The Era -- Day By Day

[Fading Fast]

The only sound in the store is the buzz of the ice cream freezer and the slow creak of the ceiling fan....

A version of don't-ask-don't-tell 1945 style.

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Fifteen cents for this? Sorry Alice, Sally's right this time.

I don't like or love them; I don't dislike or hate them; instead, it's the death of storytelling: I don't care one bit about them.

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"Let's drop the whole thing." Easy for you to say, Smiley.

No kidding. Sorry, dude, that might work for you, but it's not that simple.

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Shoulda paid attention in geography class.

Looks like it's going to be a Japanese prison camp for us.

 

[LizzieMaine]

"Daily News," mutters a furtive-looking middle-aged man, gazing scornfully at the small stack of yesterday's PM lying out on the counter of Lieb's Candy Store. "What ooov it," frowns Ma. "T'ey say y'gawt t' Daily News," repeats the man. "Neveh mine'a Eagle, I know t'ey don' print t'day. I need t' racin' page. Gimme a Daily News." Ma's frown deepens. "Whoo says Oi gaaaht th' Daily News? Doonchee knoo thar's a stroike aaahn?" The man's eyes shift nervously, as he leans in closer. "Doyle sen' me," he whispers. ""E did, did'ee?" snorts Ma. She takes a closer look at the man. "Oi doon't knoo ye," she concludes. "Ye doon't boye here reg'lar." The man twitches and flexes his palms. He leans in again. "I uset' buy lickeh," he rasps. "Fr'm Frank Leary." He punctuates this remark with a wink. Ma's frown deepens into a scowl. "Wot's ye name?" she demands. "Cullinan," mutters the man. "Coolinan," repeats Ma, reaching under the counter and extracting a dust-covered daybook. "Coolinan," she mutters, flipping the yellowed pages, scanning the faded scrawls. "Oooh yes," she nods. She places the book face down before her, reaches under the counter again, and withdraws a single pristine copy of the Pink Edition of the Daily News, its salmon-colored front page crisp and clean in the afternoon light. "Twinty-two doolars," she announces, "an' sivvinty-foive cents." "Twenny-two sevveny five??" erupts Mr. Cullinan. "F'ra lousy papeh????" "It's sivventy-foive sints farr th' paparr," explains Ma. "Includin' me handlin' chaaarge. An' twinnty-two dollars ye oowe Mistarr Leary farr two baaaahtls a' Scaaatch in noineteen tharrty two." Mr. Cullinan gapes at Ma, who fixes him in a stern glare as she slides the paper just out of his reach. "Leary said t'em bot'ls was awna cuff!" he protests. "Th' shaaaaart," declares Ma, her gaze relentless, "has jooost coom back froom th' laaaaandry.....")

C'mon, you know it's worth seventy five cents.

There was a time when Babe Ruth was known as a rather natty dresser, but whattaya want at 630 in the morning???

Hey Skeez, remember how you and the gang used to tip over Uncle Avery's toolshed? GIve you any ideas?

Hey fellas, Olsen and Johnson's lawyer is on the phone.

Hu Shee would have had them rescued by now.

Point of Order...

"And besides, if you feed them they never go away!"

You don't say.

No pain, no gain...

The best part of being a successful poker player is knowing when to wash, dry, and fold.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

In case you were wondering...

"You signed WHO?" gapes Mr. Parrott. "I believe that I expressed myself," smirks Mr. Rickey, "with my customary clarity." "But he's 43 years old!" sputters Mr. Parrott. "Camilli was only 34! Fitz was only 42!" "Age is more than a matter of the progress of the calendar," pronounces Mr. Rickey. "It is also a reflection of the inner perspective. Mr. Herman has, among his other outstanding qualities, the point of a view of a man of far more youthful mein." "I remember when he was here before," concedes Mr. Parrott. "He played the game like he was eight years old." "An eight year old," adds Mr. Rickey, "capable of batting .393..." "I'll tell Comerford," sighs Mr. Parrott, "to make sure there's nothing breakable in the clubhouse...."

And in the Daily Worker....

American Communists took a for-the-duration no-strike pledge for the full period of the war, and they kept that pledge. But I don't imagine they ever imagined it would also boost circulation.

I personally don't believe in a fire-and-brimstone hell, but in the case of Theodore G. Bilbo I'd be happy to make an exception.

