The Era -- Day By Day

[Fading Fast]

"Gaaah annything in a 9-E? Oi gaaht boonions."

Freakin' perfect after she gives Bink s___ about the size of her feet. And why the hey did they take Bink with them anyway?

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"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."



"Frank McHugh," oh, Uncle Frank!

 

[LizzieMaine]

("...A'nen he says," continues Sally, reading from Joe's latest letter, "..an'nis pawrt I don't get, 'if you c'n get any choo'n t'bacceh aroun'neh, please sen' it to me. I can use it heeh.' Choo'n t'bacceh, c'n ya beat t'at? He mus' be wheelin' an' dealin' oveh t'eh to get stuff he needs. Who'da t'ought? Hey, you got any choo'n t'bacceh back onna shelf t'eh?" Ma shrugs and scans the tobacco display, severely denuded of cigarettes save for a few oddly-printed cartons. "Well," she replies, producing a dust-covered, unopened display box of Tucks 5-cent Plug, "I gaaaaht this, moosta been here since Mistarr Lieb was aroodn. Oi ain't evarr goona sell it, so ye moit as well send it aaahn t'Joseph." "Awrful stuff," frowns Sally. "I see Dixie Wawkeh sta'nin' inna outfiel', spittin' it awlaroun' inna grass. Disgustin'. Hey," she continues, shifting the topic, 't'at wa a lotta fun las' night. T'at Bink Scanlan's OK. Bowlin' a 270, who'da t'ought." Ma scowls. "Doon'chee think," she ventures, "that she's a bit -- ah -- roobust farr a garrl?" "What??" laughs Sally. "T'at litt'l t'ing?" "Ye'vaar look at th' soize of 'arrr hands?" continues Ma. "An' those FEET." "Hones'tagawd, Ma," chuckles Sally, "t't'ings you come out wit'. Well, I'll go upstaiehs an' get Leonoreh, we betteh get home." She heads for the stairway door, and pauses. "Oh," she recalls. "I mean'ta ask. You ain' seen my billfold aroun' have ya? It was in my poise when we was at t'bowlin' alley, but when I got home it wasn' inneh. I hope I didn' lose it awna subway a'nut'n." "Ah," scowls Ma....)

Economic Stabilization director Frederick Vinson warned today that rationing must continue and that any wage increases must wait until Germany is beaten. The message was seen as a discouragement to Organized Labor in its push to revise the "Little Steel" formula to permit general wage increases now, based on the 44 percent increase in the cost of living since 1941. Mr. Vinson did pledge that the Bureau of Economic Stabilization and the Office of Price Administration will continue to exercise "firm vigilance" to keep inflation down.

(And nertz to you, Noel Coward.)

(It's like Mr. Lichty is looking right in my window.)

("Misteh G," begins Alice, clearing away the supper dishes, "c'n I ask ya a faveh?" Mr. Ginsburg nods in assent, as he fumbles for his pipe. "I need a white dinneh jacket, size foehty-eight stout." "Hmmm," Mr. Ginsburg acknowledges, packing a load of Half and Half into the bowl. He pauses, and brings his expert eye to bear. "One I got," he notes. "A little tight though in the shoulders, it might be." He rises, pipe in mouth, and reaches into his vest pocket for a tape measure. "If I may," he continues, unrolling the tape across Alice's back. "No, no," corrects Alice. "I don'need no white dinneh jacket f'me!" "Ah," pauses Mr. Ginsburg. "It's f'ra frien'," Alice continues. "Who's gonna take a lady out f' T'anksgivin' to a nice jernt." "I see," nods Mr. Ginsburg. "And where...""He dunno yet," replies Alice. "I ain' decided." "Ahhhhh," chuckles Mr. G. "But Misteh Krause, is I should say it, a 38-slendeh." "It ain' f'Siddy," flushes Alice." "Ohhh," ohhs Mr. Ginsburg, puffing a blue cloud as he awaits further explanation. "It is not for me to interfere," he frowns, "but..." "It ain' like'at, neiteh!" flusters Alice. "If ya mus' know, it's f' Frank Leary. An'na lady is Ma Sweeney!" Mr. Ginsburg lowers his pipe and marvels at this revelation. "I mean," stumbles Alice, "if I c'n swing it.")

