The Era -- Day By Day

[Harp]

The Gurfein infanticide coverage recalls Woodward, a later Massachusetts British au pair
sitter who shook an infant to death, and was subsequently convicted of murder. However, the trial judge Anglophile whom had studied in England, took the verdict away from the jury under judgemente non obstante veredicto; largely a civil realm occurrence, and imposed involuntary manslaughter instead. Woodward's counsel having rejected prosecution downward plea offer earlier. Ms Woodward did seven or eight years, and last seen was a tango dance instructor in Buenos Aires. Fourteen year old Jack Turk apparently strangled the child he sat, then drowned the baby girl and taped her mouth. All deliberate acts that will mitigate any possible cop, and mandate serious time if convicted.

The Louis Weber ******* by strangulation hang recalls Epstein, of course; although with three fractured vertebrae, Jeffrey Epstein, reasonable conclusion leads towards murder. All of which swirls a vortex that quite plausibly will cost Charles III his throne. American congressional issued letters rogatory submitted to Andrew Mountbatten-Windsor through embassy service,
would presumably cast first stone at Crown abdication. A classic Ruy Lopez opening thrust at center board dominance; leaving Charles a Sisyphean task to avoid capture.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("We gotta do it t'day," declares Sally. "If t'ezza subway strike we gawt no way t'get t'eh. Unless we use Uncle Frank's truck." "I wouln' do t'at," shudders Alice. "Well'en," urges Sally. "Getcha downtown clo'es awn. We'eh goin' t' City Hawl." "Yeh," sighs Alice. She glances at Sally, and takes a closer look at the buttons of her prewar blue wool suit, bulging unbecomingly at the midriff. "Hey Sal," she ventures. "Don' min' me f'raskin', but -- um -- awr you putt'n awn weight?" "Neveh min'at," snaps Sally. "I t'ought you had one'a t'em two-way-stretch jawbs," calls Alice, going off to change. "NEVEH MIN'!" bellows Sally...)

("Ah, Mr. Petrauskas," gleams Inky Quinlan. "Welcome to Mozelewski's of Brooklyn. You're looking ever so -- ah -- upright today. May I show you our new spring collection? No doubt you'll find just the right gift for your -- ah -- lovely --- wife." "Yeh," squirms Joe. "Moze aroun'?" "Mr. Mozelewski is in his studio," glistens Inky. "In the rear." "Yeh," nods Joe. "Um," he ums, "is -- uh -- " "Miss Kaplan is at luncheon," nods Inky, not unsympathetically. "Yeh," exhales Joe. He steps into the rear of the shop. "Joe!" greets Mozelewski, tucking his pencil behind his ear and rising to welcome his old friend. "How ya been?" "Eh," ehs Joe. "I been betteh, you know how it is. Lissen, reason I come oveh, maybe you c'n help me wit' sump'n." "Sueh," nods Mozelewski, leaning against his desk. "See," explains Joe, "I hoit my back shovelin' snow. Gotta slip't disk. Y'know? Hoits like hell. But it hoits less when I got sump'n pressin' on it, so I been wearin' a -- um -- " Joe flushes nervously, glances back toward Inky fussing about the shop, and leans into Mozelewski's ear to whisper. "Oh," ohs Mozelewski. "An'na trouble is," sighs Joe, pulling at his waist, "it don't quite -- fit. An' -- well --you know 'bout t'is kin'a stuff, so I was t'inkin' maybe you might know weh I could..." "Yeh," nods Mozelewski. He retrieves his pencil, grabs a pad from the desk, and scrawls a name and address. He peels off the sheet, folds it, and hands it to Joe. "She''ll fix ya up," he promises. "No questions ast." "T'anks," flushes Joe. "Yawr a pal." "AWRIGHT," issues a loud call from the front of the store. "T'AT WAS T' WOISE LUNCH I EVEH HAD." "Out t'back," chuckles Mozelewski, as Joe gratefully gains the exit...)

(Uncle Frank looks at the truck ads, and sighs...)

(The eternal struggle.)

(Mr. Walker has the best-painted house in Birmingham.)

(This could go right to the Supreme Court.)

(Clark Gable he's not.)

(This guy better be worth the buildup.)

(Get it in writing and get a good labor lawyer. I have a name I can recommend.)