 

[LizzieMaine]

Meanwhile, the reappearance of Uncle Bim's "Mogul Diamond" is a neat bit of continuity by Mr. Edson, reaching back to the days when his predecessor Sidney Smith was alive and thriving. It seems that in 1930, Uncle Bim -- who had yet to meet and marry Millie DeStross -- decided he wanted to take another chance with his old flame Henrietta Zander, despite her having sued him rather spectacularly for Breach of Promise in 1922. He first took uncharacteristically vindictive steps to ruin her fiance of the moment, hapless nice-guy Tom Carr, and then commenced to woo Mrs. Zander with such zeal that he dropped a cool four million dollars to purchase the world-famous Mogul Diamond as her engagement gift, only to have said diamond vanish mysteriously from his room.

Of course, Andy observed all this with his customary concern and sympathy for his dear uncle's well-being...

The storyline, as Smith's stories often did, generated a nationwide furor, complete with extensive press coverage, and plenty of sideline commentary on whether Henrietta was a gold digger and Bim was an idiot...

And finally, it turned out that...

And as for Bim, poor deluded billionaire Bim, Henrietta decided to marry for true love and went off with poor-but-pure Tom Carr, to whom she remains wed down to the present time. Bim went on his way sadder and not at all wiser, and would meet Millie and her dear Mama two years later. And Andy? Well, don't count your chickens, knobhead...



The diamond, however, has not been since -- until now. Will Carlos reappear? Will Bim have to refund the insurance money? Will Mrs. Zander give Lt. Tom Carr the bounce? The answers to these and other questions await...

 

[Fading Fast]

"Twinty-two doolars," she announces, "an' sivvinty-foive cents." "Twenny-two sevveny five??" erupts Mr. Cullinan. "F'ra lousy papeh????" "It's sivventy-foive sints farr th' paparr," explains Ma. "Includin' me handlin' chaaarge. An' twinnty-two dollars ye oowe Mistarr Leary farr two baaaahtls a' Scaaatch in noineteen tharrty two." Mr. Cullinan gapes at Ma, who fixes him in a stern glare as she slides the paper just out of his reach. "Leary said t'em bot'ls was awna cuff!" he protests. "Th' shaaaaart," declares Ma, her gaze relentless, "has jooost coom back froom th' laaaaandry....."

Just freakin' perfect.

Thirteen years is a long time "on the cuff:" Shut up and pay off dude.

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C'mon, you know it's worth seventy five cents.

How much does Mickey Rooney's new wife look like old wife Ava Gardner?

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Hu Shee would have had them rescued by now.

"Damn right."

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Obviously editorial selection comes into play, but there was not one emphatic "no!"

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It is absolutely stunning how the Langford case has completely disappeared from the papers.

 

[LizzieMaine]

9

("Foive caaahpies oov th' Eagle, an' ten oov th' Daily News," fumes Ma. "Oi need at least a daaaalar a copy at that rate, an' th' booms aroon'eere woon't pay it." "Maybe," suggests Uncle Frank, gazing into his two-cents-plain, "ye could troy rentin'm oot." "Hm," hms Ma, willing to give credit where credit is due. "That ain't a bad oidear." She reaches for a pencil tablet and begins calculating as the telephone rings. "Get that, would'jee?" she requests. "This is gooin' t'take soom figyarrrin'." Uncle Frank wheezes off his stool, and steps to the wall. "Lieb's," he answers, clasping the receiver to his ear. His face clouds as the voice on the other end delivers certain unsettling information. "Wait, wait," he interrupts. "Whaddaye mean she ain't tharr? Oi poot'arr aahn th' boos meself -- Oh, blooooody hell. --- Look, tell O'Laughlin t' -- well, whoevarrr thin -- te'll'm t' foind 'arr. Oi doon't think she had mooch money aaahn'arr, so she'll be troyin' t'raise soom fast cash. -- Roit, check th' pitchar shoows farrrst. Call me at this noombar, an' if Oi'm naaaht here troy BUckminstarr 4-8064. -- Well, ye bettar foind'arr, that's aahl Oi can -- Ahhl roit, Oi'll be waitin'." He hangs up, his face pale. "Whoot now?" queries Ma. "She nivvar shoowed oop," Uncle Frank sputters. "Who nivvar..." begins Ma. "Bink Scanlan," snaps Uncle Frank. "She nivvar gaaht t'wharr Oi -- ah -- well, she nivvar gaat tharr. She mossta gaat oof th' boos at sooom oothar..." "Oi doon't wannt t'knoo whar she was s'poostar get aaahf," glares Ma. "Boot Oi DO want t'knoo whar she DID get aaahf an' Oi want t'knoo it --" "Lemme think," mutters Uncle Frank, clutching the side of his head as he slumps back onto his stool. "Seems ye doon enoofa that aaahlready," accuses Ma, throwing her pencil on the counter in disgust. "Oi tol'jee noo good would cooma this." "Have ye seen Jimmy t'day?" demands Uncle Frank. "Noo," headshakes Ma. "He was spoosta go ovarr to th' City t'get th' newspaparrs, boot 'ee nivvar coom in this marrnin'. Daniel had to goo instead." Uncle Frank absorbs this latest informaton and closes his eyes. "Bloooody hell," he repeats as his head sinks to the counter......)

