The Era -- Day By Day

[LizzieMaine]

Sally is a woman of strong principle, and yet she reads the Daily News. "Jus f't' comics, y'unnehstan'."

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Awright," declares Sally, calling the meeting in the Ginsburgs' parlor to order. "Awright," echoes Zippy the parakeet as the tenants of 1762 63rd Street come to attention. "Le'ssee wheh we stan'," Sally continues. "Alice -- how'd we make out awna donatin'?" "We gawt -- um -- " squints Alice, peering into her notebook. "Two hunne't n' seventeen dollehs an' sevenny eight cents. Willie give t' sevenny eight cents 'e was savin' up. I jus' wawned allayez t'know t'at." "Yeh," smiles Krause. "T'at's fr'm awla apawrtments awna block 'eeh," explains Sally, "an' on tawppa t'at, we wen' alawng 18t' Aveneh fr'm Gravesen' Pawrk t' 75t' Street. We hit evr'y canny stoeh, evr'y poolroom, ev'ry bawr, any jernt s'much as hadda punchboehd unna t' coun'eh, we hit it. Same stawry in awl'v'm. T'eh sicka Flannehry. T'ey was sick'v'im when'ee was 'eeh befoeh, an' since'ee's been back t'ey awl say 'e's ten times woise. We dunno what Sammy's bail is gonna be, so we dunno if t'at's gonna be enough." "We got -- we got -- wawr bonds..." injects Lil Schreibstein, a pale and jittery woman with the look of one who has endured too much. "I t'ink I know w'eh we might be able t'get moeh money," sighs Alice. "Somebody y'c'n trust?" questions Sally. "Good as' gol'," nods Alice, shooting Mrs. Ginsburg a glance which draws a nod of understanding. "Sameleh will need a lawyer," notes Mr. Ginsburg. "A friend of mine son, a Mister Hoishkowitz. He is willing." "C'n we affoehd..." begins Sally. "A new suit he needs," shrugs Mr. Ginsburg. "Maybe he don't know yet, but he will." "Who else?" requests Sally, scanning the room. "I tawked t' Uncle Frank," offers Joe. "He says he's goin' oveh t' City on Monday. He's gonna tawk t't'is guy owes 'im a faveh." "Who'zee know inna City," replies Sally, "c'n help us?" "Some high up guy," dissembles Joe. "Musta fixed 'is foinace 'a sump'n." "Yeh," nods Sally. "Anybody else?" "We awl know Sammy didn' ****** ya poice," reasons Solly. "So who did? We gotta fin'at out." "When'ee set up Siddy awnat coun'ehfeitin' t'ing," recalls Alice. "Somebody was in awnit wit'im. At'sa way he woiks." "Whatta we know 'bout Flannehry?" continues Solly. "Whezee hang out?" "He wouldn' go in none'a t'jernts aroun'eeh," comments Sally. "Any bawrtendeh would slip'im a mickey." "I t'ink," injects Alice, "I r'membeh seein' 'im once'a twice inna Ol' Reliable. Um, I useta go t'eh sometimes, I don' go t'eh no moeh..." "Yeh," chuckles Krause. "We gotta put a tail awn'im," declares Solly. "See what kin'a charactehs he runs wit'." "He knows awluvvus," notes Joe. "He'd catch awn." "Ah," ahs Solly. "I ain' lived'eeh lawng, an' I ain' aroun'is neighbehood durin'a day. I ain' had no dealin's wit'im, an' I don' t'ink 'e'd know me." "It's a big risk," exhales Sally. "Eh," ehs Solly. "We'll see...")

