The Era -- Day By Day

[LizzieMaine]

Yeah, well, they're lucky Mary Mandernach isn't their mother.

"Look, can we just wrap this up? The strike's over and I've got records to make!"

"Oh, come now Walt! Surely you didn't think ALL babies were left in baskets on doorsteps!"

And the funny thing is she looks nothing like Elaine Barrie.

"And now, for the troussseau..." HOLD IT RIGHT THERE.

And you didn't think Mr. Gray was capable of self-parody.

"Well, we BETTER find her. Custom-tailored uniforms cost money!"

Well this is taking a grim twist.

That's what you get for moving to Great Neck.

Priorities are priorities.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And finally...

Oh, nothing so crude.

 

[Fading Fast]

"T'ol' lady's awna rampage!"

"Good luck, Fatty,"

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Red rimmed eyes," sneers Sally. "'F I eveh get hold'v'im, t'ey ain' gonna be RED rimmed." "Hmm?" hmms Ma, her mind elsewhere. "Oh, t'be'surrrrre." "Hey," queries Sally, letting the paper flop down on the counter. "What's wit'choo? Eveh since I come in'eeh you been kinda jus' -- I dunno, float'n'aroun'." "'Ave Oi now?" shrugs Ma. "Ehh." Sally regards her mother thru narrowed eyes as the door jingles open to admit Bink Scanlan, who throws the bag on the counter and gives Sally a suspicious glance. "Thank'yee, Barbara," smiles Ma. "Bawrbara?" snickers Sally. "Whattaya t'ink," scowls Bink, "me mot'eh a cawlt me 'Bink?'" "Eveh knock oveh'r any police boxes?" glares Sally. Bink turns away from the conversation with a toss of her head. "Hey," she asks Ma, "is Fatty aroun'? I wan'net t'ask 'im sump'n." "Ah," nods Ma. "Mistarr Leary went oot t'lonch, oopta Toomey's, Oi think. 'E'll be back sharrtly. He's gaaaht a laaaht t'catch oop ahn since 'e's got hoom." Bink gives Ma the full up-and-down. "I bet he gotta good stawrt," she snickers. "THAT'S ENOOOF!" roars Ma, as Bink chortles her way to the door. Sally watches her departure with interest. "I dunno, Ma," she exhales. "Gawd knows I couldn' stan'nat Hops Gaffney when ya had HIM runnin' errands, but hirin'nat -- bobby soxeh?" "Ahh," dismisses Ma, "she's foine woonce ye get t'know'arr." "She kifed a packa gum jus' t'eh wit'out payin'," notes Sally. "Big as brass. Dinchoo see?" "Ahhh," chuckles Ma, "yoooth will have its fling." Sally stares at her mother for a long moment. "Ma," she finally queries, "what's got inta you?" "Ooooh," sighs Ma. "Noothin'.")

The destruction or wrecking of another 14 Japanese ships and 158 to 168 planes in and around Manila Bay by American carrier aircraft on Sunday was hailed today as another major preparatory step for an ultimate amphibious invasion of Luzon, capital island of the Philippines. A communique from the headquarters of Admiral Chester W. Nimitz stated that fighters, torpedo planes, and bombers from carrier task groups of the Pacific fleet blew up two destroyers, severely damaged a cruiser, and left 11 cargo carriers and tankers sinking or in flames.

("I dunno," exhales Sergeant Doyle, with a skeptical gaze at the cigarette. "I can still taste t'pencil shavin's." "Oi'll have th' boys add more molasses t'th' mix." "Yeh," nods Doyle, taking a final drag and stumping out the butt in the ashtray on the table. "Maybe some erl 'a cloves too. Knock down'at smell." "It's a haaard job stayin' within' me margin," sighs Uncle Frank. "Ye gaaaht noo oidear." "Yeh,' nods Doyle. "Neveh min'at, t'ough. What'd t'ol' lady say when ya come inna dooeh." "Ah," nods Uncle Frank. "Well, you know Nora." Doyle chuckles. "It's awl jake now though?" he inquires. "Oh yes," nods Uncle Frank. "My extended absence saaarved its parrpose. Oi b'lieve we may be soon headed farr -- a sarrtain soocial legitimacy." "You show me t'papehwoik," nods Doyle, "an' I'll give ya t'at letteh y'wawn't f'ya citizenship." "Yaaar a good man, Tommy," nods Uncle Frank. "Eh," shrugs Doyle. "I get by. So whe'd ya go, anyway?" "Oi told Nora," relates Uncle Frank, "I went doon'ta Wasshin'ton D. C. t'see a man aboot Aaaaarmy surploss. An' that's th' gaahd's aaahnest truth, Oi did exactly that. You remembar Lacky Coon'inham, used t'be in th' D'paaartment a' Markets? Well, he's waarkin noow farr th' Waaar Prooduction Baaard, y'see, an'eese gaaht c'necctions. Y'know what he told me? He says aftaaar th'warr ye'll be able to'buy Jeeps in boolk laaahts farrr fifty dollars apiece. Packed in crates, noo less! An' that's naaaht aahl. Gonns, radioos, ooovarcoats, boots, shoovels, aaaahl that Army stoof, farr pennies aaahn th' dollar. An' Oi'm gett'n in'on that aaahn th' groond flaaar. An' because ye'rr me friend, Thomas, Oi'm givin' ye an oppartunity to..." "Eh," ehs Doyle. "What would I do wit' a Jeep. Mavis don' like no convoitables, she wants I should get a sedan." "You think it ovarr, Tommy me boy," smiles Uncle Frank. "Aaand have anoothar cigarette...")

