The Era -- Day By Day

[Fading Fast]

I ain' seen a cockroach since I been inna jernt.

I've lived in seven apartments buildings in New York City: give the outside weather time to form just the right conditions to chase them up the sewer pipes and he'll have a few, as Joe says. It's unrelated to almost anything you or the super/building can do. That said, if you and the building do all the right things, they'll be rare, but never zero.

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"But when's she gonna PAY?" "Leave that," sighs Uncle Frank, "to me..."

Oy.

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Monty Woolley throws himself into every part he plays.

As does Priscilla Lane.

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Then you shoulda named him "Spike."

Quietly Alec Smart reads "Bo" about the dog named "Pansy" and prays none of his friends read the strip today.

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And the Daily News will be back tomorrow, so one more trip to the Out of Town newsstand...

Doesn't it feel longer than three days already? God knows the divorces in Reno, fake counts in New York, and hoity-toity jewelry heists we're missing – and who knows, there might even have been a new character – perhaps a cheesemonger from Switzerland trying to expand the market who was talking to Mrs. Langford about a capital infusion – introduced in the Langford case.

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[LizzieMaine]

("Hey," heys Sally. "R'membeh Flannehry, t'at rat cawp useta wawk a beat 'roun 'eeh?" "Yeh," frowns Alice. "Useta falleh me aroun'. Tried t' roon me weddin'. Yeh, I r'membeh t'..." "He's back," declares Sally. "Joe seen'im inta Schreibstein's las' night." "I t'ought," gapes Alice, "t'ey sen'im t' Staten Islan' afteh t'at t'ing 'e pull't, slippin' Siddy t'at coun'ehfeit money an'nen tryin' t' set'tim up!" "I dunno why," shrugs Sally, "an' I dunno how. But 'ee's back. I hoid Valentine's gett'n ready t' retieh, an' who knows what's goin' awn. Just an'ote'h doity cawp inna town full'vm." "Lissen, Sal," growls Alice. "Do me a faveh. If we'wh wawkin' alawng'eeh, goin'a subway, an' you see'im, do me a faveh an' toin me aroun' so I don' see 'im. 'Cause if I see 'im, I might hafta DO sump'n about 'im. An' I dowanna go t'jail again!" "Again?" snorts Sally. "Since when was you eveh'rin jail?" "Ummmmmm," stammers Alice, "it's whatchacawl -- um -- bein' in jail like ya can't -- um -- stawp t'inkin' ya gonna -- um -- what was you sayin'?" "Neveh min'..." sighs Sally as they head into the station....)

("So ya t'ink," ventures Joe, "y'can get me a grill." "Oi made some caaaahls," nods Uncle Frank, "an' Oi gaaaht me eye on woon in a warehoose oot in Jarrrsey. Boot Oi gaaaht t'take th' whool laaat a' kitchen stoof t'get it, an' befarrr Oi can do THAT, Oi gaaaatta convince me -- hmph -- paaaartner Mistaaar Pincus t'let me have th' mooney." "I'll tawk t'Solly," declares Joe. "We been pals since we was kids. He'll come t'ru." "Th' ooothar thing," continues Uncle Frank, "is thaaaat th' grill is -- ahh -- laaarge. Made farr a mess kitchen, ye see. If thim measurements ye gimme was right, we'll have t'coot it in half joost t'get it in here." "Oh," exhales Joe. "Boot Oi think," Uncle Frank continues, "Oi can have Danny do that faaaar ye oop in me ploombin' shaap. We gaaaat taaarches an' sooch things as that, an' we aaaht t'be able t' trim it doon an' faaarm th' edges so ye gaaat a backsplash 'n sooch. An' we can ploomb th' poipes farr th' gas. Boot we'll need coppar farr that." "Oh," repeats Joe. "Oi doooo have," offers Uncle Frank, "soom -- ahh -- coppar tubin' Oi ain't -- um -- usin' at th' mooment. If Oi was to use that, we coold getchee staaarted, an' then whin thar's new poipes, we c'n replace 'm an' Oi'll take me -- ahhh -- tubin' back." "Well," brightens Joe. "T'at ain' bad. T'at ain' bad at awl." "Ye doon't moind," adds Uncle Frank, "if th' tubin' is -- ahh -- a moite -- ah -- caaaaaarled oop, do ye?" "Ohhhhh," dawns Joe. "I t'ink t'at'll -- heh -- woik." "Very good, me boy," grins Uncle Frank. "Sayyyy, ahhhhh -- ye doon't need a big coppar -- ahh -- kettle, do ye....?")

