The Era -- Day By Day

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Worker...

At least Sally didn't get a job at Schrafft's.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Eh," snickers Doyle. "I love t' lawr...."

Oy

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

"Izzat SO?" erupts Sally. "Lissen, how long you been'eeh?" "Six yeehs," marvels Joy. "An' it awl wen' by so fas'." "Lissen, hon," begins Sally. "I was at Woolwoit's in '37, y'know? Now lemme tell ya a few t'ings..."

Oh Lord.

Lizzie, I know you research everything carefully, so I know this A&S situation must be true. When I worked in Sterns in the '80s, there was a somewhat similar thing, but you could use the main cafeteria. The problem was it was a haul, so the "annex" was where they wanted the guys (all guys in those days) on the loading platform to eat. When I worked the loading platform, I ate in the annex, which had a smaller selection and not always the freshest food versus the main cafeteria, but you only had so much time for lunch, plus it's just what you did.

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

"Wondeh what he's gonna...." she mutters as she scans the listings. Her eyes suddenly flare, and she drops the paper, rushing to the door. "WilllYAAAAM!" she bellows as she races after him.

It's really a tame movie and bit boring, but proof again of the power of a good name for marketing.

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

Try to sell it for $1000 and then tell us what it's worth.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Rickey had a kid?" marvels Alice. "How?" "Don' change t' subjeck," demands Sally."T"is sit'cheation at A & S ain' sump'n we oughta stan' fawr, so..." "We?" injects Alice. "I don' woik t'eh." "Well, jus' lissen," continues Sally. "I gott'n ideeh. Play alawng." "Oh," ohs Alice, folding her paper. "So t' t'ing berls downta t'ey make us eat down'a basemen' 'cause t'ey say it'll save us t't time'a runnin' upstaiehs afteh we punch t' clawk, awright? Well, I say we oughta not t' hafta punch out till we GET upstaiehs, whatcha t'inka t'at?" "Cancha use t' elevateh?" shrugs Alice. "Look, I said t' play alawng, awright. So what I'm t'inkin' is have YOU come in t'stoeh t'eh dressed up like a --" "Look, Sal," sighs Alice. "I dowanna get involved, OK? I'm awready awn strike fr'm one comp'ny, an' I don' see no pernt on gettin' mixed up wit' some comp'ny I don' even woik at." Sally blinks with astonishment. "Awright," she sighs. "Havitcha'own way. I'll go awn t' plan B. I'm gonna write a letteh t' Mike Gold. He's out'n Pittsboig now covehrin'at steel strike, but..." "He's gonna rush right back home an' take caehra t'is," interrupts Alice. "Look," argues Sally, "maybe you don' caehr'about'is, but it's t' principle a' t' t'ing! You know t' ol' sayin'..." "Pick ya bat'ls," supplies Alice. "What?" "Nut'n...")

("Ohhh," sighs Joe, taking a deep breath of the steam rising from the grill. "Don'at smell good. Real beef." "T'at chicken wasn' too bad," observes Solly, waiting anxiously for his lunch. "Ya still gonna sell it, ain'cha?" "Yeh," nods Joe. "I still got t'at barrel'a p'tatehs, an' awlem cans'a chicken out back, so why not. I tol' Morrie I'd sen' some oveh t' him too, get it goin' oveh t'eh." "You got any ot'eh stoehs signed up?" questions Solly. "Soon'sa meat gets backta nawrmal, y'need t'make ya move. An'nis summeh, I'll tell ya what t'do. Get a cawrt, an' get somebody t'sell'm fawr ya down'a Coney." "I dunno," sighs Joe. "I wanna get t'is place runnin'a way I wawn'it, an'nen worry 'bout t'ese ot'eh places. Morrie's good, cause'ee's inna same business awready. He knows what'eez doin'." "Lotta guys," advises Solly, "get'n'outa t' soivice still, lookin' aroun' f'sump'n t'do. T'eh gonna op'n up gas stations an'nat stuff. Why not Big Joe's Beefwiches?" "Long as t'ey stay outa t' soiplus business," snickers Joe. "I got t'ree stoehs now," notes Solly, "an' I ain' been doin'is, what, six mont's? T'inka wheh YOU could be. Y'evveh seen'at guy oveh t' Brownsville cawls 'imself t' Kishke King? You could be t'at, 'cep' wit' beefwiches!" "Huh," huhs Joe. "C'ep' ya WON'T be," yelps Solly, "if ya BOIN MY SANWICH....")

