The Era -- Day By Day

[LizzieMaine]

("Y'evveh notice," observes Alice, inhaling a deep draught of the damp early evening air as she and Sally turn the corner from 18th Avenue onto 63rd Street, "y'evveh notice what Spring smells like innis town? Wet cawncrete. Awl y'c'n smell. T' cawncrete smells like wet cawncrete, t' bricks smell like wet cawncrete, t' met'l smells like wet cawncrete, t' people -- even'a people -- smell like wet cawncrete." Yeh," nods Sally, her mind elsewhere. "Y'know," Alice continues, "when I was livin' upstate f'ra while'eh, I t'ought maybe it'd be diff'rnt? But it wasn'. Got up t'eh, took a deep breat' -- wet cawncrete. Awl yeeh roun, ev'n." "Yeh," sighs Sally. "Hey, didja frien' set up'at t'ing wit' t'wawlpapeh?" "Neh," shrugs Alice. "He says ya can't get no wawlpapeh. T'em self-pastin' bawrdehs was awlee had, an'nat wouldn' woik. Do'worry, t'ough, we'lll t'inka sump'n." The conversation falls silent as they climb the stoop of No. 1762, and step into the foyer. "Hey," heys Sally. "Mail." She produces her key and snaps open the box. "It's from Joe," she gulps, extracting the small envelope. Heeh, heeh, hol' me bag. Lemme gettit open." She fumbles the sheet out of the envelope and adjust her glasses. Her face clouds. "It's jus'a same'sa las' one," she whispers. "Alice, it's jus'sa same'sa las' one. 'Don' worry, evr'yt'ing is awright. Jus' don' worry. Love, Joe.' T'at's awl'ee says." "Jeez," whispers Alice. " "Yeh," nods Sally, her voice strangling. "Yeh...")

("Didjee clear ahhl that space doonstairs?" bustles Uncle Frank. "Shaugnessy'll be here any minute. Two hoondred poonds'a eggs! D'ye KNOW, Nora, hoo many eggs that is?" "Too many," scowls Ma. "Nivver moind that," dismisses Uncle Frank. "Oi figyaaared it oot. Woon egg weighs, oh, aboot two oonces. That's eight eggs t'wa poond, ye see. So eight toimes --" "Sixteen hoondred eggs," sighss Ma. "A hoondred n' tharrty-three doozen, an' four or so lift ovarr." "Wroite thim aahf t' breakage," chuckles Uncle Frank. "We'll hav'm farr breakfast. Oi'm tellin' ye, Nora, we'll make soom real mooney aahn this, an' thar's moor whar.." He is interrupted by the harsh wheeze of a truck horn. "That's Shaughnessy now with th' troock. Coo'm alaaang, we'll help load'm in." With a deep gust of annoyance Ma wipes her hands on her apron and follows her husband out to the sidewalk, where Shaughnessy is just unlatching the back of his truck. "A hoondred an' tharty-three doozen eggs?" puzzles Ma, "In th' backa that littl' troock?" "They pack'm in toit," asserts Uncle Frank. "Oi'll pass'm oot t'ye," calls Shaughnessy from the back of the truck. "Ahhl roit," grins Uncle Frank. "Tharr heavy," warns Shaughnessy. "Harrr's th' farrst woon," he declares. Uncle Frank blinks, and then buckles under the weight of a bulky brown paper sack. "Bloody hell, man!" he gapes. "Wot's this ye gimme?" "Fifty poonds'a eggs," shrugs Shaughnessy. "Powdaaaared eggs. Joost loike th' Arrrrmy. Gaaht three maar sacks coomin'..." "POWWWWWWDAAAARED eggs!" roars Ma. "Joost add watarr," notes Shaughnessy. "It's th' latest thing!" "Th' Egg King a' East Flatboosh," sighs Ma, as Uncle Frank gazes ruefully at the neatly packaged shards of his latest dream...)

(Well, at least he isn't a marriage counselor.)

(You can't please everybody. And sometimes you can't please anybody.)

