The Era -- Day By Day

[2 Days Dubai]

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

I wonder what she thinks Yonkers smells like?

I doubt she would have dated Joe or Solly when the worked in the pickle factory.

In today's terms, his estate is worth about $1,500,000 - no small amount of money, but much less than I expected.

Stripped to its core, their "marriage" was just a very expensive visit to the *****house. It's not perfectly clear in the article, but he paid her, in 1945 terms, about $50,000 ($900k today) to sleep with her for about six weeks. It's also not clear if it was for six week plus a month or when that one-month shot clock started. Regardless, I hope it was worth it.

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

The Benesch will article is avarice guised love. And apparently uncontested other heirs; indeed if any.
Helen is strictly pro, who might have pushed Benesch out a window.

Harvard's fraudulent medical discharge leaves much unsaid. Apparently a bought separation.

The life imprison reducto stems attempted murder against an officer; also much left but probably subject further appeal. Death down to life is serious stuff, not a barracks scuffle or a bar fight gone switchblade.

Leo carried brass knuckles and managed the Cubs. He also appeared on The Munsters.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("I'm tellin' ya, Alice, an' mawrk my woids," fumes Sally. "T'is new commitee t'ey gawt goin' is gonna be woise'n'a one'nat night-ridin' fascis' Dies had. I liss'n'ta t'em radio shows wit' t' OPA an'neh wasn'na t'ing wrong wit'm. Now t'at Roosevelt's dead, awlem rats we had goin' befawr t' wawr gonna come crawlin' outta t'muck. Coughlin, Curran, awlem bums... " "Yeh," sighs Alice. "AHH GIVE IT A RES', MOT'EH BLOOEH," calls a gravel voice from the back of the car. "AHHH, GO SNIFF HITLEH'S..." retorts Sally, before the conductor marches to her side. "You a union guy?" demands Sally. "That don't..." begins the conductor, taken aback by the inquiry. "Yeh?" nods Sally. "T'en go tellat bum to stick 'is head out t'windeh." "They're always from Brooklyn," murmurs the conductor. "An' don'choo f'get it!" calls Sally as the trainman continues on his way. "D'ya get t'at guy?" she snickers, as Alice leans against the window, her expression lost in thought. "Sal," she finally queries, "d'you know how lawng is t'statue a' limitations?" "I dunno," shrugs Sally. "Like if you done a crime a'sum'pn? I dunno, five yeehs? How come ya askin'nat? You bump somebody awff? Heh, maybe yawr't'one done innat Langf'd guy." "I neveh done nut'n," sighs Alice, as the train rolls on toward home....)

("Jeez," gapes Joe. "Magin'at. Guy t'at come up wit' t' Trylon an' Perispheeh fawls awffa roof an' dies. Jeez." "Oi nivver did goo t'that fair," sighs Ma. "Seemed loike Oi was joost too busy." "Ahhhh, you'da loved it," reminisces Joe. "T'ey haddis midway, right, awl kind'sa gamesn'awl. Heh, t'ey had t'is one game, it was cawlt "Debunk 'eh." Haddis goil in bed, right, anya t'row a basebawl? An' ya hit t'tawrget jus' right, an' t'bed tips oveh'r'n tips t'gal onna flooeh. I neveh done it, but Sal did. Hell'v'n awrm on'eh, you know t'at?" "Throoin' aaahl thim bricks," sighs Ma. "Built'arr oop." "Jeez," repeats Joe. "T' Woilda T'marra. Well, I guess it's t'marra, ain' it?" "Doont mooch feel loike it," shrugs Ma. "Does it eveh?" wonders Joe....)