("Nah," nahs Sally, "it didn' bot'eh me none woikin' yestehday. Joe woiked oveh t'stoeh inna mawrnin' an'nen took Leonoreh t'bawlgame. Double headeh, t'ey din' get home till late. N' I guess t'ey had too many'a t'em hawt dawgs, 'cause Joe was up awl night wit'a stomach. I guess Awrmy food roon't'im f't'at kin'a eat'n." "Willie gawt a packa fiehcrackehs," sighs Alice. "Two inchehs. He shawt one awff out'na coehtyawrd an' scaiet t'dawg half t'deat'. Pooeh t'ing was hidn'undeh t'bed, wouldn' come out. 'N Willie gawt so upset 'bout t'at, he flushed awla rest'm downa terlet. Plugged up t'em pipes but good. Siddy was up awl night tryin'a fix'm." "I hoid'a bangin' awla way up'na secon' flooeh," notes Sally. "I dunno why t'ey bot'eh wit' t'ese kin'a holidays anyways. Gimeee a holiday wheh nut'n's expected of ya an' ya ain' gotta go noplace." "I had a lotta holidays like 'at," sighs Alice. "What?" "Nut'n.")

(Look, use your imagination, hon --next time color it green!)

(Hey now that Herman's back, why stop there? Whatever became of Jersey Joe Stripp??)

(Wait, now I know what's going on here. The little gink with the Colonna moustache is Nikola Tesla, and the whistle is his long-rumored sonic death weapon. Bold story, Mr. Plumb...)

(Good thing she doesn't remember her OLD responsibilities. I wonder how many houses Bill Biff has burned down by now?)

(Have you ever actually MET an artist?)

(Russell Stamm begins a challenging examination of wartime gender mores, and then says "ah, th' hell with it.")

(Actually, Trix is the least independent dog I've ever seen.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Things I never knew till now -- the Broccoli family and the broccoli broccoli are related. Oh well, I still say it's spinach and I say to hell with it.

"What's that he's playing? Rachmaninoff??? The kids'll love it!"

Never let the desire for petty vengeance interfere with the primary goal.

Little do they realize the Japanese have a deep love for baseball.

Steak?! At that age I was lucky to get fried tripe.

They teach you in law school how to say things in that scary monster lettering...

Well, it isn't Carlos.

Emmy shouldn't be wasting her time running a boardinghouse, there's a place for her in marketing.

You've got to admire her aggressive technique.

Hey Babe, did you remember to pack the lit cigars?

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Worker...

Those who live by machine politics....

"He has a point, sir," observes Mr. Parrott. "To every thing," intones Mr. Rickey, "there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven..." "Yes sir," sighs Mr. Parrott...

It would appear that **** Briefer, who drew "Pinky Rankin" under the nom-de-rouge "**** Floyd" has moved on, and his replacement -- ah -- doesn't have the knack. Briefer, for his part, is best known for drawing a long-running comic book series about Frankenstein, in which the monster was depictred as a hapless suburbanite. Funny stuff, and even a bit of social significance....

 

[Fading Fast]

"Have ye seen Jimmy t'day?" demands Uncle Frank. "Noo," headshakes Ma. "He was spoosta go ovarr to th' City t'get th' newspaparrs, boot 'ee nivvar coom in this marrnin'. Daniel had to goo instead." Uncle Frank absorbs this latest informaton and closes his eyes. "Bloooody hell," he repeats as his head sinks to the counter......

