The Era -- Day By Day

[LizzieMaine]

("Am pleased to infaaarm you infarrmation received," reads Ma from the yellow sheet, "thaat ye hoosband, Technician Fifth Class Joseph Petrauskas, treated farr minor wound received in snipaaar attack twenty-faaarst January and retarrrned to duty with his unit. Dunlaaap acting the Adjootant Gen'raaal." "Yeh," nods Alice. "T'at come yestehday." "Haaas she seen it?" queries Ma. "No," replies Alice. "Siddy seen it, I seen it, an' we showed t' t' Ginsboigs. But now we dunno what t'do. Sal neveh seen'at fois' telegram, so she don'even know he got shot inna fois' place. So if we show'eh t'is one..." "Ahhhh," nods Ma, tapping the telegram on the counter as she considers the situation. "Well," she resumes, folding the sheet and slipping it into her apron pocket, "ye can't show it to'arr if ye doon't have it." Alice nods, and exhales nervously. "Look," she injects, "I know we'eh awl tryin' to take cahe'ra Sal t'bes' we can, keep 'eh fr'm goin' awl -- you know -- but -- I mean, ain' -- ain'it agains' t'lawr t'mess aroun' wit' ot'eh people's telegrams? Ain'nat a Fed'ral rap a' sump'n?" "Hmph," hmphs Ma. "Oi nevaar knew YOU t'be soo squeamish 'boot th' loikes 'a thaat." "T'ings is diff'rent now," hesitates Alice, deflecting Ma's gaze. Ma ponders this remark. "Indeed" she acknowledges. "Oi s'poooose they aaaahr." There is an awkward silence as a muffled thud from outside and the grind of truck gears announces the arrival of the pink edition of tomorrow's Daily News. "Noine o'claaack aahn th' daaaht," notes Ma, glancing at the wall clock. "Ye g'wan hoom, ye hoosband'll be woond'rin'..." "He knows weh'r' I am," comments Alice as she gathers her coat around her. She heads for the door and pauses with her hand on the latch. "T'anks," she nods. She opens the door, steps out, and carries in the cold bundle of newspapers. "Mmm," nods Ma, watching Alice exit again and disappear into the Rogers Avenue night...)

(1945 is to 1865 as 2025 is to 1945. Yeah, it shakes me up too.)

("Ye know whaat we oota do," proposes Uncle Frank, as Ma enters the apartment after closing the store. "We oota goo out farr a droive on Soonday." "Ooooh no," insists Ma. "Haaaaaled aroond loike a looda pipe aaahn that fool troock, thaaat'd be a roit hooley, Oi DOON'T think!" "We could goo t'Elmharrst," proposes Uncle Frank. "Goo t' this Hooward Jaaahnson's. Look here in th' papaaar, they gaaaht roost taaarkey, Nora, think'a thaaat. Rooost taarkey an' ahhhl th' fixin's." "Read this," directs Ma, thrusting the folded telegram toward him. "Ah now," replies Uncle Frank, adjusting his glasses. "'Aaaam pleased to infaaarm ye...' Well now! Sooom GOOD news f'ra change! Has Sally..?" "No," replies Ma, her face set. "An' I don't think she SHOULD see it, naaaht whin we kept th' farrst woon froom 'arr." "Nora," exhales Uncle Frank, "ye treat th' garrl loike she's made a' brooken glass." "She IS," frowns Ma. "Ye knoo that s'well as Oi do." "She's goona find oot," warns Uncle Frank. "Joe's goona write to 'arr an' tell 'arr." "Better it should coom from him then," declares Ma, "thin from soom Dunlaaap actin' Adjootant Gen'raal man in a telegram." Uncle Frank ponders the logic and concedes the point. "Ye know," he resumes, "maybe what she needs is a distraaaction. Whaaat if aaahn Soonday, you an' me an' Sally an' Leonora goo ooot f'ra droive...." "Oi'm gooin' t'bed," sighs Ma. "Roooost taaarkey," murmurs Uncle Frank...)

