The Era -- Day By Day

[Fading Fast]

"Sal," whispers Alice. "Lemme ask ya sump'n. Was you jus' -- prayin'?" "Leemee lone," mutters Sally, bending over her bench. "S'awright," assures Alice. "I was too."

"Leemee lone."

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"ye'll joost have t'foind solace in ye waaaark."

Ah, my father's philosophy of raising a child said with an Irish accent.

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Today I learned that Evans Krehbiel's parents were both notable fine artists, with his father a significant figure in American impressionism, and his mother an interesting modernist. I wonder if they -- ah -- know what their son does for a living...

Well at least they don't have to send him a monthly check anymore.

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Yeah, well, to paraphrase Captain Renault: "Don't underestimate stupid American kids, I was with the stupid American kids when they blundered into Berlin in 1918 (and are about to do so again)."

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You know, you don't have to point it out.

Okay, Rita, just give him a thank you, umm, handshake and be done with it. The kid's mind will explode.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("I dunno why I'm takin'is so hawrd," exhales Sally, gazing up at the peeling Kalsomine ceiling of Dr. Levine's office. "I mean, it ain' like I knew 'im poissonal a'nut'n. Well, I wrote 'im a few lettehs, y'know, givin' im some advice. Back when we haddat strike at Woolwoit's, y'know, I t'ink it mighta been him pul't some strings t'get me outta t'jug." "Ah," ahs Dr. Levine, flipping the page of her notebook. "I mean," shrugs Sally, "who else coulda done'at? Uncle Frank? I ask ya. But anyways, awl durin'at funeral p'rade thing, y'know, onna radio, I'm stannin'neh at my bench an' -- I can't see t'wiehs, y'know? From cryin'." "You aren't alone, you know," acknowledges the doctor. "I cried too." "Really?" marvels Sally. "I t'ought doctehs wasn'allowed." "It's not good form," agrees Dr. Levine. "But then, there's people who'd say I'm not good form either." "I didn't know doctehs was allowed t'make jokes," adds Sally. "Sometimes we have to," sighs Dr. Levine...)

("That paaaar little daaahg," sighs Ma. "Eh," ehs Bink Scanlan. "He's doin' awright. T'ree squaehs, a nice bed t'sleep in, goes f'nice wawks. Don' hafta sweep no flooehs." "Moind ye toong," frowns Ma. "Oi doon't imagine Francis woold loike t'know what ye been oop to with his soon." "Ahhhh, what's Fatty caeh," snickers Bink. "Whassit matteh if one'vm gets a lit'l messed up? He's got a spaeh." A strange sound erupts from Ma's midriff, sounding suspiciously like a belly laugh. Bink stares incredulously. "Oof," huffs Ma, rubbing her stomach. "Thaaat Shaughnessy an' his bloody gristly brisket...")

("What's the meaning of THIS!" rumbles Mr. Rickey, thrusting the Eagle sports page in the face of his quivering minion. "Well,' shrugs Mr. Parrott, "if Breadon wants to let the Coopers go, that's so much the better for..." "I mean THIS item," interrupts the Mahatma of Montague Street, his thick finger pointing to one small item. "YOUR paper, Mr. Parrott. Hiring a LOW COMEDIAN. A JESTING JAPER. A MERRY ANDREW. A BROADWAY BUFFOON! TO WRITE ABOUT *OUR* BALL CLUB!" "Heh!" snickers Mr. Parrott in spite of himself. "I never knew Schroth had it in him!" "No sooner do I wrest Durocher from the siren lure of the footlights," laments Mr. Rickey, "then another prancing Punchinello insinuates himself upon the franchise." "You know," suggests Mr. Parrott, "if you took off your glasses and slicked back your hair, you could look like Chic Johnson. You and Olsen could do a bit together. The crowd would eat it up." Mr. Rickey lifts his jaw from the top of the desk and stares at his aide. "Are you MAD?" he demands. "You know," observes Mr. Parrott, throwing caution to the winds, "how much money Olsen and Johnson made last year?" Mr. Rickey pauses to consider this possibility. "What does this Johnson do?" he queries. "Can you -- giggle?" proposes Mr. Parrott. "Haw haw haw?" enunciates Mr. Rickey. "More like this," corrects Mr. Parrott. "Hee hee hee hee!" Mr. Rickey stares. "That will be all, Mr. Parrott." "Yes sir....")