("You were, ah.." stammers Mr. Parrott, "only -- um -- joking when you said you might try catching this year?" "Have you ever," puffs Mr. Rickey, "known me to jest? I am a serious man, my boy, a man of affairs. I do not trifle with humor. What I will say, mark this, what I will say, I shall do." "Well," shrugs Mr. Parrott, "I spoke to Mr. Comerford today, you know, the equipment manager, and he says he has a uniform in one of the trunks that might work. You remember when Phelps played here, Babe Phelps, he.." "I do indeed," frowns Mr. Rickey. "Was he not the man they called 'the Blimp?'" "Uh, did they?" sweats Mr. Parrott. "it's been so long..." "You dissemble poorly," Mr. Rickey admonishes. "Nevertheless, bring me this uniform and I.." "Um, it isn't ready yet," whispers Mr. Parrott. "Speak up, boy!" thunders Mr. Rickey. "If you have a remark, let your voice rise above the din!" "Um," exhales Mr. Parrott, "the uniform isn't ready yet, um, Comerford says he has to -- ah -- that is -- let out the pants." "That will be all, Mr. Parrott." "Yes sir.")

(This is just mean.)

("Of course, without my glasses I can't see the desk, let alone the typewriter, but you've got to admit I made an entrance!")

(SHARP ORGAN STING up to finish.)

(There are times when you just gotta be pragmatic.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Ever get the feeling the whole world is Page Four?

"Well," sighs Uncle Frank, squinting at the soggy yellow mass on his plate, "noo that doon't look soo bad." "Eat oop," snickers Ma. "Thaaaar's a laaaht moor wharr THAT coom from!"

Sometimes I wish I lived in the kind of town where the cops would care about something like this.

She must've paid extra for the fireproofing.

"Movies on Paper" isn't just a phrase. Sometimes you can forget you're looking a drawings on a page.

WIth Paprika in the house, Pop probably gets a lot of use out of that shotgun.

Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick....

"Just keep those paws where I can see 'em."

How are you fixed for powdered eggs?

Plushie's kind of a dope, but not *that* kind of a dope.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

There's a New World Coming...

 

[Fading Fast]

Powdaaaared eggs.



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

"You dissemble poorly."



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

This is just mean.

Agreed. Not funny at all.

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

Ever get the feeling the whole world is Page Four?

Assuming the story is reasonably accurate, women like Betty Hak do not do well as they get older and their looks go. Now, sixty, and having lived in NYC for most of the past four decades, I've seen the "lifecycle" of a few of them and it isn't pretty.

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

Sometimes I wish I lived in the kind of town where the cops would care about something like this.

In NYC, unless you have a few dead bodies on hand to show them, the police will not be interested in whatever you want them for.

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

"Movies on Paper" isn't just a phrase. Sometimes you can forget you're looking a drawings on a page.

