The Era -- Day By Day

[Fading Fast]

"Oi should caaahl aahn Mistar Billingsley. We did soom business in th' oold days."

No doubt they did.

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"Hmph, she thinks she's SO SMART." -- O. DeHavilland.

Perfect, Lizzie.

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There is no girl on planet earth in 1944 who is better skills to grab her dog, hop a freight train and start life anew in another town than Annie, what in God's name is she doing staying here?

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Now don'chee stawrt in, daaaghter," warns Ma. "Oi'm soo bloody sick an' toyred'a politics Oi could scream." "Look," plows Sally onward, "how lawng ya been innis country? Foehty yeehs? Foety five?" "Soomthin' loike that," growls Ma. "An' you ain' become a citizen yet," laments Sally. "Don'cha t'ink ya OWE it t'yaself to get involved? I mean, lookit, when you come heeh, right? Women didn' have t'right t'vote, ain'at right? You couldn'a voted if ya WAN'ED to. An'nen when I was bawrn, women STILL didn' have t'right t'vote. An' awlese women, 'nese suffragettes t'eh, was out t'eh fight'n an' scrapin' an' raisin' hell about it, an' now women DO have t'right t'vote! Y'know what? If you was back in Iehlan', you could vote right now, if t'ey was havin' an election. But heeh, cause y'ain'a citizen, y'can't! Don'cha feel like y'awrta do sump'n about t'at?" "Ye soond like Francis," fumes Ma. "All he c'n taaalk aboot now is bein' a citizen, f'soom reason, 'cept when'ees troyin' to -- ah..." "Tryin' t'what?" queries Sally. "Never ye moind," flushes Ma, snapping her dishcloth. "Drink ye drink an' stop aahskin' all these fool questions." Leonora looks up at her mother from her stool at the far end of the counter, smirks, and makes a distinct kissy-face. Sally frowns...)

("Misteh G," sighs Alice, as Mr. Ginsburg contemplatively lights his pipe as she takes the dinner dishes away. "Lemme ask ya sump'n. Ya'wra smawrt man, an' I wan'cha advice." "Ah," nods Mr. Ginsburg, puffing a cloud of Half and Half. "S'pose y'hadda situation," proponds Alice, "sp'ose y'hadda situation weh y'had sump'n y'didn' wawn nobody else t'fine out about, because it'd hoit'm, I mean, hoit'm real bad if t'ey did. But t'keep'm fr'm findin' out, y'hadda do sump'nat wasn' zackly right wit' t'lawr, even'ough you was tryin' t'live ya life right t'resta t'time. Izzat wrawng?" Mr. Ginsburg is quiet for a long moment, drawing thoughtfully on his pipe as Alice waits expectantly. "Which," he finally replies, exhaling another blue cloud, "would cause the greater harm?" Alice lets this sink in. "Ah," she nods. "T'at's pretty much what Siddy said." "Yeh," nods Mr. Ginsburg.)

("Oi joost don't know," sighs Uncle Frank, munching aggressively into a Toomey's Diner bacon-lettuce-and-tomato sandwich. "Oi'm troyin', Tommy, haaaahnest t'gaaahd Oi'm troyin', boot she joost don't seem t'get what Oi'm troyin' t' do!" "Ya problem," analyzes Sergeant Doyle, "is how I see it, twofol'. Foist, ya ain' goin' at it whatcha cawl subtle. When I was coueht'n Mavis, why, I was reeeeeal subtle. I jus' kin'a wen' inta t'at beanery wheh she was woikin' an', y'know, I'd lean agains'ta counteh t'eh, an' I'd jus' kin'a push me cap back so t'fron'a me haieh kin'a stuck out an' I'd kin'a smile an' say, 'whatcha say, toots?' Don' come awn like, you know, Jawn Gilbe't a' nut'n, don' ack like t' great loveh. You know, jus' kin'a make whatchacawl casual convehsation like." "An'nat waaaarked?" scowls Uncl Frank. "I got six kids says so!" smirks Doyle. "Anyways, ya secon' problem. She takes ya f'gran'ned. You been aroun'neh f'twenny-five yeehs, y'said so y'self, right? She knows y'ain' goin' anywheh. But look heeh -- what if ya DID?" "Oi don't fallah," winces Uncle Frank, attempting to quell a protest from his ulcer. "What if," ventures Doyle, "y'jus' take a powdeh? You know, disappeeh f'r, I dunno a few days, a week maybe -- whattaya t'ink she'd do?" "Hmmm," ponders Uncle Frank, peeling the foil from a half-roll of Tums. "Y'really think so?" "I know so," declares Doyle. "I betcha haffa t'em missin' poisson cases we get oveh't'a precinct is jus' guys taken f'granted." "Ah," nods Uncle Frank, working up a relieving belch. "T'ot'eh half," sighs Doyle, "well, neveh mine about t'em...")

