The Era -- Day By Day

[Harp]

The Sturm **** counter against Pedersen in Bronx Magistrate's should have been predicated upon
an initial police criminal complaint.

And Duncan McMartin's defense against separation alimony as to his wife not being a New Yorker, seems permeable given his peripatetic Manhattan club crawling. A single spousal two-year continual residence with marital contremps Empire State locus-pocus is the focus. If she's asking for $7,000 pesos a month and shyster damages for a cool fifteen grand 1946 James Fenimore Cooper almighty Mohicans, this i is dotted and further crossed like a capital T. McMartin's bird dogging El Morocco and 21 should now include getting his British *** an American lawyer pronto.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Whatcha cawlat t'ing?" queries Alice, as Sally unwraps a brown paper package. "It'sa pawncho," explains Sally, tossing a similar parcel to her friend. "A whatcho?" puzzles Alice, as Sally unfolds the contents. "A pawncho," repeats Sally. "It's f' t' rain. Uncle Frank give'm to me, fr'm t' soiplus stoeh. Inna Awrmy, so'jehs put'm awn when it's rainin' so t'ey don' get awleh geeh soaked. It's Sout' American." "Innat coleh?" sours Alice. "Cawrmen Miraaanda woul'n be cawt dead innat." "You laugh awlya wanna'," declares Sally. "But whenya get out awnat line t'day y'll be glad t'have it. Y'jus' put it awn oveh y'head like t'is." Sally unfolds the olive-drab fabric and drapes it over her head. "Y'jus' stick y'head t'ru t' hole..." she fumbles, searching for the aperture. "It's -- um -- right'eeh someplace, an'nen ya --- gawdammit, help me fin' t' hole!" She struggles on as Alice muffles a laugh, and finally tosses the fabric to the floor of the train. "Hmph," she hmphs. "Stupid t'ing's d'fective." "I dunno, Sal," shrugs Alice. "Lookit'is..." She points to the label on her own parcel. "Shelteh half," she reads. "Contract numbeh..." "Gimme t'at!" snaps Sally, scanning the label for herself. She exhales in deep annoyance. "Well," reassures Alice, "leas' we gawt somewhez t' go t' dry awff.....")

("Well!" sneers Shaughnessy the butcher, looking up to see Uncle Frank entering his shop. "Loooooook whooooo's heeeeeere. Me faaaaavaaaarite coostoomar Oi ain't seen in two moonths! Hoo'djee Thanksgivin' taaaarn oot?" "Shoot oop," growls Uncle Frank. "Oi need t'aaask ye a favaaaar." "Oi knew," smirks Shaughnessy, "ye'd coom craaaaaahlin' back." "Ye haaaavn't taken ye Christmas dicaaaarations doon," oberves Uncle Frank. "Oi'm foola th' spirits oov th' season," affirms Shaughnessy. "And naaaht th' koind YOU usetarr sell." "Oi need'jee t' let me take a phoootoograph in here," explains Uncle Frank. "Let me goo oopstairs," requests Shaughnessy. "Oi'll poot on a clean necktoie. This woon's gaaaht bloooodstains aaahn it." "Oi doon't want a phoootagraph a' you, ye gamboon," disdains Uncle Frank. "An' Oi ain't doin' it roit now. Oi'm goin' to bring a cooplarr frinds'a moine ooovar here. An' Oi'm goona take a phoootograph a' thim. Farr an advaaaartoisement, ye see." "Oi doon't knoo, Frank," hesitates Shaughnessy. "Oi was thinkin' aboot takin' thim dicarrations doon. Thim needles is faaahlin intaar me haaaambaaaarger meat. But Oi tell ye whaaat. Have ye gaaht any mooor'a that prewaaaaar rye?" Uncle Frank glowers. "Oi'll see," he growls, "if tharr's innythin' ooot in th' warehoose." "Oi'll see," smiles Shaughnessy, "what Oi can arrange...")

(No part for Gyps? She'd be great in this.)

("And to think he made full colonel!")

(The Giants? ARE THEY STILL IN THE LEAGUE?)

(Coming Events...)

(Using a student as your personal flunky? The Board of Education frowns on this.)

(Don't explain how it's done, it takes away the mystique...)

(We get it. He's a SOB.)

(The grass is always greener...)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"Apple Duck?"

That's right, Siggy, give us a pose...

"We must be getting close to it, something reeks in here."

