The Era -- Day By Day

[Fading Fast]

"He gets oot," sighs Uncle Frank, "in 1947."

Perfect.

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"How jejune." -- Ignatius J. Quinlan.

Also perfect.

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More to the point, though, why are you dressed like a Hollywood agent?

Before business attire morphed into biz-casual/all casual, I believe the expression was "dress for the job you want."

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Aaaahl roit," exhales Ma. "Let's goo oovar this again." "Yes'm," nods Bink Scanlan. "If weee're goin' t'convince these Coca-Coola people t'drop th' chaaarges," Ma continues, "we gaaaht t'get th' story straight. Faaaar th' laaaaaast toime now, yaaar name is Sally Petrauskas." "Riiiiiight," nods Bink. "An' yaaaar marrried t' Joseph, who's a Technician Fifth...oh, nivver moind that, he's a caaaarporal. Caaarporal Joseph Petrauskas." "Riiiight," affirms Bink. "An' he's ovaaarseas foitin' aaahn th' froont loines in Fraaance. Draaaaafted away froom'is woife an' little garrrl. An' yaaaaar waaarkin' t'keep oop hoose an' hoom faaaar th' telephone coomp'ny oot in New Jaaarsey, in a fact'ry makin' radio tubes." "She does'at?" marvels Bink. "Ain'nat sump'n. Radio tubes." "Ahhl roit," nods Ma, "now you give it back t'me. What's ye name?" "Sally," hesitates Bink. "Ummm, Sally Petrovich?" "Petrauskas." "Petrovich is easieh t'say," shrugs Bink. "Joos DOO LOIKE OI TELL YE!" fumes Ma. "Now what's yaar hoosband's name, an' where is he?" "Ummm," searches Bink, her gum parked thoughtfully in her cheek, "Ummmm, Johnny Pestrauski, an' he's a -- um -- technical cawrpr'l..." "Oi give oop," groans Ma, as the door jingles open. "It's aaaahl set, Nora," declares Uncle Frank. "Oi gaaaht soombody t'be yaaar lawyer." "Oi thaat'chee said ye couldn't foind..." begins Ma. "No, no, he's not an ACT'CHAL lawyarrr," admits Uncle Frank. "Boot when we goo in, he'll goo with oos, see, an' 'eel LOOK loike a lawyaaar. He's aaahn 'is way ovaaar now." Ma's scowl deepens. "It bettar naaaht be..." She trails off as the door opens again. "Ahhhhhh there, Mrs. Leary," beams Ignatius J. Quinlan, his teeth gleaming beneath his immaculate and lawyerly moustache. "OI GIVE OOOP!" roars Ma.....)

("An' stawrt by tradin'at Rickey t'Pittsboig," growls Sally. "An' get Petey back!" "Din'choo say Petey's a yeeh oldeh'rn you?" notes Alice. "Yeh," nods Sally. "I read inna Who's Who In Basebawl. So what?" "How ol' you gonna be in 1947," queries Alice. "Um, t'oity foueh," calculates Sally. "So what?" "T'at means Petey'll be t'oity five," observes Alice. "Ain'nat kinda old f'ra secon' baseman?" "He still ain' as old as Billy Hoiman," snaps Sally. "So shuttup!" "What if t'ez somebody come along youngeh?" challenges Alice. "Tommy Brown, f'zample. He's on'y 16. 1947 he's gonna be -- eighteen?" "Too young!" replies Sally. "Can't stay up late f'night games!" "Good pernt," acknowledges Alice, knowing when an argument can't be won...)

(It just isn't the same since Orphan Annie went off the air...)

(Won't somebody think of the horses?)

(The "pick up artist" movement has deep roots...)

("How hideous. Hope you kept the receipt.")

(It's easy if you know how!)

("Don't blame me," shrugs Uncle Frank. "Ye just can't get th' molasses!")

(AND TRY SWIMMING WITH A DISLOCATED CLAVICLE!)

 

[LizzieMaine]

"Hey bud," greets Jimmy Leary, addressing a furtive looking gentleman standing on the corner of Rogers Avenue and Maple Street. "Gotta smoke?" "How many y'need?" smirks the gentleman, reaching into his coat. "Let's us have a tawk," interjects Danny Leary, emerging from a doorway. "Yeh," nods Jimmy, taking the gentleman by the elbow. "Let's have a tawk." "Private like," adds Danny, his hand slipping into his coat pocket....

