The Era -- Day By Day

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News....

You'll never be Tommy Manville, kid, but it won't be for lack of trying.

Ever hear of going into shock? And why aren't we hearing more about the theatre manager's role in this?

"Thanks for the encouragement, sir."

What would Artie Shaw do in a situation like this?

Besides, reporting them to AFRA would be no fun at all.

It's nice to have lawyers on permanent retainer.

Keep your head down, kid.

War is Hell.

Why even have doors?

This is called "conservation of resources."

 

[LizzieMaine]

Oh, and...

Art for Art's Sake.

 

[Fading Fast]

("Boke!" declares Leonora, pointing with concern to the hole in the seat of the little wooden chair with the smiling panda decal across the back. "No, no," explains Joe. "It's f'sittin' in." "Boke!" insists Leonora. "No, no," repeats Joe. "Not broke. Look, jus' try it f' ya pop. Sit right down now." "Boke!" refuses Leonora. "Da sit." "I'm too big, honey," explains Joe. "Look, lemme 'splain." He points to the old gray enamelware dishpan full of ashes sitting in the corner of the kitchen. "See," he says. "When Stella hasta go, she sits oveh heeh, right?" "Stell' go," agrees Leonora." "So when Leonoreh needs t'go, she sits *heeh.* Y'see?" "Le'nora go!" she replies, and plops herself down in the dishpan. "No! No!" explodes Joe, lifting his daughter out of the ashes. "Lookit heeh," continues Joe, as he gingerly lowers himself into a squat over the little chair. There is a thumping knock at the door, and with a kick it swings open. "BRUNG YA ICE!" declares the beefy middle-aged man with the wet leather pad on his shoulder. He takes in the situation, and grins wide, allowing his cigar butt to drop to the floor. "Da go!" announces Leonora. "Don' worry bud," snickers the iceman as he wrestles the ice into the box. "You'll get t'hang'uv it.")
...

That's perfect. And it's one more reason to pony up after the war and buy a refrigerator as that means one less person coming regularly into your home.

...

Relief from the local potato shortage felt a new setback today with an announcement by the Office of Price Administration promising an increase in the ceiling price paid to Southern growers, leading to new uncertainty for the New York City market. An official order increasing the producer ceiling by 30 cents per hundredweight was to be signed today by Price Administrator Prentiss Brown, and Florida potato growers hastened to advance the price at which they sell their price to wholesalers. However, OPA regional price executive Donald Rich emphasized that the price increase has not yet been approved locally, and wholesale dealers in the metropolitan area indicated that it was "practically impossible" for them to buy southern potatoes at the present ceiling price. Local commission houses handling southern potatoes on a consignment basis were refusing to sell at any but the increased price, with potato shipments to the city falling off by nearly fifty percent
compared to the previous two days.
...

Can't they release the barber-shop spuds to help out or do they have to be held for evidence?

...Black market gasoline dealers in Nassau County, of which there are known to be several operating, expressed their support for Nassau police in taking that position.
...

Now hold on, are we to believe black-market gasoline dealers have some sort of official organization that makes pronouncement like this? The reporting / phrasing of this is questionable. Most black-market dealers in anything try to stay as incognito as possible and don't go around making public statements.

...

(And whatever you do, don't DRIVE to the racetrack!)
...

The reason that ad for Belmont is confusing and the reason people drive to the track, then and now, is that there is no good public transportation to Belmont. Once the words "connect with bus" are used, New Yorkers know that they will be schlepping up long, crowded flights of subway stairs to get to the street, then, trying to find the right bus stop (amongst several as it's a busy transportation hub and signage is terrible), then, waiting for the bus, then, hoping they get on the right one (as a confusing array of buses with all sorts of numbers will show up), and finally, going on a slow and circuitous bus trip through an odd in-city residential section until they hit a service road to the track. It's an awful experience that, then, has to be repeated in reverse after you've lost your money at the track, are cranky and just want to get home.

As a non-car-owning New Yorker, I have experienced this on my, umm, er, uh, few trips out to Belmont. The last couple of times my girlfriend and I went, we took a cab from the subway to the track to cut out the bus hell, but beyond the expense, the cab/Uber service in that section is, well, not great.

...


("T'at Kampahoozis was a bum two yeehs ago!" scoffs Sally as she and Alice ride the H&M thru the tunnel on the way home. "'Bout time t'ey got wise to 'im!" "Moitaugh?" sniffs Alice Dooley. "He c'n run, but'tat's about'it. B'sides, he's gonna get drafted." "You cawl Rickey yet?" inquires Sally. "I got a betteh idea," declares Alice. "Less go SEE 'im! In POISSON!" "I uset'a do t'at wit' MacPhail," says Sally. "But he had'dat McDonal' sitt'n out front, woul'n let me in." "McDonal' ain' aroun' no moeh," notes Alice. "How late y't'ink Rickey woiks," ponders Sally. "He's a ol' man, I bet he goes home oily." "We c'n fin' out wheah he lives," declares Alice. "Nut'n to it. An'nen...." "I do'wanna get arrested," demurs Sally. "I -- um -- had some trouble las' yeeah, strickly a misunnehstanin', y'know, but..." "You leave'at t'me," grins Alice. "It's inna bag.")
...

Oh Dear God.

And in the Daily News....

You'll never be Tommy Manville, kid, but it won't be for lack of trying.
...

Page Four is always at its best on days like these when it sticks to its knitting.

"It is apparent that further investigation is necessary." Understatement of the year entry.

"Midshipman's prostitute." Nice.

"...the pint-sized star's." Poor Mickey. That said, he had Ava Gardner when she was twenty years old, which tops all his box-office success, so maybe, not poor Mickey.

...

It's nice to have lawyers on permanent retainer.
...

If ever someone needed a lawyer on permanent retainer, Bim would be it.

 

[FOXTROT LAMONT]

Abundant mill grist for today I'll say but Mrs Randle's killing of that seventeen year old kid and wounding
her husband in acrimony, and that defense lawyer's harsh questioning of Ms O'Brien seated at witness stand
is overwhelming grist.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("What kin'a woil' is it," sighs Joe, "wheah y'got kids'll do sump'n like t'at? Whassitawl comin' to?" "I don't know, Joseph," shrugs Ma Sweeney, polishing the fountain spigots. "Oi wish I did." "How c'n ya bring up a lit'l goil inna woil' like t'is?" Joe laments. "When Sally was borrrn," Ma shrugs, "Oi thought th' same thing. It was a haaaard worrld then. It's still a haaard worrld now, an' oi imagine t'will always be a haaard worrld. Eighty yeaars fr'm now when you an' me are long gone, an' little Leonora's an olllld lady, it'll still be a haaard woorld. An' sad to say it, they'll likely for suure still be people ouuut t'make it eeev'n haaaarder. She'll have to foit, just as Sally's had to foit, an' I've had to foit. It's the naaature of the worrrld. Especially farr a wooman." Joe sighs, and gazes over at his daughter, fully absorbed in an ice cream cone and blissfully unaware of the world outside. "Ye jus' keep on as ye'goin', Joseph," Ma admonishies. "Ye'el know what to do. Ye never think ye will, but ye alllways do.")

