The Era -- Day By Day

[LizzieMaine]

("Joe," sighs Sally, leaning out the window. "Come in an' go t'bed. Please. You sitt'n out'eh'r awl night gett'n no sleep ain't gonna change nut'n. I mean'nis is gonna be t'enda t'wawr, y'know? Fin' ly t 'end." "Yeh," sighs Joe, shifting his cud from one cheek to the other. He stares out into 63rd Street, where somewhere two cats are announcing their presence. "Awl livin' t'ings, Sal," laments Joe. "Innat whole city. People. Soljehs, ol' ladies, babies. Animals. Cats, dawgs, hawrses, boids, awl'vm. An' we done'at." He fires a black stream over the rail, and shakes his head. "We *can* do t'at. Any time we wanna," he continues. "Ev'ry livin' t'ing, Sal. An' what gives us t' right? Huh?" "I dunno," sighs Sally. "Maybe nobody's s'posta ask about t'at, nawt now, anyway." She gazes out at her husband. "But I'm proud'at you did...")

("Misses Ginsboig tol' me," sighs Sally, her eyes pouched from lack of sleep, "she t'inks Misses Nucci had a niece a' sump'n livin' upta Bronx. I guess we need'ta try'n track 'eh down, figyeh out what t' do wit'eh stuff. An'ney gawtta -- jeez, y'know, t'ey gawtta have somebody t'claim' 'eh, so she don' end up in no pottehs fiel'. I guess she useta go t'choich oveh't St. Dominic's, somebody needs t'tawk t't' Fawteh t'eh, tell 'im what happn't if 'e ain' awready hoid." "Yeh," nods Alice. "Siddy might know how t'get in touch wit'teh niece. He's sposta be home fr'm camp wit' Willie Satehday mawrnin. I told'im 'bout what happn't, but I tol' 'im nawt t'say nut'n t'Willie, let 'im keep havin' a good time at leas'." The conversation trails off as Sally leans her head against the train window, exhausted from recent events, and they ride on in silence for a time. "Hey Sal," queries Alice after that interval. "You know anyt'ing 'bout t'em Safe Deposit t'ings t'ey gawt in banks? Does it cawst much t'get one'a t'em?" "I dunno," replies Sally, not opening her eyes. "I neveh had one. Whatta you gawt needs to go in one'a t'em?" "Um," ums Alice. "I gawt wawr bonds, me'n Siddy gawt quite a bindle saved up, awl stuck inna cigawr box undeh t'bed. We could put'tem inneh. An' -- um -- papehs." "What kin'a papehs?" wonders Sally, one eye flicking open. "Um," repeats Alice. "Poissonal papehs. Real impoehten' possional papehs t'at'cha wawna keep safe, y'know? F't'resta ya life? T'em kin'a papehs?" "Yeh, I guess," shrugs Sally, the eye droooping closed. "Yeh, y'otta keep t'em papehs safe." "I'm gonna," vows Alice. "F't'resta me life...")

(At Camp Chin-Ach-Gook, a sunbrowned Willie gnaws a kosher hot dog off the end of a whittled stick. "Hey Pap," he sighs. "D'we gawtta go back home?" "Yeh," laments Krause, tapping his cast on the side of his camp chair...)

("Caaaarful oonloadin' thim crates," directs Uncle Frank. "Ye doon't waaant to poot any ixtra strain aaahn thim springs." "Y'gawt springs awnis wheelbarreh?" sneers Solly. "Y' REALLY do??" "Now Oi resent..." begins Uncle Frank, before he is cut off by a wrenching groan of failing steel...)

(Sigh.)

(We should note that Ella is a minor celebrity of sorts, having enjoyed a sporadic career in the movies as a result of winning a contest years ago. Which explains how she rates such coverage on Page Four.)

(People with glass jaws shouldn't throw lefts.)

(But I thought G-Men never practiced deception!)

(FACE EATING DOG!!!! FACE EATING DOG!!!!! FACE EATING DOG!!!!!!!!)

(C'mon, Worst Dad Ever, don't just do something, stand there!)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Back to Normalcy...

Bomb Canada? Whatever happened to those nice editorials about building the domed stadium in Flushing?

KIDS TODAY.

Hey Shad, Olsen and Johnson are here and would like a word with you...

Australopithecenes weren't very big...

Better take your money, Skeez, because you'll be paying.

Hey April, if this works, I hear Scarlet O'Neil is hiring.

One-Wheel Drive.

Did he also include an index? And footnotes? And twelve pages of photos?

Wrestling managers aren't noted for their acumen either, all they need is to be able to take a folding chair to the head...

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

The "Atombomb" joins "Jimcrow" in the Worker's distinctive vocabulary of compound words.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Hiroshima Wiped Out By Bomb, **** Admit: Most Inhabitants Seared to Death Says Broadcast."

