The Era -- Day By Day

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Worker...

"Raineth drop, and staineth slop, and how the wind doth ramm."

 

[Fading Fast]

"How could'ja tell?" snickers Sally.

Good one.

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And you thought Greenwich Village was bad.

I would take living in Times Square over living with two crying babies under one roof.

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

You know, it's one of the seven deadly ones.

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Life imitates art.

Happened last week with the ear and the kidnapping. Headlines ripped right from the comicstrips.

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

Somebody's been reading The Worker.

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The Post-Atomic Horror starts now.

I don't think I'm really vested in those two – and he's an idiot – so okay. But where are Annie and Sandy?

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Itsa gawdshones' trut'," declares Sally. "She tol' me from'eh'rown mout'. LEONOREH! Get t' cat awff t' table!" Joe rolls his eyes, whispers into his daughter's good ear, and gently scoops Stella to the floor. She glares back at him with green eyes glittering with accusation. "She tol' me," continues Sally thru a mouthful of scrambled egg, "t'at she'n Krause been doin' nut'n ev'ry night but fightin'!" "I ain' hoid nut'n," shrugs Joe, scraping his toast into his plate, and then stirring the crumbs into his eggs. "How c'n you do t'at?" frowns Sally. "S'good," shrugs Joe. "Makes'm taste like a campfieh." "Anyways," resumes Sally. "She says e's been goin' awnese rampages! Rampagin' like a wil' man!" Joe puts down his fork. "Krause??" he blurts. "Screamin' an' rant'n an' ravin'," insists Sally. "Like a wil' man." "Krause?????" repeats Joe, his eyes wide. "I ain' gonna stan' fawr it," announces Sally. "Alice is my bes' frien' -- well, cep' f' you -- an' she's stuck to me t'ru t'ick an' t'in. An' I ain' gonna stan' f' t'is. If Krause t'inks he c'n pull'at wil' man stuff, he's gotta'nutteh t'ink comin'! I'm gonna give t'is some hawrd t'inkin', an'nen I tell ya what I'm gonna do..." "Krause????????" wails Joe...)

("See, it's like t'is," explains Alice. "Y'know how Sal gets. T'is strike goin' awn like it is, takin'at jawb she hates jus' t'get by, awla trouble Joe been havin', Leonoreh's eeh -- if sump'n don' hap'n pretty quick she's gonna en' up right back in Bellevue. An' nobody wants'at." "Neh," agrees Krause, producing a cigar stump from his shirt pocket and considering its prospects. "So I figyeh," continues Alice, "why not give'h a, you know, a distraction, like Misses Ginsboig said. So yestehday I give'h t'is whole story 'bout how you'n me been fightin'." "Heh," hehs Krause, striking a match on the seat of his pants. "Yeh," chuckles Alice. "I tol'eh you was a wil' man." "Heh!" repeats Krause, coaxing the b utt back to life. "Yeh," laughs Alice. "I said you was runnin' aroun' awna rampage n' evry'ting. So what I was wondrin' was, maybe t'day, when she gets home fr'm Docteh Levine, less you'n me kin'a play it up, an' go up inna foyeh t'eh an' ack like ya wawkin' out awn me. Y'know, pack up a grip an' put awn ya hat an' coat an' slam out t'dooeh. T'en y'go aroun'a ot'eh side'a t'block an' go back inna couehtyawrd, an' come in t'ru t' back dooeh. She'll neveh know t' diffence, but it'll get'eh awl woiked up an' she'll wanna help, an'nat'll get'eh min' awff awlis ot'eh trouble she gawt. I awready tawked t' t' Ginsboigs, an' Solly Pincus, an'na Schriebsteins, an' ev'rybody, t'eh'll awl go alawng wit' it. Whatcha t'ink, willya be a wil' man fawr me?" Krause takes the cigar out of his mouth and grins. "Yeh!" he nods. "I don' mean like t'at..." blushes Alice....)