("Well," smiles Father Kelleher. "Mrs. Krause. It's good to see you. Please, be seated." "T'anks," jitters Alice, fumbling the sign of the cross. "Um," she adds. "Jus' in case." "So," nods the priest, "why have you come to see me at this -- ah -- late hour?" "Well," exhales Alice, nervously *******ng her handbag. "Y'remembeh t'at -- uh -- grip I brung to ya a while back? Fr'm Missis Nucci's place?" "Oh yes," nods the Father. "I have it in a safe place." "Well," stumbles Alice, "I know we can't take it t't' bank wit'out gett'n caught f' gol' hawrdin', but -- well, see, you know Sammy Schreibstein? Fr'm Schreibstein's? Well, he's in kina' some trouble, an' a bunch'vus is try'na help 'im out, an' -- well, see, I know t'is guy out in Brownsville, right? Fr'm t'old days? He'll gimme fifty cents awna dolleh onnem gol' pieces, no questions ast. T'at'd come t'w' about two gran'. T'at oughta be enough t'go Sammy's bail, an' maybe help out 'is fam'ly an' -- well, I mean, I know it'd be kind'va sin an' awlat, but onna ot'eh han', I mean, Sammy useta help out Missis Nucci runnin' messages an' pickin' up packages an' awlat, an' maybe if she was still alive, she'd wanna..." "Ah," nods the Father...)

("I'm tellin' ya, Misteh Schrawt'," wheedles Hilda Chester. "T'is jernt in Pigtown, Lieb's Luncheonette. T'ey gawt t' bes' beef sanwich y'evveh ate. T'at's like a hamboigeh, 'cept it's gawtta pedigree. So fresh it's like ya shakin' hands wit' t' cow bef'oeh ya eat it. An' you c'n put't'at right inya papeh. Ya don' go oveh'r'n try it, ya'rra dope. An' Hilda don' waste no time tawkin' t' dopes!" "No," concedes Mr. Schroth, "I don't imagine that she does...")

(I wonder if Dressen can sing and dance?)

(Show business really is this ruthless. Trust me.)

(In for a centime, in for a franc.)

("I didn't get his license number, but he had on a really nice hat.")

(Scarlet is up on all the latest interrogation techniques.)

(AT LAST A WORTHY OPPONENT)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News -- `

There's a simpler way to "save Sonny from women," but I don't think Sonny would go for it.

There's one in every crowd.

"Hmph. We never should have given her that subscription to 'New Masses' for her birthday."

Gimme That Ole Time Religion...

So it's been five days. There's something in the air...

That lovable ****p. Did she ever tell you the story about the submarine?

Hey, what if you go into business with Tops?

"My Buddy."

Alterations extra.

It's always good to get psyched up before going to work.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Worker --

Coming events....

 

[Fading Fast]

"Ah," nods the Father...

Unless he already knows the story, he's going to need more details. I love Alice, but she is not the most detailed storyteller.

Separately, when "we" ranked Brooklyn department stores, I don't remember Lane Bryant being on the list (it might have been). I haven't seen a store in decades, but growing up on the 1970s, it was kinda frumpy stuff (maybe maternity clothing was its thing in the 1970s or plus-sizes), but where did it fall in the store array in the 1940s?

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

AT LAST A WORTHY OPPONENT

Even Frank bought a bird already killed, plucked, etc. This is hardly a family of pioneers; I'd have never guessed they'd know how to take a bird from live to dinner table on their own.

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

There's a simpler way to "save Sonny from women," but I don't think Sonny would go for it.

No, I don't think he will. If it was 1942/43, we know how they'd solve this one, but alas, the war is over. Yet the real story here is Ms. Eleanor Deveny, possibly the dumbest woman on earth.

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

There's one in every crowd.

And in every large corporate meeting.

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

Hey, what if you go into business with Tops?

Good for him for the sincere effort at self evaluation - it's valuable, but not easy to do honestly. He should partner with Solly. Solly's a go-getter/Skeezix isn't, but they're both honest - that's a good combination for business partners.

 

[LizzieMaine]

Lane Bryant was exactly as you describe, a store catering to the substantial woman, as opposed to the "juniors" and "misses," which were and are descriptions of body proportion more than age. Our Alice shops there, and Miss Kaplan is trying to convince Mozelewski to add appealing pieces for the mature figure she finds fast approaching, so she won't have to.

 

[LizzieMaine]

Oh, and my patience with the AI Censorbot is just about exhausted. I can't refer to purse s n a t c hing or f i n g e r ing a handbag?? If Mr. Ginsburg were here, he'd say "gai kaken oifen yam!"