("Ye knoo, Mickey me boy," ventures Uncle Frank, "you'n me ain' had mooch toime t'spend t'gatharr since ye gaaht hoom." "Eh," ehs Mickey. "Sooo Oi was thinkin'," Uncle Frank continues. "It's easiarrr noo t'get gasoline, an' Oi gaaht soom coopons -- what if you'n me get aaahn th' troock an' goo farr a little droive soomtime soon." "You still gawt'tat ol' truck," snickers Mickey. "I'da t'ought t'eyd'a melted'at ol' heap down f'scrap yeehs ago." "Let's do it Soonday," declares Uncle Frank. "Joost you'n me, boy. Get soom fresh air. Do soom talkin'." Mickey ***** an eye at the man who helped raise him, as it were. "Soonday," repeats Uncle Frank, returning Mickey's gaze. "Oi insist.")

(Coming events...)

(And this will be ironically-named Happy Jack Chesbro, a spitballer who won a never-to-be-broken record 41 games for the Highlanders in 1904. But he was also the Hugh Casey of his day, who threw a wild pitch in the final game of the season that allowed the winning run to score, giving Boston the American League pennant. To the end of his days he blamed his catcher for letting the ball go, but the name of Red Kleinow has somehow not carried the eternal curse of Mickey Owen. Meanwhile, I very much fear that Waite Hoyt's "amnesia" is the kind that comes in a bottle. He is, in 1945, a well regarded broadcaster for the Reds, and one hopes that he will pull himself out of what he has fallen into...)

(Some jitterbug, can't even do a simple aerial.)

(Well, you won't even get that. Can't get .45 cartridges, don't you know there's a war on?)

(Did you ever get around to mending that hole in your coat pocket?)

(Aw, I wanted to see Scarlet eat boiled haddock while invisible.)

("Yeah, you get used to the stink..")

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

No, not that baroness. This is some other baroness.

"What? Me? Nah, I neveh go anywhez neah't' Bronx." -- Bink Scanlan.

"Cut that old bag down at once!" "Yes mam." "WATCH WHERE YOU'RE SWINGING THAT THING!"

Helen picked up an awful benzedrine habit in prisonl.

I bet she claims to be a duchess or something...

Schrafft's ain't what it used to be.

"Judge Fudge." Oh, Mr. Gray....

Pop takes a bold stand in favor of sartorial freedom.

You can hear that poor couch creaking...

A little late for company, isn't it?

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

"Megaphone Lolly" Hopkins was indeed to Boston what Hilda is to Brooklyn, but her style was 180 degrees opposite. Instead of "ya bum ya," she would yell "well done!" thru her megaphone if something pleased her, and if she was feeling especially tickled, she would send her butler down to the rail to toss candy to the player responsible.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Throoin' aaahl thim bricks," sighs Ma.

Like Mickey Owen, you just can't live some things down.

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

Well, you won't even get that. Can't get .45 cartridges, don't you know there's a war on?

He should look for a .38; we know where he could get one unspent shell if the police will turn it over to him. Or was it a .32? For whatever reason, that unspent shell has disappeared from the reporting in the Langford story, but it was there early on.

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

"What? Me? Nah, I neveh go anywhez neah't' Bronx." -- Bink Scanlan.

"Okay, but you know, your victims work for their money too."

Bink, with a distracted look, picks up the broom and starts sweeping the same part of the floor she had just swept.

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

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Y'know," observes Sally, "t' Ginsboigs' son, t' lawyeh inna Awrmy? T'eh gonna have a whole buncha lawyehs woikin' awnem trials, an' I hoid he might be one'v'm. I hope'ee t'rows t'book at'm, annen gets to pull t' rope." "Yeh," nods Alice. "Hey," heys Sally. "What's wit'choo? Sump'n eat'n ya? You been actin' funny awl week." "Um," ums Alice. Her eyes wander around the car, and her fingers flex nervously before she resumes. "Y'evveh stawp 'n t'ink," she resumes, "how ya do sump'n yeehs ago an' neveh t'ink much of it, an'nen lawng's'ya live ya can't get away fr'm it?" Sally flicks a suspicious glance at her friend. "Izzeh sump'n," she ventures, "you ain't tellin' me t'at'cha WANNA tell me?" Alice ponders the question. "No," she finally exhales. "T'ez nut'n I -- WANNA -- tell ya....")