(You know, Mr. Holmes, it gets really cold at Braves Field in April, that wind whipping in off the Charles. We don't have that problem at Ebbets Field. Just sayin'.)

(For a man famous for carrying a fancy ri fle, Mr. Ryder sure does like to punch people.)

(Just don't scab the Western Union strike. Daffy Duck would, but Bugs is a good union rabbit.)

(I wonder if Ernie Bushmiller has cataracts.)

(Y'know, gals, serge shrinks when wet.)

(All right, that beats anything Chester Gould ever came up with.)

(He's been stuck on First Chronicles since 1930.)

(Enjoy your visit.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"He has made his bed and he can lie in it." Well, isn't that how it all started?

Well, it's more likely to happen than a 200,000 seat domed stadium in Flushing.

Send your get-well cards to W. E. Hill, News Syndicate Co., NY.

If you're going to frame up on somebody, here's a good way to do it.

The atomic blast induces a strange cellular mutation, and the young girl and her dog will remain ten years old -- forever!

It takes a certain body type to succeed in the brutal competition of figure skating, and kid, you ain't it.

It's like putting on a coat you haven't worn in months, and finding an unmailed bill in the pocket.

Andy, a college man? Well, I guess that proves something. And sometimes, sad to say, the trolling just doesn't work out.

Point of order: if it's powered, is it really a glider?

I'm just impressed he fixed it without taking it out of the cabinet.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Worker...

The size of the mouth is in inverse proportion to the value of the speech.

 

[Fading Fast]

"He has made his bed and he can lie in it." Well, isn't that how it all started?



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Well, it's more likely to happen than a 200,000 seat domed stadium in Flushing.

In grammar and middle school in the 1970s, they tried to shove that metric stuff down our throats, but by high school, the faculty's enthusiasm for it had waned.

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The atomic blast induces a strange cellular mutation, and the young girl and her dog will remain ten years old -- forever!

"Flapdoodle" Where'd that come from?

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It's like putting on a coat you haven't worn in months, and finding an unmailed bill in the pocket.

Brothers was a roaring *ss and just the type to do this.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("You shoulda SEEN'im," thunders Sally. "Slammin' aroun'at foyeh like a skinny bawl-headed g'rilleh! An' Alice is givin' it right back t'wim. An'ee goes stawmpin' out t'dooeh, an'ee toins aroun' an' looks at'eh an' y'know what'ee SAYS?" "What?" gapes Lil Schreibstein. "He says," continues Sally, "MEH!" "Y'd neveh guess it," marvels Lil. "T'ey say t'em quiet guys issa woist. Morrie says he seen 'im come in'eeh, must'a been right afteh. He come in t'use t'phone. Soun'ed like'ee was real mad. Morrie says he was yellin' awna phone "YEH!" oveh'rn'oveh. Whatcha t'ink it means?" "It MEANS," declares Sally, "t'at we gotta stawp it." "T'at's what she said y'd say," nods Lil. "Huh?" huhs Sally. "Um," ums Lil. "Lottie. Yeh. Lottie says -- um -- she hoid it fr'm Leonoreh." "I gotta tawk t't'at kid," grumbles Sally. "I do'wanneh growin' up t'be no gawssip.")

("I dunno, Joe," sighs Solly. "Seems t'me gett'n married jus' buys ya a loada trouble. None f'me, t'anks.' "It's awright," counters Joe. "It's got whatchacawl benefits." "Krause don' t'ink so," declares Solly. 'I hoid'at mess w'en awn oveh'ta house las' night. You wasn' 'eh, ya missed it. But he wasn' doin' no pretendin'." "I still don' buy it," dismisses Joe. "Misteh GInsboig tol' me what was goin' awn. He don' like t' ideeh much, but he figyehs it won' do no hawrm." "Lemme ask ya," queries Solly. "You'n Sal. You been married eight yeehs, right.' "Awmos'," acknowledges Joe. "You eveh have a fight?" interrogates Solly. "Nawt really," shrugs Joe. "Maybe 'n awrgyehmen' once'n'a while, but no fights." "If you was t'PRETEN' t' have a fight," presses Solly, "what wouldja say?" "Who'eh you awluvvasudden?" frowns Joe. "Docteh Levine?" "T'at MEH," analyzes Solly, "t'at din' c'mutta now'eh. T'ez sump'n goin' awn." "Jus' cause YOU do'wanna get married," scoffs Joe, "don' mean ev'rybody else don't." "You wait'n see," warns Solly....)

