The Era -- Day By Day

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Not a good day to be a fire insurance claims adjuster.

You're grinning just a little too hard there, Mr. Martin.

WHAT would Miss Crabtree think of all this???

Actually, I wouldn't mind salt and pepper shakers shaped like little owls at all.

Seeded to death in a soybean field? Well, that's something new.

Well, Bim Gump died, so now they all want to do it. And it's always interesting to see yourself as others see you, eh Walt?

A bee hive? Guess the zoning here isn't very rigorous. And Jon Stardust sure gets around!

WASTREL! HAVE YOU NEVER HEARD OF THE PAPER SHORTAGE?

Sugarfoot? Aren't you the one that's always punching people out at the Stork Club? No, wait, that's Honeychile. My mistake.

Terry has such faith. Hey kid, who was it again who sold out Raven Sherman to Captain Judas? Remember that? WE DO.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("I'm tellin' ya, Sal," insists Alice. "T'ese t'ings come in t'rees. Fois' Luna Pawrk, now Palisades -- I'm tellin' ya, Tilyou betteh wawtch out, Steeplechase is gonna be nex'." "Ahhh," dismisses Sally, "I don' b'lieve innat stuff. Supehstitions is alla bunk." "Oh yeh?" retorts Alice. "I knew t'is gal in stir -- uh, upstate -- t'at was wit' t'ese two ot'eh gals an' t'ey lit t'ree cigarettes onna match! An' ya know what happn't?" "What?" challenges Sally. "Well," shrugs Alice, "nut'n -- yet. But I'm tellin' ya, awl t'ree 'a t'em gals is head'n f'ra bad end." "Neveh mine'nat," frowns Sally. "You said you was gonna teach me howta knit. So teach me howta knit." "Oh yeh," nods Alice. "Sawry, I got distracted." She pulls a scuffed old toolbag from under the seat and opens it to reveal several balls of yarn and a set of needles. "Now, t'fois' t'ing we gotta do," Alice declares, "is d'cide what coleh yawrn t'use." "I wanna knit a paierha socks f'Joe," shrugs Sally. "Awrmy socks. An' Awrmy socks gotta be brown, right? Brown socks, brown yawrn." "Oh," replies Alice, rummaging in the bag. "I got no brown. I got t'is poiple heeh, t'is light poiple." "Lavendeh," corrects Sally. "You want Joe should be inna Awrmy wit' lavendeh socks?" "Ah," nods Alice. "Well, t'is is t'at Woolwoit's yawrn, you wawsh it a coupla' times, it'll toin brown. You useta sell t'stuff, you oughta know t'at." "Yeh, nods Sally, "maybe y'right. So -- whattoo I do?" "Well," continues Alice, "foist ya do whatcha cawl a 'cast on.' See heeh, y'kinda make a lit'l knot heeh, a slip knot." Sally warily takes the proffered needle, and attempts the required procedure. "Like t'is?" "Good, good," nods Alice. Encouraged, Sally twice repeats and looks up for further guidance. "NO! NO!," interrupts Alice. "Not in t'rees! T'at's bad luck!! Neveh do t'ree an'nen stop! T'at's t'same t'ing as t'ree onna match! Make foueh! Make foueh!' Baffled, Sally creates a fourth loop. "Wheeeeeew," exhales Alice. "T'at was a close one." "Ya nuts," sighs Sally. "Maybe so," insists Alice, "but I ain't gonna be t'blame if Steeplechase Pawrk boins down!")

Turning down an appeal by William Miller, a partner in the Danziger Brothers firm, operators of Luna Park, to allow the portion of the park that was undamaged in Saturday's catastrophic fire to reopen, License Commissioner Paul Moss has ordered the suspension of all licenses for park concessions until a thorough inspection of the grounds by the Buildings Department can be completed. Firemen were still at the site this afternoon watering down the still-smoldering ruins of the park's western section, with Fire Marshal Thomas P. Brophy slated to begin an official investigation into the cause of the fire today. Building inspectors will wait to begin their survey of the undamaged portion of the park until after that probe has been concluded. About a dozen rides and concessions remain usable according to Miller, and losses from non-use of these attractions, he insists, would be considerable. The park has already suffered losses estimated at $500,000 from the fire alone. Brophy indicated that the focus of his investigation will be directed toward determining why no park employee turned in an alarm until fifteen minutes after the fire erupted. Meanwhile, officials are attempting to determine exactly who owns the park, with the property having just been sold last week for $275,000 by the Prudence Bonds Insurance Company, Incorporated. Title to the property, however, was not due to be officially transferred until September 15th. It was learned that Luna Park was insured to the tune of $400,000.

("What nonsense!" scoffs Ma. "Makin' a moovin' pitchar aboot a radio quiz proogram! How can they DO that?" "Thaaat's the sixty foor dollar question!" chuckles Uncle Frank, as the screen door skeens open to admit a uniformed young woman, her jaw fiercely masticating a wad of gum. "Telegram," she announces. "I knooow what this is," snaps Ma, as she grabs the yellow envelope. As she fumbles with the seal, Uncle Frank flips the messenger a quarter. "Long as I'm in'eeh," shrugs the messenger, "gimme a pack a' Black Jack. An' I heeh ya take numbehs heeh -- gimme 5-0-3 combinated at a nickel each." She flips the quarter back to Uncle Frank as he jots down the bet on the back of the discarded Western Union envelope, and takes a pack of gum from the display on the counter. She pockets her nickel change, touches the brim of her cap and withdraws. Uncle Frank watches her go, and then turns his gaze to Ma, whose face is flushing with anger. "LISSEN t' THIS!" she fulminates. "TRAIL M. B. TO SANTA ANITA. LOST TRAIL DURING FOURTH RACE. WIRE FIFTY DOLLARS. DESPERATE. GAFFNEY." "Ahhh," exhales Uncle Frank. "Ahhhhh indeed," scowls Ma.)