(Why don't they just admit that pro football in Brooklyn is finished, and get going with field hockey before it snows.)

(Either Evans Krehbiel is so deeply penetrate into hepcat circles that he's coming up with slang that nobody else has ever heard, or he's making it up as he goes along. "Dracula's Doll!")

(Well, at least they're not going by bus.)

(Sheffield Farms is proud to serve an auxiliary arm of your Federal law enforcement!)

(AND SHE ROSE FROM THE DEAD...)

(Believe me, Kitty, I know exactly how you feel.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"Famed borscht bazaar." Hey, that's Fred Allen's line.

And the winning team will beat the Tigers.

Revenge is a dish best served in a cold bath.

Well, at least she can follow the plot.

Never mind "Daddy," you need Punjab.

See kids, you don't even need steam.

"Fuzzy?"

"But I thought EVERYBODY mouths off to lieutenants!"

Wait, let's hear more from the cat.

Well, if there's pigs jumping on your bed in the night maybe you do need to sleep with a gun.

 

[Fading Fast]

Just when the story stated to heat up, the Daily News goes two days without anything about Puk Paaris – does Page Four understand its own mission?

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Y'know Sal," observes Alice, her eyes shifting anxiously toward her seatmate, "I been t'inkin'." "Ah," ahs Sally, not looking up from her paper. "Yeh," continues Alice. "I been t'inkin' how ya go t'ru life, right? An' ya know a lawta people, but ya don't KNOW a lawta people. I mean -- oh, take ya ma f'zample." "Mm," is Sally's noncommitted reply. "I mean," plunges Alice, "I known ya ma f'ra lawng time. Ev'n longeh'n I known you, right? I known ya ma since I was drivin' a truck f'ya Uncle Frank, y'know, d'livr'in, um, plumbin' stuff, OK? But do I really KNOW ya ma? I'm askin' ya, do I?" "I dunno," shrugs Sally, finally looking up. "Well, OK," onrushes Alice, "anseh me t'is. Ya ma. What's ya ma's -- oh -- fav'rite t'ing awna radio?" "I dunno," shrugs Sally. "Awright, what's ya ma's fav'rite coleh?" "Ummm," struggles Sally. "Green? Blue? I dunno?" "Some daughteh you awr," scoff Alice. "OK -- t'en -- ahhhh, what's ya ma's fav'rite -- ah -- restaurant?" "I dunno," shrugs Sally. "Dewes Deli? She goes inneh'ra lawt, likes t' cawrn beef." "No, no," insists Alice. "Not no deli. I mean someplace nice." "Huh," exhales Sally. "I guess she liked 'at time when me'n Joe took 'eh t't Midwood t'eh right afteh we gawt married, try'na, you know, getteh t'see t'at Joe wasn' like -- uh -- she t'ought 'e was. An' when she goes downtown, she likes Chiles." "Uh-huh," nods Alice, finally getting down to cases. "Anyplace else, I mean, any place really fancy? I mean, t'Midwood's nice, but t'at Eddie guy t'at runs it, he's kind'va mug, y'know? I hoid he puts shoe polish onna lapels uvv'is coat t'make 'm shiny." "Hmmm," ponders Sally. "You eveh seen'at chop suey place ove'h t'eh awn Flatbush Aveneh? Coupla dooehs up fr'm t'Patio? Whassanamea'tat." "T' Dragon's -- " stumbles Alice -- "t'Dragon's Castle?" "T' Dragon's Den!" completes Sally. "Yeh, t'at's it. Yeh, you musta seen'at place, can't miss it. T'ey got t'at big neon dragon t'oppa t'awnin' t'eh. Go see a pitcheh at t' Patio t'at t'ing's awl lit up wit' wings'nawlat. T'at fancy 'nuff fawr yeh?" "Ahhhhh," nods Alice. "An' ya ma likes it? I mean, she'd like it if -- um -- somebody ast 'eh t'go t'eh?" Sally's eyes narrow. "Hey," she heys, "whassisawla 'bout?" "Nut'n," insists Alice, displaying a smile of absolute innocence. "Jus' curious, is awl. She'd like goin' out t't'is place?" "I guess so," presumes Sally. "Coupla times we awl wen'neh, Ma had sump'n cawled 'One Shoe Awff?' I can't remembeh, 'zackly, it was some kin'a fried chicken 'ra duck a' sump'n. She t'ought t'at was pretty fancy till Mickey says t' boid din' really come fr'm China, it come fr'm Lawng Guylan'. But she t'ought it was pretty good anyway. An' yeh, she t'ought t'place was awrf'l fancy, lights awl down low an' awlat. 'Jus' like a pitcheh show,' she says." "T' Dragon's Den," nods Alice. "Yeh. T'at's it." "What?" "Yeh," exhales Alice. "It's swell t'get t' know people...")