Why are they not surrendering?

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

"Poissonal papehs. Real impoehten' possional papehs t'at'cha wawna keep safe, y'know? F't'resta ya life? T'em kin'a papehs?" "Yeh, I guess," shrugs Sally, the eye droooping closed. "Yeh, y'otta keep t'em papehs safe." "I'm gonna," vows Alice. "F't'resta me life..."

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

At Camp Chin-Ach-Gook, a sunbrowned Willie gnaws a kosher hot dog off the end of a whittled stick. "Hey Pap," he sighs. "D'we gawtta go back home?" "Yeh," laments Krause, tapping his cast on the side of his camp chair...

I half forgot that they went to a Jewish camp (via Mr. Ginsburg, if memory serves). So did they have to attend Friday night services as that would have been quite the experience? My Depression-era, not-Jewish parents always said Kosher hotdogs were "safer." My guess, "The Jungle" was still influencing people's opinion of food safety when my parents were growing up.

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

Better take your money, Skeez, because you'll be paying.

Nina is flat-out smarter than her husband.

 

[LizzieMaine]

In researching the 1940s New York summer camp experience, I thought it was interesting that, while most of them had a Jewish orientation, there were some of these that used the "Indian" theme to do a sort of soft-pedaled very general sort of spiritual experience on Friday nights, rather than full-scale services so as to make the places feel welcoming to whatever Gentile kids that happened to go.

And of course, living in what was at the time a primarily Jewish neighborhood in Bensonhurst, the kids are growing up thoroughly familiar with the advantages of kosher food.

 

[scotrace]

I still have my first year Pipestone from summer Scout camp, presented by some pretty terrifying old white men dressed as Native Americans. Dropped out of the troop soon after. One of the assistant scout masters was handsy with the boys. I didn't want to tell my dad that, so I went to a meeting and dropped the F bomb until they kicked me out.

 

[LizzieMaine]

Meanwhile, here's something for our Gasoline Alley fans -- in 1953, Mad magazine, then a comic book, offered a brilliant satire of Skeezix and company, in "Gasoline Valley," which managed to boil down to a few pages the fascination readers had with watching him grow up. The art is by Will Elder, who had an uncanny gift for capturing the style of any cartoonist you could name...

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Joseph..." pleads Ma. "Please doon't..." "Don' bawteh me," grits Joe, stepping to the phone. He drops in a nickel and dials O. "Infehmation," he requests. "Wawshin't'n D. C." "Joseph," repeats Ma, "poot doon th' telephone. Oi caaan't have noo trooble..." Joe waves her away, his face set. "Yeh," he resumes. "I wanna numbehr'a t' White House. Yeh, t' White House, you know t' one. Wait, lemme get a pencil. Gimme ya pencil, Ma." "Joseph..." exhales Ma. "I SAID GIMME YA PENCIL," he growls, his voice uncharacteristically sharp. Ma sighs, and complies. "Awright," continues Joe. "Gimme it again. NAtion'l 8-1-4-1-4. An'nat'sa real White House, nawt no White House Tave'n a'nut'n stupid like'at. Awright. Gimme long distance." "Yarr goin' t'get in trooble," warns Ma. "Ye can't joost..." "SIDDOWN," snarls Joe, to Ma's pie-eyed astonishment. "Yeh. Gimme Poisson t' Poisson. I wawna tawk t' Harry S. Truman, NAtion'l 8-1-4-1-4. Yeh, HIM. Awright, t'switchboehd t'en, whateveh. Yeh, I'll wait." "Joseph," repeats Ma, her voice growing desperate. "You been married t'me daughtarr f'arr eight years. Y'seen what koinda trooble she gets in roonin'ar mooth. Oi woon't have YE doin' it!" With that, she grabs her newspaper hook, leaps to the phone, and with one fast slash cuts the receiver cord, its remnant flopping limply against Joe's thigh as he clamps the earpiece to his ear. "Jeezuz Chris' Ma," bellows Joe, firing the severed receiver against the back wall, shattering a stack of ice cream bowls. "Don'cha GET IT?" he screams, his eyes flaring in his reddened face. "SOMEBODY'S GOTTA TELL 'IM! SOMEBODY'S GOTTA TELL 'IM T'STAWP BEFOEH"RIT"S TOO LATE! He sinks to a stool and buries his face in his hands. "Befoeh--" he sobs. "Befoeh -- it's -- too -- late....." The screen door skeens open, to admit Sergeant Doyle. "Frank aroun'? I need t'tawk ---" "GET OOT," commands Ma. "Oh," swallows Doyle, exiting without a further woord...)