(You tell 'em, Helen! In my profession not a day goes by where I don't have to give 'em a little song and dance.)

The Eagle Editorialist takes note of rumors swirling around the future fate of Adolf Hitler, and the likely chance that he will flee for his life once the end of his regime draws nigh. "Our guess," predicts the EE, "is to watch Argentina. It is reported that leading Nazis have sent vast sums of money there for safekeeping there." He also notes that "the present Fascist cabal of army officers who are running affairs at Buenos Aries have shown the keenest interest in Hitler's philosophy, and have copied many Nazi policies and methods of government."

(All right, so it isn't exactly Dude Hennick and Raven on the window ledge, but still...)

("MacPhail!" fumes Mr. Rickey, his fierce brows beetling as he chews forcefully upon his panatela. "That LOW HUCKSTER! That CARNIVAL BARKER! That WINEBIBBING BUFFOON!" "Can you IMAGINE, sir?" whistles Mr. Parrott. "Owning the YANKEES? They've got twice the seats we do. We wouldn't have a chance!" "NONSENSE, boy!" roars Mr. Rickey, flourishing his cigar before his assistant's bewildered nose. "I have a PLAN." "And look at the Bushwicks!" marvels Mr. Parrott, gesturing to the newspaper on the desk. "Another 10,000 people! To see the BUSHWICKS!" "As I have told you, boy," frowns Mr. Rickey, "I do not believe these throngs are milling their way to Woodhaven to see Mr. Rosner's motley roster of semiprofessionals. They are going there to see outstanding baseball talent they have been otherwise denied." "You mean?" gasps Mr. Parrott. Mr. Rickey offers no reply other than to lean back in his chair and gaze out into Borough Hall Plaza. "There is, Mr. Parrott," he declares, his voice rumbling as though from Sinai, "a new world coming...")

("Nice gal. Kind of a Falangist, but nobody's perfect.")

("Your burglar cousin." Ah, Jo, never change.)

(I mean, it wasn't exactly hard to call...)

("Actor? HMPH! A mere punchinello!" -- Vitamin Flintheart.)

(AMERICA'S NUMBER ONE HERO DOG knows there is a time for a show of force. Gr.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

The News is superstitious too.

Well, they had to do SOMETHING. Butch won't let 'em play Bingo!

Making fun of reporters, Mr. Caniff? Tsk.

I dunno what's worse -- whoever's up there, or seeing Andy Gump's face coming at you in the dark.

And even worse, kid, you'll get the upper berth.

"And all that, and all they gave him to vote for was Thomas E. Dewey."

The Anonymity Of Crowds.

Whip 'em into shape, Phyl!

My mother after penny ante night.

"But no matter, I'll --- EEEEW! EARWIGS!"

 

[Fading Fast]

" I got t'is poiple heeh, t'is light poiple." "Lavendeh," corrects Sally. "

These two are priceless.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("H

("He shipped out awrmos' a mont' ago," sighs Sally. "You s'pose 'at's weh'ree is? Sout'a France? T'em guys gotta eat, y'know. T'ey need cooks. Cooks awn trucks, goin' inta t'feel'. T'at's what'ee said t'ey was gonna have 'im do, y'know?" Alice gazes at the newspaper, and forces a grin. "He's gonna be fine, Sal. Nobody shoots at no cook. 'Specially t'Goimans, I mean, you know t' kin'a stuff t'ey hafta eat? T'ey'd neveh shoot no cook." Sally looks up, wounded. "Sawry," shrugs Alice. "I -- uh -- f'gawt about y'brot'eh bein', um, inns prison camp t'eh. Yeh. Hey -- look heeh, ya ol' pal Bawrbra Hutton! What wazzat sawng you said you useta sing when you was woikin' at Woolwoit's? 'Bawrbra Hutton's got t' dough, parley voo! An' weh she gets it we awl know, par-ley voo...'" "We slave at Woolwoit's five and dime," joins in Sally, her spirits lifting, "t'pay we get is sueh'ra crime!' Hinkey dinkey par-laaay vooooo!" Heads turn on the train as Sally and Alice harmonize the crescendo, and Sally exhales. "Seems like awlat was a million yeehs ago," she sighs. "I guess we didn' knowit at t'time, but we haddit pretty good, y'know. Me'n Joe, goin' out dancin', plannin' t'get married, t'inkin'a awla t'ings we was gonna do. Y'know, it's oueh sevent' annivoisehry, eleven days away. Seven yeehs." She exhales again, her eyes gazing off into the past. "Y'know," she resumes, "I'd give any'ting f'rit t'be nineteen t'oity seven again." "Speak f'y'self," mutters Alice. "What?" "Nut'n....")

Japan's once-strong bastion of Halmahehra, stepping stone to the Philippines, was virtually neutralized today by a sustained Allied aerial assault threatening the main defense of her stolen empire in the southwestern Pacific. General Douglas MacArthur, reporting a continuation of daily attacks on the island, said the Japanese could no longer freely use the great base that was a key feeding point for men and supplies throughout the southwest.