(Should you wish to send Joe and Sally a Christmas card this year, the official address is 1762 63rd Street, Brooklyn 4, NY.)

(SECOND FRONT NOW!)

("If I *had* any stockings...")

Four youths under trial for vandalizing a synagogue could be tried for "partial destruction of a house of worship" under a motion under consideration by Magistrate John F. X. Masterson. Counsel for 16-year-old Salvatore Cangalosi, one of four boys charged with disorderly conduct in the breaking of windows at Oheb Zadek Synagogue, 988 Jefferson Avenue, argued at the close of a three-hour trial yesterday for the more severe charge, which, as a felony, is subject to much more severe standard of proof than the charge of disorderly conduct, which is a simple police offense. Investigations Commissioner WIlliam B. Herlands stated that he had selected the disorderly conduct charge in view of the age of the defendants, reducing the charge from the more serious police offense of malicious mischief. Commissioner Herlands stressed that he had no evidence that the vandalism was motivated by anti-Semitism. Magistrate Masterson reserved a decision on the legal point raised until June 16th.

("I been askin' aroun'," declares Alice Dooley, plopping down on the lunch bench, "an' I foun' out what we wanna know. Rickey lives out'n Queens, OK? Out neeah t' tennis field, right, out t' Fawrest Hills. I oughta have t' 'zack address by t'marra. Sunday'll be poifect -- Rickey's one'a t'ese r'ligious eggs, right? He neveh goes t'no bawlgames on Sunday. He'll be home an' we c'n jus' kin'a, you know, drawp in onnim." "I dropped in onnat Mrs. Mulvey one time," recalls Sally. "She gimme a cookie, but she din' do nut'n 'bout Petey. Said she's on'y got a 25 p'cent shaieh an' I should tawk t'MacPhail. Lotta good t'at eveh did." "Well, Rickey's t' head man now," insists Alice. "An'na two'vus, we c'n take caier'v'im!" "T'is guy Georgie Fallon," sneers Sally. "He was a yeeh behin' me at Erasmus. I remembehr'im. Strickly N. G." "See what I'm sayin'nen? If'at'sa bes' Rickey t'inks hec'n come up wit', he'd jump t'get Petey back! I got it awl woiked out. See, t'em Pittsboigs need pitchin'. We giv'm Higsby." Sally gapes at the audacity of such a proposition. "Whatcha lookin'at me like t'at fawr," frowns Alice. "Look, ya wanna do' t'is, y'gotta DO it. I been askin' aroun' about Higsby, an' I foun' out a whole lotta stuff. He's a drunk, f'one t'ing, awmos' as bad as Casey. An'ne runs aroun' on his wife wit' anybody'll have 'im. A bad influence! You t'ink a righteous r'ligious ol' man like Rickey wants a mug like t'at aroun'? Now Petey, he's whatchacawl wholesome. Got a wife an' a kid, an' is very upstandin'. T'kin'a guy you want aroun'. *T'ats* how weeah gonna sell it. Lookit heeh." Alice hands Sally a business card. "I had t'ese printed up." "Ladies Uplift League f'Brooklyn Basebawl," reads Sally. "A Undeh-Denominational Owrganization." "Pretty good, huh?" grins Alice. "I tell yeh, it's inna bag!")

The Bushwicks will have their hands full tomorrow when the Black Yankees, spoiling for revenge, storm into Dexter Park for a doubleheader. The Bushwicks swept the Blank Yanks in a twinbill a month ago, and have been playing outstanding ball since, with a nine-game winning streak now in progress. But only a crass optimist would project another sweep this weekend against one of the most formidable of Negro National League clubs.

Georgia Sothern, pal of Gypsy Rose Lee, who has appeared in supporting roles thruout the run of Star and Garter, has been elevated to additional duties in the popular Broadway burlesque revue. Miss Sothern will now be featured along with Miss Lee and Bobby Clark in sketches and numbers thruout the show.

(Impersonating a war worker! Isn't that a federal offense??)

(Not only does he gain Scarlet's invisibility powers, he will awaken tomorrow to find that he has a 21-inch waist.)

("I've been meaning to ask, Dan -- what's with that hokey cap?" "Oh. I've been meaning to tell you. Since they let me go as a Secret Operative, I had to take a day job driving a cab...")

(WORST! DAD! EVERRRRRRRRRRRRR!)

(It's a living!)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

SECOND degree??????? Disgusting, absolutely disgusting.

I think we have a consensus.

"Listen, George, how'd you like a job..."

*Three* unfortunate women? You're including Henrietta in this? Henrietta, who's been happily married to Tom Carr, a good and honest man, for more than a decade? You just won't let it go, willya Bimbo?

Settle down, sailor.

You're a long way from home, kid.

All right, now let's do something about it.

Come to think of it, the only "American kid" Terry has ever spent any time with at all since he came to China nine years ago is April Kane. Hey Cadet, whatever happened to her?

It's no wonder he's come so far in the world...

Goofy's an Idiot.

 

[Fading Fast]

("What kin'a woil' is it," sighs Joe, "wheah y'got kids'll do sump'n like t'at? Whassitawl comin' to?" "I don't know, Joseph," shrugs Ma Sweeney, polishing the fountain spigots. "Oi wish I did." "How c'n ya bring up a lit'l goil inna woil' like t'is?" Joe laments. "When Sally was borrrn," Ma shrugs, "Oi thought th' same thing. It was a haaaard worrld then. It's still a haaard worrld now, an' oi imagine t'will always be a haaard worrld. Eighty yeaars fr'm now when you an' me are long gone, an' little Leonora's an olllld lady, it'll still be a haaard woorld. An' sad to say it, they'll likely for suure still be people ouuut t'make it eeev'n haaaarder. She'll have to foit, just as Sally's had to foit, an' I've had to foit. It's the naaature of the worrrld. Especially farr a wooman." Joe sighs, and gazes over at his daughter, fully absorbed in an ice cream cone and blissfully unaware of the world outside. "Ye jus' keep on as ye'goin', Joseph," Ma admonishies. "Ye'el know what to do. Ye never think ye will, but ye alllways do.")
...

By necessity, women are taking on the jobs left unfilled as the men go off to war even, as we see today, in the usually male-dominated field of burglarizing homes. The work has got to get done, so it's good to see the women stepping up.

Errol Flynn, told of a new lawsuit, would have breathed a sigh of relief if he had immediately learned it was over a simple dental bill, but his manager decided, first, to have some fun with the star:

Errol: "She said my 'what' knocked her molar out!"
Manager: "Just kidding, Errol, it's nothing. It's over the dental bill for one of the young actresses we have under contract."
Errol: "Don't do that to me."