("Joe..." whispers Sally, summoned to the store by her mother. She gazes down at her husband, sprawled on Bink Scanlan's back-room cot and gives him a shake. "What'd you do t'wim," she glares at her mother. "I give 'im -- " hesitates Ma, "soomthin' t' poot 'im t' sleep. I stook 'im in 'eere 'cause I couldn't loog 'im oopstairs boi meself, an' ev'rybody ilse is aahf -- dooin' soomthin'. "Mmmmmggphhh," groans Joe, clutching the side of his head. "Sal?" he murmurs. "Ain'choo s'posta be at woik?" "It's seven o'clock at night," replies Sally, pressing a wet dishtowel to his forehead. "You been asleep." "T'at was some drink, Ma," mutters Joe. "Wha'joo -- put inneh?" Sally shoots her mother a look. "Joost a little -- ah -- " stammers Ma, "soomthin' t'help ye relax." "What happn't, Joe?" interrogates Sally. "Ma says you tried t'..." "I jus' t'ought," sighs Joe, gazing at the ceiling, "t'at maybe you was right, Sal. Maybe you was right awl alawng, awlem t'ings y'r'awlways sayin' 'bout I need t'get invawlved. S'w I jus' figyehed, y'know, it was time..." Ma frowns at her daughter, but Sally waves her away. "It's like Docteh Levine tells me," she replies, swabbing Joe's forehead. "T'ezza time 'na place. An' ya gawtta use, you know, tactics." "It ain' like," sighs Joe, "I was t'rowin' bricks. I jus' wawned t'tawk t'wim, y'know? Tell 'im 'e's made 'is pernt. I mean, izzis how it's gonna be now? Blowin' up whole cities 'n ev'ryt'ing inn'm? Awla time? We gotta kid, Sal. Y'wawn' she should grow up inna woil' w'eh t'is izza -- way t'ings is? I mean, 'nis guy Truman, he raised a kid. I figyehed he'd -- unnehstan'..." Sally presses the towel to her husband's forehead and leaves it there. "Jus' lie back," she instructs. "'n when y'ready, lemme know, 'n we'll go home." She beckons to Ma, and they step out, closing the door behind them. "I neveh seen 'im like'is befoeh," Sally declares. "He was a mess when 'e come home, but I t'ought 'e was doin' betteh. An'nen'nis t'ing wit' t'bombs, an' on toppa t'at, Misses Nucci dyin' like she done -- I'm scaiet, Ma. What'm I gonna do?" "Have ye talked," suggests Ma, "t'ye Docteh Levine?" "T'em doctehs inna Awrmy din' do 'im no good," sighs Sally. "So I dunno..." "Taaahlk to arr," directs Ma. "Ye moit not knoo it ar not, boot she doon YOU soom good." "Yeh," admits Sally. She slumps at the counter, as Ma reflexively fixes her a Coke. "Y'know," she exhales. "You really need t'clean out'at back room. Awlem sheets t'rown oveh'raw'lem piles 'a junk inneh. Whatta mess." "Ooh," acknowledges Ma. "It is, it is. Oi moost have a taaalk with Barbara....")

(Somewhere in America, Michael P. Sweeney feels a nagging pang of conscience. With a frown of irritation, he flicks it away....)

(Used them up yet?)

(Since you were 18? You're only 24!)

(Poor Patches, doesn't even get to lead.)

(Ahh, happens all the time in this neighborhood.)

(Wait, can the FBI do that?????)

(AND FACE EATING DOG WILL BE WAITING FOR YOU!)

(Why not, you've been letting him down since he was born!)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Tick tick tick tick tick...

"A WPA Actor?" Obviously a student of the Method.

Yes this was certainly a good idea.

"Dear, a man doesn't mow the lawn in a pressed uniform and a tie because he likes to..."

BURN

Of course, it helps to have the raw material.

"Oh, were you away?"

How meta.

You know, I could go for a good Harold Lloyd movie.

Hmph, such a dirty habit.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Nagasaki Wiped Out" Red-Jap Fight Raging — Reports Naval Base Obliterated as 2nd Atom Bomb Hits Nip City."

Why are they not surrendering?

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

"Ye moit not knoo it ar not, boot she doon YOU soom good."

She gets it.

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

"Y'know," she exhales. "You really need t'clean out'at back room. Awlem sheets t'rown oveh'raw'lem piles 'a junk inneh. Whatta mess." "Ooh," acknowledges Ma. "It is, it is. Oi moost have a taaalk with Barbara....

Perfect.

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

Of course, it helps to have the raw material.

