The Era -- Day By Day

[LizzieMaine]

("Sweaht'gawd," declares Joe. "I hoid it fr'm'niss guy in supply, an'nee hoid it fr'm ti's tankeh was right at t'front. T'eh shoot'n rockets." "Huh," huhs the Corporal. "Like, yuh mean, Fo'tha July?" "No," insists Joe. "Like -- I dunno, big rockets. Like Flash Gawrd'n type stuff." "Who?" puzzles the Corporal. "Flash Gawrd'n!" repeats Joe. "Like inna funny papehs." "Ah neveh hu'd'a no Flash Go'don," insists the Corporal, punctuating his remark with an expectoration. "Ain' in no funneh papuhs I evuh see." "He's inna Hoist papehs," explains Joe. "Back home, inna Joinal-Amehrican. Sal don' lemme bring'at inna house, but I see it inna bawrbeh shawp n'places. Anyways, Flash Gawrdon'sis guy flies aroun' inna rocket, right? In outeh space." "Huh," shrugs the Corporal. "Reckon'ney's shootin' rockets at us with men inn'um? Paruhtroopuhs?" "Nah," dismisses Joe. "It's like t'em rockets t'eh shoot'n at London an' places. Nut'n in'm but a big bomb." The Corporal glances upward at the glowering Rhineland sky, his breath curling in the icy air. "Gawdayum," he whispers. "Yeh," sighs Joe....)

With Mayor LaGuardia in Washington today to confer with officials who might intervene to stop the threatened Christmas shutdown of the city's retail meat markets in an organized protest over present ceiling-price policies, local consumer groups, having weighed weekend developments, predicted that there is a good chance such a shutdown will not occur. The Mayor's flying trip to the capital followed a conference at City Hall yesterday with fifteen leading representatives of meat retailers' associations and their legal counsel. The Mayor called the meeting "very helpful," while David Greenwald, attorney for the American Federation of Kosher Butchers, called the conference "entirely satisfactory." The Mayor before departing declined to identify the officials with whom he plans to meet in Washington, but it is speculated they may include Price Administrator Chester Bowles, War Food Administrator Marvin Jones, and Economic Stabilization Director Frederick Vinson. During his weekly broadcast over WNYC, the Mayor acknowledged that the present situation has placed the city's meat dealers "in a squeeze," and expressed the view that they have "a legitimate concern" with the current structure of ceiling prices.

("Y'know what I hoid?" propounds Alice. "I hoid 'ee lives in Scawrsdale." "Eh," shrugs Sally. "Zat awl you gawtta say?" queries Alice. "Nyehh," mutters Sally, settling the question. "You awright?" Alice wonders. "I mean, f'real -- awr you awright?" Sally makes no reply, gazing blankly across the car, her eyes fixed on a 6th War Loan poster. They ride on silently past several stops before the train pulls into 18th Avenue. "C'mon, kid," nudges Alice. "Oueh stawp." "Neh," replies Sally. "You go awn. I t'ink I jus' wanna ride a while." "Uh oh," mutters Alice, carefully studying her friend's face. "You awright, Sal?" she asks. "I guess," shrugs Sally. "You go awn, I'll be awright." Against her better judgement, Alice exhales, and steps off the train. Sally leans back in her seat and closes her eyes as the car lurches onward...)

("C'n ya b'lieve it?" exclaims Bink Scanlan to the young woman behind the counter at the Rogers Avenue Bohack. "I'm woikin' f't'ese people an'ney sen' me out t'get t'eh groceries like I'ma maid a'sump'n!" "You -- woikin'?" marvels the clerk. "Ahhhhh, I got no cherce," growls Bink. "Fatty wouldn' press chawrges awn me f' dippin' 'im, so it's like I owe 'im, right?" "Fatty?" queries the clerk. "Oh you know 'im," sneers Bink. "Frank Leary. T'at ol' bootleggeh up awn Bedf'd Aveneh. He was shackin' up wit' Ol' Lady Sweeney t'eh at Lieb's, an' gawd's-me-witness, he wen' an' MARRIED 'eh!" "G'WAN," gapes the clerk. "Hey lissen, I hoid t'at daughteh'ra hers got sent t'Bellevue las' summeh f'killin' a guy by reason of insanity a'sump'n. Push'd 'im right in fronna t'subway." "I dunno 'bout t'at," shrugs Bink, "but she gives me t'heebie-jeebies. I wen' bowlin' wit'tm a while back an' she neveh shut'teh mout'. Goin' awn an'awn bout how t'ey shouldn'a drafted 'eh husban', an' about how she hates t'is gal woiks f'ra newspapeh she went t'school wit', an' how t'Dodgehs shouldn'a traded t'is one guy -- I mean, f'gawdsakes, lady, take a breat'." "You gawt y'self inta sump'n," nods the clerk. "An'nen she's gawt t'is lit'l goil, right?" marvels Bink. "Like she's some kin'a Quiz Kid 'a sump'n. Awrways lookin' at me like she knows sump'n I don't. She's anot'eh one up t'eh gives me t'willies." "Whooo," whistles the clerk. "An'na wois' t'ing?" summarizes Bink. "Fatty sez t'me t'is mawrnin', 'e says, 'why don'chee come t'Chris'mas dinneh wit' us. Says he got hold'a some giant toikey a'sump'n." "Y'gonna do it?" wonders the clerk. "It's'at awr t'Automat," sighs Bink...)