("What's the meaning of this?" demands Mr. Rickey. "You told me those figures were prepared and ready to release!" "Oh, ah," demurs Mr. O'Malley, as he fits a fresh cigar into his stubby white holder. "About those figures, Branch, about those figures. As -- ah -- club legal counsel, it was my -- ah -- judgement that there were certain -- ah -- I would not venture to say irregularities, oh, certainly not that precise term, but nevertheless, it was my judgement, my carefully considered judgement mind you, that -- ah -- further review would be the prudent course. Every I dotted and every T crossed, if you will. All very thorough." "And how long," frowns Mr. Rickey, the imposing brows bristling as his silent partner lights his cigar, "do you expect such a review..." "These things," smiles Mr. O'Malley, leaning back in his chair and exhaling a fragrant cloud, "do take time, Branch. Oh yes, they do take time...." )

("Press my suit and call me tidy!" Well, it'd be a start. And lose that stupid hat!)

(Well at least he's got nice luggage.)

(I was kinda hoping this would turn out to be some elaborate byzantine scheme, but...)

(On the other hand, sometimes a scheme is just TOO elaborate...)

(Kitty is ready for the next story. Poor Kitty.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"NNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" -- Bink Scanlan

Some pal.

There are a lot of days lately where I see poor Hessie's point.

Do you ever get the sense that Mr. Gould is a very troubled man?

Hm. Bromo Seltzer, mineral oil, hand lotion, Carter's Little Liver Pills, and iodine. We ought to be able to throw SOMETHING together.

It's really frustrating when nobody shares your triumphs.

Wait, what would Andy Gump do with a study?

"Besides, I got plans of my own. Tonight I thought I'd go up to -- ah -- Carnegie Hall!"

My grandfather used to smoke cut-up Lucky Strike butts in his pipe.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Am pleased to infaaarm you infarrmation received," reads Ma from the yellow sheet, "thaat ye hoosband, Technician Fifth Class Joseph Petrauskas, treated farr minor wound received in snipaaar attack twenty-faaarst January and retarrrned to duty with his unit. Dunlaaap acting the Adjootant Gen'raaal." "Yeh," nods Alice. "T'at come yestehday." "Haaas she seen it?" queries Ma. "No," replies Alice. "Siddy seen it, I seen it, an' we showed t' t' Ginsboigs. But now we dunno what t'do. Sal neveh seen'at fois' telegram, so she don'even know he got shot inna fois' place. So if we show'eh t'is one..." "Ahhhh," nods Ma, tapping the telegram on the counter as she considers the situation.

It's all a gamble, but I say show her this one and play dumb about the first one. Does the army informed by telegram every family of every soldier when that soldier's been wounded? You can't unring that earlier bell anyway, plus this one is, overall, from Sally's perspective, good news even if she'll rightly fret about the "minor wound."

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

Chemin-de-fer?

1. a form of the card game baccarat.

Oh, all's good, carry on.

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

It's really frustrating when nobody shares your triumphs.

The fate of the new guy in an already up-and-running establishment.

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

"Terry and the Pirates?"

 

[LizzieMaine]

Oop! That page was missing in the Brooklyn edition, but I found it in the Pink --

Hmmmmmmmmmm.

It was general War Department policy to notify the next of kin of men wounded of their status -- either "slightly" or "seriously" depending on the specifics, but a standard form telegram was used for these messages. There'd be followup when it was available, which given the press of paperwork could be sooner or later. In the event of a death, the telegrams were longer and more detailed, and were usually followed by a personal letter from the CO telling the specific circumstances. This letter was if possible, hand delivered by a military officer, which is what happened when Mrs. Nucci's son was killed in action, as mentioned by Sally a few days ago. No one wanted to see an Army staff car pulling up in front of their house, and when such a car was spotted in a neighborhood it was received with all the anticipation of a circling vulture.

 

[Fading Fast]

Oop! That page was missing in the Brooklyn edition, but I found it in the Pink --

View attachment 680323
Hmmmmmmmmmm.