("This sarrrploos business," declares Uncle Frank. "Oi'm tellin' ye, Nora, it's gonna be th' biggest thing Oi ivvar got intarr." "So ye say," dismisses Ma. "Oi'm serious," Uncle Frank insists. "And -- it's aaahn th' livil. Paaarfectly legal. In its way. Ye joost gaaaahta get th' roit saaarces in th' givverment." "Who d'YE knoo in th' givverment?" frowns Ma. "Oi could give ye soom names," maintains Uncle Frank. "Boot Oi'd bettar keep'm t'meself." "Joost b'cause ye soold whiskey t' Edwaaaard Flynn twenty yarrs agoo.." snickers Ma. "Ye laugh now," mutters Uncle Frank. "Oi laughed thin, too," replies Ma, "whin'ee didn't pay ye!")

(Massapequa's beautiful in the summer.)

("Aw, c'mon, Slick," entices Bink Scanlan, twiddling her broom like a coquette's parasol. "Let's you'n me take in a show. T'at aieh conditionin's good f'business." "I'm busy," frowns Mickey, sipping his Coke without turning around. "Why'ncha go wit' Jimmy?" "T'at fathead?" scoffs Bink. "Awr Danny," adds Mickey. "Sawla same t'me." "Hmph," hmphs Bink. "Ya don'know whatcha missin'." "Yeh," disagrees Mickey, *******ng his still-tender jaw, "I do.")

(This will be "Wee Willie" Keeler, coiner of the place-hitter's maxim "hit 'em where they ain't." The Dodgers were called the "Superbas" for a brief time around the turn of the century, due to the fact that their manager was Ned Hanlon, and there was a vaudeville acrobatics troupe called "Hanlon's Superbas." It was a simpler time...)

("Clover Patch.")

(Just a minute there, Brand. You got a permit for that ***?)

(Didn't read that sign that said "Watch Your Coat?" Then I'm afraid it's all on you, hon.)

(What's the name of this joint again? And how much did they pay Stamm for the plug?)

(If you're stuck in a clown car, you better have a good driver.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Look, if you don't have anything new to add to the Langford case, just say so. Don't pretend we've forgotten all about it!

"Who smells in here?" NOT ME!

And as the coals from the dropped pipe ignited the piles of currency...


Bim's time in that cave changed him profoundly. BWA HAH HAH!

"Well, fust thing they got to learn is I only takes bribes in cash. Nunna them fancy city checks!"

Ho-Ho! Someone here will come to a bad end.

Sure, stupid, give away the game...

Psst -- try "Bleachie," that'll get her goat!

Mamie is going to RULE television.

"...And we don't need any "characters" to give the place atmosphere..."

 

[Fading Fast]

"And -- it's aaahn th' livil. Paaarfectly legal....

If only this guy owned a legal business he could build up instead of having to focus on all these schemes, he could do well.

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

One, cute outfit, albeit, a bit risqué for the day.

Two, cute girl, even if her waist probably scales to 12"

Three, the artist knew exactly what he was doing and once you notice it, it's pretty brazen.

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

Look, if you don't have anything new to add to the Langford case, just say so. Don't pretend we've forgotten all about it!

Seriously. Talk to a few of the gazillion cops they have on the case, noodle around with some of the other reporters swapping theories, interview somebody tangential at best to the case, do a recap and then spit out 500 words to keep the story going until something really breaks.

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

"Who smells in here?" NOT ME!

If only dad hadn't spent all his money on women, wine, and song.

There is an amazing resemblance that runs through generations in the Barrymore family.

