The Era -- Day By Day

[LizzieMaine]

"Izzis awl?" gapes Joe, regarding the one supply truck parked in the snow. "T'is is awl'at got t'ru???" "I huhd they's fahghtin' hawrd in Stras'bu'g," shrugs the Corporal, fumbling with cold-numbed hands to unlatch the tailgate. "Cain' mucha nuth'n get thru. Git on up theh now, an' stawrt passin'um down." Joe clambers into the back ot he truck, and squints into the darkness. "Uh oh," he calls out. "Whuss uh-oh?" demands the Corporal. "Ain' nut'n in'eeh," sighs Joe, "but mess kits. Nut'n t'put 'innm, jus' mess kits." "Gawdayum," sighs the Corporal, expectorating into the snow. "Yeh," agrees Joe, ejecting a brown stream of his own...

OK, you made the point. Let's hear about Chaplin again.

29? I stuck for years at 28.

Ever have one of those days?

Oh, is that what we're calling it now?

"Of course you realize this means war."

Kids, don't try this at home.

Public art.

At least it's MISTER Pantywaist now. And poor Joy, she's always dying of something.

Oh yes, Charles, by all means.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And finally...

I mean, there's chicken fat, and then there's BLOOMINGDALE'S chicken fat.

 

[Fading Fast]

An iron piece from a broken truck bumper stood as the only clue as to the mystery of who ransacked the tomb of Monsignior James J. Coan at St. Mary's Cemetery in South Amboy, New Jersey on New Years' Night. The Middlesex County Sherrif's Department is canvassing the entire county in attempt to locate a truck with a broken bumper, and has requested that police in Brooklyn mount a similar search. The investigation was complicated by the revelation yesterday that the lock on the mausoleum was not broken in order to gain entry, but instead was opened with a key.

It's not a tomb from ancient Egypt, what's in there to steal?

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

OK, you made the point. Let's hear about Chaplin again.

Jesus, no kidding.

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

It's like old times, sniff.

 

[LizzieMaine]

C'mon, Terry, she wasn't that mean. She taught you to dance!!!!

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Two-Gun Bishop!!!" guffaws Uncle Frank. "Oi KNEW it was him! Oh, Nora, you must remembarrr him! ! Remembar th' toime they sen' 'im t'Rikaaaar's Oislan', an' th' bloody eejut troyed t'swim aaaahfff!" "Hmph!" hmphs Ma, distracted by the arrival of a customer. "Gimme a Coke," insists the young woman, slapping down a nickel. "Wait a minute," she adds, slapping down a dime. "Make it t'ree! I'm t'oisty!" "Don' I know you?" queries Ma, preparing the order. "You waaark at Bohack's doon th' street." "Yeh, yeh," she snaps. "Make it quick." Ma cocks an eyebrow, but discontinues the conversation as she pushes the three glasses across the counter. As she is doing so, a wiry young man in a plaid mackinaw enters. "Hiya, Rut'ie," he greets the young woman. "T'is t'place?" Ruthie nods, and the young man occupies a stool. "Coca-Cola," he orders. He glances at Ruthie, already downing her third glass. "Make it two," he adds. "Hey Rut'ie -- stan' me a dime?" Ruthie eyerolls, and fishes a quarter out of her purse. "T'ree mo'eh," she orders. "Ye'll make ye'self sick!" injects Ma. "Jus' DO IT!" snaps Ruthie. "Th' coostomarr," sighs Ma, "is aaahlways roit." Uncle Frank's eyebrows elevate. "Been loike this aaahl maaarnin'," shrugs Ma, reaching for clean glasses. "Hm," hms Uncle Frank...)

Relief of the city meat situation seemed no nearer solution today, although Mayor LaGuardia said that he expected action from War Mobilization Director Fred M. Vinson on the issue either today or tomorrow. Making that announcement in his weekly radio broadcast yesterday over WNYC, the Mayor did not indicate whether the expected Federal action would set celing prices for livestock or make new meat allocations previously hinted at by OPA Regional Director Daniel P. Woolley. The Mayor also warned of further shortages resulting from the tightening of War Food Administration regulations requiring packers to hold all choice and good grades of meat until a full sixty percent has been selected for military and Lend-Lease needs.