("No," declares Solly, "I neveh shawt ****s in me life. I ain' no suckeh." "Ya lyin'," scoffs Bink Scanlan. "I neveh met a man in me life, neveh shawt ****s." "Y'need t'meet," snickers Solly, "a betteh class'a men." He flicks her a withering glance. "If it ain' too late." "Izzeh s'posta be 'n eclipse t'day?" queries Bink. "S'gettin' dawrk. Oh, t'at's jus'cha eehs blawckin'a sun...")

(Still too soon, but that clearly isn't going to stop anyone...)

(It hasn't been a particularly good year for good baseball, but it's been a very good year for pennant races.)

(In Hollywood, H. Bogart cinches his trenchcoat, ***** his hat, and goes looking for Charlie Plumb...)

(You don't get to be this dumb just by nature. You really have to work toward it.)

("Ellery Queen? Never heard of him.")

(What, you never heard of separates?)

(Come here, little pup, I won't be so mean.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And, at long last, in the Daily News....

"Miss us?"

"Knickehs!" laments Willie. "Knickehs is f'babies! NOBODY in 2A wehs KNICKEHS!" "Funny lookin' legs!" chortles Leonora. "An' I can' keep t' sawcks up!" Willie moans. "I can't find no rubbeh bands!" "I can fix it!" proclaims Leonora, rummaging thru a drawer. "A stapleh!!!" "MAAAAAAAAAAAA!" wails Willie.....

Oh those pesky intellectuals.

"Whyyyyyy hello theyuh Kunnnn'l Co'kin...."

Well, a good bath in turpentine will certainly kill the stink...

Oh, Min....

Oh well, maybe you'll have some interesting roomies.

No wonder he's losing his hair.

A born promoter.

"You'll get used to it."

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

GO BROWNS!!!!

 

[Fading Fast]

Just an'ote'h doity cawp inna town full'vm.

He's probably the anti-semitic cop they couldn't identify. It is, sadly in this case, amazing how little is new.

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"Ye doon't moind," adds Uncle Frank, "if th' tubin' is -- ahh -- a moite -- ah -- caaaaaarled oop, do ye?"

"Repurposing" Frank style.

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"Y'need t'meet," snickers Solly, "a betteh class'a men."

Good line, now run, Solly, run.


Oh, t'at's jus'cha eehs blawckin'a sun

She is a (using a term of the day) ****er.


On a side note, doesn't it seem like the department stores have already increased their stock and their advertising? If so, it didn't take them long to ramp up after the war.

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In Hollywood, H. Bogart cinches his trenchcoat, ***** his hat, and goes looking for Charlie Plumb...

Plus she looks more like Veronica Lake than Ms. Bacall, as Ms. Bacall never had that much meat on her bones her entire life. If she got hungry, she just smoked one of the five-hundred cigarettes she and Bogie consumed a day.

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"Miss us?"

A woman married to two men – ah, it's good to have Page 4 back.

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Oh those pesky intellectuals.

"We've talked about this. Could someone yell 'action' so that I know to face the camera as I was busy 'inspecting' some French fries that got stuck between a couple of the pier's slats."

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Oh, Min....

She got quite creative and detailed with her insult today, though.

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No wonder he's losing his hair.

Is "losing" really the tense you were going for?