...

(SECOND FRONT NOW!)
...

A pretty darn-good assessment of what the next two years will bring.

...

("I been

askin' aroun'," declares Alice Dooley, plopping down on the lunch bench, "an' I foun' out what we wanna know. Rickey lives out'n Queens, OK? Out neeah t' tennis field, right, out t' Fawrest Hills. I oughta have t' 'zack address by t'marra. Sunday'll be poifect -- Rickey's one'a t'ese r'ligious eggs, right? He neveh goes t'no bawlgames on Sunday. He'll be home an' we c'n jus' kin'a, you know, drawp in onnim." "I dropped in onnat Mrs. Mulvey one time," recalls Sally. "She gimme a cookie, but she din' do nut'n 'bout Petey. Said she's on'y got a 25 p'cent shaieh an' I should tawk t'MacPhail. Lotta good t'at eveh did." "Well, Rickey's t' head man now," insists Alice. "An'na two'vus, we c'n take caier'v'im!" "T'is guy Georgie Fallon," sneers Sally. "He was a yeeh behin' me at Erasmus. I remembehr'im. Strickly N. G." "See what I'm sayin'nen? If'at'sa bes' Rickey t'inks hec'n come up wit', he'd jump t'get Petey back! I got it awl woiked out. See, t'em Pittsboigs need pitchin'. We giv'm Higsby." Sally gapes at the audacity of such a proposition. "Whatcha lookin'at me like t'at fawr," frowns Alice. "Look, ya wanna do' t'is, y'gotta DO it. I been askin' aroun' about Higsby, an' I foun' out a whole lotta stuff. He's a drunk, f'one t'ing, awmos' as bad as Casey. An'ne runs aroun' on his wife wit' anybody'll have 'im. A bad influence! You t'ink a righteous r'ligious ol' man like Rickey wants a mug like t'at aroun'? Now Petey, he's whatchacawl wholesome. Got a wife an' a kid, an' is very upstandin'. T'kin'a guy you want aroun'. *T'ats* how weeah gonna sell it. Lookit heeh." Alice hands Sally a business card. "I had t'ese printed up." "Ladies Uplift League f'Brooklyn Basebawl," reads Sally. "A Undeh-Denominational Owrganization." "Pretty good, huh?" grins Alice. "I tell yeh, it's inna bag!")
...

Alice is an absolute hoot. She's more insane than Sally. I cannot wait to watch this scheme play out and, then, to see Joe's reaction.

How crazy is it to see a horse that won the Derby and Preakness actually enter a race before the Derby and risk injury and losing his shot at the Triple Crown? It clearly was looked at differently back then.

...

(Not only does he gain Scarlet's invisibility powers, he will awaken tomorrow to find that he has a 21-inch waist.)
...

Is his uniform also invisible? You have to wonder if he, too, will be stuck in an invisible state especially with that damaged wrist.

And in the Daily News...

SECOND degree??????? Disgusting, absolutely disgusting.
...

What is up with the judge? He seemed to have an agenda to steer the verdict to that outcome, but why? It makes you sick. Eighty years ago and it makes you sick to your stomach today.

That taxicab story is confusing as heck. But we see time and again that they had some hero cab drivers back then.

...

"Listen, George, how'd you like a job..."
...

"Listen, George, how'd you like a my job..."

 

[FOXTROT LAMONT]

What is up with the judge? He seemed to have an agenda to steer the verdict to that outcome, but why? It makes you sick. Eighty years ago and it makes you sick to your stomach today.

I cannot accept this judge, this jury, and this verdict.
The only conclusion a decent jury could possibly have found is that Ms O'Brien was deliberately assaulted.
With its predicate conspiracy and the act itself of the most heinous sort the reasoned truth literally screams loud enough for justice to be served. And the trial judge throws erroneous remarks afterward so callously to be shamed.

 

[LizzieMaine]

I woke up this morning thinking about this trial, still in a state of horror over it, thinking about how I'd have reacted if it had happened to my daughter. Or to me.

Theresa O'Brien of the Bronx appears to have left no mark on history, but I can only hope she was able to know some closure. And I hope the perpetrators -- and the judge and the jury -- were haunted by this case for the rest of their lives.

 

[Fading Fast]

I woke up this morning thinking about this trial, still in a state of horror over it, thinking about how I'd have reacted if it had happened to my daughter. Or to me.

Theresa O'Brien of the Bronx appears to have left no mark on history, but I can only hope she was able to know some closure. And I hope the perpetrators -- and the judge and the jury -- were haunted by this case for the rest of their lives.

I had a similar experience waking up in the middle of the night (which happens multiple times every night for me) and being unable to go back to sleep thinking about this trial.

I finally calmed myself down by being somewhat thankful the six who were found guilty and the two who confessed will all do at least some meaningful jail time.

Did ten year sentences then work like they do today - (generalizing) out in 3.33 years on good behavior - or did the guilty usually serve most of their sentence? I think the latter, but I don't know that.

What I can't understand is the judge - reading a bit between the lines - as he seemed to steer it to the lighter sentence, but why?

I am 100% behind all the legal protections we give defendants, but I am also behind strong sentencing and high bars for parole, etc., not to be mean, but for justice for the victims and to protect potential future victims.

As you note, Lizzie, one can only hope Ms. O'Brien found a way, eventually, to have a happy life despite this.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Hey Sal, we otta..." calls Joe, as he shuffles into the kitchen after arising just before 11 AM. But there is no reply, aside from a sheet of tablet paper waiting for him on the table. "Whassis now?" he mutters. 'Deeh Joe, Took Leonoreh oveh to Ma's house while I had t'go run some errands. Didn' want to wake you. Meet you inna mawrble ro-tun-deh fawr t'bawlgame t'is aftehnoon. Alice Dooley f'm woik says she might come too. Love, Sal.'" Joe places the paper back on the table and ponders. "Ahhhhhh," he ahs, to an inquisitive Stella the Cat, who is sunning herself on the windowsill. "I know what t'is is awla 'bout. My boit'day is comin' an' she's out shawpin'fr'a pres'nt! Yeah! Well, I'm jus'gonneh not let on I s'spec' a thing. Be oueh secret, huh, Stel? You'n me! We won' let on we s'spect a THING!")

The renomination of Lt. Col. William O'Dwyer as the Democratic candidate for Kings County District Attorney appears a virtual certainty, as county Democratic leaders indicate their intention to defer formal action on their slate for the fall election until next month. O'Dwyer's first term as Brooklyn's chief prosecutor ends on December 31st, and while there appears little doubt that he will be nominated for a second term, the identity of his Republican opponent remains an open question. County Republican leader John R. Crews has given no hint of a potential GOP nominee other than to state that the party committee is "in no hurry" to settle that issue. O'Dwyer is permitted to run for reelection under Army regulations, but he is specifically forbidden to do any personal campaigning while on active military duty, and it is expected that county Democratic leader Frank Kelly and other local party leaders will conduct a proxy campaign on his behalf. It is noted that O'Dwyer must seek reelection in order to preserve pension rights he has built up over his long career in public service.

