The Era -- Day By Day

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

"I don't know, Kay -- I thought she was YOUR niece." "Never saw her before in my life, Mae. One day she just showed up..."

 

[Fading Fast]

T' Dean a' Women wazzeh t'ough. Did'jeh know she's a colehed lady?

That's very cool and very surprising for the time. I'm assuming this is historically accurate?

Separately, nothing will come of it, but the reopening of the Ferreri case is a good story because of all the names that we know that are involved. Maybe in fourteen years we'll get a fresh break in the Langford case.

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

"You may call me 'Mr. Quinlan.'

Of course.

I found that I had somehow become separated from my billfold.

Bink!

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

I hope they are both sucked into an undertow.

Pretty please.

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

Ehh. I slept thru the whole thing.

The question seems vague, but was "your operation" code for a particular operation - like having an appendix out – back then?

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

"I don't know, Kay -- I thought she was YOUR niece." "Never saw her before in my life, Mae. One day she just showed up..."

Mae: "The pay for this gig is well above the average salary, maybe we shouldn't complain as much to the boss."
Kay: "Hmm, maybe."

 

[LizzieMaine]

Usually either an appendectomy or a hernia. I've had the former, after lying forgotten for seven hours on a gurney in a hallway...

Brooklyn College in the 1940s, as we have seen from various stories over the years, was a pretty progressive place, the Bertrand Russell affair nonwithstanding. Dr. Marian Cuthbert not only serves as the Dean of Women but is also an associate professor of sociology. Sally will no doubt find her class quite interesting...

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Long as 'ee's oveh t'eh," sneers Sally, "'ee ain' oveh HEEH runnin' f' President awr anyt'ing stupid like 'at. I neveh liked 'at guy an' I neveh will. Runnin'nem tanks out in Wawrshin'ton 'gains'tem vet'rans, shoot'n gas a'tm, boinin'eh camp down." "Dinchoo say Eisenhoweh was'eh too?" notes Alice. "Yeh," nods Sally. An' Patton too. But it wasn'nehr' ideeeh. It was awl'at rat MacAwrt'eh. Funny how nobawdy tawks 'bout t'at now. I hate payin' t'ree cents t' hafta readaboud'im." "You picked'at papeh up awf'ta flooeh," observes Alice. "It'sa principle'a t' t'ing," growls Sally. "SOMEBODY hadda pay t'ree cents." "Yeh," shrugs Alice. "'At was me. It musta fell awna flooeh when we seddown." "Y'otta getcha money back," mutters Sally. "C'n I read me papeh foist?" flinches Alice, as the train rolls on toward home....)

("Farrr woonce in ye loife," frowns Uncle Frank, "do soomthin' oota th' goodness a' ye haaaart." "I done a lotta t'ings outa t' goodness a' me heart," chuckles Sergeant Doyle, helping himself to a candy bar from a counter display. He tears open the wrapper and pauses. "Nah," he injects. "I dowanna Hoishey bawr. You gawt any'a t'em Oh Henrys?" He slides the opened bar across the counter, and Uncle Frank, with a bitter scowl, tosses him his requested brand. "Ye woouldn't pool this if Nora was here," Uncle Frank growls. "Ya cute wit'cha lit'l apron awn," snickers Doyle, biting off a chunk of candy. "Joe's out taaalkin t'wa whoolsale meat man," retorts Uncle Frank, "An' gaaaahd oonly knoos whar Bink is. Boot Joe's the reason Oi'm askin' ye this favarrr. He's boond and d'tarrmined t' make this loonch ****tar oidear waaark, boot 'ee needs a paaarmit fr'm th' health d'paaartment t' sell cooked food in 'eer. An' yoo knoo 'swell'as Oi do hoo THAT game's played. Ahhl Oi'm askin' is ye koinda see if ye c'n sarrta grease things alaaang." "Ah," ahs Doyle, crumpling the empty candy wrapper and flipping it over the counter into the sink. "I got nut'nt'a do wit' t' Healt' D'pawrtm'n, y'know, but so happens I know somebody. But t'ey don' do favehs f'people'at ain' doin'nem no favehs, y'get me?" "Hoo mooch," grits Uncle Frank. Doyle ponders. "Fifty oughta do it f' him," he nods. "An' f'me, a coupla t'em shelteh halfs, one'a t'em foldin' shovels, an' one'a t'em pawrtable gasoline stoves. I'm t'inkin'a goin' awna campin' trip nex' weeken'." Uncle Frank glares across the counter. "An'," adds Doyle, "if y'evveh get any'a t'em Jeeps in like y'awrlways tawkin'about, put me at t' tawppa t' list." "Deal," growls Uncle Frank. "Y'see?" chortles Doyle. "I gawt a heart." "Oi'd loov a chance," grumbles Uncle Frank, "t'see it oot in th' oopen air...")