The Navy Department reported today that Lt. Joseph P. Kennedy Jr., son of the former US Ambassador to Great Britain, was killed in action. The younger Kennedy was a Navy Liberator pilot stationed in England.

("This heat wave," chuckles Uncle Frank, mopping his brow with a handkerchief, "got' to evvvvrywoon." "Never moind that," snaps Ma, slapping an unfolded letter in her hand. "What d'ye pr'pose we do aboot this??" "Hm?" hms Uncle Frank, sipping his two cents plain. "Oi'm sorry, Nora, Oi wasn't listenin'." "This lettar!" growls Ma. "From a LAWYARRR in Los Angeles! Representin' Marie Belasco! Demandin' we tarrrn ovar th' boy!" Uncle Frank looks up, startled. "A lawyer?" he frowns. "Wharr's she gett'n mooney far a lawyer?" "Who says she's payin' mooney?" sniffs Ma. "Oi thought ye sent Hops Gaffney oot there t'deal with harr," replies Uncle Frank. "Oi thought ye said ye had it aaahl oondar control." "Ye harrd that telegram yestarrday," scowls Ma. "The bloody eedjit blew aaahl th' mooney Oi give 'im on haaaarse racin'! Oi don't loike this, Francis, Oi don't like this a'tall. Oi want ye t'send Danny ooot there t' clean this mess oop." "Can't spare 'im," shrugs Uncle Frank. "Ye've got Jimmy toied oop aaahl day doin' th' rounds since th' Hoppar left, an' Oi need Danny t' roon things oot t' th' warehoose. This cigarette aaahparation we gaaaht gooin' is roonin' great guns, an' we still gaaaht th' still roonin' b'soides." "Well, Oi'm not gonna stand farr this," thunders Ma. "Oi'll go oot thar meself before Oi'll let that wooman troifle with me grandsoon." "She's his moothar," points out Uncle Frank. "Ye moit naaaht loike harr, an' Oi moit not loike harr, but th' law is th' lawrr unless ye can get a declaration she's an oonfit parent." "SHE ROON AAAHF AN' LEFT TH' BOY!" yells Ma, just as the door skeens open to admit Sergeant Doyle from the Empire Boulevard precinct. "Sawry t'intehrrupt," ahems Doyle, "but I need a woid witcha, Leary." Uncle Frank dismounts his stool and steps over to confer with the sergeant. "I jus' got t'woid," he whispers. "T'eh raidin' ya wahehouse. T'night." "But HOW..." growls Uncle Frank. "I dunno," shrugs Doyle. "Somebody tawked. I dunno who. But somebody t'at hadda have inside dope." "Ah," frowns Uncle Frank, glancing over at Ma. "Ah.")

Soldiers in the European Theatre of Operations will soon be issued a new jacket designed primarily for combat use, but also suitable for dress occasions. The Philadelphia Quartermaster Depot announced today that the new waist-length jacket, made from 18 oz olive-drab wool serge, will replace the standard four-pocket olive-drab tunic, and is designed along similar lines to the British battledress blouse, with two breast pockets and a waistband that fastens closed, giving the garment a trim appearance. The jacket also feature two inside pockets, and a convertable collar that may be buttoned to the neck against inclement weather. It was noted in the announcement that high ranking American generals have been wearing prototypes of this new jacked in the field, and have found it highly satisfactory.

("We oughta send sump'n t'Joe," sighs Miss Kaplan. "I mean, sump'n betteh'r'n he'd get fr'm t'at wife'a his." Mozelewski frowns. "Don' even T"INK of it," he snaps. "You tol' me you had'dem pitchehs a' me innat outfit y'made fawr me inna show!" protests Miss Kaplan. "You know, wit't t'ing t'at goes aroun' 'eeh, an' aroun' down'neh!" "I BOINT 'EM!" growls Mozelewski. "Ya'ra bum," growls Miss Kaplan. "Joe's my pal too," snaps Mozelewski. "Even'a negatives?" mutters Miss Kaplan. "ESPECIALLY th' negatives!" declares Mozelewski.)

The Eagle Editorialist congratulates the crowd of eight thousand persons caught up in the midst of the disastrous fire at Luna Park Saturday for their calm and orderly behavior that resulted in no undue jamming or serious injuries as they escaped from the blaze. He further laments the destruction of half the great amusement center at a time when repairs and replacements of lost attractions may not be possible due to the war.

(There are no collaborators in France. Everyone who lived there between 1940 and 1944 were members of the Underground. Right? Right.)

(Don't TELL us Old Folks Paul Waner is playing volleyball in shorts. SHOW us!!!)

Out in the Pacific Coast League, our old friend Dolph Camilli has been knocked out of action by the worsening of an old foot injury. The 1941 National League Most Valuable Player, traded away by Branch Rickey in a controversial deal last summer, has been having a fine season as playing manager of the Oakland Oaks.

(28? And you're what, again, 29?)

(It *is* a hard life, isn't it?)

(And while you're at it, Tubs, ask him about his magic beans.)

(WIthout clock watchers, nothing would ever get done.)

(AMERICA'S NUMBER ONE HERO DOG is always ready to work undercover.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

"Ooof," oofs T/5 Joe Petrauskas as he wrestles a heavy crate of field rations into the back of a truck. 'Get t'lead out, you rookies," snaps a gruff sergeant. "You ain't here t'admire th' scenery! We're ROLLIN' OUT in ten minutes!"