Agreed, very, very impressive. King does it differently than Caniff, but he and Caniff play the game at a higher level than all the others, that we see anyway.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("I dunno WHAT t't'ink, Ma," laments Sally, as her mother snips the wire binding the late final edition of the Eagle and tosses the papers into the rack. "Oi'll tell ye what OI think," Ma exhales. "If ye doon't stop waaaaryin', ye goin' t' warry yeself roit back intarr Bellevue!" "Wheddaya get T"AT stuff?" roars Sally. "I showed ya t'letteh! Whatt'm I SPOSTA do? Joe gets shawt, he goes weeks b'tween lettehs an' awl'ee eveh says is 'don't worry!" A'COUESE I'm gonna WORRY! Oh, you dunno what it's LIKE!" "Sally Aileen Sweeney, that's aboot enoof!" growls Ma in a voice Sally last heard in 1925. "OI doon't knoo what it's LOIKE? Chroist'amoity! D'ye bloody think yarrr th' oonly woman evarr had a hoosband goo t'wawr???? What'dye think Oi doon in 1917, twoine meself a bloody garland 'a rooses an' dance aroond a maypole?" Sally stares at her hands, her neck flushing red. "I remembeh when Pa wen' away," she replies in a low tense voice. "I do remembeh. An' I remembeh he didn' come back. An' -- oh gawd, Ma, what if Joe -- I mean -- like Pa done!" Ma exhales, twisting her apron. "Yarrr faather," she declares in an even voice, "was a saaaaartain koind a' man. He was a layaboot an' a rascal an' a blaggard an' it took me marryin' 'im t'foind it oot. Joseph is a sarrrtain koind a' man -- but he is naaaht THAT koind'a man. Ye been married t'wim farr sivven an' a half yarrs now. D'ye HONESTLY think he'd do any sooch thing as that?" "No," nods Sally, her eyes red. "Thin poot sooch naahnsense oota ye head," commands Ma. "Whativver's gooin' aahn with Joseph, ye'll foind out in good toime. An' tharrs noothin' ye can do in the meanwhoile boot wait. Go hoom, wroite 'im a lettar, wroite 'im a lettar evr'y noit if ye moost, an' DOON'T WORRY!" "It's gett'n late," sighs Sally. "Leonoreh! We gotta get home, put'choo t'bed." Leonora, who has followed the developing drama with intense interest, squirms in protest as Sally buttons her coat. "I'll see ya t'marra," exhales Sally. "Wave bye, now." "I ain'na baby no moeh," protests Leonora, as the door jingles closed behind them. Ma watches thru the window as they cross Rogers Avenue and disappear down Midwood Street. "Is she aaahl roit thin?" queries Uncle Frank, emerging from the back room. "I'm warrrried, Francis," replies Ma. "I'm warrrried aboot harrr -- and I'm REALLLY waarrried aboot Joseph...")

("Whassis stuff?" protests Willie, regarding the yellow blob on his plate. "Scrambl't eggs," replies Alice. "F'dinneh?" challenges Willie. "Ya gramma giv'm to us," frowns Alice. "Eat up, t'ezza wawr awn." "Howcum t'eh'rawl wet?" Willie rejoinds. "Lookit. s'drippin' awff t'side'a t'plate!" "Wawrteh's good fawr ya," argues Alice. "Y'know who eats wawtery eggs? Gen'r'l Patton!" Krause looks up from his own plate and suppresses a snicker. "It's true!" insists Alice. "I read it inna magazine, one'a t'em ones Sally gimme. 'New Masses' a'sump'n. Hadda whole awrticle inneh, uh, 'Fa'vrite Recipes a' Famous Gen'rls.' An' right t'eh it said 'Wawtery Eggs, by Gen'ral -- uh -- Pat Patton. Sweahtagawd. Ain'at right, Siddy?" "Yeh," guffaws Krause, a bit of egg trickling down his chin. "Patton!" exhales Willie. "Wow!" "Now eatcha eggs," directs Alice. "Some day YOU'LL be a famous -- uh -- egg eatin' gen'rl." "Yeh," chuckles Krause, raising his fork in a crisp military salute...)


(Radio advice-giver John J. Anthony was actually Lester Kroll, a Bronx con man, who came up with the idea for his program while cooling his heels in alimony jail...)

("SO THERE!" -- Butch)

("Ah," ahs Mr. Rickey, "thirty years since I donned flannels, and yet it feels like only yesterday!" "Yes sir," sighs Mr. Parrott. "Um, I'd be careful squatting, sir. Mr. Comerford says the fabric on those pants won't stand much more mending. "Even distribution of weight, my boy," lectures Mr. Rickey, "is the key to a successful catcher's squat. Observe how I slowly lower into the proper position, while keeping the weight equally distributed on the ball of each..." But his lecture is rudely interrupted by the unmistakable pop of a heavy seam giving way. "Ah," ahs Mr. Rickey. "Ah," nods Mr. Parrott...)

("Anymore?" War changes everything.)

(Wait, have we met the goon?)

(Janie's such a killjoy.)

(Where's the fun in having a super power if you cant once in a while be guileful?)

(You know, that's true for most of us, really. We just take whatever, and we wag our tail.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Ten grand's worth of bric-a-brac. Do you have any idea how many World's Fair paperweights, "Souvenir of Asbury Park" pocket mirrors, Dolph Camilli picture buttons, and Niagara Falls snow globes that would be?

Smile, Eddie! Not everybody gets to be Mister Rheingold.