(See kids, this is why you don't climb on roofs.)

(Bugs Bunny as a hapless suburbanite. What's next, complaining to the Zoning Board of Appeals?)

(And once again we remind you, Phil Fumble is Mr. Bushmiller's avatar.)

(Two years? Must've been exhausted.)

(Maybe Scarlet should lay off the Hungarian dinners before bed.)

("All right Admiral, but LEAVE THE WHISTLE ALONE!")

(Meanwhile in Hollywood, struggling singer Frankie Laine says HEY! I HAD IT FIRST!)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News....

All right with the dog, now you've got ME crying.

Spring? What's that??

It's always best to observe the social niceties before you break the bottle. Otherwise we'd have chaos.

"I could suggest a good place." Well, she got a good head start.

"Shoulda gawt 'is billfold too." -- Bink.

SERVES YOU RIGHT

I mean, what were you expecting to happen?

If we don't get a story where Chili meets Rita, and they team up to seek their vengeance on the two-timing little pantywaist, I'll be very disappointed.

And make sure you do hospital corners, I don't want cold feet.

Tough tootin', Terry, you can't say you didn't have your chance.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

"Do not worry. We shall have no trouble at all finding employment."

 

[Fading Fast]

"who else coulda done'at? Uncle Frank? I ask ya..."

And another opportunity to see reality lost.

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"What does this Johnson do?" he queries. "Can you -- giggle?" proposes Mr. Parrott. "Haw haw haw?" enunciates Mr. Rickey. "More like this," corrects Mr. Parrott. "Hee hee hee hee!" Mr. Rickey stares. "That will be all, Mr. Parrott." "Yes sir...."

Well played, Lizzie.

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Spring? What's that??

It's funny, as I feel as if I know the actors. It's like Hill uses a traveling theater troupe as we see the same actors in different roles each week. I believe you've said something similar and, of course, before me, Lizzie.

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"I could suggest a good place." Well, she got a good head start.

"It is a good fur day – yes indeed, a good fur day. We should use some stills from today for publicity material."

"Somebody tell the dog to stay in character; his mind seems to be wandering again during the scene."

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Tough tootin', Terry, you can't say you didn't have your chance.

No kidding, I don't want to hear a peep out of him even if he has to watch. Too bad, kid.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("He ain't gawt much of a verce," whispers Sally, as President Truman's voice crackles over the factory speaker. "Soun's like he's holdin' 'is nose like 'e's tryin' to soun' like Fred Allen." "Shh," shooshes Alice. "T'President didn' soun' like t'at," frowns Sally. "T' President soun'ed like -- a President." "T'is guy's t' President now," admonishes Alice. "I'm gonna write 'im a letteh," decides Sally. "Set'im straight onna few t'ings." "Let 'im get moved in foist," urges Alice. "SHHHHHH!" admonishes the foreman. "Nobody hadda get shooshed," mutters Sally, "whenna PRESIDENT was tawkin'..."

("Oohhhhhhh gaaaaahd help oos," groans Ma. "We'll NEVARRRR get th' racetracks back!" "Naaaaht necessarily," predicts Uncle Frank. "Make 'im Sec'etary oo State an' he'll be aaahf havin' cocktails with Moolatov an' Aaaaanthony Eden an' aaaahl th' loikes a thim. He woon't be gettin' invaaaaalved in noo haaaarse racin'." Ma takes this under advisement, closes her eyes, and concentrates. "Whatchee doin' now?" queries Uncle Frank. "Figyarrrin' th' aaaahds," replies Ma. "Even mooney Baaarnes gets made sec'etary oo state. an' three t' woon he gets in a fist foit with Moootov th' faaaarst moonth 'ees in tharr, an' ten t' woon he gets inta woon with Eden." "Oil'll take a piece a' that," nods Uncle Frank. "Let me see th' coolar o' ye mooney," frowns Ma. "Oh, now Nora," pleads Uncle Frank. "Nooo credit," declares Ma. "Specially t' YOU....')

(Even bad baseball is better than no baseball at all.)

("Now, my theories of modern marketing...")

