn whoot'chee accamplished here, that yaaar th' man to set thigns roit. Ye gaaaht a faaaarceful way with these middlemen an' these gooverment toypes that we haavetarr deal with." "I dunno, Frank," Solly sighs. "I gotta lotta irons inna fieh heeh, lot goin' awn. I mean, I'm -- well, I gotta help out Joe, don' I? If I wasn' aroun' he'd give awla meat away t't'em loafehs an' charactehs an' bums come in'neh, an' neveh make a nick'l. T'at kid Heckie he's gawt carryin'a sign, ya gotta wawtch'im ev'ry minute. No, y'betteh tell Lowrey t'write me a letteh, I'll help 'im out 'best I can." "Hey, flapeehs," calls Bink Scanlan, leaning in the front door. "You comin'?" "Jus' a minute, backache," calls back Solly. "I gotta wrap t'is up. Lissen, Frank, you close up t'stoeh heeh, an' tell Lowrey I'll be wait'n f'r'is letteh." "Hmmm," hmms Uncle Frank, as his partner dashes for the door...)

(Remember to read the fine print!)

(The National Association of Manufacturers take a stand.)

(A lawyer who can catch a doubleheader. What's not to like?)

(And maybe someday she'll marry Artie Shaw.)

(Dialect comedy? Maybe they can get Zsa Zsa!)

(You're a henchman. It's what you do.)

(Look at it this way, Wilt -- at least they won't think you're the craziest one on the boat.)

(Now you're just giving him incentives!)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

You'd never see that going on in Leon & Eddie's. Unless they got a cut.

"Don' lookit ME! I neveh been westa Philly!" -- Sally.

Those Ink Bombs can be lethal!

"What's to eat? OH MIN!"

Shouldn't you be looking for a job?

Detropolis! Wumple & Co.! Sally Snipe! Mr. Chigger! THAT TOUPEE!!

Mr. Gray isn't too keen on the Norman Conquest either.

Careful with the attitude, LIEUTENANT.

"I thought I paid the campus grind to write that for me! Or was that something I saw in a Jack Oakie movie?"

Hanging on the clothesline?

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily Worker...

Ah, Franco. "That Christian gentleman."

 

[Fading Fast]

"Let me tell ye soomthin' aboot Sally," interrupts Ma. "She sees what she waaaants t'see an' not woon thing maarr. Didjee evarr think p'raps she DOES know an' woon't admit it?"

Hmm. As you like to say: circles in circles.

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You're a henchman. It's what you do.

Red-shirt Star Trek crew member.

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Detropolis! Wumple & Co.! Sally Snipe! Mr. Chigger! THAT TOUPEE!!

Unless he breaks that cycle, the furniture business is going to be looking good in a few months.

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Careful with the attitude, LIEUTENANT.

I'm not really sure why Terry is so angry as it seems to me April made her own mess. Maybe Terry is just thinking about all those opportunities he missed with Hu Shee.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("I hate stan'in onna line like t'is," grumbles Alice, shivering in the evening chill as voters wait their turn outside P. S. 48. "Why we gotta bot'eh, anyways? O'Dwyeh's gonna win, n'matteh who I vote feh." "Whassat s'posta mean?" frowns Sally. "Ain'choo vot'n f'r' O'Dwyeh?" "It's a secret ballot, ain' it?" snips Alice. "I got me rights. B'sides, som'a t'stuff t'at Newbawl Mawrris says ain' half bad." "He's LaGwardieh's stooge," dismisses Sally as the line inches forward. "I t'ought you liked LaGwardieh," recalls Alice. "I did," nods Sally. "Till'ee gawt too big f'ris britches." "He's good awna radio t'ough," points out Alice. "So's Fred Allen," shrugs Sally. "But I wouldn' vote f'r'im f' mayeh." "Hmm," hmms Alice. "I would. I hoid 'im awn Infehmation Please. He's pretty smawrt." "Write 'im in," sighs Sally, as they finally step inside the school...)

("Yeh," nods Joe. "I had some people come in t'day askin' bout t'em classified ads, an'ney stayed t'eat. An' we had s'moeh people stickin' slips inna cawntes' box, so t'at's comin' alawng. I still ain't makin' no money but it's comin' alawng." "Takes a while," shrugs Solly, finishing his lunch with a slurp of Coca-Cola. "Ya gonna make out." "Hilda's s'posta come in t'marra." "Who?" injects Ma, looking up from her tally of the day's betting slips. "Hilda Chesteh," explains Joe. "You know, fr'm Ebbets Feel. Hilda wit' t' bell." "Ah," ahs Ma. "She oowes me six dollars." "She neveh comes in'eeh," replies Joe. "Least I neveh seen'eh." "She oowes me six dollars," repeats Ma, "froom noineteen thaaarty foive. She wasn't famoos then. Oi let it roide. She's famoos now. Ye say she'll be in t'marra?" "Ah," exhales Joe. "Heh," chuckles Solly...)