 

[LizzieMaine]

Yeah, and Martin's is supposed to be the classy, upscale store. No wonder Bink likes to shoplift there.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("A newspapaaaar d'livarry stroike," eyerolls Ma. "That's goin' t'poot a crimp in me business an' noo mistake." "Whatcha worried 'bout?" assures Sally, sipping her after-work Coke. "Says right'eh what papehs t'eh gonna strike, an' ya don' see t' Eagle onna list do ya? Awr t' Woikeh!" "You an' that papaar," frowns Ma. "Oi'm tellin' ye daughtarr, soomday ye'll..." "Wait," interrupts Bink. "You a Red??" "I'm'n A L P," scowls Sally. "Ohhhhhh," nods Bink, comprehending little of the nuance of New York politics. "Bink," calls Uncle Frank, skeening thru the screen door on a mission of apparent urgency. "A waaaard with ye, if Oi may." Bink pops her gum, leans her broom in a pile of dust at the foot of the magazine rack, and saunters over. "What's awnya mind, Fatty?" she replies. Uncle Frank glances over toward Sally, and beckons for Bink to join him outside. They step out onto Rogers Avenue, Uncle Frank shifts his eyes rapidly up and down the street, and leans toward Bink. "Oi gaaahtt a jaaahb farr ye.," he announces in a low, conspiratorial voice. "T'marrah at elivin thaarty in th' marrnin'." "I ain' gotta woik wit' t'at ribbon cloik Inky Quinlan again," exhales Bink. "Do I?" "Noo, noo," replies Uncle Frank. "This is a solo jaaahb. An' ya gooin' t'pool it roit here in th' staaaar." "T' ol lady in awnit?" demands Bink. "No, no," sweats Uncle Frank, "an' she ain't t'knoo noothin' aboot it. All Oi waant is farr you t'bee exactly wharr Oi needjee t'be at elivin tharrty aaahn th' dot. Now, here's wot Oi need'jee t'do, an' Oi'm waaarnin' ye ya bettarr not make a baaaatch oov'ot. Nooow, Oi'm goin' t'see to it that a saaaartain paaaarson is standin' roit b'side that cardboord Philip Morris midget that stands aaahn th' floor tharr, an' whin Oi get'tim ovar tharr, Oi waaan'chee to.....")

("T'ez funny t'ings goin' awn oveh t'stoeh," frowns Sally, dumping a can of pork and beans into a saucepan and popping on the stove burner. "You notice anyt'ing when you was woikin'?" "I neveh notice nut'n," shrugs Joe, watching Leonora reading the Eagle editorial page to a disinterested Stella the Cat. "Uncle Frank was tawkin'a t'at Bink Scanlan," continues Sally. "Like t'ey was upta sump'n t'ey didn' wawn me awr Ma t'know about." "I neveh see nut'n," sighs Joe. "I was out d'liverin' some -- uh -- ice cream t'some lady down Midwood Street. She gimme haffa buck tip." Sally glances at her husband, considers saying something, and decides against it. "T'at's pretty good," she says instead. "Hey," she continues, "I seen a ad inna papeh t'day. Abraham 'n Strauss hirin' sales cloiks. T'at's a pretty classy jernt t' woik in, I bet." "You gonna do it?" queries Joe, cleaning his thumnbnail with a table fork. "Y'had awlat s'perience at Woolwoits." "Oh, no, not f'me," Sally declares. "I hadda nuffa t'at stuff. But f't'right guy -- right poisson, t'at could be a pretty good jawb." "Eh," ehs Joe. "Ehhh," concedes Sally...)

(All right, that one's funny.)

("Yep, son, an' there's more where that came from," declares Leo behind a sharkish smile. "Hey, you ever play gin rummy?")

("A dreadful concert," agrees Inky Quinlan. "An utter travesty. And to think I paid -- ah -- good money for it...")

(Clover learned her whole bit from April Kane.)

(Hmph. Brass knuckles polished to a high shine never get used.)

(Janie really needs to get a ****** permit.)