Two Democratic leaders in the House of Representatives, terming the Electoral College method of choosing a President "grotesque and outworn," have called for that system to be changed by Constitutional amendment. Representative Charles F. Lee of California and Chairman Eugene Worley of Texas, of the Presidential Elections Committee, declared that the Electoral College as it now exists does not accurately reflect public opinion as expressed thru the popular vote, and thus may result in "disenfranchisement of the people." The idea proposed by the two Congressmen would not abolish the Electoral College entirely, but would instead apportion electoral votes on the basis of a percentage of the popular vote rather than the present winner-take-all basis.

("Sal's still awl woiked up abou t'is guy Noel Cowehd," sighs Alice. "Y'know what she done? She sen'na cablegram t' London tellin' 'im 'e he likes t'float so much he oughta go float face down inna Gowanus. Y'know how much'at cawst?" "Neh," shrugs Krause, showing Willie how to tie an underwriters' knot in a lamp cord. "Twenny centsa woid!" marvels Alice "T'tell awff Noel Cowehd!" She leans back in her chair and shakes her head. "I remembeh one time Sal sen'na letteh tellin' awff Dorot'y Kilgallen, an' y'know what she gawt back? An autehgraph pitcheh!" "Heh," hehs Krause, watchign carefully as Willie tightens the screws over the wire's stripped ends. "I hope she don' get no autehgraph pitcheh'ra Noel Cawehd," says Alice. "Y'know how much it'd cawst t'go t' London an' push 'im awffa train platfarwm?" Krause looks up, considers the question, and exhales another "heh.")

The Eagle Editorialist anticipates that the Allies are heading toward a decisive winter campaign in Europe, likely to bring "cruel tests of the spirit and the physical stamina of men." But victory, as the Russian campaign showed, goes to the side with the resources and the spirit to master these obstacles.

The EE also endorses the Fire Department's city-wide campaign to end smoking by customers in all department and other retail stores. "Bearing in mind the disastrous Cocoanut Grove nightclub fire in Boston, he warns, "it is easy to imagine the havoc just one careless smoker could cause in any of the big stores along Fulton Street."

("If they are to beat anyone this year." That's the spirit!)

Former Dodger Luke Hamlin has been released by the Philadelphia Athletics to the Toronto Maple Leafs of the International League. The A's also announced a new working agreement with the Leafs for 1945, suggesting Luke may yet again be tossing his famous hot potato at Shibe Park.

(Look, if you're going to quote Latin legal phrases, at least make sense.)

("No, absolutely not," declines Raymond Massey. "I DON'T DO COMICS.")

(Jane holds the Eagle Comic Page record for the fifty-yard-heeled-dash.)

(Wow, Red's a real catch.)

(He knows about deer too, but we don't talk about that.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

"I say," chuckles Mr. Coward, fingering the cablegram just handed him by his manservant. "If you like to float so much, why don't you float face down in the -- ah -- Go-wan-us. Sincerely Mrs. Sally Pe-trau-skas, wife of a Brooklyn soldier.' Oh, how frightfully witty." Mr. Coward languidly lights a fresh cigarette, and turns to his valet. "Add this one to the queue," he directs. "And bring me a fresh stack of photographs, that's a good fellow..."

"PARROTT!" bellows Mr. Rickey, rattling the windows in the inner sanctum at 215 Montague Street. "Yes sir," gulps that minion, scuttling instantly into the office. "WHAT," the magnate demands, shoving a copy of the News across his desk, "is the MEANING of this?" "Well, sir," stammers Mr. Parrott, "a 'pass' is when you bet even money on the first... "I DON'T MEAN THAT!" explodes Mr. Rickey, his furious eyebrows bristling into full display. "WHAT is OUR MANAGER'S NAME doing entwined in the public prints in such a lurid tale of vice?" "Oh," ohs Mr. Parrott. "Well, sir, you see, Leo -- ah -- well, that is to say -- uh --" Mr. Parrott's soliloquy is interrupted by a buzz of the intercom. "Uh," uhs the voice of Jane Ann from the outer office. "Commissioner Landis for you, sir." Mr. Rickey blanches and reaches for the telephone. "My dear Judge," he smiles thru tightly clenched teeth, his finger jabbing at Mr. Parrott and the door. "ALWAYS a pleasure to speak with you, sir, a rare delight indeed...."