United States forces have all but exterminated the Japanese occupation forces on Attu, and it appears that an attack will soon be launched against Japanese positions at Kiska, lone remaining stronghold of enemy forces in the Aleutians. A Navy communique stated that a "rat trap" has been sprung against the Japanese, cutting the enemy into three relatively small groups in a tiny area on the northeastern end of the island, leaving the trapped forces no alternatives save surrender or death.

(Where DOES the time go?)

Anti-Nazi jokes whispered across Occupied Europe are keeping up morale as subjugated populations await the opening of a Second Front. Latest story monitored by the Office of War Information goes like this: A Berlin resident consults with his bank manager over how best to invest 1000 marks. "War loans," the manager advises. "After all, the Fuehrer guarantees the safety of your money." "But," questions the client, "the Fuehrer is mortal. What if he falls?" "Why then," assures the manager, "Reichsmarshal Goering will guarantee your loan." "But," notes the client, "Goering is a flying man. What if he has an accident?" "Well then," declares the manager, "the Nazi Party will guarantee your loan!" "But," points out the client, "if the army is defeated, the Party will also fall!" "True," acknowledges the manager. He leans close to the client and whispers, "Man! Wouldn't that be worth 1000 marks to you?!"

Old TImer John P. Pfalzgraf acknowledges that there were "no geniuses in the old 10th Ward," but they possessed "a lot of common sense and clear cut and sound judgement on the issues of life and the problems of the day." He further notes that they arrived at these positions because they engaged in very little mental speculation, instead forming their opinions after they "listened and observed, and applied what they had thus learned to their way of life."

The soldier who captured Sitting Bull, famed Sioux warrior, and who blew taps over the body of President Ulysses S. Grant, has died at the age of 82. Sergeant John Corrie lived at 3525 Perry Avenue in the Bronx. He served ten years in the active Army, and 47 years in the National Guard, seeing service on the Indian frontier in the Dakota Territory, and it was he who arrested Sitting Bull when the famous chieftain was attempting to escape from Dakota Territory by boat. In addition to bugling at President Grant's funeral, Sgt. Corrie stood for a year outside Grant's Tomb as head of the honor guard.

("Am I to understand your proposition, my dear ladies?" inquires Mr. W. Branch Rickey, as he stands in the parlor of his home at 34 Greenway South, Forest Hills, addressing two carefully-dressed women who have appeared unannounced at his door on a Sunday morning. "You propose that I should forthwith contact my good friend in Pittsburgh, Mr. Benswanger, my very dear friend, and suggest that we arrange for an exchange of contracts, whereby the Brooklyn club receives Mr. Coscarart in even exchange for Mr. Higbe." "Yeah, t'at's t'size'v it," nods Alice Dooley, gazing out from beneath the brim of a voluminous spring straw. "Excuse me," interrupts Mrs. Jane Rickey, proferring a tray. "Would you ladies care for something to drink?" "Schaefeh f'mine," nods Alice, breaking into a grin. "OW!" she interjects, as Sally, her face fixed in a tight smike, kicks her in the ankle. "Oh, my erreh, m'dam," Alice continues. "A lemonade, please, I neveh touch strawng drink." "It's like t'is, Misteh Rickey, sir," Sally explains. "See, you need a good secon' baseman, right? Well, look, Petey's t'best glove inna league. Nut'n gets by 'im, an'nat Glossop's a big stiff." "Ah," nods Mr. Rickey. "A salient point. Mr. Glossop's abilities in that direction are, as you say, not of the best. But I must, my dear lady, call your attention to the fact that last year, Mr. Coscarart committed a total of thirty-two errors. Thirty two errors, mind you. This does not suggest to me that..." "Yeh yeh yeh," interrupts Sally. "But lookit, he played mosta t'em games at shawrt, right? T'at ain' his natchr'l p'sition! But he made t'sacrifice b'cause t' Pittsboigs hadda trade Vaughan t'get 'im, anney awready had t'at Frankie Gustine t'play secon' anney had'n no cherce but t'put Petey at shawrt. T'at jus' shows yeh t'kina game guy he is, makin'at sacrifice f't'good of t'club! B'sides too, t'at infield in Pittsboig is like playin' in a vacant lot! Red Bawrbeh sez onna broadcast it's hawrd an' fulla pebbles an'awl! I ask ya!" "An' b'sides," emphasizes Alice, "t'at Higsby is whatcha cawl a moral re-probate! Didja know he goes out drinkin' ev'ry night afteh t'game? E'vry night when Petey's home wit' his sweet lit'l fam'ly get'n 'is rest, Higsby is out onna town havin' drinks in bawrs an' nightclubs an' bowlin' alleys, carryin' on wit' strip-teasehs an' tap dancehs an' whatcha cawl ya loose women of t'even'in! What kin'a zample's'at f't' lit'lchil'ren'a Brooklyn? T'ink'a awlem innehc'nt lit'l kids layin' onna sidewawlk on Bedf'd Aveneh t'eah, peekin' t'ru t'gate f'ra chance t'see t'eh heroes, lookin' up tw'a awrful mug like t'at." "Hm," nods Mr. Rickey. "You have given me much food for thought, my dear ladies, indeed, much food for cogitation. I shall give this matter my closest and most careful consideration. And now, I fear, I have other obligations to which I must attend, an afternoon church service you understand, and I must prepare my Bible lesson.." "Soitn'ly," nods Alice. "T'ank you f'yeh time, an' nice t'meetcha, Missis, t'at was a swell drink a' -- um -- whateveh t'at was." "Lemonade," hisses Sally. "Yeh, lemonade." "Very good ladies," smiles Mr. Rickey, hastening his guests to the door. "I look forward to your future attendance at Ebbets Field. Be sure and write to me at any time with future concerns. Good day to you now, good day." Mr. Rickey slowly closes the door behind the exiting pair, and pulls a handkerchief from his pocket. "Judas Priest," he mutters, mopping his brow. "St. Louis was never like this." "Well dear," replies Mrs. Rickey, draining her glass. "They did try to warn you.")

The mantle of Giant pitching legend Christy Mathewson has fallen this season upon the shoulders of star reliever Ace Adams -- not just figuratively, but literally. For if you gaze upon the bullpen at the Polo Grounds on a chilly spring afternoon you will find Mr. Adams bundled up in a moth-eaten old baseball coat that once belonged to Matty himself. The garment turned up recently, stored in an abandoned dressing room under what remains of the 8th Avenue L structure, and Ace took a liking to it. Only recently, however, did he happen to take a look at the label sewn in the collar, which bore, in faded India ink, the name "C. Mathewson." The passing of the old sweater carries more than symbolic weight, for last season Ace broke Matty's old National League record for games pitched in a season of 56, setting a new mark of 61.