("Ain'choo eveh clean' t'is room?" remonstrates Rosa Capiello. "Lookita'wli's junk." She bends down pick up a garment strewn over a chair. "Sweateh fr'm -- Mawrtin's, no less, well laaah de daaah," she snorts. "An' y'din'even take t'tag awff." "I gottat las' yeeh," dismisses Bink, her face pale and sour. "I was gonna take it back but t'ey don' lemme inneh no moeh." "Y'can't jus' sit in'eeh f't'nex' two mont's, y'know," counsels Rosa. "Jus' cause ya havin' a baby don' mean ya gotta be a hoimit." "Maybe I oughta do JUS' t'at!" retorts Bink. "Awr -- hey, maybe I'll jern' t' sistehs. Sisteh Mary Bawrbra." "HAH!" explodes Rosa. "Leas' t'eh won' be no joiks in one'a t'em nun jernts," pouts Bink. "Joiks t'at don' ask ya to go t'no pitchehs no moeh, don' even give ya t'time'a day." "You said," recalls Rosa, "y'don' WANNA go t'no moeh pitchehs." "I don't," agrees Bink. "But I at leas' wanna satsfaction'a tellin' HIM t'at!" "Huh," huhs Rosa. "Gett'n Goitie's Gawrteh. Gettn' Binkie's Goat....")

("Although it might help if you didn't buckle those earflaps so tight.")

("An aged N egro servant wearing satin breeches and a Montreal uniform shirt." It is fortunate for the future historical legend of certain prominent baseball figures that no film footage of this particular performance exists.)

(This better be worth the build-up.)

(Assistant Babysitter Third Class reporting for duty...)

(If you don't wear sable, don't bother at all.)

("Oh? May I see your identification please?")

("Hound?" Nah, more like some weird labraterrier or something.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Ew.

"T'ey want us t' hang up t'ese signs," sighs Joy. "Happy Valentine's Day," reads Sally. "Y'gotta be kid'n." "Ain' it roman'ic?" exhales Joy...

"I'm so tired of this arguing! You wear one, and she can wear the other!"

"Anything you say -- sppt, sorry, another one of my teeth just fell out."

Sigh.

Mr. Smith's weight loss proceeds in peculiar ways. 25 inch shoulders and a 5 5/8 head.

Corky has what subsequent generations will one day call "swag."

Don't worry, I'm sure there's plenty of work out there for a N azi scientist.

The Court-Martial of Lt. Terry Lee....

"McArgue?" I resent the implication that we of Scotch-Irish blood are combative. YEAH YA WANNA MAKE SUMP'N OUT'VITT????

 

[Fading Fast]

"Sweateh fr'm -- Mawrtin's, no less, well laaah de daaah," she snorts. "An' y'din'even take t'tag awff." "I gottat las' yeeh," dismisses Bink, her face pale and sour. "I was gonna take it back but t'ey don' lemme inneh no moeh."

Well done. There's a lot tucked in there if you know the character and backstory.

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"Although it might help if you didn't buckle those earflaps so tight."

Sadly, Sally and Joe are not laughing at this one.

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Ew.

I get that he was obviously distraught, but couldn't he have done it when the kids weren't asleep upstairs. And there is still an E. B. Meyrowitz Optical in NYC.

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Mr. Smith's weight loss proceeds in peculiar ways. 25 inch shoulders and a 5 5/8 head.