Hence the expression, "Shake a leg."

Where's Sam the Presser when we need him?

Besides, Rommel's dead. Dont you read the papers?

Are you sure the candle's a wise idea? Looks like an awful fire hazard.

The veneer of civilization can be awfully thin.

"You're sending me back by SUBMARINE?"

"Why, I remember when his voice cracked. He was so cute!"

When this kid grows up he'll rule the world.

 

[LizzieMaine]

ANd also....

"Melawdic enough f' yez?"

 

[Fading Fast]

"Soldiers in the European Theatre of Operations will soon be issued a new jacket designed primarily for combat use, but also suitable for dress occasions. The Philadelphia Quartermaster Depot announced today that the new waist-length jacket, made from 18 oz olive-drab wool serge, will replace the standard four-pocket olive-drab tunic, and is designed along similar lines to the British battledress blouse, with two breast pockets and a waistband that fastens closed, giving the garment a trim appearance. The jacket also feature two inside pockets, and a convertable collar that may be buttoned to the neck against inclement weather. It was noted in the announcement that high ranking American generals have been wearing prototypes of this new jacked in the field, and have found it highly satisfactory."

I assume this is the introduction of the Eisenhower Jacket?

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Never moind th' seltzaar," sighs Uncle Frank, his jacket off, his tie loosened, his shirt scarcely buttoned, his face stubbled, and his forehead glistening with sweat. "Joost gimmee a glass of oice." "Ye warr oot AAAHL NOIT," frowns Ma, pushing the glass across the counter. "We got the warehoose emptied joost in toime," Uncle Frank exhales. "All th' cigarette stoof an' th' printin' plates I got ovarr t' McKinney's place in Bushwick -- boot I had t' cahhl aaahf his debt before he'd do it. Danny an' Jimmy gaaht th' still dismantled, an' gaaaht th' boiler an' the bahhtles onta Shaughnessy's truck, and laid oot ahll the pipes aaahn th' shelves. Coppars showed oop 2 in th' marrnin' an' aaahl they foond was ploombin' supplies an' a press set oop t'print billheads an' invoices. If Doyle had'na tipped us oof, we'da been gonaaars." "Who d'ye s'pose ratted us oot?" demands Ma. "Thim boys a' yaaars ain't gaaaht no new garrrrlfriends, have they now?" "Now whatta ye MEAN boi THAT?" snaps Uncle Frank, his usual joviality worn down to an exhausted nub. "My boys nevarrr.." His thought is interrupted by the skeening of the screen door. "Telegram," sighs the uniformed young woman. "I didn't hit, did I?" "No," growls Uncle Frank, snatching the yellow envelope away "ye didn't hit." He reaches for a quarter and hesitates. "Ye don't want t'let it ride f'ra'notheh day do ye?" "No thanks, Pop," shrugs the messenger, shifting her gum as she pockets the tip. "Rent's due t'is week." Ma tears open the envelope as the messenger withdraws, and her face flushes red with rage. "Blooooooody hell!" she exhales. "It says here, 'GET THE MESSAGE?' An' it's signed 'MARIE BELASCO.'" "Mooothar a' maaarcy," gapes Uncle Frank. "It's goona take maaaar'thin that," declares Ma, her eyes cold and hard. "We'll haaaafta..." She is interrupted as the door squeals open again. "Hiya Ma," greets Sally, leading Leonora by the hand. "Ah, daaaaughtar," replies Ma, her forced smile fairly cracking her face. "Hot enough fawr ya?" sighs Sally, hoisting Leonora onta stool. "Ye doon't know th' haaalf'v it," mutters Uncle Frank. "FRANCIS!" stabs Ma. "Uh-ooooooh," frowns Leonora.)

The Germans hurled their largest forces of the summer campaign against the Red Army before Warsaw and East Prussia today in a desperate effort to stabilize the Eastern Front whatever the cost. A commuique issued by the Soviet High Command spoke of German "attacks" rather than "counterattacks" for the first time since the beginning of the Russian Summer Offensive in June, and conceded that the German push has temporarily wedged their lines.

In Sydney, Austrialia comedian Bob Hope presided yesterday over the largest mass interview ever held in that country. Questioned by hundreds of reporters, Hope declared that "Road To Austrialia" sounded like a good title for a future film, and suggested that when that picture is made, his co-star Bing Crosby should be replaced with a kangaroo, "since they both have the same sized pouch." Also questioned was a leading member of Hope's entourage, singer Frances Langford, and dismissed any concern over the brawl between her husband Jon Hall and bandleader Tommy Dorsey. Reacting to reports that Hall had "pawed" Dorsey's wife at a party, leading the orchestra leader to punch him in the face, Miss Langford delcared that she has been married to Hall for seven years, "and I certainly don't intend to let a little thing like that trouble me."

(Not this week, please.)

("Any'a'yez eveh see Patton?" inquires Joe, trying to make conversation as the truck grinds slowly along a rutted road. In the dim light under the canvas, he doesn't see the eyes roll as a hatchet-faced, black-eyed corporal sneers in his direction. "Oh sho'," snickers the corporal in a thick sorghum accent. "He comes ovuh fuh tea an' cookies 'bout evuh naaaaght!" "Ah," exhales Joe, gazing down with embarassment at the truck bed as a crate, jostled by a bump in the road, grinds painfully into his hip.)