Of course the smartest thing to do for a woman who's being targeted by a criminal gang is put her before the public. Once again, DICK Tracy comes thru.

"Sure is a big furnace. Burns mighty hot too. Could burn up a lot of things in there, yes sir."

I Don't Want No More Of Army Life.

What could possibly go wrong?

"Lucky I'm not married to Wilmer. Oops, sorry. Thinking out loud."

All right, you two, GET A JOB.

As we have seen over the years, there are two overarching themes in "Harold Teen" -- the gradual maturing of Harold from a rattle-brained hepcat to a reasonably responsible adult, and the continuing sexual humiliation of his best friend. Somebody could write a fascinating paper about this.

Look, it makes perfect sense for it to cost less to repair one big hole than two small ones -- easier to weld, easier to sand, easier to paint. I DON"T SEE WHAT THE JOKE IS HERE.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And finally...

You know, I really would like to make it a Punjab Christmas this year.

 

[Fading Fast]

The EE also endorses the Fire Department's city-wide campaign to end smoking by customers in all department and other retail stores. "Bearing in mind the disastrous Cocoanut Grove nightclub fire in Boston, he warns, "it is easy to imagine the havoc just one careless smoker could cause in any of the big stores along Fulton Street."

As Lizzie says, "Coming Events Cast Their Shadows Before...."

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

I Don't Want No More Of Army Life.

Or when cosplay goes very wrong 1940s style.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Yeh," affirms Sally, "I tol'lat bum Noel Cowehd weh'ta get awff awright. An'nif'ee ev'arr goes awn Brawrdway again, I'm gonna REALLY give it to'wim." "Don't go throowin noo marr bricks, daughter," admonishes Ma. "What koinda'zample ye be settin' farr ye little garrl, you gettin' pinched at YAAR AGE far throoin' bricks." "Whassat sposta mean?" frowns Sally. "My age. Whassat s'posta mean?" "Ye ain't gettin' any yoongar," frowns Ma. "B'farr ye knoo it ye'rr gonna be lookin' back ahhn yar loife an' woonderin' wharr it aaahl went." Sally squints over the counter, and sees something in her mother's eyes she hasn't seen before. "Ma," she hesitates, "what's WIT'choo?" Ma doesn't reply, but glances down at the paper between them on the counter. "Look harr," she sighs. "These pitcharrs, these 'hoovels.' D'ye remembarr, CAN ye remembarr, when ye was a very little garrl, livin' oovar tharr on Kingston Avenarr. In a hoose joost like that'un. R'membarr that ool coal stoov, r'membarr ye broothar goin' down th' coalyard late at noit, an' swipin coal aaahf th' poiles an' carryin' it hoom in a boocket? R'membar McCullough's goat roonin' 'roond, an' thim chickens th' O'Broyans had? R'member how Oi'd send ye ovar there t' borra a coopla eggs far breakfas'?" "I remembeh ya sendin' me oveh t'eh t' SWIPE eggs," chuckles Sally. "Beg, barra, steal," shrugs Ma. "We didn't have mooch choice aftarr ye rat oova fatther left. Thanks be t'Gahhd Francis coom alanng, pooled us oota aahl that." "Yeh," shrugs Sally, unsure where this is all headed. "Oi think an aaahful lotta Francis, ye know," sighs Ma. "Oi really do." "Yeh," nods Sally, running multiple possible scenarios thru her mind...)

Twenty-eight men, including one described by police as the head of an international gang of auto thieves, were fingerprinted and photographed today at Manhattan Police Headquarters following an all-day series of raids on garages and gas stations in Brooklyn. The raids, police declared, smashed one of the largest gasoline black markets in the nation. Gabriel "Blah Blah" Vigorito, of 207 N. 6th Street, who spent ten years in Federal prison for transporting stolen autos across state lines, was named as the kingpin of the gasoline racket and was arrested along with a henchman, James "Buck" Murray of Middle Village, Queens. The other twenty-six arrestees are filling station attendants accused of violating the Second War Powers Act by trafficking in counterfeit or stolen gasoline coupons. Many of the stolen coupons seized in the raids were traced by their serial numbers to thefts in Trenton, New Jersey, Fairfield, Connecticut, and Detroit. A total of 518 counterfiet coupons of the now-invalid A-11 series were also seized.

In Los Angeles, a thirty-two year old cook with a dapper moustache was arrested yesterday on charges that he hacked two women to death after picking them up on the city's Skid Row and taking them to hotel rooms. Otto Steve Wilson, who still had flecks of blood in his moustache when arrested, told police that he killed 25-year-old Mrs. Virgie Lee Griffin, the wife of a truck driver, "because she was greedy," and 45-year-old Mrs. Lillian Johnson, wife of a merchant seaman, "just for cussedness." Wilson also told police that, because he is "a fan of horror pictures," he went to see a showing of "The Walking Dead" between the two killings.