(Co-dependency defined.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

"Sir," interrupts a flunky as the Mayor sits at his desk with his head in his hands, a thick file of transit system documents laid out before him. "Go away," he growls. "I'm busy." "There are two women," apologizes the functionary, "demanding to see you. Well, that is to say, uh, one of them is demanding to see you, the other one -- is -- um -- standing there." The Mayor looks up and scowls. "Women? Who are they?" "Um, there's a loud one and a big one. The loud one is a Mrs. -- uh -- Petrauskas, and the big one is a Mrs. Krause." "A hunkie and a kraut?" glares the Mayor. "Give 'em the brush." "They're from Brooklyn," continues the lackey. "So what?" snorts the Mayor. "Everybody's from Brooklyn." "And they look Irish," concludes the flunky. "Especially the big one." "Irish?" responds the Mayor, sitting up and adjusting his tie. "That's different! Send the dear ladies in...."

Giddyap.

"Check all the $39 auto paint shops!"

Eh, it's a living.

Hmph. I think he looks cute in overalls.

"Where'd your dog go?" "Eh, he's on break. It's in his contract."

I've been thinking of papering my living room, but I have sense enough not to try.

Poor Stoop. He'd love to see Sandhurst again.

Things That Have Happened, sigh, To Me...

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Worker...

Mr. Quill is, as Mr. Barber would say, sitting in the catbird seat...

Anyone who ever listened to Steel's broadcasts or read his books ought to know exactly where he stands.

Once again, the patronizing public image of Louis as a head-bowing accomodationist is shattered.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Hey Sal," she ventures. "Don' min' me f'raskin', but -- um -- awr you putt'n awn weight?" "Neveh min'at," snaps Sally. "I t'ought you had one'a t'em two-way-stretch jawbs," calls Alice, going off to change. "NEVEH MIN'!" bellows Sally...

Good for Sally, she can't rat out Joe. Joe's such an honest guy, he'll tell everyone in time anyway.

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

You're looking ever so -- ah -- upright today.

That's really funny in its very low-key way. It fits Inky so perfectly.

I love that Mozelewski knows to help Joe avoid Miss Kaplan.

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

The eternal struggle.

I was trained not to use the Oxford comma, but switched years ago based on the logic shown in this article, but still, I notice myself slipping now and then.

As to "were" vs "was," all I can say is "stupid subjunctive mood."

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

Eh, it's a living.

It's always seemed obvious to me that, even if you put morality aside, an honest living is simply easier.

 

[Harp]

The prosecution in Feldman has a strong case and defendant counsel made a significant
tactical error with trial judge by motion following rest. A pharmacist husband administering
medication to his patient spouse is clearly outside professional primary care scope, rendering defense invalid. This case should never have gone to trial.

A few interesting, though smudged divorce and death declaration suits with whopping estate valuations; however, tempered post war romance cooling in Wenschler, stuck tight in Reno.

Bye-the bye, I've caught some YouTube 1923 snips featuring Yellowstone legacy characters
led Harrison Ford and Helen Mirren. A particular segment detailing the transAtlantic post war
love between a Dutton and British noblewoman is most exceptional fare. It's nice to see old fashioned hetero***ual romance shown between a man and woman truly bound love and commitment to each other.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Whatta waste'a time'at was," fumes Sally. "We sat'eh inna awffice f'twenny minutes, an'na guy tawked an' tawked, an'ee neveh said a woid. Y'know what'at is? T'at's what'ey cawl 'blawrney.'" "I awrways wondehed what'at was," nods Alice. "Like inna funnies, Blawrney Google." "Don' read 'em Hoist papehs," scowls Sally. "T'ey'll brainwawrsh ya." "T'ey got Popeye too," shrugs Alice. "I awrways kinda liked Popeye, seemed like a pretty squaeh kin'a guy. Seems like 'e'd be a pretty good kin'a guy t'know." "Uncle Frank useta do t'same t'ing," continues Sally. "When I was a kid. Ev'ry time Ma wan'ed him t'do sump'n, he'd tawk an' tawk an' tawk an' neveh say nut'n. Blawrney." "Hey, you eveh notice'at guy Quill?" comments Alice. "Don'ee kin'a look like Popeye?" "Quill," hmms Sally. "If I can't get O'Dwyeh t'do nut'n, I bet Quill could." "I wondeh," wonders Alice, "if he eats spinach?")

