The Era -- Day By Day

[LizzieMaine]

("Sinatreh's still a 4-F," sneers Sally. "Whatta punk." "Aww," injects Bink Scanlan, pausing in her labors to insert a fresh stick of Black Jack. "I t'ink 'e's whatchacawl dreamy." "Nightmaeh, moeh like," scoffs Sally. "He ain' nut'n like my Joe, at's f'sueh." "I neveh metcha husban'," shrugs Bink. "Whas'see like?" "He's like," frowns Sally, pointing to the small banner hanging behind the counter displaying two blue stars, "t'at." "Oh," acknowledges Bink. "Yeh," nods Sally, her voice hard. "An' doncha f'get it. Anyways," she continues, making an active effort to shift her mood, "I been meanin' t'ask ya sump'n. You like woikin'eeh? You like woikin' f'my Ma?" "Eh," ehs Bink. "It's a jawb." "Well look," wheedles Sally. "You eveh c'nsideh t'ez BETTEH jawbs out'teh?" "Y'mean like you gawt?" puzzles Bink. "I do'wanna woik in no fac'try, it ain' a whatcha cawl a good env'riament f'ra young gal like me. Y'know?" "I don' mean woik inna factry," declares Sally. "I mean, didjeh eveh consideh -- well, wait'n tables? In one'a t'em swell rest'runts downtown? T'ezzis place awn Fulton Street t'eh, w'eh awla big shawts go t'eat, an' I hoid t'ey was lookin' f'waitresses." "Y'don' say," replies Bink, rotating her gum. "I neveh done no woik like t'at." "Piece a'cake," declares Sally. "I done it myself oncet." "Oh, I hoidja Ma an' ol' Fatty tawkin'about t'at," snickers Bink. "A whole plate'a beans onnat guy!" "NEVEH MINE'AT!!" exhales Sally. "Now, heeh's whatcha need t'do....")

(There is no job too challenging for a skilled T-5.)

(Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick...)

("I DON'T however, understand what you mean when you keep talking about 'point spreads.'")

("Um, if it's about the moonlighting, sir," stammers Mr. Parrott, "it's like I told you before..." "I have not summoned to discuss that trifling breach of discipline," declares Mr. Rickey with a sweep of his cigar. "We will address that at the proper time. No, my boy, I have summoned you today to discuss a matter of utmost importance, my boy, a matter which may concern your personal safety and well-being." "Oh," ohs Mr. Parrott. "If it's about those friends of Leo's who were in here yesterday..." "No, no," dismisses Mr. Rickey. "Mr. Durocher's associates figure not into this matter at all. I speak to you to a threat even more grave. It has come to my attention that a letter was sent to you at this office by a certain woman, a very dangerous woman, a Mrs. Sally Petrauskas of 1762 63rd Street. Do you know of whom I am speaking?" "I think MacPhail mentioned her to me once," shrugs Mr. Parrott. "She was very upset when he traded away Coscarart. And, speaking of which, I still say we could..." "We shall not discuss petty personnel matters," insists Mr. Rickey, "when your very -- sanity -- may be at stake. You must beware, my boy, you must beware. Jane Ann fortunately intercepted this communication before it could reach your desk, but there may be other attempts to contact you, for what purpose I cannot say. Beware, my boy. If you sight at any time a dark-haired woman with spectacles whose mouth is -- ah -- perpetually open, you must advise me at once, and I shall summon the authorites." "Oh," ohs Mr. Parrott. "It's that serious?" "It is," nods Mr. Rickey. "She has campaigned steadily against me for nearly two years. She found me at church. She found me at home. I knew no peace. You note, my boy, that at no time do I seat myself with my back facing a door." "Oh," swallows Mr. Parrott. "She usually travels," continues Mr. Rickey, "in the company of a large red-headed woman. Together they create a terrifying force for chaos and disorder." "Worse than Hilda?" injects Mr. Parrott. "Mrs. Chester," sighs Mr. Rickey, "is a gentle kindergarten teacher by comparison," "Oh," ohs Mr. Parrott. "Oh, indeed," sighs Mr. Rickey.

(Don't you DARE blow up that poor goose!)

(Actually what he said was "gggaarrrhppphhh hack wheeeeze.")

(Sometimes they don't even need a casting couch.)

(Gee, it's good to have supportive friends.)