("That's too much molasses," admonishes Uncle Frank, as Danny glugs from a jug of Bre'r Rabbit into a mixing kettle containing chopped tobacco stems, wood shavings, and assorted other ingredients. "It woon't barrrn ye poot in too moocha that." "How 'bout some'a t'is?" offers Jimmy, holding up a can of Baker's Cocoa. Uncle Frank sucks contemplatively on his Tootsie Roll. "Suuuure," he nods. "Boot naaht too mooch. That stoof's hard t'get.")

("You eveh tawk t'one'a t'em Goimans?" wonders Joe, sipping the contents of a bubbling kettle and throwing in a handful of salt. "Naah," shrugs the Corporal. "An' ah doubt you'n me evuh will, less we stawt takin' us some pris'nuhs. So fuh, this wawuh ain' nuthin' but'tuh laaahng truck ride. Fuhr'us I mean." "I remembeh befoeh t'wawr," sighs Joe. "T'eh wazzis t'ing at Madison Squaeh Gawrden -- 'nat's inna city, wheh t'ey have fights, n' hawkey games, 'na coicus, 'nawlat. T'ese Nazis had a big meet'n, an' Sal come home f'rm woik one day wit' t'is papeh somebody give'eh awna street 'bout goin' up t'eh t'picket. I'll neveh f'get what it said on'neh -- 'Don't Wait f' t' Concentration Camps -- Act Now!" She wawn'ed t'go, y'know, she was awrways doin'nat stuff. T'rew a brick t'ru a movie screen oncet whenna Hoist newsreel come awn, stuff like t'at. But I was t'inkin', I mean, you go up t'ehr'n mess aroun'wit' Nazis, you could get hoit. An' we hadda fight about it, a real fight, an' she slamm'da dooeh, an' wen'ta t't'ing anyway. An'nen I felt awl guilty an' I wen'nup t'eh aftehreh. T'eh musta been a hunnet' t'ousan' people out t'eh. Somebody gimme a sign, an' somebody hit me inna back'a'ta head wit' a bot'l. Oh, I tell ya, t'eh was cawps awn hawrses'seh, I seen one guy get so mad he punched a hawrse inna mout', canya b'lieve t'at? An' I'm runnin' aroun'neh yellin' an' lookin' f' Sal, an' I neveh found'eh -- well, I finally get home, an'nez Sal wait'n fawr me, she says she couldn' get pas' none'a t'cawps, an' yelled 'till 'eh verce give out, an' figyehed she'd done awl she could, so she come home." "Huh," huhs the Corporal, in lieu of any other possible comment. "An' ya know t'funny t'ing?" muses Joe, swinging his ladle, "I neveh told 'eh I wen'nup t'eh lookin' fawreh. She figyehed I wen' out t'wa movie a' sump'n. An' I guess I neveh told 'eh. So anyways, I guess I do'wanna tawk t'no Nazis...")

The Eagle Editorialist offers a decisive plan of action for Brooklyn residents whose blood boils at the mention of Noel Coward's name. Whenever that happens, the EE advises calling TRiangle 5-8040 and making an appointment to donate some of that boiling Brooklyn blood to our fighting men, so that "the boys over there will know the folks at home eman what they say."

(Mmm, fresh sauerkraut!)

(Next week's starting lineup for the Tigers...)

("Hags?" Look who's talking.)

(Bare midriff in November? Aren't you cold?)

(Running in heels on pavement isn't actually that hard if you know how, but on turf? NOW THAT'S TALENT.)

(The cigarette shortage has yet to hit the comics.)

( I can't wait till Kitty and Trix team up for a searing expose of AMERICA'S NUMBER ONE HERO DOG.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And int he Daily News...

I'm really disappointed this is the other Mrs. Luce, because Henry's been cruising for a beak-busting for years. Oh, and "Daniel Boone?" Maybe you should go wrestle a bear.

"Don't you think," purrs Walter F. O'Malley, "that this sort of publicity is bad for the organization, oh yes, very very bad." "I shall attend to the matter," declares Mr. Rickey, with a thrust of his cigar, "and I shall attend to it with no assistance from silent partners, mind you, SILENT partners." "Whatever you say, Branch," smiles Mr. O'Malley, a smile utterly without mirth. "I merely offer an observation." Mr. Parrot, frozen motionless in the corner of the office, flicks his eyes between the two, and feels a cold chill ascending his spine...

Back off, DICK. This is actually a legitimate exercise for actors. Source: my acting teacher.

Annnnnnd we're off!

Ahhh, Military Intelligence! Hey, what ever happened to Sanjak?

"One more word, dear boy, and you won't have any trouble finding your death certificate."