"I must admit though, I do appreciate the salutes when I come into the bedroom."

War is heck.

And he wandered off into the jungle, never to be seen or heard from again...

I didn't know Pop was religious, but I guess there are no atheists in candy stores.

That explains why the card says "Rest In Peace."

Sea water freezes at a little over 28 degrees, which suggests you won't have too long to worry about it...

There are no shadows so shadowy as Harold Gray's shadows....

"Oh. Well, that changes everything."

KIDS TODAY.

 

[Fading Fast]

"She does'at?" marvels Bink. "Ain'nat sump'n. Radio tubes."

Every now and then, I kinda like Bink.

I also love that even Ma knows putting Sally in front of Coke is not a good idea no matter from what angle you look at it. She's so sure of that, that she's willing to go through this with Binkadoo.

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"It's aaaahl set, Nora," declares Uncle Frank. "Oi gaaaht soombody t'be yaaar lawyer." "Oi thaat'chee said ye couldn't foind..." begins Ma. "No, no, he's not an ACT'CHAL lawyarrr," admits Uncle Frank. "Boot when we goo in, he'll goo with oos, see, an' 'eel LOOK loike a lawyaaar. He's aaahn 'is way ovaaar now." Ma's scowl deepens. "It bettar naaaht be..." She trails off as the door opens again. "Ahhhhhh there, Mrs. Leary," beams Ignatius J. Quinlan, his teeth gleaming beneath his immaculate and lawyerly moustache. "OI GIVE OOOP!" roars Ma.....

That is so perfect. Coke could so easily steamroll over these people if it wants to.

Also, I can see Allen Jenkins playing Ignatius J. Quinlan; the part is tailor made for him.

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So what is the offensive thing here? Sounds pretty on target for the times.

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"I must admit though, I do appreciate the salutes when I come into the bedroom."

"But I thought you said you tie both his hands to the headboard, so how does he salu....ohhhhh."

"That will be all, Sargent."

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I'm surprised they let "hell" make it through used this way.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("How c'n ya even RUN a fountain wit'out Coke?" frowns Sally, sipping desultorily at an egg cream. "T'ez no -- you know -- zing t't'is stuff." "Don'chee knoo tharr's a waar aaahn?" snaps Ma. "Sawry," shrugs Sally. "I'm just sayin'. Any woid when ya gonna get any in?" "No," declares Ma, struggling to rein in her irritation. "Anyway, Oi'm gonna cloose th' store t'marra. Oi gaaaht some business t'take care oov in th' city." "Can't y'have Bink run t'place?" suggests Sally. "Barbara's gooin with me," replies Ma. "We gaaat things t'do." "Ah," ahs Sally, filing this note away for future suspicion. "Well, anyways, it's Leonoreh's day at t' N Y U clinic inna city too. Maybe you could drawp 'eh awff an' pick 'eh up, give Misteh Ginsboig t'day awff." "We're noot goin' oop that way," jitters Ma. "We're gooin' soomwhar else that's naaath oop that way." "Huh," shrugs Sally. "Hey, speakin' a'which, Docteh Minkoff gimme t'is repoeht on how she's doin'. He says she 'displays remawrkable creativity fawr a child'a heh age.' How 'bout t'at?" "Is that soo," replies Ma, for want of any other observation on the matter. "Oh yeh," enthuses Sally. "He says she was tellin'is whole stawry t't'ot'eh kids, y'know, makin' it up as she goes alawng. Sawrt of a, you know, hard-berled crime stawry. She was goin'awn about how t'is guy, y'know, t'is robbeh tries t'stick up a canny stoeh, y'know? An'nis gal woiks inna stoeh socks 'im onna head wit' a bag'a nickels, puts 'im out col', an'nen'na ol' lady runs'a place, y'know? She wraps 'im up in tape, right? An' sticks some chlorehfawrm in 'is face, an'nen'nese two guys, y'know, hoods, show up an' t'row 'im inna back'va truck an' drive awff wit'tim! Ain'nat a stawry!" "Oh, indeed," sweats Ma. "I wo'neh weh she comes up wit't'at stuff," marvels Sally. "Mus' be t'em d'tective magazines she's awrways lookin'at." "Noo doot," nods Ma. "Well," sighs Sally, sucking up the last of her egg cream, "I s'pose it's betteh'rn True Romances...")