I'm getting stupider, as I don't really understand this storyline and never quite have.


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"McArgue?" I resent the implication that we of Scotch-Irish blood are combative. YEAH YA WANNA MAKE SUMP'N OUT'VITT????

No, Sally, uh, I mean, Lizzie.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("I am glad to do," nods Mr. Ginsburg to the tall bespectacled gentleman at the shop counter. "This work, I do not do so much now, the eyes you understand. But for you, for a friend, I will fix." "I got t'em pants hemmed, Misteh G," announces Sammy Schreibstein, entering from the rear. "Ah, very good mine boy," nods Mr. G. "Ah," he adds, turning to his client. "May I present mine apprentice, a young man loining the trade. Sameleh, meet Magistrate Solomon." "I'm glad to know you, young man," nods the Magistrate, offering his hand. "I read aboutcha inna papeh," grins Sammy. "My pop says he voted fawr ya when ya run f' DA." "Very good," chuckles the Magistrate. "At least someone did. Mendel, I'll come by next week for the coat, and please extend my regards to Esther." Pleasantries concluded, the Magistrate exits the shop, and bracing himself against the cold drizzle of 18th Avenue, he pauses to light a cigarette -- only to be nearly bowled over by the hurtling form of a purposeful young girl. "Sawry, Misteh," gushes Lottie Schreibstein. "You're in quite a hurry, young lady," smiles the Magistrate. "Where's the fire." "Ain'o fieh," declares Lottie, after looking up and down the street to be certain. "I jus' come t' get my brot'eh, t'at's awl. Ma wants he should come home 'n look afteh t' stoeh. She's goin' oveh t' help Mrs. Krause." "Mrs. Krause," blinks the Magistrate, his curiosity roused. "On 63rd Street?" "Yeh," explains Lottie, assuming a knowing glance. "Ma's helpin' out. Y'know how it is. Cawwwnnfiden'chly, Misteh Krause is a wil' man." "He is??" questions the Magistrate. "Yeh," nods Lottie. "An' does he raaaaaampage!" "Does he?" gapes the Magistrate....)

("I ain' got time f'lunch t'day, sighs Sally, as Joy invites her to take a seat on the bench. "I'm goin' upstaiehs t' t' big stoeh. I wanna look at -- sump'n f' my little goil. Ask some questions 'bout it." "T' toy d'pawrtmen's gawt some nice stuff," nods Joy. "If I had a lit'l goil, I'd give'h awlkin'sa toys." "I wish t'is was a toy," murmurs Sally. "But it ain't...")

(DON'T GIVE 'EM ANY IDEAS!)

(OK, so think about it. Dixie Walker is going on 36. His knees are completely shot. His statistical accomplishments over the past couple of years were, let's face it, inflated by wartime pitching. And he has made public statements suggesting he may not be entirely enchanted by the idea of Mr. Rickey's Great Experiment. Sooooo, all I'm saying is, DON'T TRADE OLMO!!!!!!!)

(Gypsy would never do this. Margie Hart might.)

(Careful what you wish for...)

("Oh, and you owe me for the coffee...")

(If you're going out in the snow and slush with those shoes on, you'll need Mr. Rosa's services soon enough.)

(Yeah, don't waste your time on RAYON!)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

The Golden Age of stamp collecting.

Coming events...

How many prototypes did you need?

We once had a truck with the door held on by clothesline.

That's right, knobhead --- endear yourself.

Optimist.

Well, that's how Joe and Sally started.

"Sigh. Could you at least not call me that?"

Schadenfreude.

"It's just a street where old friends meet..."

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Worker...

Wheels within wheels...

 

[Fading Fast]

"Mrs. Krause," blinks the Magistrate, his curiosity roused. "On 63rd Street?" "Yeh," explains Lottie, assuming a knowing glance. "Ma's helpin' out. Y'know how it is. Cawwwnnfiden'chly, Misteh Krause is a wil' man." "He is??" questions the Magistrate. "Yeh," nods Lottie. "An' does he raaaaaampage!" "Does he?" gapes the Magistrate....