("Some of these men on the Bushwicks," declares Mr. Parrot, "are pretty good. You really ought to consider..." "Do they still have," demands Mr. Rickey, "that one-armed fellow?" "Gray?" replies Mr. Parrott. "He was never on the Bushwicks. He was on the Bay Parkways. Besides, the Browns got him." "Pity," shrugs Mr. Rickey. "Such a man would prove an outstanding gate attraction. But no matter." "Well," insists Mr. Parrott, "if it was up to me, I'd talk to Max Rosner, and see..." "You are, however, not me," declares Mr. Rickey. "And much to my good fortune, I might add. I have plans, my boy, plans regarding which you shall be taken into confidence at the appointed time." "Ah," ahs Mr. Parrott. "Ah indeed," replies Mr. Rickey, taking an enigmatic puff on his cigar....)

(Beer jackets with snappy slogans? That's so 1939.)

("Ah yes, Paris. I was in the -- how you say -- Resistance, you know." "From Chicago?" "Long Distance Resistance, my dear. I shall one day write a book.")

(BIllboards on the beach? What's this world coming to?)

(Oh why not, you could say you're an art dealer. I mean, the resemblance is uncanny.)

(WEBS OF INTRIGUE)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Hey, nobody said being the widow of a Greek Shipping Heir was going to be easy.

Mayor Fletcher Bowron was one of the primary instigators of the relocation program, in collusion with the Hearst and Chandler press. As if you couldn't tell.

"1943 book? We turned that in to the paper drive! DONT YOU KNOW THERE'S A WAR ON?"

Maybe you and Mrs. B-H might go for a nice Christmas Eve walk and talk things over, maybe up there by the cistern...

Oh, by all means, let EVERYBODY hear what he has to say....

In every port...

Annnnnnnd won't she say SEE I WAS RIGHT? SHE IS A CROOK!

Skeez never did pay much attention in history class.

Gotta straighten out that closet one of these days...

"For god's sake, Howard, the boy's been married for five years and has two children!" "Oh. Well, I slept late!"

 

[Fading Fast]

"Y'know what I hoid?" propounds Alice.

Alice might propound, but I doubt she's ever said "propound."

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

"I dunno 'bout t'at," shrugs Bink, "but she gives me t'heebie-jeebies. I wen' bowlin' wit'tm a while back an' she neveh shut'teh mout'. Goin' awn an'awn bout how t'ey shouldn'a drafted 'eh husban', an' about how she hates t'is gal woiks f'ra newspapeh she went t'school wit', an' how t'Dodgehs shouldn'a traded t'is one guy -- I mean, f'gawdsakes, lady, take a breat'."

 

[LizzieMaine]

("I'm tellin' ya," exclaims Sally, "I seen what I seen!" "Aw, Sal," exhales Alice, kicking a clod of dirty snow off her galoshes and watching it melt on the floor of the car, "Look, I know ya miss 'im. But ya seein' t'ings ain' gonna help." "I ain't sayin' whatcha seem t't'ink I'm sayin'," protests Sally. "Look. Las' night I rode'at cawr awla way down't'tenda t'line. Stillwell Aveneh, awright? An' when I'm gett'n awf t'change oveh t'nawrt'boun' train, I seen 'im big as life leanin' against a pole. A dead ringeh f' Joe. Same eyes, same haieh, same face completely. Same build. If I didn' know Joe didn' have no brot'eh, t'at's who t'is guy coulda been. But no, I ain' sayin' it WAS him. It's jus' -- well, it's whatcha cawl a funny concidence, 'at's awl. I been t'inkin awla time about Joe bein' oveh t'eh, you know, an'nen I see t'is guy inna subway looks jus' like 'im. Go figyeh." "You still takin'em pills Docteh Levine give ya?" queries Alice. "Yeh," nods Sally. "She gimme a new p'scription Sunday, awright? I'm takin' 'em. I'm jus' sayin' it's a funny concidence, an'..." "An' what?" interrupts Alice. "Look oveh t'eh," whispers Sally. "Down by t'en'na t'cawr, hangin' onna strap t'eh." "What?" whats Alice, squinting in that direction. "I don' see..." "Stan'in right in fron'na t'at Red Crawss posteh t'eh," insists Sally. "T'at's HIM. T'at'sa GUY. Lookit'im -- y'c'n see t'side of 'is face t'eh, don'nat look JUS' like Joe?" "Sal," replies Alice, a note of concern creeping into her voice. "T'at guy -- t'on'y Joe t'at guy looks like is -- um -- Joe Louis." "Whatta you MEAN?' demands Sally, her voice beginning to rise. "Look at -- oh. Yeh. Y'right. Musta been'a light a'sump'n. Eveh since'ey put t'em blackout bulbs inneese cawrs y'cant see nut'n." "Yeh," agrees Alice, seeing plenty...)