("Hmph," hmphs Mr Rickey. "You say they make a great deal of money, do they?" "They do," nods Mr. Parrott. "Broadway, movies. They make a LOT of money." "Judas Priest," mutters Mr. Rickey...)

("Joe?" snaps Sally. "Joe could dance t'is chimpanzee undeh t' table eight ways from Sunday!")

(How meta of you to say so.)

("Sure, why not? I don't know why we even pay some of the dopes on the force.")

(Once you've heard the gentle tinkle of broken shingles blowing thru your windows on a windy night you'll not soon forget it...)

(BETTER CHECK THOSE RATION POINTS KID!

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

He liked you too, Mr. O'Donnell.

You wouldn't dare.

"Gognac?" blanches Inky Quinlan.

I BET AMERICA'S NUMBER ONE HERO DOPE DOESN'T GET A WINDOW SEAT

Work him good, Hu Shee.

"We were just wondering what that smell was..."

Yeah, but knowing him it probably won't be.

It's no use, lady -- NO DISCOUNTS.

"Laboratory on Premises!"

Most realistic married couple in the comics.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And finallly...

Phooey. Can't you get a comedian to write this column? I hear Danny Kaye reads the Worker...

 

[Fading Fast]

Such a good-looking, iconic uniform.

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

I BET AMERICA'S NUMBER ONE HERO DOPE DOESN'T GET A WINDOW SEAT

"Hero Dope," good one, Lizzie.

 

[LizzieMaine]

I was very pleased to see yesterday that the Brooklyn Dodgers of Los Angeles wore Brooklyn caps in honor of Jackie Robinson Day. They haven't always been respectful of their ancestral home, but on that particular observation I would consider it obligatory.

 

[scotrace]

I LOVE this thread and am very glad it's ongoing.

 

[LizzieMaine]

I LOVE this thread and am very glad it's ongoing.

"Yeah, see? Verce'a t' people!" -- Sally Petrauskas, Brooklyn USA.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("See, t'is is why t'ey aughta play moeh night games," argues Sally, as she and Alice round the corner of 18th and 63rd en route to home. "People like us, what chance we gawt? We'h woikin'. In Joisey, yet. How we gonna see t'game. But t'ey play at night, why, we could be on'eh way oveh t'eh right now. Catch t'game. See Durocheh tryin'a play secon' base." "He won' las'," predicts Alice with a snicker. "Might sperl 'is manicueh." "T'ey shoulda gawt Petey back whenney hadda chance," declares Sally, as they climb the stoop and enter the foyer of No. 1762. But at the sound of their voices in the entryway, Mrs. Ginsburg steps out of her apartment, her face announcing her purpose before she speaks. "It came," she quavers, holding up a yellow envelope. "While you are woiking, it came. News of Yussel. I -- I -- I don't need open to know, news of Yussel." Sally takes the proffered envelope without a word and peels open the flap. She takes a deep breath. "Advise youeh husban'," she reads, "Technician Fit' Grade Joseph Petrauskas, transferred to Mason General Hawspital, Deeh Pawrk, New Yawrk for medical obsehvation prep'ratawry to dischawrge. You will be advised of foit'eh arrangements. Fawr J. A. Ulio, Adjehtan' Gen'ral." "Deeh Pawrk!" blurts Alice, her face wreathed with excitement. "T'at's out awn Lawng Islan'! I know weh t'at is, me'n Mickey useteh make d'liveries out t'eh." "I know wheh'rit is," replies Sally, her face expressionless. "An' I know 'bout t'at hawspital. I hoid'm tawkin'abouttit when I was -- um -- in Bellevue t'at time. It'sa Awrmy psychiatric hawspital." "Oh," exhales Alice. "A shreklehkeh zahk..." murmurs Mrs. Ginsburg...)

("Pshaw," pshaws Inky Quinlan. "Where's the CHALLENGE??")

("And in the category of "Most Tasteless Advertisement of 1945", the winner is....)

(Always See The Sunny Side of Life...)

(Well, the Dodgers aren't much hope this year, but best wishes to Fitz to climb out of the cellar....)

(And that's why vaudeville died.)

(Frankie? He looks more like Bing. Or maybe a cross between Bing and Shaky.)

(Do you think all Jane's co-workers really hate her?)