It was general War Department policy to notify the next of kin of men wounded of their status -- either "slightly" or "seriously" depending on the specifics, but a standard form telegram was used for these messages. There'd be followup when it was available, which given the press of paperwork could be sooner or later. In the event of a death, the telegrams were longer and more detailed, and were usually followed by a personal letter from the CO telling the specific circumstances. This letter was if possible, hand delivered by a military officer, which is what happened when Mrs. Nucci's son was killed in action, as mentioned by Sally a few days ago. No one wanted to see an Army staff car pulling up in front of their house, and when such a car was spotted in a neighborhood it was received with all the anticipation of a circling vulture.

Thank you, Lizzie, for both T&TP and all the information Re war notifications. One thing confused me, if the war department sent a telegram, first, informing the next of kin in the event of death of their son/father/etc. and then a letter from his CO came later, and hand delivered if possible, why then was the car showing up a big deal as the family would already have received the tragic news?

Edit add: Thinking some more about this, my guess is the process and reality were different and many times families didn't get the telegram notifying them of the death of their relative before the follow-up letter came, often hand delivered. So the car was still the symbol of death.

 

[LizzieMaine]

Exactly. And if the neighors didn't know what happened even after a telegram was received, the appearance of the military car made it clear to everyone within sight what was going on. Usually the process worked as designed, but...

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Yeh," yehs Sally. "I hoid'dat las' night. Moscow radio. T'ey was awn'eh tawkin' 'bout how its awrmos' oveh." "You was lissenin' t' Moscow?" marvels Alice. "Yeh," affirms Sally. "I couldn' sleep las' night. Got a lot on my min', y'know? So I got up an' wen' in an' toin't awna radio. Lissen't't Milkman's Matinee fr'a while, an'nen, y'know, I stawrted foolin' aroun' wit't' shawrtwave on'neh, an' I hoid a whole lawtta stuff bout t'wawr. I gotcha BBC, lissen'ta t'at f'ra while, an'nen I come acros'ta Moscow an' I lissen'ta t'at." "I didn' know you could lissen'ta shawrtwave onnat lit'l radio you gawt." "Ohhh yeh," declares Sally. "Doncha r'membeh? We gawt t'at radio jus' befoeh Leonoreh was bawrn, remembeh?" ""I wasn' livin'eeh t'en," reminds Alice. "I was -- um -- still livin' upstate." "Oh yeh," acknowledges Sally. "Well, back in'nem days, y'know, I kinda useta get woiked up pretty bad, y'know? I was pregnan', cooped up awl day inna house, an' I'd lissen t''t bawlgame, y'know? An' I guess I'd get kin'a woiked up an' -- well -- maybe I'd get so woiked up I'd -- um -- t'row t'radio out t'windeh," "Ohhhhhh yeh," nods Alice. "T'ez still awlat glass an' junk out'na coehtyawrd undeh ya windeh t'eh,. Siddy says he's awrways diggin' up stuff out t'eh." "It wasn'AT bad," frowns Sally. "An' I on'y done it a coupla times. Anyways, we got t'is radio awn sale at Davega, an' it's gotcha shawrtwave 'lawng wit'cha reg'leh, so I c'n lissen t' Moscow an' awlese places." "You neveh t'rew it out t'windeh las' yeeh?" chuckles Alice. "As bad as'em Dodgehs was?" "Whatcha t'ink?" scowls Sally. "Y't'ink I'm nuts'a sump'n?" "No," insists Alice. "Soitenly nawt." "Well don' insinuate," mutters Sally. "I ain' crazy. I'm jus' whatchacawl unusually sensitive 'bout stuff. Docteh Levine says so." "Yeh," nods Alice, knowing when to concede the point...)

A more equitable distribution of cigarettes intended to smoke out black market racketeers was promised today by regional OPA administrator Daniel P. Woolley. Thru that proposed program, he predicted, there is hope for a "considerable easing" of the present shortage by basing distribution to retailers on their proportionate consumption in the past. He did not reveal the specifics of the plan, which is believed to stop short of full cigarette rationing, but indicated that the details will be submitted for approval at a meeting of New York tobacco wholesalers, to be held tomorrow at the Hotel Commodore.

(We haven't heard much from Magistrate Solomon for a while, so it's good to see he hasn't lost his touch.)