Still no plot, but as you noted, he's effectively gone Catskill on us.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("May I join, Yussel?" queries Mr. Ginsburg, stepping out onto the stoop as he lights his pipe. "Have a seat," nods Joe. "I couldn' take no moeh'ra t'at radio. Awlem ******ins. Awlat waitin'." "Momentous times," agrees Mr. Ginsburg, as a cloud of Half and Half wafts out into 63rd Street. "You are better, then?" "Yeh," sighs Joe, his voice bitter. "I guess." The two men sit in quiet companionship, the faint honking of a radio drifting thru an open window somewhere down the block. "Misteh Ginsboig," begins Joe. "Yawr a pretty smawrt guy." "Eh," dismisses Mr. G. "An old man, I am. An old cloak-and-suit. Anything I know, from experience I loin." Joe is silent again, collecting his thoughts. "Misteh G," he resumes. "You b'lieve in Gawd. Maybe you c'n help me unnehstan' sump'n. See, Sal don' go in too much f' Gawd. She says anybody lets awla bad stuff happ'n inna woil, an'ee could DO sump'n about it, an'ee DON'T, well, 'at's nut'n right t'eh but t'wois' kin'a rat an' bum." Mr. Ginsburg takes a contemplative puff. "Am I a good man, Yussel? Do you think?" "Yeh," nods Joe. "Yeh, I t'ink y' awr." "Did I," Mr. Ginsburg propounds, "help Missus Nucci? I could have. Even I should have. But did I?" "None of us did," sighs Joe. "Too busy, we were," nods Mr. Ginsburg. "Our own lives, too busy to do the good we should have done. So, I ask you, Yussel, who are we to judge?" "But don't Gawd," contends Joe, "I mean, ain'ee awrways got t' time? Seein's he's Gawd an' awl, seems like he oughta be able t'get t'ings done." "Perhaps," shrugs Mr. Ginsburg, "he allows the bad, so that you and I, perhaps, and all of us, so that we can *choose* to do good. And when we don't, perhaps then, we regret and from that regret, we should undehstand..." Joe falls silent again, a ******in echoing out into the street from the distant radio. "People sayin' I'm crazy," sighs Joe. "Y'know? Jus' like t'ey say Sal's crazy." "Crazy, mine boy," affirms Mr. Ginsburg, "you are not. Perhaps you are more sane than all of those who do these terrible things. Who can say? And your wife, could it be in her own way she is the sanest one of all. Loud, perhaps, but she sees..." "I don' t'ink she's crazy," agrees Joe. "I know why she does awlem t'ings she does. She wawnts t'ings t'be betteh, y'know? F' people like us? An' it don' happen quick enough an' she gets whatchacawl frustrated. Same as me. I try t'cawl'a President. Sal t'rows bricks." "'For the stone," quotes Mr. Ginsburg, "shall cry out from the wall, and the beam out of timber shall answer.' Perhaps, Yussel, Sally simply is giving that stone with a leetle push." "Heh," hehs Joe, as the rasping radio echoes out into the soft evening air...)

("I tawked t't'at Fawteh Kelleheh oveh't parish," sighs Alice. "He din' know. He says Misses Nucci useta go t' Mass oveh t'eh awla time, but he hadn' seen'eh f'r'abouta week. He was gonna check up, butcha know how t'ings is..." "Yeh," nods Sally. "Didjoo know," continues Alice, "Misses Nucci's fois' name was 'Giulietta?' T'at's Italian, y'know. In American it's sump'n like Juliet..." "I neveh knew t'at," replies Sally, her eyes downcast. "Ain'at a hit? Me'n Joe been livin'eeh f'rawmos' eight yeehs, an' we neveh'reven knew 'eh fois' name. Even when'eh husban' an'eh boy was alive. T'ey was jus' t'em people live upstaiehs. She useta yell at t' boy an' I'd hit t'ceilin' wit'ta broom handle an' yell SHUT UP." "Faw'teh says t'eh gonna have a soivice f'reh," continues Alice. "Soon's'ey c'n track down'nis niece inna Bronx." "Yeh," sighs Sally. "Giulietta, huh?" "Yeh," ponders Alice.....)

("Oi doon't want th' ****** things," growls Uncle Frank. "Oi gaaht enoof trooble with Solly Pincus, Oi don'need twenny bales a' ****terfeit gas coopons in me way." "Hmph," hmphs Inky Quinlan. "The paper alone is worth a tidy sum. I would think that, especially since you yourself have used so MANY of them, with, of course, my compliments..." "Goo throo'em in th' river," erupts Uncle Frank. "What'sis characteh doin' in'eeh," demands Solly, entering the warehouse. "Scram, bum, t'is is a legitimate business. "Well, I never!" huffs Inky. "Not any moeh ya don't,' snorts Solly. "G'wan, beat it!" Inky huffs out, as Solly turns to Uncle Frank. "I do'wanno moeh'ra t'em shady friends'a yez hangin' aroun'eeeh," he commands. "If wee'h gonna do t'is we'eh doin' it awna up'n up." "He was oonly," sputters Uncle Frank, "bringin' oovar th' new drawrin' farr th' soin. Look here." Uncle Frank opens a cardboard portfolio and displays the cartoon. "Hey," chuckles Solly. "T"at ain' bad. I like how ya put t'at ovehseas cap onneh steada t'helmet. An'nem eehs ain' too bad;. Yeh, I lke t'at a lawt." "Oi'm glad," sighs Uncle Frank, "ye approve." "I still do'wannim hangin' arouneeh," insists Solly. "People see 'im him wawkin aroun' like Adolphe Menjou, t'ink we'eh sellin' two-pants suits." "Anything ye say," seethes Uncle Frank.....)