Yeah, too much Paprika will do that.

I dunno about you, but I'm getting a bit airsick.

And just like that, a vast baby-carriage-theft ring was shattered.

Number one rule for getting away with murder -- don't over-sell your alibi.

"Hmmm." -- Uncle Frank.

The time to apply for a pistol permit is -- yesterday.

When you don't remember when your birthday is, it's every day.

"He sent the shorts, too, but it's still too cold..."

 

[LizzieMaine]

And of course...

I hope she's got a cushion on that seat, because there are places you really don't want to get splinters.

 

[Fading Fast]

Radio advice-giver John J. Anthony was actually Lester Kroll, a Bronx con man, who came up with the idea for his program while cooling his heels in alimony jail...

Nice.

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

"Ah," ahs Mr. Rickey. "Ah," nods Mr. Parrott...

"Oy" oys the Dodgers' tailor.

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

Ten grand's worth of bric-a-brac. Do you have any idea how many World's Fair paperweights, "Souvenir of Asbury Park" pocket mirrors, Dolph Camilli picture buttons, and Niagara Falls snow globes that would be?

He'd had enough of those two by that point.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Ain'nat Flynn guy," queries Alice, gesturing at the paper in her lap, "t'one haddat, wha'wassit, French cobblestone sidewawk a'sump'n?" "Belgian brick driveway," replies Sally, not looking up from the paper tablet propped atop her handbag. "An'nat guy gets t'meet t' Pope?" Alice marvels. "Bet't'at'll be a helluva confession." She glances over and notices Sally absorbed in writing. "Letteh t'Joe?" she asks. "Yeh," nods Sally. "An' I ain' messin' aroun' wit' no V-Mail. T'is is a real letteh awn real papeh in real ink." "T'at's a pencil," observes Alice. "I was awl outa ink," snaps Sally. "Leemee lone." "Whatcha sayin'?" wonders Alice. "I'm doin' like Ma said," affirms Sally. "She says t'not worry an' t'tell Joe I ain' worryin', an'nat way maybe he won' worry so much t'at I'm worried, y'see? Lissen heeh, I say 'Deeh Joe, Don' worry, I am nawt worryin'' about you." "Yeh," acknowledges Alice. "What else y'gawt." "Um," ums Sally, "t'at's awl I got. I keep t'inkin'a t'ings I wawna say, I mean, I was gonna say how you'n me was gett'n ready t'go afteh t'at Rickey again, but t'en I t''ought, well, he might worry t'at I f'gawt about him, goin' awf'n havin' fun an' doin' stuff, y'know?" "Y'know, Sal," sighs Alice. "I worry 'bout you." "Don' YOU stawrt," mutters Sally...)

("Y'see, Nora?" ventures Uncle Frank. "This is what Oi've been taalkin' aboot. Ye marrrk me waaard, this army surploos thing is goona be big. An' we gaaht t'get in on it. Thar'll be all koin'sa angles! Cloothes, gons, campin' things, radios, tools, scrap metaaal, Jeeps --" "Powdarrred eggs," interjects Ma. "Ahhl roit," nods Uncle Frank, "Oi'll gran'chee that woon, but noontheless..." "An' what d'ye plan t'DO with ahhl thi marrrchandoise if ye get it?" challenges Ma. "Whoy, sell it, of carrse," shrugs Uncle Frank. "We'll open a shaaap. Roit next door whar th' pants pressar was." "Oi thaat'chee was goin' to oopen a dress shaap in tharr," snickers Ma. "Mooozalevski's a' Brooklyn." "That Mozelewski is bein' difficoolt," admits Uncle Frank. "He's hooldin' oot far Flatboosh Avenue. Says this neighbarhood is th' wraang cloientele." "Boot it's th' roit clientele farr oold army joonk," eyerolls Ma. "It's th' coomin' thing," declares Uncle Frank. "Till th' nixt warr," dismisses Ma....)

("Hmph," hmphs Uncle Frank. "Th' kilt is naaaht Scots! It's GAELIC!" "Hoot mon!" snickers Ma.)

(Hey, what a great idea for a novelty radio character! "THAT'S A JOKE, SON!")