The Board of Education today ordered that a program of Christmas carols at Public School No. 206 go on as originally schedules after it was postponed following protests by a Flatbush rabbi that the program was offensive to Jewish children. Rabbi Chaim Feinstein told Principal Robert Dressner that many families of Jewish children attending the school found the carols offensive, but Rabbi Sidney Tedesche of Union Temple, after noting that Rabbi Feinstein is himself merely a schoolteacher and not an ordained spiritual leader, called his statements "unauthoritative," and argued that no "intelligent, rational-minded people" could find the celebration offensive. Several Jewish teachers at the school protested the decision to halt the program, noting that much of the world's great music is religious in origin, and arguing "if we rule out all music with religious connotations we shall impoverish ourselves." Board of Education President Mary E. Dillon stated that "it is a shame things like this had to happen," and endorsed the Board's ruling overturning the ban.

("No," declares Ma, most firmly, "Oi do NAHHT waant to goo see no pitcharr show t'noit. Ten people coomin' ovarr here farr Christmas dinnar now, with you invoitin' that Bink Scanlan, an' I ain't half gaaaht what Oi'm goonar need farr it. An' you want to goo aaahf gallivantin' to th' pitchars." "Ah," ahs Uncle Frank, his fingers twiddling. "That remoinds me -- ah -- thar'll be eleven." "Bloody hell," exhales Ma. "What happened, did'jee getcharr pocket picked again?" "It's joost that --" wheedles Uncle Frank -- "ah -- this fellow who's doon some warrk farr me, he's a bit oop against it, an' Oi thought p'raps we moit..." "WHO IS IT," frowns Ma, her arms folded. "It bettar NOT be that..." "Inky Quinlan," mutters Uncle Frank. "OI'LL BE BOOOND," sputters Ma. "Whoot's th' mattar, he caan't drawrrr a tarrkey oov 'is oon?" "Now, Nora..." argues Uncle Frank. "Inky Quinlan!" spits Ma. "Nixt thing ye'll tell me th' Hoppar's back in toon an' waants t'coom ovar!" "Inky's really a foine man," pleads Uncle Frank, "an'th' trooth oov it is, Oi owe 'im farr that Gaffney jaahb. He stook out his neck farr oos, remembar, an' Oi think it's oonly roit that Oi live oop t'my soide -- OUR soide o' the bargain. He'll be noo trooble, Nora, he's very -- ah -- toidy. Very neat. Noo muss arr foos at all." Oh, Oi suppose," eyerolls Ma. "Who else ye beholden to? Tommy Doyle? Oi'll tell ye roit now Oi ain't feedin' thim six kids'a his. An' that Mavis, she eats loike she ain't seen any in a moonth." "Tharr'll be noo oothars," promises Uncle Frank. "Ahhl roit then," concedes Ma. "We'll speak noo marr oov it. But this barrd Shaughnessy's gaahtchee bettar be oopta th' jaaahb!" "Oh, absolutely," pledges Uncle Frank. "Noo go down t'Boohack's," commands Ma, "an' get some moor p'tatoes. And doon't send Bink Scanlan t'do it, ye go yarrself. Last toime Oi only got hallf th' stoof I ordared, an' tharr was soom suspicious loomps in'arr coat.""Ah," sighs Uncle Frank...")

("Gawdamn," mutters Joe, his fingers stiff with cold as he struggles to assemble the gasoline stove. "I don' eveh wanna see ano'teh white Chris'mas lawng's I live." "Ah jus' don' see thuh appeal," shivers the Corporal...)

(Maybe they'll give Wyatt a Day, but don't count on it...)

(Her face in panel two says it all.)

(NO MEANS NO)

(She must be one of Uncle Frank's satisfied customers. Aroma is still a problem.)

(And just what kind of a year is it when SANTA HIMSELF ends up on the Naughty List?)

(But I bet he still eats the bone.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

They haven't chosen a name for the baby, and it's Rebecca. Good luck little girl, you're going to need it.

"Round your corner and down your way comes the Street Singer and his lovely accordion..."

Shaky just might be the most unpleasant villain Gould has ever shown us, and that's saying something.

Well, gonna be quite a camping party then.

Parents are always the last to realize that adolescence has arrived.

How does Min, an intelligent and capable woman, manage to live with this man? At least Josephine Bungle was as crazy as her husband.

Wake up and smell the rayon.

If Elmo is summoning his unholy army of the walking dead, well, OK, let's see where that goes.

It's sad when life devolves into a tired routine.

Snake is OK, and I guess Charlie does have a useful purpose -- somebody has to be shoved out front to take the first bullet.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And finally...

OK, whatever, but you'll never fit it thru that doorway.

