- Messages
- 17,220
- Location
- New York City
("Of courrrse, daughter," declares Ma Sweeney, "y'may stay aas long as ye want., it's only..." "Only what?" sighs Sally, as she releases Stella the Cat from her bag, and Joe wrestles the rest of the bags up the stairs. "Well, daughter," Ma continues, "I merely suggest thot aafter Joseph goes to work tonight thot you and little Leonora go out to a picture show. A foine film playin' tonight at the Patio, there is. All aboot poirates, with Toirone Power in it, a very good picture indeed." Sally twists her face into a gag. "Meh," she snorts. "Tyrone Poweh. Look, Ma, we're awl tiehed, an' if it's awla same t'you we'd jus' like to toin in oily t'night." "Well, ye see," sighs Ma, "it's loike this then. I have a little gaatherin' here in th' place, you know, ev'ry Wednesday noite aafter the store closes, just me an' -- ahhh -- some of the ladies f'm around the th' neighborhood, we -- ah -- woork on our tattin' an' our embroidery an' all that." "Aw," shrugs Sally, "we c'n sleep t'rough t'at." "Wellll, daughter, ye see, soometimes t'ladies get a bit excited about -- well, ye know, a stitch done especially foine. Ye understand. Yes, indeed, daughter. Toirone Power. An' some other picture too, a double feature it is." "All right," sighs Sally, too tired to argue. "Tyrone Poweh." "Ahhh, ye might aafter the show, stop off forr a snack or a saandwich. The Bickford's down Flaaatbush Avenue is open late." "Bickfe'ds? Y'mean t' one acrost f'm Erasmus? At's nine blocks an' back! I'd rat'teh jus' come home an' go t'bed." "Ah, thaat's the problem, daughter, ye see, all the ladies will -- ah -- haave their cooats on ye' bed. They haave those delicious cakes at Bickford's now. You'll have a lovvely evenin', ye' will." "I s'pose." "Aand bring me back soom of those doughnuts, will ye now? Thaat's a good girl.")
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A double feature followed by going out for cake out is a long evening with a two year old. I assume Ma Sweeney slipped her daughter $2 to comfortably cover the evening's costs as I'm sure it will be a drop in a bucket compared to the night's take, umm, "embroidery work."
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(An Assistant Corporation Counsel, like an elephant, never forgets.)
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Davenport was being disingenuous right from the start and deserved to get called out on it.
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An overheated boiler on the top floor of a Manhattan dance hall exploded last night, tearing off part of the roof of the three story building, but none of the 75 dancers present in the ballroom were seriously hurt. A chunk of the boiler from the building at 88 Columbus Avenue was found several hundred yards from the scene, and a piece of the building's wall smashed thru the plate glass window of a Bickford's restaurant, narrowly missing several customers. Windows were reported shattered for hundreds of feet along Broadway. Few people were about at the late hour, and police say that fact prevented serious injuries or loss of life.
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Why would a dance hall even have enough of a fuel allotment to overheat its boiler?
And how does Ma Sweeney feel now about exiling her daughter and granddaughter to a Bickford's?
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("Um," whispers John McDonald to his new secretary as he looks around his new office, "have there been any -- uh -- messages?" "Non, monsieur," replies the secretary. "That is to say, no sir." "No telegrams?" "Non." "No telephone calls? No calls from a man with a -- loud, shouting voice? Or another man who sounds -- well, uh --," and here Mr. McDonald makes a tippling motion with his right hand and staggers in a small circle around the carpet. "Non, monsieur." Mr. McDonald exhales a deep sigh, the sigh of the just. "There is, sir, however, how you say, le coils, a parcel, has arrived. From the Brooklyn." "A parcel," stammers Mr. McDonald, the color draining from his features. He opens the door to his private office to see a large wooden crate sitting on the floor before his desk. "Did you open..."
"Non, monsieur. Here is le conaissement -- the bill of the lading. You see, it contains, la tete d'orignal, le caribou...the, how you say, head of the moose. Monsieur? Monsieur???")
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That's perfect.
Separately, I am surprised Durocher's being drafted as my "general" knowledge from all that I've read over the years was that few if any 38 year olds were drafted in the US. Enlisted, sure, but drafted?
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Won't *this* be interesting.
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It's looking like George Cukor was smart to go in as a private.
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Forty years from now, Wilmer will be the guy who never shuts up about being a veteran.
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Assuming he isn't a casualty of friendly fire, as I could see that happening.
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Ah yes, Not-Sergeant Lee. Whatever became of him?
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I have to admit, I kinda forgot that Terry was still floating out there somewhere.