"So what we're saying is, don't try to mess with us."

For those who came in late...

Judging from panel four, even Gus doesn't buy this guy.

"He tried elevator shoes, but he can't figure out how to get them to the top floor."

Don't go igniting any underground coal seams or anything...

"I have no time to sing and dance 'cause work and play don't mix!"

Positive Thinking can be taken to extremes.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Worker...

Spark, meet fuse.

 

[Fading Fast]

"...gawdammit, help me fin' t' hole!"

Presented without comment and without reference to teenagers.

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

That's pretty funny. This is one of his better ones.

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

Don't explain how it's done, it takes away the mystique...

"I can do it faster."

"No you can't."

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

The grass is always greener...

See comment from yesterday; today is the first step.

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

"We must be getting close to it, something reeks in here."

We've seen it before, but always interesting to see "billionaire" used at a time when "millionaire" still carried plenty of weight and nothing about this home looks greater than your average 1940s millionaire could afford. And heck, how many billionaires were there back then?

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

She shed / man cave 1946 style.

 

[LizzieMaine]

There are, in 1946, precisely three bona-fide billionaires: Oliver Warbucks, Bim Gump, and now Diet Smith. But I hear Scrooge McDuck is coming up fast.

 

[Harp]

The Degnan child kidnapping and murder is obviously horrid; yet defendant Vosburgh's emotional
reaction to arrest is consonant with innocence moreso than guilt. Miranda is another twenty years
down the pike, and a rush to judgement with evidentiary matters pertaining homicide is ill advised.

Years ago, I represented Uncle Sam in a financial affair wherein the defendant opposite side disappeared.
Dropped out of the picture entirely. His lawyer called to inform me of the skip trace; however, I had been
given information by federal source that his client had been admitted to a Chicago VA hospital for AIDS.
I had the room # and assigned bed, but the tort of negligence and professional ethics forbade my divulging said, since his client retained sovereignty over self. And his client election to retain confidentiality overruled
collegial professional courtesy. I offered my sympathy but nothing further. Vosburg's public rant and speech
should give inestigators pause to ponder. As with the graveyard antics also seen today's paper, human nature
darkness casts silhouette images discernible intuitive nuance if blind to eye. My hunch is that the janitor-who is otherwise clean-may very well be innocent.

 

[EngProf]

Don't write off the odd "Smilin' Jack" "jet" aircraft too quickly.
The plane shown was a "Ryan Fireball".
From Wikipedia:
The Ryan FR Fireball is an American mixed-power (piston and jet-powered) fighter aircraft designed by Ryan Aeronautical for the United States Navy during World War II. It was the Navy's first aircraft with a jet engine.
The XFR-1 was a single-seat, low-wing monoplane with tricycle landing gear. A 1,350-horsepower (1,010 kW) Wright R-1820-72W Cyclone radial engine was mounted in the fighter's nose while a 1,600 lbf (7,100 N) General Electric I-16 (later redesignated as the J-31) turbojet was mounted in the rear fuselage.
The tendency of the Greeks to consider the BAR as a crew-served weapon could have been due to obsolete WWI or WWII field manuals.
I sort-of-hate to quote Wikipedia again, but it gets the idea across:
"When the threat of a new war arose, Ordnance belatedly realized that it had no portable, squad light machine ***, and attempted to convert the M1918 BAR to that role with the adoption of the M1918A2 by the US Army on 30 June 1938.[59] The BAR was issued as the sole automatic fire support for a twelve-man squad,[60] and all men were trained at the basic level how to operate and fire the weapon in case the designated operators were killed or wounded. At the start of the war, infantry companies designated three-man BAR teams, a ***ner, an assistant ***ner, and an ammunition bearer who carried additional magazines for the ***. By 1944, some units were using one-man BAR "teams" with the other *****men in the squad detailed to carry additional
magazines or bandoliers of .30 ammunition."
You can still buy on the used Army-surplus market WWI or WWII BAR-crew spare-magazine belts.

BAR-2NDASST-***NERS-BELT-KHAKI​

$199.95
Belt, Assistant ***ner, BAR.

 

[Harp]

The tendency of the Greeks to consider the BAR as a crew-served weapon could have been due to obsolete WWI or WWII field manuals.
I sort-of-hate to quote Wikipedia again, but it gets the idea across:

Thanks for your reply.