(Cue the "wacky hillbilly fiddle music.")

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"$100,000 Gem Dip." See what you could accomplish, Bink, if you tried...

Funny you should ask..

Your dance, Patrick.

Back in 1918, "Gasoline Alley" began as a strip about Walt, Doc, Avery and Bill, four guys standing around in the alley behind their houses complaining about their cars. Every once in a while Mr. King reminds us of that.

"Short Man???" IT NEVER STOPS WITH YOU PEOPLE DOES IT?

Somebody's gonna lose their job over this.

Celebrity cameos in the comics are nothing new, but I'm honestly impressed that Gus managed to get George Bernard Shaw.

Running wild-eyed thru the woods swinging an axe. Sometimes I'd really like to do that.


"And bathing out of his helmet!"

Children Learn What They Live.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Sinatreh's still a 4-F," sneers Sally. "Whatta punk."

If it's genuine, it's not his fault - right?

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

If you sight at any time a dark-haired woman with spectacles whose mouth is -- ah -- perpetually open...

LOL.

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

"$100,000 Gem Dip." See what you could accomplish, Bink, if you tried...

True in theory, but every "you don't belong here" bell and whistle would go off in any fine Manhattan jewelry store if Bink walked in. She'd have to dramatically change her, well, everything.

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

"Short Man???" IT NEVER STOPS WITH YOU PEOPLE DOES IT?

Rifle in a tower one day - it's brutal how they treat him.

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

These are usually "meh," but this one is cutely funny.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Awright," declares Sally, fingering her tea cup as she stares intently across the kitchen table. "I got awlis woiked out. T'is aftehnoon, me'n Bink Scanlan will go downtown, an'..." A sharp yowl from the living room cuts her off, followed immediately by the skittering arrival in the kitchen of Stella the Cat, rushing to her lair behind the stove. "LEONOREH!" she commands, her voice edging, "LEAVE T'CAT ALONE!" "DIN' DO NUT'N!" protest back Leonora. "PUT 'EH TAIL WHEH I WAN'ED T'WAWK!" "T'at kid," sighs Sally. "I ask ya. Anyways, like I'm sayin', me'n Bink Scanlan gonna go downtown an' get 'eh a jawb at t'is restr'unt weh Parrott eats lunch, awright? Awlem places downeh'ra despr'ate f'waitresses, an' I got 'eh awl trained about what t'say. It's a cinch, right? An'nen..." "I dunno Sal," exhales Alice, her eyes rolling to the ceiling. "Ain'neh'ra'n easieh way t'..." "I tol' ya," interrupts Sally. "Y'gotta be whatchacawl strategic wit' t'ese people. Now.." "Why don'cha," suggests Alice, "tawk it oveh foist wit' Docteh Levine, huh? Y'goin' inneh t'day, right?" "I'm doin' jus' what Docteh Levine TOL' me t'do!" protests Sally. "She says t'me I need t'fin' a distraction, awright? T'stawp worryin' s'much about what happen'ta Joe. She says I need sump'n t' keep me occupied, awright? I'm doin' 'zackly what she tol' me, awright?" "She din' mean chase Harol' Parrott awl oveh town'nough," injects Alice, "an' nag on'nim about hirin' colehed bawlplayehs, t'ough. I mean, did she?" "She says sump'n 'bout volunteerin' f't' Red Crawss," dismisses Sally. "I done'at befoeh, an'ney said'ey didn' need me no moeh." "How come?" queries Alice. "Neveh min'," snaps Sally. "B'sides, bobody tol' me Kilgallen was gona come in'neh t'getteh pitcheh taken f'some cheap publicity stunt." "Oh," ohs Allice. "Anyways..." continues Sally...)

("No, dear," whispers Mrs. Rickey, "for the fifteenth time, that is NOT her." "Are you CERTAIN?" quivers Mr. RIckey. "Because the resemblance is STRIKING." "No," insists Mrs. Rickey, "that woman is taller, her hair is different, and she isn't wearing glasses." "A clever disguise," mutters Mr. Rickey. "The stories I could tell you." "You're frightening the boy," sighs Mrs. RIckey. "As well he might be," jitters Mr. Rickey. "Look! Over by the door! That tall man in the overcoat! Don't you think that might be the red-headed woman in disguise?" "We're going back to the car, dear," exhales Mrs. Rickey...)