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Naaaaaah," naaaahs Sergeant Doyle, helping himself to a fallen fragment of Uncle Frank's donut. "I ain' worried none. Allat stuff's Long Islan', buncha Keystone Kawps out'eh anyways. Who caez?" "Tell it," frowns Uncle Frank, sliding his plate out of his associate's reach, "t' Coothbarrt Behan." "Behan was a chump," scoffs Doyle. "Shoulda took caeh'ra t'at lit'l fink Frosch when'ee hadda chance. But ev'n wit'awlat he's sitt'n pretty, y'know? Runnin'at bawr 'n grill now, y't'ink he din' have somebody owed 'im a faveh gett'n 'im t' license? Nahhhh, I ain' worried. If Amen din' get me, ain'nobody else gonna." "Soomday, Tommy," warns Uncle Frank, "yarrr gooin' t' paaaahp aaahf yarr kissar t' th' wrong parrty..." "Me?" laughs Doyle. "Say, lissen. I eveh sing, I'll bring down'a house, ev'ryt'ing I know. You t'ink any'a t'ese dumb flatties gonna take'at chance?' "Be thaaat as it may," sighs Uncle Frank, "tharr is this matter oov th' bill ye wife roon oop with Mistarr Moozelewski." "Hey," nods Doyle, "tell'at guy he knows 'is onions. Most'a time Mavis goes shawppin' she comes home lookin' like'n ovehstuffed chaieh. T'em dresses she gawt oveh t'eh wasn' bad at'awll." "Well, thin," ventures Uncle Frank, "ye woon't be oonwillin' t'settle ye bill..." "Tell ya what," chuckles Doyle, reaching over to pluck another donut, "tell t' Ol' Lady t'knawck it awff t'is mont's p'tection." "Yarrrrra prince oova man, Thomas," sighs Uncle Frank. "Ain' I t'ough?" snorts Doyle....)

("Hmph," hmphs Bink Scanlan. "Cancha jus' opn' a can?" "Ye ivvar expec' t' make ye way in th' waaarld," admonishes Ma, "an' with a baby b'soides, ye bettar laaaarn hoo t'fend farr yeself. Didn'chee moothar ivvar teach ye nut'n?" "Tawt me t' dip," shrugs Bink. "Mooothar'a maaarcy," mutters Ma, as she pats the surface of the glistening brisket with a towel and hoists it into the heavy iron pot. "Noo, chop oop thim p'tataaars an' make it snappy." Bink obligingly swings a heavy cleaver and sends two potato halves spinning across the kitchen floor. "Nooooo, noooo, nooo!" sputters Ma, retrieving the chunks of spud. "Loike THIS!' Seizing a knife, she quickly produces a neat heap of potato cubes. "Noooo," she continues, pointing the knife toward a mound of carrots, "ye do th' same." "Rawr carrets?" frowns Bink, her face scrunched with distaste. "Can'cha jus' opn' a can?" "Niiiiiiivaaar MOIND," snarls Ma, completing the assigned task. "Now, Oi supoose," she exhales, "it would be tooo moooch t'ask ye t' coot that head'a cabbage intarr quaaaartars." Bink takes the knife and with some reluctuance begins carving the cabbage into small round pieces. "I t'ink," she sighs "t'at's closeh t'wa halfa dolleh, but..." "Yaaaaaar jooosst bein' difficoolt!" growls Ma. "Yarrrr worse'n me oon daughtarr!" "I ain't niet'eh," snaps back Bink. "She's woise'n anybody!" "Loook," grunts Ma, "can ye take th' paaaht an' poot in a little wataaar, joost enoogh t'cover it?" "Yeh," nods Bink, hefting the pot toward the sink. "How much soap?" Ma's reply, delivered in vigorous Gaelic, is unfortunately lost in translation....)

(Coming events...)

(And so was discovered the notion of "work-life balance.")

(I wonder if Roy Cullenbine spent all that $25,000 MacPhail handed him in 1940?)

(Follow your passion, said the founder of the International Academy of Whistling...)

(Well!!!)

(Either that's the weirdest novelty pocketbook I've ever seen, or the biggest chocolate sugared donut. Wait, he's a cop. Of course it's a donut.)

(Yes, it's a very good idea to turn invisible around railroad tracks...)

(WHO'S THE PANSY NOW????)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News....

"Nex' yeeh," vows Sally, "we'eh gonna enneh, an' we'eh gonnaw win! T'ey mighta stiffed us in t'oity-seven, but t'ey won't in foehty-six!" "Lookit how ol' t'ey awl awr," sighs Joe. "It's a kids' game, Sal. We was kids jus' like t'em. But we ain' kids no moeh." Sally sweeps her eyes over her husband. "You' ain' aged a day," she declares. "Maybe nawt onna outside," sighs Joe....

Get your bets down now at your favorite neighborhood candy store!

Mr. Clark's artwork lately has been remarkably good, even by his usual high standards.
Every figure he draws tells a complete story just from the poses.

"A razor won't do the job, sir. May I show you a hedge trimmer?"


Oh, won't this be fun.

"Amatchoor!" -- Uncle Frank.