("And no, you may not accept tips.")

(Psst, Bill Zuber's nickname is "Goober." A guy named "Goober" pitches for the Yankees. Pass it on!)

(That's right, Mary. DISAPPROVE.)

("Dreams are the mirror of the soul...")

(Point of order: you can't tell me Tubby can fit in that car.)

(Three years in, and I still don't understand the physics of Scarlett's power. Invisibility makes her clothes invisible too, but not her sheets? Can't she just wrap herself up in the bedspread? Is that what the narration box is trying to tell us? IS IT???)

(AMERICA'S NUMBER ONE HERO DOG can melt the hardest heart.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Life is hard.

Just keep it out of the wheel.

"Milkman, Keep Those Bottles Quiet!"

And so it was that Walter W. Wallet in 1944 invented the "man cave."

"Wait, we were supposed to pick up parachutes???"

Can somebody please check on Mr. Gray?

"And don't try buying fish in a store on the way home. I know that trick!"

Joke's on you, bum. You can't use a B card for a tractor, you need an R.

We haven't seen a friendly-fire victim yet, but Charlie's bucking for it.

That's actually a pretty sound negotiating tactic.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Point of order: you can't tell me Tubby can fit in that car."

It would be a tight fit, but Tubby might just be able to squeeze in; however, Walt, from "Gasoline Alley" ain't. If anything, Walt would just pick the darn car up and carry it.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("I betcha t'at's weh he is," declares Sally. "Paris?" queries Alice. "Nah, t'ey wouldn' t'row no new guy inna mid'la t'at. B'sides, he don' even speak French." "I don' mean Paris," dismisses Sally impatiently, "I mean, you know, someweh innis new invasion t'ey got goin'. Awlem guys gotta eat, y'know. Yeh, he's oveh t'eh, I c'n jus' feel it." "T'ey gotta town'neh cawlt 'Nice,'" snickers Alice. "'Magine'nat, t' chambeh a' commoice musta named t'at town. 'C'mon allayez an' visit us -- it's Nice!' T'at's a reg'leh public r'lations jawb, y'know t'at?" "Yeh," frowns Sally. "I'm sueh it's jus' like t'at." "Betteh wawtch out, Sal," ribs Alice, "y'know what t'ey say 'boutt'em French gals -- t'ey know howta be, you know, nice!" Sally shoots her seatmate a murderous glare, and Alice immediately retracts. "Sawry," she mutters. "You should be," growls Sally, her arms folded and her eyes hard. "I didn' mean nut'n by..." apologizes Alice, remembering too late certain facts concerning Sally's father. "Jus' shut up," snaps Sally. "Jus' shut up.")

Russian armored forces narrowed the German wedge in their lines in the Eastern suburbs of Warsaw today, as the greatest tank battle of the Soviet summer offensive continued into its third straight day. Russian assault forces are battling thru the streets of the outflanked German stronghold of Sandomierz, 115 miles south of Warsaw, pressing the fiercely-resisting garrison against the Vistula. Further back, however, the Red Army suffered its first setback of the summer, abandoning Ossow, six and a half miles northeast of Praga, Warsaw's easternmost borough, in the face of heavy German attacks there. The Soviets are believed preparing to launch a new frontal assault on the Polish capital within a matter of days.

A 55-year-old Astoria woman waved examination before Magistrate Charles Solomon in Queens Felony Court on a charge of performing an abortion. Mrs. Helen Blenvin of 20-04 36th Street was released on $5000 bail pending action by the Queens Grand Jury. The complaint against Mrs.Blenvin was signed by Detective Joseph Sullivan of the Queens District Attorney's staff, alleging that she performed the abortion on a young woman at her home on August 8th. She was arrested the following day following an investigation by the Queens District Attorney's office.

("Whattaye MEAN ye can't get me no oice?" fumes Ma. "How'm I s'posta run a sodarr foontain with noo oice? What GOOD ahhr ye if ye caaan't get me noo oice." "It's naaaht me fault, Nora," groans Uncle Frank. "Oi've troyed ev'rybaaahdy Oi know. Ye can get what ye can get, an' no maaar than that!" "Oi'll be bound," fumes Ma. "If it's naaaht woon thing aroond hear it's anoothar. An' ye still hav'nt sent anyboody t'deal with Marie Belasco!" "Oi wired a coopla people Oi know on th' Coast," protests Uncle Frank. "Tarrns oot woon is in th' Air Corps an' woon is in a soobmarine." "An' that oothar fellar you know..." "...is in San Quentin," nods Uncle Frank. "Ye got th' Hoppar oot there aahlready, an' anything that's gaaaht t'be doon, he's the woon will have to do." "Well ain't this a foine thing," growls Ma. "Ye know, he made anoothar woona them c'lect caaahls this marrnin, askin' far mooney." "Wire him anoothar fifty," eyerolls Uncle Frank, "an' tell him he bettar steer clear'a the racetracks." "Joost that easy, eh?" scowls Ma. "Oi'm open," exhales Uncle Frank, "to any oothar suggestions." Ma frowns, her eyes squinting. "Aaaahl roit," she declares in a firm, even tone. "Here's an oidearr. You go." "ME?" gapes Uncle Frank. "You," nods Ma. "ME?" Uncle Frank repeats. "You," insists Ma, her tone making it clear she will brook no debate. "Ye gaaaht noothin' to do farr the moment," she continues, "thanks t' Miss Belasco tarrrnin' oop th' heat. Th' still's shoot down, McKinney's gahht th' cigarette oparration, an' ahhl ye got left to do is ploombin' jobs. An' thim boys a' yarrs can take caera those." "Me," sighs Uncle Frank. "You," affirms Ma. "Ye grip is upstairs in th' claaahset." "Me," exhales Uncle Frank, lapsing into a sotto-voce Gaelic curse as he heads for the stairs...)