("But do I hafta play 'The Missouri Waltz?'")

(Let's not talk about football, please.)

(Tommy Manville, is that you?)

("Did someone call me? Oh, wait..." -- Mary)

("Warrant? See that signed photo of J. Edgar? That's my warrant!")

(What, no Quonset huts?)

("Listen, bud -- long as we're out here, you wouldn't happen to have any hamburger?")

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

It ends where it began...

I can see why she dumped Addams, only Andy Gump can get away with a moustache like that.

**** Tracy is a funny funny man.

Panel three is a beautiful piece of cartooning.

Under the bus with you, Mr. Pyzon...

Hey, I remember reading that in the Saturday Evening Post! In 1923!

Not so fast Min, this is a great chance to make a fresh start!

And when you're the champ, you can wear bedroom slippers to a nightclub...

"Bloop." Best sound effect ever.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

I mean, coulda been a lead pipe...

 

[Fading Fast]

I love this ad. It's visually engaging and is interesting, but why would Rock Island Lines put it in the Brooklyn Eagle? I get the "buy your coal early" connection, but there is no way that is really profitable advertising.

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

"I do'wanno moeh'ra t'em shady friends'a yez hangin' aroun'eeeh,"

Solly so has Frank's number.

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

"Did someone call me? Oh, wait..." -- Mary

I caught that, too. Odd, almost like an intentional inside joke.

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

"...the wife of twenty years engaged in extra-curricular with three interlopers on at least 21 occasions."

Tee-hee. She's a busy little girl. That's not something you read everyday in a 1945 paper. And she looks like a librarian. Just wonderful.

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

**** Tracy is a funny funny man.

It looks like Breathless is going to cheat these boys. She plays for keeps, man.

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

"Bloop." Best sound effect ever.

Knowing Gray, he probably isn't, but recently, I get the feeling he's punking us.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Good evening, Mrs. Krause," greets Father Kelleher as he steps into the basement apartment at 1762 63rd Street. "You mentioned you don't have a telephone, so I thought I'd come by." "Um, yeh," acknowledges Alices, flushing at the presence of such an unaccustomed personage. "Um, we take cawls oveh t' Schreibstein's t'ehr'awnna cawrneh, but -- um -- won'cha come in an' -- be seated." "Thank you," nods the priest, stepping into the living room as Krause rises from his easy chair to greet him. "Uh," stammers Alice, "t'is is me husban' Siddy -- uh -- t'at is -- Misteh Krause." Krause clumsily extends his left hand in greeting, his eyes flicking nervously to the cast encasing his right arm. "I'm glad to know you, Mr. Krause," replies the Father. "Yeh," agrees Krause. "Um, don' min' 'is awrm t'eh," fumbles Alice, "he fell out'va tree." "Yeh," nods Krause, managing a sheepish smile. "Ah," nods the Father. "C'n I getcha a cuppa cawfee?" offers Alice. "You like Sanka?" "I'm fine," chuckles the Father, "but thank you." "Um, yeh." acknowledges Alice. She steps to her own chair, begins to sit, and then hesitates. She awkwardly makes the Sign of the Cross as she sinks into the chair. "I'm sawry, Fawt'eh," she apologizes. "Am I spos'ta do t'at? I neveh had no Faw'teh visit befoeh, an' -- well, s'been a lawng time since t' sistehs -- um -- am I doin' it right?" "There's nothing to worry about, Mrs. Krause," reassures the clergyman. "My visit tonight concerns the late Mrs. Nucci. I'm afraid we haven't had much success locating her niece, or any other living relative. We found an address in the Bronx, but the landlady said she hadn't lived there for about seven years. Said last she knew she'd moved to Brooklyn, but we haven't had much luck finding her here." "Oh," ohs Alice, as Krause leans forward in his chair. "Hey Ma," comes a yell from the window facing the courtyard. "Butchie knawcked oveh t'gawrbage can again. Can ya shove me out a shovel?" "T'at's oueh boy Willie," apologizes Alice. "Butchie's a dawg." Krause rises to fetch the shovel as the Father resumes his summary. "Of course, we can't go ahead with the burial until someone has formally claimed the body. Now, I understand that Mr. Krause is the superintendant of this building, and my thought was that if he were to enter that claim, we could proceed with a service and a burial." "Oh," ohs Alice. "Well -- um -- yeh, I t'ink we could do t'at. We awl feel terrible 'bout what happn't. Nobody shoud -- die -- alone -- like t'at..." "No,' agrees the Father. "No, they shouldn't." "Um," adds Alice, "what if t'is niece does show up? Will she know t'get in touch wit' us? I guess she can't if she don' even know we'eh even lookin' fawr'eh?" "I've given the information I have to the authorities," notes the Father. "I have a name and that old address in the Bronx, but that's about all." "Lemme write down t'name," suggests Alice. "'Case she does show up 'eeh." "Certainly," agrees the Father, adjusting his glasses as he opens a small pocket notebook. "I have it right -- ah, here it is. Her name is -- ahh -- Marie -- ahh, Marie Belasco." There is a clatter as Alice's pencil drops to the floor...)