(And you can put the rest of the lobster in a hot dog roll, slather it with Miracle Whip, sprinkle on a little paprika and sell it for a 1000 percent markup. AND THEY'LL PAY IT!)

(Shaking hands with a clown? Oh yeah, it's an election year.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Baronesses, counts, dukes, chiefs -- pfft, amatchoors.

Page Four runneth over. But still no Langfordiana?

Ah, those wisecracking flyboys....

I bet she used to work at Minsky's.

Psst, rassling ain't real.

With a floy floy?

"Um, I thought we were just going to see a movie?"

Oh, now, "my" is such a relative term...

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick....

 

[Fading Fast]

But f't'right guy -- right poisson, t'at could be a pretty good jawb." "Eh," ehs Joe. "Ehhh," concedes Sally...

Having worked for years as a sales clerk in a department store, I can say with complete conviction that Joe, whom I think the world of, would be awful at that job – and he'd hate it.

And, "Ehhh," concedes Sally, is very funny in its quiet real-world way.

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

And you can put the rest of the lobster in a hot dog roll, slather it with Miracle Whip, sprinkle on a little paprika and sell it for a 1000 percent markup. AND THEY'LL PAY IT!

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

Baronesses, counts, dukes, chiefs -- pfft, amatchoors.

Re The Socked WAC story: "French victory parade" presented without comment.

Re The Dirty Pictures Hold Publisher story: Did they see the ad from Martin's yesterday?

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

Page Four runneth over. But still no Langfordiana?

Seriously, with all those shady characters, you'd think they'd have enough material to write a story a day even without the murder.

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

No "Little Orphan Annie" today or did that corrupt town arrest, try, convict and hang her already, so the strip is over?

 

[LizzieMaine]

Ha. Ha.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Ahhhh," ahhs Sally, "I knew ya couln' trust'at Dewey. Any man's gawtta moustache like t'at, y'KNOW'ee ain' awna level." "Stalin's gawtta moustache," deadpans Joe, swabbing the fountain spouts to a bright shine. " "Well yeh," acknowledges Sally. "But nawt like T'AT kin'a moustache. He don' look like no flooehwawkeh at Woolwoit's." "Good marrrnin'," greets Uncle Frank," skeening thru the door as he glances at his watch. "Mickey here yet? Oi'm spoostar meet'im." "Ain' seen'im," comments Bink Scanlan, brushing the cardboard grin of the Philip Morris pageboy with the end of her broom. Uncle Frank flicks her a glance, which she returns with a small nod. "Joe, me boy," continues Uncle Frank, "two-cents-plain if ye please, an' poot it aaahn me account." Joe unfurls a glass of straight seltzer, no ice, and slides it across the counter. Uncle Frank takes a sip just as the screen door skeens again. "Ah, Mickey," nods Uncle Frank. "Elivin tharrty aahn th' dot," he affirms with another glance at his watch. "Ready?" "Yeh," squints Mickey, his tone suspicious. "How's Kingston Aveneh," inserts Sally. "I heeh ya gawtta room." "Y'could say t'at," shrugs Mickey. "Ye ready, boy?" queries Uncle Frank. "Yeh," nods Mickey, squaring his shoulders. "Hey!" he yelps as he collides with Bink. "Sawrry, Slick," she apologizes, cracking her gum. "Wawtch weh ya goin'," he frowns, as the cardboard cutout topples to the floor. Uncle Frank's eyes flick for a barely-perceptible instant, just long enough to note an equally instantaneous nod, as Bink rights the advertising figure and bustles about her sweeping. The screen door skeens open, bangs closed, and Uncle Frank and Mickey step toward the truck parked in front of the store. "Wheh t'ey goin'? queries Sally. "Dunno," shrugs Joe, emptying the remains of Uncle Frank's drink down the fountain drain. "One meat bawwlllll," sings Bink as she sweeps along. "Ya gets no bread wit' onnnnnne meat bawwwllllllll....")