Evolutionary US Army infantry squad tactics birthed and nurtured during the Second World War, survived
and were professionally disseminated and taught both Occident and Orient as proved standard doctrine; superceding aged firearm manuals issued with production, and School of Infantry retired ''Roaring Twenties'' postwar literary concept. The BAR-sole soldier was ordained creed with its ''shave-and-haircut/two bits'' trigger squeeze.

I found the Greek Army a less well-trained military than reasonably expected, with decidedly poor
professional cadre and conscripts lacking basic shirtfront barracks poker skills fundamental to survival.
Although I did what I could with the material at hand. The Greek draftee received three American dollars drachma equivalence monthly with a bordello sponsor several times a year. Breakfast was coffee. A slack day with a four hour afternoon siesta. And male discernible physical differences from taller stronger Americans were attributed poor childhood nutrition. All of which coalesced to the Greek Bar crews....

 

[LizzieMaine]

("I know t'em people," observes Sally. "Awr at leas' t' gal I know. Lives coupl'a blocks up fr'm Ma's place, in one'a t'em jernts up t'eh wit' t' fancy columns out fron'. I see 'eh inna stoeh coupl'a times, she comes in t' buy papehs. Nice poisson, f'somebody reads t' Woil'-Telegram. I'm glad she's got 'eh felleh back in one piece." "Yeh," nods Alice. "Lotta people not so lucky." They ride on in silence for an interval. "'Sawmos' a yeeh, y'know," sighs Sally. "Since what happn't t' Joe, I mean. What happn't oveh't'eh." "Does'ee eveh," queries Alice, "eveh tawk about'it?" "Nawt t' me," exhales Sally. "Maybe t' Docteh Levine, but not me. 'Cep' t'at one night out awna fieh s'cape las' summeh. Maybe, I dunno, maybe 'e neveh will." She gazes out the window at New Jersey flicking by. "I still wondeh," she continues. "'Bout t'at guy t'at -- you know, t'at cawrpr'l. Claude Ellin'boe 'is name was. I wondeh 'bout 'is fam'ly. I wisht' I knew sump'n 'bout 'im. Joe don' tawk about 'im. Awl I know is 'e was jus' a kid. Nineteen yeehs ol'. I wisht' I knew." "I'm sawry, Sal," murmurs Alice. "Yeh," nods Sally, as the train rolls on toward home...)

("Oi think this'll be a foine advarrrrrrtis'm'nt," enthuses Uncle Frank. "I dunno," shrugs Mozelewski. "A Chris'mas ad, in January? Ain' ev'rybody sicka Chris'mas?" "I t'ink it's a dumb ideeh," scoffs Miss Kaplan. "Ah, boot'chee see," argues Uncle Frank, "thaaaaar's th' beauty oov it! It IS doomb! It's SOOO doomb people will NOOTICE it!" "Yeh," concedes Miss Kaplan, "but it ain', you know, high class. Y'don' see Mawrtin's an' Opp'nheim-Cawlins an'nem kinda jernts runnin' no dumb ads. T'ey awl got'tem skinny dames in ya slinky dresses makin' like'is'eeh." "An'soo will we," blarneys Uncle Frank. "Imagine ye'self, aaahl doon oop in woona Moozelewski's foinest creations, ye hair poiled oop loike a jelly doonut, face aaaahl painted oop loike a mootion pitcharr queen, poosin' oondar th' missletoe with a sleek an' shoiny gentleman." "Wheh YOU gonna get one'a t'em?" "Well -- ah -- " stumbles Uncle Frank, "how aboot -- Mistarr Moozelewski himself? A foine specimen oova man." "He ain't sleek!" snorts Miss Kaplan. "No," admits Mozelewski. "I ain't sleek." "Welllllll thin," hesitates Uncle Frank, "ah -- Mistarr Quinlan. Now THERE is a man who is SLEEK." Miss Kaplan executes a distasteful shudder. "I'll tell ya what," she squints. "We'll do it awn ONE CONDITION." "We will?" inhales Mozelewski. "Y'dress me up fit t' kill," bargains Miss Kaplan, "an' th' sleek gen'leman is -- Joe." Uncle Frank swallows hard. "Joe -- ahh -- you mean..." "Joe Petrauskas," smirks Miss Kaplan. "Dress'im up in ev'nin cloe's, an' him'n me will give ya t'mos' glammehrous pitcheh undeh t' missletoe y'evveh seen." Uncle Frank's eyes flick with terror as he searches for a way out. "Ahhhhhl roit," he concedes, finding none. "Ye have -- ah -- a deal...." "T'is is gonna be," chortles Miss Kaplan, "t'bes' dumb Jany'ary ad eveh!")