("Saaaaary," calls out Ma to a furtive-looking man approaching the telephone. "It's boosted. Ye need to goo next door t' th' droogstore, use tharrs." "Oh," sighs the man. "It's thim jooovenile d'linquents," shrugs Ma, passing a quick nod to Joe. "S'cuse me bud," bustles Solly Pincus, skeening in thru the screen door as the man exits. "Hiya folks," Solly greets. "Frank 'eeh yet? I'm sposta meet'im." "Eh," shrugs Ma, returning to her tube of Duco cement and her pile of broken ice cream bowls. "Hey Joe," snickers Solly. "I hoid a good one. Did'ja know Gypsy Rose Lee's gawtta new show comin' out? S'cawl't 'T' Anatomic Bawmb!' HA! Ain'nat a rip?" "Hmph," frowns Joe. "Hey, what's eatin' --" begins Solly, but he is interrupted by the arrival of Uncle Frank. "Ahhhl roit," the new arrival declares. "Oi gaaaht th' key froom th' rental agent." "Whot's this noo?" interrupts Ma. "Whot key t' whot fr'm whot rental agent?" "Th' stoor nex' darr here, wharr th' pants pressar had 'is place. We're gooin' t'rent it farr th' retail stoor farr Sergeant Solly's Sarrrrploos." "Wait a minute," interrupts Ma. "Waaarn'tchee goin' t' oopen a dress shaaap in thar with that Mistarr Moozalewski?" "What?" injects Solly. "A *dress shawp?" An' whoozis guy Moozahoozis?" "You met 'im," recalls Joe. "Emil Mozelewski. Woiked wit' me oveh t' Sperry's. Good guy. Real talented." "And Mistarr Leary," declares Ma with a scowl, "praaaahmised this Mistarr Moozalewski that in exchange farr a favarr, he'd help 'im starrrt oop his oown shaaap aftarr th' warr." "Oh, now Nora," blusters Uncle Frank, "there wasn't noo contract aaahn that, we joost had an -- oonderstandin', an' I bet 'ee's f'gawt ahhhlaboot it." "Hmph," hmphs Ma. "Mistarr Warrrd-is-me-baaaaahnd." "Let's get t' t' bottom'a t'is, Frank," scowls Solly. "How many ot'eh 'undehstandin's' we gonna run inta?" "Ummmmmm......" umms Uncle Frank.....)

(Coming Events...)

("Well we had to do *something* when they rationed rubber hoses!")

("I wish Mr. Muckerman much success," declares Mr. Rickey. "My time with the St. Louis American League franchise rests among my fondest memories of the game." "Didn't Barnes have some crackpot idea," recalls Mr. O'Malley, twiddling a fine Cuban cigar in an ivorene holder between his pudgy fingers, "about moving the Browns out to the Coast? Los Angeles, wasn't it?" "The war," notes Mr. Rickey, "put an end to such plans." "A ridiculous notion," chuckles Mr. O'Malley, delicately tapping his cigar on the edge of Mr. Rickey's ash tray. "The Los Angeles Browns. Nooooo, you'll never see that. No indeed.....")

(Don't count your bacon before it's fried.)

("AND he'll cut off your allowance. Remember, my dear, henna doesn't come cheap.")


(Here's the way to do it. Type out the exact text of the letter, using the same line length and spacing, then place the two sheets atop each other while shining your flashlight up from below. Just a little something I picked up once working in an office...)

(Remember kids, never pick up a hitchhiker, especially if he looks like a John Steinbeck character.)

(When your dad is the Worst Dad Ever, you must find a way to make it work...)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Almost, but not quite....

Well, you just can't get the soap...

Kid, you need better friends.

These end-of-summer sales at Namm's Basement do offer some interesting looks.

"Me and you too." J. Wellington Wimpy, is that you?

At least it's something new.

"Now, about that campaign contribution..."

Count your blessings, hon -- he's better than Bumley.

Boys, life is full of lessons.

