The Era -- Day By Day

[LizzieMaine]

("Um," mumbles Alice, squirming in her downtown clothes. "Do you know," frowns Magistrate Solomon, "why I asked you to come here today?" "Ummmmm," repeats Alice, wringing the handle of her purse. "I was in your neighborhood the other afternoon," continues the Magistrate, selecting a cigarette from a lacquer box on his desk. He offers the box to Alice, who nervously demurs. He lights up, takes a puff, and rests the cigarette on a streamlined ashtray. "I heard something that -- concerns me." "Oh," stumbles Alice, examining the floor tiles. "This matter with Mr. Krause," continues the Magistrate. "Now, your personal affairs are of course your own concern, but when the welfare of a child is..." "Um," repeats Alice, "t'is ain' got nut'n'a do wit' Willie. It's 'caus'a my frien' Sal." "Oh?" replies the Magistrate, his eyebrow raised. "I mean, it ain' like Sal knows about it a' nut'n," stammers Alice. "I was try'na keep it secret." "I'm sorry," exhales the Magistrate, taking off his glasses and applying pressure to his forehead. "This -- ah -- secret caused your husband to go on -- ah -- a rampage, I believe is what I heard? And to behave as a -- wild man? And your friend Sal? Who is he?" "No, no," stutters Alice. "He ain'a he Sal, she's a she Sal. Sally Petrauskas, lives upstaiehs. You met'eh at t' wedd'n." "Oh yes," nods the Magistrate. "The loud one with the glasses, I believe." He replaces his spectacles and deepens his frown. "Am I to understand from all this that Mrs. Petrauskas and Mr. Krause are..." "NO! NO! NO!" yelps Alice. "T'ey AIN'T. I mean, 'ney get alawng pretty good, see, Siddy is one'a ya real quiet guys, an' Sal, well... Anyways, it ain' nut'n like ya sayin', no no no." "Ah," repeats the Magistrate. "Suppose you start at the beginning." "Well," sighs Alice, "I met Sal when she stawrted woikin' at West'en Electric. See, I knew who she *was*, 'cause I know -- knew - um, you know -- 'eh brot'eh. T'at's Mickey Sweeney, an', um, well, he ain' nobody. F'gettabout'im. Anyways, we got to be good frien's, Sal an' me, I mean, Mickey ain' got no friens, an' well, skip ahead, an' well, Sal's hadda rough line'a luck lately. Her lit'l goil got sick, hadda opehration, an' now she can't heeh outa one eeh. An'neh husban's tryin'a be t' Big Joe San'wich guy, an' out t'plant we wen' awn strike. An', well, I din' wanneh to go an' -- you know, go pushin' nobody awff t' subway platfawrm a' nut'n, so I t'ought if I preten'ed t'at Siddy was a wil' man, y'see, it might get'teh min' awff 'eh troubles. Um, y'see?" The Magistrate takes a puff of his cigarette and leans back in his chair. "You are," he sighs, "a remarkable woman, Mrs. Krause." "I am?" whispers Alice....)

("I wantcha t'come t'woik wit' me t'marra," requests Sally. "Leonoreh! I said I wantcha t'come t'woik wit' me t'marra." Leonora narrows her eyes and tilts her head to favor her good ear. "How much," she scowls. "What?" puzzles Sally. "How much," repeats Leonora, "I gonna get?" "What??" reiterates Sally. "How MUCH?" insists Leonora. "I ain' woikin' f' free." "No," dismisses Sally. "I wancha t'meet a man." "I don' need to' meet no man," rejects Leonora. "I got 'nuff trouble." "Hmmm," hmms Sally. "Y'seem t' heeh t'em soap operas good enough." "What?" "Nut'n...")

("Look," insists Rosa. "Clawrk Gable. Whatcha say we go oveh t' City, take t'at in? "Clawrk Gable," sneers Bink. "I'm offa any man wit' eehs.")

("That's not funny." -- Butch)

(Curt Davis is 41, "it says here." Ha ha.)

(The dismal science.)

("Hmmmm." -- T. Manville.)

(Wait, does an out-of-town reporter even have jurisdiction here?)

("Who do you think I am, JANE ARDEN?")

(Aw, he just wants to play.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

I guess there's a lot of women who might be dazzled by the appeal of a man in uniform...

Yeah, but what about the WEEA? Remember them??

"But only if there isn't a transcribed commercial for Lifebuoy, they like to sing along with those."

Ask Bumley Gump.

Tinnitus is one possible symptom of radiation exposure. Just thought you'd like to know.