("You tell'm, Butch!" cheers Sally as Alice fidgets. "Run awlem bums right outta town!" "Ain'choo eveh bet on nut'n?" queries Alice. "You know, a bawlgame a'sump'n? Jus' f''laughs?" "Neveh!" declares Sally. "Betcha have too," smirks Alice. "In fack, I betcha a Coke if ask aroun' I'll find somebody you bet wit'." "A Coke, huh?" ponders Sally. "Afteh woik day afteh t'marra, at y'Ma's place," pledges Alice. "Ya awn!" declares Sally. "Hey, let's make it t'night, ya credit's good!"

("Ohhhh give me a home, near the Capitol dome, where the flacks and the lobbyists play....")

("Wars justify excess population." Well, it's good to know that going in, huh?)

("A work of genius!" declares Mr. Parrott. "And I'm not just saying that! It's brilliant! You're brilliant!" "Hm," hms Mr. Rickey, accepting the compliment as only his due. "And best of all," grins Mr. Parrott, "The Legion comes in -- and out goes O'Malley!" Mr. Rickey merely takes a contented puff on his cigar, and emits a pleasant sigh...)

(At the end of The Ankles?)

("Oh? Isn't that assuming a lot?" "That isn't what I meant and you know it!" "Hasn't that always been the way though, you never do say what you mean?" "I HATE YOU!")

(Sure, but who says you have to load every chamber in the cylinder, anyway? Have you ever even, you know, actually held a gun?)

("Wait, do you know Leon and Eddie? Could you get us in there, I love that place!")

("Oh, that's dumb. But I'll go along." WORDS TO LIVE BY.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"Ah'm sho' glad ah'm single," shrugs the Corporal. "Yuh know that fulluh fr'm th' Quo'tuhmastuh's come in thet las' truck? He's wishin' he could be raht up front. Says he got a lettuh from 'is wahf back home, she done left 'im fo' a Fo'-Eff railroad conductuh." "Eh," ehs Joe, with complete disinterest, as he unpacks another carton of rations. "Yew ain' huh'd fr'm yo' wahf inna while," needles the Corporal. "Hev yuh?" "She'll write," insists Joe, with a squint of contempt at the insinuation. "An' I tell ya one t'ing, she wouldn' run awff wit' no railroad conducteh! She might t'row 'im awff t'platfawrm, but she wouldn' run awff wit'im!" "Ah'd lahk t'meet this gal," snickers the Corporal. "Don' get no ideehs," snaps Joe.

And it's only January.

All that shaking can't be doing the steering gear any good.

KIDS TODAY!

"Helen says we need to rent a five bedroom house. I think that's a bit extravagant, we have four bedrooms right here!"

"Don't worry though, he always likes to fly at the front the formation. You know what happens to THOSE guys!"

WAR IS HECK.

"After the war I'm going to write a book! Everyone else is, so I figure i might as well!"

Point of order: for whatever this is costing you, couldn't you get a whole pocket full of alternate ties?

Moon is Kayo's older brother, and is clearly at least twenty years older than him. We have never met their father, and now I'm much more curious than I really ought to be.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Gimme a Coke," insists the young woman, slapping down a nickel. "Wait a minute," she adds, slapping down a dime. "Make it t'ree! I'm t'oisty!" "Don' I know you?" queries Ma, preparing the order. "You waaark at Bohack's doon th' street." "Yeh, yeh," she snaps. "Make it quick." Ma cocks an eyebrow, but discontinues the conversation as she pushes the three glasses across the counter. As she is doing so, a wiry young man in a plaid mackinaw enters. "Hiya, Rut'ie," he greets the young woman. "T'is t'place?" Ruthie nods, and the young man occupies a stool. "Coca-Cola," he orders. He glances at Ruthie, already downing her third glass. "Make it two," he adds. "Hey Rut'ie -- stan' me a dime?" Ruthie eyerolls, and fishes a quarter out of her purse. "T'ree mo'eh," she orders. "Ye'll make ye'self sick!" injects Ma. "Jus' DO IT!" snaps Ruthie. "Th' coostomarr," sighs Ma, "is aaahlways roit." Uncle Frank's eyebrows elevate. "Been loike this aaahl maaarnin'," shrugs Ma, reaching for clean glasses. "Hm," hms Uncle Frank...