Dear God, don't let these two idiots get married; the world doesn't need them married and procreating. Bink, go get your smishmortion (sorry, Ma) and learn about birth control.

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Look, use your imagination, hon --next time color it green!

I don't doubt Big Butter is behind it, but in truth, Big Butter has nothing to worry about. It's eighty years later and they still don't have a butter substitute that can compete with butter's flavor and texture no matter the color.

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Wait, now I know what's going on here. The little gink with the Colonna moustache is Nikola Tesla, and the whistle is his long-rumored sonic death weapon. Bold story, Mr. Plumb..

I know you gave us a high-level overview of "Ella Cinders" the other day (thank you), but did the Eagle ever explain why it swapped it for "Wilbur Wackey" (which I never took to anyway)?

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Actually, Trix is the least independent dog I've ever seen.

He has his moments now and then, but basically, he's the friend you could do without. And wouldn't he call his paw a "paw" and not a "foot?"

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Things I never knew till now -- the Broccoli family and the broccoli broccoli are related. Oh well, I still say it's spinach and I say to hell with it.

So James Bond and that nasty vegetable are related. As you said, who knew?

 

[LizzieMaine]

It was kind of odd to drop "Wilbur" in the middle of a storyling, but I suspect Mr. Krehbiel might have either been drafted (liklier) or sued by Rodgers and Hammerstein (funnier).

"Ella," which started in the mid-twenties, has the reputation for being a pretty good strip of this kind of strip, so we shall see. I know it's too much to hope for Harry Tuthill to come back yet again, this time with the "prime ****leverse" intact, but I wonder if Boody Rogers is out of the Army yet. I want to know if Sparky Watts ever escaped from that submarine.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("I dunno what't'is woil' is comin' teh," sighs Sally. "Some guy gets beat up -- in Bohack's -- f' feelin' fruit." "Awrf'l," agrees Joe. "Roulston's I could b'lieve," continues Sally. "But Bohack's? An' who don't feel fruit? Who don' go in a stoeh'r'n feel fruit." "I don't," shrugs Joe. "Whattaya mean ya don't?" marvels Sally. "Y'mean if I said, 'hey Joe, run down'n get me a haffa pounda apples, awr peahs, awr sump'n, you'd jus' take t'fois' one awf t'pile an' take it an'nat's awl?" "Prob'ly," admits Joe, leaning back in his char. "Dinchoo go t'school f'cookin'?" argues Sally. "Awlat fruit come in cans," counters Joe. "One can feels 'bout'a same's'a nex' one." "I ask ya," headshakes Sally. "Married t'wa guy f' eight yeehs, an' ya come t'fine' out he don' feel fruit." "I feel t'matehs," notes Joe. "T'at's fruit." "G'wan," dismisses Sally. "T'mateh's a vegetable." "Nope," nopes Joe. "S'a fruit. Loin't'at when I was loinin' t'be a cook." "An' y'feel t'matehs," squints Sally, "but'cha wouldn' feel a peah." "Nah," nahs Joe, enjoying the game. "I jus' feel'm one at a time....")

("An' coom t'foind oot," growls Uncle Frank, sipping a tepid cup of Toomey's Diner coffee, "he took th' ****** troock too!" "Auto t'eft," tsks Sergeant Doyle, swishing his donut in his own cup to be sure it is thoroughly soaked. "I dunno, Frank, I t'ought you raised'em boys t'have moeh sense'n -- well, awright, but maybe moehs sense'n'NAT." "An' Nora's fit t'be tied," continues Uncle Frank. "If thar's anny chance that baby's Mickey's..." "He wasn' even home a mont'," observes Doyle. "Boy don' waste no time." "Lissen," requests Uncle Frank. "Farrst Oi wan'chee t' see if y'c'n maybe get in tooch with th' State P'leece, put th' ward oot aboot me troock." "Oi s'pose I c'n do t'at," sighs Doyle, sliding his open palm along the counter and suggestively wiggling his fingers. "****** gamboon," mutters Uncle Frank, slapping a five-dollar bill into the palm. "An' thar's anoothar thing," he continues. "Oi wan'chee t'pick oop Danny an'' hoold 'im in a cell till Oi tell ye t'let'im goo." "I dunno," sighs Doyle, "y'know, t'eh housin' shawrtage is hitt'n awl oveh.." Uncle Frank rolls his eyes and slaps down another five. "Oi doon't care what charge ye use," explains Uncle Frank. "Boot booth thim eedjits was roonin' aroond wit' Bink, an' Oi ain' takin' noo marr chances." "An' y'ain't got any ideeh wheh she went?" queries Doyle. "Y'sueh y'don' wanna toin it oveh t' Missin' Poissons?" "An' have it aaaahl oovar Page Foor?" snaps Uncle Frank. "Ahhh," dismisses Doyle, "nobody'd see it wit' t'strike awn. B'sides, y'don' get awn page foeh f'sump'n like t'is. I mean, y'ain' even gawt no Indian chief...")