("Barbara!!" gasps Ma, pushing aside clouds of smoke as she enters her kitchen. "Wooota ye caaahl this?" "Whassit look like?" frowns Bink, holding her nose against the odor of incomplete combustion. "Pancakes." "At two in th' aaaaaftarrrnoon???" yelps Ma. "Are ye bloooody daft?" "I seen inna papeh," argues Bink. "It's t' lates' t'ing." "Yaaaar moity late flippin'm ovaaaar!" retorts Ma, seizing the spatula as she shoves Bink roughly aside. "What have ye DOON, gaaarl? It's stoock to th' pan! Didn'chee poot any bootar in befaaaar ye..." "We ain' got no butteh," shrugs Bink. "Fatty ate t' las' of it f'breakfas'. But Rosa tol' me y'can use erl inna pan 'steada butteh. So I put in some erl. Din' t'ink it was gonna smoke up like t'is." "Ooota th' way," growls Ma, forcing open the stuck window to admit chilly January air. "What koinda aaaaaarl did'jee use? Moootar arrrl?" "I ain' stupid!" snaps Bink. "I used t' erl ya had inna cupbe'd t'eh. T'at bot'l onna table." "Castaaaar aaarl," groans Ma. "We ain' got no honey neiteh," adds Bink. "But I foun' anot'eh bot'l inneh looked like it oughta be good. I neveh had Syrup a' Figs be'foeh, but t'at's like a cookie, right? One'a t'em Fig Newmans?" "Mooooooothar-a-maaarcy...." laments Ma...)

(Coming Events...)

(Six weeks to Spring Training in case you lost count.)

("But I thought being a drooling, fawning ninny at least qualified me to be a vice president!")

(D MINUS -- DO OVER -- SEE ME)

(Hey Janie, where do you even get a chain-mail snood?)


(I bet Stamm tried really hard to get Clifton Webb for this part, but Mother wouldn't let him take it.)

("Look? I meant "knock.")

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Guess that anti-fraternization policy didn't work after all.

I would pay a lot of money to see this show, even though you'd never recognize Bobby without his glasses.

"It may interest you to know, Miss Cobb, I had a five year run on the Poli time!"

Howard Hughes and Henry J. Kaiser, all rolled up in one suit. Might need to let it out a bit in the back.

Every woman's dream.

These Ordnance boys know their stuff.

"And your neckerchief is stupid too."

Remember when Harold was a big strapping fellow who fought spies on a train? Wartime glamour fades fast.

It's good to have confidence in your work.

Yeah, this happened to me once.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

Damn.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Worker...

Les Rodney, as the Worker's sports editor, you may recall, was the columnist who got Leo to say for publication that he'd gladly sign "N egro players" if he was "allowed to." He's not a member of the Baseball Hall of Fame, but by all rights he should be. It'll be good to have him back on the job.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Joe Petrauskas," smirks Miss Kaplan. "Dress'im up in ev'nin cloe's, an' him'n me will give ya t'mos' glammehrous pitcheh undeh t' missletoe y'evveh seen."

So, Frank has to, one, sell this to Joe, who will hate it, but he'll do it cause he's a nice guy and will want to help Frank out. But, two, I don't want to be in the blast radius when Sally finds out, nor would I want to be Alice on the train to NJ the next morning having to listen to the very loud rant.

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

"Fatty ate t' las' of it f'breakfas'

A nice little insult just casually tossed in there by Bink.

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

That's also seven different wedding nights with seven different men: a reasonably high count for that era.

"Nah." — Bink Scanlan

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

I bet their updated P&Ps test the burglar alarms regularly.

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

Damn.

Once again, this is not a Tweet. Whoever wrote it had to get out paper and pen, handwrite it, address and stamp an envelope, and post it. That's a lot of effort for a banal insult.

 

[Harp]

Another scarce law jaw day. Howsoever, Judge Cuff correctly invalidated plaintiff accident
settlement bereft counsel. And that 21 year old kid given two-to-fiver Sing-Singer; whom formally
attained majority prior to sentencing, possessed emancipated status virtue his convicted mens rea actus,
which nullified state statute restriction. If a lad can be conscripted at eighteen, he can be sentenced
as a twenty or twenty one year old adult defendant.