(Good to know.)

(Oh, RUTH Reiser. I wonder if she could play center field?)

(Coyotes, in fact, rarely thieve, but rather sieze their prey in packs after lurking about known gathering places. If you're going to offer nature facts, Mr. Harman, please check them first.)

(Boogie Woogie? 1940 was a long time ago.)

("Besides, Bill has probably burned the house down by now, and I just can't deal with that again.")

(Guess Mr. Hull has plenty of time now for croquet...)

(Come now, be creative. I once broke into my boss's office and shifted everthing on his desk half an inch to the left. Didn't see him that entire day.)

(And now, 45 year later, horses still play a key role in New York dinners...)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Donna Reed, a Mexican divorce? SHE'LL NEVER LIVE IT DOWN!

Patience.

For years my phone number was one digit off from a pizza joint. You get used to it.

Well, at least Tracy isn't shoving bees down the hole.

"eek!"

In a few years, the TV wrestling craze will make Kayo very very rich. And Shadow will be part of his stable.

Oh, you said that once before and look how THAT ended up!

Careful you don't burn the house down. And clearly the Gump DNA got spread around pretty well in this town, isn't that right Eddie The Brush?

Boys and their toys.

 

[Fading Fast]

Amen. Smoking indoors was always repulsive, but in eating establishments, it was really gross. Shame it took about fifty years for sanity to catch up with culture.

 

[LizzieMaine]

(A portrait of Robert Woodruff glowers down from the waiting room wall outside the legal department at The Coca-Cola Company's executive offices on East 42nd Street, and beneath his gaze, Bink Scanlan mutters in frustration. "Y'd T"INK," she fumes, "inNIS place, y'could get a drink a' Coke!" "Shoot oop," hisses Ma, as Uncle Frank looks up from a two-month-old copy of "The Red Barrel." Inky Quinlan, briefcase in hand, preens his moustache as a secretary beckons the Brooklyn group to the inner office. A no-nonsense man in a featureless suit frowns up from an open folder on his desk and nods them into a series of chairs lined up in perfect alignment with the floor tiles. "Mrs. Leary?" he begins, his eyes fastening on Ma. "Yess sarr," Ma nods, lowering her gaze. "Me hoosband, Mistarr Leary -- ah, me daughter Sally, and... ahhh..." "Ooor counsel," injects Uncle Frank. "Mistarr -- ahh -- J. Q. Ignatius. Esquire." "How do you do," purrs Inky. "Felix Haskell," nods the occupant of the desk, his voice stony. "Director of Investigations." He holds up a densely-typed sheet. "You operate a fountain at 503 Rogers Avenue, Brooklyn." "Yessar," nods Ma. "Since 1924," Mr. Haskell continues, "you have had a contract with The Coca-Cola Company for the exclusive sale of our syrup thru your fountain, a contract assumed by you following the retirement of -- ah -- Mr. Milton Lieb, who had held this contract since 1910." "Yessar," nods Ma. "I call your attention to this clause in your contract, to wit: 'party of the second part does agree and does so warrant that only products of the party of the first part shall be dispensed into glassware bearing trademarks of the party of the first part." "Yes sar," exhales Ma, wringing her hands in contrition. "I have before me, Mrs. Leary," declares Mr. Haskell, holding up another sheet, "a chemical analysis of the sample collected by our agent at your premises on the ninth of January." "Ohhhhh, Mistarrrrrr Haskell, sarrrrr," erupts Ma, breaking into a well-rehearsed sob. "Oi oonly did it faaaaar th' sake 'a me poooor family! We coould't get noo syrup, an' me pooor hoosband thar, he can noo laaaanger waaark his trade becaaause a' th' ploombar's palsy!" Uncle Frank holds up his hands, trembling mightily. "An' me poor daaaaaaughter, waaaaarkin' haaar fingaaaaaars t'the boon in New Jaaaaarsey whoile haaar brave hoosband risks his loife in Fraaaance." "Pooeh Johnny," sighs Bink. "Joe, uh, Joe," she corrects. "Annnn' me ooonly son," wails Ma, "a boy who looooved a coold glass a'Coca-Coola loike loife itself, waaaaaaastin' away a prisonaaar a' waaar, dreamin' oov th' moment when he can woonce maaaaar lift that froosty glasssss to his lips..." "I'm sure that is all very true," frowns Mr. Haskell, "but the trademark laws of this country require us to rigorously prosecute all cases of substitution. There is also the matter of certain -- alkaloids -- our analysis found present in your sample, which..." His voice trails off, as he notices J. Q. Ignatius, Esquire, tapping a cigarette against a sleek silver case. "Oh," smiles Inky. "My manners." He flicks open the case, and holds it out, revealing a tidy row of neat white cylinders. "Cigarette?" Mr. Haskell's eyes widen. Ma shoots him a glance. Uncle Frank offers only an enigmatic smile....)