 

[Fading Fast]

Oh, and my patience with the AI Censorbot is just about exhausted. I can't refer to purse s n a t c hing or f i n g e r ing a handbag?? If Mr. Ginsburg were here, he'd say "gai kaken oifen yam!"

Sometimes I can't even guess the word that was censored even in context. It's all so stupid. Somebody had to okay its implementation and must be hearing the feedback - no?

 

[LizzieMaine]

I'm told it was implemented by default as part of the latest board software update, and that efforts are underway to try to find a workaround. I'd say what I'd personally like to see done with it, but all you'd get is a string of asterisks.

The irony of all this is, as I have noted to the powers that be, that the bot enforces a far prissier level of censorship than did, as we see here every day, the actual media of the 1940s. I wonder if I'm at least allowed to say "****?" Mike Gold in 1945 can say "****," but I can't say "****?"

 

[LizzieMaine]

And I guess there's no way Joe and Sally can go see a movie at the RKO ****r. You know, down in ****r Heights.

 

[Fading Fast]

I'm told it was implemented by default as part of the latest board software update, and that efforts are underway to try to find a workaround. I'd say what I'd personally like to see done with it, but all you'd get is a string of asterisks.

The irony of all this is, as I have noted to the powers that be, that the bot enforces a far prissier level of censorship than did, as we see here every day, the actual media of the 1940s. I wonder if I'm at least allowed to say "****?" Mike Gold in 1945 can say "****," but I can't say "****?"

So this "new" filter was probably rolled out to a bunch of forums and will be "fixed" in the next software update, which I'm guessing, won't be too long in the future.

 

[Farace]

Oh, and my patience with the AI Censorbot is just about exhausted. I can't refer to purse s n a t c hing or f i n g e r ing a handbag?? If Mr. Ginsburg were here, he'd say "gai kaken oifen yam!"

You just solved a mystery for me. My dad grew up in a poor section of New Haven to Italian parents that refused to speak Italian in the house, saying the kids were Americans, so they should speak English. So the result was that pretty much the only Italian my dad learned was what was screamed across the alleyway, one irate housewife to another. These words were repeated by my dad when we were growing up, but he would never, ever tell us what they meant. One time, in Italian class in high school, not knowing what it meant but knowing it was nothing good, I asked my Italian teacher (native Italian), “Mr. Bascetta, what does sfacime mean?” He nearly had a brain hemorrhage right there. “WHO TOLD YOU THAT? WHERE DID YOU HEAR THAT? DON‘T YOU EVER SAY THAT IN THIS CLASS AGAIN!”

I did eventually, after the advent of the internet, learn what most of Dad’s curses meant, but never ever saw “gai kaken” written down until now. Just the sound of it was enough to send shivers down my sister’s spine. Our mistake was thinking it was another Italian curse, all of which were difficult to look up because of the southern Italian dialect they were uttered in. Never considered it might be Yiddish. Now I know. Probably picked up from their landlord when he was a kid, old Mr. Persky.

Now to go tell my sister . . .

 

[LizzieMaine]

I do try to make this a truly educational thread. Mr. Ginsburg tips his hat to you.

 

[Fading Fast]

You just solved a mystery for me. My dad grew up in a poor section of New Haven to Italian parents that refused to speak Italian in the house, saying the kids were Americans, so they should speak English. So the result was that pretty much the only Italian my dad learned was what was screamed across the alleyway, one irate housewife to another. These words were repeated by my dad when we were growing up, but he would never, ever tell us what they meant. One time, in Italian class in high school, not knowing what it meant but knowing it was nothing good, I asked my Italian teacher (native Italian), “Mr. Bascetta, what does sfacime mean?” He nearly had a brain hemorrhage right there. “WHO TOLD YOU THAT? WHERE DID YOU HEAR THAT? DON‘T YOU EVER SAY THAT IN THIS CLASS AGAIN!”

