The Era -- Day By Day

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Yep, common-law marriage actually has legal status in the state of New York. Isn't that right, Frank and Nora?

"Work hard, kids, and some day you too might be Miss Rheingold!" -- Jinx.

"Got any beer?" "NOW I KNOW who you are!"

"They're FAKES! LEAD FAKES!"

Because all famous financiers summer off the Swamp Road.

"Look, the school board pays me $900 a year, and I'm too frail for the WACs so let's just forget the whole thing."

Never bring a gun to a shoe fight.

Josie can't wait for television, she'll be a big hit on the wrestling circuit.

"Even worse, he gave her nylons!"

Movies on paper.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Augie Bergamo, Emil Verban, and Myron Hayworth. I can't wait till we see Sigmund Jacucki!

 

[Fading Fast]

"Heeh," offers Alice, scratching the match on the seat of her overalls. "Lemme help...."

Freakin' perfect.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Nooo, Oi don't need to buy a baaaathtoob!" snaps Ma, addressing a shifty-eyed man leaning over the counter as he sips an egg cream. "What makes ye think Oi need a baathtoob! We gaaaht woon roit upstarrs loike civilized people! Oov all th' bloody fool things to..." But her thought is interrupted as Jimmy Leary shoulders in, the screen door banging behind him. "Oi, James," greets Ma as he tosses the canvas bag on the counter. "C'moovar here, Oi gaaht a jaaahb far ye." She leads him over to the corner, out of earshot of the bathtub salesman. "Oi needjee t'do soom investaaaargatin' farr me," Ma continues, her voice a husky whisper. "Oi needjee t'goo doon t' Bensonharrst an'.." "Aw, Ma," protests Jimmy. "T'is ain' got nut'n t'do wit'tat daughteh'ra yehs, does it? She makes me noivous." "No, no, no," snaps Ma, "an' Oi doon'twan'chee should let'arr knoow yer even oovar thar! This is t'do with th' boy, with William. A gang'a hoodlums beat'im oop on th' street an' left'im farr dead!" "Some ot'eh mawb?" queries Jimmy. "Why t'ey goin' afteh'rim? We got no dealin's in Bensonharrst?" "How doo Oi know?" scowls Ma. "Maybe sooombaaahdy ye fatharr crossed. Looks t'me loike a waaaarnin'. Waaaar looky they didn't take th' paaar choild far ransoom! Oi wan'chee to goo doon tharr n'look aroound. Ask soom questions. See'f'yee'cn getta handle aaahn th' men what done it. Probl'y droov oop in a car, seef'anyboody roon' thar, roon 18th Avenarr near th' school, see'f anyboody seen any strange aaahtamoobiles. An' thin repaaaart back t'me. An' farrrgoodsake, doon say noothin' t'ye faathar, he's a jitterin' wreck enoof as it is. Whin ye foind oot what Oi want t'know, repaaart back an' Oi will figyarr oot what t'do next." "Uhh," demurs Jimmy, "I dunno, Ma, we'eh kin'a shawrt-handed right now. Pop wants me t'woik inna waehhouse t'is week, he says Danny's gotta special jawb." "Oi doon' care noon'far that," snaps Ma. "Do as Oi tell ye, aaahr..." "Awright, Ma," sighs Jimmy. "Oh," ohs Ma, as he heads off. "When ye get doon with that, Oi need'jee t'take doon that screen darrr!" "Yeah, Ma," exhales Jimmy, as he bangs out...)

("Good evening, friends of the Inner Sanctum!" purrs a sardonic voice to the loud creaking of a door. "Aw, toin'a station," commands Alice. "I do'wanna heeh t'is, I can' stan'nat moideh stuff an' ghosts an' vampiehs an'awlat junk!" "Awwwwwww, Ma," laments Willie, lying flat on his back on the parlor floor, his head against the side of the radio cabinet. "Siddy, toin'a station," pleads Alice. "Awwwwwww,' laments Krause, but he complies, twisting the dial back to 660, where a braying voice announces the start of "Truth or Consequences." "Awww, Ma," pleads Willie. "T'is is stupid! Toin it back!" "It ain' neit'eh stupid," argues Alice. "People do stupid stuff an'nit's FUNNY! It ain' stupid, is it Siddy?" "Yeh," declares Krause. "Awright, awright," concedes Alice, as Krause twists the dial down to 880, just in time to hear the sinister host go into a mocking spiel for tea bags. "T'is is stupideh," she growls. "Neh," chuckles Krause...)

(Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick...)

("I wouldn't worry, madam, this box is only half full...")

(THE BROOKLYN BROWNS! THE BROOKLYN BROWNS! THE BROOKLYN BROWNS! You know, it IS kinda catchy!)

The Dodgers season may be over, but out in Woodhaven the Bushwicks continue on, facing a team of barnstorming Major League All Stars at Dexter Park tomorrow in a doubleheader starting at 3pm. Dodger Eddie Stanky will start for the All Stars at second base, with Buddy Kerr of the Giants at shortstop. Former Dodger Bob Chipman, sent to the Cubs this year in the trade that brought Stanky to Brooklyn, will pitch for the All Stars.

(And all's well that -- uh -- ends.)

("You cow-face heel!")

(Chasing dopey millionaires? I had no idea Jane works for a tabloid.)

("Anyway, how 'bout my new invisible nightie?")

(AMERICA'S NUMBER ONE HERO DOG is not used to being a third wheel.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

Jeeezuz.

One month to go.

Atheists in foxholes.

"USHER!"

That's a mean thing to do those poor kitties.

Yep, small town life.

"Could be some other Skeezix? Nahhhh."

Besides, you know the kind of people who ride taxis.

No fool like an old fool.

And just like that, Shaky changed his name to One-Ear.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

And if you'd lilke to tune in today's game, it's right here:

GO BROWNS!

 

[Fading Fast]

"T'is ain' got nut'n t'do wit'tat daughteh'ra yehs, does it? She makes me noivous."

That's awesome.

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

A gang'a hoodlums beat'im oop on th' street an' left'im farr dead!"

What the heck, is she losing her mind or is it part of her plan?

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Yesseh," greets Mr. Moskowitz, as a strapping thick-chested man in a plaid sport coat steps up to his counter. "Howz'ya cawrn beef?" queries Jimmy Leary. "Same as every day," shrugs Mr. Moskowitz. "Gimme a cawrn beef san'wich," requests Jimmy, "an' -- ahhh -- one'a t'em half souehs." "Yesseh," nods Mr. Moskowtiz, stepping to the meat slicer. "Nice day," comments Jimmy as the glistening slices tumble onto the sheet of butcher paper across the deli man's palm. "Yeh," agrees Mr. Moskowitz. "Got some good rye bread today." Jimmy nods his assent, and Mr. Moskowitz, displaying skill borne of long experience, deftly assembles the sandwich. "Must'ed?" he queries. "Yeh," nods Jimmy. "Nawt too much -- yeh, t'at's right, t'at's enough." "Too bad 'bout t'em Browns, huh?" patters Mr. Moskowitz, as he slips the sandwich onto the plate, and with a pair of long tongs retrieves the requested pickle. "Eh," ehs Jimmy. "T'ey'll come back." "T'eh y'go," announces Mr. Moskowitz, sliding the plate across the counter, "t'oity five f't'san'wich, anna nickel f't'pickle, foehty cent." Jimmy nonchantly flips a half dollar across the counter, and with a ding of his cash register. Mr. Moskowitz slides a dime back. "Y'got a lotta people come by heeh?" asks Jimmy, scanning the small mid-afternoon clientele. "Eh," shrugs Mr. Moskowitz, "not s'much since t'wawr. But'cha manage." "I hoid t'eh was some rough stuff las' week," continues Jimmy, mouth full of corned beef. "I hoid some hoods out'eeh messed up some lit'l kid. Pulled guns on'im 'n evr'yting, like it was some kinda hit." Mr. Moskowtiz shrugs. "Nah," he dismisses. "I neveh see nut'n like t'at." "Lit'l kid 'bout seven yeehs ol' maybe, some ot'eh kids shove'im'aroun'. See a lotta t'at stuff wit' t'school jus' up t'stret t'eh, but I neveh see non'a t'at gangsteh stuff. Ain' like it was when I lived in Brownsville." "Mmm," nods Jimmy. "I getcha. Don' pay t'see too much, huh?" "Say, lissen," queries Mr. Moskowitz. "Wasn' you in'eeh befoeh?" "I neveh been in'eeh in me life," declares Jimmy, crunching into the pickle. "T'eh was a guy jus' t'is mawrnin' looked jus' like you," relates Mr. Moskowitz, "'cept'ee had on a brown suit." "Nope," denies Jimmy. "Not me." "Hmph," hmphs Mr. Moskowitz. "Coulda been ya twin brot'eh." Jimmy pauses, a trickle of brine creeping down his chin, and dismisses that possibility...)