"Frank," queries Mrs. King, "why does my Sears catalog keep falling open to the maternity section?"

Awwwww. Did you say that to Bumley when you married HIM?

Stick with it, kid -- rassling's gonna be real big after the war.

Elmo quoting the Bible? Sure, he had two years of seminary.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

A life of reinvention.

 

[Fading Fast]

Gabriel "Blah Blah" Vigorito

That is one insane mob nickname.

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

"This? Oh it's just something I throw on to lie around the house in."

 

[LizzieMaine]

("I'm real worried," sighs Sally. "About Ma, I mean." "Ah," nods Alice, her mouth otherwise occupied with a corned beef sandwich." "I t'ink she's lonely, is what I t'ink," Sally continues. "I mean, look at'teh. Awlday lawng innat stoeh, seven days a week. Gets up at five inna mawrnin', an' don' close up at night till'afteh t' Daily News comes up at nine. What kin'a life izzat?" "Aw," shrugs Alice, "it's a steady livin', ain' it?" "Sueh," concedes Sally. "An'na awnest livin'. But, I mean, y'evveh notice she ain' got no frens? I mean, y'know, t'ez Uncle Frank awrways aroun'neh, but, I mean, he's UNCLE Frank, right? He's how much oldeh'rn she is? Ten, fifteen yeehs? Sump'n like t'at? You know, she ain' got a single fren her own age. Not a one." "Well," chews Alice, "so what? How many YOU got?" "You, f'one," declares Sally. "I'm oldehr'n you," dismisses Alice. "Six yeehs ain' oldeh," retorts Sally. "Awright," nods Alice. "Who else?" "Um," ums Sally, "Joe." "He's ya husban'," notes Alice. "Solly Pincus," interjects Sally. "Fren by marriage," argues Alice. "An' a man b'sides, you can't be frens wit' no man wit'out eventual he tries t'pull sump'n. Trus' me, I know." Sally's eyes wander as she reaches for another name. "Mildred Kelly." "You hate Mildred Kelly," reminds Alice. "Mrs. Ginsboig," flails Sally. "She's ol' enough t'be ya bubbe," chuckles Alice. "T'at means gran'mot'eh." Sally scours her memory, and is about to reply, but Alice brings her up short. "An' don' say Dorot'y Killgallen," laughs Alice. "Pushin' ya downa flighta staiehs in nineteen-t'oity don' make 'eh ya fren. An' b'sides, you hate 'eh moeh'n ya hate Mildred Kelly." "Awright," frowns Sally. "Hildeh Chesteh." Alice rolls her eyes. "You ain' even tryin'," she snorts. "Well, neveh mine'at," growls Sally. "T'pernt is, Ma needs whatchacawl social inn'ehraction. Me'n Docteh Levine been tawkin' 'bout t'at. An' I t'ink Ma needs t'jern a club a'sump'n, get out'n meet ot'eh women heh'rown age. It's f'heh mental healt'! An' I t'ink she oughta see Docteh Levine hehself, too." "Ah," exhales Alice. "Jus' like you." "Whassat s'posta mean?" demands Sally. "Seein' Docteh Levine's done me a lotta good! I ain' -- well, I ain' pushed nobody awff no platfawrms lately. Have I???" "No," concedes Alice. "But Noel Cowehd don'neveh ride t' BMT...")

Tropical downpours slowed the American offensive on Layte today, but other invasion troops 900 miles to the southeast completed the occupation of one of the principal Mapia Islands off New Guinea as they mopped up enemy resistance on another. In a supplement to his latest Phillipines communique, General Douglas MacArthur reported that American forces have crushed the last resistance on Pegen Island, in the Mapia group, less than 24 hours after landing in the tiny archipelago. Remnants of Japanese resistance on the island of Bras, noted the General, is also being eliminated.

("Ya worry too mooch," scoffs Uncle Frank, hoisting his two-cents-plain. "What happens in Queens doon't mean noothin' t'wus. An' Doyle tells me tharr goona leave Brooklyn alone. It's easy pickin's in Queens, an' aaahl th' saps in the paparrs will eat it oop." "Oi doon't troost that Bink Scanlan," frowns Ma. "Ye joost bring'arr in 'eer, tell me t'give'arr a jaahb. What if she's a coppar in disgoise. Y'evvar take a good look at that hair'a harrs? Oi think it's a wig. Oi think she's really a coppar in disguise, woona them skinnamalinks they send aroond dressed oop as a garrrl. Ye read aboot that aahl th' toime." "Nora," sighs Uncle Frank, setting down his glass. "D'ye seriously think Oi would let anythin' happen t'ye?" "Oi wasn't awarre," scowls Ma, "ye had that livil'a influence with th' P'lice Commissionarrr. Shoold Oi pr'parr a place farr ye good fren' Mistarr Valentine at th' soopar table?" "He loikes paaaht roast," chuckles Uncle Frank, draining his glass, as under her breath Ma mutters a pointed phrase in Gaelic...)