(His back throbbing with every step, Joe slowly limps around the corner of Midwood Street and onto Flatbush Avenue. Glancing across the street at the Patio Theatre he spots Mozelewski in his shop and exchanges a nod of recognition as he makes his way up the sidewalk. At the deli on corner he passes a knot of workers from the Santini Storage warehouse, and his ears redden as he overhears an unmistakble snicker. Do they know? Do they suspect? Convincing himself they could not, he limps onward, flushing deeper as he imagines a knowing giggle emanating from Carl's Beauty Salon. His pace slows as he spots a narrow doorway between a dress shop and a frowsy greengrocer's. Directly in front of that doorway, a bulky matron and her two children stand at the trolley stop. Drifting up the street, Joe feigns interest in the suits displayed in the corner window of Rand the Tailor. At length, the grimy red trolley grinds down the avenue and comes to a stop. The passengers clamber aboard, the motorman stomps his bell, and the car rolls onward. Breathing slowly and evenly, Joe puts his hands in his pockets and steps with studied nonchalance back down the sidewalk, and pauses in front of the narrow doorway just long enough to confirm the delicate script on the glass. With a deep exhalation, and his jacket collar turned up to block his view of the garments discreetly advertised in the window, he opens the door marked "Alice Marie Shoppe," and ever so casually steps inside...)

(HA! Do Kaltenborn next!)

(Coming Events...)

(Three sessions with Rickey? Doesn't the Geneva Convention apply?)

(Blockbusting! WE MIGHT HAVE KNOWN!)


(What, you're not going to lecture her about deceiving her parents? YOU'RE SLIPPING JEFF)

(That guy? He's not even as fat as you!)

(Who says the comics aren't wish fulfillment?)

(Ahhh, Kitty. Never change.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"The naaaaarve oov th' man!" fumes Mr. Quill to his aide. "Whoo's in thaaar with'im???" "Coupla women," shrugs the aide. "Th' bloooody druisiere!" hisses Mr. Quill....

"Little Stoop?" Somebody reads the comics.

Coming events...

Rats are very intelligent creatures.

Dress for the job you want.

I thought Jon was a G-Man. Doesn't Mr. Hoover frown on moonlighting?

Careful, everyone who takes in this kid seems to come to a bad end.

I won't believe you're sincere until you hang up the curtains.

I want to see Pop in that candy-striped overcoat.

Page Four in the making.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Worker...

Mr. Holmes was onto something.

 

[Fading Fast]

"T'ey got Popeye too," shrugs Alice.

She's the best.

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

"Little Stoop?" Somebody reads the comics.

That was a surprisingly complicated story to follow.

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

Rats are very intelligent creatures.

He is a survivor. We've all run into more than one of him at work over the years. Never count them out.

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

"'And smart too.' You heard that, right?"

As to taking Annie in, it means either the family is evil or will, as you note, have awful things happen to them. Through no fault of her own, the kid is toxic.

 

[Harp]

Eschewed the later homicides today for just a quick look at Feldman, which not surprisingly
saw defense keep defendant off witness chair since he'd be subject cross.
And defendant counsel's trial judge facial lingo complaint leaves little doubt as to trial
strategy; or his own disbelief in his client's innocence. This tactical ploy might gain a retrial
but strychnine poisoning prior hospital admittance seems plausible conjecture.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("This was th' cradle Oi used farr Michael an' Sally both," declares Ma. "It's oold, but it's staaaardy." "Yeh," sighs Bink. She examines the chipped marks on the edge of the rail. "Whassawlat?" she inquires. "Ya have goats chewin' awn it?" "Sally had a difficoolt toime with teethin'," sighs Ma. "Yee'll foind oot what THAT's loike soon enoof." Ma fusses with the cradle while Bink pokes at her food. "Have ye given any thaaaat," ventures Ma, "as to a name?" "I dunno," shrugs Bink, thru a forkful of Kraft Dinner. "I t'ought I'd jus' cawl it whateveh t'ey put down onna papeh inna hawspit'l." "Blooody hell, choild," admonishes Ma. "That's naaaaht th' way they do it." "Oh," ohs Bink, scraping her plate into the garbage pail and consigning it to the pile of unwashed dishes in the sink. "Ye ain't givin' this a bitta thaaaaght, are ye?" admonishes Ma. "Yaaaar toime is less than a moonth away, an' heere ye aaar, carin' naaaht a whit." "Whassa whit?" queries Bink, wiping her hands on a dish towel and tossing that, as well, into the sink. "Barbara," frowns Ma. "Yaaar goin' t'be a moothar. Ye need t'staaart actin' loike woon." "Awright," scowls Bink, squaring her shoulders, hunching her neck, and wrinkling her nose. "Yeeeee keeeeeep yaaaar haaaaaands oooooota me till!" she screeches in a stage-Irish accent. "Fraaaaaancis! Ye blooooody gombeeeeeen, wottttttaaaaaaareyeeeee oooop tooo NOWWWWW?" Ma gapes with astonishment at this exhibition, staring stonily at the soon-to-be-mother of her grandchild, as the corner of her mouth twitches ever so slightly...)