 

[Fading Fast]

"That remoinds me -- ah -- thar'll be eleven." "Bloody hell," exhales Ma. "What happened, did'jee getcharr pocket picked again?" "It's joost that --" wheedles Uncle Frank -- "ah -- this fellow who's doon some warrk farr me, he's a bit oop against it, an' Oi thought p'raps we moit..." "WHO IS IT," frowns Ma, her arms folded. "It bettar NOT be that..." "Inky Quinlan," mutters Uncle Frank. "OI'LL BE BOOOND," sputters Ma. "Whoot's th' mattar, he caan't drawrrr a tarrkey oov 'is oon?" "Now, Nora..." argues Uncle Frank. "Inky Quinlan!" spits Ma.

I bet he brings his own ration tickets, though. And by "own," I mean "own."

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

But this barrd Shaughnessy's gaahtchee bettar be oopta th' jaaahb!" "Oh, absolutely," pledges Uncle Frank

You left out mentioning the small beads of sweat that formed on Uncle Frank's brow as he said "Oh, absolutely."

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

"Ah jus' don' see thuh appeal," shivers the Corporal...

Well played, Lizzie.

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

NO MEANS NO

I agree 100% with no means no, but in this case, I don't think it is in play and she's more the jerk than he is.

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

Snake is OK, and I guess Charlie does have a useful purpose -- somebody has to be shoved out front to take the first bullet.

Ouch! (But I don't disagree.)

 

[DocCasualty]

Briggs Stadium in Detroit (1940s)

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Hey Sal," says Alice, approaching her friend's workbench with clipboard in hand. "Hold up a sec t'eh." Sally looks up from the tiny wires clamped in the vise before her,and raises her magnifiying goggles. "Inspecteh two says t'at las' buncha cat'odes ya sent down was runnin' awf specs. Wants I should check ya jig, see'f it got knawcked outa 'jusment." "Ahhhh," frowns Sally, "whezzee get t'at stuff. T'em wiehs was right onna money. He c'n move me oveh t'plate 'sembly if he don' like it." "Nah," nahs Alice, examining one of Sally's cathode assemblies with a micrometer. "He's right. Y'runnin' awff." "Make somebody a supehviseh," fumes Sally, "an' ya fine out who y'frien's awr. Awright, awr---Hey! Who'sat oveh t'eh?" "Huh?" huhs Alice, putting the cathode in the reject tray. "T'at guy oveh t'eh by th' grid line," replies Sally, pointing across the factory floor. She fumbles in her overall pocket and dons her everyday glasses for a clearer look. "Alice!" she blurts. "T'at's him! T'at's him again!" "Who?" puzzles Alice. "Wheh?" "Right T'EH!" snaps Sally, grabbing Alice's arm and, with some effort, spinning her around. "T"at's HIM! T'at's t'at guy I been seein' aroun' t'at looks like Joe!!" "I don' see..." stammers Alice. "STAN'IN RIGHT T"EH BY T'DOOEH!" insists Sally. "He's even got awn t'same kin'a ovehrawls! RIGHT T'EH!" "Sal," maintains Alice. "T'at's Bushnell fr'm poichasin'. He's five foot two an' bawlheaded an'nee's wearin' a pinstripe suit! He don' look NUT'N like Joe!" "Oh," exhales Sally, squinting for a better focus. "No, I don'mean HIM! He musta jus' come alawng t'eh, an' Joe -- I mean, t'guy t'at looked like Joe, I dunno, he musta gawn inna awffice t'eh." "Sal," says Alice, a look of worry spreading across her face, "t'eh ain' no guy t'at looks like Joe on'nis whole flooeh." "He musta jus' stawrted woikin'..." protests Sally. "Look, I know what I seen." "Sal, look," sighs Alice, glancing at the wall clock. "'Sawrmos' noon. Whyn'choo knock awff oily f'lunch, an' I'll meetcha inna cafeterieh." "Go look f'rim!" insists Sally, shouting from behind as Alice moves toward the office. "I'm tellin' ya, he's inneh!!! Looks JUS' LIKE JOE!!!")

The German grip on eastern Slovenia loosened today under increasingly heavy Soviet force, as two Red Armies advanced thru the Nazi puppet state on a 100-mile front in converging drives against the enemy stronghold of Kassa. The Germans and their Hungarian allies were reported in late dispatches to be falling back all along the attack front after losing more than 4000 men in a series of pitched battles along the mountain passes east and south of Kassa.

Reporters returning with President Roosevelt from his three-week vacation at Warm Springs, Georgia were amazed to find rumors circulating in Washington that the president had undergone, or was about to undergo, an operation. Certain of the stories placed the operation at the Washington Naval Hospital, others asserted that the surgery took place in Boston. Newsmen who accompanied the president on his trip south and saw him daily over that entire time were unable to explain why such rumors should circulate in the capital in his absence. As with all Presidentil trips in wartime, the Warm Springs vacation was "off the record" with no report permitted to be published until the President was back in Washington.