Stating that the Roosevelt Administration has "precise plans to release men from the armed forces as soon as possible," U. S. Senator Robert F. Wagner last night denied Governor Thomas E. Dewey's assertion that the present government is "afraid" to discharge men from the Army. Addressing the annual convention of the Jewish War Veterans at the Hotel Commodore, the Democratic senator from New York called the Administration's discharge plans a "sacred responsibility" to return men to their homes and families, and promised those plans "would be carried out to the letter."

("How c'n'ney even tell any'a t'ese places heeh apawrt?" sighs Joe, dumping the contents of a Number 10 can into the tall aluminum pot already burbling atop the gasoline stove. "I mean, back home awlya gotta do is look aroun'' 'n take a sniff an' y'c'n tell wheh ya awr. Y'smell beeh, y'r in Bushwick. Y'smell pickles, y'r in Williamsboig. Y'smell bread, why, it's Pig--uh, Eas' Flatbush. T'at's weh me wife is from y'know, awwww, you come out'a t'at subway t'ehr'at Prospec' Pawrk, t'fois' t'ing y'smell is t'at bread bakin' fr'm t'Tip Top fact'ry..." "Ahhhh," dismisses the Corporal. "Yew dunno nuthin' 'bout bread. Ol' stouh bread, all wrapped up in papuh, t'at ain' nuthin' like home-bake bread like y'get down wheh Ah'm from. Heeh now, keep stirrin' thar, aaahr yuh'll be smellin' sumthin' yo' do'wannuh smell." "An'nen'nez Bensonhoist," sighs Joe, his eyes closed at the memory. "Sometimes when'na winds right, y'smell'a ocean, blowin' up t'eh f'rom Coney Islan'. On'y it ain' jus' t'ocean, t'ez awleeze ot'eh smells mixed in, y'know. You neveh smelt nut'n inya life like Coney Islan'." "Well," snickers the Corporal, taking a deep sniff, "if it smells annuhthin' like YEW..." Joe opens his eyes, the moment broken, and gazes forlornly into the burbling pot....)

SIx thousand mourners jammed St. Patrick's Cathedral as former Governor Al Smith, a poor boy who rose from the East Side slums under the shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge to run for President, was laid to rest following a solemn pontifical Mass of requiem. An estimated 25,000 persons, turned away from the Cathedral after the last seats were filled, lined the streets outside, and watched the outdoor religious procession that preceded the ceremony. More than 180,000 passed the bier as it lay in state at the Cathedral on Friday.

("Oh, no, y'can't tell ME t'eh ain' nut'n crooked goin' awn," fumes Sally, gazing up at Dr. Levine's ceiling. "I mean, how OL' is t'is guy Musial anyway? Twenny-t'ree maybe? Twenny foueh? An' yet he AIN' inna Awrmy! How'see playin' bawl an' Joe, a man t'oity-one yeehs ol', a married man wit' a lit'l goil yet, howcome JOE is oveh t'eh gawdknowsweh prawbly gett'n shot at six times a day f' sixty-six dollehs a mont'." "I don't see the connection," shrugs Dr. Levine, her pencil flying across her notebook. "Open yeh EYES," insists Sally. "Lookit AWLA t'em Cawrdn'ls! It ain' jus Musial. It's t'em Coopeh boys! It's t'at Kurowski! It's t'at Marion! It's t'at Litwhileh! It's'at Hopp! It's t'at Brecheen an'nat Lanier an AWLA t'em guys! Howcome AWLA t'em guys awna Cawrdn'ls is NOT inna Awrmy an' not just Joe, but, jeez, Reese, Reiseh, Higbe, Lavagetteh. T'ey even took t'at fat ol' man Billy Hoiman! But t'ey won' TOUCH t'em Cawrdn'ls! I'm tellin'ya, it's sump'n CROOKED goin' awn." "But what would any of that have to do with Joe," queries Dr. Levine. Sally pauses. "Well," she sighs, "don'cha t'ink when it don' LOOK like it's sump'n crooked goin' awn, don'nat mean it usually IS?" "And you're sure," sighs Dr. Levine, "you've been taking your medicine?" "Mostly," shrugs Sally. "Let's try for 'always,'" directs the Doctor.)