Oy

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Gypsy would never do this. Margie Hart might.

I'm getting a Dolores Del Río vibe:

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Coming events...

Babe Ruth died of throat cancer.

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Sigh. Could you at least not call me that?

Poor kid can't win. Even when someone does something nice for him, they fire out an insult along the way.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Um," ums Alice, adjusting the black veil pinned around her hat as she stands before the meat counter at the 18th Avenue Roulston's. "Gimme one'a t'em chickens'eh. No, not t'at skinny one, n' one next t'wit. Yeh. An' cut t'feet awff." "Hey," sniffs the butcher as he slaps the carcass down on his block, and with one swing of his cleaver severs the feet. ""Ain'choo t'at dame t'ey run outta heeh las' summeh? F' sluggin'at mout'y blawnde?" "Um," stammers Alice. "T'at wasn' me, no, t'at was -- uh -- some -- uh -- ot'eh big Irish dame wit' red haieh. I hoid she moved t' Greenpernt a'sump'n." "Oh," shrugs the butcher, handing her the chicken, neatly trussed in brown paper. "Mrs. Krause?" comes a sudden voice approaching from behind. "I thought I recognized you." "OH," jumps Alice, turning to face her inquisitor. "Oh!" she repeats upon recognizing his identity. "Faw'teh Kelleheh! Um, 'magine runnin' inta you inneeh. I neveh -- um -- seen no faw'teh buyin' groceries befoeh, um, I jus' figyehed - um -- but no, I guess you ain' got no wife, so' -- um -- well, yeh..." She trails off, her fingers digging into the chicken for support. "Um," she resumes. "H'lo..." "I'm glad to see you," Father Kelleher continues. "I've actually been meaning to come around to see you." "Um," stumbles Alice. "What'd I do? I ain' in no trouble, I mean, wit' Gawd a' nut'n? Am I?" "It's just that I know," continues the Father, "that this must be a very difficult time for you, and I wanted to assure you that I..." "Difficult time?" replies Alice in a tight, terrified whisper. "OHHHH!" she declares. "You mean abou tt' str..." "I heard about Mr. Krause," injects the Father, "and I wanted to..." "Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh......" groans Alice, as the chcken thuds against the hard wooden floor....)

("I tawked t't'is guy at Abraham n' Straus," sighs Sally. "Up inna optic'l d'pawrtm'nt. T'ey got t'is guy sells hearin' aids." "Ain'it a lit'l oily t'be t'inkin'a t'at?" counters Joe. "Docteh Glass says it's still a chance 'eh hearin' innat eeh might get betteh. An'ee din' say nut'n 'bout no hearin' aid." "'S'been, what," continues Sally. "Six, seven weeks? I laws' count. But it ain' get'n no betteh. You seen'eh in'neh layin' on'neh side t'ry'na heeh t' radio. She's pressin'eh bad eeh 'gainst'a flooeh, like t'ez still pressueh inneh'ra sump'n. An' ya ask'eh, she won' say nut'n, she jus' covehs up t'at eeh an' won' tawk at awll. Did I show ya t' letteh fr'm Docteh Minkoff? She's doin'a same t'ing at t' clinic. She won' play wit' none'a t' ot'eh kids, a' nut'n. She jus' sits inna cawrneh an' reads a book." "A hearin' aid," sighs Joe. "T'at cawsts money. An' what if she don' wanna weahr'it?" "I t'oght I'd take'eh inta woik wit' me t'marra," proposes Sally. "Let'eh run aroun'a book d'pawartmen' till I'm awn lunch, an'nen take 'eh up t'see t' hearin' aid guy. It can't hoit t'see what 'ee says. She..." "Hey," comes a voice entering the kitchen. "Awr you," demands Leonora, "tawkin' 'bout me?" "Didja heeh?" questions Sally. "No," admits Leonora. "But'choo ain' yellin' 'bout nut'n. Ain'a good sign...")