("...or if we can just run out without paying.")

(Look, why don't we just have the Tigers play Erasmus next week. At least somebody'd CARE.)

(Clearly the Brain has never done business from a Coney Island storefront.)

("Drop dead." -- Dale Connor.)

(Art, a savage business.)

(I too have been licked by a kind cow, and ever since then whenever I eat a hamburger I feel a twinge of conscience.)

(Yes, and Sgt. Doyle can help Uncle Frank with his romance.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Ahhhh, civility.

You ain't seen nothin' yet.

Well, at least it cured the shakes.

I can't wait till this little dink runs into the Dragon Lady.

"The house burned to the ground with her in it? Hm, somebody must've left the gas on."

Coming events...

Training is all well and good, but you DO have to have aptitude.

If only.

Oh well, back to fake fortunetelling...

Even better, he swallowed his chaw!

 

[Fading Fast]

I like Bo the character a lot, but he needs a better comicstrip around him.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Jeez, it's hawt in'eeh," laments Alice, scanning the teeming after-work crowd lined up at P. S. 48 to cast their ballots. "Sal, 'zit OK if I take me coat awff?" "Do whateveh ya wawnt," sighs Sally. "Awlya been doin' since we got oveh heeh is complain." "I jus' do'wanna get -- um -- arrested," mutters Alice. "What?" puzzles Sally. "Um., I do'wanna get arrested..." quavers Alice, "f'bein' -- um -- disrespeckful, y'know, f'takin' me coat awff. It's like in cawrt, right, an'na judge comes in' an' ya s'posta stan' up, on'y nobody tol'ya, so ya don't, an'na baliff yells atcha. Um, jus' you know, um, speakin' whatchacawl t'eoretical, a'sump'n..." Alice exhales as she fumbles with her coat, as the line creeps inexorably closer to the clerk's table. "G'wan," shoves Sally. "Ya next! R'membeh, jus' pulla little handle f't'can'idates ya wawnt, like we tawked about. An'nen pull'a string t'eh an'nat'l open'a coiten an' ya done. G'wan!" Sally gives her friend a firm nudge, and Alice finds herself staring into the hard grey eyes of none other than Mrs. McGinnity. "Name and address?" the clerk snaps, glaring hard. "Um," stammers Alice, a bead of sweat running down her cheek, "um, Alice Doo- uh -- Alice D. Krause. Sev'nteen sixty-two Sixty-t'oid street, Bensonhoist. Well, um, actually, I dunno, it's kin'a onna edge'a Mapleton really, um, does'at count?" Mrs. McGinnity glares hard, recalls her debt to Uncle Frank, and grits her teeth. "You may vote," she nods, staring down at her registry book and making a mark. "Yes'm," nods Alice, "T'ank you." She breaks from the line and starts for the exit. "Mrs. Krause!" snaps Mrs. McGinnity, jerking her thumb in the direction of the booths. "Oveh t'eh.")

The liberation of Leyle neared its final phase today while American carrier planes, striking at the ultimate American objective in the Phillipines, reported the destruction of 191 Japanese planes and blasting of eight or more ships in raids on the Manila area. A submarine chaser was sunk and a heavy cruiser was probably sunk, and a light cruiser, three destroyers, and two or more cargo ships damaged by aircraft of the 3rd Fleet in a raid on Manila Bay.

("I thought YOU'd know!" snaps Ma, leaning toward the telephone mouthpiece. "Are ye saaaaaartain ye ain't seen 'im? Mark me warrds, James, if ye troyin' t'slip soomthin' paaast me -- aaaahl roit, ahhhl roit, quitchee blooberin'. Look here -- when he cooms in, you tell 'im to caaahl me. Oi don't make soo mooch money in here Oi can affard to make loonches nobody eats! G'bye t'ye!" She bangs the receiver back on its hook and glares menacingly at the phone, as the door jingles open. "Busy day!" announces Bink Scanlan, tossing the bag on the table. "Got a date t'night wit' a saileh!" "Oi bet you do," scowls Ma. "Ahhh, ya no fun," snorts Bink, popping a stick of Black Jack in her mouth and tossing the wrapper into the ash tray on the counter. Ma frowns,and glances at the diminished display carton. "Ye ain't seen noothin' a' Mistarr Leary, have ye?" she demands. "Fatty?" snickers Bink. "S'matteh, f'get t'put 'is leash awn?" "Mind ye mooth," growls Ma. "Have ye seen 'im aaar 'aven'tchee?" "Neh,"nehs Bink, shifting her gum. "Lotta action t'day t'ough, t;ey like t'em odds ya givin' onna 'lection." "Five'll getcha eight," declares Leonora from the edge of he counter. "Funny kid," snickers Bink, "Isn't she thooo," exhales Ma...)