(Watch out, Heckie -- they're coming for ya!)

(What's to know? It's this little thing that fits in a shoebox and can blow up an island.)

(Oh look, now hockey's corrupt. What's next, chess?)

(These fads do tend to burn out quick.)

(He belongs to a club? What, the Thursday night stamp club at the Y?)

(Janie does pay attention to the movies after all.)

(There's only one thing worse than a pushy shoe salesman, and that's a pushy SECOND HAND shoe salesman.)

("That's easy, WHEN DO WE EAT?")

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Here's a challenge for any dialect specialist: do an Irish cat. "Miiiiiooooooww."

Ahhh, Davega. Wasting no time cornering the market on fake Army surplus.

Sorry kids, they outgrew you about two years ago...

I mean, Judy here has long since moved into middle age.

Five-finger discount!

Remember that time in Hong Kong when Stoop beat the snot out of some guy and threw him on an outgoing garbage barge? Wasn't that great?

If you want a picture of the future, imagine a stool shocking a human backside, forever...

This sheriff would be more intimidating if he didn't paint glasses on his face like Bobby Clark.

At least they've got the housing shortage licked.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Worker...

Have you ever actually BEEN to Daytona Beach?

 

[Fading Fast]

"Pick ya bat'ls," supplies Alice.

I'll say it again, smart woman.

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

What's to know? It's this little thing that fits in a shoebox and can blow up an island.

Out of context, the insanity of that part of Gray's story is even worse.

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

Sic transit gloria mundi.

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

These fads do tend to burn out quick.

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

He belongs to a club? What, the Thursday night stamp club at the Y?

Seriously.

And

Hey, an attitude Mike Gold and I would both loathe.

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

Here's a challenge for any dialect specialist: do an Irish cat. "Miiiiiooooooww."

Wouldn't she just hiccup? And I like O'Clipper as her name better than Kitty Kouncil.

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

Is there a "Little Orphan Annie" today?

 

[LizzieMaine]

I must've still been dazzled by the atomic flash...

Don't worry fellas, that slow death from radiation poisoning will keep you out of the draft...

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Siiiixty-faaaarst Street," ponders Uncle Frank. "Ye live aaahn Sixty-thaaaard, doon'chee?" "Huh?" huhs Solly, absorbed in a pile of receipts. He looks up to see Uncle Frank holding up the newspaper. "Oh," he replies. "T'at mess. T'at hapn't awla way oveh'r'n Mill Basin. Nowhehs neeh Bensonhoist." "He lived," continues Uncle Frank in an ominous tone, "aaaahn Sivventy-nointh Street." "Oh yeh," acknowledges Solly. "I seen'at. T'at's down neeh New Utrick High School." He sits up, pushing the pile of paperwork aside. "Hey," he resumes. "Joe goes down'eh awla time, takin'em night classes he takes." He stands and grasps his partner by the shoulders. "You don' SUPPOSE," he intones in a grave voice, "HE had anyt'ing to do..." Uncle Frank blinks and pulls away. "Foony, foony man," he mumbles. "Foony, foony man....")

("Long's I'm woikin'eeh," sighs Sally, "I oughta get my eyes checked. I busted my good glasses an'neese ol' ones is givin' me headaches. Don' tell me t' employee discount is on'y f' people woik inna big stoeh." "Oh no," sighs Joy. "We get it." "Good," nods Sally. "Afteh ya outa probationary," continues Joy. "Oh," exhales Sally, forlornly rubbing her eyes...)