I did eventually, after the advent of the internet, learn what most of Dad’s curses meant, but never ever saw “gai kaken” written down until now. Just the sound of it was enough to send shivers down my sister’s spine. Our mistake was thinking it was another Italian curse, all of which were difficult to look up because of the southern Italian dialect they were uttered in. Never considered it might be Yiddish. Now I know. Probably picked up from their landlord when he was a kid, old Mr. Persky.

Now to go tell my sister . . .

I've mentioned this before, but my Dad grew up in New Brunswick, NJ in a "mixed ethnic" neighborhood of Italians, Irish, Jews, Greeks, Poles, and a few Germans (like my Dad who was 1/2 German, 1/2 Connecticut Yankee). He had a smattering of all those words in his vocabulary (sometimes not pronounced correctly). That said, I learned a very little Yiddish as a trader on Wall Street in the 1990s sitting next to an older Jewish trader who was married to an Irish Catholic woman (their kids were brought up with both religions and somehow it worked). His way of explaining to me what a word meant was to say it louder. "You 'dunkuff.'" "What does 'dunkuff' mean?" "Dunkuff!!!!!" "Oh, now I understand." Still I learned a handful of words. To me, all that was real multiculturalism – organic, not always sensitive, and stuff just smashed together – versus the forced politics of the past 20+ years.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("I gawt so much goin' awn," sighs Joe, "I awrmos' f'got we was gonna drawr t' winneh in t' contes' t'day." "'Sawright, kid," nods Hilda. "I'm glad t'com'oveh t'do it. Now't race track's closed f't' season I gawt a lotta time awn me hans." "Awright, allayez," calls Joe, causing the customers eating at the counter to pause in their mastication. "T'day we'eh gonna pick out t'winneh in oueh 'Name 't Sanwich' contes' we been runnin''is mont'. We gawt t'is box'eeh an' heeh t' read out t' entries fawr'yez is yawr frien' an' mine, Hilda Chesteh!" "Don' appplaud too hawrd'eh, lady," grins Hilda as Joe unlocks the box. "Ya drawppin'a meat right outa t' toast." "Awright," resumes Joe. "We gotta lotta slips inna bawx 'eeh, so Hilda's gonna grab m' out an' read 'em an' you clap f't'one ya like t'bes'. G'head, Hilda read t'fois' one." Hilda reaches into the box and selects a folded slip, and as she does so a coin clatters to the counter. "Huh," she huhs. "Tezza fifty-cents piece inneh. Anyways, lessee. T'is one says -- uh -- 'seven, t'ree, five.'" She looks at Joe, whose face is reddening. "Um, t'at'sa mistake," he stammers. "T'at shoul'n be inneh. G'head, Hilda, pick out anot'eh one." Hilda again selects a slip, and unfolds it. "Huh," she huhs. "Dolleh bill innis one. Says 'Nine, two, eight. Combinate.'" There is a murmur from the crowd as Joe's face deepens to a flush. "Jus' g'head," he hastens. "Pick anot'eh one, pick anot'eh one." Hilda shrugs and withdraws a sealed envelope. "T'ey wrapped t'is one up good," she nods, as she tears open the flap. "Huh, t'ezza whole fin in'eeh t'is time,' she exhales as Joe closes his eyes. "Says 'eeh, 'Noteh Dame by seven pernts.' Boy, whatta chump T'AT guy was!" "MAAAAAAA!" bellows Joe, as his audience dissolves in laughter...)