Basically, all I'm looking for is a humongous divorce smashup with larceny, loot, and lust. Cash, jewels,
bonds, stock portfolic abundance, and real estate. Mortgage arrears, equity issues, and foreclosure restructure.
Milk & Honey, Schysters at Law..... When I was in Greece, I stopped by a Thessalonikki ocean fish market
and came across a Great White shark dead as dead can be, laid out on an oak table. Sonuvabitch had razored ivory teeth, take a man's leg clean off. I flirted notion of having some triangulars hammered out, for bespoke cuff links and money clip but passed. A real regret.

Mindinao absolutely *****, notwowaysaboutit. But Oahu's great. I had a crash pad in Maikiki Heights
after the Army, and chased waves and wahinies at Kaneohe Beach. Most beautiful girls in the world.
So those guys at Schafter and Schofield Barracks are set. So what if discharge is a drag ***?

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Oi said," growls Uncle Frank into the mouthpiece, "Oi waaant Laaaaang Distance. Chicagaaaaar. MIChigan three-noine-faaaar-sivin. Paaaaarson to paaaarson. Oi waannt t' speak t' Edwaaaard Lowrey. L-O-W-R-E-Y-Period. Well whottaya MEAN ye can't get thru? Oi knoo thaaars a stroike, me stipdaaaaghtar's aaahn th' picket --- hello?? Hello?" He hangs up in disgust. "Blooody scabs," he huffs, as Joe chuckles. "Tol' ya," he shrugs. "Sal says t'ey got it tied up good." "Oi'll sind a woire," mutters Uncle Frank. "Don' coun' awn it," reminds Joe. "Aaaaanyway," sighs Uncle Frank, flopping onto his stool as Joe slides a two-cents-plain across the counter. "Have ye givin' thaaaat t'me praaapasition? This phooootagraph will do a good taaaarn farr ye ool' pal Moozelewski, an' we agree yaaaar th' man t'pose faaar it. Doon't ivvrybody say ye look loike Jaaaahn Gilbaaart?" "Gawrfield," snickers Joe. "T'at's what Sal says, anyway." "Nooooo," denies Uncle Frank, "Oi doon't see it. Oi seen a pitcharr'a Prisident Gaaaarfield stoodyin' faar me citizenship, an'ee was baaall-headed with great flooin' whiskaaars. Innyway, yaaar th' man we waaant. Can ye do it t'maaaara noit?" "I guess so," shrugs Joe. "I ain' got no school classes awn Satehday, an' Sal's gonna be home wit' Leonoreh, so, yeh, I..." "Doooooon't," insists Uncle Frank, "saaaaay nooothin' t' Sally, woul'jee?" "Well," hesitates Joe, "she's gonna wondeh weh..." "It's goin' t' be a surproise," conspires Uncle Frank. "So don' say noothin' t' Sally." "Kaplan ain' gonna be t'eh," queries Joe. "Is she?" "Ahhmmmmmm...." stammers Uncle Frank. "I won' say nut'n t' Sal," sighs Joe. "Oh," ohs Uncle Frank. "Thar is woon oothar thing. D'ye still have that oold calendarr ye had hangin' back tharr? Th' woon farr 1945?" "I t'ink so," shrugs Joe, rummaging thru the waste-paper box. "Yeh, heeh'r it is." He passes the calendar across the counter, a heavy piece of cardboard with the florid figures 1 9 4 5 unfurled atop a blurry chromo of the Dionne Quintuplets in overalls, surrounding a wheelbarrow heaped with vegetables. "D'ye have," further requests Uncle Frank, "thim little sheets that goo oondar wharr it says 'To-Day Is?'" "I guess," replies Joe. "T'eh might be a few'v'm." He rummages further and produces a handful of torn calendar leaves for December. "Let me see..." mutters Uncle Frank. He shuffles thru the sheets and finds the one boldly marked DECEMBER 26. "Paaaarfect," he whispers, fitting the sheet into position...)