('At was t'ol' lady," sighs Jimmy Leary, turning away from the phone as his brother packs cigarette cartons into a cardboard box marked 'No. 10 Envelopes -- 1000 Count.' "She says," Jimmy continues, "he ain't been aroun'a stoeh awl day. He lef' afteh breakfas' an'nee neveh come home f' lunch." "Prob'ly sicka t'em lettuce sanwidges she been givin' im," snickers Danny. "Hey, we got any moeh'ra t'em Philip Mawriss?" "Wait," pauses Jimmy. "Nah, we'eh gonna have t'get Inky t'send oveh s'moehra t'em pack wrappehs.' "Awright," shrugs Danny. "Gimme some'a t'em Ol' Golds. Don' make no diff'nce, awla same t'ing inside." "Oh, t'at remin's me," injects Jimmy. "Did'at barrel a' t'bacceh stems come in fr'm Connecticut yet?" "Yeh," indicates Danny. "Oveh'rna corneh t'eh." "Aw," laments Jimmy. "Looka t'at! Who spilt'at erl onneh? Whas'sat, moteh erl?" "Sump'n," shrugs Danny. "I dunno. "It was awl oveh t'backa t'truck when'ney drawpped it awff. Musta hitta bump, you know how t'em roads is once y'get pas' Hartford." "Heh," hehs Danny, glancing at the puddle of oil settling around the base of the barrel. "Sump'n New Has Been Added!" "Heh!" agrees Jimmy. "Does Ya T'bacceh Taste Diff'rent Lately?")

(Ah, Election Night. In radio, we used to send out for chili dogs, ensuring we would stay awake to the end...)

(In a dingy furnished room on DeKalb Avenue, Hilda Chester scans the "Women In Sports" column for news of her daughter Bernice, who played last summer in a women's professional baseball league out west, and hasn't written home in years. Finding none, she sighs, and stares glumly out the window, waiting for spring...)

("Well, yeah, but he's also got that goose, and Thanksgiving is coming!"

(Maybe for the same reason it says "Dale Allen" up top there.)

("Look at that signature! Raphael Gonzalez! Big as life!")

(Actually, I think they say more of a "KREEEEE-YARRRR!")

(You know, Kitty could find them with a couple of phone calls, but she'll be damned if she's gonna get involved here.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

I think the Sidney Whipple mentioned here might be the same Sidney Whipple who is a veteran newspaperman and assistant editor on the World-Telegram. I bet he hates getting scooped by the News.

CAN'T WE HAVE THANKSGIVING FIRST???

You know, the safe thing to do would have been to just shoot him.

"That was a pretty good submarine too." "What?" "Nuth'n."

You tell 'im, Phyl.

"And no, I positively will NOT buy from that guy you know in Brooklyn!"

"Oh, Jon, you promised me you'd give up all your shady vaudeville friends!"

Tipping the head waiter a buck won't get you very far, kid.

"That's called the 'idiot plug.'" "It is?" "Well, it is NOW."

True love.

 

[Fading Fast]

"S'matteh, f'get t'put 'is leash awn?"

Bink's growing on me.

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I've been in 405 E. 54th as I had a friend who rented an apartment there years ago.

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"You know, the safe thing to do would have been to just shoot him."

It almost always is.

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Is somebody of lesser skills ghost writing this storyline for Caniff?

 

[LizzieMaine]

I hope nobody from the News Syndicate office is pranking him by saying all the fan mail just loves Hotshot Charlie.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Yep," grins Sally, flourishing the Eagle, "t'on'y president I eveh voted fawr!" "I t'ought you said," notes Alice, "you voted f' Browdeh t'at one time." "Well," shrugs Sally, "yeh. But he wasn' president, now was he? On'y PRESIDENT I eveh voted fawr is Roosvelt." "Ah," acknowledges Alice. "Feels pretty good, don' it?" "Eh,"ehs Alice. "Don'feel no diff'nt 'n it did yestehday. I mean, he's been president f'what, ten yeehs, twenny yeehs, whateveh? How much diffin't's it s'posta feel?" "I don' mean'nat," replies Sally. "I mean, don' it feel good t'at YOU done YEH duty by goin' out an' votin'?" "Yeh," squirms Alice, "I guess. I don' like t'em lit'l boot's. Gives me -- whassatchacawlit when ya scaiet'a bein' in -- ah -- lit'l boxes wit' -- ah -- wawls an'awlat?" "Claustrophobieh," replies Sally. "Really?" marvels Alice. "I t'ought t'at meant bein' scaiet'a -- you know -- San'ny Claus." "No," eyerolls Sally. "Well," ponders Alice, "what WOULDJA cawl'at? 'Cause -- trut' be tol', he awrways kin'a gimme t'willies." "Yeh," exhales Sally.....)

