The Era -- Day By Day

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News.

And so it begins...

No words.

And remember "Enog" spelled backwards is "Gone."

"And no jokes about Methuselah."

"K-k-k-k-k-k!" It's the same in any language.

Mind on your work, kid.

WELL THAT WAS EASY

Not so fast, Judge. Have a cup of tea.

"From now on you get pablum for breakfast!"

Never mind the gag, just admire how flexible Willie must be to be able to sit like that.

 

[Fading Fast]

With the possible exceptions of Sugar Ray Robinson, Jake LaMotta, and Kingfish Levinsky, Willie Pep is the best 1940s boxer name ever.

And Ezzard Charles being the least likely. That would be a much better name for a band leader in the '40s: "The Ezzard Charles Orchestra."

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This poor cat deserves a much better situation.

And Bo, too. They should shop themselves around as a team and get away from all of these idiots. Jane Arden could use a couple of pets, just sayin'.

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Inflation adjusted, Gloria's haul of $4.5 million is worth about $80 million in 2025 - a huge amount of money, but in today's terms, far, far from the very rich.

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Not so fast, Judge. Have a cup of tea.

It looks like Gray is taking his strip into film noir land for a little bit.

 

[ChiTownScion]

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Robe't Moses," sneers Sally. "He's a fathead." "He built a lotta pawrks," shrugs Alice, sensing a rampage. "Lousy pawrks," Sally scoffs. "Me'n Joe useta take Leonoreh when she was a baby, oveh t't'at Satellite Pawrk t'eh, y'know? Oveh by New Utrick? A pawrk he cawls it. No trees, no pat's, nutt'n but a lousy playrgroun' wit' a rusty slide an' busted swings. We put Leonoreh onnat slide one time, an' she cut 'ehself! She coulda gawt lockjaw fr'm'nat, y'know. Awl caus'a t'at fathead Robe't Moses an'nis lousy, phony 'scuse f'ra pawrk." "T' Woil's Faieh, t'ough," offers Alice. "I bet t'at was sump'n." "Ehh, it was awright," shrugs Sally, 'cep f'me losin'at strawr hat I got at Namms onnat parachute jump. T'at hat is prob'ly still flyin' oveh Flushin', an' awl b'causa t'at fathead Robe't Moses an' 'is lousy Woil's Faieh." "I wisht I coulda seen it, t'ough," sighs Alice. "It was kinda round," recalls Sally. "Wit' a white ribbon aroun'..." "No, I mean'na Woil's Faieh," corrects Alice. "T' Woild a' T'marreh." "You neveh went?" marvels Sally. "Not even once?" "I was livin' upstate t'en," shrugs Alice. "Jus' couldn' -- uh -- get away." "Ahhhh, t'e'll have anot'eh one," predicts Sally. "Ya t'ink?" replies Alice. "Yeh," assures Sally "An'nat fathead Robe't Moses'll roon'at one too." "Oh," ohs Alice. "I really liked'at hat, too," sighs Sally, as the train rolls on toward home...)

("Ye got any marr'a thim Larrrd Calvarrt labels?" asks Uncle Frank, examing a row of unmarked bottles. "Certainly," nods Inky Quinlan, unwrapping a small brown parcel. "I completed these this afternoon. Note the detailed linework, the delicate shading of the portrait. I trust you appreciate the difficulty of such elaborate lithography, particularly with the -- ah -- limited facilities with which I have been provided." "Whassis say?" interrupts Bink Scanlan, peeking around Uncle Frank's bulk. "Fawr Men of Dis-stink-tion. T'at ain' how ya spellit, izzit?" "That's NOT a 'k'," huffs Inky, resenting the impugning of his work. "It appears that a fine hair of some sort found its way onto the plate, and caused the ink to smear." "Musta fell outa ya moustache," snickers Bink. "Y'betteh put s'moeh' t'at slickum onneh, keep it stuck down." "REALLY, Frank," sputters Inky, "MUST I work with this -- person." "Warrr is hell, me boy," chuckles Uncle Frank. "An' check ya pockets befarrr ye goo home." "HEY!" snaps Bink. "So there," sniffs Inky.)

