The Era -- Day By Day

[Fading Fast]

Putcha name right on'neh, long's it says Coca-Cola undehneat'. Paint up ya windehs, do awlat'at. Awl ya gotta do is ask." "I din'no t'at," admits Joe. "Well," grins Solly, "now ya do. Y'see? It's easy when ya know how. Now less tawk about what t'cawl ya hamboigehs...."

Can't wait to see what Solly is thinking for the burgers themselves.

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

"Yeh," huffs Sally. "I do. R'membeh las' Chrismas? I loint howta knit so I could make t'em sawks f' Joe." "Oh yeh," recalls Alice. "T'at was a nice scawrf." "Whateveh," snaps Sally. "But anyways, Ma wants I should show Bink how t'knit. An' she's comin' oveh t'house t'night so I c'n show 'eh. I ask ya!" "C'n I wawtch?" requests Alice. "Howcome," frowns Sally. "You don' know nutn' 'bout knitt'n." "No," admits Alice, "but I know Bink..."

Once again and all together, "Alice is the best."

Also, I love that Bink saw something she wanted for the baby, made the conscious (and conscience) decision not to steal them and is now trying to make the booties herself. As Mr. Ginsburg would say, she's becoming a mensch.

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

Whattaya want f'ra nickel? The Man From Cooks?

When I moved to NYC in the pre-internet '80s, this map went from being hieroglyphs to a map I knew like the back of my hand. Like most New Yorkers, I carried a wallet-sized, laminated one around with me.

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

"Hmph." -- Angel Varden. "You'll get used to it." -- Leona Stockpool Blackston.

Caniff started it and now everyone is doing a clip show.

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

It's not nice to rub it in.

"So can I still get my daily aromatherapy session or is that over too? They really are quite relaxing."

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

I have felt this way about babies my entire adult life, but what I learned very early on is to just fake your enthusiasm as no one wants to hear this argument.

 

[LizzieMaine]

In 1945, people carry around "The How To Get There Guide Markan System Street Directory of Brooklyn," which gives you a way to decipher the subway, elevated, and trolley lines and get to any block in the borough. 160 pages of tiny agate type, with the streets and avenues organized numerically and alphabetically, along with an enormous fold out map. These are sold for a quarter at any newsstand, and are just the right size for purse or pocket.

Only trouble is, by the time you find the directions you want, you've already missed your train.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("I still can't get ovehr'it," chuckles Sally. "Me, spendin' my night awff fr'm school try'na teach Bink Scanlan howta knit. I felt like Gran'ma Gilhooly sittin'eh." "Who?" puzzles Alice. "Ol' lady useta live aroun'a coehneh awn Midwood," explains Sally. "When I was lit'l. I'd wawk aroun'eh an' she'd be sit'n awn'eh stoop knitt'n t'is lawng, lawng t'ing. Had it awl roll't up inna bawl. Musta been toity feet lawng." "Husban' musta had a fat neck," snickers Alice. "An' I can't get oveh Solly Pincus!" laughs Sally. "Comin' downstaiehs t'tawk t' Joe 'bout hamboigehs an'ee ens'up sitt'neh try'na 'splain knitt'n t'Bink. Wha'see know 'bout it?" "Musta had a lawtta time t'kill inna Awrmy," shrugs Alice. "Whad'ee cawl 'eh?" continues Sally. "Jack handle? Coal shovel? Awlem screwy names? An' she jus' smoiks at'im an' makes cracks 'bout 'is eehs. I tell ya, Alice, I neveh see two people hate each ot'eh 'smuch as'ey do." "Hmm..." hmms Alice....)