("Dead Hawrse Bay," sniffs Mickey, as he and Uncle Frank advance along a dirt path worn thru a tangle of weeds. "Smells'a same's it did when we useta come out'eeh when Sal an' me was kids. Remembeh when ya taught us t'shoot?" "Oi doo that," nods Uncle Frank, as they emerge from the thicket onto the rocky shore, littered with chunks of sawn horse bones, the waste of an extinct rendering plant, eroded and smoothed by the tides. "What'cha wawna come awla way out'eeh fawr?" frowns Mickey. "Oooooh," oohs Uncle Frank, "thaaaat Oi'd get in soom practice. Whoile we taaalk." He bends down and begins to gather chunks of bone, bottles, and other bits of detritus. "Ye knoo," he continues, as he lines up the debris in a neat row along a sodden log of driftwood, "we gaaaht a lot t'aaaalk aboot." He reaches into his coat and withdraws a Colt automatic, its finish worn from years of use, and glances meaningfully at Mickey, who instinctively reaches into his own jacket. His eyes dilate as he realizes that what he expected to find there is no longer thus. He grits his teeth and mutters a short, pointed obscenity, as Uncle Frank steps back to a suitable distance and squeezes off a shot. A chunk of horse femur shatters instantly to splinters. "Ye know, boy," he resumes, "th' waaarld is changin'. Th' oold ways'a dooin' things, th' ways yarrr use'to, why, they ain't gooin' to coot it mooch in th' yarrs t'coom." He sights and squeezes off another shot, shattering a whiskey bottle. "An' thoose of oos who doon't moove with th' toimes, well..." He fires a third shot, cleaving a chunk of equine vertebra like some rare gem. "So with that in moind, Oi've gaaaht a proposition farr ye," he continues, aiming carefully at the bottom of a rusted pail. "An'," he continues," squeezing off another shot and thunking a clean hole directly thru the center of his target, "it's th' oonly praaposition Oi'm goin' to aaahfer." He pauses and looks into his stepson's eyes as he reaches again into his coat and withdraws a brown envelope. He hands it to Mickey, who accepts it without taking his eyes off his stepfather." "Thar is a train leavin' Pennsylvania Station tonight," Uncle Frank states. "Farr Chicago. You will be abaaard that train." He nods toward the envelope. "Tharr is a name and a telephoon noombar in that enveloop. When ye arrive yarr t'caaahl that noombar, an' th' man who answarrs will tell ye wharr t'goo from tharr. He's a man Oi know who has a jaaahb farr ye. An honest jaaahb," he adds pointedly. "In th' surploss business. He'll tell ye what t'do." "This is about t'kid," scowls Mickey. "Ain' it? Ya want me outa t'pitcheh so Alice an'nat guy Krause can..." "You will aahlsoo foind in that envelope," continues Uncle Frank, not taking the bait, "a soom of mooney. Enoogh t'get'chee aaahn ye feet. Boot -- moind ye -- it's th' lasst ye'll evarr get. Yarr Nora's boy, an' farr her sake, Oi'm givin' ye this chance. Ye'll get noo oothar." He lets the implication of that statement hang as he squeezes out another shot, atomizing the skull of some long-dead dray horse. "Do Oi," concludes Uncle Frank, his face hard, "make meself clear?" Mickey takes a long look at the envelope and then squints at his stepfather. "Awright," he exhales. "I hadda nuffa't'is town anyways. T'ez nut'n fawr me heeh." "Thar is woon oothar thing," Uncle Frank adds, reaching into another pocket for a folded sheet of paper and a fountain pen. "Yarr t'put'chee name t' this." "What?" blurts Mickey. "Think of it as a presn't farr ye soon," advises Uncle Frank. "Soom faathars give their soons trinkets. Yarr goin' t'give yarr soon a loife." Mickey blinks, scans the page, and looks again at Uncle Frank, who fixes him in an unrelenting gaze. He exhales, and, his hand trembling, uncaps the pen, leans the paper on his stepfather's shoulder, and scrawls his name.....)