("You're sure," whispers Mr. Parrott to a Madison Square Garden usher, "that you didn't see her come in?" "What'm I?" shrugs the usher. "A Pinkehton? A private eye? I tol' ya I ain' seen no loudmout' dame wit' glasses an' I ain't." "And no tall redhead?" insists Mr. Parrott. "Well," admits the usher, "One time I seen Lois DeFee....")

(WAAAAAL PLAGUE MY SKILLET AN' BOIL MY TATERS!)

(This one was actually written for Elmer Fudd, but his agent advised him not to do it.)

(Robin? Not yet, but I was confronted yesterday by an aggressive blue jay.)

(There must be easier ways to prove a point.)

("Blebber der gustuten eckensich!" I think it loses something in the translation.)

(And I bet John L. Lewis isn't afraid of loud women with glasses.)

("We English are not very demonstrative. I mean, not like those Celts...")

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

It's a little known fact that His Holiness reads the News every day. They promised to clean up Page Four today just for him.

So what else is new?

Here's hoping Tracy has some sick leave piled up.

Um. Mr. Mosely needs to work out his issues.

Ah. Well now. That's a twist.

Shoulda gone with the amalgam.

There is no troll more expert than a ten year old girl.

"Helen Troy, Hero Cabbie!"

And Ma thinks she has problems.

Stalemate.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

OK, that's funny.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Why don'cha," suggests Alice, "tawk it oveh foist wit' Docteh Levine, huh?

Good advice is so rarely taken.

And there's no way Ma's going to give Bink the time off for all this.

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

"No, dear," whispers Mrs. Rickey, "for the fifteenth time, that is NOT her." "Are you CERTAIN?" quivers Mr. RIckey. "Because the resemblance is STRIKING." "No," insists Mrs. Rickey, "that woman is taller, her hair is different, and she isn't wearing glasses." "A clever disguise," mutters Mr. Rickey. "The stories I could tell you." "You're frightening the boy," sighs Mrs. RIckey. "As well he might be," jitters Mr. Rickey. "Look! Over by the door! That tall man in the overcoat! Don't you think that might be the red-headed woman in disguise?" "We're going back to the car, dear," exhales Mrs. Rickey...

Show me don't tell me what the expression "the wages of fear" means?

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

Ah. Well now. That's a twist.

DID NOT SEE THAT COMING!

 

[Fedora Frank]

We do our own housework was a riot!
Notice the reference to a Saturday night bath in regards to washing the dishes.
Its a shame that newspapers are a thing of the past, I used to enjoy reading them.
Can anyone remember getting the paper to find a job in the classified section ?
Now a days you look for a job on the internet!

 

[LizzieMaine]

The Hill Page is one of my favorite features, and I always look forward to Sundays to see what he has in store for us. When you follow it long enough you notice the same faces showing up over and over again, and you get the sense that Mr. Hill's family and friends must've been very forgiving people.

 

[Fedora Frank]

The Hill Page is one of my favorite features, and I always look forward to Sundays to see what he has in store for us. When you follow it long enough you notice the same faces showing up over and over again, and you get the sense that Mr. Hill's family and friends must've been very forgiving people.

I noticed that even though it’s todays date it was a Sunday back then.
I also was intrigued by this article, and now you can kinda understand the hatred for the Japanese that we had if you would’ve read an article like this back in the day!
BTW hope you have been doing well it’s been years (7) since I was here glad to still see you here and thank you for sharing this every day it’s so fascinating !

 

[LizzieMaine]