Divide and conquer.

You could rent them your back room, it's not like you do anything with it...

"And after that, your formal debriefing will be handled by Commander Ryan of Naval Intelligence..."

"Oh, son, I warned you about that chemistry set, and now look at you..."

Say what you will about Emmy, flipping an egg like that takes skill.

 

[Fading Fast]

"The loud one with the glasses, I believe."

Perfect, just perfect.

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"I'm offa any man wit' eehs."

Nice. Surprisingly, I've never seen "Adventure," which tells me TCM, despite it being an MGM movie and in its library, doesn't run it much.

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First time I've laughed from a "Mary Worth" line in a long time.

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"And after that, your formal debriefing will be handled by Commander Ryan of Naval Intelligence..."

Wouldn't that be just deserts.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("It nivvar fails," laments Ma. "Aaaaaahlways soomthin'. We cooldn' get cooal, we poot in aaaaaarl. We pooot in aaaaarl, an' now we caaaaan't get that! Francis, ye've gaaaht t'do soomthin'. Th' p'lice aaar handlin' this, taaalk t' Doyle. He ooowes oos." "Um," ums Joe, "I gotta go -- um --inna back room f'ra minute. Watch t' grill, willya?" Ma shakes her head as her son-in-law exits. "That boy," she sighs, "an' his ethics. Boot as Oi was sayin', ye haaave got t' talk t' Doyle." "Ye know hoo he is, Nora," frowns Uncle Frank. "Thaaaar'l be a special saaaarchaaarge. An' it ain't loike th' oold days. Oi can't joost roon a batch a' whiskey an' watch th' mooney rool in." "Yarrr gett'n t'be," eyerolls Ma, "as haaanest as Joseph." "It doos," Uncle Frank sighs, "haaave its disadvantages.)

("Ya let," marvels Joy, "ya litt'l goil loose up inna big stoeh? Ain' she on'y five?" "Foeh'r'na half," sighs Sally. "Acks like she's fifteen sometimes. Anyways, I putteh inna book d'pawrtmen', she'll jus' sit inna cawrneh an' read a book." As if on cue, a flustered gentlemen enters the Basement, and makes a beeline for the yard goods table. "Hey," heys Joy. "Heeh comes t' flooehwawkeh fr'm up t'eh." "Mrs. Petrauskas!" yips that dignitary. "You simply must do something about your daughter." "I been tryin' f' foeh'r'na half yeehs," sighs Sally. "What's she doin' now?" "She is," erupts the floorwalker, "haranguing the customers." "G'waaan," grins Sally. "My lit'l goil?" "She IS," repeats the floorwalker. "She was standing on the ladder we use to reach the upper shelves, and she was reading from THIS BOOK!" He hands her a slim volume. "T' Aieh Conditioned Nightmaeh," reads Sally. "By Henry Milleh. Hmph. Neveh hoid'v'im." She flips thru the book, and her eyes light on a passage. "'It is a woil''," she reads aloud, "cluttehed wit' useless objects which men an' women, in awrdeh t'be exploited an' denigrated, awr taught t' regawrd as usef'l..." "You see?" sputters the floorwalker. "We simply can't have that sort of thing!" "T'en," reasons Sally, "howcome ya sellin' it?" "It was on the remainder table," scowls the floorwalker." "Huh," huhs Sally. "How much?" "Pardon me?" demands the annoyed functionary. "The book? All items on that table are one dollar." "Give ya half a buck," offers Sally. "Just CONTROL YOUR DAUGHTER!" huffs the floorwalker. "Eh," Sally ehs, as she follows him up the stairs. "Henry Milleh, huh? Hey, he write anyt'ing else...?)

("Dear Geo. Lichty. Your invitation to speak before the Mineola Ladies' Wednesday Afternoon Uplift League is hereby rescinded...")

("We really should have gotten Holmes when we had the chance," sighs Mr. Parrott. "He's a natural." "He has many talents," acknowledges Mr. Rickey. "Including the ability to extract $30,000 from Mr. Perini. We have too many other gentlemen in our employ with similar skills." "Hey," heys Mr. Parrott. "What about Medwick? He can't run, but he can still hit." "Mr. Medwick is a man with whom I have had many disagreements over the years," frowns Mr. Rickey, "on matters of essential principle." "Didn't he try," chuckles Mr. Parrott, "to get twenty grand out of you in St. Louis? And then you sold him to MacPhail for a hundred and twenty five?" "As I say," affirms Mr. Rickey. "I am a man of principle." "And you never dip into it," mutters Mr. Parrott...)