("I'm jus' sayin' y'get sick'v movies ev'ry night," laments Bink Scanlan. "An'nat Patio, an'nem smelly gol'fish. Wouln' it be fun t'go t'wa night club once'na while? Lotta swell people innem clubs, lotta people witta lotta money." "**** traps," sneers Solly Pincus. "Fulla saps an' yaps. None f'me, t'anks." "Lookit awlese places," continues Bink. "Fun an' frolic. I wanna see some fun an' frolic." "Ain'choo had enough fun an' frolic?" smirks Solly. "Hmph," hmphs Bink. "Least I remembeh how...")

(Government of the bald, by the bald, and for the bald...)

(If you've ever wondered why Philadelphia baseball fans are so mean, the 1945 season certainly provides an instructive lesson.)

("Hmph. I could come up with a much better line if I wanted to." -- Magistrate Solomon.)

(Let's see, kidnapping alone is a Federal rap, plus reckless endangerment and attempted murder. Hope you've got a good lawyer, Chinny.)

("Don't put yourselves out or anything, this is the most peace I've had for years.")

(She's probably one of those insufferable people who shower with the door open.)

(It's only a matter of time before Worst Dad Ever finally cracks, and when he does, it will be spectacular...)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

What's her hair color got to do with it?

The charges against the King of the Tinhorns and the new name for 6th Avenue have one thing in common. They won't stick.

Do you have any idea of what paper you work for, Mr. Gray?

Is this a new assignment or spring training?

"Wouldn't you rather have some lotion?"

"Nonsense. I have my own mattress. Built in!"

Imitation is the sincerest form of advertising.

Yeah, but where's the suspense in that?

Speaking truth to power.

Back to Normalcy.

 

[Fading Fast]

I hate payin' t'ree cents t' hafta readaboud'im." "You picked'at papeh up awf'ta flooeh," observes Alice. "It'sa principle'a t' t'ing," growls Sally. "SOMEBODY hadda pay t'ree cents." "Yeh," shrugs Alice. "'At was me. It musta fell awna flooeh when we seddown." "Y'otta getcha money back," mutters Sally. "C'n I read me papeh foist?" flinches Alice, as the train rolls on toward home....

God bless Alice.

Reading the headline story, you would not believe that by the mid 1980s Japan was considered by many to have the best-run economy in the world – its companies were buying up New York City real estate like it was two-cent candy, while American companies (I worked for one) were tripping over themselves trying to imitate "the Japanese way."

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

Let's see, kidnapping alone is a Federal rap, plus reckless endangerment and attempted murder. Hope you've got a good lawyer, Chinny.

The third charge might be a stretch, but I think you're solid on the first two and you can negotiate with the murder one, so it will be leverage at minimum. Still, the pro move is to just shoot both of them and move on.

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

What's her hair color got to do with it?

"Third degree forgery conviction," Inky might know her; his is a close-knit profession.

So, Miss Belmont, what did you do to secure this so called promise?

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

The charges against the King of the Tinhorns and the new name for 6th Avenue have one thing in common. They won't stick.

In the '90s, some still called 6th Avenue, Avenue of the Americas, but I almost never hear that name used anymore and I doubt too many New Yorkers under the age of 40 would even know what you were talking about if you did.

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

"Nonsense. I have my own mattress. Built in!"