("You eveh heeh," sighs Bink, "from -- you know -- him?" "Michael?" frowns Ma. "Oi doon't even knoo whar he is." "Yawr kids' fawt'eh," wonders Bink. "Mickey tol' me once he run awff too." "Petaar had caaaarly black hair," recalls Ma. "Joost loike Michael." "Huh," huhs Bink. "T'at heredity t'ey tawk about. Really woiks, huh?" "Hmph," hmphs Ma, tossing her dish towel in the sink...)

(As long as you keep up the payments, of course.)

(Look, is it Hatton or Hatten? Better clear that up before pitchers and catchers report.)

("All I'm saying is, if it's my name up there I ought to be in the strip more often. I'm not gonna let you do to me what they did to Mary Worth!)

(GAAAAAAAAAAAAAG)

("And to make matters worse, she stuck me with the check!")

(A key to a safety deposit box under the sole? Hey, we found where Shaky bought his shoes!)

("Oh well, three hots and a cot.")

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"KIDS TODAY!" -- Bink.

NO!

The very definition of a rhetorical question.


"How hard can it be?"

Step a little further to the left, tubby, and the problem will solve itself.

YES! What IS in Irma's rubber gloves!

Jon is a G-Man now? When did that happen???

When you just don't care anymore.

Yes, by all means, what have you got to lose?

Dime candy bars? This postwar inflation is out of control.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

YOU JUST HAD TO GET THAT IN, DIDN'T YOU?

But in the Worker...

At least somebody has a little respect....

 

[Fading Fast]

News headlines ripped from the comicstrips.

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

Well at least they didn't call him fat, but you know darn well they were excited to get a picture of him eating.

(I hadn't read down far enough, obviously, when I wrote this.)

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

"KIDS TODAY!" -- Bink.

I believe the word we're looking for is chutzpah.

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

NO!

I'm genuinely sure it's a coincidence, but did you notice how the Irish guy went to Midwood Hospital while the guy with the Jewish sounding name was taken to Jewish Hospital?

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

The very definition of a rhetorical question.

And tautological confusion.

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

Jon is a G-Man now? When did that happen???

Seriously, Edson just tossed that deus ex machina in there.

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

When you just don't care anymore.

It's almost like Carl Ed doesn't care anymore with his insanely stupid and repetitive storylines.

 

[LizzieMaine]

I'm wondering if Ed is having some kind of personal/health crisis. The art is looking rushed and messy in a way that isn't usual for him. He has always used assistants, especially in recent years, but he clearly doesn't have one now. If you look back at what the strip was five years ago, and compare it to now, it's obvious something is going on.

And speaking of which, look at poor Fitz and compare him to five years ago. Clearly managing the Phillies took its toll.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("I'm worried about'eh, t'at's awl," sighs Alice, helping Mrs. Ginsburg roll out dough. "Fois' Lenoreh gets sick, an' Joe's try'na get t'at hamboigeh t'ing awff t'groun' an'nen t'is strike. I mean, we been awn strike fr'm t' plant awrmos' a mont' now, an' it ain' goin' nowheh. Sal says it's whatcha cawl a phony strike, but it's t' principle a' t' t'ing. An' she's woikin' up t'eh at Abraham n' Straus, y'know, on'y t'ey put'eh downa basemen'..." "Gehakte tsuris," sighs Mrs. Ginsburg, wiping flour on her apron. "An'nen some," agrees Alice, shaping the dough into a neat sheet. "An' she's oveh t'eh t'ry'na stir up a revehlution a' sump'n. Y'know how she gets. An' I'm worried. R'membeh when Joe got drafted an' she t'ried t'jump awnat train an' knocked t'at guy awff t' platfawrm? An'ney t'rew'eh in Bellevue? "The potatoes," interrupts Mrs. Ginsburg. "And the cheese. Put there." Alice does as directed, spooning the fluffy mixture in a neat line at one end of the dough sheet. "With Sally," resumes Mrs. G, "too much she thinks. A good mind, a good brain, but never does she -- what is to say -- toin off, like the radio. Never does she toin off." "She needs sump'n else t' t'ink about." "A distraction," nods Mrs. Ginsburg. "Now with the pepper, and then salt. Not so much -- a bisele. A little. Now rolling over to make -- like that." "Yeh." nods Alice, following as instructed. "Pinching now, like sausages," continues Mrs. G. "Pull apart now, pull apart in pieces. And with your hand, you are pushing. Like that. And then with the egg, you brush. "A distraction, huh?" ponders Alice, as she applies beaten egg. "Y'mean like sump'n else she c'n t'ink about?" "Zeyr gut, and in to bake," nods Mrs. G, sliding the tray into the range. "A distraction," repeats Mrs. Ginsburg, tapping the side of her head. "Something to occupy." "Hmmmm," hmms Alice, as a pleasing aroma wafts into the kitchen air...)