All's well that ends well...

This storyline can go in two directions. Mr. Gray can spend the next three months on an extended screed bemoaning the present state of contemporary literary fiction, or Axel can show up and throw them all into the sea.

I really want the DL to show up and sit April down for a long woman-to-woman talk.

Hold that pose...

 

[Fading Fast]

"tell t' Ol' Lady t'knawck it awff t'is mont's p'tection."

JFC. These dirty cops are repulsive. I can kinda sorta respect an honest crook in a few things – Ma running numbers, say – but a dirty cop belongs in jail.

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"She's woise'n anybody!"



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Coming events...

I agree and am honest enough with myself to admit I would've agreed in '45, but the amazing thing is how wrong this article was: eighty years later, countless wars, and no nuclear Armageddon.

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"A razor won't do the job, sir. May I show you a hedge trimmer?"

Or just go to one of the billion barbers that existed in that day as many men still went to a barber for just a shave back then.

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This storyline can go in two directions. Mr. Gray can spend the next three months on an extended screed bemoaning the present state of contemporary literary fiction, or Axel can show up and throw them all into the sea.

I vote for the latter.

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I really want the DL to show up and sit April down for a long woman-to-woman talk.

April's act has worn so thin. She's the one woman (besides Cheery) in Caniff's world that I have no interest in as a woman or character. And to be fair to Cheery, she is an interesting character.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Izzat him?" hisses Alice, gazing up thru the basement apartment window toward a pair of blue serge pants and heavy black brogans pacing the sidewalk in front of 1762 63rd Street. "Izzat Flannehry t'cawp? Sal said she hoid 'e was back in town! Don'nat look like his feet????" "Ehh," shrugs Krause, squinting upward thru the reinforced glass. "I wanna op'na windeh n'get a betteh look! But t'at hinge squeaks -- heeh, Siddy, go get t' erl can, I'll give it a squoit." She waits, her nerves pulsing, as her husband fetches the oil, as the brogans continue to pace back and forth. She flicks a look at her watch. "Hurry up," she urges in a hoarse whisper. "If it IS him we gotta figyeh out howta get RID'v 'im so I c'n go t' woik!" Krause hustles back from the boiler room with a greasy can of Handy Oil, and Alice swiftly applies it to the hinge. Slowly pushing back the spring latch she raises the window for a clear look at the sidewalk above. "It's HIM!" she whispers. "Migawd, Siddy, whatta we gonna....." But her words are cut short by the sharp crack of shattering brick striking concrete, as the brogans leap suddenly aside, and vanish rapidly down the street. "T'at musta come from...." gapes Alice, staring at a red fragment that has bounced thru the open window onto her floor. Her face creases into a broad grin as she hustles over to the dumbwaiter and jerks up the door. "T'ANKS SAL!" she shouts. "DON' MENTION IT!" comes the reply....)

("That Dooorchaaar," snorts Ma. "A cheap hoodlum." "Yes'm," agrees Bink Scanlan. "VERY cheap." "Whatcharr mean?" wonders Ma. "I bumped int'wim at Ebbets Feel one time," shrugs Bink. "Gawt 'is roll. Buncha ones wit' a twenny wrapped aroun'it." "Hmph," sneers Ma. "A hoodlum an' a foor-flooshar bs'oides." "He smells nice t'ough," sighs Bink. "He weahs'at co-log-ne. If a man smells nice, I t'ink he's mooeh'r attractive. Ev'na bawl-headed lit'l squoit like Durocheh." "Stoof n' naaahnsense," scoffs Ma. "Any man'd be mooeh'r attractive wit' t'at stuff awn," swoons Bink. "A bawl-headed guy, a skinny guy, e'vn a guy wit', oh, big eehs...' )

(Ripped From The Headlines)

(1945 Esthetic: More whipped cream. Less diphtheria.)

(It has truly been a very very strange season.....)

(Try combing that moustache out of your mouth.)

(Remember when this strip was actually *about* Mary?)

(Are you a reporter or are you a cop? Time to make, as Mr. Rickey would say, "an election of professions.")

(You know, you could at least put on a blouse.)

("I meant to go up here." -- Kitty.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

At Behan's Bar and Grill, the drinks are on the house...


PUK PARRIS! PUK PARRIS! PUK PARRIS!