("I neveh been so glad," exhales Sally, entering the apartment at a quarter to ten, "fr'a Friday t'be oveh." She tosses her coat over the peg by the door, and collapses into a chair. Joe puts aside his magazine, and watches her lean back, gazing at the ceiling. "How was school?" he queries. "I fell asleep," sighs Sally. "P'fesseh was goin' awn about Dollehd's hypot'esis a' frustration-aggression, an' I jus' dozed awff. I'm exhauuusted." "Have a glassa milk," suggests Joe, "n' g'wan inta bed. Leonoreh's in bed now. We liss'nd t' 'It Pays T' Be Ig'nrant,' an'nen she toined in. She gets'nawrfl kick out'a t'at show." "Yeh," sighs Sally, rummaging in the icebox for the milk bottle. "Sometimes I t'ink bein' ign'rant'd be a lot easieh." "Oh, hey," ventures Joe. "T'marra night. You mind if I -- um -- go oveh t' Mozelewski's afteh woik? I ain' seen'im inna while, be nice to get caawght up." "Sueh," shrugs Sally, pouring her milk. "T'at Miss Koplitz ain' gonna be t'eh, is she?" "K-Koplitz?" stammers Joe. He hesitates long enough to rationalize. "No," he declares. "Ain' gonna be no -- um -- Miss Koplitz t'eh." "T'at woman," declares Sally, finishing her drink and putting her glass in the sink, "is nuts." "Yeh," nods Joe, a bead of sweat glistening on his forehead under the dim overhead bulb.....)

(Already? Where does the time go?)

(Newark's Polish gift to baseball lacks polish? Are you even proofreading this stuff, Mr. Burr?)

("Oh, and get them half soled while you're at it.")

(Tra la la, the end. Next story please.)

(I've known a lot of reporters in my life, and on behalf of all of them I ask: Janie, how do you afford that coat?)

(I'm sure that's exactly how it happened.)

(AMERICA'S NUMBER ONE HERO DOG never goes slumming, he really doesn't.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Ew.

This is not a case that will fade away easily.

"Whad'ja put in this cake, anyway??"

There is a bond that unites show folk across all boundaries.

And we really don't want to know what you were doing.

One of my favorite wartime books is "You Can't Do Business With H i
t l e r," by former US Commercial Attache to Germany Douglas Miller. Clearly "Daddy" read it too.

You're a sick man, gooseface.

Always reckon the cost.

Try using the rubble of shattered dreams.

Kayo has the makings of an outstanding detective.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Worker...

Now do one for the Western Electric strikers.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Kaplan ain' gonna be t'eh," queries Joe. "Is she?" "Ahhmmmmmm...." stammers Uncle Frank. "I won' say nut'n t' Sal," sighs Joe.

This is going to be one huge blow up. Sally's already on edge with Leonora's operation, the strike, and now Ms. Kaplan angling again for Joe.

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

"T'at Miss Koplitz ain' gonna be t'eh, is she?" "K-Koplitz?" stammers Joe. He hesitates long enough to rationalize. "No," he declares. "Ain' gonna be no -- um -- Miss Koplitz t'eh." "T'at woman," declares Sally, finishing her drink and putting her glass in the sink, "is nuts." "Yeh," nods Joe, a bead of sweat glistening on his forehead under the dim overhead bulb.....

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

I've known a lot of reporters in my life, and on behalf of all of them I ask: Janie, how do you afford that coat?

"What I do in my free time is my business; don't judge me!" — JA

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

Ew.

Pappy is a scumbag: he used and discarded Lucy when the hot blonde came along.

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

You're a sick man, gooseface.

His comment kind of came out of left field and, as you would say, "Hey Kids, comics."

 

[Harp]

Postwar garrison occupation and demobilized logistic process are entangled by
impenetrable Gordian Knot bureaucracy; all of which plausibly ties Terry's discharge.
However, Canfill could at least cut the kid some slack with furlough to Hong Kong,
where he might ostensibly run into Burma or even Dragon Gal inside a Macau casino.

The Carlan inquest is tragic. Judge MacLeod, however, erred by denying Mr White's
sworn testimony after public insinuation investigative veracity challenge. Adultery, even
if ancillary, within murder is necessarily germane factual record. The coroner has disqualified
himself and a thorough post mortem needs to be ordered immediately. Why initial murder
determination reduction manslaughter mystifies, and Mrs Carlan should be held suspect
for infanticide.

Similarly, the Chicago Degnen murder is an investigative mess, but they let the janitor go;
although on writ, which means outside interference. The CPD does not have investigative
control of this circus.

Promissory Estoppel meets the altar rail with Malcomson v Boyington. Were Boyington my
client, I would advise absolute silence as regards Mrs Malcolmson; whom he proposed
marriage and has acted as guardian of his three children. Ace isn't thinking right now.