The Era -- Day By Day

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Worker...

It's easy when you know how.

 

[Fading Fast]

An'ney t'rew'eh in Bellevue one time f' kil lin' 'na presiden' of t' Pennsylvania Railroad wit'eh baeh hands. Twisted 'is head right awff like a chicken."

Wonderful to see the story "evolve."

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I didn't know dogs come with an owner's manual. Cats come with an employee's handbook.

That's very funny because it's very true. I dread my quarterly reviews with Aria; she's a brutal boss.

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"The man most likely to succeed with the ladies." Not this time.

So they had a separation agreement in place since 1940, but he's charging her with adultery now. What exactly did he think she was going to do during their separation agreement? I don't understand this story.

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Your move.

Caniff can meander now and then, but he still knows how to build to a heck of a climax with, as you say, Lizzie, wheels within wheels.

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That's all, folks...

30 pounds is a lot in a boxing ring.

 

[Harp]

Lustig's heavy handed foolishness should cost him a stretch.

Constance Bennett is obviously a woman ill suited for whatever reason to matrimony.

Alexis Thompson's 1940 pre war marital separation and spousal trust evidently entered mutual consent,
now faces post war revision; albeit its implied terminal state seems ridiculously overlooked. A redrafted trust
within set accord duration would be best however the two principals remain wed. Were Thompson my client,
I would advise marital divorce without specified cause under attendant wartime occupance trust, and a generous but reasonable settlement.

Terry might be nearing check within his Sicilian Defense against Slits' attempt for center board control,
which seems rather tenuous at moment. Meanwhile, Selene appears to have crossed Rubicon with Binnie,
such a splendid young lady. Selene is odd Gal out here in more ways than one.

 

[LizzieMaine]

(It is just before 10 AM as we find Solomon J. Pincus pacing nervously at the downtown corner of Fulton and Montague Streets. He glances at his watch, lights a Camel, takes several nervous puffs and flicks it away. "One side!" honks an unmistakable voice, pushing thru the midmorning pedestrians. "Comin' t'ru!" "Well," exhales Solly. "Tookya lawnganough." "Go tell t' BMT," growls Sally pulling irritably at her city suit jacket. "Say whatchawanna 'bout LaGuardieh, but t' trains run awn time. Anyways, I'm 'eeh. Wheh we goin'?" "In'neh," gestures Solly, indicating the hulking ten-story stone bulk of the Mechanics Bank Building. "Um," ums Sally, her face going white under the skim of powder. "Y'nevveh said Gelman's awffice was inneh." "What izzit wit' you people," growls Solly, leading her into the lobby. "I come'eeh wit' Joe t'at time, an'ee was t'same way." He rings for the elevator. "Matteh'rafack, we got awnis elehvateh an' ya know who we run inta? Branch Rickey, y'know? Big cheese a' t' Dodgehs. Joe got awl funny, covehed up 'is face. The chime rings, and the elevator doors open. A trim curly-haired gentleman with a bow tie steps out, and locks eyes with Sally. "YOU!" she growls. "YOU!" yelps Harold Parrott. "YOU TELL 'AT BOSS A' YEZ," roars Sally, "T'AT ITS HIS FAWLT PETEY'S IN SAN DIEGEH!" "Uhhhhhh," jitters Mr. Parrott, racing for the stairs. Solly gapes at this spectacle. "Well, c'mon," shrugs Sally, stepping into the elevator. "Ain'cha comin'?" "What IS it," exhales Solly, as the doors close, "wit'choo people...")

("Oi did try t' taaalk t' th' boy," nods Uncle Frank, "when we was roidin' th' train oop t' th' Stadium. Boot ye know how thim IND caaars c'n be. Foola bums." "Sally's been avoooidin' me," scowls Ma. "She ain't set foot in'eer in a week. Oi could aaaahlways tell, when she was a gaaaarl, whin she was oopta soomthin'. An' Oi'm tillin' ye, Francis, she's oopta soomthin'. An' if Oi haft'arr goo ovarr t' Bensonhaaaarst meself an' settle 'arr hash faaar all an' gone, that's ixactly what Oi'm goin' tarr do." "Oi wish," sighs Uncle Frank, "ye wouldn't." "Wishin'," glowers Ma, "wooon't make it so...")

("Who d'ya think stepped on me???")

(So you traded Herman to the Braves for a third-string catcher who refused to show up. If Sally doesn't get you, I bet Jimmy Powers will.)

(The O'Monkey's Paw.)

("In fact, I haven't so much as mentioned my own son in five years!!")

(Now that's style.)

(It's just like that movie, "The Blue Spittoon.")

(Our Vines Have Sour Grapes.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Hey Milt, there's another plot for you.