President Roosevelt seemed assured of a comfortable Democratic majority in the House of Representatives today, with returns tabulated so far showing that the President's party has picked up a total of 17 new seats in yesterday's voting, fourteen of them at the expense of incumbent Republicans. The other three were vacancies in the 78th Congress. If current tabulations hold, Democrats will hold 231 seats in the House, compared to 214 in the old. Confirmed as elected so far are 157 Democrats, 59 Republicans, 1 American Labor, and 1 Progressive.

In the Senate, Republicans have positively lost one seat, and face the likely loss of two more, as ongoing vote tabulations appear to be dashing their Election Night hopes of adding to their present total of 37 seats in the 96-member upper house of Congress.

("Gaaaaahd help him, is right..." sighs Ma as the door jingles open to admit Sergeant Doyle. "''Ere now," demands Ma. "Have ye haaard any waaaard froom'im." "Not a woid," shrugs Doyle, reaching for a Milky Way bar. "We got th' boys out awloveh town, an' notta woid." "Oi don't loike this," growls Ma. "An' that's a nickel farr th' chocolate." Doyle rolls his eyes, fishes in his pocket, and flips a nickel down which lands on the counter with a disconcerting thunk. Ma scowls, picks up the coin and takes a firm bite. "YEEEEE KNOOOOOW BETTTAR THAAN THAT!" she roars, tossing the counterfeit back in his face. "Sawry," flushes Doyle. "On'y one I got awn me, too. Betteh put it awna cuff." "Wheeen Francis DOES coom back," glares Ma, "him an' me arr goona have a loaaaaang taaaalk aboot'choo!")

(All right then, now that this is over...)

(Coming events...)

(Pool news? Well, it's more exciting than chess.)

(Mr. Catlett is using material purchased at ten cents on the dollar from Jimmy Durante. EV'RYBODY WANTS TO GET INTO DE ACT!)

(JUST SHUT UP MARY FOR ONCE IN YOUR MEDDLING LIFE SHUT UP!)

(Guess who'll be in the centerspread of the Daily News tomorrow?)

(HO HUM.)

(I know Red Ryder, sir. I read Red Ryder every Sunday. And you, sir, are no Red Ryder.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

"I'm gonna save t'is one," adds Sally. "I'm gonna put t'is papeh away f' Leonoreh. It's hist'ry." "I still say," sighs Alice, "he shoulda rode wit' t' tawp up."

Somewhere in France, Joe hunches over a crackling shortwave receiver. "Yo' ain' doin' that rahht," interferes the Corporal. "Y'ain' gaaaht it tuned in raaaht." "Quiet," says Joe. "I'm gett'n sump'n." A mocking American voice crackles thru the static, declaring the election outcome the result of a conspiracy. "Tuh'n'nat off," spits the Corporal. "That's that Axis Sally." "Says 'eh name's 'Midge,' replies Joe. "Doan mattuh none," sneers the Corporal. "Yuh c'n caahl a pig a chicken, but it's still po'k." Joe fires a shot of spit of his own. "Hey, now boy," grins the Corporal. "Yuh gettn' good. Heeuh now, have anothuh chaw." Joe regards the proferred plug, and with a certain resignation, bites off another chunk...

Well, you won't be working on your ship in a bottle for a while...

Ahh, you're not even close.

It's paranoia when you IMAGINE people are laughing behind your back...

Maybe they'll find Uncle Bim!

Iiiiiii'm playing with fiiiiiiire, Iiiiiiii'm gonna get burrrrrned....

Well, now we know who the ghost writer is.

Actually the "Coronado Creep" is that other guy in the boat with him.

Hopefully the drugstore won't confiscate the negative.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And finally...

That's all!

 

[Fading Fast]

"I still say," sighs Alice, "he shoulda rode wit' t' tawp up."

God luv ya, Alice.

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Well, now we know who the ghost writer is.

A little inside-comicstrip joking going on, I guess.