("Whassis?" queries Sally, examining the box on the kitchen table. "'Alice Marie Shawppeee." "Moze tol' me about 'eh," exhales Joe. "She -- um -- fixed me up wit' t'is." He unbuttons his shirt to reveal his encasement in a formidable-looking underpiece. "It's whatchacawl a gent's soigical suppawrteh." "Ah," ahs Sally. "She fits'm t' awrdeh, while ya wait," explains Joe. "An' it fits like it awtteh, an' -- um -- it ain' got non'at'em -- um -- you know -- t'ings awn it." "Ahhhh," nods Sally. "So," shuffles Joe, his ears reddening, "while I was inneh, I, um, figyehed since I kinda stretched out t'at one you, um, loan't me t'eh, I might as well bring ya a -- well, you know, inna box t'eh.""Ahhhhh," nods Sally, with a controlled smile. "It's two way stretch!" declares Joe. "Um, moeh'r' --um -- comf'table, y'know." "Yeh," nods Sally, her features fully composed....)

(Decorated beer jackets? Thirties nostalgia is here!)

(Wait, Tommy Brown got drafted??? THEY GROW UP SO FAST!)

(Someday there'll be a law against this kind of thing.)

(Dinner with an agent? Even Neysa ought to have higher standards than that.)

(Larges sums of money? Maybe that's why he's waddling.)

(In other words, he has the making of an outstanding executive director.)

(PLEASE. When Kitty does it you never even know it's been done.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"The offspring of promiscuous in tercourse." Well, at least he didn't call the poor kid a "little b*stard."

I wonder what Sachs' credit policy is like?

"Tell it to the arbitrator!"

Keep your eyes open and your mouth shut.

He's got to be the leader of a sinister religious cult. Just look at those shadows!

Yeah, what's it been, six months? Kinda late with the mail, eh kid?

"Sigh." -- Uncle Frank.

"Must we? They have carrot cake!"

"SO I CAN'T REACH THE SINK! DON'T RUB IT IN!"

You'll all regret this in the morning.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Worker...

Sure they can hit. But none of those big oafs can run.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Awright," scowls Bink, squaring her shoulders, hunching her neck, and wrinkling her nose. "Yeeeee keeeeeep yaaaar haaaaaands oooooota me till!" she screeches in a stage-Irish accent. "Fraaaaaancis! Ye blooooody gombeeeeeen, wottttttaaaaaaareyeeeee oooop tooo NOWWWWW?" Ma gapes with astonishment at this exhibition, staring stonily at the soon-to-be-mother of her grandchild, as the corner of her mouth twitches ever so slightly...

Didn't see that coming, but I guess Bink had had enough and wanted to make a point. Jeez.

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

Decorated beer jackets? Thirties nostalgia is here!

No kidding, that looks really dated. Next, one of the boys' cars will have a bunch of stupid slogans and stuff written on it.

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

"The offspring of promiscuous in tercourse." Well, at least he didn't call the poor kid a "little b*stard."

There was an even nicer euphemism earlier on: "...who fathered her son, she said, without the benefit of clergy."

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

"Tell it to the arbitrator!"

The "affordability" crisis 1946 style.

 

[Harp]

Caught the conniving women stories about larceny, lust, and libidinous legality and Feldman but this
morning is one of those days.... Still, that runaway English girl has moxie.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Well, how DIDJA name ya kids," snaps Bink, clearly tired of the whole topic. "Michael," begins Ma with a deep exhalation, "was named aftaaar a man me hoosband oowed money. Michael Patrick 'is name was, an' he was a hod carrrier waaarked with Petaar. An' like as usual, Petarr was roonin' shaaart aaahn pay, an'nee baaaroows a soom fr'm this Michael Patrick. An' then th' blooody sl'veen goos an' loses THAT mooney too, playin' at caaards arr soom fool thing. An' whin th' loon cooms due, Petaaar, loike th' plank 'ee was, says to th' man, 'if ye give me toime, Oi'll make it oopta ye. Oi'll name me faaaarst baarn faar ye. Michael Patrick Sweeney." "An'ee fell faaaar it?" gapes Bink. "Petaaar had a smoooth way'a taaalkin'," acknowledges Ma. "T'at's why ya married 'im?" snickers Bink. "Ah," ahs Ma, her eyes rolling. "To be suuuure." "What about t' ot'eh one?" queries Bink. "Sally was named aftarr a sonnng," sighs Ma. "Whin Oi was coomin' t'this coountry, tharr was a man aaahn th' booat kept singin' this sonng, 'Sally In Ooor Alley.' 'Oooov aaaal th' gaaaarls that aaaar soo smaaaart, thaarr's noon loike pret-ty Sal-ly...' An' whin th' ship landed, ye couldn't wallk doon th'street withoot soom eejit singin' that blooody saang. It stoock in me head farrr years. So whin Oi had me daaaaughter, Oi caaaled 'arr Sally." "She's pretty smawrt," nods Bink. "Thinks she is," glares Ma...)