Soviet troops, tanks, and dive bombers were reported swarming in for a battle of annihilation against some 400,000 Germans pinned against the Baltic coast in western Latvia, as other Soviet forces to the south rolled up to the Nazi flank northeast of Budapest, partially isolating two of the Hungarian capital's main outposts. Jittery German broadcasts stated that the Russian armies of the north went over to the attack in Western Latvia today in the first of the great winter offensives that are expected to set the entire 1500 mile eastern front ablaze in the coming week.

The latest rumor from London is that Nazi Fuehrer Adolf Hitler has gone completely insane at his Berchtesgaden retreat in the mountains of Bavaria, and that he has at least once attempted suicide. According to the rumor relayed from sources by way of Turkey, Gestapo chief Heinrich Himmler is hiding the truth from the German people in hopes of prolonging the war sufficiently to lead to a negotiated peace. Reports from Stockholm claim that Hitler is alive and will deliver a speech later this week "under brilliant circumstances."

("Ye mean t'tell me," protests Uncle Frank, "ye gaaht noo Tooms?" "Thar's a warr ahn," snaps Ma. "These aaar joost as good, Oi'm told." "Hmph," hmphs Uncle Frank, peeling open the roll and gulping down two of the chalky tablets with a chaser of two-cents-plain. "Yaaar s'posta chew those," frowns Ma. "Oi gaaht a toothache," frowns Uncle Frank. "Went t'see Doctar Haarschel yest'ehday an'ee said Oi gaaht a cavity. Says Oi bettar lay ahhf th' Tootsie Rolls." "Nivver moind that," dismisses Ma. "Oi'm tellin' ye, loike Oi been tellin' ye, this Bink Scanlan's a coppar disgoised as a garrl." "Oh, Nora," burps Uncle Frank, "naaat that noonsense again! You knoo varry well t'faaarst toime Oi met'arr was when Doyle's boys brought 'arr in farr pickin' me pahhcket!" "So what?" retorts Ma. "She lifted Sally's billfoold t'oothar noit. But that doon't mean noothin'. She can hoold a boolin' baal in th' palm'oovar hand! She's gaaht feet loike canal boots! Hoo many garrls d'ye knoo..." "Oi been dancin' with ye, Nora," snickers Uncle Frank. "Stickin a soize nine foot ina soize seven shoe don't make ye Cindehrellar. An' if she lifted Sally's billfoold, don't that PROVE she ain't a coppar?" "Naaht necessarily," fumes Ma. "She could be a coppar disguised as a garrl disgoised as a dip." "An' Oi could be Franklin D. Roosevelt," sighs Uncle Frank, draining his glass. "Boot Oi ain't. Now if ye doon't moind Oi gaaaht t'make a trip ovarr t' Bensonharrrst. Mistarr Ginsbarrg wants to shoo me soomthin'." "A swaaalartail coot," growls Ma, "faar ye inaaaaauguration." "So heelp me Gaaahd," chuckles Uncle Frank as he cheerfully saunters out the door...)

("KAAFF! HACK!!!! Tastes like molasses-flavored sawdust!")

(If we can't get field hockey at Ebbets Field, women's soccer would also be a big draw.)

(Hey Uncle Frank, if you really want to show Ma a good time, take her to Leon & Eddie's!)