("So y'get what I'm sayin'," argues Solly. "Y'cawlin'is a hamboigeh, an' ya shouldn'." "Why nawt?" counters Joe. "It's made outa hamboigeh, ain' it? T'bes' hamboigeh y'cn' get innis town." "But," replies Solly, "it don' LOOK like a hamboigeh. It don' come awn no roll, it comes awn toast. T'eh'rain'no onions onneh, no pickles, no ketchup, a'none'a t'at. People ask f'ra hamboigeh t'at's what'eh 'spectin', an'nis ain'nat." "What IS it t'en?" demands Joe. "It's a -- I dunno," shrugs Solly. "A beef san'wich. But we gotta have a betteh' name'n'at. Now..." His thought is interrupted by a jingle at the door, as an unaccustomed figure in a greasy striped apron and an out-of-season straw hat shambles in. "I tol' ya," frowns Joe, "I ain' buyin' ya lousy meat." "Oi nivvar broong it oop," responds Shaughnessy the Butcher. "Oi haaard -- ah -- froom -- ah -- soombaaahdy ye nivvar haaard'oov -- that Oi moit foind an inexpensive bit a' loonch doon here..." "Ten cents," declares Joe, assembling a Beef Sandwich. "Hm," hms Shaughnessy, taking a cautious nibble, followed immediately by a generous chomp. "This ain't half bad," he declares thru a full mouth. "Oi doon't think Oi ivvar tasted -- 'ere now, whachee caaahl what's this made oov??" "Beef," shrugs Joe. "Oi'll be damned," marvels Shaughnessy. "Give me anoothar....")

("Bureau of Desks." HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH)

("What is the meaning of this ceaseless prattle?" fumes Mr. Rickey, scowling into his anteroom, where Mr. Parrott is idling by the watercooler and Miss Jones is studiously ignoring his queries. "Have you no pressing duties?" "Yes sir," exhales Mr. Parrott, crumpling his paper cup into the wastebasket. Before he can fire off a carefully-composed riposte, the telephone rings. "Brooklyn National League Baseball Club," greets Miss Jones, her voice smooth and professional. A flicker passes across her face as she listens to the voice on the other end of the line. Mr. Rickey glares at his secretary. She looks up and nods. He closes his eyes, exhales, and retreats to his office to take the call....)

(Never mind this, I want to meet his wife.)

(What? Another thirteen weeks of this???? Bring back Lyric Layne!)

(Clever disguise, Jane -- posing as a telphone booth.)

(This is one of the most unsettling scenes we've ever had, and that's saying a lot.)

(YOU'RE NEVER HAPPY ARE YOU)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

It isn't all fun and games in Rio...

"And the worst part of it was, they all had one pant leg rolled up!"

Poor Skeez. He's going to end up a boring old furniture salesman, and his hairline is already starting to recede.

The letter of the law...

No no no, the chair is supposed to be in the basement. You've never done this before, have you?

"I wasn't too young to be a colonel in the Air Corps!"

YOU KIDS AND YOUR JIVEY TALK

Well it isn't Joan Crawford and Mickey Rooney.

Flip wouldn't mind going home to be a furniture salesman...

"From the eyebrows up." HAHAHAHAHAHAH

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Worker...

Stick around, Nat, and keep your eye on the wire....

 

[Fading Fast]

"I still can't get ovehr'it," chuckles Sally. "Me, spendin' my night awff fr'm school try'na teach Bink Scanlan howta knit. I felt like Gran'ma Gilhooly sittin'eh." "Who?" puzzles Alice. "Ol' lady useta live aroun'a coehneh awn Midwood," explains Sally. "When I was lit'l. I'd wawk aroun'eh an' she'd be sit'n awn'eh stoop knitt'n t'is lawng, lawng t'ing. Had it awl roll't up inna bawl. Musta been toity feet lawng." "Husban' musta had a fat neck," snickers Alice. "An' I can't get oveh Solly Pincus!" laughs Sally. "Comin' downstaiehs t'tawk t' Joe 'bout hamboigehs an'ee ens'up sitt'neh try'na 'splain knitt'n t'Bink. Wha'see know 'bout it?" "Musta had a lawtta time t'kill inna Awrmy," shrugs Alice. "Whad'ee cawl 'eh?" continues Sally. "Jack handle? Coal shovel? Awlem screwy names? An' she jus' smoiks at'im an' makes cracks 'bout 'is eehs. I tell ya, Alice, I neveh see two people hate each ot'eh 'smuch as'ey do." "Hmm..." hmms Alice....