If I get what is going on here, you'd think the new customers wouldn't be giving Ma any lip.

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

"Wars justify excess population." Well, it's good to know that going in, huh?

Dr. Sax missed predicting a little thing known as the post-war Baby Boom, which made almost every single thing he said here wrong. Plus the condescension in his comments is nauseating.

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"An' I tell ya one t'ing, she wouldn' run awff wit' no railroad conducteh! She might t'row 'im awff t'platfawrm, but she wouldn' run awff wit'im!"

And if I remember correctly, Joe nailed this one without any inside information.

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

Point of order: for whatever this is costing you, couldn't you get a whole pocket full of alternate ties?

It's just an awful storyline. Hard to believe, but there was a time when this strip had some real grit and relevance.

 

[LizzieMaine]

I mean, remember when Lillums' mother was trying to force her to marry a creepy man twice her age and Harold cracked up, not knowing that man was killed in a car accident the night before the wedding, and so he ran off to New York and got seduced and conned by an -- ah -- adventuress?

Get hold of yourself, Carl, and put Goofy in the Army where he belongs.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Hey MA!" shouts Sally, her voice raised above the din. "G'wan give the lady a seat," shoos Ma, dismissing a sunken-eyed young man from the stool he has occupied for the past hour. "OVAAR HERE, DAAAUGHTER!" she beckons. "Gawdawmighty," exclaims Sally, looking around the crowded store. "I neveh seen s'many people in'eeh." "Waaaa're th' oonly store aaahn th' block as got Coca-Cola," declares Ma. "Yeh," nods Sally. "Gimme one. No, gimme two, I'm REEEALY t'oisty." "Soo many people sayin' that," marvels Ma as she mixes the order. "T'eh mus' be t'oity, foehty people in'eeh," exclaims Sally. "I neveh woulda t'ought." She plunges a straw into her first glass, and takes a deep and satisfying draw. "Awwww, t'at's t'stuff," she exhales. "Boy, I'm tellin' ya. One sippa t'is stuff an' I'm ready t'lick t'woil'. Hey Ma, whattaya say y'close up oily an' you'n me go upta Fitz's, do some bowlin', have some laughs. An' Bink too, is she aroun' t'day, bring'eh alawng!" "Ye got t'take yaaar daughtarr hoom," frowns Ma. "Are ye f'gett'n?"" "Bring her alawng too," exults Sally, moving on to the second glass. "Bring Uncle Frank! Bring Jimmy an' Danny! Hey, tell 'at bum t'get awff t'phone, I'll cawl up Alice, she'n Krause c'n come. An' Misteh 'n Misses Ginsboig! An' Misses Nucci fr'm upstaiehs! YEH! We'll make a pawrty of it, a reg'leh pawrty! Hey Ma, gimme two mo'eh!" "Oi think, Sally Aileen Sweeney," frowns Ma, her gaze directed at the empty glasses, "ye've had aboot enough." "Hey Ma!" injects Sally, her voice sinking to a sharp whisper. "T'at guy enda t'counteh! I t'ink HE's had enough!" "Hm?" hms Ma. "I just seen'im," whispers Sally, her eyes flared, "pourin' 'is drink in 'is coat pocket!" "Ahhhhl roit," exhales Ma, taking a fresh glass and placing it under the Bromo-Seltzer dispenser, "Oi think ye need woon farr th' road....")