("Sameleh," begins Mr. Ginsburg, "t'is is Misteh Hoishkowitz, a lawyer. He is taking your case, and is coming today to esk questions." "Tell 'im evry't'ing, son," directs Mr. Schreibstein. "Yesseh," nods Sammy, his bruises still evident and his eyes red from lack of sleep. "All right," begins Mr. Hershkowitz, producing a notebook. "Now, Sammy, I just want you to tell me a few facts for the record. How old are you?" "Fifteen," replies Sammy. "I toin sixteen nex' Feb'rary." "Do you go to school?" "Yeh," nods Sammy. "Tent' grade at New Utrick." "All right," nods the lawyer. "Have you ever been in trouble with the law before?" "No, seh," declares Sammy. "Well, one time a subway cawp hollehed at me f'drawrin' whiskehs on Miss Rheingol', but ev'rybody does'at, don'ey?" "All right," continues the lawyer, making a note in his book. "Now, I want you to tell me, and I want you to think very carefully before you answer, where were you last Saturday night?" "Well," sighs Sammy, "I went t'wa show at t' Colony, y'know, t'ats'a t'eateh awn 18t' Aveneh -- um -- me an' -- um -- a frien', we went'a see n' aftehnoon show, an'nen.." "What was the name of the picture you saw?" interrupts Mr. Hershkowitz. "Um, I t'ink..." begins Sammy, but the lawyer cuts him off. "The court, Sammy," Mr. Hershkowitz explains, "isn't interested in what you think. Either you remember or you don't, but you must say so either way." "Ummm," exhales Sammy. "It had Kat'rine Hepboin in it, an' Cary Grant. An' she was dressed up like a boy. I t'ink it was an ol' pitcheh, it looked kinda funny, an' it was cawl't 'Sylvia Sidney,' no, 'Sylvia -- um -- Scawrlett.' T'at's it. I din' like it. An'na secon' featcheh, t'at was a good one, 'T' Mysterious Docteh,' yeh, t'eh wazzis ghos' in it, wit'ouit no head. Shoiley din' like it much, but I..." "Who is Shirley?" interrupts Mr. Hershkowitz. "Oh," blushes Sammy. "Um, she's -- um -- my -- um -- frien'. Shoiley Blick. She...""Shoiley Blick," mutters Mr. Schreibstein with evident distaste before Mr. Ginsburg gestures him to silence. "So when you and Shirley Blick left the theatre," continues Mr. Hershkowitz, "where did you go?" "Um," ums Sammy, "we stawpped in at Loft's, right neeh t'eh, had a soda, tawked a bit, an'nen..." "Were you ever in the area of the 18th Avenue BMT station?" interrogates Mr. Hershkowitz. "Well, yeh," shrugs Sammy. "Y'gotta wawk right past'eh t'get..." "Did you enter the station?" "No seh," denies Sammy. 'We wawked past'eh, like I said, an' we wawked awlaway up 18t' till we got t' 61st, an'nen we wen' upta Shoiley's place." Mr. Schreibstein's eyes bulge at this, and Sammy hastens to explain. "See, she's good at algebra," he submits. "An' I ain' - um - so good at algebra, an' she said I should come up an' she'd -- um -- show me a few t'ings..." Mr. Schreibstein closes his eyes and grasps the edge of the table, as Mr. Hershkowitz taps his pen. "How late," he queries, "were you at Miss Blick's home?" "Till about eight t'oity, nine'a clock, relates Sammy. "We wen'oveh some homewoik, an' lissen'ta radio f'ra bit, an'nen we d'cided t' cawl it a night. So I wen' home." "Were Miss Blick's parents there?" queries Mr. Hershkowitz. "Well," hesitates Sammy, "no. See, her ol' man woiks inna shoe depawrtmen' at Abraham 'n Straus downtown, an'nneh open till 9. Ann'eh ma plays mah-jongg wit' a buncha ladies on Satehday nights. So it was jus' us." "I see," acknowledges Mr. Hershkowitz. "Y'c'n ask Shoiley," insists Sammy. "She'll tell ya. T'at's 'zackly what happn't. We was t'geteh when Missis P got 'eh poice stole, an' she knows I had nut'n t'do wit' it!" "That's all for now, Sammy," nods the attorney, closing his notebook. "We'll speak again soon. Try and get some rest." "Shoiley Blick," mutters Mr. Schreibstein, as the guard leads them down the corridor. "Still, Morris, a good boy," reassures Mr. Ginsburg...)