("Yawr in oily," observes Joe, as Heckie Capiello swaggers in, tossing the canvas bag on the counter. "Piece'a cake," snickers Heckie. "Nut'n to it. Go roun', pick up t' slips 'n t' dough, come back 'eeh." "Useta take Bink awl aftehnoon," frowns Joe. "Y'sueh y'gott'm awl?" "Ehhhh," sneers Heckie, reaching for a Milky Way. "Binkie was feat'ehbedd'n." He bites off a chunk of the candy bar and lets out a snort. "In moeh ways t'an one!" he chortles, to Joe's frowning disapproval. Joe takes the bag, unzips it, and looks inside. "Y'sueh?"" he warns. "Comes up shawrt, Ma'll have ya neck wit' gravy awn it." "Yeh," snickers Heckie. "Ya gonna pay f't'at can'y bawr?" scowls Joe. With a sullen glare, Heckie fishes in his jacket pocket and tosses a nickel on the counter. It lands with a dull thunk. Joe c ocks an eyebrow, picks up the coin, and applies a bicuspid. He scowls deeper and holds out his palm. "Come acraaaaawst," he warns. Heckie rolls his eyes and produces another coin, which tings cleanly as it hits the polished marble surface. Joe gather it in and rings up the sale. "Can't fawlt a guy," mutters Heckie, "f'tryin...")

("I wouldn' weah t'em shoes," scoffs Sally, "t'wa dawgfight." "You go," gapes Joy, "t' dawgfights? I neveh seen one." "Figyeh'ra speech," sighs Sally. "I mean look at'm. Fulla holes. Y'can't weah'rm out'na rain. No wondeh t'eh down'eeh." "Yeh," agrees Joy. "Awla stuff nobody wawnts ends up'na basemen." "Yeh," sighs Sally. "Awla -- stuff -- nobody wawnts....")

(Class of '49??? Optimistic, aren't we!)

(Cookie was the first Dodger to enlist after Pearl Harbor. Not enough is said about that, and it should be.)

(Kid, you're growing up too fast. You're even getting wrinkles.)

(Really? After having twins??)

(Ah, the exciting life of a cabbie.)

(Yeah, Sandy, get off your lazy duff and get some work done!)

(You're dealing in hot RAYON?????? Most Loser Crooks Ever.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Brrrrr.

Let's have THEM expose their bosoms in February.

So many decisions in life are shaped by irrelevant influences.

Another relaxing vacation draws to a close.

The show business bond is a powerful one.

"All right, but it's another day's room rent after check-out time."

You know, in many jurisdictions you have to be licensed to work on furnaces.

She finally left him. One can only take so much.

Post-atomic zombies don't need pi stol permits.

Most realistic married couple in the comics.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Worker...

There's a New World Coming.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Comes up shawrt, Ma'll have ya neck wit' gravy awn it."

I hope Heckie's not going to have to learn a painful lesson, but it doesn't look good.

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

Really? After having twins??

Seriously, that is not how that works.