("His knowledge of four letter words is strictly outstanding.")

(Gyps has the only ulcer on Broadway with a rhinestone in it.)

(Hey Red, ever hear of bovine spongiform encephalopathy?)

(And that's how Fat Hermann stays fat.)

(Sorry, I never let myself be hypnotized by strange men in zoot suits in the park.)

(Besides, you're gonna get sunburned. And Mr. Rickey should note that Brooklyn fans aren't so bad after all.)

(C'mon everybody! CHIRK UP!)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Maybe you need a better neurologist.

Eighty years from now, Mr. Hill's pages will stand as a permanent and reliable document of what homefront life was really like.

Oh come on, it CAN'T be this easy.

MARSCH! Those Linguaphone records were a good investment.

"I say, Pigears!" C'mon Willie, you been hanging around Plushie too long.

"Whew, I thought he'd never get here!"

Good thing water's not rationed!

Some people just never quite get the hang of playing grownup.

Pat, you TIGHTPANTS SAILOR!

"Good morning, I'm your local friendly Philco dealer."

 

[Fading Fast]

("Hey Sal, we otta..." calls Joe, as he shuffles into the kitchen after arising just before 11 AM. But there is no reply, aside from a sheet of tablet paper waiting for him on the table. "Whassis now?" he mutters. 'Deeh Joe, Took Leonoreh oveh to Ma's house while I had t'go run some errands. Didn' want to wake you. Meet you inna mawrble ro-tun-deh fawr t'bawlgame t'is aftehnoon. Alice Dooley f'm woik says she might come too. Love, Sal.'" Joe places the paper back on the table and ponders. "Ahhhhhh," he ahs, to an inquisitive Stella the Cat, who is sunning herself on the windowsill. "I know what t'is is awla 'bout. My boit'day is comin' an' she's out shawpin'fr'a pres'nt! Yeah! Well, I'm jus'gonneh not let on I s'spec' a thing. Be oueh secret, huh, Stel? You'n me! We won' let on we s'spect a THING!")
...

Poor, kind, innocent, unsuspecting Joe. Hope he has some bail money with him. [Having now read about Alice and Sally's "meeting" with Mr. Rickey, it appears Joe won't need the bail money...this time.]

...

(Where DOES the time go?)
...

To this day, it is still an incredibly impressive structure. Walking it, which you can do, is an experience I'd recommend to visitors as the views are incredible (the walking path is above the roadway and subway line), plus you really "feel" the bridge and realize how amazing it is that it could have been built to open in 1883.

...

("Am I to understand your proposition, my dear ladies?" inquires Mr. W. Branch Rickey, as he stands in the parlor of his home at 34 Greenway South, Forest Hills, addressing two carefully-dressed women who have appeared unannounced at his door on a Sunday morning. "You propose that I should forthwith contact my good friend in Pittsburgh, Mr. Benswanger, my very dear friend, and suggest that we arrange for an exchange of contracts, whereby the Brooklyn club receives Mr. Coscarart in even exchange for Mr. Higbe." "Yeah, t'at's t'size'v it," nods Alice Dooley, gazing out from beneath the brim of a voluminous spring straw. "Excuse me," interrupts Mrs. Jane Rickey, proferring a tray. "Would you ladies care for something to drink?" "Schaefeh f'mine," nods Alice, breaking into a grin. "OW!" she interjects, as Sally, her face fixed in a tight smike, kicks her in the ankle. "Oh, my erreh, m'dam," Alice continues. "A lemonade, please, I neveh touch strawng drink." "It's like t'is, Misteh Rickey, sir," Sally explains. "See, you need a good secon' baseman, right? Well, look, Petey's t'best glove inna league. Nut'n gets by 'im, an'nat Glossop's a big stiff." "Ah," nods Mr. Rickey. "A salient point. Mr. Glossop's abilities in that direction are, as you say, not of the best. But I must, my dear lady, call your attention to the fact that last year, Mr. Coscarart committed a total of thirty-two errors. Thirty two errors, mind you. This does not suggest to me that..." "Yeh yeh yeh," interrupts Sally. "But lookit, he played mosta t'em games at shawrt, right? T'at ain' his natchr'l p'sition! But he made t'sacrifice b'cause t' Pittsboigs hadda trade Vaughan t'get 'im, anney awready had t'at Frankie Gustine t'play secon' anney had'n no cherce but t'put Petey at shawrt. T'at jus' shows yeh t'kina game guy he is, makin'at sacrifice f't'good of t'club! B'sides too, t'at infield in Pittsboig is like playin' in a vacant lot! Red Bawrbeh sez onna broadcast it's hawrd an' fulla pebbles an'awl! I ask ya!" "An' b'sides," emphasizes Alice, "t'at Higsby is whatcha cawl a moral re-probate! Didja know he goes out drinkin' ev'ry night afteh t'game? E'vry night when Petey's home wit' his sweet lit'l fam'ly get'n 'is rest, Higsby is out onna town havin' drinks in bawrs an' nightclubs an' bowlin' alleys, carryin' on wit' strip-teasehs an' tap dancehs an' whatcha cawl ya loose women of t'even'in! What kin'a zample's'at f't' lit'lchil'ren'a Brooklyn? T'ink'a awlem innehc'nt lit'l kids layin' onna sidewawlk on Bedf'd Aveneh t'eah, peekin' t'ru t'gate f'ra chance t'see t'eh heroes, lookin' up tw'a awrful mug like t'at." "Hm," nods Mr. Rickey. "You have given me much food for thought, my dear ladies, indeed, much food for cogitation. I shall give this matter my closest and most careful consideration. And now, I fear, I have other obligations to which I must attend, an afternoon church service you understand, and I must prepare my Bible lesson.." "Soitn'ly," nods Alice. "T'ank you f'yeh time, an' nice t'meetcha, Missis, t'at was a swell drink a' -- um -- whateveh t'at was." "Lemonade," hisses Sally. "Yeh, lemonade." "Very good ladies," smiles Mr. Rickey, hastening his guests to the door. "I look forward to your future attendance at Ebbets Field. Be sure and write to me at any time with future concerns. Good day to you now, good day." Mr. Rickey slowly closes the door behind the exiting pair, and pulls a handkerchief from his pocket. "Judas Priest," he mutters, mopping his brow. "St. Louis was never like this." "Well dear," replies Mrs. Rickey, draining her glass. "They did try to warn you.")
...