 

[Fading Fast]

She steps to her own chair, begins to sit, and then hesitates. She awkwardly makes the Sign of the Cross as she sinks into the chair. "I'm sawry, Fawt'eh," she apologizes. "Am I spos'ta do t'at? I neveh had no Faw'teh visit befoeh, an' -- well, s'been a lawng time since t' sistehs -- um -- am I doin' it right?"

LOL.

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Her name is -- ahh -- Marie -- ahh, Marie Belasco." There is a clatter as Alice's pencil drops to the floor...

Did not see that one coming.

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

"Hmph," hmphs Ma. "Mistarr Warrrd-is-me-baaaaahnd."

Good for her.

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"Let's get t' t' bottom'a t'is, Frank," scowls Solly. "How many ot'eh 'undehstandin's' we gonna run inta?"

Frank is not going to get away with his usual BS with Solly. I love it.

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AND he'll cut off your allowance. Remember, my dear, henna doesn't come cheap.

Yup, it's all fun and games until the checks stop coming.

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At least it's something new.

Ditto.

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Boys, life is full of lessons.

The strip is called **** Tracy, so she'll eventually be caught, but in real life, she'd get away. She's reasonably smart and unrelentingly tenacious. Come to thing of it, did they ever catch the plump blonde bank robber from NJ? I don't think they did. If she went on a diet, she'd be about the right age. Just sayin'.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("She caaaaaan't be th' same woon," exhales Uncle Frank. "It moost be soom oothar Marie Belasco. Tharr's gaaatta be a hoondred Marie Belascos in this city." "I don' t'ink so," contends Alice. "Sal tol' me one time t'at it was Mickey tol'eh 'bout t'buildin'neh, when she'n Joe fois' gawt married an' was lookin' f'ra place t'live. An'nat's right aroun'a time he was -- you know -- doin' what he done wit' Marie Belasco. He probl'y hoid 'bout t'place from *her,* y'see? Cause she was Misses Nucci's niece, an' woulda known about it." "Hmm," hmms Uncle Frank. "Well, soo farr's Oi know, Marie Belasco an' th' Hoppar is boooth doin' toime oot West, ahhn that oonfortunate ****terfeitin' chawrge." "You don't KNOW t'at," argues Alice. "Um, do ya?" "Sooo faaaar as Oi know," repeats Uncle Frank. "Well, t' Fawteh tol' me he give awla infehmation he had t' t' a'tawrities. What if t'ey find 'eh an' tell 'eh t'at 'eh aunt died an' she's gotta come back eas' t' take caeh'ra t'ings? What if Misses Nucci had a will an' left'eh t'whole estate?" "Tharrr's an estate?" perks up Uncle Frank. "I dunno," admits Alice. "We ain' gawn t'ru 'eh stuff yet. Nobody wawnt'sta go up t'eh. Siddy wen' up yestehday, an' awl'ee said was 'ehh.'" "Loook," reassures Uncle Frank, "I doon't think'yee gaaaht anything t'worry aboot. Oi really doon't." "You awrways say t'at," frowns Alice, "an' I awrways do." "At least," sighs Uncle Frank, "ye doon't have Solly Pincus cloimbin' doon'ye neck. Th' Aarrrmy saaaartainly changes a man." "You shoulda jerned up," comments Alice. "Maybe Oi still can..." "What?" "Noothin'...")