("That's a very -- uh -- flattering photo, sir," offers Mr. Parrott. "He suggested I smile," comments Mr. Rickey. "But, uh," continues Mr. Parrott, "you being a serious man, and all, you --ah -- declined?" "I AM smiling," frowns Mr. Rickey. "Judas Priest, boy, have your spectacle prescription adjusted at once." "I'm not -- uh -- wearing glasses, sir," points out Mr. Parrott. "A wise precaution, my boy," nods Mr. Rickey. "They are easily misplaced." "Yes sir," nods Mr. Parrott, backing slowly to the door...)

(But what about that OTHER poor goose???)

(You should probably do that anyway. Who do you think you are, Burma?)

("HEY! I'm workin' this side of the street!" -- Jean Arthur.)

("And I didn't even get that job with Mr. Brand!")

(It's good to have friends.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Best picture of Errol Flynn EVER.

This might be Jimmy's best column ever. Hey Ruthie, you know you can cut the tag out.

"What? Don't you brush your teeth before you go to the dentist?"

"Gringo?" I thought they were Hungarian.

Well, the wire service picked it up...

"HEY!" -- Leonora Petrauskas.

Ever hear of H. H. Holmes?

Poor Plushie. It's hell to get old.

Every gal should carry one of those.

We're never even going to know his name. War is like that.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Ain'nat Flynn guy," queries Alice, gesturing at the paper in her lap, "t'one haddat, wha'wassit, French cobblestone sidewawk a'sump'n?" "Belgian brick driveway," replies Sally

8000 stone blocks used to pave an antique Belgian Courtyard.

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

"An'nat guy gets t'meet t' Pope?" Alice marvels. "Bet't'at'll be a helluva confession."

God luv ya, Alice.

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

"Y'know, Sal," sighs Alice. "I worry 'bout you."

And you have to really love her.

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

"Oi thaat'chee was goin' to oopen a dress shaap in tharr," snickers Ma. "Mooozalevski's a' Brooklyn." "That Mozelewski is bein' difficoolt," admits Uncle Frank. "He's hooldin' oot far Flatboosh Avenue. Says this neighbarhood is th' wraang cloientele."

Dear Lord.

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

This might be Jimmy's best column ever. Hey Ruthie, you know you can cut the tag out.

That could be the problem, but my first thought for Ruthie was, are you sure it's the panties?

And really, who the h*ll says that in a newspaper.

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

We're never even going to know his name. War is like that.

"The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber"

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Ye see here noo,," points out Ma. "Oi tol'jee that noitcloob oidear was stoof an' nahnsense, and look here what LaGuardia's doin'. Throon th' whool situation in a swivet." "Ah, boot see tharr," counters Uncle Frank. "They can sarrve drinks boot noo entertainment. All thim people gonna be bored roit t'sleep. An' tharr goin' t'want a good drink t'brace 'em oop. ' 'Ah," ahs Ma, "so that's ye new plan is it? Yarr goin' t'sell GOOD drinks f'ra change." 'Oi shall ovarlook that remark," sniffs Uncle Frank. "Oi have always and will always stand behoind th' quality oov me praaaduct." ""That's roit," chuckles Ma. "Stand behoind it. That' way ye don't smell it." "Ye didn't used t'be soo sarcastic b'farr we got married," mutters Uncle Frank. "Ye didn't used t'be sooch a bobaide befarr we gaaht married," replies Ma. "Well, it's b'soide th' point anyway," Uncle Frank shrugs. "When Oi'm th' Surploos King a' East Flatboosh, ye'll larn t'change ye tune." "Oi hear," chuckles Ma, "that Davega is shakin' in its boots." "As they shood," nods Uncle Frank. "That last pair a' boots Oi got there was rotten.")