(The Browns beat up a batting practice pitcher?? Maybe they *should* move to Brooklyn!)


(An accidental hanging? Don't see that in the funnies too often!)

(If this were Movie Bugs, of course you'd realize this means war...)

(Ernie makes good use of that old "Ladies Home Journal" he found in the attic.)

(It's Non Traditional Casting Day!)

(I told you -- back of the head just behind the ear!!!!)

(My grandmother loved A. J. Cronin's books, which explains her cynical view of doctors...)

(Well won't this be a happy conversation.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...


No words.

Sally once worked as a waitress at Schrafft's. She lasted one day. Guess why.

YOU COMMON SCUM! Oh yeah? Arriviste!

"Two pounds of heroin? This is where I came in!!"

Somebody got up a neighborhood petition about Harold Gray not mowing his lawn.

Even the boat is astonished!

It's good to have friends.

And you know what else is a job? Getting him to pay up!

"Go plant your corn in some other field." Isn't that what he's been doing all along?

Well, at least it'll shut Charlie up.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

Click to enlarge. Here's how we stand, but no diagram? No Dramatis Personae chart?

 

[LizzieMaine]

And finally...

You know, this is how John Christian got his jaw broken.

CLIP AND SAVE.

 

[Fading Fast]

I'm glad Frank got the paper signed. It might be years, I'd bet sooner, but Mickey will be back, unless, and I say this seriously, he's found dead in Chicago as he could get involved in the wrong "business" out there and there'd be no Frank to bail him out.

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

My grandmother loved A. J. Cronin's books, which explains her cynical view of doctors...

I liked "The Keys of the Kingdom."

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

Somebody got up a neighborhood petition about Harold Gray not mowing his lawn.

Probably, but he is also making the case that pure democracy is mob rule if there aren't overriding individual rights that protect minorities in the fullest sense of the word, like a minority of one curly haired little girl and her sunset copper dog.

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

Here's how we stand, but no diagram? No Dramatis Personae chart?

They had to do something for Sunday, but there really is no new news. The subhead says it all: plenty of characters and theories, but few real clues.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Hey," heys Willie. "Unk Frank -- ya got anny'a't'em Tootsie Rolls awnya?" "Oi moit, oi moit," acknowledges Uncle Frank, reaching into his pocket and producing a White Owl. He makes a pretense of offering it to the boy, and quickly pulls it back, flipping it in his hand in favor of the requested candy. "Off with ye now," directs Uncle Frank. "Gwan in th' oothar room an' lissen t'th' raddio, ya folks an' me gaaaht soom talkin' t'do." "Mmmgrfh," agrees Willie, clenching the unwrapped Tootsie Roll in the corner of his mouth as he exits the kitchen. "Well," wells Alice, closing the door behind him. "Ya din' come awlaway oveh heeh jus' t' hand out candy." "Yeh," yehs Krause, chewing on a Tootsie Roll of his own. "It's doon," declares Uncle Frank, taking a seat at the table. "Mickey's gaahn." "Jeezuzchris', Frank," gapes Alice. "You -- DIDN'...." "Nooo," eyerolls Uncle Frank, "Oi did naaaht. Oi merely left him t'think that p'raps Oi moit, falin' his acceptance a' me proposition. Mickey has shoon th' good sense t' -- seek his future elsewharr. "WhassAT mean?" demands Alice. "It means he's naat goin' t'make ye anymarr trooble," hopes Uncle Frank. "An' as a tooken of 'is goodwill, he has soined a certain daaahcument." He reaches into his pocket and hands Alice the folded sheet. She scans the page, her lips carefully forming each word. "A sign't confession," she whispers. "Lookit, Siddy, he signed a confession 'bout -- awluvit. 'I, Michael P. Sweeney, de-claeh t'fawllowin consoinin t'events of April 5t' 1938...' An'nee goes awn an' tells what hap'nt an'nen he says 'I state t'at Alice Dooley, now known as Alice Krause, was innocent'a awl chawrges an'at I was solely r'spawnsible f't'events'a t'at night. I make t'is confession of my own free will in ordeh to cleah t' reckehd consoinin' Alice Dooley's invawlvement. Signed Michael P. Sweeney, June twenny-foeht' 1945.' An'nez a seal -- jeez, Frank, I din' know you was a notary. " "Joost a hobby," shrugs Uncle Frank. "Mmm," mms Krause, taking the document for his own examination. "Would'is hol' up in coueht?" queries Alice. "That Oi doon't know," admits Uncle Frank. "Boot if Oi knoo this Magistrate Saaahlomon, an' Oi knoo what they say aboot 'im, hoo 'ee feels aboot fam'lies, Oi think it'll be enoof t'w impress 'im." Alice sits back in her chair and exchanges looks with her husband. "Does'a ol' lady know?" she asks. Uncle Frank exhales. "Yes," he nods. "She knoos. She didn' loike it mooch at farrst, boot she knoos it's farr th' best. Ye get'charr name cleared, at leas' soo farr as th' adoption is consarrned, th' boy gets s'curity, an' Mickey -- well, Mickey gets a chance t'fin'lly grow oop." "You done awlat f'r us?" sighs Alice. "Ahhh," dismsses Uncle Frank. "Yeh," nods Krause...)