("Whatta loada cawrn," snorts Solly, sauntering out of the Albee. "I liked it," counters Bink. "Makes ya t'ink it might be nice t'live inna country. T'at time I wenta Elmira, I seen some cows n' hawrses n' bawrns n' stuff. An'na aieh -- it din' smell like it does 'eeh. It smelt diff'nt." "T'at'sa cows'n hawrses," snickers Solly. "Hey, when I was growin' up in Williamsboig, y'couldn' wawk down Graham Aveneh wit'out gett'n up t'ya ankles in hawrse ****. Hawrses an' wagons an' awlat stuff, stinkin' up t' whole town, flies awl oveh t'place. An' hey, y'know oveh t'eh by t' stoeh, oveh past Kingston Aveneh? T'at was awl fulla goats an' pigs. T'ats why t'ey cawlt'it Pigtown. Sally an' Mickey, t'ey was lit'l kids livin' inna shanty, upt'a t'eh necks innat mess." Sollly glances over at Bink who is gazing at him with something akin to pie-eyed astonishment. "What's so funneh?" he queries. "Yawr old," declares Bink. "You dunno t'half'v'it," sighs Solly...)

("No, we're already planning to go to Mexico for that.")

(ED HEAD! ED HEAD! ED HEAD!)

(Stay out of show business gals, it'll break your heart and throw the pieces in your face.)

(Garry, a job? "Biff Chinley, Male Model.")

(This is why you need a basement lair.)

(DId you remember to take out his batteries?)

(We all have our role to play in life...)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

New York's Picture Newspaper.

What a role for Ann Blyth.

Tracy really does enjoy his work.

Ahh, Chigs. Suave and charming as ever.

"I understand you have a -- friend -- there. We'd like to talk to her." "Can you dance?"

"Well, yeah, I guess that IS the size of it..."

"Well, let's wait around at least until the results from the fourth race are in..."

"Remember, dear? Remember when you were a flapper and I was a shiek and we had the whole back seat of that Maxwell?"

Especially all those Irish and Scottish indentured servants who got sick of their mercantile masters and lit out for Nova Scotia. I'm just saying.

We haven't been seeing much of this lately, Mr. Willard, and there's a reason. You need to get with the times.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

Will O'Dwyer beat the point spread? Tune in and find out!

 

[Fading Fast]

"She oowes me six dollars," repeats Ma, "froom noineteen thaaarty foive. She wasn't famoos then. Oi let it roide.

Every bookie on earth has an uncollectible "receivables" pile. Even the mob with all its "enforcement" can't get blood from a stone.

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Early "instant replay" where "the call on the field stands."

Not exactly that, but as we say all the time, very little is truly new. Love the Toots Shor's connection.

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This is why you need a basement lair.

Fully endorsed by Basement Lairs 'r Us, a wholly owned subsidiary of Basements 'r Us.

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We all have our role to play in life...

It's silly, but I like that the Dad found a way to let him in without admitting he let him in.

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What a role for Ann Blyth.

God yes, great call. "Mildred Pierce" could be her audition tape.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("I tell ye, Tommy," sighs Uncle Frank, nursing his Toomey's coffee, "I'm waaaaried aboot this. OO'dwoyarr moit be a Tammany man, boot he's aaalsoo a haaaard man." "Ohhhhh, I dunno," smirks Sergeant Doyle, reaching over to cadge a doughnut. "In fack, I wouldn't worry at awl. O'Dwyeh knows 'is way aroun'." "Whoosat spoosta mean?" frowns Uncle Frank. "It means," chuckles Doyle thru a mouthful of doughnut, "t' Ol' Lady ain't gawt nutn'ta worry'bout. Lawng's she's paid up." "Oi dunno, Thomas," counters Uncle Frank. "Th' warrld's changin'." "Maybe," shrugs Doyle. "But Tammany ain't....")