("Oi think Oi'd loike t'see that pitcharr," declares Ma. "Hm?" hms Uncle Frank, trying to imagine what Bob Hope looks like in Technicolor. "This woon 'National Velvet,'" continues Ma. "It's aboot a little garrl and a'rr haaaarse. We had a harrse back in Oireland, ye know. Back ahhn th' faaarm. Oi was quite faand'a that harrse, use t'coomb 'ar mane an' whoot naaaht. 'Haaarse,' 'er name was." "Haaarse?" chuckles Uncle Frank. "Ye named a'rrr 'Harrrse?'" "Mm," affirms Ma. "We oonly had th' woon harrse, ye knoow. We wasn't none'a ye laaanded gentry, ye' know. So 'Harrse' was as good a name as any. Woondar what ivvar happent'a Harrse?" She is quiet for a long moment, pondering the past. "Ye know, Nora," observes Uncle Frank, "Oi've known ye, whaat, twenny-foive, twenny-six yaaars now, an' this is th' foist Oi've ivvar harrd aboot you an' a haaarse. You doon't taalk aboot Oirelan' much." "No," declares Ma, indicating the conclusion of the conversation. "Oi don't." "Ah," nods Uncle Frank...)

("An' when I TRY, th' FBI shows up!")

(You probably COULD make more money playing for the Bushwicks.)

("Oh! Yes! That's It! I posed as an old lady so I could see Count Hexx ahead of us! Of course! Perfectly reasonable explanation!")

(Sure, of all the hotels in this city, this one you pick. YOU POOR MISUNDERSTOOD MAN.)

(Spats??? On an inspector's salary? Ohhhhhh Commissioner Val-en-tine......)

(Aw, at least she's got company.)

(Someday the cats in this strip are going to rise up and....)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...


This is what happens when you don't keep all your paperwork.

The News, regardless of what you may think of the specifics of its editorial positions, does love to poke the bear.

"Anyway, thanks for the cigarettes."

"And as far as Phyllis knows you're just on a long shopping trip."

An aggressive investment strategy might not work for you, son.

Just be sure to clean up after.

Hey, you know what an extra-firm girdle brings these days on the black market?

Skip the first two degrees and go straight to the third.

It's great for a sore back.

"Don't you ever get tired of these conversations that are all subtext?"

 

[Fading Fast]

"Quake Rocks Tokyo as B-29s Blast City"

You are definitely having a bad day when first a large earthquake and then a massive air raid hit your city on the same day.

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

"Yeh," yehs Sally. "I hoid'dat las' night. Moscow radio. T'ey was awn'eh tawkin' 'bout how its awrmos' oveh." "You was lissenin' t' Moscow?" marvels Alice. "Yeh," affirms Sally.

Wouldn't that be broadcast in Russian, or is this some US government radio station based in Russia?

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

Spats??? On an inspector's salary? Ohhhhhh Commissioner Val-en-tine......

Well, if Adolphe Menjou's career ever takes a nosedive and he has to work comicstrips, he could slide right into this role - he sorta looks the part so few will see it's been recast and he already has spats from God knows how many roles where he's played of nattily-dressed spat-wearing character.

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

"Don't you ever get tired of these conversations that are all subtext?"

Other than when she taught Terry how to dance, talking with the Dragon Lady has always been exhausting like this. Even reading the strip, you have to keep on your toes to follow her real meaning.

 

[LizzieMaine]

Moscow had a regular English language shortwave service starting in the early thirties, broadcasting from "Radio Center Moscow," with multiple broadcasts per day beamed to listeners in the US. Usually the content was news summaries, followed by commentaries read from Isvestia or other publications, or summaries of speeches by Soviet officials. Occasionally big events like the annual May Day parade would be broadcast live with English-language descriptive commentary, and sometimes there'd be music or other entertainment, but in general, from what I've heard of it at least, prewar Moscow shortwave broadcasting tended to be didactic and dry. Here's an example from 1939: https://soundcloud.com/eleanor-roosevelt-809230250%2F390320-soviet-news-in-english
Pretty much every country had an official shortwave overseas outlet like this, with the US being the primary exception, at least until the Voice of America began during the war. Prior to this, companies like GE, RCA, and Crosley operated their own shortwave services, mostly relaying American programs and such to listeners to Europe and South America.