(Nine cents and a red point for Kraft Dinner? What's the world coming to?)

(Subscribe today!)

(Old Man Davis has won just about 23 percent of all Dodger victories this season. Keep it up, Methuselah!)

("You remind me so much of that savoir of my country, the Generalissimo." "What?" "Nothing.")

(Funny how the more panic-stricken George gets, the clearer he thinks.)

("He's got a SAFE! He MUST be legit!")

(That being so, maybe riding on an open tailgate isn't the best idea....)

(AMERICA'S NUMBER ONE HERO DOG has it all thought out!)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"Nice weat'eh," snickers Joe, trying to keep up his spirits. "Can it, Brooklyn," growls the corporal. "Nobodduh thinks yo' funny." "My wife does," mutters Joe.

Social ostracism is probably not the worst problem you'll face right now on Guam.

Ever hear of a barn dance, stupid? YEEE HAW!

To say nothing of fairly maudlin.

Chekhov's Upper Bunk.

Keep vibrating kid, Covina's nowhere near Rhode Island.

The Herald? How declasse. The real Brahmins read the Evening Transcript.

Oh, Andy, you with your sly knowing winks.

"Make friends with them? When they're in there making fun of my Henry Burr records?"

You can smell the spirit gum a mile away.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Well doon't look at ME loike that," protests Uncle Frank. "It's not MOI fault Oi can't get noo train tickets t' Laahs Angeles! Don'chee know tharr's a warr on?" "You could take a bus," fumes Ma. "At MOI age?" erupts Uncle Frank. "Roide a BUS three thoosan' moiles? Oi loike th'sooonda THAT! An' befarr you get anymore oidearrs, that troock of mine won't hardly droive t' Bushwick, let alone Califarrnya, even if I COULD get th' gasoline! An' th' toires!" "Well, tharrr's gahtta be some way t'get oot thar an' deal with Marie Belasco," grumbles Ma. "An' thaaat's anoothar thing," interjects Uncle Frank. "Ye keep sayin' 'deal with Marie Belasco!' Joost what d'ye have in moind? Oi'm no killar, you know, Oi nevarr have been an' Oi never will. If that's what'chee want, ye gotta call soombody oother'n me!" "Don't be r'diculous," scowls Ma. "Oi never meant ye should knock'arr aaahf. She joost needs a scare poot in'arrr, convince'arr t'moind 'er own business." "She IS th' moothar of th' boy," points out Uncle Frank. "A foine way she's gaahta shooin' it." snaps Ma. She is about to issue a further statement when the door skeens open. "Ma!" shouts Sally. "I gotta letteh! I gotta letteh fr'm Joe!" "Did ye now!" grins Ma, her aspect abruptly shifting. "I did!" affirms Sally. "Right 'eeh! T'ree weeks old, but it's a letteh. He musta wrote it on th' boat oveh. Lissen heeh. 'Deah Sal,' he says, an'nen awlis poissonal stuff. He awrways does'at, writes poissonal stuff." "Ah," nods Ma. "Whe'z Lenoreh?" pauses Sally. "She oughta heeh t'is, t'ez stuff in'eeh f'her." "Go get her, Francis," directs Ma. "She's oopstairs lis'enin t' H. V. Kaltenbarrrn." Sally blinks at this and shrugs. "Ano'teh one," she sighs "f' Docteh Minkoff." Ma slides a Coca-Cola across the counter for her daughter, as Uncle Frank returns with Leonora in hand. "Ye got a lettara fr'm ye papa," he declares. "Gimme," commands Leonora. "It's f'me too," protests Sally. "I'll read it. Anyways, so afteh awla poissonal stuff he says 't'is is a swell boat t'ey got me awn heeh an' I am gett'n alawng fine wit' awla fellehs awn it. Ev'rybody is awrlways laughin' an' jokin' an' havin' a good time. T'at's t't'ing inna Awrmy, y'meet a swell buncha fellehs. Evr'ytin'g is swell. Tell Leonoreh t'at I showed aroun'eh pitcheh she drew of me, an'awla fellehs said it was a poifeck likeness. One guy said t'at ain' you, Brooklyn, t'at's a pitchehr'a Jawn Gawrfield, but I put'im straight. Give my love t'Ma an' Uncle Frank, an' evr'ybody else, an' -- an'nen t'ez moeh poissonal stuff, an'nee says 'love, Joe.' Ain'nat a good letteh?" "It is that," nods Ma. "I'm glad 'es gett'n'alawng wit' awlem fellehs," grins Sally. "I was worried 'bout t'at, but he's gonna be fine. Ain'nee? Ain'ee gonna be fine." "He'll be foine," exhales Ma. "Oh yes," nods Uncle Frank. "He'll be foine." "T'at is NAWT Jawn Garfiel'," frowns Leonora.)