A normal night in their insane, yet normal world.

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

"Give me anoothar...."

That is the exact moment when you know you've got 'em.

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

What? Another thirteen weeks of this???? Bring back Lyric Layne!

God I hope not. I really thought this storyline was over. Bring back anyone else.

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

Clever disguise, Jane -- posing as a telphone booth.

By showing us how the **** works upfront, they took all the drama out of the story. That's not good storytelling.

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

It isn't all fun and games in Rio...

JFC.

 

[EngProf]

In 1945, people carry around "The How To Get There Guide Markan System Street Directory of Brooklyn," which gives you a way to decipher the subway, elevated, and trolley lines and get to any block in the borough. 160 pages of tiny agate type, with the streets and avenues organized numerically and alphabetically, along with an enormous fold out map. These are sold for a quarter at any newsstand, and are just the right size for purse or pocket.

Only trouble is, by the time you find the directions you want, you've already missed your train.

The subway map that FF showed was a marvel of technical communication. I kept my copy that I got in NY and used it in my intro-engineering classes as an example of how that should be done.

 

[Fading Fast]

The subway map that FF showed was a marvel of technical communication. I kept my copy that I got in NY and used it in my intro-engineering classes as an example of how that should be done.

You're a professional and I'm just a dumb subway user, but I couldn't agree more: it is absolutely amazing the amount of detailed and nuanced information they got on that map.

 

[Farace]

You're a professional and I'm just a dumb subway user, but I couldn't agree more: it is absolutely amazing the amount of detailed and nuanced information they got on that map.

I don’t know if all Boston subway maps were as bad as the one I had, but it almost seemed like they intentionally didn’t want you to know how to get to your destination. The NYC map was wonderful. Two subway maps, completely opposite ends of the usability scale.

Then there’s the Glasgow subway system, which I hope to experience one day. Just one big loop, pick which direction you want to go in.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("So yeh," relates Joe, "I tawked t't Coca-Cola guy t'day, an' ast'im about signs." "See," grins Solly, "nut'n to it, an' it ain' gonna cawst ya a nickel." "Funny," continues Joe, "he was sayin' sump'n'about some kin'a trouble 'eeh 'bout a yeeh'rago, y'know, wit' substitution a' sump'n. I neveh hoid nut'nabout'tat." "Moosta gaaaht oos mixed oop with th' Flatboosh Pharmacy," hastens Ma. "Parrfectly oonderstandable, tharr roit nixt dooor..." 'Yeh," shrugs Joe. "But anyways, he lef' t'is sample book t'look t'ru, we c'n pick out what we wawnt an' how we wan'nit t'say. T'ey gawt awlese diff'n't shapes n' stuff..." "See, t'ings is hoppin'," declares Solly. "Awl it takes is a lit'l push. Now, about t'name a' ya sanwiches. What if we run a cawntes'? Like whenney haddat baby awn 'Amos 'n Andy,' r'membeh t'at? On'y we hav'm send in names f't' sanwich! Innat a good..." Solly is interrupted, however, by the jingling of the door and the arrival of Bink Scanlan, back from her rounds. "Hiya, Dustmawp," snickers Solly. "Oh," smirks Bink, tossing the canvas bag on the counter. "Hey, I t'ought I seen ya outside, but it toined out t'be a cab at t' coib, wit' bot' dooehs open..." "Hmm," hmms Joe, exchanging a glance with Ma. "Hmmmmmm," frowns Ma...)