Plans for a postwar Prospect Expressway extending across the neighborhoods of Windsor Terrace and Park Slope will bring several hundred angry residents of those sections before the City Planning Commission tomorrow night for a public hearing at city hall. Local opponents of the plan will demand that the route of the new expressway be shifted one block, allowing it to run thru vacant lots and a few abandoned factory buildings, rather than, as currently planned, thru a populated section that will require the demolition of hundreds of occupied homes, some of which were only recently built. As now under consideration by the Planning Commission, the route would start at Ocean Parkway between 17th and 18th Streets, a route lined by more than 500 homes, to the Gowanus Parkway and 4th Avenue. The proposed alternate route would run from Ocean Parkway between 18th and 19th Streets, a change which, supporters say, would save the city almost $1,000,000 in demolition costs.

("Grandma, he used to use it to carve the Christmas turkey." "IT'S BEEN WASHED!")

(It is precisely 70 days until SPRING.)

(War IS Hell!)

("The effontery!" sniffs Mr. Rickey. "The unmitigated gall of that club-hopping wastrel! He may play his games next year at the Parade Grounds for all it will serve him!" "Money's money, sir," notes Mr. Parrott. "And you know what they say about a bird in the hand." "I have no truck with birds," scowls Mr. Rickey, exhaling a dark plume of smoke. "It has been my observation that they leave little in the hand worth keeping." "Yes sir," agrees Mr. Parrott, because that's his job. "Tell me, my boy," frowns Mr. Rickey, withdrawing his cigar from its perch, as he sizes up his factotum. "How would you feel if I made you a running back?" "Exhausted, sir," sighs Mr. Parrott. "Ah," nods Mr. Rickey...")

("Less wackey," orders Mr. Krehbiel's editor. "More Mary Worth!")

("Of course we need a chaperon. Who do you think you are, Dude Hennick?")

(Never mind the interrogation, get your comedy relief a psychiatrist!)

(Ah, so it's EVIL Don Ameche!)

(Yes, this seems like a VERY GOOD IDEA.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"Whuss awl this?" queries the Corporal, returning from a discreet visit to the woods to find Joe sitting on an upended kettle with a large parcel in his hands. "Truck fin'l;y gawt in fr'm Strasboig," Joe explains. "Gawt a whole load'a B rations in! An' awlso -- we got MAIL! Look 'eeh, package from Sal!" "Well, doan jus' set theh," beckons the Corporal. "Opun'uh UP!" "I jus' wanna look at it f''r while," sighs Joe. "'S. Petrauskas, 1762 63rd Street, B-K-L-Y-N 4, N-Y.' T'at's 'eh writin', y'know." "Sho', sho'," insists the Corporal. "Open 'uh'rup." Joe carefully peels off the wrappings to reveal a small, dented box. "'Tucks Plug Tobacceh," he reads. "Quality Has No Subsitute. Syrehcuse, N. Y." "Yankee tobaccuh!" scoffs the Corporal. "She's trynnn t'kill yuh. Gon' run awff with th' mailman, thass whut she's gon' do." "T'ezza note," says Joe. "Deeh Joe, Heeh is th' t'bacceh you ast fawr. Ma had it at th' stoeh. I dunno if it's fresh, she says she had it since Misteh Lieb was heeh. So when you trade it awff, don't tell how old it is, the kinda people that chew this stuff prob'ly can't tell anyways. Anotheh package to follow with a real Chris'mas present. Love awrways, Sal." "Well, ain'nat sweet," snickers the Corporal, as Joe peels the wrapper away from one of the tobacco plugs, and bites off a small chunk. "It ain' so bad," he chokes, proffering the plug to his comrade. The Corporal bites off a chew of his own, and sighs. "Kin'a dry," he shrugs. "Stick some snow in ya mout'," suggests Joe. "Wet it down a bit." "Gawdam wawr," sighs the Corporal...

"Good cop, bad cop."

"The tight-pants air force." MEOW.

Didn't any of you ever hear of tire chains?

DRAFT HIM NOW.