(I can't wait for the Congressional investigation.)

(Jeff shields his eyes when he walks past a newsstand.)

(Little overdressed for a walk in the woods, aren't we?)

(I don't know, but he clearly needs to do something about his arthritis.)

(What ever became of Mama Frosch and Abe?)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Clean him out, Sonj. Topping is a louse.

"Old Man Adler" was one of the more unusual and endearing figures of 1940s New York popular culture, but one fact about him has always eluded me. I wonder how tall he was?

Sure, she'll be JUST FINE. Oh, and I'm glad Terry remembers that plot thread from, what, four months ago, because I certainly didn't.

Clearly not an English major.

Tough luck, Walt. The first sixty years are always the hardest.

How many times has he pulled this? Wise up, kid.

Van Johnson? Well, uh...

Bo never forgets HIS lines.

"But hurry, lights out at eight-thirty. And I'll have a big bowl of Cream of Wheat waiting for you when you get back."

Industrial espionage is a game played for keeps.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Worker...

Or as Winchell calls him, "Gerald Lucifer K K Kodfish Smith."

 

[Fading Fast]

This feels dated even for 1946, as everyone knew, even then, that the future of aviation was the jet engine.

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I can't wait for the Congressional investigation.

If having a stupid process for picking stocks was illegal, half of Wall Street would be in jail. (Yes, I see the joke I set up there.)

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Little overdressed for a walk in the woods, aren't we?

"What, this old thing? It's my knock-around fur. I have a newer and nicer one at home."

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"Old Man Adler" was one of the more unusual and endearing figures of 1940s New York popular culture, but one fact about him has always eluded me. I wonder how tall he was?

I'm taking the under on 5'7", no regular-height or tall guy ever started a shoes-for-short-people business. That's a business that begins as a passion project.

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I'm glad Terry remembers that plot thread from, what, four months ago, because I certainly didn't.

I didn't either, but then we have a lot more plot threads to follow than Terry does.

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Van Johnson? Well, uh...

Try tossing that one out in 1946.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("I was on'y try'na help," murmurs Alice, sitting abashed at the Petrauskas kitchen table. "Yeh," nods Sally. "I know. I'm sawry f' YOU, I mean, awla gossips inna neighbehhood's been havin' a fiel' day. I had somebody say t'me oveh t' Schreibstein's 'well, I guess pretty soon'at frien'a yez is gonna be on Page Foeh t'eh, right nexta Tommy Manville!" "Who?" puzzles Alice, sipping her Sanka. "Oh, you musta hoid'v'im," replies Sally. "Stella, geddown awf t' table." She scoops the indignant feline onto the floor, and receives a baleful glare in response. "Yeh, Tommy Manville 'zis rich joik. His ol' man inven'ed asbestos 'a sump'n. Awla time'eez gett'n married an'nen gett'n d'voehced. Marries awl'ese dumb dames 'neveh read t' papehs, I guess. Takes awl 'kin's." "I'm glad Siddy ain' like t'at," sighs Alice. "I do'wanna get in dutch wit' t' choich a' nut'n." "I wondeh," snickers Sally, "if Bink Scanlan eveh hoid'a Tommy Manville. Anyways, y'll be happy t'know I didn' slug t'at dame t'at made t'at crack. I t'ought about it, but y'know, I realized if I did, I'd dissapernt 'cha, afteh y'wenta awlat trouble." "I'm glad t'heeh t'at," nods Alice. "Sluggin' people ain' -- well, it usually ain' -- um -- mosta t' time it ain' t'anseh." "Too bad, t'ough," chuckles Sally. "She was so proud'v'eh'self sayin'at, she jus' walked right inta my ankle." Alice blinks, and gazes at her friend, who in perfect innocence sips her tea...)

("It's jus' one t'ing afteh'ranot'eh," sighs Joe, idly scraping his grill. "Why'zit so cold in'eeh," frowns Heckie Capiello. "Go tr'ow awn some coal." "You know we got ridda t' coal," frowns Joe. "T'ezz'n erl boineh down'eh. An' we gotta watch t' erl." "Aw, p'leeeze," snorts Heckie. "T'ez plenny'a erl, y'jus' gotta pull some strings." "I ain'," sighs Joe, "inna string-pullin' business." "Well, I can't sit'heeh'r'n freeze," protests Heckie. "Lookit, my san'wich is cold. T'row it back awna grill t'eh an' heat it up." "Y'took a bite out," snaps Joe. "T'at ain' sanitary, put'nat back awna grill." "Jeeeeziz," marvels Heckie. "Whatta you, t' Lone Rangeh, Captain Mawrv'l, an'na, I dunno, t' king'a t' Boy Scouts awl rol't inna one?" "Ahhhhh," growls Joe. "Go sit awna tack." "I dunno," exhales Heckie, "how YOU eveh got mixed up wit' T'IS fam'ly." "Jus' lucky," declares Joe, "I guess...")