("Well, Joe," declares Hilda Chester, delicately dabbing her lips with the cuff of her coat sleeve "lemme tell ya sump'n. T'at is t' bes' beef I tasted in a lawng lawng time." "Y't'ink so?" grins Joe. "In fack," Hilda continues, "t'at is betteh'na meat t'ey soive at Gage'n Tollnehs.""Whin did th' loikesa you," snorts Ma, "ivver get in that hoigh tooned place." "Afteh we wonna pennant in foehty-one," relates Hilda. "Leo took me out, him'na buncha t' boys. Dixie, Reiseh, Camilli, Cookie, Medwick, y'know, jus' a lit'l pawrty. He neveh tol' nobody. Paid f'rit awl 'imself, sez t'me, 'Hilda, you go wild. Have anyt'ing awna menu.' An' I had a steak as t'ick as MacPhail's head. But t'is sanwich heeh, is betteh meat 'n I had t'at night." "So ya gonna tell people about it?" "Oh yeh," confirms Hilda. "People pay 'tention when Hilda tells'm sump'n, so you be ready." She reaches into her handbag and flips a coin on the counter. "In fack, t'ehs a fifty cents piece. Gimme a sack'vm t'take home." "Awww," demurs Joe. "It's awnna house." "Hilda pays 'ehr own freight," insists Hilda. "'Less it's Leo payin'!" "Whoile ye got ye pocketboook oopen," interrupts Ma....)

(Look out the window.)

(Yeah, we've met.)

("Hmph," hmphs Mr. Rickey. "Where is MY postcard?")

(Well, why not hire Scarlet O'Neil to find her? CROSSOVER!)

(She can't be French at all. Not once has she said "sacre bleu.")

(Let's go, Tubs -- time for the comedy relief rescue!)

(It pays to tip well.)

(The Dog Who Came To Dinner.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Yeah, but you know you're gonna miss Butch when he's gone.

"A hotel reservation for three? I don't get -- oh my gawd..." -- Mrs. Bergen.

"Especially at 2:30 AM." "Well, you should have come home earlier!"

There are two kinds of Worst Dads Ever -- the stupid Mr. Green kind, and the "Oh yeah, I have a kid" **** Tracy kind.

"Of course I'm a spymaster. Why do you think I always talk in code?"

I'm sorry, isn't there some kind of a Federal law involved here...?

Ahead of her time.

When you're a private eye you don't need a warrant.

"Ho! Ho!"

C'mon, kid, earn your dough the honest way. Play the numbers.

 

[LizzieMaine]

Oh, and now we have to start calling Tracy "Richard." Gawdawmighty.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily Worker...

The "Postwar Problem."

 

[Fading Fast]

But t'is sanwich heeh, is betteh meat 'n I had t'at night." "So ya gonna tell people about it?" "Oh yeh," confirms Hilda. "People pay 'tention when Hilda tells'm sump'n, so you be ready." She reaches into her handbag and flips a coin on the counter. "In fack, t'ehs a fifty cents piece. Gimme a sack'vm t'take home." "Awww," demurs Joe. "It's awnna house." "Hilda pays 'ehr own freight," insists Hilda.

I thought the plan was to pay Hilda to advertise them once she believed they were good and her advertising would be genuine.

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Well, why not hire Scarlet O'Neil to find her? CROSSOVER!

And the fan base should be similar. These strips are kinda idiotic in the same way.

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I'm sorry, isn't there some kind of a Federal law involved here...?

The furniture business is looking better every day.

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Oh, and now we have to start calling Tracy "Richard." Gawdawmighty.

This can't go on.

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The "Postwar Problem."

You know you can't stand someone when you agree with half (not more) of what he wrote in an article and you still find it hard to keep reading him because you find him insufferable.

 

[LizzieMaine]

Hilda does things Hilda's way. She actually does a lot of "in kind" advertising around Brooklyn, where restaurants feed her in exchange for her plugging them whenever she gets interviewed, but I think she sincerely likes Joe. She might be a little scared of Sally, but she's fond of Joe.

Mike Gold's autobiographical novel "Jews Without Money," dealing with his brutal childhood on the turn-of-the-century Lower East Side, offers real insight into his thinking. It has its ideological moments, but it's also a very honest portrayal of urban poverty. Not quite the left-wing version of "A Tree Grows In Brooklyn," but out of the same root. It also has moments of very subtle humor, which I did not expect from one whose columns tend to be very -- ah -- serious.

 

[Fading Fast]

Hilda does seem like a "makes her own rules" woman and in a sincere offbeat way so that makes sense. She's a real-deal Damon Runyon character.

I accept that Gold and I are far apart ideologically, but as you note, his writing is "serious," in a way that to me (and this could be my bias, I get that) often comes across as smug and self-righteous.

I agree with his take today on how hard the comedown can be for some of these young men who had large responsibilities in the services, but of course, he couldn't help wrapping it in his dripping disdain for capitalism and – my take – America (that's debatable, I understand), so much so that I was weary by the end (one or two digs I would have let go by, but alas).

Then again, anyone with the, umm, "confidence" to name his column "Change the World," is going to be throwing punches all the time, so he is who he is.