("It's aboot toime," sniffs Ma. "All thim shady charactarrs hangin' roond'a track, takin' business away fr'm real pr'fessionals." "Yeh," yehs Bink, paying no attention at all. She bends down to scrape the floor with her dustpan, and a small metal object falls out of her apron pocket to clatter on the tiles. "Whoots that?" demands Ma. "Give it hyarr." Bink shrugs, and hands the palm-sized ****** across the counter. "Dunno how t'at gawt inneh," she ventures. "Haven'chee evarr hard'a th' Soolivan Laahhh?" frowns Ma. "Oi bettar keep this," she declares, withdrawing the magazine and racking the slide to eject the round in the chamber. "Ye nevarr knoo, hooevar laaahst it," she sighs, tucking the ****** into her own pocket, "moit coom back soomday...")

("What a lousy pitcheh," frowns Sally, as she and Joe walk down 18th Avenue after taking advantage of the air conditioning at the seedy little Colony Theatre. "T' Wrawng Road.' Whehda't'ey get awf runnin' n' ol' piece'a junk like t'at? Awlat gangsteh stuff, so cawrny. Nobody acks like t'at in real life." "T'ot'eh one wasn' so bad," offers Joe. "If ya wanna stick it t'wa'n insurance comp'ny t'at'sa way t' do it." "We awta go downtown nex' time," suggests Sally. "Go't t' Paramount." "T'ey letcha inneh again?" snickers Joe. "T'at was foehteen yeehs ago," frowns Sally. "An' I weah my haieh diff'nt now, t'ey wouldn' reckonize me anyway." "I dunno," returns Joe. "B'sides, t' way I heeh'r'it, it wasn' ya haieh t'ey was lookin'at." "You was neveh such a wise guy b'foeh," frowns Sally. "Sueh'r I was," argues Joe, as they turn onto 63rd Street toward home...)

(Well, I don't know if he likes Gilbert and Sullivan, but they say Bill Dickey can judge where a foul ball will go based on the sound it makes when it hits the bat. Oh, and those bridal satin uniforms must be a lotta fun when it's almost 90 degrees out...)

(Ten dollars on the bag in the first round.)

(Oh, and pick up a case of beer, we'll make it a party!)

(Any interest in rubber boots? We have a few pairs just in, and no ration stamp needed!)

(Mention you saw our ad here and get a free small cole slaw!)

("Aw gee, and I thought we were gonna have fun!")