(Panama??? YANKEES GO HOME.)

(That seems to happen a lot around here.)

(You know, I'm just about ready to try this.)

(What remark could I possibly make?)

(Remember when Kate Smith was a guest star in "The Gumps?" I wonder when she'll show up in "Mary Worth?")

(Everybody just wants a little action.)

(Gen. Bradley was a left fielder. I hope the Rankin Committee doesn't find out.)

(Whattaya bet Zetta is secretly ghost-writing all of Miss Naaaahvaaah's novels?)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

A heavyweight boxer, a movie actor, a speedboat racer, and a Peruvian millionaire. Odds on the next candidate: opera tenor 2-1, phony count 5-1, Indian chief 10-1, Tommy Manville EVEN.

Mr. Hill is very glad that he works at home.

Never explain your plan, even if you get away with it.

Did Sandy actually write this script???

Awww. And don't worry, it's a debt he's sure to collect.

Matthew 18:6. See, kid? You go to Sunday School for six years and YOU can learn to pull up quotes like that too.

You're off to a good start. How much did you pay for that dress?

Did you build that thing in your backyard???

And she was never seen or heard from again...

A born administrator.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

He heard us talking about him.

 

[Fading Fast]

"how YOU eveh got mixed up wit' T'IS fam'ly."

Give Heckie credit, he cut right to the heart of the matter.

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A heavyweight boxer, a movie actor, a speedboat racer, and a Peruvian millionaire. Odds on the next candidate: opera tenor 2-1, phony count 5-1, Indian chief 10-1, Tommy Manville EVEN.

A few of those could even tie her into the Langford case, not that there is such a thing.

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Never explain your plan, even if you get away with it.

Agreed, might even have to add it into our Fedora Lounge Rule Book.

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Did Sandy actually write this script???

"Do you mean the script for this episode of 'Little Orphan Sandy'?"

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Doyle coom thru after ahhl," marvels Ma. "Woondars nivvar cease." "He said we could pay it aaaahf on toime," spits Uncle Frank. "Ixxtra foive paaarcent a moonth onn aahr p'tection, th' blooody gombeen."
"Moind ye," adds Ma. "Oi was noon too faaahnda th' look'a that troock droiver d'livered it. Whar's he foind these villains?" "He's gaaatta whool book'v'm at th' precinct," replies Uncle Frank, his voice sour. "It's joost loike th' Seaaars 'n Roobuck." "Wawrm in'eeh," observes Joe, entering from the back stairs with a load of well-chilled meat from the rooftop chest. "Thawr t'is right out." He begins to peel aside the wrappings, as Uncle Frank sips his two-cents-plain, and Ma posts her daily takings to her ledger. She pauses for a moment, sniffing the air. "Joseph," she calls out. "Yaaar meat's baaarnin'." "I ain' got no meat awna grill," replies Joe. He pauses to sniff. "Yeh," he nods "I smell'at too..." "Ahhhh," dismisses Uncle Frank, "it's joost..." "It's THAAAT!" bellows Ma, jabbing her finger toward the basement door, from where curls of acrid dark smoke filter up into the store. "FOIRE!" yelps Uncle Frank, leaping from his stool, and pulling Joe out from behind the counter. "SOOMBODY GOO GET BARBARA!" commands Ma, stuffing her policy slips and ledger into the canvas bag. Joe dashes up the back stairs to retrieve Bink, as Ma empties the till, and Uncle Frank races into the street to pull the alarm....)