("So aaahl's gooin' well?" queries Uncle Frank, offering Mozelewski a Tootise Roll as he pops a fresh one into his own mouth. "Wharr's Inky -- ah -- Mr. Quinlan?" "Ahh, out t' lunch," shrugs Miss Kaplan. "He's goin' oveh t'ya son-in-lawr's place, bringin' back a bagga t'em weehd hamboigehs. Tell Joe we like'm, huh? Maybe if we buy enough'v'm, he c'n affoehd t' buy a jawr'a mustehd, pooeh guy." 'Ah," exhales Uncle Frank. "I like'm fine like t'ey come,' declares Mozelewski. "You would," huffs Miss Kaplan. "Hey, Frank, I wawned t'ask ya -- t'is come inna mail t'day. Look 'eeh. Two dollehs an' seven'y five cents. An'nis note wit' it. 'Deeh Mozelewski a' Brooklyn, I bawt a paiehra gloves a while back an' fawrgot t'pay f't'em. Heeh is t'money. Signed, A Friend." "Hm," hms Uncle Frank. "An' it says 'PS, I lawst t'gloves.' Whatta ya make a' t'at?" "Oi dunno," shrugs Uncle Frank. "Anoothar satisfied coostomarr? Keep oop th' good warrk...")

("As long as that Mr. Truman doesn't get any ideas...")

("He done it," exhales Sally, gazing with awe at the page. "Of awl people. HE done it." "Howcome he signed a footbawl playeh?" wonders Alice. "I t'ought Fitz was gonna run t' footbawl?" "He's a shawrtstawp," declares Sally. "Jeez, whenney get Petey back t'ey'll make a helluva double play." "What about Pee Wee?" reminds Alice. "What about Stanky?" "Well," stumbles Sally, "he'll hafta trade SOMEBODY t'get Petey back." "Ah," ahs Alice. "I can't b'lieve," continues Sally, "of awl people -- RICKEY, t'at ol' fathead RICKEY, izza one done it." "Still wawtehs," intones Alice, "run deep." "I hope t'is Rawbinson guy," concludes Sally, "makes sueh t' check cleehs..."

("It's not my fault, the lens cap got stuck on the transit!")

(This is a good chance, Mary, to get back on the train and never look back...)

(The phone booth disguise was better.)

(I don't even want to think about other possible explanations.)

(AMERICA'S NUMBER ONE HERO DOG is such a sap.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Say what you will about Frankieeeeeee, but his heart is in the right place...

Note for the record that Thomas Y. Baird, and his partner J. Leslie Wilkinson, owners of the Kansas City Monarchs, are as white as Mr. Rickey.

"You'll need a better hammer than that to crack THAT skull. There's a splitting maul out in the shed."

"Then ye'll loove me hambarrrger -- it's got ivvrything IN it!" -- Shaughnessy the Butcher.

Pane two is the moment Skeez's whole life flashes before his eyes, especially the parts that haven't happened yet...

Somebody go pull Lt. Charles out of the radio tent.

I bet in eighty years, people will pay a lot of money to dress like this.

"You haven't dealt much with cops, have you?"

Well, at least he didn't roll up his pantlegs.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Worker...

"Pee Wee an' Stanky to t' Pittsboigs f' Petey," nods Sally. "'An'ney'll have t' tr'ow in some cash t'make it a faieh deal...."

 

[Fading Fast]

"An' it says 'PS, I lawst t'gloves.' Whatta ya make a' t'at?" "Oi dunno," shrugs Uncle Frank. "Anoothar satisfied coostomarr? Keep oop th' good warrk..."

She's trying.

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

"You'll need a better hammer than that to crack THAT skull. There's a splitting maul out in the shed."

Even if you crack it, will it do any damage if there's nothing in there?

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

Somebody go pull Lt. Charles out of the radio tent.

Unusual, but Caniff seems a bit lost right now. He can't seem to find his post-war mojo for T&TP.

 

[EngProf]

You're a professional and I'm just a dumb subway user, but I couldn't agree more: it is absolutely amazing the amount of detailed and nuanced information they got on that map.