Hard to believe these have been running since September 1939, that is, 2019. When we met Joe and Sally back then they were just occasional commentators on the passing scene, and now I'm so absorbed in watching their lives unfold in real time that it makes for a very effective escape from my own.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("I tol' ya, Sal," sighs Alice, as Sally fidgets on the platform at the 18th Avenue BMT station. "I tol' ya it wasn' gonna woik. T'at Bink Scanlan -- look, fawr be it fr'm me t' cast aspoisions, but she ain'na type y'wanna..." "I jus' don' GET it," injects Sally, sinking back against a support pole. "I haddit awl woiked out! T'at's how ya plan sump'n, ain'it? Ya woik it awl out caehful, an'nen when ya get t'ings movin' evry'ting kin'a just fawls inta place. Ain'nat what I done?" "It don' awrways woik t'at way," replies Alice. "Lookit t'wawr. Sometimes a plan ain' enough." "Yeh," acknowledges Sally, "but t'is was foolproof, y'know? T'eh wasn' no way it could go wrawng. But t'at guy inna rest'runt din' have no use f'Bink at'awl. Hadda big sign up inna windeh, 'Waitress Wan'ed,' an' I bring 'im in one an'ee don' even look at 'eh! Awl 'e wants t'do is tawk t'ME. Said I was 'zackly what'ee wawned an' when c'n I stawrt?" "Maybe he figyehed," shrugs Alice, "I mean, BInk's jus' a kid, really. Maybe a place like t'at, y'know, t'ey need someone -- um -- oldeh..." "I AIN' AS OLD AS YOU!" snaps Sally, slapping the pole to emphasize her point. "'M jus' sayin'," murmurs Alice, eyes rolling." "An' when I kep' tryin' t'tawk't'wim 'bout Bink," continues Sally, "he gets awl, y'know, antsy, like we'eh takin' up too much'v'is time. An'nee goes fishin' f'r'is wawtch, an' 'ee can't find it, an' he goes off yellin' 'who's seen my wawtch?'' "Ah," nods Alice. "Well," concludes Sally, "wasn' nut'n fr'us t'do t'en but leave. An'nat Bink, soo's we gawt outa t'eh, she says 'seeya lateh,' and heads awff down Fulton Street t'eh. I seen 'eh go inna pawn shop. What'SAT awla'bout?" "Couldn' say," declares Alice, as the train rolls into the station...)

("Oi'm tellin' ye, Nora," argues Uncle Frank, "it's boond t' waaark!" "Oi'm naaaht lettin' ye," insists Ma, "taaaarrn me back room int'wa speakeasy!" "It's naaaht loike ye doin' mooch business," contends Uncle Frank. "Nooo harrse racin', th' basketbaaall droyed oop, an' noobody even knooos what jai-alai IS." "Basebaaal season's coomin' oop," rejoinds Ma. "Oi'll do soom business thin." "P'raps," acknowledges Uncle Frank. "Boot a speak, now, tharr ain' no maybes aboot it. We'll do plenty business with this caaaaarfew gooin' ahhn. An', Oi mean, it ain' loike we didn' do it befaaar. R'member, Nora? R'member th' oold days? Hoo it use'taar be? We even still got th' little windarrr in the back door thaar!" "Oi baaarded that oop yarrs ago," snaps Ma. "Tooo draaaafty, an' coal caaahsts mooney." "An' ye knoo what else?" continues Uncle Frank. "That place neext door. Hoo laaang's that place been empty? Evarr since th' pants pressar cloosed down, that's hoo laang. Foor, foive years noow. What if WE rent it oot, Oi know th'man oons th' buildin', an' we can coom't'wan arrangement. Ooopen ooop a reg'lar noit spaaht!" "Oooh, that'll be foine, that will," scoffs Ma. "Barbara flooncin' aroon' ahhn th' stage, Oi s'pose, dressed oop loike a WAC aaar soomthin', blooo'in kisses t'th' coostoomars. An' Oi s'pose ye'll have Inky Quinlan dressed oop in a tooxedo, with 'is moostache aaahl greased oop, greet'n people at th' door." "Well," shrugs Uncle Frank, "Oi hadn' thaaat aboot it, boot..." "Absolootuely naaaht," declares Ma, slapping her dishrag against the counter to punctuate her statement. "Think it oovar," insists Uncle Frank, draining his glass. "Oi'll make soom caaahls....")

(How times change. Remember when Butch swore to eradicate the artichoke menace from the city?)

("Which reminds me. They're coming to take these chairs tomorrow unless we pay up.")

(Gee, Tommy, way to get us all excited about the new season...)

(Careful, stupid. Remember what happened to Melvin.)

("Oh Leslie." "Oh Monica. At last we found each other.")

(Actually, this is no worse than you'll see in any Poverty Row melodrama.)

(WHAT COULD GO WRONG?)

(That's the way, Kitty! HOLD THE LINE!)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"If it has antlers, it's not a pig." Who says Page Four has no redeeming educational value?

It's a living.

60 MPH? Never mind the cops, kid -- you'll answer to the OPA!

Fortunately, the taxicab business is free of vicious, cut-throat territorial competition.