"Schaefeh f'mine," nods Alice, breaking into a grin. "OW!" she interjects, as Sally, her face fixed in a tight smike, kicks her in the ankle. "

B'sides too, t'at infield in Pittsboig is like playin' in a vacant lot! Red Bawrbeh sez onna broadcast it's hawrd an' fulla pebbles an'awl! I ask ya!" "An' b'sides," emphasizes Alice, "t'at Higsby is whatcha cawl a moral re-probate! Didja know he goes out drinkin' ev'ry night afteh t'game? E'vry night when Petey's home wit' his sweet lit'l fam'ly get'n 'is rest, Higsby is out onna town havin' drinks in bawrs an' nightclubs an' bowlin' alleys, carryin' on wit' strip-teasehs an' tap dancehs an' whatcha cawl ya loose women of t'even'in! What kin'a zample's'at f't' lit'lchil'ren'a Brooklyn?

"Soitn'ly," nods Alice. "T'ank you f'yeh time, an' nice t'meetcha, Missis, t'at was a swell drink a' -- um -- whateveh t'at was." "Lemonade," hisses Sally. "Yeh, lemonade."

"Judas Priest," he mutters, mopping his brow.

Fantastic, Lizzie, freakin' hilarious.

...

(Besides, you're gonna get sunburned. And Mr. Rickey should note that Brooklyn fans aren't so bad after all.)
...

"Fritzi Ritz" just used the same one joke "Harold Teen" used for about six-straight months of Sunday strips, except "Harold's" was set at a beach, not on a farm.

...

MARSCH! Those Linguaphone records were a good investment.
...

"There - that's that! Now, what next, Commander?"

She's awesome. Stone cold, but awesome.

...

"Whew, I thought he'd never get here!"
...

It's always awkward when your presumed-dead first wife shows up by proxy at your second wedding.

...

Pat, you TIGHTPANTS SAILOR!
...

There's more than one way to interpret the one-visitor rule and knowing Caniff, he knows that too.

 

[FOXTROT LAMONT]

Perhaps Taffy will have lasting memory loss.

Miss Ann Southern is casting a spell over me like Greer Garson in Mrs Miniver.
Maybe this is just me but the starlets back then outshine today's lot by considerable means.

 

[Farace]

The reason that ad for Belmont is confusing and the reason people drive to the track, then and now, is that there is no good public transportation to Belmont. Once the words "connect with bus" are used, New Yorkers know that they will be schlepping up long, crowded flights of subway stairs to get to the street, then, trying to find the right bus stop (amongst several as it's a busy transportation hub and signage is terrible), then, waiting for the bus, then, hoping they get on the right one (as a confusing array of buses with all sorts of numbers will show up), and finally, going on a slow and circuitous bus trip through an odd in-city residential section until they hit a service road to the track. It's an awful experience that, then, has to be repeated in reverse after you've lost your money at the track, are cranky and just want to get home.

As a non-car-owning New Yorker, I have experienced this on my, umm, er, uh, few trips out to Belmont. The last couple of times my girlfriend and I went, we took a cab from the subway to the track to cut out the bus hell, but beyond the expense, the cab/Uber service in that section is, well, not great.

Of tangential interest, perhaps, the trolley museum at which I volunteer has in its collection the Mineola, August Belmont’s private subway car, which during his lifetime was stationed at his private subway stop under the Belmont Hotel. He had an arrangement with the Long Island Railroad that allowed him to take his friends in the Mineola out on the LIRR tracks to the Belmont Raceway. After his death, the car apparently deteriorated in a New Jersey field for many years before being acquired by the museum. Another operator led me to see it one day, which involves entering a car barn normally not open (I was happy to find that my key works that lock!), squeezing between other project cars, up a ladder and across a precarious plank into the vestibule. Even in its dilapidated condition, the elegance inside is apparent and impressive. Work is occasionally done on it; it’s a back-burner project with more pressing work taking precedence, but the hope is that it will eventually be a static display open to the public.

One article about the Mineola:

Tracking Down August Belmont Jr.'s Private NYC Subway Car, The Mineola - Untapped New York

August Belmont Jr., financier for the first subway line in NYC, once had an opulent private train car. It survives at the Shoreline Trolley Museum in Connecticut

untappedcities.com

 

[Fading Fast]

Of tangential interest, perhaps, the trolley museum at which I volunteer has in its collection the Mineola, August Belmont’s private subway car, which during his lifetime was stationed at his private subway stop under the Belmont Hotel. He had an arrangement with the Long Island Railroad that allowed him to take his friends in the Mineola out on the LIRR tracks to the Belmont Raceway. After his death, the car apparently deteriorated in a New Jersey field for many years before being acquired by the museum. Another operator led me to see it one day, which involves entering a car barn normally not open (I was happy to find that my key works that lock!), squeezing between other project cars, up a ladder and across a precarious plank into the vestibule. Even in its dilapidated condition, the elegance inside is apparent and impressive. Work is occasionally done on it; it’s a back-burner project with more pressing work taking precedence, but the hope is that it will eventually be a static display open to the public.

One article about the Mineola:

http://[URL]https://untappedcities....mont-jr-s-private-nyc-subway-car-the-mineola/

[/URL]

That's a great story, I'm glad you had that experience. I was vaguely familiar with the Belmont story, but learned a lot from your comments and the article. Thank you.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Aw," sighs Joe, leaning over the fountain counter with the paper spread before him, "I hate t'see Soden mixed up innat mess. I awrways t'ought he was a right guy, y'know. Awrways takin'nem kids, t'em awrph'ns, y'know, t'bawlgames an' awlat. Awrways figgehed he was a stan'-up guy." "Ahhhh, Joseph," declares Ma, "'tis th' way o' the warrrld, it is. Always we got two faces -- the one we show ta the waaaarld, an' the one we show in proivate. An' sometimes...well, as ye say, it's very sad, it is." "Heh," chuckles Joe, "speakin' a basebawl -- t'at Alice Dooley is a real characteh. She come wit' us t' Ebbets Feel yestehday, an' she was runnin'eh mout' all t'rough bot' games. Heh! Even Sal couldn' get in a woid! Hey -- even HILDA leaned oveh an' told'eh t'clam up! Hah!!!" "Is that so?" queries Ma, an eyebrow rising ever so slightly. "Aaand what exactly did Alice Dooley have to say?" "Aw, she an' Sal kept tawkin' bout'tat Coscawrat, y'know? Eveh since Sal bumped into'im onna subway t'at time, it's awlya heah about, an' it looks like t'is Alice is right in on it too. T'ey oughta fawrm a fan club. Annen she stawrts goin' on about Koiby Higsby f'some reason, y'know, says he's one'a t'ese lushes, right? Says he runs aroun' nightclubs an' carries on like he was t'second comin'a Van Lingle Mungo'a sump'n. No wondeh he ain' pitchin' so hawt." "Ahhh, baseball players, now there's a class o' men ye best be wary of," declares Ma. "I've haad dealin's with baaseball players. Baack when I was warrkin' here for Mr. Lieb, why, ever so many of those boys used to come in here. Baaabe Harrrman, Sloppy Thurrrston, Jumbo Elliot, Haaack Wilson, oh he was trouble, that one, heh! heh! Why there was this one time -- ahh, never moind that." "C'mon," urges Joe. "Tella story!" "Ahhhh, it's just that those boys --ah -- loooved me egg creams, thaat's all. Every aaafternoon after the game they'd come in, one by one, t'haave a drink -- an egg cream, you see -- an' that Haaack Wilson, why, he'd get me to fill up this big bottle with egg cream so he could enjoy it at home. Ahhh, he loved me egg creams, he did." "Y'make a pretty good egg cream at t'at," acknowledges Joe. "I do," asserts Ma. "Couldn't be betteh if it was right off t'boat." "What?" "Nut'n.")