("Moost ye slooch loike that?" scowls Ma, observing Bink Scanlan leaning behind the fountain and lackadaisically applying an emery board to her thumbnail. "Look sharrp when tharr's coostomars in th' stoor!" "What customehs," snickers Bink. "Ain' a soul in'eeh but you'n me, an'na kid." She shoots a distasteful glance down the counter at Leonora, who frowns back. "An' that's anoothar thing," fumes Ma. "What saaaarta 'zample ye think ye sett'n far me gran'daaaghtar?" "SPPPPPPT," adds Leonora to underlie the point. "An' moost ye warr that mooldy old sweatarr!" complains Ma. "Looks loike soomthin' ye foond in an old boilarr room!" Bink tosses her head, munches her gum, and offers no reply. "Was that'chee last job then?" accuses Ma. "Boilarrmaker? Ye gaaht th' hands farr it!" Bink emits a scoffing huff, and attempts to blow a bubble but forgets she isn't chewing bubble gum. The cud spews out of her mouth and ricochets off Ma's forehead. Ma's face reddens, her eyes constrict, and the small muscles in her jaw ripple. "Uh oh," exhales Leonora.....)

("Aw, f'cri'ssakes," groans Joe. "T'ese cans is frozen sawlid! Lookit'at!" The Corporal glances at the proffered container and regards the solid mass inside. "Stick it downya coat theyuh," he suggests. "Wohm it up a bit an' go attuh with a knafff. Chip'uh raht out." Joe shrugs, and does as directed. His eyes bulge with shock as cold metal hits flesh. "I t'ink it's stuck," he gasps. "T'my SKIN! I t'ink it's STUCK!" "It'll come loose," shrugs the Corporal. "Po' some hot wawtuh on it." "You GOT any hot water?" demands Joe. "Oh, Ah will, uhventually" replies the Corporal. "Soon's Ah kin get thuh stove lit."

("An outstanding prospect, this boy Brown," enthuses Mr. Rickey. "You noted, of course, his exhibitions during batting practice during the summer past. A powerful stroke for one so young, a powerful stroke indeed." "But sir," warns Mr. Parrott. "All these night games we have scheduled for next year..." "Send a box of candy and a courteous letter to Mrs. Brown explaining that Thomas will be home a bit late on those evenings." "Mrs. Brown?" puzzles Mr. Parrott. "Since when is he..." "I am speaking," declares Mr. Rickey, "of his dear mother." "Ah," nods Mr. Parrott..)

("You shred it, wheat!" KIDS TODAY!)

(Point of order: who's paying Mary's keep here? Not a good idea to lecture someone who's keeping you in raisin toast and better novels.)

(Ever notice how everybody in this strip has terrible posture?)

(No, not HA HA, it's HO HO! Look, if you're not going to study your lines you might as well not bother.)

(Watch it, pooch, I hear there's another rabies scare.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News....

Poor Oona.

Seriously. Poor Oona.

Skeez is planning for a postwar career in the State Department.

Lot of legroom in these Chryslers.

If only Mrs. B-H could live long enough to see Xitter.

Childs used to get a much better class of customers, but that bankruptcy ruined everything.

DONCHA KNOW THERE'S A WAR ON?

Anything you say, kid.

Don't worry, he hasn't got anything in there but rock salt.

Art follows life follows art.

 

[Fading Fast]

Point of order: who's paying Mary's keep here? Not a good idea to lecture someone who's keeping you in raisin toast and better novels.

And further more, where is "here" (aren't we still in America?) that there are daily flights for civilians DURING WWII to and from Paris? What universe is this story taking place in?

 

[LizzieMaine]

I think the closest Raoul ever got to France is a bowl of onion soup at the Automat. He's a phony and a con man, and Monica deserves him. SO THERE.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Gaaadaaaahlmoity," sighs Ma, slicing the wire binding the bundle of Eagles and dumping them into the rack by the door. "Oi know it's news, but moost they play it oop loike that?" "Whattaaar they s'posta do?" shrugs Uncle Frank, washing down another Tums with a gulp of two-cents-plain. "Poot it aaahn th' back page?" "Whin Sally sees that," predicts Ma, "she's goonta go aahf 'er choomp. Oi'm waaaried aboot'arr, Francis. She was in 'err last noit, an' look oot th'windarr an' seen ol' man Doonphy shooflin' oop th' street an' started screamin' 'it's Joe, it's Joe!" Joomped oop, roon ootsoide, an' tackled th' parr man doon t'th' pavement. An' thin she see what she'd doon, an' roon back in here croyin'. Said she looked oot there an' seen Joseph big as brass an' thin it wasn't him at aaahl." "Hm," hms Uncle Frank. "Soomthin's gaaaht t'be doon, Francis," declares Ma. "What aboot Doonphy?" queries Uncle Frank. "She didn't harrt 'im, did she?" "He roon aahf," replies Ma. "Nivvar seen th' poor ol' man hurry so. It's gett'n around, Francis. People are taaaahlkin'. Oi went t' Boohack's this marrnin with Leonora, an' that garrl at th' cash rigister looked oos daggars." "She's seein' that Doctarr Levine," offers Uncle Frank. "She's givin'arr medicine." "Laaahta good that's doin'," fumes Ma. "We need t'get Joseph back hoom. Can'chee talk to th' Red Craaahs?" "Oh yes," nods Uncle Frank, "Oi'll call Mr. Red Barbaaar roit away, an' Joe'll be hoom boi Christmas. Use ye head, Nora. Thar ain't noothin' we c'n do aboot that. Th' warr has gahht t'roon its course, an' Joe aloong with it. He'll be foine. Who shoots at a cook?" "Oi s'pose ye roit," exhales Ma. "Maybe a good Christmas dinnar will sett'lar down. Speakin' o' which..." "Oi went in t'see Shaughnessy this marrnin'," sighs Uncle Frank. "He was cloosed." "'E WAS, was 'ee???" roils Ma. "Probably joost takin' inventoory," sweats Uncle Frank. "Ahidda th' haaahliday roosh." "Ah," glares Ma...)