The South Brooklyn Board of Trade has endorsed a resolution condemning Noel Coward for his criticism of Brooklyn fighting men, but has stopped short of endorsing a proposed ban on his books and plays. While condemning Coward's "in tears" slur against Brooklyn soldiers in Salerno as "stupid," "unfair," "unjust and inept," the board further resolved that "none of us believe in the burning of books, and most of us are opposed to banning them or their authors from our shores."

Meanwhile, a Manhattan resident has joined the fray, criticizing the British author-playwright in verse. Jill Schullman of 906 West End Avenue submits a poem entitled "Dear Noel." "Oh, Coward, you're a brave one -- And so it made you sigh -- To see the boys from Brooklyn -- When they broked down to cry -- But, Noel, strictly entre-nous -- They must have cried at seeing you!"

(Sorry, the turkey comes without dressing.)

The Eagle Editorialist frowns at the Herald Tribune's editorial call on the people of Brooklyn to "remain calm" and "not be thrown into a petulant dither" over Noel Coward's recent criticism of the courage of Brooklyn soldiers. "Really," sniffed the Manhattan broadsheet, observing Brooklyn's fury, "the spectacle is unbecoming." Such a "cool, Olympian attitude," glares the EE, "we do not share." "This community has taken far too many slurs and libels, good natured and not, and has taken them in stride. This one is a slur not so much at Brooklyn, which can take care of itself, but at those of its sons who are away on the nation's business, and thus are too busy to talk back."

("Think of it! A whole nation of candy stores!)

Radio commentator Harold T. "Boake" Carter has died at the age of 46. Carter rose from a $25 a week job as a newspaper report to become one of the nation's best known broadcasters in the 1930s, rising to fame in the wake of his broadcasts from the scene of the Lindbergh kidnapping. His clipped British accent was most recently heard in broadcasts from Hollywood, and he died from a cerebral hemmorhage just hours after completing his Wednesday broadcast.

("The Bond Bowl" at Ebbets Field! At last, some real football!)

(Oh, wait, that's a boudoir chair. At first, I mean, talking about prunes and all, I thought it was a .. oh, well, never mind.)

(Don't worry kid, Tommy Manville will be along shortly.)

(Whew, I can hide behind these leaves. Good thing it isn't November!)

(That's the same thing they said to me six hours after my appendectomy.)

(Some are born heroes, some become heroes, and some have heroism thrust upon them. WHAT CAN YA DO?)

 

[LizzieMaine]

"It's too damn cold," grumbles Joe, huddled in the back of the truck in his heavy overcoat, the flaps of the wool cap under his helmet pulled down ineffectively over his ears. "I bet back home it ain'nis cold." "Yuh think YAWR cold?" growls the Corporal. "Hahhs'about ME? Ah nevuh seen such snow." "Soives ya right," replies Joe, firing a stream of tobacco juice out the back of the truck. "You neveh hadda shovel no snow onna WPA. You neveh hadda wake up inna middla'night an' bang onna radiateh t'get t'supeh t'send up moeh steam." Ahhhh," scoffs the Corporal, biting off a fresh chaw, "th' problem with yew, Brooklyn, is yuh jus' like tuh argue." "Keeps ya wawrm," sighs Joe, as the truck rattles onward into the night...

Cheer up, Puk, you could always run for Miss Rheingold.

Yeah, but nobody ever reads the side marquee.

Your words say love, but your body language says "eww, B-O!"

Ahh, the vagaries of V-Mail.

You know, you could just turn up the volume.

"The News will pay $2 for each Bright Sayings of Children published!"

Awwww. But it's still coming out of your pay.

And stay away from Red Hook too!

"Ah, but it'll feed us all for a week. Hm. How do you get the wrapper off?"

 

[Fading Fast]

Sally and Alice are on fire today. Outstanding.

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

This Noel Coward things has more legs than I thought it would.

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

Sorry, the turkey comes without dressing.



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

Puk Paaris.

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

 

[LizzieMaine]