The Atlantic City-New York Express was exceeding its authorized speed last night when it derailed near Delair, New Jersey, killing fourteen persons and injuring 91. It was announced by Pennsylvania Raliroad Eastern Region General Manger W. C. Higgenbottom that a preliminary report on the accident has concluded that the train was exceeding the 15 miles-per-hour speed limit for the 14 degree curve where the derailment occurred. "Early checks show that the equipment and the rails were in good condition," stated Higgenbottom, "but definite indications are that the train was moving faster than the authorized speed when the derailment occurred." The engineer, 48-year-old C. P. Pittlock of Lambertville, New Jersey suffered minor forehead lacerations when the locomotive and the first seven cars of the fifteen-car express carrying 1281 homeward-bound weekend travelers en route to New York went off the tracks and piled up as the train was turning toward Trenton.

The War Labor Board will consider a request by northern and southern soft coal operators for a new public hearing on a wage dispute with John L. Lewis's United Mine Workers. Operators, acting jointly, told the board in a telegram that they did not feel a report on the dispute submitted by a WLB committee fully covered their side of the argument.

Rubber workers at the Goodyear Tire and Rubber Company plant in Akron, Ohio today joined workers at two other factories in a strike by members of the United Rubber Workers CIO, bringing to 38,000 the number of rubber workers participating in mass walkouts over the question of wage increases. The National Labor Board recently granted workers at the Goodyear, Firestone, and Goodrich companies a wage increase of three cents per hour. The union had requested an 8 cent raise. The workers have defied a national War Labor Board order that they return to work at once. Officials of the union locals are conferring today in Washington with CIO President Phillip Murray.

A staunch critic of Mayor LaGuardia today made public a letter in which he recommended the Mayor take time off from raiding barber shops to do something about burglaries in the Brooklyn Hill section. Aaron H. Eastman, whose one-man crusade against burglaries and robberies in that neighborhood has vexed the Mayor for some weeks, wrote another letter to Police Commissioner Lewis J. Valentine listing recent incidents which, he maintains, have received insufficient attention from the authorities. Among the burglaries listed was another break-in at the Byrne Brothers grocery store, 13 Putnam Avenue, where quantities of coffee and bacon were stolen in a burglary earlier this month. This time, noted Eastman, the burglars, unable to penetrate a new lock on the door, simply dismantled the door itself and carried it away with them. "When your big boss gets thru making headlines by raiding barber shops," said Eastman in his letter to the Commissioner, "why not get him to go around to Byrne Brothers store, and tell the Brooklyn Eagle in advance. I am sure photographs will be taken and the Mayor will get a good writeup."

(Nothing strange about having a microphone at the dinner table. "PASS THE GRAVY!")

(Today I Learned: Louella Parsons knew Bat Masterson "very well." I bet Wyatt Earp was jealous!)

Reader Augustine C. Morris writes into make the annual complaint about "semi-nude majorettes" prancing in the streets during the upcoming Memorial Day parades. "They are only interested in attracting the attention of the crowd with their gyrations. Memorial Day is a day of reverence, not revelry."

(KIDS TODAY)

("It's awl goin' jus' like I planned," declares Alice Dooley, dismissing Sally's skeptical conclusions concerning yesterday's expedition. "See, you tried awlat direct approach stuff, right? Wit'awlem phone cawls an' lettehs an' awl.." "Telegrams too," notes Sally. "Huh?" replies Alice. "I had a coupla telegrams inneah too." "Oh yeh. Well, ya seen f'yaself t'at din' woik. It didn' woik wit' MacPhail, an' it soitenly ain' gonna woik wit' Rickey. See, he's one'a t'ese guys t'inks he's one steppahedda ev'ybody else. So he ain' neveh gonna s'spec' t'at a coupla dames is one steppahedda HIM! See, what we done yes'tday is we plan'ned t'seed. Ev'y time f'm now awn he looks at Higsby he's gonna t'ink of what we tol' im, y'see?" "But t'at don' help us none wit' Petey," protests Sally. "Well," declares Alice, "t'at's t'nex' pawrt've it, see? We gotta get t' HIGSBY, an' make him WANNA go t'Pittsboig! An'nen Rickey will t'ink, well, it's a oppehtunity drawpin right in me lap!" "But how.." "You leev't'at t'me. Las night afteh t'bawlgame, I wen' out on whatcha cawl a fac'findin' exposition. I wen' oveh t'eah t' Fitz's bowlin' alley, right? I figure t'em boys aroun'eah might know sump'n bout t'playehs, right? An' I foun' out Higsby likes to hang out at t'is jernt in Pawrk Slope, t' Ol' Reliable. An' so I t'ought I might drawp inneah meself one night, an' y'know, sawrta strike up an --acquaintance. Y'know?" Sally frowns. "You really t'ink t'at'sa good ideeah?" "Trus' me, sisteh!" grins Alice. "It's inna bag!")

(Tom's such a four-flusher. Where's he gonna get a beefsteak dinner?)

("Don't worry folks," declares Mr. Stamm. "It's all gonna tie together in the end!")

("HMPH!" sneers Irwin. "I'DA SPOTTED THAT RIGHT OFF!")

(AMERICA'S NUMBER ONE HERO DOG NEVER ABANDONS A FRIEND EVEN IF IT'S TRIX)

(Theory: when "The Bungles" went away last year, George actually died -- and what we see now is the hellscape of his long life of regrets. Always wanted more kids, didya? WELL WE CAN FIX THAT!)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News....

As far as long-running marital drama goes, I have to say I'm long past caring about the Dempsey-Williams imbroglio. I guess I was just spoiled by John Barrymore and Elaine Barrie. THOSE WERE THE DAYS.

Miss Gilbert is actually one of the featured performers in "Star and Garter, " doing a bit where she dances en pointe wearing toe-shoes with ball bearings fitted into the end, allowing her to spin at high speed like a top. YEAH THAT'S RIGHT THERE'S BALLET IN IT TOO YOU KNOW.

"Don't look so disappointed though, I don't remember that other guy with the whiskers either."

It's times like this you really miss having Punjab around.

I'll forgive Gould a lot if the porter goes up there himself and wrestles 88 to the death.