"...I'm just a dumb subway user..."
Remember that on my first visit to NY I had never even seen a subway - it doesn't get much dumber than that. However, looking at the Marvelous Map for just a few minutes let me start using the system like a native New Yorker. I could make it on the right line going in the right direction at a dead run...
I don't know what they are using now for subway maps, if any, but they should re-issue that one for the benefit of locals and tourists alike.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("He prooobly went in tharr," snickers Uncle Frank, "t' poot doon a bet." "Hmph," hmphs Ma. "Heh," laughs Bink. "Eatcharr brisket," directs Ma. "Oi harrd," deflects Uncle Frank, putting aside the paper, "that Joe had a pretty good day t'day. Soold a whool lotta thim hambarrgers." "Oi oonderstand so," nods Ma. "Oi oondarstand th' whool East Flatboosh unit 'a th' Friendly Soons'a St. Patrick was in t'day." "Is that so," marvels Uncle Frank, picking at his dinner. "Paid cash too," adds Bink. "I seen it." "Really?" pronounces Ma. "Funny, t'ough," contiues Bink. "None'v'm ate at t' coun'eh. T'ey awl took'm in papeh bags." "Hm," hms Ma. She considers her husband, not eating his brisket. "Tell me, Francis," she requests, her eyes narrowing. "Whot did'jee have farr ye loonch." Uncle Frank blinks. "Noothin'," he prevaricates. "Fonny," smirks Ma. "Oi moit'a thought you'd have -- oooh, a hambarrger." At the mention of the word, Uncle Frank emits a small belch. "Hoo many?" scowls Ma. "Twenny-two," mumbles Uncle Frank. "Mooooothar'a marrrcy," exhales Ma.....)

("Hm," hms Solly Pincus, standing before the mirror at Wallach's, tilting his new hat just so. "Hm," he adds for emphasis as he considers his reflection. "Hmmmm," he continues, as he presses his ears flat to the side of his head and considers the result. "Hmm...." he sighs as his ears snap back to their accustomed position...)

("And if he makes a little money besides," chuckles Mr. Parrott, "well, he'll just have to learn to live with it..." "He's giving you a raise at the first of the year," notes Miss Jones. "He's a great American," nods Mr. Parrott...)

("Um, do you read the Daily News?")

("A lotta noive t'at Dixie Wawkeh's gawt," fumes Sally. "'As lawng as he doesn't become a Dodgeh!' Whozee t'ink'ee is? Some squaeh dancin' bum t'at wasn' nobody bef'oeh'ree come 'eeh.' "You gonna write 'im a letteh?" wonders Alice. "I wouldn' waste'a ink," frowns Sally. "One t'ing I been loinin' in school is t'at nobody's bawrn b'lievin' innat Bilbo junk. Y'gotta loin it, an' sometimes ya loin' it wit'out realizin' how dumb it is. What makes ya a rat is when ya *d'cide* t' be a rat. Maybe t'is guy's jus' dumb. Maybe he got brung up b'lievin' in dumb stuff. An' maybe when 'ee sees how dumb it is 'e'll wise up. He's gawt awl winteh t't'ink it oveh. Maybe 'e'el wise up. But if 'e's still kluxin' it up come openin' day, well, he's gonna fin' out weh Section T'oity-Seven stans!" "I hope ya right, Sal," sighs Alice. "Y'know, Willie looks up t'wim. He met 'im las' summeh at t'is t'ing t'ey had at Bohack's. Shook Siddy's han' an' said Willie's a fine boy. Y'hate t't'ink a guy like t'at's a bum." Alice leans back against her seat and rides on in silence. "Maybe," she resumes, "*I'll* write 'im a letteh...")

("Oh, where they built the White Castle? Gee, I love that place...")

(Enjoy your ride, Mary...)

("Racketeer's Digest, Modern Swindler, and the Embezzler's Home Companion!")