(No free calendar for you!)

("Sooch a pity," sighs Ma. "He was sooch a foine actaaar. That 'Green Goddess,' now that was a movin' pitcharrr." "Ehh," shrugs Uncle Frank. "Oi r'membarr whin we went t'see that. Ye think a pitcharr with a name loike that -- well, Oi was disapparnted, that's aaahl." "An' when he played that Disreeli," continues Ma. "Th' oold rascal." "Ooold," sighs Uncle Frank. "An' here you'n me, we ain't gettin' noo yoongar." "Speak f'yeself," snickers Ma....)

($7500? I hear Veracruz is very nice in the summer.)

(This wouldn't be happening if LaGuardia was still in charge.)

(Do we really have to do this? Can't we do six weeks on Mary opening a diaper service?)

("Of course I can identify her in that cheap trampy dyed rabbit!")

(Bolo brand? Made with love in der Argentine?)

(The easiest way to get rid of a job you don't want is to make yourself dispensible.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

I really wonder how these two didn't end up involved in the Langford case.

"Ain' I got trouble enough awready, livin' inna Bronx?"

And guess who'll hog the window seat.

Industrial espionage weaves a tangled web...

All right pooch. ACT.

Don't know when to quit while you're ahead.

Yeah, but Joe and Sally were in their twenties.

Hey, good practice for when you're a lonely old man.

Shopping for a new car when your old one still runs.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Sooch a pity," sighs Ma. "He was sooch a foine actaaar.

Of his day, but he really was a talented actor.

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Do we really have to do this? Can't we do six weeks on Mary opening a diaper service?

You've said it before, can't we – please dear God – check in on Leona?

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

"Of course I can identify her in that cheap trampy dyed rabbit!"

Just sayin'.

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

Bolo brand? Made with love in der Argentine?

I hear they are expanding into tungsten.

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

I really wonder how these two didn't end up involved in the Langford case.

What is this "Langford case" of which you speak?

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

And guess who'll hog the window seat.

Is the Army really this bad at sorting this stuff out?

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

All right pooch. ACT.

"Don't worry. I'll help you. The name of the comicstrip you're in is "Little Orphan Sandy." I'm the star and you are my trusted companion. I have a bunch of adventures and you're always there to help me. Your name is Annie, but that's not important."

 

[LizzieMaine]

("I dunno," sighs Sally. "Huh," huhs Alice. "I t'ought you'd -- you know, have a plan a' sump'n, t' get Siddy t' go back t' wheh'ree wasn' no wil' man. You awrways gotta plan. C'mon, les' t'ink one up." "I jus' dunno," repeats Sally. "I t'ought it oveh, an', well, look -- if 'e's gonna be like t'at, gonna go awn rampages an' go stawmpin' out t' dooeh, t'en good riddance. You don' need 'im. You din' have 'im befoeh, an' ya got alawng awright." "But..." sputters Alice, sensing her scheme going awry. "I mean," continues Sally, "you c'n supeh t'is buildin' by yaself, an' y'know who can help? Solly Pincus, t' big dope. He ain' runnin' 'roun' wit' Bink Scanlan no moeh, he got plenny'a time. Yeah, if Krause wants t'be like t'at t'enn'a hell wit'tim." "But..." repeats Alice, but she gets no further before she is interrupted by a knock at the door. She opens to find Sammy Schreibstein. "Phone cawl fawr ya, Missis K," he reports. "DIn' soun' like somebody wan'ned t' be kep' wait'n." "Awright," sighs Alice, grabbing her coat. "I'll be right back." The door closes, and Sally lets out a sigh of her own, as she picks up a copy of the Woman's Home Companion and pointlessly riffles thru its pages. She sighs again. "Awright," she calls out in a raised voice. "Y'can come out now." Slowly the boiler room door creaks open. "Yeh," exhales Krause as he guiltily shambles in...)