Punjab himself couldn'tve done it better.

"And when your husband comes home, you won't be moving far across the country, will you. We wouldn't want you to do that. Oh no, we -- wouldn't -- want -- you -- to -- do -- that...."

Movies on paper.

Mind on your work, kid.

Sometimes you make decisions, sometimes decisions make you.

It's a living (continued.)

 

[Fedora Frank]

The Capitol stuff had me laughing !
The story about the guy with the 72 hour pass and flew back to the states spent 24 hours with his wife told her to be silent about it.
She then is pregnant and her neighbors get “ catty “ about it !
What a difference in social norms then compared to today !

 

[Fading Fast]

"Oi'm tellin' ye, Nora," argues Uncle Frank, "it's boond t' waaark!" "Oi'm naaaht lettin' ye," insists Ma, "taaaarrn me back room int'wa speakeasy!" "It's naaaht loike ye doin' mooch business," contends Uncle Frank. "Nooo harrse racin', th' basketbaaall droyed oop, an' noobody even knooos what jai-alai IS." "Basebaaal season's coomin' oop," rejoinds Ma. "Oi'll do soom business thin." "P'raps," acknowledges Uncle Frank. "Boot a speak, now, tharr ain' no maybes aboot it. We'll do plenty business with this caaaaarfew gooin' ahhn. An', Oi mean, it ain' loike we didn' do it befaaar. R'member, Nora? R'member th' oold days? Hoo it use'taar be? We even still got th' little windarrr in the back door thaar!" "Oi baaarded that oop yarrs ago," snaps Ma. "Tooo draaaafty, an' coal caaahsts mooney." "An' ye knoo what else?" continues Uncle Frank. "That place neext door. Hoo laaang's that place been empty? Evarr since th' pants pressar cloosed down, that's hoo laang. Foor, foive years noow. What if WE rent it oot, Oi know th'man oons th' buildin', an' we can coom't'wan arrangement. Ooopen ooop a reg'lar noit spaaht!" "Oooh, that'll be foine, that will," scoffs Ma. "Barbara flooncin' aroon' ahhn th' stage, Oi s'pose, dressed oop loike a WAC aaar soomthin', blooo'in kisses t'th' coostoomars. An' Oi s'pose ye'll have Inky Quinlan dressed oop in a tooxedo, with 'is moostache aaahl greased oop, greet'n people at th' door." "Well," shrugs Uncle Frank, "Oi hadn' thaaat aboot it, boot..." "Absolootuely naaaht," declares Ma, slapping her dishrag against the counter to punctuate her statement. "Think it oovar," insists Uncle Frank, draining his glass. "Oi'll make soom caaahls...."

This is an awful idea, just awful. Ma is right to shoot Frank down. It's just awful.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Awright!" declares Sally. "T'ey passt'at bill! Now we'eh gonna get someplace. OK. So I was t'inkin' las' night an' I come up wit' anot'eh way t'get t'ru t' Parrott. Now, we'eh gonna hafta borrow Uncle Frank's truck again, right? An' we'eh gonna disguise ouehselves as plumbehs! See, t'at buildin'neh w'eh t'ey got t'Dodgehs awffices, right? T'Mechanics Bank t'eh? T"ey gotta lotta pipes inneh, right? So a truck wit' plumbin' an' heatin' onna side ain' gonna 'tract no notice. An' a coupla plumbehs wit' ovehrawls awn goin'inneh ain' gonna 'tract no notice neit'eh! OK. So we go inneh, an'nen..." "Sal," interrupts Alice. "I wanna show ya sump'n." "What?" replies Sally, impatient to resume her planning. "I was tawkin'is oveh wit' Siddy las' night, 'n'ee had a betteh ideeh." "What?" repeats Sally, her eyes dilating. "He wrote a letteh," continues Alice, reaching into her bag. "Heeh, take a look." "Huh," huhs Sally, adjusting her glasses as she opens the envelope. "Deeh Misteh Parrott," she reads. "Wit' t' imminent passage a' t' Ives-Quinn Anti-Discrimination bill, would ya nawt agree t'at t'time is now right f' t' Brooklyn basebawl club t'consideh t' bold an' foeh'wa'd t'inkin' step of addin' Negro playehs t't'rosteh? As a Dodgeh fan of lawng standin' I can assueh you t'at t'suppoehtehs a' t' bawl club would stan' foimly behin' any decision t' awrganization might make innis direction, an' I am also sueh you will agree wit' me when I obsoive t'at t'eh is a rich vein of talent available in t' colehed leagues. I have poissionally seen many outstandin' playehs at Dexteh Pawrk, an' even las' summeh at Ebbets Feel, who would no doubt be stawrs in t' majeh leagues if t'ey weh not unfaiehly kep' out by t' coleh of t'eh skin. Don't you agree, Misteh Parrott, t'at wit' t' outstandin' contributions t'at colehed Americans have made to t'wawr effort t'at to continue t' bawr t'em from Amehrica's game goes agains' t'principles fawr which men awr dyin'? Havin' read ya colyum f'yeehs in t'Eagle befoeh you took yeh current p'sition, I know you t'be a faieh-minded man, an' I would encourage you t' discuss t'is matteh wit' Misteh Rickey an' see if he does not agree wit' t'reasonin' I have laid out heeh. Remembeh, Misteh Parrott, innis time when vict'ry oveh t' Nazis is fast approachin', awl Americans will one day be judged by hist'ry for weh we have chosen t'stand. Very sincerely yoehs, Sidney W. Krause, proud Amehrican an' Dodgeh rooteh since 1905." Sally blinks as she absorbs the letter. "Krause wrote t'at?" she marvels. "Yeh," nods Alice. "He don' say much, Siddy don', but t'at don' mean he ain' gawt nut'n t'say." "Huh," huhs Sally, as the train disappears into the Hudson tube...)