("So I took 'eh t'see t'is guy sellin' heehr'in aids," relates Sally, "an'nee said I betteh tawk t'w'eh docteh foist." "That's entirely the reasonable thing to do," agrees Dr. Glass. "To just sell one without making certain the buyer needs it would be irresponsible at best, and dishonest at worst." "T'at's why it s'prised me," admits Sally. "Usually t'ey'll tell ya whateveh t'ey hafta t'getcha t'buy. T'real hawrd sell. I guess I been shawppin at Namm's too lawng." "Now what I'm going to do, Leonora," continues the Doctor, "is the same as we did before. Do you remember how we did that?" "Yeh," scowls Leonora. "I don' like it." "We'll just put on these headphones here," continues the Doctor in a soothing tone, "and I want you to raise your hand when you hear the sound." He sits behind a console and, observing a meter, slowly turns a knob. Leonora sits blankly on the edge of the examination table, her feet fidgeting. Sally watches, absently wringing the tail of her coat. As the Doctor advances the knob toward its far end, Leonora raises her hand. "Can'cha get nut'n else awneh?" she growls. "I don' like t'at noise." "That's fine, Leonora," nods the Doctor. "You can take them off now." He makes a notation on his clipboard. "There is some improvement," he indicates. "But I'm still seeing a sharp dropoff above 1000 cycles." "Whassat mean?" frowns Sally. "She still perceives sound as being very muffled in that ear. But as I say, there *is* some improvement, and I believe..." "Excuse me, Doctor," interrupts the nurse. "Mrs. Petrauskas is wanted at the desk. A telephone call." "Huh?" huhs Sally. "Who'd be cawlin' me heeh....??")

("Where Were You In '37?")

(Hey Stanky, if it doesn't work out, save that suit and get a job as a jockey!)

(I'm not fluent in Latin, but I think this guy just identified himself as an official babysitter.)

(Why does Mary look like she's auditioning for a Hitchcock movie? Hey, maybe she is!!)

(Point of order: It's entirely possible to hold a g u n in such a way that you could do this by squeezing the trigger with your thumb. Leave the detective work to Janie.)

(Too bad you don't know how to pick pockets!)

(AMERICA'S NUMBER ONE HERO DOG really ought to be getting home now.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

They still take people for rides? Well, I suppose it's time for 1920s nostalgia.

The postwar crisis of masculinity is already well underway.

Maybe you should consider another line of work.

Try standing next to a movie projector for twenty years. It's the same thing.

When they finally leave the nest...

So much for the entrepreneur.

"Just remember, no onions on mine. I have a delicate stomach."

"Sigh. I'll get ready to arbitrate..."

There's your solution right there. Turn it over to knobhead, and you'll be broke by tonight.

Always read a book like that from back to front.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Worker...

Johannes Steel was one of the more intelligent radio commentators of the prewar era. Which is why he has no place on the air in the postwar era.

 

[Fading Fast]

Just perfect.

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"There is some improvement,"

That is something. Maybe it will continue.

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Hey Stanky, if it doesn't work out, save that suit and get a job as a jockey!

Looks to me like the dog and and duck want to play.

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

"Sigh. I'll get ready to arbitrate..."

Just call in Wallet and Bobble and let them figure it out. Seven different people, all working for a nickel, will be involved, but at some point, your garage will get cleaned out.

 

[Harp]

Terry, I see, is still stuck in China. He also appears contesting an assault charge proffered
by a civilian; however, although his mission status doesn't immunize him from the UCMJ,
any relatively routine civil or criminal complaint that interferes with his assignment, can be mitigated considerably, were our lad to reveal such. Any prohibition given him can be waived at his discretion for cause. Caniff strains the legal leash.
And considering the era, with the front page chock full with lurid crime--the recent **** couple found bludgeoned to death story--adultery, divorce, tragic accidents, Terry And Piraticals is rather tame for the times. And this red blooded American kid running around like he's testosterone-free rankles the strip's Mom; apple pie; and plenty of free parking patriotic theme. All work and no play just ain't cuttin the mustard.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Well," grumbles Ma, kicking thru the soot-encrusted gloom of her basement, "it cooda binna laaaaht waaarse." "Lookit'is, Pop," injects Danny Leary, handing his father a small sludge-covered object. "You eveh see a nozzle like'at?" "What's aaahl this moock," frowns Uncle Frank. "It looks loike asphalt." "I dunno what was innat erl," shrugs Danny, "but t'whole boineh's fulla t'is stuff. T'at's wheh t'smoke come from." "Th' nixt toime Oi see that blooody Doyle," fumes Uncle Frank, "Oi'm gonna shoov'a doughnut roit oop is --" "Ev'ryt'ing's awright upstaiehs," interrupts Joe, descending from above. "T'ez soot awloveh t'place, but it'll clean up. Roont a few magazines, but it's a lot betteh t'en it coulda been. I ain' -- ah -- checked ya -- um -- stuff inna back room, I dunno 'nough 'bout t'em kinda machines..." "Goo have a look," commands Uncle Frank to his son, "whin ye get finished doon'eer." "Yeh," nods Danny. "Um, y'got some nick'ls?" "Oi'll give ye nick'ls," growls Uncle Frank, making a threatening gesture. "Kin ye fix the blooody faaarnace?" "I dunno," admits Danny. "Best I c'n t'ink t'do is take it apawrt an' soak it inna barrel a' -- hey, you got any'a t'at las' run a' rye left?" "Well we can't stay HERE," snaps Ma to her husband. "Me 'n you an' Barbara need a place t'stay till we gaaaht soom heat." "Lissen," offers Joe. "Maybe y'c'n stay oveh t' Bensonhoist, in oueh buildin'. We'll hafta do some shufflin', but it oughta come out even." Ma and Uncle Frank exchange glances and perform a synchronized shrug. "I'll go up 'n cawl Sal," agrees Joe. "If ye gotta bett'r oidear," sighs Ma as Joe exits, "Oi'm riddy t' hear it." "Oi'm NOT," declares Uncle Frank, "shaaarin' noo bed with Solly Pincus....")