"That's nice dear. What HAVE you been doing?"

I bet under those whiskers he looks just like Andy Gump.

Go ahead, Walt --eat up all their red points.

On the other hand, though, sometimes the little twerp gets what's coming to him...

We all know who REALLY runs this house.

"Wake me when it's over....."

Little over a four-week lead, is it? I wonder how many strips he had to toss out.

Besides, Uncle WIllie would resent you stealing his style.

 

[Fading Fast]

But her words are cut short by the sharp crack of shattering brick striking concrete, as the brogans leap suddenly aside, and vanish rapidly down the street.

Well, at least she didn't get confused and treat him like Rudy Vallee. Now that could have been embarrassing.

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"...e'vn a guy wit', oh, big eehs..."

Stop showering, Solly.

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Remember when this strip was actually *about* Mary?

Remember when this strip was actually good.

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At Behan's Bar and Grill, the drinks are on the house...

Valentine's new private-sector salary of $50,000 is about $900,000 today. The "revolving door" of public to private was alive and well in 1945. Almost nothing is new.

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PUK PARRIS! PUK PARRIS! PUK PARRIS!

I know! And who could forget the memorable way Page 4 "elegantly" introduced the alliteratingly named beauty:

"Puk Paris, the nifty bit of danish pastry from Copenhagen..."

Also, where do you buy sheets for a round bed and how in God's name do you fold them?

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Little over a four-week lead, is it? I wonder how many strips he had to toss out.

Today does seem like the turn (April was about to get some story time and ****). So as you note, it's four weeks and I thought you said (or maybe I saw it in the T&TP book I read) that Caniff works on a six-week lead. So, not to bad - fourteen strips lost, and who knows, maybe he can repurpose some of the work.

 

[LizzieMaine]

We may also note that Lewis J. Valentine was the model for Batman's "Commissioner Gordon." Add a little mustache to the above photo, and the resemblance is obvious.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Yeh," yehs Sally. "Sawry I ain't got no milk f'ya cawfee, iceman din' come yet. Me'n Joe awready d'cided t'fois' t'ing weh gonna do soon's we can is getta 'letric 'frigehrateh." "Not to worry," shrugs Dr. Minkoff. "I prefer it black. In any event, Mrs. Petrauskas, I'm glad you were able to meet with me today, I really do want to talk to you about Leonora before the fall term starts at the clinic." "Yestehday was 'eh boit'day, y'know," announces Sally. "We'eh havin'a pawrty at my ma's stoeh on Sunday." "She ain' in no trouble, is she?" queries Joe, anxiety in his tone. "She din' t'row --um -- nut'n at nobody las' yeeh, did she?" "She's a spirited child," replies Dr. Minkoff, as diplomatically as professional ethics permits. "In some ways she is very advanced for her age. In other ways -- well, she's difficult to categorize." "Whassat mean?" frowns Sally, her eyes narrowed. "Well, the tests we did last spring showed her reading, at that time, at approximately a seventh-grade level." "Yeh," nods Sally. "Sometimes when she's lookin' at my copy'a t' New Masses, she comes ovehr'n asks me 'whassis mean?' Sometimes we get inn'n awrgument." "That brings me to my other point," continues the child psychologist. "Her social development -- well, let me ask you this. Does she have any friends her own age?" The parents look at each other nervously. "Nawt really," confesses Sally. "I mean, 'nez Willie downstaiehs, he's -- um -- well, he lives downstaeihs. He's seven'a half. An'nez Lottie Schreibstein, lives downa cawrneh, heh folks runzat canny stoeh downeh. She's -- what is she, six? Sump'n like'at. An' she spen's a lotta time wit' Misteh'r'n Misses Ginsboig onna foist flooeh t'eh. T'eh'r - I dunno, seven'ny? Eighty? An' my Ma, a'couese." "We've noticed at the clinic," notes Dr. Minkoff, "she doesn't like to spend much time with the other children, and when she does, she argues with them." "Huh," huhs Sally. "Yeh," yehs Joe. "She'll be starting public school next year," continues Dr. Minkoff, and I think we need to start considering what might be best *for* her. To be honest, starting her at kindergarten level is not likely to be a pleasant experience for anyone, least of all her, and I think we can all agree on that. But starting her at 1A or even 1B is likely to result in her becoming frustrated and bored, and when she becomes frustrated and bored..." "She t'rows t'ings," sighs Joe. "Ah..." ahs Dr. Minkoff....)