("Hmph." -- Gene Autry.)

(Not only that he didn't even have a blasting permit.)

(Welcome to Page Four, kid.)

(I mean, who would have even noticed another guy named Tom Wilson?)

(The racing game is truly ruthless.)

(And he had a mastiff named "Goering," but it ran away.)

(Pretty smug, aint'cha? Heard from your son lately?)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Can we please not call this a "snood murder?"

Hmph, I rode cross country on a bus. TWICE.

Awwwww.

Yeah, right. "Amnesia Drug." Sure. No wonder he's got the shakes.

C'mon, kid, anybody can multitask! And "Holy cats!" indeed!

You could have a lotta laughs with one of those things.

"It's OK, we get these planes wholesale."

Hey Walt, remember when you used to go to speakeasies?

Shorts? In October?


"First you tell me shoot, and then you tell me DON'T shoot? MAKE UP YOUR MIND!"

 

[Fading Fast]

Pretty smug, aint'cha? Heard from your son lately?

More importantly, just tell us this storyline if finally over.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("It's aaahl warrked oot," declares Uncle Frank. "It betteh be," fumes Alice. "Sal was awl oveh me t'day 'bout goin' down t'registeh t'vote! She wawnts we oughta go down'neh t'geteh! I begged off'v it t'night tellin'eh Siddy hadda col', an' I hadda make 'im soup. But I can't make soup ev'rynight, even if I don' MAKE no soup." "Oi told ye, it's ahhl waarked oot. When ye go in t'registarr, ye ask far Mrs. McGinnity, an' when ye go oop ye squint ye left oye an' scratch ye nose loike this. Thaat's th' soin. She'll fill oot 'charr papar an' give ye th' sarrrrtificate, an' ye'll be aaahn th' rolls." "Scratch me nose?" puzzles Alice. "Can't I jus' give'h me name?" "Mrs. McGinnity is eighty yaaars ooold," sighs Uncle Frank, "an' she's a moite haaaard a' hearrin'. Boot Oi knew harr late hoosband well, we did quoite a bit a' business t'getharr in th' oold days, an' she prahhmised me she'd do me this favarr far oold toimes sake. Ploos I hold a two thousand dollar noot harr hoosband left when he passed ahhn, aaand we've agreed to an -- ah -- arrangement in retarrn far this favarr." "Mrs. McGinnity," repeats Alice, her eyes rolled back in her head as she commits the name to memory." "Awright," Alice continues. "Now whattabout t'is ot'eh t'ing, t'ese kids t'at beat up Willie. Misteh Moskowitz ain' tol' me nut'n yet, he says he ain' seen'em kids again." "Oi had Danny ovar tharr yestarday marrnin'," nods Uncle Frank, "scootin' oot th' neighbarhood, boot until ye get us some descriptions..." "Oh," assures Alice, "I'll get'm. Don'choo worry none. Moskowitz pernts'em kids out t'me an' I see'm it'll be jus' like takin' a pitcheh." "All roit then," nods Uncle Frank. "An' t'marra," concludes Alice, "me n' Sal will go downeh an' ask f' Mrs. McGannehgal." "McGinnity," frowns Uncle Frank. "Oh yeh," sighs Alice...)