("T'at was a lousy pitcheh," sighs Bink Scanlan, pausing in front of 503 Rogers Avenue to light an Old Gold. "I betcha t'ey neveh even been t' Coney Islan'. "Y'shouln' be smokin'," warns Solly Pincus. "Condition yawr in." "Heh," hehs Bink, shaking out her match as she blows a cloud. "An' you gawt big eehs. Hey, y'wanna come upstaiehs? Catch'a enda t' Hit P'rade?" "I betteh nawt," exhales Solly. "I got -- ah -- few t'ings I gotta do t'night b'foeh'r I toin in." "Who ya gonna do'm wit'?" snickers Bink, delicately flicking her ash. "You do'wanna know," warns Solly....)

("Yes, but his tank didn't have a back seat.")

(I"m still wondering how Billy Conn made out with his father-in-law.)

(The Writers Guild will have something to say about this.)

(Cyanide? Is that what happened to the Count?)

(Rebuilt? I dunno, those valves sounded pretty loose.)

(Point of Order: If you become invisible and thus transparent, don't your retinas also become transparent so that light passes directly thru them? And therefore, you really can't see anyone or anything at all? Am I right?)

(Ask not for whom the turkey gobbles...)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"The most sought-after man in the United States..."

A day in 1945.

"Fob Cobb?" I bet Leo wishes he was on this tour.


When you've been away a while it's always difficult to fall back into the old routine.

No, TOPS. I said to go into business with TOPS.

Don't rush yourself, kid. You've got many decades to fall into a bare existence of unbearable tedium as you mark time toward the cold and lonely embrace of the grave. And don't lose your gloves.

Incidentally, if the lettering looks more ragged than usual it's because Carl Ed is doing everything himself. His assistant must be on vacation.

I used to talk to myself all the time when there was nothing to listen to on the radio. I'd even throw in static noises to make it more realistic.

"Yes sir, Detective Jumpatconclusions."

You know, you could just draw us a map.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Tezza fifty-cents piece inneh. Anyways, lessee. T'is one says -- uh -- 'seven, t'ree, five.'" She looks at Joe, whose face is reddening. "Um, t'at'sa mistake," he stammers. "T'at shoul'n be inneh. G'head, Hilda, pick out anot'eh one." Hilda again selects a slip, and unfolds it. "Huh," she huhs. "Dolleh bill innis one. Says 'Nine, two, eight. Combinate.'" There is a murmur from the crowd as Joe's face deepens to a flush. "Jus' g'head," he hastens. "Pick anot'eh one, pick anot'eh one." Hilda shrugs and withdraws a sealed envelope. "T'ey wrapped t'is one up good," she nods, as she tears open the flap. "Huh, t'ezza whole fin in'eeh t'is time,' she exhales as Joe closes his eyes. "Says 'eeh, 'Noteh Dame by seven pernts.'

Absolutely perfect. Or, maybe it would have been ever so slightly better had Sally been here for the contest drawing. She'd have found a way, though, to explain it away to herself. "People thought it was how they were suppose to pay for candy or the magazines."

So, did anyone actually put in a name for the sandwich?

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

Point of Order: If you become invisible and thus transparent, don't your retinas also become transparent so that light passes directly thru them? And therefore, you really can't see anyone or anything at all? Am I right?

Sure, but otherwise the science has been all buttoned upped in this strip.

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

We have to look for Ms. Goddard's pic in the "Coloroto" section tomorrow.

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

"Fob Cobb?" I bet Leo wishes he was on this tour.

I sense another s*xy woman who will want to sleep with Terry, but he'll miss all the signals.

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

You know, you could just draw us a map.

The Daily News would love to help.

 

[LizzieMaine]

Poor Joe. There were even a few election bets down the bottom of the box. "Two bucks on O'Dwyer by 150,000 votes."