 

[Fading Fast]

Thank you, Lizzie, that's very cool. "This is Radio Center Moscow calling..." very much of the era.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Hey Ma!" bellows Sally, jingling thru the door to find only Bink Scanlan leaning against her broom. "Hey Ma," echoes Leonora, tugging at her mother's coat. "C'n I...?" "Yeh, yeh," nods Sally. "Go read'ja magazines. But none'a t'em moideh books, go read sump'n edjehcational! Tezza 'New Republic,' read t'at." "Yeh," chortles Leonora, reaching for a copy of "Speed Detective." "We'hs Ma?" queries Sally, looking around the store. "I dunno," shrugs Bink, shifting her wad of gum. "T'ink she wen' oveh't drug stoeh. Hadda go pick up Fatty's ulceh medicine a'sump'n." "Oh," sighs Sallly, tossing her bag on the counter. "Well, I brung Leonoreh oveh, so I c'n go see my -- um -- appern'ment -- but -- I mean, don' take it poissional, but I can't leave 'eh witchoo." "Meh," shrugs Bink. "Lawngsya heeh, c'n ya keep an eye? I gotta go an' sweep upstaiehs." "Yeh," nods Sally, stepping around the counter. She fishes around underneath for Ma's "Read The Brooklyn Eagle" apron, and ties it over her coat just as a wizened elderly man shuffles in. "You woik heeh?" he demands. "Well," shrugs Sally. "I wanna pint 'a vanilla ice cream. Vanilla, mind ye, vanilla. I don't want no chawcolate, an' I don' wan' no strawrberrry, an' I don' wan't no tutti-frutti. I wanna pint 'a vanilla ice cream." "Yeh," shrugs Sally, reaching for a bowl. "Don't wannit in a dish," demands the man. "Want it in one' t'em cardboard thingummies. So I can take it home. I wanna take it home. In one' t'em cardboard thingummies, ye' heeh?" "A -- box," enunciates Sally, withdrawing the bowl and unfolding a waxed carry-out carton. She reaches for a scoop. "Hold on now goilie," demands the customer. "You rinse t'at off now. You rinse t'at off before ye put it in t'at ice cream,y'heeh? I don't want no chawkclate, an' I don' want no strawrberry, an' I don' want no tutti-frutti, y'get me. I don't know wheh t'at scoop's been, an' you jist go right ahead now an' rinse it off. An' I'm watchin' ya now, I'm watchin', so don'choo dip in no chawclate just t'have ya laughs now. I know how you kids is, now, ye rotten lit'l whelps. Don't play no games wit' me!" "Yeh," sighs Sally, carefully rinsing the scoop in the sink and holding it up for the old man's approval. With great care, she scoops the ice cream into the carton and holds it out for the old man's approval. "I dont want it like t'at," he snorts. "You press t'at down solid now, I ain't payin' for no air. You press t'at down good an' flat an' you give me good measure, y'heeh me?" Scarcely containing her eyeroll, Sally complies. Receiving the customer's approval at last, she folds shut the flaps of the carton and pushes it across the counter. "T'oity cents," she exhales. "You put t'at on my bill now," demands the old man, tucking the carton into his rust-flecked overcoat. "But..." begins Sally. "You just ask Old Man Lieb, lit'l goil," the customer chuckles as he heads for the door. "He knows me! He knows me!" Before Sally can make a move, he jingles out the door and saunters directly into the path of the Rogers Avenue trolley before skipping deftly to safety and disappearing across the street. "Heh!" snickers Leonora. "Suckeh!" "Ahhhhh," growls Sally, plunging her hands into the apron pocket. She feels a crinkle in the pocket, and her fingers close over a piece of folded paper. Curious, she withdraws the yellow sheet and unfolds it....)

(There's a new world coming, kicking and screaming.)

(Better yet, let's move all teams to Brooklyn. Play half the games at Ebbets Field, and half the games at Dexter Park. IT COULD WORK!)

("Somebody did that to silence him!" Well, guess it worked then.)

(Of all the cartoonists we follow, Ernie is by far the most cynical.)