(Well, maybe DONT STAND IN THE CAGE NEXT TIME)

(If you don't know by now, you never will...)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

The Stork Club will let in anybody these days.

A bit of background -- Mr. Griffith makes a very substantial portion of his income renting Griffith Stadium to the Homestead Grays of the ***** National League, who play half of their home games there, so he is hardly a neutral observer. He is also very well known for maintaining an active scouting operation in Cuba, and Spanish-speaking gentlemen of rather olive complexion have been prominent on the Senators' roster since the 1930s. Season before last, nine Cubans played for Washington, and it was occasionally suspected that not all of them were of -- ah -- pure Castilian ancestry.

You'd think Shadow'd be used to this by now.

"Oh, I wouldn't worry. Why, when I was his age, Tops and I used to -- um -- I'll talk to him tonight."

Itchy's Bad Day.

Cut it out, kid, this isn't funny.

"But they were all out of bicycles!"

Tsk, Redda, you shouldn't be wearing white, you'll never get the stains out.

It's one thing to get the job, it's quite another to keep it.

HE'S ONLY SIX.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Worker --

Take a bow.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Hm," hms Solly Pincus, standing before the mirror at Wallach's, tilting his new hat just so. "Hm," he adds for emphasis as he considers his reflection. "Hmmmm," he continues, as he presses his ears flat to the side of his head and considers the result. "Hmm...." he sighs as his ears snap back to their accustomed position...

From Google AI:
Mid-20th Century:
"Modern techniques for auricular reconstruction, which are used for both minor and major ear shape corrections, were introduced during this period."

Just saying, if it's bothering him enough, there are options. He's making money now.

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

Alice leans back against her seat and rides on in silence. "Maybe," she resumes, "*I'll* write 'im a letteh...

Love her.

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

Well, maybe DONT STAND IN THE CAGE NEXT TIME

Yes, that was an insanely stupid move.

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

A bit of background -- Mr. Griffith makes a very substantial portion of his income renting Griffith Stadium to the Homestead Grays of the ***** National League, who play half of their home games there, so he is hardly a neutral observer. He is also very well known for maintaining an active scouting operation in Cuba, and Spanish-speaking gentlemen of rather olive complexion have been prominent on the Senators' roster since the 1930s. Season before last, nine Cubans played for Washington, and it was occasionally suspected that not all of them were of -- ah -- pure Castilian ancestry.

I'm watching the World Series last night rooting away and, like most normal Americans, not thinking about the race of the players, when it hit me that I was rooting for a black man in a Dodgers uniform and there, in some small way, was a connection back to all that we've been reading here. Eighty years later, and all you want is the player, whatever his race, on "your" team – who probably makes more in a week than you do in a decade – to get a hit. Now that is a good story about progress.

Oh, and the Dodgers uniform is still awesome looking.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("I don' caeh 'bout no ships," declares Sally. "But I wouldn' min' gett'na look at Truman. R'membeh when we saw Roosevelt? Out'na rain'at Ebbets Feel?" "I wasn'neh," frowns Joe, his face darkening. "I was -- somewhez else." "Oh," flusters Sally. "I'm sawry, Joe, I din' mean'ta -- " "Skip it," dismisses Joe. "Yeh, you'n Leonoreh go if y'wanna, but I gotta woik. Gonna be a busy day, an 'I wanna be ready. Maybe get some real customehs s'teada t'em charactehs Uncle Frank been sendin' in." "He's jus' try'na help," shrugs Sally. "It ain't'a same," exhales Joe. "I need people comin' in 'cause t'ey wanna, not 'cause Uncle Frank sol'em a bot'la --" "Huh?" huhs Sally. "Um," stumbles Joe. "A bot'la --- um --- drain cleaneh. You know, 'cause 'e's a plumbeh, an' -- um -- you know..." "Sometimes," sighs Sally, "I wondeh 'bout you...")