Please move on, Mr. King. We've come to expect stupid almost not existent storylines from Carl Ed, but we expect much more from you.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Look at ahhl this joonk," sighs Ma, as she sweeps her gaze around the third floor of 503 Rogers Avenue. "Oi ain't used this room since Oi had me bingo haaaal, b'foor LaGuardia went aaahn 'is rampage." "Oi wondarr what I i Oi c'n get," chuckles Uncle Frank, "farrr a saaarploos bingo cage." "Ye c'n have that roulette wheel," exhales Ma, "whoile yarr at it. We gaaatta goo thru aaal this stoof an' poot it soomplace whar no noosybodies is goin' t' foind it. Oi doon't s'pose ye gaat room at ye warehoose." "I'll foind someplace," resigns Uncle Frank. "What's in this troonk?" "That troonk," nods Ma. "Baby things. Fr'm Michael an' Sally." With an effort, she unhooks the rusty clasps and hoists the lid. "Hmph," she hmphs. "What th' maaaths didn't get, innyway. Hm. Look heeeer, Oi made this dress farr Sally oot'va flour bag." "'Evintually, whoy naaaht now,'" reads Uncle Frank. "Thim labels doon't coom aaahf too well," chuckles Ma. "What's this thing?" queries Uncle Frank, nudging a blocky object covered in a perforated blanket. "Oooooh, now," continues Ma, removing the drape. "That is a cradle." "Praaahperty oov Consoomar's Park Brewin' Coomp'ny," reads Uncle Frank. "It *was* a beer crate," acknowledges Ma. "Bootcha see here," she adds, turning the crate around to reveal two half-moons of scrap wood nailed to the bottom, "poot these things aaahn tharr, an' it's a cradle." She nods, ruefully. "Peter made me that whin Michael was boorn. Boot th' only faaaatherly thing 'e ivvar doon." "Ye nivvar throo noothin' oot, do ye?" muses Uncle Frank. "Ahh," dismisses Ma. "We'll keep it aroond, maybe Barbara c'n get some use oot'v it. Goin' t'be strange havin' a baby aroond again aftaar aaahl these years." "Evintually," shrugs Uncle Frank. "Whoy naaat now....")

("What'cha read'n?" queries Alice, plopping down next to Sally on the front stoop. "Book f' school," murmurs Sally, turning the cover to give her friend a look. "YA CHEAT'N!" bellows Leonora from the street, where she is squatting next to a skully board crudely drawn with a chunk of red brick. "AIN' NEIT'EH!" bellows Lottie Schreibstein, flinging a handful of bottle caps to the pavement. "AN' YOU CAN GO PLAY WITCHA CRAZY OL' MA!" With that proclamation, Lottie flounces across the street where she pauses to turn and glare at her enemy before storming down the other side of 63rd Street toward home. Ignoring this display, Alice examines the textbook. "'Innehduct'ry So-ci-ology,'" she reads. "Huh. T'at's a t'ick one, ain'nit?" "Yeh," nods Sally. "Sawlabout what makes people do t't'ings t'ey do." "Oh," ohs Alice. "I'll be innehrested in fin'in'at out meself." "MAAAA," sobs Leonara, running up to the stoop. "Lottie CHEATED! Why's she gotta DO t'at?" "Heh," hehs Alice, nudging the book. "Whyncha look *t'at one* up...?")

(The Economic Cycle.)

("Hey, Whoopin' Cough," calls Solly, sauntering up to the counter. "I gotta presn' fawr ya." He tosses a folded dark-blue bundle across to Bink, who examines it cautiously. "Pair' a pants?" she questions, cocking a curious eye. "Nawt jus' pants," notes Sally. "Saileh pants! We jus' gawt a coupl'a crates'v'm in. T'em otta be 'bout yeh size." "Huh," huhs Bink, unfurling them for examination. "What's wit'awlem buttons?" she questions. "Heh," hehs Solly. "Like you dunno." She carefully folds the pants and glares at their donor. "Y'know," she smiles, "Come t't'ink'v'it, you'd look real nice in one'a t'em saileh shoits." She licks her lips and narrows her eyes. "Too bad y'couldn' pull it awn oveh ya eehs!")

(Calling the Phillies the "Blue Jays" is going to have the same lasting effect as calling the Braves the "Bees.")

("A bag? Oh good, I hope you got Calvert, that's my favorite.")

("Aaaaand this andiron should do the job nicely...")

(Because anybody who'd wear a suit like that would also drive a car like that.)

(The office is only a block away, it just took a while to get a cab.)

(OF COURSE AMERICA'S NUMBER ONE HERO DOG IS CUTE.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

To say nothing of a greatly depopulated Page Four...