(Y'know, usually in a soap-opera type story you can, if you look hard and long enough, find some morsel of redeeming qualities in the characters, some sympathetic inkling of what emotional drives could move them to act as they do. Except for this one.)

(Facts I did not know about Gen. Douglas MacArthur, but now that I do know them they do not surprise me in the least.)

(Wait, didn't I read somewhere that there are Nazis on the moon? This should be quite a story.)

(I bet Pershing was a real hoot at parties.)


(If this were Movie Bugs, he would now proceed to completely demolish this man, his home, his car, and his life just as a matter of principle. But this, alas, is not Movie Bugs.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also --

("I wouldn't wear those to a dogfight." -- Gyps.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Yeah, well, it's Nyack.

"NO! It's STILL MY TURN!" -- Thos. E. Dewey.

You've never been to Leon & Eddie's, have you Mr. Hill?

Gertie has a remarkably short attention span.

What could happen? And Judy's only ten, Walt. Settle down.

"I'll never forgive myself for being nasty to the dead boy!" That makes me laugh far more than it should, which is an unfortunate insight into my current state of mind.

Wagonwheels has always been naive, but he's never gone full Lil Abner till now.

Even if you ARE a hired goon, should you really go around wearing a sweater with GOON printed on it?

I mean, who can blame her?

"The handsome one enjoys tempting fate. Were you any other man I would kill you where you stand."

 

[Fading Fast]

She feels a crinkle in the pocket, and her fingers close over a piece of folded paper. Curious, she withdraws the yellow sheet and unfolds it....

NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (Well played, Lizzie.)

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

Yeah, well, it's Nyack.

AWOL and a bigamist: He doesn't really have the concept of commitment down.

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

Really? She had you locked in an insane asylum, but you didn't think she'd poison you?

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

Nice one, Pat.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Lookit'at pitcheh!" exclaims Alice. "T' Big T'ree in poisson. Y'know what I'm gonna do, Sal, I'm gonna keep t'is papeh f' Willie. It's whatchacawl hist'ry right t'eh!" "Don' change t'subjec'" snaps Sally. "How could'ja DO t'at t'me? Hidin' a telegram ADDRESSED T'ME!" "Sal," sighs Alice, "we been goin' oveh t'is awl day. An' what I gawt t'say t'night izza same t'ing I tol' ya t'is mawrnin'. We done it f'ya OWN GOOD!" "You keep SAYIN' 'at!" counters Sally. "A telegram ABOUT JOE GETT"N SHOT, f'crissakes! An' YA TRIED T'HIDE IT! You knew! Ya husban' knew! Ma an' Uncle Frank knew! T'Ginsboigs knew! Who else, Alice? Who else knew? Does -- I dunno, does BINK SCANLAN know?" "We neveh told 'eh," insists Alice. "She don't know Joe anyways." "I t'ought allayez was my fren's!" laments Sally. "I mean, what'dja t'ink I was gonna DO if I foun' out? Y't'ink I'm gonna steal an aiehplane, fly t'France? Y't'ink I'm gonna STOW AWAY ONNA BOAT?" Alice squirms uncomfortably. "Well," she ventures, "I mean, it' din' take ya lawng jus' now t''tink'a stealin' a plane awr stowin' away awn a boat. So maybe you was awready t'inkin'..." "I do'wanna tawk about it," expels Sally, folding her arms and glaring at a small man in a homburg hat across the car. "AN' WHATTA YOU LOOKIN' AT?" she roars, causing the man to retreat behind a copy of the World-Telegram. "I'm sawry, Sal," sighs Alice. "We awl are. We jus' -- we jus' didn' wan'cha t' -- well -- end up in -- um -- Bellevue again." Sally glares at Alice, and exhales a great sigh. "T'at railroad guard slipped," she mutters. "How many times I gotta tellya..?" "Yeh," nods Alice, patting her friend's arm. "I know....")