("So, lissen Ma," ventures Sally, slurping up the last of her Coke, "I gotta ideeh." "Ah," nods Ma, her attention focused on Bink Scanlan, her broom leaning against the magazine rack as she flips thru a copy of "Speed Detective." "Oh, 'Barbara,'" Ma calls across the store. "Oi wondarr if ye'd tell me soomthin'," "Yeh," replies Bink, shifting her cud of gum. "Whaaaar DO," queries Ma, "ye getchee -- ah -- hair doon?" Bink wrinkles her nose. "'Lizabet' Awrden,' she snickers. 'T'at is, if t'ey can't get me in at Chawrles of t' Ritz." "Ah," ahs Ma. "An'nen," snorts Bink, holding her hand overhead and executing a crude pirouette, "I'm offta Schraftt's f'lunch, la dee dah..." "Ah," reiterates Ma. "Step ovarr, here, ah, 'Barbara,' wouldjee please." With a shrug, Bink puts down the magazine and steps to the counter. "That's roit," nods Ma. "Now, would'jee hold up yarr chin thar, give us a look atchee neck.""What?" puzzles Bink. "Hmmm," hmms Ma, closely regarding Bink's throat." "Hey," protests Bink, "Whassis awlabout?" "Oooh, noothin',"shrugs Ma. "Oh, Oi meant to say -- havin' a sale this week aaahn razor blades. Three packages farr a quartarr." "What???" baffles Bink. "Anyways," interrupts Sally, "I was sayin', I gotta ideeh. How 'bout t'marra night we go do somethin' t'get'eh, mot'ehr'n daughteh. "What?" it is now Ma's turn to puzzle. "Y'know what," steamrolls Sally. "Less you'n me go bowlin'. Up t'eh t' Fitz's place. Remembeh when you useta go bowlin'?" T'ey got leagues, y'know, women's leagues." "Mistarr Fitzsimmons is a foine lookin' man," recalls Ma with a certain sparkle. "Ye think he moit be tharr?" "Maybe," shrugs Sally. "It'sa awff season, he got no reason t'be in Philly." "Bowlin'?" interjects Bink. "Hey, lemme innawn'nis! I love bowlin'." "Oi hear tharr hirin' pinboys," glowers Ma. "What?" ejects Bink. "I'll come'n getcha t'marra night at six," insists Sally. "Aw, t'is is gonna be fun...")

("So," smiles Uncle Frank his most salesmanly smile, "hoo mooch should Oi putchee down farr?" "Make it -- fifty?" shrugs Alice. "Yeh," nods Krause. "Very good," grins Uncle Frank, making a notation in his book. "Izziz awna level?" demands Alice. "You really come awlaway ovehheeh t'night t'sell us bonds?" "Oi am a patriotic American," affirms Uncle Frank, "who hoops woon day to enjoy tharr full privilges ov citizenship in this foine cooontry." "Yeh," acknowledges Krause. "Hey Pap!" comes a voice from the kitchen. "Sink's leakin'! Show me again how t'fix it?" Krause shrugs, and makes his exit. "Awright, Frank," exhales Alice. "Spill it. What's t'game?" "Tharr is NO game," insists Uncle Frank. "But Oi WOOULD loike ye help, in -- ah --repayment farr aaahl th' favarrs Oi've done ye." "I ain' haulin' no booze," warns Alice. "An' if you got kneecaps need breakin', Jimmy 'n' Danny'll hafta do it, I'm outa t'at racket." "Oh, no," wheedles Uncle Frank. "Oi need yarr advoice. As -- ah -- a woman." "What?" Alice gapes. "Well," flushes Uncle Frank, "t'be specific, Oi need yarrr advoice about --ahh -- coortship. It's been a laaahng toime since..." He gets no further before he is interrupted by the sharp crack of an open palm across his cheek. "An' let'TAT," fumes Alice, "be a LESSON t'ya! I'm a MARRIED WOMAN!" "Ah," exhales Uncle Frank, touching the red mark at the point of impact. "Let's staaaart oovar...")

("Well, there's that restaurant in Valley Stream." "Oh, no, I haven't a thing to wear." "So?")

(Evict the Tigers from Ebbets Field and bring in college field hockey. NOW THAT'S ACTION!)

(Betty Garde was also a very fine radio actress, whose personal collection of transcriptions of her broadcasts is stored in my bedroom closet.)

(GOON PRUNE! GOON PRUNE! GOON PRUNE!)

(OK, what happened in the second act?)

(And remember, gals, wear Mojud Magic-Motion hosiery with the exclusive action-top! Designed for women on the go!)

("Buttery?" More like margarine.)

(It is given to but a rare few to understand the true nature of the world in which we live. Poor Kitty.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

And the best part of it is, that's Puk's passport photo.

Or as Thomas E. Dewey might say, "oh fudge."

"Boston Wrong Boy!" I'm glad somebody agrees.

I mean, how many GIs can there BE named "Skeezix?"

Senga? Is that you??

Better shake the furnace grates first, we don't want any evidence.

"Well, at least I'm glad I didn't wear my raccoon coat."

I caught a bouquet once. Wasn't worth the effort.

Stop smirking, DICK.

But you do -- ah -- need more than one.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Let's staaaart oovar..."



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

"Well, there's that restaurant in Valley Stream." "Oh, no, I haven't a thing to wear." "So?"

While sitcom like, the idea that, in 1944, they do everything naked in Valley Stream is very funny.

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

"You poor child."

Nothing in her story is eliciting any sympathy from me. Also, again, WTH is she wearing in 1944?

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

The Puk Paaris story just got a lot more interesting.