Now look what you've started.

Angling for another page in the Congressional Record, are we Flip?

Never think you can out-troll a troll.

Walt pays for his recent sins.

I can't wait till Leonora gets to this age.

Harold Gray and Mike Gold are at opposite ends of the political spectrum, but at night they get together for a beer...

"And who was it that painted them shut!"

Most annoying bit of 1945 slang: "Hubba Hubba Hubba."

"Yep, I can smell him from here!"

 

[Fading Fast]

"AN' YOU CAN GO PLAY WITCHA CRAZY OL' MA!"

Everyone has a shorthand used by the neighbors: "The car nut," "the gardener," "the runner," ... "crazy ol' ma."

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

"What's wit'awlem buttons?" she questions. "Heh," hehs Solly. "Like you dunno."

LOL.

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

Gail Russell has the saddest eyes in Hollywood.

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

To say nothing of a greatly depopulated Page Four...

Epes is so guilty it's silly.

I love that the lady bookie is director of the Girl Scout Council. (Ma's antenna had to go up a bit on this story.)

Senor Martin de Alzaga Unzue—Macoco (quite the name that is) is an idiot.

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

Never think you can out-troll a troll.

How could he not see it coming? Eighty years later and it's still Kayo's only possible next move.

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

Harold Gray and Mike Gold are at opposite ends of the political spectrum, but at night they get together for a beer...

I agree, but still, I'd pay good money not to have to be at that table with those two.

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

Most annoying bit of 1945 slang: "Hubba Hubba Hubba."

"Makes me hungry for that pie."

Uncle George would not be please.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Yeh," yehs Joe, as Dr. Levine turns a fresh page in her notebook. "I c'n be goin' alawng fine, y'know? Goin' t' woik, goin' t' school, jus' goin' alawng. An' maybe I go a while an' don' t'ink about it. But'ten sump'n happn's, an' I can't stawp meself. T'ot'eh day I was ridin' oveh t'woik -- it's a lawng ride, y'know, y' t'ake t' 18t' Aveneh bus t' Ditmas Aveneh, an'nen ya take a trolley t' Flatbush Aveneh, an' ya get awff at Midwood Street by t' Patio T'eateh -- 'nless y'take t' subway, but'cha gotta go t'lawng way aroun', see, 'cause awlem trains is locals, an' it'll take ya a good fifteen, twenny minutes longeh if t' stops ain' witcha, an'nen ya get awff at Prospec' Pawrk, right?" "Ah," sighs Dr. Levine, realizing the signs of a patient who is evading the topic at hand. "So," she interjects, "what happend?" "I'm awna trolley," shrugs Joe, his hands beginning to twitch. "Y'know, lawtta people onneh, lawtta tawkin'. An'nez'is soljeh, right? He's up ahead'a me, I c'n jus' see 'is back. An'neez tawkin' t'w'is buddy, OK? An'neez tawkin' -- innis -- well, innis sout'en accent. An'nen I catcha lookit 'is sleeve, an'neez a cawrpr'l. An' I jus' -- I dunno, it jus' hit me. I gawt off t'cawr at t' next stawp, I coun' help it, an' I jus -- wawked'a resta t'way. Must'a been awmos' a mile. I jus' wawked. Chewin' t'bacceh. An' awlawhile I was -- back awnat truck. T'at's awl it took, Docteh -- jus' some guy onna trolley wit' a sout'en accent, an' I'm right back onnat gawdam truck." He goes silent for a long moment. "I'm tryin', Doc," he sighs. "I really am. Ain' it eveh gonna stawp?" Doctor Levine taps her pencil on her notebook as she cogitates. She glances at Joe, and gently nudges the wastebasket toward the couch with her toe, as he gratefully reaches for his plug of tobacco...)