If you really want to feel sorry for someone though, consider what this will do to Ma's bookkeeping.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("So t'at's about t' size of it," sighs Sally. "I was tawkin' t' Lil t'is mawrnin' an' she hoid t'ey might take up Sammy's case innat Addehlescent Coueht t'marra. Misteh Ginsboig set'm up wit't'is lawyeh -- I ain' met 'im, but if 'e's a friend a' t' Ginsboigs, I trust 'im awright. An' I dunno how Alice does it, she showed up t't' meet'n las' night wit' two gran' in a brown papeh bag. I neveh seen'at much money in my life. I ast'eh wheh she got it an' she said it was from 'a frien.' Some friend, huh? But t'en I see t'is t'ing inna papeh 'bout how t'ey set bail f'tese ot'eh kids at ten grand a'sump'n. I mean, how we s'posta come up wit'T'AT kin'a money. I tell ya, I'm really scaieht." "You can worry," observes Dr. Levine, "or you can do something to solve the problem, but you can't really do both." "I jus' wish," sighs Sally, "I could do somp'n." "You have," notes Dr. Levine. "Didn't you organize all of this? Got everyone in the building together, got word out in the neighborhood, put the whole thing into motion?" "I s'pose," shrugs Sally. "I jus wish I could do moeh." "What else," queries Dr. Levine, "could you do?" "Well," exhales Sally, "I could crease Flannehry's head wit' a brick." Dr. Levine glowers over the tops of her glasses. "But," concludes Sally, with a trace of resignation, "I won't....")

("Yeh, t' cawntes' was a bust," sighs Joe. "Wasn't nut'n inna bawx but bett'n slips an' a coupla gum wrappehs. Pooeh Ma's still inna back room t'eh tryna get it awl straight'nt out." "Ahh," dismisses Solly. "Ya doin' awright t'ough, ya sellin' 'em jus' cawlin'm beef sanwiches, ain'cha? T'em ads ya run dona awright, dinn'ey?" "Yeh,' concedes Joe. "I dunno, t'ough, I still wish I had sump'n - you know, kin'a punchy, kin'a jazzy. Hey, you know who had'n ideeh? Bink was ineeh b'foeh you come in, an' she says, why don' I sell two hunks a' meat onna toas' f' fifteen cents, an' cawl it t' 'Big Joe Special.' You remembeh t'at reckid Benny Goodman had, 'Big John Special?' T'is'd be kin'uvv'a take awffa t'at, see? " Solly replies with a startled blink. "T'at," he proclaims, "is a helluvv'n ideeh." "Y't'ink?" demurs Joe. "I mean, ain' it kin'a braggy? An' -- well, jeez, I'm on'y five foot nine. I ain'nat big!" "T'ez ot'eh kin'a big," counters Solly. "Umm," inhales Joe. "I mean," snickers Solly, "yawrra watcha cawl a moral giant." "Huh," huhs Joe. "Heh," hehs Solly." "T'at Bink," muses Joe, "is a pretty smawrt kid sometimes." "Sometimes," acknowledges Solly...)

("NOOO," shouts Ma into the phone. "OI AIN'T TAKIN NOOOO MOOOOR BETS AAAHN ARMY!")

(It'll be even funnier when sepsis sets in!)

(Comic strip Bugs is really tired of getting all these scripts that were rejected by Daffy Duck.)

(If you really want to make it up to him, share the beanie-weenies!)

(But Miss White can remember every square inch of Fort Lee, New Jersey.)

(I can't tell if this detective is being played by Victor Moore or Hugh Herbert, or some frightful chimera of both. But whatever, it's a bold choice.)

(World War II Nostalgia? TOO SOON.)

(Hmph. If there's one phrase every first-year-French student is guaranteed to know, it's 'voulez-vous coucher avec moi?'")

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"Poor Carole. I don't miss those days at all..." -- Ann Sheridan.

There's got to be a movie in this.

Sally doesn't miss working retail at all.

On the cover of the Coloroto section, Paulette says "Well, whattaya expect in November, a bathing suit??"

"Good thing we can still breathe. Oh, wait..."

Say what you will about Mr. Gray's many inconsistencies, but at least he has a firm grasp of his own brand of metaphysics. And the one place Terry absolutely does not belong is show business.

Ahhh, two-cents-plain and a Tums.

Pretty soon you'll see atom bombs on sale at Davega.

And the award for most creative troll of 1945 goes to... And remember, Jon, the court doesn't care about hunches.

Ever the optimist...