("Whoa, take it easy!" -- Doc Brady.)

(I dunno, I think the society pages could stand to be a bit more -- astringent.)

("Dear, staring at that phone won't make it ring." -- Mrs. Helen Fitzsimmons.)

(What kind of tigress roams Beverly Hills? Oh, THAT kind.)

(Oh, I wouldn't say that. I think there's still some cake left from the wake.)

(Oh, a STARVING artist.)

(This is what happens when you have a super who just doesn't care.)

("Oh well, back to sleep...)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Settle in, boys, you'll be here for a while.

No, not *that* Mary Astor. Although she probably could have if only she'd had the time...

The keynote of good acting is sincerity.


Careful of your sciatica, Pop.


Don't you hate when guests show up and you don't have a chance to at least clean up the place?

This is even better when you hear the lines in Barrymore's voice.

"Yeah, it's nut'n like Staten Island."


Isn't the correct word "fakir?"

"Cary Robet'son?" wonders Miss Kaplan. "Oh, I bet heeza one designed 'at t'ing she's gawt awn. T'at whatchacawlit, t'at too-too. T'at ain' bad at'awl!" "Hmph," hmphs Mozelewski.

Escalation.

 

[Fading Fast]

"I dunno, Frank, I t'ought you raised'em boys t'have moeh sense'n -- well, awright, but maybe moehs sense'n'NAT."

What happened to Frank's first wife - was she around for any part of the boys' childhood?

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What kind of tigress roams Beverly Hills? Oh, THAT kind.

I get that the timing of when a strip is picked up by a new newspaper can't be aligned to the storyline of the strip, but it appears this strip's debut in the Daily News has been particularly unpropitious as the star has only been in a few panels so far.

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Oh, I wouldn't say that. I think there's still some cake left from the wake.

"Cake, did someone say 'cake?'"

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This is what happens when you have a super who just doesn't care.

"Yeh." — Krause

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Kudos to Page 4 for understanding its mission as it went half way across the country to a remote part of Michigan to "cover" a nothing-burger story all to show two attractive women in bathing suits. That's commitment.

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No, not *that* Mary Astor. Although she probably could have if only she'd had the time...

Which item doesn't belong in the list:
- Film star
- Author of a wanton diary
- Member of the French Resistance

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Escalation.

Fairness has nothing to do with any of this, but she's lucky if he lets her keep half.

 

[LizzieMaine]

Bridget Leary died in childbirth in 1910, leaving Frank to raise the boys on his own. By the time he met Nora Sweeney in 1919, it is likely that their habits had already become well ingrained. The Sweeneys were still living in a Pigtown shanty at that time, and by the time they moved into the apartment over the store Jimmy and Danny were about to move into their incorrigible teens. Ma had little influence over their upbringing, but given how Mickey turned out, it's unlikely it would have made much difference...

Ella is as far as I know a spunky, decent sort -- as I said the other day, a grown-up Orphan Annie, but with no Warbucks figure in her past to make old enemies. I can't imagine why Mr. Tesla here wants her dead, especially in such a -- creative -- way.

Here's an interesting appreciation of the strip and its background --https://panelsandprose.com/2023/11/25/ella-cinders-deserves-her-moment/

I wish someone would write a novel where Mary Astor and Alice Marble travel the world having adventures together.

 

[Fading Fast]

...

I wish someone would write a novel where Mary Astor and Alice Marble travel the world having adventures together.

That would be so cool, but the readers would be you, me, and maybe five others.

 

[Fading Fast]

...

Here's an interesting appreciation of the strip and its background --https://panelsandprose.com/2023/11/25/ella-cinders-deserves-her-moment/

...