"Wait, we need to stop for gas first."

"Would You Rather Be A Colonel With An Eagle On His Shoulder, Or A Private WIth A Chicken On Your Knee?"

These clients can't wait.

"Drop me a line someday..."

"No, I'm not that other Nick. Don't even look a thing like him, no indeed. Haw. Haw. Haw."

 

[Fading Fast]

"Hey MA!" shouts Sally, her voice raised above the din. "G'wan give the lady a seat," shoos Ma, dismissing a sunken-eyed young man from the stool he has occupied for the past hour. "OVAAR HERE, DAAAUGHTER!" she beckons. "Gawdawmighty," exclaims Sally, looking around the crowded store. "I neveh seen s'many people in'eeh." "Waaaa're th' oonly store aaahn th' block as got Coca-Cola," declares Ma. "Yeh," nods Sally. "Gimme one. No, gimme two, I'm REEEALY t'oisty." "Soo many people sayin' that," marvels Ma as she mixes the order. "T'eh mus' be t'oity, foehty people in'eeh," exclaims Sally. "I neveh woulda t'ought." She plunges a straw into her first glass, and takes a deep and satisfying draw. "Awwww, t'at's t'stuff," she exhales. "Boy, I'm tellin' ya. One sippa t'is stuff an' I'm ready t'lick t'woil'. Hey Ma, whattaya say y'close up oily an' you'n me go upta Fitz's, do some bowlin', have some laughs. An' Bink too, is she aroun' t'day, bring'eh alawng!" "Ye got t'take yaaar daughtarr hoom," frowns Ma. "Are ye f'gett'n?"" "Bring her alawng too," exults Sally, moving on to the second glass. "Bring Uncle Frank! Bring Jimmy an' Danny! Hey, tell 'at bum t'get awff t'phone, I'll cawl up Alice, she'n Krause c'n come. An' Misteh 'n Misses Ginsboig! An' Misses Nucci fr'm upstaiehs! YEH! We'll make a pawrty of it, a reg'leh pawrty! Hey Ma, gimme two mo'eh!" "Oi think, Sally Aileen Sweeney," frowns Ma, her gaze directed at the empty glasses, "ye've had aboot enough." "Hey Ma!" injects Sally, her voice sinking to a sharp whisper. "T'at guy enda t'counteh! I t'ink HE's had enough!" "Hm?" hms Ma. "I just seen'im," whispers Sally, her eyes flared, "pourin' 'is drink in 'is coat pocket!" "Ahhhhl roit," exhales Ma, taking a fresh glass and placing it under the Bromo-Seltzer dispenser, "Oi think ye need woon farr th' road...."

Sally is one Coke away from telling Ma how much she loves her, which could lead to Ma laying Sally out before she realizes what she did. Ma's had about all the sentiment she can take by now after all she's just gone through with Frank.

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

It is precisely 70 days until SPRING.

And 65 days until spring training.

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

"The effontery!" sniffs Mr. Rickey. "The unmitigated gall of that club-hopping wastrel! He may play his games next year at the Parade Grounds for all it will serve him!" "Money's money, sir," notes Mr. Parrott. "And you know what they say about a bird in the hand." "I have no truck with birds," scowls Mr. Rickey, exhaling a dark plume of smoke. "It has been my observation that they leave little in the hand worth keeping." "Yes sir," agrees Mr. Parrott, because that's his job. "Tell me, my boy," frowns Mr. Rickey, withdrawing his cigar from its perch, as he sizes up his factotum. "How would you feel if I made you a running back?" "Exhausted, sir," sighs Mr. Parrott. "Ah," nods Mr. Rickey..."

Credit Rickey this, he made that tired metaphor his own for the day.

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

Yes, this seems like a VERY GOOD IDEA.

Even in 1945, you're out of plot ideas if you're writing a "dog rescues boy after falling in frozen lake while skating" storyline.

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

No, I'm not that other Nick. Don't even look a thing like him, no indeed. Haw. Haw. Haw.