("I hope," scowls Sally, "t'ey don't t'ink Joe's gonna cook food f'no Nazis. He didn' go oveh t'eh t' cook food f'no Nazis." "You see t'at o'teh story t'eh?" notes Alice. "T'at Gen'ral Patch? Y'know, t' big cheese a' t' 7t' Awrmy? He's get'n some medal." "Joe's get'n a betteh one," frowns Sally. "A Poiple Hawrt." "T'at Patch, t'ough," shrugs Alice, "I guess he's a pretty good gen'rl. He neveh slapped nobody." "He betteh not," fumes Sally. "Joe didn't go oveh t'eh to cook food f'no Nazis awr get slapped by no gen'ral wit' a medal." ""Yeh," acknowledges Alice. "Prawbly nawt....")

(Doc had his Wheaties today!)

("Friends, here is nature's way to colon happiness...")

("Close the door, my boy," directs Mr. Rickey. "I wish to speak with you in confidence." "Gulp," gulps Mr. Parrott. "This Walker," Mr. Rickey begins in a low, conspiratorial voice. "I have heard rumors that he is an -- agitator. You are aware of his role in the uprising against Mr. Durocher two years ago.." "I thought that was Vaughan," shrugs Mr. Parrott. "When Mr. Vaughan took off his uniform and threw it at Durocher's feet," continues Mr. Rickey, "I am informed that Mr. Walker offered his as well. I am also informed that Mr. Walker, during his time with the Sperry Gyroscope firm, was involved in -- labor matters." "I thought he just taught square dancing," shrugs Mr. Parrott. "I wish to ask you, in confidence," frowns Mr. Rickey. "In view of these facts that I have laid before you I wish to ask your considered opinion." "Yes sir," hesitates Mr. Parrott. "Is Mr. Walker --" queries Mr. Rickey most earnestly, "a Communist?" Mr. Parrott blinks and breaks into a full-throated laugh. "The only thing red about Dixie," he guffaws, "is his neck." "Hm," hms Mr. Rickey. "You may go. I have much to consider...")

("She'll run like leg makeup." Well yeah, if you don't blot.)

(They're made for each other. Look, they even have the same hairline.)

("Just stay out of MY way!' - Rosalind Russell.)

("Wha'sso funny?" -- Bink Scanlan.)

("I just thought of something. What if those bones ARE the Greens?" "That's why WE have a cat!")

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"Whattaya mean?? She's 21! Who'dya think I am, Georgie Jessel??"

"Well, thanks, I guess..." -- Butch

Translation: "What, me live with that pushy social-climbing..."

2 + 2 =....

I really didn't expect this storyline to veer into Gothic horror, but now that it has, I am fully on board.

"Bought 'em from this guy in the city. Name of Quinlan..."

You were expecting maybe Burns & Allen?

A little decorum, Moonshine. You're not in the poolroom.

Get it in writing.

Tick tick tick tick tick tick....

 

[Fading Fast]

They're made for each other. Look, they even have the same hairline.

Ella Raines is hoping she doesn't have to turn to the comicstrips for employment, but reading the paper this morning, she makes a mental note of a potential role if necessary.

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

2 + 2 =....

GTF.

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

Tick tick tick tick tick tick....

Kudos to Caniff, I can't wait to see what happens tomorrow.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("I looked at a map las' night," relates Sally, nodding at the Eagle's screamer front page as she sips her after-work Coke and Leonora counts nickels. "Y'know what? T'eh less'n two hunne't miles fr'm Moosboig." "Mm," comments Ma, absorbed in her ledger. "We'h t'at camp is, whatta'tey cawl it, 'tat Stalag 7." continues Sally, "we'h Mickey is." Ma looks up and blinks. "Two hunnard moiles ye say?" she replies. "Hoo many moonths is thaaat?" "T'eh movin' quick, Ma," declares Sally. "Neveh min' nex' mont', could be nex' week." Ma looks up at the framed photo behind the counter. "Naaaht a warrd f'room'im in aaahmoost eight moonths," she sighs. "Oi hoop'ee ain't dead." "T'at'sa helluva thing t'say," injects Sally. "Ya tellin' me don' worry 'bout Joe, an'nen ya say 'bout ya own son, 'I hop'ee ain' dead." "Well," sighs Ma, "Oi do hope that. Wailin' an' carryin' ahn loike a banshee ain' goona change noothin' woon way aaarr anoothar." "Sometimes I wondeh," exhales Sally, "if ya even my real mot'eh." "Take me waard," shrugs Ma. "Oi was tharrr.")