Yeah, yeah, boxing is corrupt. Hey, what about El Cheapo?

"At least he doesn't bite his own toenails in bed." "What?" "Nothing."

And he doesn't even get a window seat.

It's not as much fun as blowing up submarines, but...

Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick...

And of course it was all strictly voluntary....

How's a kid gonna make a living?

Well, fiddle dee dee.

Are we to infer that Hedy Lamarr is NOT one of Moon's favorite movie stars? I'm sure she'd be relieved.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Worker...

The post-fight analysis is more exciting than the fight itself.

 

[Fading Fast]

"YOU TELL 'AT BOSS A' YEZ," roars Sally, "T'AT ITS HIS FAWLT PETEY'S IN SAN DIEGEH!" "Uhhhhhh," jitters Mr. Parrott, racing for the stairs. Solly gapes at this spectacle. "Well, c'mon," shrugs Sally, stepping into the elevator. "Ain'cha comin'?" "What IS it," exhales Solly, as the doors close, "wit'choo people..."

I absolutely love that Sally can go from zero to sixty in anger in a second flat and back to zero the same way – she has a very compartmentalized way of seeing the world.

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It's always been a dirty game, which ultimately was its undoing.

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Hey Milt, there's another plot for you.

Someone always talks. That's how most film noir heist movies end.

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"At least he doesn't bite his own toenails in bed." "What?" "Nothing."

What?!

 

[Harp]

As to today's proceedings, the Central Park thugs are bound Grand Jury indictment for **** and murder
along with a second theft homicide, and, criminal prosecution is good politics. Ossining zip code and ''Sparky''await these clowns. On a somewhat related note, Officer Baccale's killing joyrider Goodman chased on foot through a backyard is excessive and prosecutable theory as the boy presented little; if, indeed any threat, and had quit motor vehicle possession. Once a pedestrian in flight, the issue changed perceptibly. The boy shouldn't have been shot. Likewise, Fraulein Krebs killed Mr Flannigan with an unspecified ****** weapon, most likely Flannigan's Colt .45 issue sidearm. The Colt 1911 A1 weighs two and a half pounds with three operational safety features, so it doesn't go off ''accidentally.'' Nor does the fraulein have plausible recourse to passion absent third party instigation. However, she is a German national, which spares her death or long stretch incarceration. Some more liberal academicians would argue the fetus in her womb qualifies third part instigation; although such argument implicitly attributes fetal human claim, and such cognizance is repugnant the liberal side of things. And besides, the Colt .45 kicks like a mule. Two or three rounds fired is deliberate intent personified depraved heart indifference no doubts about it either toots. Still, all politics are local. Krebs walks.

Cupid rendered favor to estranged suitor Simmons with flighty Ms Eaton; whose nautical nupitals drove iron spike reality into his heart. Rather than allowing such pin to rust from tears and twist like a knife, he pulled free of it and her. Although suitor Simmons has civil standing fiscal compensatory damages, I would advise his forfeiture field entirely and consider himself blessed. Mr Raskin married a ***** named Welch who possesses shrewish tongue and little sense.

The Hyat-Albequerque pact circa is non enforceable. Also, gestation is nine months, three short a year's legal mandate; while demonstrative behavior shown plaintiff's targets toward the children indicate contrary claim to greater extent. Paternity though offers standing to Hyat. This arrangement is complex and should have been entered under strict contract.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Wottaye MEAN she ain't heere??" glowers Ma, looming in the kitchen of Apartment 2 at 1762 63rd Street. "Hadda go do sump'n," shrugs Leonora, irritated at the interruption of her Saturday reading schedule. "Ah," frowns Ma. "Went with ye faaatharrr, didshee?" "What?" grouses Leonora, tilting her good ear. "Whaaaaar's ye faaaathaaar??" Ma repeats, in a raised voice. Resenting her tone, Stella the Cat thumps off the table and retreats to her lair under the stove to monitor the conversation. "Pa's out lookin' f' meat," shrugs Leonora. "Willlnow that's a foine thing!" snaps Ma. "Leavin' a foive yaaar oold choild aaaall aloon with th' door oonlocked!" "I ain' alone," sniffs Leonora, jerking her head toward the open dumbwaiter. "I need anyt'ing," she explains, "I jus' yell." "Ah," nods Ma, her face tight. "Mistarr Pincus will comm doon an' help'ye?" "Hah," hahs Leonora. "He's neveh home. Awrways out runnin' aroun'." "Isee noow?" glares Ma. "An' just whoo moit'ee be roonin' aroon' with?" "I don' caeh," shrugs Leonora, returning to her encyclopedia. "Go ask Lottie Schreibstein. She knows awllabout'im." "Indeeed noooow!" growls Ma....)