A plan to assure the equal distribution of cigarettes as a counter to the black market will depend on whether smokers can reduce their overall consumption, according to regional OPA administrator Daniel P. Woolley. The plan calls on smokers who consume an entire pack of 20 each day to reduce their consumption to 14 per day, with heavy smokers requested to reducce their consumption by the same proportion. Woolley predicts that such a reduction in cigarette consumption will break the back of the black market in the city, as will a refusal orf sokers to hoard or panic-buy smokes when they do become more widely available. A liason committee representing cigarette jobbers and retailers will meet with OPA officials at the agency's Empire State Building offices tomorrow morning to review the specifics of the new plan.

(Fred Loffman really hates his neighbors.)

("Anyway," insists Ma, "ye said ye'self it's aaahl goona be ovarr soon!" "That's b'soide th' point," argues Uncle Frank. "Ye coulda toold Sally straight oot what happened, hoow ye happend t'have that telegram in ye pocket, an' saved a lotta trooble! She caught roit aaahn t'what was gooin' aaahn as soon as she seen it! Figyaaared roit oot that Alice was the one give it to ye, an' now she's aaahn th' waaarpath with ev'rybpdy!" "I NIVVER PLANNED NOOTHIN!" roars Ma. 'Well, maybe naaaht th' creation," nods Uncle Frank, "boot'chee saaartainly had a hand in th' execution. Oi'm tellin' ye, ye caaaan't keep thinkin' ye can poot things ovarr aaahn th' garrl. She ain't doomb." "Oi know me own daughter," argues Ma. "She sees what she waaaants t'see and thinks what she waaants t'think." "You keep thinkin' that," warns Uncle Frank, "an' woon day ye moit get a s'prise." Ma glances at the locked door to the back room. "Pshaw," she pshaws, as Uncle Frank pointedly sips his two-cents-plain...)

(Coming Events Cast Their Shadows Before...)

("Oh, yes," nods Mr. O'Malley, his fleshy pink head bobbing cheerfully over his immaculate collar. "George and I were discussing all of this over lunch at the Bossert." "George?" frowns Mr. Rickey. "Oh yes," smiles Mr. O'Malley in his mirthless way. "Mr. McLaughlin, I mean. Worked for him at Brooklyn Trust for years, of course, before I joined the ballclub here. A good friend, a loyal friend, a man with a shrewd eye for an honest deal. And he and I see eye to eye on this Legion matter, we really do. He fully concurs with my thoughts, oh, indeed." "I am sure," frosts Mr. Rickey, "that you outlined your views in fulsome detail." "A good attorney, Branch," smirks Mr. O'Malley, "is nothing if not thorough. As you yourself well know." "Indeed," scowls Mr. Rickey...)

(I bet Melody Mortez has a brother named Rigor. It's that kind of strip.)

(WELL THAT'S CONVENIENT.)

(Never send comedy relief to do a henchman's job.)

(Hey, at least you won't need an alarm clock.)

(Poor Kitty HAS TO think of herself, because nobody else around here does!)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"But in the movies, they say every sailor has a girl in every port!"

Remember a few years ago, when they were shutting down shows like this?

"Look at all the poppy plants! I love poppies, but why grow so many?"

You can observe a lot by seeing.

Careful what you wish for.

Poor Min. She doesn't even try anymore.

Just that easy.

Ah, farm livin'.

Well, you must've had the wrong end sticking out the window.

Just a little longer.

 

[Fading Fast]

"I mean, it' din' take ya lawng jus' now t''tink'a stealin' a plane awr stowin' away awn a boat.

Alice is plenty smart.

Sally's completely rewritten the train conductor history, so much so, I bet she now sincerely believes her version.

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

A plan to assure the equal distribution of cigarettes as a counter to the black market will depend on whether smokers can reduce their overall consumption, according to regional OPA administrator Daniel P. Woolley. The plan calls on smokers who consume an entire pack of 20 each day to reduce their consumption to 14 per day, with heavy smokers requested to reducce their consumption by the same proportion. Woolley predicts that such a reduction in cigarette consumption will break the back of the black market in the city, as will a refusal orf sokers to hoard or panic-buy smokes when they do become more widely available. A liason committee representing cigarette jobbers and retailers will meet with OPA officials at the agency's Empire State Building offices tomorrow morning to review the specifics of the new plan.

It's an early version of Carter's Whip Inflation Now strategy and will probably be just as successful.

Also, if ever there was a time to quit, now would be it.