("Whar d'ye think yarr gooin'," demands Ma. "Yarr s'poosta warrk while Joseph's at his doctarr." "Um," ums Bink. "I wawned t'get some fresh aieh." "In THIS neighbarhood?" scoffs Ma. "I been livin' here farr twenny-foive years, an' Oi ain't sniffed no fresh air yet. You getchee apron aaahn an' get this mess back here cleaned oop. Th' boys will be oovar later t'day t'get Joseph's grill hooked oop t' th' gas, an' Oi doon't want 'm messin' aroond in heere noo longar'n they moost." "Is Jimmy comin'?" frowns Bink. "It's a two-man jaaahb," declares Ma, "but since we caaan't get noo men t'do it, we gaaht t'settle f'thim two gombeens. Now nivver moind ye gabbin', get'chee scroob broosh an' get t'waark." "Yes'm," sighs Bink, tossing her jacket on the counter in a marked manner. "Whoot's this?" notes Ma, noting a brown something flap out of the jacket pocket. "Expinsive gloves, Oi see. Ye been -- ah -- shaaaappin', 'ave ye?" "I had'em gloves f'yeehs," Bink jitters, tying on her apron. "Ye ain't even took th' tag aaaaf," snorts Ma, only to bring herself up short when she notes the store name on the tag...)

(Those are DiMaggio's "civvies?" I always figured him for a tasteful blue serge.)

(Traditional western footwear, I see...)

(Comic Strip Bugs has many shortcomings, but at least he fully commits to the bit.)

(There's a reason why you're both single.)

(I lost 25 pounds, but nobody offered ME a long term contract.)

(Now can we go get that STEAK??)

(And if you think it's easy to train ducks, well you just try!)

("Good jawb!" -- Bink.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

There's something about a grubby murder trial that brings out the thespian in any lawyer.

I wish Gyps would write another mystery, her first two were great.

That's it, Itchy, get her good and tight...


I love Dickens too, but Annie's absolutely right, he was the popular schlock of his time. Oh, and "David Copperfield" is better than "Two Cities."

Is it just me, or has the end of the war brought a dramatic escalation in Kayo's trolling? And WON'T SOMEBODY THINK OF THE CHICKENS????

Andy Gump, junk mail king. And we always knew Pop would one day go over the edge, I just never thought it would be like this.

Judy is ten years old, so all of this is right on schedule.

What are you running from, April? What ever happened to your brother Dylan, last seen running a rubber plantation? Has anyone heard from him since 1940? Would you know anything about that? Hmm?

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Sunday Worker...

Who's trolling whom?

 

[Fading Fast]

...snorts Ma, only to bring herself up short when she notes the store name on the tag...

Oh, Bink.

Separately, public schools won't have to worry about "the declining birthrate of recent years" for much longer.

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

I lost 25 pounds, but nobody offered ME a long term contract.

Now, to be fair, afterwards, did you look like Vivian Blaine:

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

That's it, Itchy, get her good and tight...

I love that when Mrs. Mahoney decides to return to a life of crime she also starts drinking again - it's so film noir.

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

I love Dickens too, but Annie's absolutely right, he was the popular schlock of his time. Oh, and "David Copperfield" is better than "Two Cities."

Shakespeare, in his day, was a popular and profitable writer. He wasn't writing for immortality.

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

Who's trolling whom?

Especially with how the Soviets got the bomb.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Thaaaaank gaaahd," pants Ma, racing into Sergeant Solly's Surplus, to the bewilderment of her husband. "Yaaaaar aaaahl roit." "Let's naaaht joomp at conclusions," gapes Uncle Frank. "What's this aaahl aboot?" "Mavis Doyle joost coom in th' stoor," huffs Ma, struggling to catch her breath. "She says 'aar hoosband joost called 'arr, said tharr's a big trolley wreck oop by Starrrlin' Place, a doozen people crooshed t'wa poolp, half th' blaaahck oon foire." "Oi can smill it fr'm here," snickers Uncle Frank. "Well," scowls Ma, "seein's that's joost ovarr from ye ploombin' shaap, Oi was waaaaried YOU moit be mixed oop in it." "I ain't been op thaar aahl day," dismisses Uncle Frank. "Boot Solly Pincus was, he wint oop tharr t' have Danny shoo'im soom ploombin' fixtures farr that shaaap we're thinkin' a' oop'nin in Queens. That man's aaaaarful particularr boot whar'ee..." "Well, have ye HARRD froom 'im?" demands Ma. "Is 'e aaaahl roit?" "That," frowns Uncle Frank, "is a mattar oov opinion....")