("Terrible, terrible t'ing," laments Sally, with a sip of her Coke. "Willkie was a good man, ev'n if he WAS a Republ'can. An' ain' it funny he dies NOW." "Oh, daaaughter," frowns Ma. "You an' ye suspicions." "I'm jus' sayin'," replies Sally. "Ain' it a coincidence he dies NOW, right b'foeh t' election? Don'at strike ya as p'culieh?" "Th' poor man was nivvar healthy," argues Ma. "R'membarr th' laast election, he was givin' that speech an'ee laaast'is voice? He's always had soomthin' gooin' wraaang." "Well, I dunno," scowls Sally. "I mean, I'm pretty good at spott'n stuff, I t'ink. If sump'ns goin' awn undeh my nose, y'don't t'ink I ain' gonna..." "Heeh y'go, Ma," greets Jimmy Leary, bustling in and tossing the canvas bag on the counter. Ma pulls him to the side. "Well?" she demands. "I got nut'n," shrugs Jimmy, "but lissen. T'is guy inna deli, t'is Moskowitz, he tol' me t'ed been anot'eh guy comin' aroun' askin' questions." "Thaaar noot givin' oop," frowns Ma. "Thaaar plannin' anoothar hit. Ye gaatta protect that boy, an' Oi doon't care how ye do it." "Moskowitz said t'guy looked jus' like me," adds Jimmy. "Which is funny, y'know? On'y guy I eveh hoida t'at looks jus' like me is Danny." "Ahhh, boosh," snaps Ma. "Tharr's a dooz'n boys coom by here evr'y day look jus' like you. Yarr a caaaahmon toipe." "Oh," shrugs Jimmy, a bit abashed. "Yeh," says Sally to no one in particular, "if t'ez anyt'ing goin' awn undeh my nose, I ain' gonna miss it!")

Mayor LaGuardia plans to campaign on behalf of the Roosevelt-Truman ticket if the appropriate arrangements can be made for him to do so, it was announced today by Democratic National Committee Headquarters. In the first intimation that the Mayor, a longtime supporter of the Preisdent, will officially join the campaign for a fourth term, Charles Olson of the Democratic Party publicity staff indicated that the Mayor will speak on behalf of the President in Chicago next Sunday, with further appearances planned if they can be arranged. It was also noted that arrangements will be made to pipe the Chicago speech to WNYC so that it may be broadcast in place of the Mayor's regular Sunday talk.

(That's a mean thing to do to a fine horse like Trigger. I bet he fires his press agent.)

The Eagle Editorialist laments the death of Wendell Willkie at the age of 52 as a serious loss to the nation, "for, it is in the difficult years ahead that Wendell Willkie should have been a tower of strength to his fellow citizens, regardless of party."

(Probably should cut back on the cigars, too.)

("Coopeh's a 4-F. I'm JUST SAYIN'!" -- Sally.)

(If we're about to turn this into a hard-boiled noir strip with Bill Biff as Philip Marlowe, then I for one am all in favor.)

(Well, your uncle is a talking horse. Maybe you could go on "We The People.")

(It pays to have connections.)

(Nahhhh, that would be terrible plotting, Mr. Stamm.)

(Hey Kitty, don't get out until you're sure you didn't drop your bankroll.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"Lt. Modeste B. Alloo."

Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick....

Hey Dunk, ever fly a plane?

"Teachers have no business interfering in the affairs of the home. It's right here in the script."

"All righty then. Get that monkey suit off and grab a scythe."

"They made that little twerp a sergeant? WHAT'S THIS WAR COMIN' TO!"

"No, I think she's over Bumley by now."

"Emptied them as fast as they was filled, I'd say." Emmy's still got it.

Guess who's daughter is back in town.

Hey, careful with that booze, doncha know there's a war on?

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

And as, somewhere in south-central Europe Joe and the Corporal lean over a sputtering shortwave radio in search of today's vital sixth game, you can join them, right here --

 

[Fading Fast]

Carole Landis' moon picture, in case you were wondering.

My favorite Carole Landis pic.

And let's note this very forward 1944 thinking:

 

[LizzieMaine]

I have often wished I could sit down with Miss Landis and convince her that Rex Harrison isnt anywhere near good enough for her.