Oh, and "...as winsome a taffy-head as ever arrived on these shores from Denmark..."

Nice line.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Size seven," requests Sally, stepping up to the shoe-rental counter at Freddie Fitzsimmons Lanes, beneath a giant poster advising "BUY YOUR EXTRA BONDS HERE -- 6th WAR LOAN!" The clerk slaps a scuffed pair on the countertop and glances next at Bink Scanlan. "Whattaya gawt," she requests, with a snap of her gum, "inna eight'na half?" Ma's eyebrows flicker at this request as the clerk glances at the rack behind him. "Nut'n in ladies," shrugs the clerk. "Y'll hafta take men's." "Whateveh," shrugs Bink, accepting the footwear. "Isn't that a shame," frowns Ma behind the slight veil of a tight smile. "Ye moight try Lane Broyant's, dear, they have sooch noice shoes farr -- ah -- woomen with laaaargar feet." "Yeh, right," shrugs Bink, with a toss of her head. "Hey, din'cha say some'a t'Dodgehs come in 'eeh? Look oveh t'eh, ain'nat Tommy Brown? Jeez, his mot'eh lets 'im out t'is late awna school night?" "Nah," replies Sally. "T'at kid's gotta moustache. Tommy ain't got but'cha peach fuzz." "I'm gonna go getta beeh," announces Bink. "Yeh, I wanna Coke," agrees Sally, as they head for the snack bar. "What size f'you, lady?" inquires the clerk. Ma leans over the counter, whispering confidentially. "Gaaah annything in a 9-E? Oi gaaht boonions." The clerk stifles a laugh. "Wing tips," he snickers, "or brogans?")

Soviet tanks and infantry today tore three breaches in the 80-mile long German-Hungarian defense line running northeast from Budapest to Miskole, and hammered thru stubborn enemy resistance to within three and a half miles of the latter town. Supported by massed artillery and aerial bombardments, the Red Army at the same time clamped down a vise on the vital rail junction of Hatvan, 22 miles northeast of Budapest and driving to points within one mile of cutting rail communications with the Hungarian capital.

("You really dunno how t'do any'a t'is, do ya?" marvels Alice, regarding Uncle Frank in his new prewar suit, derby perched squarely atop his head, and a fresh carnation in his lapel. "Ya look like a flooehwawkeh, awr a house dick at t' Boss'et. Ya gonna woo somebody, ya gotta be debonaieh." The conversation pauses as a grime-covered Krause emerges barechested from the boiler room, swabbing his face with his undershirt. "Ah," nods Uncle Frank. "C'mon, you musta done'is befoeh. You been married." "Ah," nods Uncle Frank again. "Well, how'dja do it?" queries Alice. "T'ink back." "Well," relates Uncle Frank, a flush creeping across his face, "Oi was a yoong man in th' fool vigarr oov me yooth, an' Bridget -- that was harr name, gahhd rest'arr sool -- Bridget was -- ah -- wel, that is to say, ahh -- her faaatharr -- ah -- well, ye moit say it was whatchee cahhl a mattar of -- ah -- immediate necessity." Alice frowns an accusing frown. "Y'know," she glares. "t'sistehs wawrn't me 'bout men like you." "Nivver moind that," dismisses Uncle Frank. "What'chee mean 'debonairrr." "Well, ah," sighs Alice. "T'ink inna moom pitchehs. Chawles Boyeh, he's debonaieh. Ronal' Colman, he's debonaeih. Look, heehs whatcha do. Pick out ya fav'rite acteh inna pitchehs, an' 'magine what HE'd do. G'wan now, who's ya fav'rite acteh." "Ah," nods Uncle Frank. "Frank McHugh." "Ah," sighs Alice...)

(I'll be glad when football season is over.)

("The Duchess, Red Ryder, and Little Beaver? What is this, a comic strip?")

(If this were Movie Bugs, that bus driver would be in big trouble.)

("Not bad, kid. Not bad at all." -- Bo.)

(Hey, I'm a cichlid too!)

(Sure, that'll help.)

(General Devers doesn't really understand sarcasm, does he?)

("Yes, Bill, as the young people say, 'I'm blowing this clown town. See you in the funny papers!'")

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

("Don't be Irritated! Light an Old Gold!")

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Dewey won't go for it, but I bet Butch will.

Looks like another Automat Thanksgiving.

"Puff sleeves? What is this, third grade?"

Sally and Alice join the YW.

Think it over, Shaky. It worked for George Raft.

All right, kid. Time to up the game. And Walt can be a goof sometimes, but he's actually a pretty swell dad.

No wonder the Slither Sisters moved away.

OK, she makes fun of his height, calls him 'pantywaist,' and now she goes after his prematurely-receding hairline. I shudder to think of where we're heading next week.

Maybe you should buy a better hat. And Burma, I really think you can get better work than this.

Ahh, Terry. Everybody's sympathetic little brother.