Brooklyn Dodgers president Branch Rickey today denied reports that he serves as a member of a "confidential advisory board" for an anti-Roosevelt propaganda organization headquarted in Pawling, New York, home of Governor Thomas E. Dewey. The organization, called "Guideposts Associates," is said to be headed by Rev. Dr. James W. Fifield, Congregationalist minister from California, and the brother of the Rev. Dr. L. Wendell Fifield of Plymouth Church of the Pilgrims in Brooklyn. Mr. Rickey did not deny being associated with that group, but declared that it has "no political implications at all," and further insisted that he would withdraw from any organization that developed "political entanglements."

("Look, Sal," insists Alice."You gotta getcha min' off awlis stuff. Let's go see a pitcheh, you'n, me, an' Siddy. Leave t'kids wit' t' Ginsboigs an' have us a night onna town. When'za las' time you done'at anyway?" "I dunno," sighs Sally. "What's playin'?" "Ummm," ums Alice, scanning the paper, "at t' RKO Dykeh t'ey gawt -- um -- 'T Masteh Race.'" Sally shoots her a murderous gaze. "Well," she pleads, "t'secon' featcheh is -- uh -- a Fibbeh McGee pitcheh. We'cn just see t'at, huh?" "Eh," ehs Sally. "Anyt'ing else?" "Um, well, Loew's Orien'al -- oh, wait, sawry, I f'got you can't --- um --- hey, oveh't' Colony t'ey gawt 'T'ank Ya Lucky Stawrs!'" Hey, y'know who's innat? Eddie Canteh's innat, an' Dinah Shoeh, an' Humphrey Bogawrt, an' Jawn Gawrfiel' -- um, ok, nawt such a good ideeh t'eh." "You ain' helpin'," scowls Sally. "Hey, how'bout t'is. Le's get awl dressed up an' go downtown. Loew's Met. Greeh Gawrson an' Walteh Pidgeon! He don' look nut'n like Joe, Walteh Pidgeon don't. C'mon, Sal, le's do it." Sally sinks back in her seat and closes her eyes. "Yeh," she concedes. "Sueh. Whateveh." "We'll have a swell time!" promises Alice. "Yeh," sighs Sally...)

War is Heck.

("I can't help noticing," ventures Mr. Parrott, poring over the fielding tables, "that -- uh -- Coscarart had a fine year with Pittsburgh. And I also happen to know that Mr. Benswanger and Mr. Frisch are looking for an outfielder or two. We have several men we might -- sir, are you listening?" "I do not require your advice on personnel," frosts Mr. Rickey. "What I do require from you, Mr. Parrott, is that you shield me from the depradations of these newsprint jackals! Accusing me, ME, of political chicanery! I have not a political bone in my body, Mr. Parrott, mark that well, not a single one of the two hundred and six bones comprising my frame contains a single molecule, nay, a single ATOM of political motivation! Baseball is my party, Mr. Parrott, and it is to that grand game that I swear my all. I have NO TRUCK with politics." "No sir," agrees Mr. Parrott. "But this Rev. Fifield, um, I hear that HE -- ""A man of the cloth must be above the political fray," dismisses Mr. Rickey, "in service to a higher purpose." "Yes sir," sighs Mr. Parrott. "Now, getting back to Coscarart, I think we could offer them Olmo and -- " "I have it on good authority, in fact," maintains Mr. Rickey, "that the Rev. Dr. Fifield is in fact a Brooklyn fan. As are all good Americans regardless of party or creed." "Mr. Roosevelt is a Dodger fan too," ventures Mr. Parrott. "That man?" ponders Mr. Rickey. "A Brooklyn rooter?" "He rented our field for a rally," reminds Mr. Parrott. "Oh yes," nods Mr. Rickey. "Did you examine..." "The check cleared, sir," sighs Mr. Parrott...)

("What's knittin', kitten?" Dracula's doll!)

(What's a little bit of bigamy in 1944? Everybody's doing it.)

(The cops in this city do no work at all.)

(Woodrow Wilson vs. Santa Claus? That's an interrogation I want to see!)