("Hey Ma," queries Willie, pushing Butch the dog off the newspaper spread out on the floor so he can get a closer look at the page. "What's gonna happn' whenna wawr's oveh?" "Aw," replies Alice, "lotta people gonna go runnin' inna street, whoopin' an' hollehrin' an'' carryin' awn. T'at's what happn't whenna las' wawr was oveh." "Didjoo do t'at?" ponders Willie. "Didjoo whoop an' holleh'r'n carry awn?" "Nah," shrugs Alice. "I was just'a kid. I had -- um -- ot'eh t'ings t'worry about." "Hey Pap," continues Willie. "Did'joo whoop an holleh'r'n carry awn? Whenna las' wawr was oveh?" Krause lowers his copy of "Popular Mechanics" and chews at his lower lip as the memories flood back. "Neh," he sighs....)

("Good," declares Uncle Frank, sipping his mug of Toomey's Diner coffee. "It's aboot toime someboody cleaned oop that mess." "Damn shame," agrees Sergeant Doyle, thru a mouthful of soggy doughnut. "Y' can' trus' nobody no moeh...")

("This man Danny Kaye, with whom Mr. Durocher will broadcast," frowns Mr. Rickey. "Who is he?" "A comedian," shrugs Mr. Parrott. "Stage, movies, radio. He's got this act where he talks a lot but doesn't say much." Mr. Rickey cocks an eyebrow. "I deplore such a man," he frowns. "A man who cloaks his purpose, his true agenda, behind an effusion of superfluous verbiage canNOT be trusted. Mark that, my boy, such a man canNOT be trusted." "Certainly not," agrees Mr. Parrott...)

(Whatta you care, swami? One chump's kale is as green as any other.)

("Mary Worth -- Confidential Investigator!")

(Wait'll you find out he had onions for lunch.)

("I read a book oncet," announces Bink Scanlan. "T' G-String Moidehs, by whassehname t'eh, Gypsy Rose Levy." "Indeed?" eyerolls Inky Quinlan. 'I had no idea you were a woman of letters." "Ohhhh yeh," Bink grins. "I get lettehs awlatime." "Your probation officer, no doubt," smirks Inky. "Nah, he ain' no officeh," shrugs Bink. "He was f'ra while. Won'neese oak leaf t'ings in a crap game." "Impersonating a major," sighs Inky. "How reprehensible." "Yeh, he was really a mineh," notes BInk. "But 'ee's gonna try again when'ee toins twenny-one an'ney let'im outta Coxsackie!")

(Worst Dad Ever can't wait to get at the punch bowl!)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

S2 Reppucci would resent making Page Four on any day, but today in particular. And don't worry about Bea Wain, I bet she'll live to be 100.

Hey you kids, shouldn'cha be in school??

Who can sleep with all this noise??

"No, the axe is for when you get the bill..."

Hey, that's pretty good! Do Charlie McCarthy next!

"Sure would be somethin' if somebody mailed that coat to the police. Anonymously, o'' course..."

But you'll have to wait nine hours at the terminal.

I don't think you understand the situation...

"Ak Zipee Ak!" Ah, the Danny Kaye Show!

War is Hell.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Mary Worth -- Confidential Investigator!"

Lyric Layne is such a good comicstrip name.

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

"Impersonating a major," sighs Inky. "How reprehensible."

The moral code of our criminals in this story is fascinating, mainly because they sincerely believe in it.

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

S2 Reppucci would resent making Page Four on any day, but today in particular. And don't worry about Bea Wain, I bet she'll live to be 100.

Bette Davis could easily play Evelyn without even trying.

Oh, and not seeing a lot of union solidarity from the fancy stars in the Hollywood community.

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

"Sure would be somethin' if somebody mailed that coat to the police. Anonymously, o'' course..."

That old lady will remember Annie was down there at the time; it's got to be trickier than that. That or mail it and skip town as once the coat arrives at the police, with the proper note attached, the old lady will have her hands full. Annie should get the heck out of there anyway, so might as well burn the old lady on the way out.