("Oooooooh no ye dooon't," scowls Ma, snatching back a pack of Philip Morris. "Oi recognize ye behoind thim soonglasses, Mavis Doyle. Ye had ye quoota!" "Really, Nora," scoffs Mrs. Doyle. "I haven't been in here all week!" "P'raps so," nods Ma, "boot'chee five sistarrs was!" "Just one pack," begs Mrs. Doyle. "That's all I ask. I haven't had a cigarette all day, and you JUST DON'T KNOW WHAT IT'S LIKE! SIX KIDS, NORA! SIX KIDS!" "Ye shooda thaata that," smirks Ma, "befarrr ye gaaat staarted." "I could make a lot of trouble for you," scowls Mrs. Doyle. "One word to my husband..." "That's a noice coat ye wearin,'" observes Ma. "An' aaaahn a sergeant's salary?" Mrs. Doyle takes a deep breath, knowing she has lost the argument. "I'll give you," she sighs, "fifty cents for that pack." "Thaaat's faaaaar aboov th' ceilin' proice," declares Ma, thru pursed lips. "Ye'd have Mr. Woolley doon me neck. Boot Oi tell ye what. Oi'll give ye that pack a'cigarettes ---aaaand a nice cool glass a' seltzaaar -- farr fifty cents." "Seltzer," glares Mrs. Doyle, "is two cents." "Oi see a ceilin' proice farr cigarettes," replies Ma, glancing at the sign posted behind the counter. Booot Oi dooon't see noo ceilin' proice farr seltzaaar." Mrs. Doyle rolls her eyes, slumps onto a stool, and clinks a half dollar on the counter. "Oi'll give ye," smiles Ma, as the coin vanishes into her apron pocket, "a dooble...")

'
(Well, it beats the WACs.)

(Jimmie Foxx might have been the strongest man to play baseball in his generation, but he was never strong enough to beat the bottle.)

(Well, at least he doesn't wear a tie as a belt.)

(He had half a beer, in a little tiny glass.)

(See, Terry, this is how you do it.)

(All it takes to combat evil is a good heckler in the right place.)

(If ever there was a guy who deserved to be, I dunno, eaten by wild beavers, it's this guy.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"I hope to see my mother in heaven." Happy to help with that.

Yeah, Drex, all the gals in NY-AFRA voted you most likely to get brained with a mike stand.

"Okay Measles."

It's good to have friends.

Take notes, now.

LITTLE LATE FOR THAT KNOBHEAD

"I mean, now, 'Cohen On The Telephone!' Now THAT was a record!!"

C'mon, Shad, sing the rest of the song. I dare ya.

You know, there are schools where you can send a kid like this.

There's nothing like a good talk.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

Sometimes they don't come home.

 

[Fading Fast]

"I'll give you," she sighs, "fifty cents for that pack." "Thaaat's faaaaar aboov th' ceilin' proice," declares Ma, thru pursed lips. "Ye'd have Mr. Woolley doon me neck. Boot Oi tell ye what. Oi'll give ye that pack a'cigarettes ---aaaand a nice cool glass a' seltzaaar -- farr fifty cents." "Seltzer," glares Mrs. Doyle, "is two cents." "Oi see a ceilin' proice farr cigarettes," replies Ma, glancing at the sign posted behind the counter. Booot Oi dooon't see noo ceilin' proice farr seltzaaar." Mrs. Doyle rolls her eyes, slumps onto a stool, and clinks a half dollar on the counter. "Oi'll give ye," smiles Ma, as the coin vanishes into her apron pocket, "a dooble..."

The reason price ceilings, sanctions, etc., rarely work is there is almost always a "work around." Ma and Mrs. Doyle's "arrangement" is a great example of a market-clearing price finding its way to the surface.

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"I hope to see my mother in heaven." Happy to help with that.

Brutal freakin' story. And I have my doubts about his report of what his mother said.