("Hiya, Drip-pan," chuckles Solly Pincus, sauntering up to the counter with a large box balanced on his shoulder. "Whassat onya head," snickers Bink Scanlan, dusting the cardboard figure of the Philip Morris bellhop. "Looks like somebody hitcha wit' a pancake an' it stuck. Try tuckin' ya eehs undeh, might fit betteh." "T"is is a pawrk pie hat," announces Solly. "My mot'eh, may 'eh mem'ry be a blessin', would kill me f'wearin' it, but I t'ink it looks swell. Yawr opinion is nawt s'licited." He glances at his reflection in Joe's new coffee urn, and quickly tucks his ears under. "Whass inna bawx?" queries Bink. "T'is," declares Solly, "I made oveh'r'inna shawp." He grasps a rope handle, and pulls out a large, decorated wooden crate and rests it on the counter. "It's a bawx f't' Name T' San'wich Contes' t'at Joe's gonna run? It's'n ammehnition crate, see, but I pain'ed it blue, right? Same coleh as t' Dodgehs, see? An' I cut a slawt inna tawp 'eeh, see? An'nez'zis place heeh f'ra padlawck. So people c'n write t'eh names awna slippa papeh an' stick'm inna bawx an'nen we c'n have a big ceremony wheh Joe takes'm out an' picks t'winneh. Ain'nat sump'n?" "I dunno," squints Bink. "Joe don' like no Awrmy stuff, y'know. Ma tol' me nawt t'tawk 'bout t'wawr a' nut'n when'ee's ineeh." "Ahh," ahhs Solly. "I pain'ed it oveh, gawt ridda awlem Awrmy marks awneh. You don' say nut'n, I won' say nut'n, he'll neveh know t'diff'nce. Anyways, go get some slips'a papeh an' put'm by t'bawx t'eh. I got a posteh gettn' printed up we c'n put inna windeh, I'm gonna run ovehr'n get it." "Awright," nods Bink. "Oh, hey -- befoeh'ya go..." "Yeh?" "One'ya eehs pawpped out.")

(Quick, Solly -- grab 'em before Davega does!)

("An'nen I say," continues Alice, squinting at the sheet of tablet paper before her on the kitchen table, "'So ya see, Misteh Wawkeh, I am weh I am t'day on'y b'cause people was willin' t'gimme a chance, t'same as you awr wheh you awr t'day b'cause t' Dodgehs was willin t'give you a chance. Augie Galan's got legs awl messed up, an'na' Dodgehs give him a chance. Tommy Brown's justa kid goin'a high school, an'na Dodgehs give 'im a chance. Luis Olmo come fr'm Puerta Rica, an'na Dodgehs give 'im a chance. Goody Rosen come fr'm Canada an'na Dodgehs give 'im a chance. Awlem guys gawt t'eh chance an'ney awl made good. An' don'cha t'ink t'at awlese kids comin' up t'at love t' Dodgehs an' wanna be like t'em oughta see t'at t'ey stan' fawr givin' ev'rybody a faieh chance? Isn'at what America's s'posta be awl about? I hope you will t'ink about t'is, an' have a nice winteh. Yawrs Truly, Mrs. Alice D. Krause.' Izzat a good letteh, Siddy? Did I do awright?" "Yeh," nods Krause..)

(Actually, that sounds like a real bargain.)

("White? Oh, mother, you're so quaint.")

("Why? It's just the bathroom!")

(Join us next week, when he takes on Billy Conn!)

("Oh yeah? Well !!*!! you too, Trix!")

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Her friends call her "Zsa Zsa..."

The minor leagues have their own "commissioner," but he is subject to the authority of the real Commissioner. This distinction will become important.

Um...

Tsk, Lil. Shouldn't you be out looking for a job?

Why break precedent?

Good to know who your friends are, eh kid?

Look, never mind the furniture business -- open a wrestling school!

The latest in a series of poorly-considered decisions...

"My son, the second lieutenant."

Fish in a barrel.