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

You're dealing in hot RAYON?????? Most Loser Crooks Ever.

No kidding – look at how they're living. They should shift to the hot product of the moment, tungsten.

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

Brrrrr.

What do the pictures in the center fold look like?

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

Let's have THEM expose their bosoms in February.

They would in a heartbeat if women responded to it like men do.

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

Post-atomic zombies don't need pi stol permits.

 

[LizzieMaine]

From the -- ah -- centerfold of today's News, Brooklyn edition:

Miss Greer used to be married to Rudy Vallee, so she hasn't always been so concerned about being in style.

And also...

"Nope, not us. THAT'S WHERE WE DRAW THE LINE." -- Kay and Mae.

 

[Fading Fast]

Thank you, Lizzie

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Y'notice," fumes Sally, as the train rolls on toward picket duty, "t'ey ain' even tawkin' 'bout us no moeh! Not even inna Woikeh! T'whole strike's jus' a phony setup. T'eh gonna string it out, an'nen'ey'll sett'l f' peanuts, an'nen a whole bunch'vus 'll get laid awff. I been sayin' it awl alawng!" A Herald-Tribune reader in the seat forward turns around, glares, hunches his shoulders, and returns to his paper. "Yeh, t'at's right," growls Sally. "AT n' T is goin' up. Betteh buy now!" She glances at her seatmate, who is sagged back against the cushion. "Hey," Sally nudges. "Wake up. We'ehr'aw'mos't'eh!" "Ohhhhhhh," exhales Alice, glancing out of the corner of her eye to be sure the exhalation registers. "I musta dozed awff," she apologizes. "I din' get much sleep las' night. Me'n Siddy -- well, um, we -- uh -- hadda fight." "Oh?" queries Sally, her attention gained. "Yeh," nods Alice. "How could'ja tell?" snickers Sally. "It ain' funny, Sal," sighs Alice, putting maximum pathos into her voice. "We -- um -- had a few t'ings out. But -- uh -- I don' wanna boiden ya wit' my troubles....")

("Yeh, t'at's right," affirms Heckie Capiello into the telephone. "So I sez to 'eh, I says..." "Ye says," glowers Ma, approaching from the side, "Goodboye." She snaps her finger down on the hook to punctuate her comment. "I was goin'," asserts Heckie. "But it ain' cout' t' jus' hang up like t'at." "Ye was ten cents sharrrt last noit," Ma continues. "I was naaaht," protests Heckie. "We coo nted it twoice," retorts Ma. "We?" questions Heckie. "We," nods Ma, jerking her head toward the counter, where Leonora occupies a stool, hunched over a book. "T'at KID?" blusters Heckie. "Moind loike 'n addin' machine," warns Ma. "An'," she adds, shoving the canvas bag into his hands, "we'll be waaaatchin' ye...")

("It's my time and I'll do what I want with it!" -- Robert A. Taft.)

(How did Lichty ever get into my grandparents' kitchen?)

(Gee, and to think Ziggy Sears won't be working in the National League this year. He'll miss all the fun.)

("This isn't how you do it at all." -- Gyps.)

(And you thought Greenwich Village was bad.)

("Ha, get a load of the dame in the fake leopard!")

(It's hard to be an impressive figure of police authority in earmuffs.)

(AMERICA'S NUMBER ONE HERO DOG knows the plot's going nowhere.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

You get up some mornings, and the world just doesn't seem to make sense.

Ahhhhh, Peaches. Y'know, I hear Manville's free.

Life imitates art.

Point of order: what would a chemist have to do with inventing a miniature radio? Would an electronic engineer create a new drug? Hey, that would make a pretty good story.

Hopefully an advance man for Commander Ryan of Naval Intelligence...

He did call the fire department first, right? Oh wait, I forgot. Goofy's an idiot.

All that natural padding isn't just for looks.

That's right, set the underclasses against each other.

The Post-Atomic Horror starts now.

Yeah, you got an idea. Isn't that how all this started?