("Woooowwwwwwww," breathes Bink Scanlan as she gazes down at the paper spread out on the counter. "Imagin'at. Imagine bein' inna middla t'at. An'nis one guy t'eh, jumpin' up, keepin' people fr'm gett'n hoit." "Yeh," mutters Solly. "T'at's a real man, I betcha," gushes Bink. "T'at's whatcha cawl a real hero, t'at is. I'd like t'meet t'at guy." "Yeh," repeats Solly. "Hey," nods Bink. "Whatcha do t'ya awrm t'eh? 'Sawl bruised." "Nut'n," mumbles Solly, jerking his sleeve down...)

("I'm glad," sighs Alice, "we ain' gawt no rule like t'at innis buildin'. Kids liven a place up, huh?" "Yeh," nods Krause. "MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" bellows Willie thru the courtyard window. "MAKE 'EHH STAWP!!!! LEONOREH'S PLAYIN' STRIKE AGAIN AN' SHE'S T'ROWIN' BRICKS!" "T'ey sueh do liven a place up," shrugs Alice, heading for the stairs...)

(Ecclesiastes 12:12.)

(Third place is fine with me. The '45 Dodgers might not be champs, but they done what they had to do, and I'll always have a soft spot for Augie, Goody, Dixie, Frenchy, Buckshot, and the Fiddler.)

(Odds that he has an Andy Gump chin...)

("What's the name of this creek again, that I'm up without a paddle?")

(I'm always impressed with a man who knows how to pack a suitcase.)

(Yes, by all means go there by yourself.)

(Satisfaction Not Guaranteed.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

New York's Picture Newspaper...


Best New York cabbie story ever.

And don't you know that once you shake **** Tracy's hand, you are HIS FOR LIFE.

"At least I don't THINK we're engaged. What's that like, anyway?"

An old hand shows how it's done.

"Carrot head?" At least that's something new. Even though I submit he looks more like a parsnip.

In 1945? Every station, all the time, forever.

I've never thought of ordering a pie by mail. Can you just try it with one slice and see how it goes?

Ho ho!

HO HO! HO HO!

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also --

It's a good time for Kay and Mae to take a vacation. These chilly mornings are no time to run around in your underwear.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Boot Solly Pincus was, he wint oop tharr t' have Danny shoo'im soom ploombin' fixtures farr that shaaap we're thinkin' a' oop'nin in Queens. That man's aaaaarful particularr boot whar'ee..." "Well, have ye HARRD froom 'im?" demands Ma. "Is 'e aaaahl roit?" "That," frowns Uncle Frank, "is a mattar oov opinion...."

Solly is the man Frank wants to be, but Frank just can't see it.

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

Best New York cabbie story ever.

It is an incredibly good story – kudos to the sangfroid of Herman Rabinowitz – but does it top our cab-driver hero, Leonard Weinberg, and his tale from a few years back?

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

"At least I don't THINK we're engaged. What's that like, anyway?"

You brought it up yesterday – hopefully soon, Caniff will explain why April doesn't want to go back to the States. I think part of it is she likes having the field to herself as she's been the only woman or one of only two or three women in a sea of men for a long time.

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

It's a good time for Kay and Mae to take a vacation. These chilly mornings are no time to run around in your underwear.

Another awful substitute ad. Dr. Levine would have a field day, but not in a good way, analyzing the writer.

 

[LizzieMaine]

Weinberg and Rabinowitz getting together to form their own independent cab company would make for an outstanding movie.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Of couese I'm sueh who it was," declares Miss Kaplan. "It was Joe's mot'eh'r'in'lawr, runs'at canny stoeh oveh'rawn Rogehs. She comes in'eeh while Misteh Quinlan was out t'lunch, an' han's me t'ese gloves. Says she foun'em onna sidewawlk, figyehed t'ey come fr'm 'eeh." "Huh," huhs Mozelewski, fiddling with the pencil tucked behind his ear. "An' I t'ink t'eh t'same gloves gawt lifted t'ot'eh day!" Miss Kaplan continues. "Look 'eeh -- brown leat'eh, whip-stitched, size 7, jus' like I tol' ya." "An' ya t'ink," puzzles Mozelewski, "t'at Joe's mot'ehr'in'law stole'm? Really?" "No," insists Miss Kaplan. "I ain't sayin' no such t'ing. But I tell ya who DID do it. T'at wife'a Joe's, t'at's who!" "But you d'scribed 'eh," argues Mozelewski. "Joe's wife weahs glasses. You din' say t'at gal had glasses awn." "Glasses," pronunces Miss Kaplan, "come awff. Maybe she's like -- well, maybe she's like Supehman, awright? When he puts awn 'is glasses 'e's -- t'is ot'eh guy, whateveh. But when 'e take's'm awff, don' nobody know it's him! We gotta do sump'n, Moze. We gotta do sump'n f' Joe's own good!" "We do," agrees Mozelewski. "An' it stawrts wit'choo put'n'nem gloves away an' f'gett'n'a whole t'ing." "I know it's t'at wife a' his," maintains Miss Kaplan. "T'at awrful crazy wife'a his. No wondeh she went t' Bellevue. She's one'a t'em kleptehmainias. Poooooeh Joe, suff'rin in silence aw'lese yeehs..." "I'm goin' inna back," sighs Mozelewski, retreating into his work room, just as the door glides open to admit Mr. Quinlan. "Ah there," shimmers Inky. "I trust that all is in order." "No," frowns Miss Kaplan. "But it's gonna be...")