("Soo that's me oidearr, Tommy," concludes Uncle Frank, sipping a watery cup of Toomey's Diner coffee. "What d'yee think?" "Well," sighs Sergeant Doyle, dunking a crumbling half-donut into his own mug, "I'm gonna be hawnest wit'cha, Frank. It ain' 1929 no moeh." "Whassat s'posta mean," snaps Uncle Frank, making a sour face at the shabby taste of the coffee. "Oi knoo what yarrr it is. Boot t'harr's a lotta men makin' good mooney with this carrrfew gooin' aahn, an' it seems t'me Oi aaaghta be gett'n in aaahn'it." "Makin' an' distributin' is one t'ing," sighs Doyle. "But it ain' like it was inna ol' days. T'em speaks we had back t'en, people come inneh f'one t'ing. But now, I mean -- lissen, you eveh even been IN a night club? I mean, lately?" "We had Christmas dinnar at th' Dragon's Den!" declares Uncle Frank. "See, right t'eh is what I'm sayin'," argues Doyle. "T' Dragon's Den is a rest'runt. Yeh, t'ey gawt awlem decehrations n'awlat, but it ain' a NIGHT CLUB, y'see what I'm sayin'? It don't have awla rest'v'it. Y'know? Swing bands, c'medians, cigehrette goils." "T'ey gotta cigehrette goil at t' Dragon's Den," protests Uncle Frank. "Miss Wong's daughtarr. She was woikin' f'me when we was -- you know -- dealin' in t'bacceh." "T'at ain' what I mean," shrugs Doyle. "People go innem places wawn'a 'sperience, y'know? What kin'a 'sperience t'ey gonna have inna back'va canny stoeh awn Rogehs Aveneh?" "Well," protests Uncle Frank, "Oi was thinkin'arr rentin' oot that place nex' darr whar th' pants pressar uset'be." "Rogehs Aveneh," declares Doyle, "ain' Wes' 52nd Street. Look, try t'is. Why don'choo take t'ol' lady an' go oveh't'City an' GO t'one'a t'em night clubs. You eveh heeh'ra Leon 'n Eddie's?" "Sally mentioned it once," nods Uncle Frank. "She an' Joe wen' oop thar woonce, b'farr th' waaar. Boot Oi doon' think..." "Do it," insists Doyle, jabbing the air with his finger as the remains of his soggy donut drop into his cup. "You'll see!")

("Whatchee MEAN," fumes Ma, standing at the box office line at the Midwood Theatre, "Oi gaht t'pay IN ADVANCE f'ra thoosan' dollar bond t'get me carton'a cigarettes?? Oi joost 'splained t'ye Oi'd take 'em aaaahn consoignment!")

(Yes, but the stop sign is FACING THE OTHER WAY.)