Great read on Ella Cinders and this line:

"... you're so crooked you have to screw your socks on."

is very smart and very funny.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Sooo thaat's th' story," sighs Uncle Frank, leaning back in his swivel chair as Alice squints thru the blue smoke drifting under the bare hanging bulb. "They foond me troock paaarked in froontoova diner in Elmira, with noo gasoline an' a flat tire. An' noo soine a' Jimmy, an' noo soine 'a Bink." "Huh," huhs Alice, absorbing the tale. "An' ya want ME t'go up t'eh'r'n get it." "Oi've gaaht a spare toire in th' back room here," continues Uncle Frank, "an' Oi gaaaht coopons farr th' gas t'get'chee back." "Inky Quinlan specials," sneers Alice. "No t'anks. I jus' gawt me reckid cleeh'd, an' I do'wanna doity it up again. T'at adoption ain' final yet." Uncle Frank lets out another sigh. "Oi doon't ask farr too many favarrs," he notes. "Oi gaaaht noobody else Oi c'n send oop thar who knoos how t'droive. An' if ye do this farr me -- well, Oi'll be beholden t'ye, that's aaahl." "It's a whole day's ride up t'eh'r'onna bus," observes Alice, "an' gawd on'y knows how lawng it's gonna take t'drive t'at junky ol' truck back'eeh. It neveh sawr t'oity-five miles'n'houeh in twenny yeehs. Means I'll prob'ly hafta absentee awffa woik Monday too, an' y'know, t'wawr ain' oveh yet." "Oi'll give ye twinty dollars expense mooney," offers Uncle Frank. "But'chee gotta do woon otharr thing. Keep ye oyes peeled f'r thim two eedjits, an' if ye see'm ye bring'm back. Aloive." "Ah," ahs Alice. "Oi'll leave Bink t'Nora," Uncle Frank, "boot I'm goona kill Jimmy meself..." "Did'ey," propounds Alice, "look inna backa t'truck?" But there is no reply as Uncle Frank buries his aching head in his hands....)

("Oi appreciate ye -- ah -- roonin' me errands farr me, Joseph," declares Ma, as Joe hands her the canvas bag. "Yeh," nods Joe. "Awrways glad t'run -- um -- errands." "Little Leonora doos love t'****t th' coins," Ma continues. "Oi think coin coolectin's a foine haaaahby farr a little garl." "Some people," observes Joe, with a cocked eyebrow, "neveh outgrow it.")

(Well, it's too hot to hide in the attic.)

(How is it that Mr. Holmes plays for the Braves and not the Dodgers? HMMMMM, Mr. Rickey???)

(Whatever became of Ann Sheridan?)

(I bet she's not dangerous at all, just lonely and misunderstood.)

("Flame?")

(A successful art forger remains in the shadows...)

("Fine, Miss Smarty Pants, we're diversifying!")

(This sounds like a perfectly fine idea. But you might want to put some shoes on before you hit Siberia.)
'

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

A 24 year old major? Obviously wise in the ways of the world.

Hey, you could be taking the bus.


It always comes down to a touch.

Nobody ever sings "Mairzy Doats" anymore.

Your coffee is ready, Admiral Nimitz.

Hey Punjab, you busy?

Thank you, Mary Baker Eddy.

Better bite those coins, Bim.


Just had a night like this myself but I never thought of trying this. Thanks, kid!

Have you thought about what you're going to do when you run out of shirts?

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in New York's Fastest Growing Morning Daily...

Die.

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

 

[Fading Fast]

"It's a whole day's ride up t'eh'r'onna bus," observes Alice, "an' gawd on'y knows how lawng it's gonna take t'drive t'at junky ol' truck back'eeh. It neveh sawr t'oity-five miles'n'houeh in twenny yeehs. Means I'll prob'ly hafta absentee awffa woik Monday too, an' y'know, t'wawr ain' oveh yet."

Don't do it Alice. Don't mess up your nice clean record. Plus, how in God's name would you explain a trip like this to your husband?

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How is it that Mr. Holmes plays for the Braves and not the Dodgers? HMMMMM, Mr. Rickey???

It's always fun to see up-and-comers like future-middleweight champion Jack LaMotta before they became household names.

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A 24 year old major? Obviously wise in the ways of the world.

And he had an hour and twenty minutes to prove it.

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I don't think he understands the meaning of the word "conscience."