("So," continues Dr. Minkoff, "one possibility might be..." "She's STUPID!" roars Leonora, interrupting the conversation as she bangs thru the door. "STUPID STUPID STUPID!" "Hello, Leonora," smiles Dr. Minkoff. "Um," gulps Leonora, startled to see the doctor outside the clinic. "H'lo." "Go wawsh ya face," frowns Sally. Leonora wipes a blot of ice cream off her face with the hem of her dress, as her mother flushes. "I couldn't help overhearing," ventures the Doctor, "what you were saying as you came in. Who is 'stupid?'" "Lottie's stupid," sneers Leonora. "She's vot'n f' Gol'boig! We was playin' 'lection, an' she said she was vot'n f' Gol'boig! I tol'eh t'em Lib'ral Pawrties was nut'n butta buncha Dubinskys, an' she push't my face inna disha ice cream." "Dubinskys?" puzzles Dr. Minkoff. "I readdit in Ma's magazine," declares Leonora. "Lawng stawry," shrugs Sally. "Well," exhales Dr. Minkoff, "what did you do when she pushed you?" "Afteh'ra I ate t' ice cream?" huffs Leonora. "I t'rew t' dish at'eh!" "Is that the right thing to do?" admonishes Dr. Minkoff. "No," admits Leonora. "But t'eh wasn' no bricks!" "Um," ums Sally, her flush deepening...)

(They can't wait to move to the suburbs and get to live like this every day.)

(Hey, at least it isn't Magerkurth.)

(Three-way doubleheaders, your best buy in baseball entertainment!)

(Bogie's really mad now.)

(Good to see that Hu Shee didn't take a long term contract here.)


(It's no fun being the New Gal In The Office.)

("Um, aren't we?")

(The Boy From Marketing.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"I sympathize, kid." -- Gene Tierney.

Buttermilk?? EW!

You know, eventually he'll have to take the uniform off. And then what'll you have?

"Always there is a price."

"Especially the man. That baby face and that stupid cowlick..."

"Doesn't anything ever change around here???" --H. Teen.

O. Warbucks, Literary Agent.

Life is all just a game we play...

"Or how 'bout diphtheria, I hear that's good. Let's hear you cough!"

It's worse than we thought.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Worker...

Coming Events...

 

[Fading Fast]

"But t'eh wasn' no bricks!"

Poor Joe.

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Three-way doubleheaders, your best buy in baseball entertainment!

It's a fun concept. I get why it isn't doable in today's insane MLB, but it would be fun if it were.

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Bogie's really mad now.

I see more Priscilla Lane than Lauren Bacall in her today (and still built more like Veronica Lake than LB).

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

"I sympathize, kid." -- Gene Tierney.

The alimony case is no Langford substitute, but I hope the News follows up. I'm curious as he did admit to a marriage 15 years ago, but he calls it a "short hitch" and she says it went on for 12 years. Somebody is wrong.

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Buttermilk?? EW!

The model actually looks like a model, which is not always the case in the 1940s.

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"Always there is a price."

Perfect freakin' line, but you know what, why shouldn't there be - none of us work for free.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Wasn'at a swell pawrty?" chuckles Joe, gazing down at Leonora on the floor, taking inventory of her loot. "T'at's a lawta books," nods Sally. "Lawta books t'carry home awna subway!" "Wheelin'm home innat ol' baby buggy was a good ideeh," declares Joe. "You gonna read awlem t'night?" "No," decides Leonora. "Gotta leavea few f't'marra." "T'at's a nice coat y'Gramma give ya," asserts Sally. "Nice'n wawrm f'winteh." "S'too big," frowns Leonora, not looking up from a drugstore volume of Famous Short Stories. "Y'll grow int'wit," retorts Sally. "Who gets a coat f'one winteh?" The discussion is interrupted by a knock at the door, and Joe rises to find Mr. Ginsburg waiting with a large, well-wrapped parcel in hand. "Good evening, Yussel," he greet as he steps inside. "Good evening, Sally. And Leonora, biz hoond'ut un tsvantzig! To one hundred and twenty may you live. Perhaps you might guess in this package?" "A book!" grins Leonora, her eyes sparkling. "A book," nods Mr. Ginsburg, handing over the parcel. "But not just any book." Leonora strips away the paper to reveal an imposing brown volume. "That," continues Mr. Ginsburg, "is volume one. 'A to Anno.' An encyclopedia, mine lemeleh. The Britannica, yet. When from the foist you are finished, there is the second. And on and on. All the knowledge of the world." Leonora rests the heavy book on the floor and gazes in awe at an engraving of the Town Hall of Aachen, erected in 1353-70 on the site of the palace of Charlemagne. "And if please you will toin to the final page, the last word, please, you will read? "Um," replies Leonora, flipping the massive volume to its final entry. "Annoy," she reads. "Which is what," admonishes Mr. Ginsburg with a wag of his finger, "you must promise not to do." "Oh," marvels Leonora. "T'at'sa swell present," whispers Joe. "But it musta cawst a fawrtune." "We can't letcha do t'at," adds Sally. "Eh," ehs Mr. Ginsburg. "In trade I got it. For a salesman, I made an overcoat." "Sueh," nods Sally. "A gut yohr," replies Mr. Ginsburg, clasping their hands, as Leonora resumes her quest for all the knowledge of the world...)