("Whyd'ja wanna meet innis dump?" whispers Sally, squinting into the gloom of the Hollywood Theatre, just off New Utrecht Avenue. "It's fifteen blocks fr'm home," replies Solly. "We ain' gonna run inta anybody heeh. Wanna Milk Dud?" "How c'n you eat t'at junk?" growls Sally. "Ehh, sump'n just crawlt up my leg." She glances up at the screen, as Wheeler and Woolsey cavort in a scratchy reissue of one of their lesser efforts. "T'is was a punk pitcheh in nineteen t'oity six," she observes. "Look, I ain' got all day. Whatcha wanna see me 'bout?" "We gotta woik out how Jacleen Ennehprises is gonna approach Joe," explains Solly. "Now, we can't use Gelman, 'cause Joe knows 'im. An' we can't use Hoishkewitz, 'cause Joe knows HIM too. But t'ezzis guy I useta know up in Williamsboig, useta be t' accountan' f' Crown Pickle. Benny Kessleh. Smart guy. An'ee owes me a faveh. I loaned 'im a fin week be'foeh Poil Hawrbeh, an' I wen' inna Awrmy b'foeh'ree could pay me back. So I tawked t' Benny, an'eez gonna be t' agent f' Jacleen Ennehprizes." "Won't Joe know 'im?" points out Sally. "Joe neveh paid no 'tention t't'em guys inna awffice," dismisses Solly. "An' ifee does, so what? Maybe t'at's how Benny t'ought'a Joe f' t'is deal inna fois' place. Y'see? It can't miss." "HEY!" echoes a voice from the sparse matinee audience. "TRY'NA SLEEP 'EEH!" "It can't miss!" repeats Solly, reducing the volume. "Whattaya need me t'do?" queries Sally. "T'marra's Sunday," outlines Solly. "You gotta make sueh Joe is at Lieb's at t'ree inna aftehnoon." "We was gonna go t'bawl game," protests Sally. "Awright," sighs Solly. "I'll tell Benny t'make it five inna aftehnoon. But BE T'EH! I don' caeh'r'if'it's extra innin's, be back at t' stoeh by five onna dot. Benny's one t'ese guys t'at's real p'ticuleh 'bout t' clock." "Awright," nods Sally. "Look, we betteh not leave heeh t'g'et'eh. Who knows who might be aroun'. People a' tawkin', y'know." "Tawkin'?" snorts Solly, chewing a Milk Dud. "'Bout what?" "Bout US," growls Sally. "You know, like we'eh --" With a deep guffaw, Solly coughs out his Milk Dud. "Oh, moideh," he laughs. "I mean, nut'n poissonal, Sal, but'cha -- I mean, y'ain' my type..." "Hmph," hmphs Sally, gathering her dignity. "I guess I ain't no --- Bink Scanlan, at t'at." "HEY!" bellows Solly. "SHAAADDAAAP!" echoes the sleeper...)

("Plenty of charm.")

(OK now, that fight I'd pay to see.)

("My crystal ball is REALLY dirty!!")

(Guess you'll just have to break it down. One -- two --)

(Very poor *** handling technique.)

(Yes, with all you've seen of this situation, this seems like the most reasonable course of action...)

("Every Week Is Be Kind To Animals Week.")

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

A "bird of passage?" How to say it without saying it.

Hey Bing, you can still get in on this Pirates deal.

Welcome to the treadmill, kid...

Hey kids, comics!

It is rather remarkable that someone born in 1921 can grow up in the world that we know, and have, in anno domini 1946, not a single cynical bone in their body.

A born politician.

There's still time to leave town and never look back.

On the other hand, a kid can grow up to be TOO cynical...

The Kuomintang strikes!

This is why you'll die single and alone.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Worker...

A championship fight is like a Thanksgiving turkey. Too many leftovers.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Bout US," growls Sally. "You know, like we'eh --" With a deep guffaw, Solly coughs out his Milk Dud. "Oh, moideh," he laughs. "I mean, nut'n poissonal, Sal, but'cha -- I mean, y'ain' my type..." "Hmph," hmphs Sally, gathering her dignity. "I guess I ain't no --- Bink Scanlan, at t'at."

Wonderful.

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OK now, that fight I'd pay to see.

Ma says early money is coming in heavy for O'Toole – he's got ten pounds and twenty-two years on Jacobs.

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Hey Bing, you can still get in on this Pirates deal.

Hold on long enough and all these teams became good investments because of TV, but usually, these types of setups are just a way for actors to separate themselves from their money for good.

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Welcome to the treadmill, kid...

True, but nothing teaches you the value of money more than having to earn it yourself.

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On the other hand, a kid can grow up to be TOO cynical...

Agreed.