Mayor LaGuardia travels to Washington today to confer with Federal authorities concerning the city's meat situation, and is expected to return on Wednesday with plans to impose meatless Tuesdays and Fridays along with a "leftover Monday." Proposed enforcement measures to back up these edicts have not been mentioned, but it is expected the Mayor will seek Government authority to make these meatless days compulsory, including the likely closure of butcher shops several days a week. In his Sunday broadcast over WNYC, the Mayor warned that the meat shortage is likely to continue in the city for several months. Operators of restaurants and hotels have indicated their support for the Mayor's plan, noting that many establishments have already instituted Meatless Tuesdays and Fridays on a voluntary basis.

("Hey Sal," queries Alice. "What's a 'de walkueeh?" "One'a t'ese gals wit' wings, see," explains Sally. "An'ney got speehs, right, an' helmets awn. An'ney come in awn a flyin' hawrse." "T'ey got wings?" marvels Alice. "Howcome t'ey need a flyin' hawrse?" "I dunno," shrugs Sally. "Savin' ene'gy, I guess. See, it's ya my'tology. T'ese Vikin's, y'see -- t'eh like pirates wit' big beehds an'nese helmets wit' hawrns awn'm -- they uset'a b'lieve t'at when ya die, t'ese gals wit' t' wings take ya soul awf t' Valhalla." "'At's up in Wes'chesteh, ain' it?" frowns Alice. "Who'd wanna go t'eh?" "An'nen when'ney getcha t'eh," concludes Sally, "I dunno, t'ey feed ya beeh." "AH!" declares Alice. "T'at makes SENSE! T'ey wrote a whole opera about t'at, din'ney?" "Yeh," nods Sally. "I hoida t'at one," nods Alice. "Dass Rheingold!")

(Coming events....)

("Taxes and Bonds, Bonds and Taxes, that's the way to Beat The Axis!")

(Can't argue with any of Mr. Holmes's choices, but I do hope, in a few years' time, he'll speak up on behalf of Frederick Landis Fitzsimmons...)

(I had no idea that Al Smith was so driven by emotion...)

("Hey, don't I look like Betty Hutton when I squint llike this? Huh?")

(Good, you just keep thinking that.)

(RIPPED FROM THE HEADLINES)

(The Edge Of A Dilemma.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"A Hollywood Technique," all right.

"Futurity Stakes winner?" They're betting on dog shows now?

"So she blew up a submarine. Who woudn't?"

Ah, winter.

Wait, Andy has friends?

That's what you get for parking in a rough neighborhood.

It's about time you went back to work!

Shut up and play!

Sure, but try and get you out!

Now add a target on the cockpit glass.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Pooeh Johnny," sighs Bink. "Joe, uh, Joe," she corrects.

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...they uset'a b'lieve t'at when ya die, t'ese gals wit' t' wings take ya soul awf t' Valhalla." "'At's up in Wes'chesteh, ain' it?" frowns Alice. "Who'd wanna go t'eh?"

North of the City means one thing to Alice.

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Good, you just keep thinking that.

Monte Barrett is assuming a lot about his readership asking them to go along with the minutia of a payroll fraud story. I like this kind of stuff and even I'm thinking he needs to speed things up. Just sayin'.