(Vallee,"The Tonsils...")

(No problem, there's plenty of hock shops around. Raoul will never know the difference.)

(America's Number One Hero Milkman.)

(Gould never thought of this!)

("If that stupid dog hadn't brought the horse back none of this would have happened!")

 

[LizzieMaine]

"Dear Sirs. Please be advised that the name and title "Superman" and all related indicia and derivatives therof are registered trademarks of Superman, Incorporated and Detective Comics, Incorporated, and are fully protected under United States law. Please be advised that public infringement of the name and title "Superman" for any purpose without the written permission of Superman, Incorporated and Detective Comics, Incorporated is a violation of Federal law and renders you, your agents, and assigns, to substantial legal and financial penalties. Very truly yours, J. S. Liebowitz, President."

KIDS TODAY

Ehh, it'll flop in a week.

It's good Burms left her a script.

"Actually, we just planned to eat at the Automat after work."

"Hey!" roars Joe, shoving the Corporal off the overturned kettle. "Don' sit on me coat!" "No betthu'n anybody else's," mutters the Corporal, tossing the wrinkled garment back at his comrade. "It ain'a coat," growls Joe. "It's what's inna pawcket. Look'eeh, it's a pitcheh. T'ez Sal, an' me little goil Leonoreh, an' me mot'eh'r'in'law, an' Uncle Frank, an' Sid an' Alice Krause, an' Misteh'rn' Mrs. Ginsboig. An' look right t'eh -- y'see t'at? T'at's Stella t'cat." "Ain' that purty," snickers the Corporal. "Yuh got a li'l kittuh cat." "I *got,*" glares Joe, "a FAM'LY. T'at I'm goin' back to oncet'is mess is oveh. Whatta YOU got?" "Ah got a fam'ly too," scowls the Corporal. "But Ah don' think mos't'vm know Ah'm ovuh heeuh. Ah sortuh skip town innuh hurry, didn't leave no forwuddin' address." Joe regards his colleague for a moment. "Afteh t'wawr," he offers, "come visit us." "Yeh," nods the Corporal. "Ah'd like t'meet this Uncle Frank." "He'd prob'ly give y'a job," chuckles Joe...

Bangs, Lil? Isn't that a bit bobby-sox?

"That Ex-Brunette!" They never talk about Burma like that in her own strip.

Children Learn What They Live.

Careful, these zoning enforcement agents can be pretty tough.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Dear Sirs. Please be advised that the name and title "Superman" and all related indicia and derivatives therof are registered trademarks of Superman, Incorporated and Detective Comics, Incorporated, and are fully protected under United States law. Please be advised that public infringement of the name and title "Superman" for any purpose without the written permission of Superman, Incorporated and Detective Comics, Incorporated is a violation of Federal law and renders you, your agents, and assigns, to substantial legal and financial penalties. Very truly yours, J. S. Liebowitz, President."

But who really, truly deserves the title: the fictional guy who flies around in tights or the real-world mechanic who beds women like Errol Flynn?

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Jeeezuz," murmurs an awestruck Joe, watching columns of dead-eyed, grime-covered German prisoners being marched past the field kitchen. "An'NEN some," agrees the Corporal, hoisting a case of rations off the back of the truck. "We neveh ben'nis close," continues Joe, wincing with each distant explosion. "We gon' get a lot closuh," sighs the Corporal, "'fo' it's done." He pauses and ejects a stream of tobacco juice. "S'mattuh, Brooklyn," he queries, regarding Joe's unnatural paleness. "Yuh scaiut?" Joe gazes into his young comrade's face and notices a twitch that wasn't there before. "Yeh," he finally nods. "Yeh, I'm scaiet." The Corporal replies only with a long silence. "C'mon," he exhales. "Less get th' rest'uh this stuff offuh th' truck...")