(It isn't what you know, it's who you know.)

(I dunno, maybe you should try an updo.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News,

Hey Glo, is it true Leopold doesn't even OWN a baton?

SM3 O'Brien has never been to Red Hook.

I LOVE TO RIDE ON A BUS DO YOU LOVE TO RIDE ON A BUS I DO I LOVE TO RIDE ON A BUS

Those Model A's really are great in the mud.

There are three things you can count on -- death, taxes, and Goofy's an idiot.

Today's guest director, Mr. Alfred Hitchcock...

Mr. Gould is sadly unaware that there's a new world coming. But he'll find out in tomorrow's mail.

Why does Johnny Jingo look like a cross between Bucky Wing (remember him?) and Prince Namor, the Sub-Mariner?

Clearly the farm labor situation is worse off than we've been led to believe...

Kayo would make a great receptionist.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And finally...

Alone in his sanctum on the fourth floor of 215 Montague Street, Mr. Rickey gazes down with disapproval at the paper on his desk. Exhaling with dismay, he begins to gingerly turn its pages, frowning steadily as he views headlines discussing labor matters, political controversies, and the latest pronouncements by Earl Browder. But as he reaches the back of the slim tabloid, his eyes flare behind the thick bifocals as he spots the item for which he has searched. He reads the article slowly, carefully, once, twice, three times over. He bites at his lower lip, exhales again, and presses the key on the desktop intercom. "Yes, sir?" crackles the voice of Jane Ann Jones. "Jane Ann," replies Mr. Rickey. "Bring me a scissors."

 

[Fading Fast]

"And in the category of "Most Tasteless Advertisement of 1945", the winner is....

I have this vague (questionable) memory of dry cleaners in NYC in the late '80, when I first moved here, having signs saying "we store your furs for the summer in cold storage" or something like that. Back then – not having grown up in a world where people had furs – I didn't even know you needed to store them over the summer, so that was a surprise. Looking back, I bet there was a lot of fraud going on about the truth of "cold storage." But the police were too busy in the late '80s shutting down all the pizza shops fronting for drug dealers to worry about the big fake-cold-storage scam.

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If Rear Admiral Ross McIntire ever needs someone to play him in the movies, Mickey Rooney is ready to go.

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I LOVE TO RIDE ON A BUS DO YOU LOVE TO RIDE ON A BUS I DO I LOVE TO RIDE ON A BUS

It is possible that when they finally find the old lady's body and realize Annie is missing, they'll assume Annie pushed her down the cistern and ran. I doubt Gray will take the story in this direction, but Annie could become the subject of a APB.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("I don' know what t't'ink," sighs Sally, sipping a glass of milk while Alice sits across the kitchen table and Leonora sits on the floor reading the Eagle. "T'at telegram's gawt me awl confused. It says 'e's been transfehed t't'at hospital out t'eh, but it don' say he's T'EH yet. An' ney say I'll be 'advised a' futcheh infehmation.' WhasSAT mean?" "Bu-chen-w..." reads Leonora. "Ma," she queries, "what's..." "Gimme t'at papeh," Sally interrupts. "Y'don' need t'be read'n'at. Go inna ot'eh room an' play wit' Stella." "Stella ain' inna livin' room," argues Leonora. As if by cue, Stella the Cat leaps up on the kitchen table and asserts property rights on Sally's glass of milk. "Just a minute" sighs Sally, scooping up Stella and beckoning to Leonora. "C'mon," she insists. "Come inna ot'eh room an' I'll give yeh sumpn' t'do." Alice picks up the newspaper as Sally exits, considers the front page, and emits a horrified whisper. She sits back in her chair and closes her eyes as if to erase the words from her mind, but is roused back to reality by a sharp rap at the door. "Get t'at," yells Sally from the living room. "Mrs. Ginsboig was gonna run up some pillehcases she was gonna give us." Alice steps to the door to find a skinny adolescent. "Miss's P home?" honks the youth. "Gotta phone cawl downa stoeh." "Who is it?" yells Sally. "Sammy Schriebstein," yells back Alice. "Y'gawtta phone cawl." "Tell 'eh," adds Sammy, "it's 'eh husban'." "You betteh get out 'eeh," yells Alice, her voice catching. "What?" rushes Sally. "Who is it?" "It's Misteh P," repeats Sammy. "It's Joe," elaborates Alice. "Go, go, I'll watch Lenoreh. GO!" Sally's face drains of color, as she grabs her jacket and accompanies Sammy out the door. Alice watches them go, a look of deep concern shadowing her features, and slowly closes the door behind them..)