(AMERICA'S NUMBER ONE MOST NEGLECTED CAT knows best.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Poor Oona, redux.

Um.

Looking a little skinny there, Skeez -- maybe YOU should do some heavy lifting.

"We won't have to worry about that with her."

Don't worry, pretty soon you won't have to worry about waking up ever again...

"Fraternizing with the customers, huh? Oh, pardon me, I didn't know the circus was in town..."

Ew, better fumigate it first.

Pipsqueak? Trite, but at least it's something different.

You'll look sweet upon the seat...

"PS -- I'm sure it won't be long."

 

[Fading Fast]

Loew's Met. Greeh Gawrson an' Walteh Pidgeon! He don' look nut'n like Joe, Walteh Pidgeon don't.

God luv ya, Alice.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("I mean, c'mon Sal," exhales Alice. "Get'n t'rown outa Loew's Oriennal is one t'ing. But gett'n t'rown outa t'MET..." "I neveh liked t'at place anyways," fumes Sally. "Ev'rybody inneh'sawl stuck up. Ev'na dame inna ladies' gives ya t' towel, lookin' ya oveh like y'ain' good'anough t'be inneh. Who NEEDS'at jernt!" "Yeh," concedes Alice, "but what you done -- I mean, yellin' up at t' projecteh man t' run t'newsreel again jus' 'cause y't'ought ya seen Joe innit. Runnin' up t'eh'r'n poundin' awn 'is dooeh till t'ey come an' drag'ya awff." "It WAS Joe," insists Sally. "He was RIGHT T'EH!" "T'at was Eisenhoweh," sighs Alice. "I don' mean HIM," snaps Sally, "I mean BEHIN' 'im! Innat line a sol'jehs. T'at was JOE." "Sal," warns Alice, "y'gotta cut t'is out. Y'gotta pull y'self t'get'eh'r 'a ya headed f' Bellevue again." "Easy f'you y'say," growls Sally. "Ya husban' ain' oveh t'eh, maybe neveh comin' back!" "I keep tellin' ya, Sal," erupts Alice. "EVERYBODY keeps tellin' ya! WHO'S GONNA SHOOT AT A COOK?" "Y'don't hafta get shawt," glowers Sally, "t'nawt come back....")

Brooklyn is today $4000 nearer to its E Bond quota in the Sixth War Loan Drive after a whirlwind visit to Albee Square by the Bondmobile, under the sponsorship of the Brooklyn Savings Bank. Bond-sellers from the Brooklyn unit of the American Women's Volunteer Services rang up that total in just four hours of sales, bringing the total bond sales for the borough to 72.5 percent of the quota.

Meanwhile, members of the Sports Committee of the Kings County War Finance Committee who sponsored the recent War Bond Bowl football game at Ebbets Field were congratulated yesterday for raising a total of $5,000,000 thru that event. "I doubt in times like these," declared Dodger president Branch Rickey, "that a man can call himself a true patriot if he fails to extend himself beyond the line of duty here on the home front."

("What d'ye MEAN," frowns Ma, "he still ain't oopen?" "He ain't oopen," shrugs Uncle Frank. "You knoow that business with th' OPA. Shaughnessy's a man of faaaaarm principles." "Oi know aaaahl aboot Shaughnessy's principles," sours Ma. "Oi've been pickin' gristle oota Shaughnessy's principles farr years." "Ye gaaaht noothin' t'warry aboot, Nora," insists Uncle Frank. "He give me his warrrd, an' a man's warrd has gaaaht t'coont far soomthin'. Even --- ah -- if th' man IS Shaughnessy....")

("There's other ways to do it, you know!")

(KIDS TODAY)

(Yeah, Merry Christmas to you, Tommy. How's your fastball?)

("Well then don't GO to those three places!")

(Ah, LIGHT magazine. A Henry Loose publication.)

(Some reporter. WHERE'S YOUR NOTEBOOK?)

("No spirit gum? Amateur!" -- Capt. Judas.)

("Nice tree. BE A SHAME IF SOMEBODY CLIMBED IT.")

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"I think it's rather sordid."

Well, it's not exactly Dude and Raven, but hey, there's a war on...

There are no gentle winter storms in Mr. Gould's world.

It's not like Andy has anything else to do with his time.

There's got to be a regulation covering this.

Dream on, son.

That's what you get for riding a fixie.

"Wow, look at that patina."

SHE CAN HEAR YOU.

Merry Christmas from New York's Picture Newspaper.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Oi know aaaahl aboot Shaughnessy's principles," sours Ma. "Oi've been pickin' gristle oota Shaughnessy's principles farr years."

Nice one, Nora.

"Ye gaaaht noothin' t'warry aboot, Nora," insists Uncle Frank. "He give me his warrrd, an' a man's warrd has gaaaht t'coont far soomthin'. Even --- ah -- if th' man IS Shaughnessy...."

Plan B, Frank; you need a plan B.

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

There's got to be a regulation covering this.