("Noo you listen here t'me, Barbara Scanlan," pronounces Ma. "You an' me aaar gooin' t'have a serrious convarrsation." "Yes'm," eyerolls Bink, her hand edging toward the gum display. "Noona that!" snaps Ma, cuffing the hand away. "Yarrrrr thievin' ways are gooin' t'change, an' thaaar gooin' t'change roit now!" "Oh," ohs Bink. "Oi don' think'yee oondarstand what's gooin' aahn here," continues Ma. "Francis an' Oi have given ye a jaaaahb an' a place t'live, an' Oi doon't think Oi need t'goo intarr th' reasons whoy Oi don't joost boot'chee oot th' door roit now. But be thoose reasons as they may, Oi'm naaaaht goin' t'stand farr noo mooora this pocket-pickin' an' shaaaplliftin' an' -- SWOIPIN' ME CHOOIN' GOM!" "No, ma'am," mumbles Bink. "What's wraaaang with ye, choild?" pleads Ma. "Yarrrr incaaaaarigable! What MADE ye this way???" Bink stares at her benefactor for a long moment. "Ya wanna know?" she sighs. "Y'really wanna know?" "YES!!" bellows Ma. "Awright," exhales Bink. "I s'pose y'd find out soone'hr'a lateh anyways. See, it awl goes back t' when....")

("Ehhh," ehhs Joe, as he and Sally exit the Walker Theatre and melt into the late-evening crowd on 18th Avenue. "Whatta punk pitcheh t'at was. Tol' ya we shoulda gone downa t' ****h, seen'at Bogawrt t'ing." "Ehhh yehself," snickers Sally. "I should ride twenny blocks awnat smelly bus jus' t'look at Bogawrt's ugly pan. B'sides, I t'ought you liked Deanna Doibin." "I like 'eh fine," shrugs Joe, "but t'at pitcheh we jus' seen was made in nineteen t'oity nine." As they prepare to cross at the corner of 64th Street. Sally grabs her husband's arm. "Oveh t'eh," she hisses. "Flannehry t' cawp!" Joe squints, and sights the hapless patrolman squinting back at them. Flannery stares as he recognizes Sally, and immediately dashes into the safety of the BMT station. "I'm glad *I* ain' awn ya bad side," chuckles Joe, as they stroll up the avenue toward home...)

(Wait'll Durocher makes his next goodwill tour...)

(Speaking of the Phillies, has anyone seen Fitz lately? Has he recovered?)

(Well, guess you won't win the George Bernard Shaw beard-alike contest this year...)

(Let's see how smug you are when she locks you out of the cabin and you're eaten by a bear.)

(Um.)

(It sure beats all that red tape about warrants.)

(Some people should not be allowed to have dogs.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Well, as long as they're honest mistakes....

Atom fodder? But what'll we do with all these cannons?

Pretty flexible for an old duffer too. Now let's see you stand up.

Oh c'mon, it'll be fun.

Gotta keep up that self-mattress somehow.

Y'know kid, this isn't the only gig in town. They could use some comedy relief at "Mary Worth."

Hey, didn't you used to be a fortune teller?

Target sighted.

Sandals after Labor Day? How gauche.

"Look, tubby, you gonna bet or not? I got race results comin' in the back room."