("Two antique Belgian pavin' bricks in ev'ry droiveway," snickers Uncle Frank. "Oi tell ye, Nora, thaaat's waaarst koinda amatchoor mistake. If ye warrrkin that koinda game, th' woon thing ye DOON'T do is make yeself conspicuous. Ye'd never see ME poot'n no Belgain pavin' bricks in MY droiveway." "Ye ain't gaaaaht a droiveway," observes Ma, not looking up from her bookkeeping. "Ye caan't staaaap a man froom dreamin'," declares Uncle Frank as he drains his glass...)

("T'at Van Johnson," sighs Bink Scanlan, exiting Loew's Met and gazing upon the Starts Tomorrow poster outside. "What's 'e gawt t'at I ain' gawt," frowns Jimmy Leary, kicking sullenly at a fractured bit of pavement. "Nut'n," concedes Bink. "But I bet 'e makes t' most of it!" They walk on in silence for a bit. "Hey," resumes Jimmy. "Gimme my wallet." "Nut'n gets past you," snickers Bink, returning the item as they head down the subway steps...)

(KIDS TODAY)

("The Olsens and Johnsons of Baseball!")

(Twenty years ago an act like this would be good for 26 weeks on the Orpheum time.)

("The cheaper the crook, the gaudier the bric-a-brac.")

(Sometimes Janie pulls crap like this just for laughs.)

("Yeah! And I got this whole display for free when they tore down the World's Fair!")

(How dowdy. Don't you know this spring skirts are being worn right at the knee?)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Deems Taylor???? Chaplin I can believe, but DEEMS TAYLOR????

The "Wilbur Wackey" look in headgear is all the rage this year.

"And better upholstery too!"

Zounds!

Well, we seemed to have skipped right over Gothic and gone straight to Grand Guignol...

Hey, is that Nick Gatt??????

At last, someone even more obnoxious than Charlie.

Axe of the Apostles? You're thinking of the Crusades.

Little Egypt was Moon's coochie-dancer girlfriend from 20 years ago, and is also Emmy's niece. Which just goes to show that genetics really are a lottery.

Empires rise and fall, presidents live and die, but Goofy, the one univeresal constant in a world gone mad, is always an idiot.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

Hey gals, where did you get that drying rack? So much better than throwing your stuff over the shower rod.

And finally...

Alone in his sanctum, Mr. Rickey sits and ponders....

 

[Fading Fast]

If ye warrrkin that koinda game, th' woon thing ye DOON'T do is make yeself conspicuous.

It's stunning how many times making this mistake is the thing that brings the corrupt politician (or businessman, or head of a charity, the latter is shockingly common) down.

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"What's 'e gawt t'at I ain' gawt," frowns Jimmy Leary, kicking sullenly at a fractured bit of pavement. "Nut'n," concedes Bink. "But I bet 'e makes t' most of it!"

Bink is not the girl you take home to meet mother.

"Between Two Women" is a spinoff of the "Dr. Kildare" series of movies, which is the antecedent to the very popular modern TV medical dramas like "Grey's Anatomy." It's really quite amazing how little is truly new.

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"The cheaper the crook, the gaudier the bric-a-brac."

Bink takes umbrage.

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Deems Taylor???? Chaplin I can believe, but DEEMS TAYLOR????

How can the Daily News call itself "New York's Picture Newspaper" and not have a picture of Lucille (Lou to her friends) Watson Little, circus costume designer?

Oh, and Taylor's daughter should be nineteen now, just the right age to be besties with her new twenty-year-old stepmom.

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The "Wilbur Wackey" look in headgear is all the rage this year.

This isn't even a question as there is no choice: of course you become the bat boy for the Yankees.

I'd bet big money Steve Michaels is an insufferable kid.

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Hu Shee: [Thought bubble.] "Christ, finally, somebody will." [Whispering over to Terry.] "You happen to have a snapshot of yourself I could borrow?"