"This is Green-Wood Cemetery, ma'am."

"We're just transportation. You'll have to talk to logistics."

Finnan haddie? Smoked haddock broiled in milk? MY ALL TIME FAVORITE FISH DISH? No, I don't see the similarity at all.

SECOND FRONT NOW!

I'm transfixed by the baby in panel three. He can't get his Castoria anymore, and he's desperate to try ANYTHING.

 

[LizzieMaine]

Oh, and...

Time out for some exceptional sports photography. What the News does, it does very very well.

 

[Fading Fast]

("Aw," sighs Joe, leaning over the fountain counter with the paper spread before him, "I hate t'see Soden mixed up innat mess. I awrways t'ought he was a right guy, y'know. Awrways takin'nem kids, t'em awrph'ns, y'know, t'bawlgames an' awlat. Awrways figgehed he was a stan'-up guy." "Ahhhh, Joseph," declares Ma, "'tis th' way o' the warrrld, it is. Always we got two faces -- the one we show ta the waaaarld, an' the one we show in proivate. An' sometimes...well, as ye say, it's very sad, it is." "Heh," chuckles Joe, "speakin' a basebawl -- t'at Alice Dooley is a real characteh. She come wit' us t' Ebbets Feel yestehday, an' she was runnin'eh mout' all t'rough bot' games. Heh! Even Sal couldn' get in a woid! Hey -- even HILDA leaned oveh an' told'eh t'clam up! Hah!!!" "Is that so?" queries Ma, an eyebrow rising ever so slightly. "Aaand what exactly did Alice Dooley have to say?" "Aw, she an' Sal kept tawkin' bout'tat Coscawrat, y'know? Eveh since Sal bumped into'im onna subway t'at time, it's awlya heah about, an' it looks like t'is Alice is right in on it too. T'ey oughta fawrm a fan club. Annen she stawrts goin' on about Koiby Higsby f'some reason, y'know, says he's one'a t'ese lushes, right? Says he runs aroun' nightclubs an' carries on like he was t'second comin'a Van Lingle Mungo'a sump'n. No wondeh he ain' pitchin' so hawt." "Ahhh, baseball players, now there's a class o' men ye best be wary of," declares Ma. "I've haad dealin's with baaseball players. Baack when I was warrkin' here for Mr. Lieb, why, ever so many of those boys used to come in here. Baaabe Harrrman, Sloppy Thurrrston, Jumbo Elliot, Haaack Wilson, oh he was trouble, that one, heh! heh! Why there was this one time -- ahh, never moind that." "C'mon," urges Joe. "Tella story!" "Ahhhh, it's just that those boys --ah -- loooved me egg creams, thaat's all. Every aaafternoon after the game they'd come in, one by one, t'haave a drink -- an egg cream, you see -- an' that Haaack Wilson, why, he'd get me to fill up this big bottle with egg cream so he could enjoy it at home. Ahhh, he loved me egg creams, he did." "Y'make a pretty good egg cream at t'at," acknowledges Joe. "I do," asserts Ma. "Couldn't be betteh if it was right off t'boat." "What?" "Nut'n.")
...

Poor Mo Friedman, he's so frustrated he's not even putting up a defense as all he wants to do is earn a living.
Maybe he should buy a, oh, I don't know, candy store or something as it's not safe to make book out in the open anymore.

... This time, noted Eastman, the burglars, unable to penetrate a new lock on the door, simply dismantled the door itself and carried it away with them. ...

You do have to admire their ingenuity and "can do" spirit.

..."When your big boss gets thru making headlines by raiding barber shops," said Eastman in his letter to the Commissioner, "why not get him to go around to Byrne Brothers store, and tell the Brooklyn Eagle in advance. I am sure photographs will be taken and the Mayor will get a good writeup."
...

He's not wrong.

...

Reader Augustine C. Morris writes into make the annual complaint about "semi-nude majorettes" prancing in the streets during the upcoming Memorial Day parades. "They are only interested in attracting the attention of the crowd with their gyrations. Memorial Day is a day of reverence, not revelry."
...

Augustine C. Morris would really not like 2023's culture.

...

(KIDS TODAY)
...

I though you were going to use "War is hell" here.

...


("It's awl goin' jus' like I planned," declares Alice Dooley, dismissing Sally's skeptical conclusions concerning yesterday's expedition. "See, you tried awlat direct approach stuff, right? Wit'awlem phone cawls an' lettehs an' awl.." "Telegrams too," notes Sally. "Huh?" replies Alice. "I had a coupla telegrams inneah too." "Oh yeh. Well, ya seen f'yaself t'at din' woik. It didn' woik wit' MacPhail, an' it soitenly ain' gonna woik wit' Rickey. See, he's one'a t'ese guys t'inks he's one steppahedda ev'ybody else. So he ain' neveh gonna s'spec' t'at a coupla dames is one steppahedda HIM! See, what we done yes'tday is we plan'ned t'seed. Ev'y time f'm now awn he looks at Higsby he's gonna t'ink of what we tol' im, y'see?" "But t'at don' help us none wit' Petey," protests Sally. "Well," declares Alice, "t'at's t'nex' pawrt've it, see? We gotta get t' HIGSBY, an' make him WANNA go t'Pittsboig! An'nen Rickey will t'ink, well, it's a oppehtunity drawpin right in me lap!" "But how.." "You leev't'at t'me. Las night afteh t'bawlgame, I wen' out on whatcha cawl a fac'findin' exposition. I wen' oveh t'eah t' Fitz's bowlin' alley, right? I figure t'em boys aroun'eah might know sump'n bout t'playehs, right? An' I foun' out Higsby likes to hang out at t'is jernt in Pawrk Slope, t' Ol' Reliable. An' so I t'ought I might drawp inneah meself one night, an' y'know, sawrta strike up an --acquaintance. Y'know?" Sally frowns. "You really t'ink t'at'sa good ideeah?" "Trus' me, sisteh!" grins Alice. "It's inna bag!")
...

You know Alice is really out there when Sally is the one trying to rein her in on her plans to get "Petey" back to Brooklyn. I see jail and bail in both their futures with Joe scrambling to raise money and Ma quietly working the phones to get the charges dropped.

...

(Theory: when "The Bungles" went away last year, George actually died -- and what we see now is the hellscape of his long life of regrets. Always wanted more kids, didya? WELL WE CAN FIX THAT!)

While it's much better than that awful "Hugh Striver," this reboot has yet to find its groove.

...

I'll forgive Gould a lot if the porter goes up there himself and wrestles 88 to the death.
...

Gould has all but no sense of scale, but even so, the illustrations the past few days have been fantastic. You can see early Pop Art in them.

However it exactly happens, in the end, I picture 88's body smashing through the glass roof.

...

SECOND FRONT NOW!
...

This is Goofy we are talking about; singlehandedly, he should slow the Allied victory down by six months. The only hope is that he fails his physical.