("I guess Sal was right about t'at strike," sighs Joe. "T'ey been out goin' awn a mont' 'na half, an'neh ain' been no progress. An' nobody's even tawkin' 'bout it. She goes out'teh onna picket once a week, caus'ey gott'at injunction out'a plant, an'n'at's it." "At least she's naaaht throoin' noo bricks," sighs Ma. "That woon at Woolwaaarth's, an' all thim coppars. Oi doon't knoo whar she gets it, they didn't have noo stroike's goin' ahhn whin Oi was a lit'l garrrl in Oireland." "Huh," huhs Joe. "Noo," continues Ma. "If tharrr was t'be inny bricks throon, we throo'm at th' blooody sasanachs...")

(No, those are modular houses. Let's get the details straight.)

("South of the borrrrrrderrrrrr, down Mexico way....")

("I dunno how you c'n eat t'is stuff," frowns Rosa, unpacking the shopping bag she has just delivered. "Six boxes 'a Kraft Dinneh? Don' t' ol' lady feed ya?" "I do'wanna go down'eh," grumbles Bink. "Ev'rybody looks at me." "Hey," yelps Rosa. "Y'spost'a COOK t'at stuff. Lookit, 'cha gett'na't cheese powdeh awl oveh..." "Eh," ehs Bink, brushing the yellow dust off her shapeless second-hand maternity dress. "Kin'a livens'a place up." "You gotta snap out'a t'is," declares Rosa. "Whatta you doin'eh...?" "I'm mawrkin' inna papeh," sighs Bink. "Awla pitchehs I'm glad I ain't seein'. 'Love, Honeh 'n Goo-Bye.' I'm glad I ain' seein'at. T' Los' Weekend. I don'eed t'see T'AT. Fawllen Angel..." "Yeh," snorts Rosa. "T'at's you awright...")


(That would've been a great metaphor in 1929.)

(Hey, don't worry. It's not like they'll make a movie of it.)

("Hey, she forgot her coat. Oh good, my dog needs a new bed, if I had a dog.")

(Yes, writers are the most helpless people in the world.)

(AMERICA'S NUMBER ONE ALLEY DOG takes nut'n from nobody. Except a warm bed and three squares.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

New Jane Arden storyline CONFIRMED.


Somebody in the News layout department doesn't like that Butch has a sponsor.

"Brilliant?" Meet my other kid, Plankhead.

Coming Events...

Office politics.

At least until the tungsten bubble pops.

I did this myself when I was about Judy's age, but I won no concessions.

Somebody could make a lot of money right now with some surplus Quonset huts.

"At least I remember how to skip town when the storyline is over..."

Hours are as billable as you want them to be.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Worker...

I once sat ten feet away from Pete Seeger, so does that mean I'm one degree of separation from Mike Gold? It's a small world.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Y'can come out now." Slowly the boiler room door creaks open. "Yeh," exhales Krause as he guiltily shambles in...

As you often say: "Wheels within wheels."

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"I'm mawrkin' inna papeh," sighs Bink. "Awla pitchehs I'm glad I ain't seein'. 'Love, Honeh 'n Goo-Bye.' I'm glad I ain' seein'at. T' Los' Weekend. I don'eed t'see T'AT. Fawllen Angel..." "Yeh," snorts Rosa. "T'at's you awright..."

Go see "Detour;" everyone's life looks better after seeing that movie.

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New Jane Arden storyline CONFIRMED.

No kidding but what a crazy story. I also like how confident Sammy was that she was a real blonde. Come on kid, tell us the truth, did she give you a peek? Last thought, how happy will Inky be that a billet doux can go by air to California?

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Office politics.

I really need to see Sandhurst get his due.

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I did this myself when I was about Judy's age, but I won no concessions.

You wouldn't have tried that on my dad. I know I wasn't going to.

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Hours are as billable as you want them to be.

Something doctors today are trying very hard to maximize. (Ditto accountants.)