("Awright," announces Sally, convening an emergency meeting of the tenants of 1762 63rd Street in the Ginsburgs' parlor. "So Joe says t'ell be oveh'reeh soon'sey c'n pack up t'eh grips an' get awna subway. So let's figyeh out wheh we'eh gonna put'm." "Miss Scanlan," offers Mr. Ginsburg, "with us can stay." "In her condition," agrees Mrs. Ginsburg, "she should rest." "Awright," nods Sally. "T'at's one. I figyeh Ma c'n stay wit' me an' Leonoreh, so..." "Joe c'n stay onna couch wit' us," offers Alice. "Well, um, we won' be onna couch too, I mean, we gotta bed." "Yeh," affirms Krause. "T'at leaves Uncle Frank," continues Sally. "We'h's Solly? He was s'posta be heeh." "The searrrgeant," discloses Mr. Ginsburg, "went to Schreibstein's, for sandwiches. For the meeting." "Ah," nods Sally. "Well, I s'pose he won' mind putt'n up Uncle Frank. T'em bein' pawrtnehs n' awl. Hey, t'is was easy!" "Gonna be like a reg'leh block pawrty," grins Alice....)

("Cal-e-do-ni-a fiiiiiiive foooor five hun-dred!")

(2026 is as remote in the stream of time from 1946 as 1946 was from 1866. That makes my head hurt.)

(That picture of Medwick planked out flat on his back with his arms spread remains one of the most horrific baseball images I have ever seen. I mean, next to the ball and the little arrow.)

(Due diligence.)

(How many pairs of Orry-Kelly pajamas can one woman HAVE?)

("I would have spotted that." -- Ellery Queen.)

(Sure, do it the easy way...)

(Got a warrant, boys?)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

If Butch did this, they'd be screaming for his neck.

Ireland? Isn't that a little cold for Spring Training? And who knew Breadon would spend the -- oh, wait, not THOSE Cardinals...

"MMMMMM COLD HAMBURGERS"

I assume you plan to sell this stuff to a Foreign Power, because you'd have an awful time getting a distributor here...

"And he's always so nice to Colonel Montmorency. You know, that kid in the fifth row."

If Gus is gonna use my plot ideas, don't you think he should pay me?

Hey, it's Skeezix and Tops in 1937!

I'm worried about where this is heading.

Tight security in this hospital.

You can't fault him for trying.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Worker...

While it was Lester Rodney who started the public campaign for baseball integration, it was Nat Low who kept it going thru the war years. They both belong in the Baseball Hall of Fame.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Oi'm NOT," declares Uncle Frank, "shaaarin' noo bed with Solly Pincus...."

As Frank is about to nod off; right as he's in that twilight between consciousness and sleep, he gets a tap on the shoulder and hears, "Frank, I got an idea..."

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2026 is as remote in the stream of time from 1946 as 1946 was from 1866. That makes my head hurt.

This stuff we read everyday here in this thread and talk about on Fedora Lounge might as well be a foreign language to, honestly, even people our age (I'm in my early 60s), so forget about people in their 30s or 40s or their kids. Heck, I read the strike update on the first page above and it reminded me of growing up in the 1970s when it seemed that half the industries were on strike and that decade means nothing to those even ten years younger than I.

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

If Gus is gonna use my plot ideas, don't you think he should pay me?

You called that one, kudos.

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I'm worried about where this is heading.

Yes, an unpleasant thought.