(There is, in 1940s comic books, a character called "The Human Bomb," who was a scientist who devised a formula just like this and when Nazis invaded his lab, drank the formula to keep them from taking it. As a result he has the power to blow up anything just by touching it. All of which suggests an interesting direction for this storyline...)

(Finally. Now let's get out of here and go see if Bill's burned the house down again.)

("?" I mean, she does date Tubby...)

(So many comic strip writers want to be Preston Sturges, but none of them know how.)

(Jeeeezuz, that last panel hits really close to home for me right now.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Well, going Pullman is always more comfortable than going coach.

The mist of nostalgia...

"I'm telling you again," yells Chester Gould. "Leave the fhermostat alone! It's plenty warm in here!"

Yeah, and later on, the Madame sued Walt for custody. MAKE UP YOUR MIND.

Not very Shavian so far, I must say.

Pat can be pretty hard boiled when he wants to be.

When you think about it, this is perhaps the most horrific death we've ever seen in a comics strip. Yeh, best be moving along.

Sure.

Pop is such a hepcat.

Well, he'd make a good life raft.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Krause wrote t'at?" she marvels. "Yeh," nods Alice. "He don' say much, Siddy don', but t'at don' mean he ain' gawt nut'n t'say." "Huh," huhs Sally, as the train disappears into the Hudson tube...)

There are definitely people like Krause in the world. I worked with a few over the years. You could hardly get a word out of them, but then they'd write a long, thoughtful report/analysis on something.

Obviously it didn't happen, but if a ball team back then had said, effectively, we are 100% open to having blacks compete for every single position on our roster, you'd bet a nearly all-black team would have been fielded and would have been darn competitive - maybe even a World Series winner. How neat would that have been!

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"ain' Wes' 52nd Street. Look, try t'is. Why don'choo take t'ol' lady an' go oveh't'City an' GO t'one'a t'em night clubs. You eveh heeh'ra Leon 'n Eddie's?" "Sally mentioned it once," nods Uncle Frank. "She an' Joe wen' oop thar woonce, b'farr th' waaar. Boot Oi doon' think..." "Do it," insists Doyle, jabbing the air with his finger as the remains of his soggy donut drop into his cup. "You'll see!"

West 52 in 1948 (note Leon and Eddie's on the left).

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"Whatchee MEAN," fumes Ma, standing at the box office line at the Midwood Theatre, "Oi gaht t'pay IN ADVANCE f'ra thoosan' dollar bond t'get me carton'a cigarettes?? Oi joost 'splained t'ye Oi'd take 'em aaaahn consoignment!"

When the product is in high demand, he who has the cash in hand wins – or as we say now, "liquidity." A business needs capital and all that.

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As a result he has the power to blow up anything just by touching it. All of which suggests an interesting direction for this storyline...

And much more effective than just telling him he'll go blind at some future date.

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Well, going Pullman is always more comfortable than going coach.

Has to be a top-ten Page Four story for the year so far. They clearly put their best writers on it and said, "go to town."

"Private detectives claim they found his 35-year-old ex-model wife in flagrante delicto with a swashbuckling merchant marine lieutenant commander."

"They found...Martha and Ralph showing exactly no hatred for each other in the garb you'd expect people to be wearing in the bedroom at 1:30 in the morning. "

God luv Page Four.

 

[LizzieMaine]

There is a persistent story that, when the Phillies were going under in 1942. Bill Veeck -- then running the minor league Milwaukee Brewers -- was planning to buy the franchise out of bankruptcy, release all the players, and restock the team with the top players from the Negro Leagues. He discssed this in a couple of his books, and claimed that when Judge Landis found out about the deal he kiboshed it, and turned the Phllies over to William Cox, who, you may recall, ended up getting banned from baseball for gambling.

There is no definite proof that this did or did not happen, or that if Veeck did in fact have a plan that it ever actually got to the stage where Landis would have known about it, but the current thinking is that something was, in fact, going on. You'll remember there was a lot of talk in 1942 about black players coming in to the major leagues after Leo Durocher told the Daily Worker he'd "sign them in a minute if he could." You'll also remember reports that Roy Campanella was working out with the Phillies at one point that summer, and that the Pirates were also interested. So given all that, I would suspect that, even if it didn't happen exactly the way Veeck -- a master storyteller -- claimed it did, something was definitely in the wind...