President Roosevelt revealed today that the United States, Britain, and the Soviet Union have reached a general agreement on plans for the occupation of Germany, and further indicated that he plans to meet soon in person with Prime Minister Winston Churchill. In his first general news conference since July 11th, the Chief Executive refused to go into detail on his plans to see Mr. Churchill, stating that it is only "the same old story: s-o-o-n." The President further explained that the general plans reached among the Big Three for postwar German occupation can be characterized at present as "an understanding," but he declined to discuss specific details, including the precise manner in which Germany will be divided for occupation purposes. He did indicate that a European Advisory Committee has worked on that matter.

("Didja jus' sniffle, Willie?" demands Alice. "Huh? Didja? Heeh, lemme see." "Awww, Ma," Willie protests, "I didn' sniffle, I jus' sneezed, t'at's awl. Ev'rybody sneezes." "Siddy," pleads Alice. "Make 'im lemme look. Open ya mout', lemme see." "Aw, Pap," whines Willie, "do I hafta?" "Yeh," nods Krause.)

(Salvador Dali and Alfred Hitchcock? WHY DIDN'T THEY THINK OF THIS BEFORE????)

(Just wait'll the logjam in the divorce courts clears out...)

(What an awful season this is. Leo can't even fan a good feud. Oh well. GO BROWNS!)

(All this trouble over a cold sore.)

(I hope he's not on his way to a slaughterhouse in Trenton!)

(Yes, many Model T's have the gas tank under the seat. BOOM!)

(Or, you get shot for trying to break into this guy's garage.)

(Well where's the suspense in THAT?)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"Me onna French Riviereh," chuckles Joe, as he hefts a huge aluminum kettle off the back of the truck and carries it toward a bustle of men raising a tent at the edge of a clearing. "If t'boys at t'pickle woiks could see me now. I ask ya." "Less gab an' mo' wuh'k,' snaps the Corporal. "D'wall yuh boys fr'm Brooklyn tawk t'yo'self, o' is it jes' yew?" Joe mumbles a short, sharp monosyllable. "Whut?" demands the Corporal. "Nut'n," mutters Joe....

Hence the expression "down for the Count."

Crowds? You haven't done much summer theatre, have you?

I mean, it WILL be refreshing to sleep thru a night without being gnawed on by squirrels.

"Oh, just workin' on a story for the Weekly Inquisitor..."

"Besides I want to know what happens to Superman!"

Well played.

I bet John Jacob Astor never cowered in the back of a cave.

War is hell. You can't even get good spirit gum.

In the coming postwar world, the power belongs to those who understand media.

 

[Fading Fast]

""At MOI age?" erupts Uncle Frank. "Roide a BUS three thoosan' moiles? Oi loike th'sooonda THAT! An' befarr you get anymore oidearrs, that troock of mine won't hardly droive t' Bushwick, let alone Califarrnya, even if I COULD get th' gasoline! An' th' toires!" "Well, tharrr's gahtta be some way t'get oot thar an' deal with Marie Belasco," grumbles Ma. "An' thaaat's anoothar thing," interjects Uncle Frank. "Ye keep sayin' 'deal with Marie Belasco!' Joost what d'ye have in moind? Oi'm no killar, you know, Oi nevarr have been an' Oi never will. If that's what'chee want, ye gotta call soombody oother'n me!""

Good for Uncle Frank. It's fine that Ma is the stronger one / the "boss" in their relationship, but he needs to stand up for himself sometimes and draw a line or the boss thing can get out of control.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Salvador Dali and Alfred Hitchcock? WHY DIDN'T THEY THINK OF THIS BEFORE????"

Which, as I have no doubt you know, became the movie "Spellbound." Today, the Dali sequences in the movie are historic, but also insanely dated and kludgy.

 

[LizzieMaine]

Uncle Frank knows his limitations -- he's a neighborhood hustler, and he's perfectly satisfied to stay in his own territory and keep to his own trade because he knows what would happen to him if he overstepped those boundaries. He probably knew Joseph Rosen personally.

Ma knows her own limitations too, deep down, but I think she resents them just like she resents anything that calls those limitations to her attention.

 

[Fading Fast]

Uncle Frank knows his limitations -- he's a neighborhood hustler, and he's perfectly satisfied to stay in his own territory and keep to his own trade because he knows what would happen to him if he overstepped those boundaries. He probably knew Joseph Rosen personally.

Ma knows her own limitations too, deep down, but I think she resents them just like she resents anything that calls those limitations to her attention.

Sally inherited that trait on steroids.

I'm interested to see Ma's solution to Marie Belascom, because Ms. Belascom seems dug in and she does, as Frank keeps pointing out, have the law on her side. All I know is that Willie has to stay with Alice and Sidney, how they do it is Ma and Frank's business. And what the h*ll good is Hops Gaffney doing out there - what did Ma expect him to do?