("I useteh love t'go t' Mawrtin's," sighs Bink Scanlan, flipping the newspaper and nibbling a leftover slice of Leonora's birthday cake. "You?" snickers Solly Pincus, sated with ice cream.
"Whatja, useta sweep up t'eh, empty t' gawrbage?" "I was a customeh," sniffs Bink. "Sawrteh." "Heh," snorts Solly. "Gawt wise t'ya, did'ey?" Bink scowls at her antagonist. "Speakin'a boit'days," she glowers, "how ol' a you?" "T'oity-t'ree," retorts Solly. "What's it to ya?" "Zat awl?" marvels Bink, her voice dripping with sarcasm and chocolate frosting. "I coulda swoeh you was a LAWT oldeh." "Huh," huffs Solly. "Wheh'dya get t'at stuff??" "Well," smirks Bink, "I read oncet t' oldeh'ra man gets, t'biggeh'r 'is eehs get......")

(PETEY! PETEY! PETEY!)

"Black Tom Rimrock?"

("Hmph," hmphs Uncle Frank. "Mooor coompetition!")

(Well, it *was* kinda rude. You don't go up to a surgeon at a party and ask them to demonstrate a bowel resection.)

(Acting's a tough racket, but it beats being shot at with arrows.)

(In case you're wondering the sudden spate of loud, aggresive wives and runty nebbish husbands all over the funnies is a result of Wallace Wimple and his "big old wife Sweetie Face" enjoying a current vogue on the Fibber McGee radio program. Imitation is the sincerest form of everything.)

(No doubt he took up aviation when his falcon ran away from home.)

(NOTHING SUSPICIOUS OR CREEPY GOING ON HERE NO SIR NOT A BIT)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"I am not nuts, at that."

Everybody wants to get into the act.

Let's see YOUR undies, Mr. Hill...

Coming Events...

Nice hat.

Good old "Daddy," always there when you need him.

Nothing like a nice daytrip to Valley Stream. And with those shoulders, Jack should forget this aviation racket and go into football.

It's a wonder he's still in business. And there's no suppressed hate like the suppressed hate between relatives.

"T'at's stupid." -- Bink.

"Oh boy, now April will respect me!"

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

Worms on the sidewalk after a heavy rain...

One of the great regrets of my life is that even after more than fifty years, I still stink at the clarinet.

 

[Fading Fast]

"...Crime Increasing...Unemployed Youths Blamed"

Martin's and A&S have large want ads.

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Acting's a tough racket, but it beats being shot at with arrows.

And not a very good likeness.

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

"I am not nuts, at that."

Mrs. Doyen's frustration with her ex is clouding her judgment.

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

Everybody wants to get into the act.

Davega will be selling all the fake uniforms from the surprisingly large number of imposters we met during the war.

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

Coming Events...

Well, at least it will be harder for Sally to hurl one of those early TVs out the window. Although, I don't see the Petrauskases getting a TV for a decade or longer – unless Frank gets them one that "fell off a truck" and Ma tells him he can't charge them for it.

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

Nice hat.

Breathless was a ruthless criminal, but (in the world of comicstrip justice) I still feel a bit bad for her as she really gave it her all.