Not if you don't look for it. It's a "plead ignorance and ask forgiveness afterward" situation.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Nah, bud," dismisses the medic, poking at Joe's exposed toe. "That ain't frostbite, not yet." "I can't feel nut'n innit," protests Joe. "You'll live," shrugs the medic. "G'wan over there, they'll let ya soak it in a pan a' water till th' feelin' comes back." "What about t'ese rotten boots?" demands Joe. "I been wearin'ese boots since Camp Upton! Look at'm -- comin' apawrt! What'm I s'post'a do?" "Go see Sergeant Thom McAn," scoffs the medic. "Better have ya coupon ready." "Ahhhh," snarls Joe, "wait'lla nex' time ya HUNGRY, see what it gets ya!" "Tol' yuh it wasn' wut'th th' trouble," commisserates the Corporal, as Joe hobbles toward the medical tent. "Yuh lose a toe, maybe -- ain' gonna hut'cha none." "I know a guy back home," grumbles Joe, 'gawt six toes on each foot." "Maybe he'll give yuh one," snickers the Corporal...)

British pressure on President Roosevelt and the State Department forced the dropping of a Palestine resolution in the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, but the issue is not dead and is expected to come up again before the incoming Congress, declared Rep. Donald O'Toole (D-NY). Speaking before the congregation at the Bay Ridge Jewish Center last night, the congressman promised to revive the resolution calling for the establishment of a free Palestine after the war as a Jewish national homeland. He urged members of the congregation to write directly to Secretary of State Edward Stettinius in behalf of "the principles of freedom for minorities."

("Bloody year'na haaalf they've had Michael in that camp," fumes Ma. "Woonder when they'll get aroond t'sendin' HIM home." "He'll be foine," sighs Uncle Frank. "All that toime he's haaad in stir, he knoows 'is way aroond." "THaaaat's a tarrible thing t'say aboot'chee own step-soon," admonishes Ma. "Oi'm sarry, Nora," apologizes Uncle Frank. "Oi'm preoccupoied. Th' boys aaahr faaahlin' behoind on fillin' cigarette ordarrs, we joost can't get th' papaar." "An' Oim sure," frowns Ma, "ye went oovar t'see Shaughnessy this marrnin' an' ye foond 'im still cloosed." "Nivver moind aboot Shaughnessy," jitters Uncle Frank. "He'l coom throoo." "Elivin people," reminds Ma, her frown deepening into a scowl. "He BETTAR." "Yes," murmurs Uncle Frank."He bettar...")

(Aren't you cold?)

(Behind the scenes at Namm's Basement.)

("That's this big plan you've been talking about, sir?" stumbles Mr. Parrott. "Another football team? I don't..." "Mr. Topping is a mountebank," thunders Mr. Rickey. "A dabbler and a dilettante. I shall soil my hands no longer on such an individual. No, my boy, football is a man's game, and should be left to men, not -- prancing night club playboys, not gigolo husbands of ice skating Swedes." "Um," mutters, Mr. Parrott, "she's Norwegian, actually." "Eh?" snaps Mr. Rickey. "Norwegian, sir," repeates Mr. Parrott. "Sonja Heine is Norwegian." Indeed," dismisses Mr. Rickey, his voice taking on a accusing tone. "You are unusually well-informed on such matters." "But what about this?" queries Mr. Parrott. "What about Topping threatening to buy US?" "I have already assigned Mr. O'Malley, as club legal counsel, to prevent such a transaction," affirms Mr. Rickey. "His thorough investigation will no doubt uncover Mr. Topping's long trail of financial chicanery. The remaining heirs will never sell to a man of such compromised character." "But are you sure you can TRUST O'Malley?" protests Mr. Parrott. Mr. Rickey stares at Mr. Parrott, the cigar smoldering in his hand, for a long moment. "Trust," he calmly explains, "is a relative term...")

("At'sa stupides' t'ing I eveh read," sneers Sally. "T'at's whatcha cawl hallucinations. Seein' t'ings t'at ain' t'eh." "Ah," ahs Alice. "Bring back t' Bungle Fam'ly," Sally adds, wdding up the paper and tossing it under her seat. "Hey," she snaps, glancing across the car. "Look oveh t'eh! T'at's..." "No, Sal," sighs Alice. "No it ain't...")

(Do you get the sense that somebody expected the war to be over by now? That's what you get for having a three-month lead time.)

(I wonder what the Commissioner thinks of Jane doing all the interrogations.)

(Why do they even HAVE detectives?)

(Duty never sleeps.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"On a blind impulse." That's one way to put it.

Harry Langdon was the "Fourth Genius" of silent comedy, and Frank Capra spent his whole life slandering him. Just wanted to make that clear.

Still not Raven and Dude.

"I don't know why they filled in this authorization form first..."

And no frostbitten feet...

You sure you can't get another factory job?

"Oh, by the way Helen, did you I'm the trustee for my late billionaire uncle's charitable foundation? Merry Christmas!"

Do skunks squirt other skunks?

I hope you get fleas from that coat.

You'll answer to the OPA for this!