("Izzis wheh'r I'm s'posta lie down?" queries Joe, looking nervously around the office. "If you'd like," nods Dr. Levine. "Or you can sit in the chair, whichever you like." "I'll take a load awff," sighs Joe, easing into position. "S'now what?" "Well," begins Dr. Levine, unfurling her notebook, "why don't you just tell me why you're here." "Sal tol' me t'come," shrugs Joe. "So she told me," notes the Doctor. "But you don't do everything your wife suggests that you do, isn't that so? Why did you agree to come see me?" Joe's eyes trace the cracks in the ceiling as he weighs his answer. "I guess," he stumbles, "well, I mean, since I come home fr'm t'Awrmy, y'know, I mean -- well, jeez, Docteh, y'gonna t'ink t'is soun's stupid." "I don't think that I will," replies the Doctor. "Well," resumes Joe. "I guess -- I dunno, I guess I jus' don' know who I am anymoeh." "How so?" questions the Doctor, her pencil jotting across the page. "I dunno," repeats Joe. "Sometimes I look inna mirreh an' I say 'who t'hell'a you?' I jus' dunno any moeh." "Well, all right," continues the Doctor, "who were you? Before the Army, I mean. "Jus' some guy I guess," replies Joe. "Jus' some guy woiks in a pickle fact'ry, jus' some guy goes dancin' wit' Sal on Satehday night, goes t'wa bawlgame nown'en, has a glassa beeh. Jus' some guy. Nob'dy special. Nob'dy y'd look at twicet awnna street. Hey, you do'n mind if I -- um -- well, if I chew on some t'bacceh? Picked it up inna Awrmy, it settles me noives." "Ah," nods Dr. Levine, nudging a wastebasket around to the side of the couch. "T'anks," nods Joe, as he bites off a chew. "Weh was I?" "You were saying," summarizes the Doctor, "that you felt that you were nobody special." "Well, yeh," nods Joe, sending a stream thunking into the wastebasket. "I was jus' one'a t'ese guys y'see anyweh. I mean, not nobody you'd write home about, not nobody you'd -- I dunno, die foeh..." "Ah," nods Dr. Levine. 'Look," Joe continues, his cheek bulging. "I dunno how much Sal tol' you 'bout what happn't t'me." "She told me some," acknowledges Dr. Levine. "I'd like to hear it in your own words." "Oh," exhales Joe. There is another long silence. "I dunno," admits Joe, "if I can. It ain't like I don't remembeh. It's moeh like it's still happenin'. Right now, even. I'm tawkin' t'you, but it's still happenin'. While I'm tawkin' t'you I'm sittin' right now inna backa t'at truck, an'ee's sittin' nexta me, an'nen nezza shots, an'neez t'rowin' me awff t'bench an' I'm rollin' 'im oveh an'eez dead. Starin' up at me wit'tem eyes, an'eez dead. An' it's happenin' right now, an' it's awrways happenin'." Joe falls silent, as the Doctor's pencil skims across the page. "Am I crazy, Docteh," he wonders. "Izzit eveh gonna stawp?" Joe fires another stream into the wastebasket, its impact echoing dully as Dr. Levine considers her next words....)

("Have you made the arrangements I requested?" demands Mr. RIckey. "Time is increasingly of the essence." "I saw the paper," nods Mr. Parrott. "Hmph," hmphs Mr. Rickey. "As soon as you see Mr. Sukeforth, have him report to me at once." Mr. Parrot studies his employer carefully. "And say nothing to your newspaper --ah -- friends," Mr. Rickey warns. "Lest ye be swept away by the onrushing tides of destiny." "I wasn't going to say anything," mutters Mr. Parrott. "Your silence" nods Mr. RIckey, "is obligatory. " "Never get a word in anyway...")

(Wait, you've got steak? Oh, never mind.)

(You know, you could just grow your own carrots.)

(What ever became of Chili Williams?)

("Sweet young thing?" And which pictures would those be?)

(One of THOSE buildings.)

(And Mr. Savo is also the personality you can blame for popularizing ONE MEAT BAAAAAAAWL...)

(Hey, I know, have Flame and Hu Shee steal a car and go on a cross-country stunt-driving rampage. That'd be fun!)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick....

Your first glimpse.

The Toupee Fallacy.

That's an awful lot of plot to recap.

Ahhh, you could still be Congressman, just wait a few decades. And maybe some day, Shadow will learn to stay away from the beach.

Every FACE EATING DOG! has to start somewhere. And I would have thought these cave men would have just eaten with their bare hands.

Wickie and Breathless Mahoney ought to hang out.

Corky is Walt and Phyllis's only biological child, but you'd never know to look at him.

Too little, too late...

 

[Fading Fast]

"Loook," reassures Uncle Frank, "I doon't think'yee gaaaht anything t'worry aboot. Oi really doon't." "You awrways say t'at," frowns Alice, "an' I awrways do." "At least," sighs Uncle Frank, "ye doon't have Solly Pincus cloimbin' doon'ye neck. Th' Aarrrmy saaaartainly changes a man." "You shoulda jerned up," comments Alice. "Maybe Oi still can..." "What?" "Noothin'..."

Alice, like Solly, fully has Frank's number. I also like the bit about how Frank perked up when he heard the word "estate –" you know he's already wondering how he can weasel in.

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It ain't like I don't remembeh. It's moeh like it's still happenin'. Right now, even. I'm tawkin' t'you, but it's still happenin'. While I'm tawkin' t'you I'm sittin' right now inna backa t'at truck, an'ee's sittin' nexta me, an'nen nezza shots, an'neez t'rowin' me awff t'bench an' I'm rollin' 'im oveh an'eez dead. Starin' up at me wit'tem eyes, an'eez dead. An' it's happenin' right now, an' it's awrways happenin'." Joe falls silent, as the Doctor's pencil skims across the page. "Am I crazy, Docteh," he wonders. "Izzit eveh gonna stawp?" Joe fires another stream into the wastebasket, its impact echoing dully as Dr. Levine considers her next words....

Jesus.

BTW, how are Sally and Joe affording Dr. Levine, now for both of them?

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Hey, I know, have Flame Leona and Hu Shee steal a car and go on a cross-country stunt-driving rampage. That'd be fun!