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Well, it's a load off my min', 'at's awl," declares Sally, shifting in her seat as the train jolts into the Hudson Tube. "Awlat time wit'out a letteh, and I fin'ly get one. Ev'n if it IS t'ree weeks ol'." "Wheh you s'pose he is right now?" wonders Alice. "Oh, somewhez in France prob'ly," shrugs Sally. "He didn' say weh 'ee was headed, but inna letteh t'ez clues. He's awna ship, right? Wehr else is a ship goin'?" "Englan'." suggests Alice. "Yeh, but t'ey don' need nobody like Joe in Eng'lan," dismisses Sally. "Whasee gonna do t'eh? T'ey gawt awla cooks t'ey need. He's a Technician Fit' Grade, an'ney need guys like him t' woik in fiel' kitchens. An'whezza fiel' kitchens? In France." "You eveh eat French cookin'?" frowns Alice. "T'eh gonna mess'im up awrful. I had Joe's cookin'nat time, t'em kehdunny t'ings he made t'eh wit' t' meat inn'm, t'ose was pretty good, awmos' like ya ravioli. T'at's real food, y'know? American food. But Joe's gonna go oveh t'eh an'neh gonna mess'im awl up wit' awlat weeehd foreign stuff wit' allat sauce onnit 'nawlat.:" "I hope not," shrugs Sally. "I could go f'some ravioli right now," adds Alice, "Awr a knish, a knish'd be good, great big one fulla patatehs n' cheese." "Y'know what we oughta do," suggests Sally. "How bout you'n me an' Leonoreh an' Krause an' Willie go ovet't'tat new place t'eh roun' on 18t' Aveneh, get some chop suey?" "Now y' tawkin'," grins Alice. "Y'know," she adds, "American food's t'bes' food inna woil'.")

("Oi'm at me wit's end!" fumes Ma, slapping the paper down on the counter. "These eedjit amateurs gett'n th' coppars all roiled up!" "Ye needn't worry," dismisses Uncle Frank. "Doyle says it's ahhl farr show." Ma considers this, and her frown deepens. "It's nahhtoonly that," she continues. "Oi got anoothar phone call fr'm Hops Gaffney this marrnin'." "Keepin' busy, is he?" queries Uncle Frank, sniffling as the bubbles from his two-cents-plain agitate his nose. "He says he's been taaalkin' t' Marie Belasco," frowns Ma. "Oi nevarr toold 'im t'TALK to'arr, oi just waanted 'im t' OBSARRVE fr'm a distance, see what koind a sitcheeation she's in, see who she's mixed oop with. She doon't care a bean aboot that boy, an' you an' I booth know it. She's makin' trooble with oos farr a REASON, an' Oi'm bound t'know what that reason is!" "Well aaahl roit," shrugs Uncle Frank, lowering his glass, "ye got th' Hoppar oot thar t'spy. An' what'see fooond oot?" "He says," scowls Ma, "he aaasked her to GOO OOT with'im! He says he took'ar to a movin' pitchar an' aftarwards they went to a DROIVE IN restaurant!" "What's that?" queries Uncle Frank, fiddling with his glass. "Where ye eat in yaar automoobile!" snaps Ma. "An' whaaar d'ye s'pose Hops Gaffney got an automoobile!" "Maybe it's harrrs," shrugs Uncle Frank. "Ahhr maybe th' Hoppaar's livin' it oop out thar on OUR expense mooney!" roars Ma. "Gooin' HOLLYWOOD!" "Oi wouldn't be th' least s'proised," comments Uncle Frank. "Ye know how he is." "Oh, Oi do that," growls Ma. "But noneth'less, this tells me soomthin' Oi wanted t'know. If Marie Belasco is gooin' oot on dates with th' Hoppar, she ain't waarkin' with no man." "Ye don't know that," notes Uncle Frank. "What if she an' some fellar is warrkin' th' Hoppar t' get infarmation on US? Foony how she knew wharr my warehouse is." "Oi'll kill 'im if that's so," glares Ma. "Oi'l wring 'is miserable neck!" "Harrrd t'do thatt," Uncle Frank shrugs, "fr'm three thoosan' moiles away." "Yaaaaar not helpin!" thunders Ma. "Oh," declares Uncle Frank, "Oi woudn't say that." "What's THAT s'postarr mean?" demands Ma. "You'll foind out," replies Uncle Frank as he drains his glass....)

Reader Clarence Edward Heller writes in to complain about the unsighty way people today ride bicycles, expressing especially censorious views concerning "the big knobby-kneed girls resembling precocious grasshoppers as their knees go up and down with no hosiery in evidence like the walking-beams of Mississippi riverboats in Mark Twain's day." Contrasting all this the dignified cyclists of the '90s, Mr. Heller fumes that "not one bicyclist in five rides sensibly."

A group of fourteen concessionaires at Luna Park have reopened their attractions to the public this weekend, having been granted authority to do so by city officials following the spectacular fire a week ago that destroyed the entire western half of the famed Coney Island amusement park. Visitors arriving at the reduced Luna today will find the burned ruins sectioned off behind a wire fence, with special guards assigned to prevent wanderers from exploring the rubble. Luna's Grand Ballroom, popular with dancers, and the park's swimming pool are both open for business today, with a crowd of 5000 persons waiting when the gates opened this morning. The reopening follows a careful inspection by city fire investigators who pronounced the undamaged buildings safe.

("Red Herring." Is Ring Lardner back from the dead?)

The hard-hitting Phildadelphia Stars invade Dexter Park this weekend for a doubleheader tomorrow with the Bushwicks. The Stars are the top-hitting club in the Negro National Leage, according to averages just released, topping the circuit with a batting mark of .296. The Stars are also ranked the best-fielding club in the NNL.

("Cobra Woman," with Maria Montez and JON HALL! Pity they didn't have the sense to book Tommy Dorsey for the stage show.)

(All this fuss for a facelift and a nose job? Get over yourself, toots.)

("Half naked, half dressed, what's the difference?")

("WHAT A DOPE!" -- Irwin Higgs.)

(Just don't get any on the upholstery, she's still paying for that car!)

(He's got a replacement dog -- and soon he will have A REPLACEMENT BOY!)