("Y't'ink t'is strike is eveh gonna be oveh?" sighs Alice. "My dogs is killin' me fr'm picketin'." "Once a' twice a week ain' gonna kill ya," growls Sally. "B'sides, it's a phony strike anyway, t'ey'll give it up soon'enough." "Y'said'at two mont's ago," reminds Alice. "Jus' shows ya," hmphs Sally, "how phony it is." "I do'wanna get anot'eh jawb," declares Alice. "I been stayin' home helpin' Siddy roun'a buildin', an' maybe if t'ey don' take us back at t' plant, maybe I'll jus' keep doin'at." "I ain' gonna stay down innat basemen' at Abraham 'n Straus," vows Sally. "I ast if I could move upstaiehs, t'ey been runnin' ads. An'ey said my skills was moeh valuable we'h'r I am. Noitz t't'at." "Lotta ot'eh stoehs," shrugs Alice. "Loeseh's, Mawrtin's, Namm's..." "Neh," nehs Sally. "I'm offfa woikin' in stoehs. If t'ey t'row us outa t'plant, I'm gonna -- I dunno, maybe I can woik f't' Dodgehs." "I heeh Hilda sells hot dawgs out t' t' racetrack," muses Alice. "Maybe she can getcha in." "Y'know," glares Sally, "you neveh useta be so sawrcastic." "Sawry," apologizes Alice. "I guess I'm pickin' it up fr'm Siddy...." "Yeh," yehs Sally, as the train rolls on toward home...)

(Film Noir didn't just show up out of thin air...)

(Too soon.)

(Coming events...)

(You haved to admire the thoroughness of their approach.)

("I'll have the fish in a barrel, with an egg roll on the side.")

(Hey Janie, don't you have a deadline to meet?)

(You don't say.)

(It's about time Kitty got her own storyline.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Imogene? Is she still in the league?

It's going to be an eventful spring.

"AND DON'T SMOKE ON THE BED!!"

Well, that's easy enough...

He's not sitting in the shadows, he just never washes his back.

"We'll wait."

"Sigh." -- Uncle Frank.

Awwwww. No wonder he's always broke.

"Flea dip? That'll be fifty cents extra."

 

[Fading Fast]

"Jus' shows ya," hmphs Sally, "how phony it is."

A good example of the "everything proves my argument" way of thinking (that I can be as guilty of as the next person).

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

Film Noir didn't just show up out of thin air...

No kidding. Taking it one step further, several pieces of the 1953 noir "A Blueprint for Murder" echo this case. Several don't, but the killing of two people with strychnine to have the inheritance "sluice" down to the murderer is there, as is the pain in the extremities angle and having a body exhumed to be examined for poisoning.

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

Imogene? Is she still in the league?

She is going to get away with it. She's that generation's Claudine.

 

[Harp]

Feldman follows predictable course with defendant date arrange ''Sparky'' at Sing Sing; appellate recourse judicial error; which will be denied ***ulative evidence.

Fahrney the cough drop kiddo is a whackjob ******ero. Six notches on her lipstick case. Whatever.

The Jackie Robinson-Bob Feller dispute would make a good book. Long time ago since I read Feller's
baseball memoir, but apparently he had faulted Robinson's plate for evident weakness, something that
stuck in JR's craw. Papa Joe Chevalier's interview with Feller shortly before the pitcher's death, revealed
a hot tempered crab curmudgeon, so that's that. Ted Williams' later description of Robinson having a ''ton of guts,'' is superb crackerbarrel dugout spun wisdom. When I was in law school, I worked for a year as night cashier in a White Hen convenience store, and the owner recounted his mom taking him to a game once,
and afterwards running into Ted Williams who refused to give an autograph. Boss' mom gave Williams a real piece of her mind.... Can't win 'em all.