("Boin his books?" snorts Sally. "T'eh so sappy ya couldn' get'm lit." "You eveh see t'at pitcheh he done," shrugs Alice. "In Which We Soive? I t'ought he was pretty good innat." "Yeh," replies Sally, her face clouding. "Me'n Joe went'a see it at Loew's Met. Me'n Joe." She glances down at her hands for a long moment, wringing her fingers into her palms. "Joe's oveh t'eh now," she resumes. "Prob'ly right inna middle of it. A man 'nat was so bad at shoot'na gun, t' Awrmy made a cook out'v'im. But he's oveh t'eh, an' 'ee's right inna middle ovvit. An' Noel Cowehd -- yeh, he mighta made a good pitcheh, but Joe's oveh t'eh livin' it." She takes a long breath, and spits out a Gaelic obscenity. "I didn' know you knew t'at lingo," marvels Alice. "I loint'a few t'ings from Ma," sighs Sally, as the train rolls on toward home...)

("Nooo," declares Uncle Frank, "Oi wouldn' botharr ye'self noon with Thanksgivin'. Alice Dooley tells me that Sally an' Leonora are goona take th' meal with her an' Mistaar Krause an' th' Ginsbaaaargs. So thar's noo need far ye to have noo tarrkey, even if Shaughnessy could get woon. Oi was ovarr thar today, an' he says t'me, 'yaaar oonly hope is t'goo out loike ye doon that oothar time an' goo out t' th' paaark an' shoot a goose.' Well, ye know, ammunition's toof'ta coom by, soo Oi have made oos oothar plans." Ma scowls over the top of her glasses. "Oi'm naaaht," she declares, "takin' noo Thanksgivin' again at th' bloody Automat." "What woul'jee say," offers Uncle Frank, ''to dinnar with aaahl th' trimmin's at -- the Dragon's Den." Ma gapes with astonishment. "Are ye bloody daft?" she sputters. "Chaaap Suey farr Thanksgivin'?" "Anything aaaahn th' menu ye waaant," offers Uncle Frank. "An' whats' marr," he declares, grandly displaying a large box ornamented with the insignia of M. Ginsburg, Fine Tailoring, "we will dress farr the oocasion." With a flourish, Uncle Frank opens the box and holds up an immaculate white dinner jacket. "Oi'm not wearin' that," snorts Ma. "It's farrrr ME," sputters Uncle Frank. "Well whoot am OI s'posta wear?" protests Ma, gesturing down at her budge. "An apron with 'READ THE BROOKLYN EAGLE' printed craaass'ta froont?" "Ah," exhales Uncle Frank, realizing the gap that has just opened in his plan. His mind whirls and catches on a small projection. "Oi have that aaahl in hand. There is a sarrtain fellar, remember, we met him when we warr seein' Joe aaahf t' th' Army. I recall hearin' he was what'chee caahl a coo-too-ree-ay. Naaaht oonly are ye gooin' to wear a foine dress to dinnar, it's gooin' t'be an original creation by -- ah -- what was his name again -- ah -- Moozelewski Of Brooklyn!" Ma blinks. Leonora looks up from her nickels. And the only sound is the quiet hum of the ice-cream freezer. "Thanksgivin'," replies Ma in an unnaturally calm voice, "is t'marrah." "Ah," nods Uncle Frank, clamping his hat down on his head. "Doon't wait oop!" he yells as he hastens for the door.")

(Ah, if only.)

(Hmph. Let's see Marty Marion square dance.)

(Fred Astaire didn't need a hokey nickname.)

("Please don't think I'm meddling..." TOO LATE)

(Yeah, UGH!)

(I'm like this when I lose my keys.)

("You betchum, Red Ryder!")

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

The Stork Club? Bet she knows Puk.

"And I don't even LIKE pumpkin pie!"

"You're going out there a youngster, but you've GOT to come back a star!"

"All right, all right, you want a high neckline? I'll wear a high neckline!"

Dancing on the edge of a very sharp blade...

"What do you mean they all fell in the water and got ruined?"

Well, at least she doesn't call him "pantywaist."

Ma better adjust the payout.

Don't go on stage if you don't know your lines.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Well whoot am OI s'posta wear?" protests Ma, gesturing down at her budge. "An apron with 'READ THE BROOKLYN EAGLE' printed craaass'ta froont?"



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"Please don't think I'm meddling..."

Meddling is all she does, period, full stop.