The Era -- Day By Day

[LizzieMaine]

("T'at's awl'ee said, Alice," sighs Sally. "I tol' ya las' night an' I'm tellin' ya again. 'Don' worry 'bout me, Sal,' he says. 'I'm gonna be fine.' Oveh'rin'oveh'rgain. Jus' like t'em lettehs. I kep' sayin' 'It's OK Joe, it's OK,' an'nee keeps sayin' 'don' worry 'bout me.' An'nen t'cawl cut awff, like 'ee wasn' s'posta be usin'a phone an'ney made 'im hang up.' I cawlt right back t'eh, tried t'tawk t'someb'dy in chawrge, an' awl I got was t'runaroun'." "T' Awrmy," shrugs Alice. "T'at's how t'ey do t'ings." "Howd'you know" frowns Sally. "Siddy tol' me it was t'same t'ing inna las' wawr," replies Alice. "S'awondeh anyt'ing gawt done, ev'rybody so busy passin'a buck." "Yeh, well," snaps Sally, her frown deepening into a scowl, "t'ey can' pull'at runaroun' onna phone, but t'ey won' do it face-t'face. We'eh goin' out t'eh Sunday." "We awr?" blanches Alice. "We'eh gonna borreh t' truck," affirms Sally, "an' yawr gonna drive me out'teh. "I am?" quavers Alice. "You sueh you wanna...I mean, las' time we gawt -- ahhh, skip it." "An'ney don' tell me what I wanna know 'bout Joe, " vows Sally, "t'eh's gonna be some hell raised, an' I'm'na one gonna raise it." "Um," ums Alice. "You awrways say 'um," notes Sally. "Yawrta stop it. Makes ya soun' ign'rant." "Oh," ohs Alice...)

(Some don't make it home.)

(All right Harry. Get busy.)

("Fifty francs t'watch ya car, mister?")

(Wait, Brooklyn had football? Oh yeah, I keep forgetting. And don't think Leo's giving up too much there, he can make up the two grand doing ten minutes with Danny Kaye.)

(It's the smears of gore on the pavement that really sell the bit...)

(Does anybody believe a single word of this?)

(Never mind the turban, they're all talking about the morning suit worn with a turtleneck...)

(Interesting casting, William Bendix usually plays lovable lugs.)

(Of course you will.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News....

Seeeeeems pretty convenient that Max the Cheetah died shortly after Aunt Lizzie did. Somebody question Wallie the Sausage Dog before Clara gets it next...

By mail?? Ew.

Sure, Terry, you can trust him. Look how Hu Shee trusts him.

Has anyone in a situation such as this ever actually said "OK, sure, I'll open the door."

Elderly character comedian Gus Leonard, beloved for his roles in Hal Roach two-reelers, died in 1939. So you can excuse Judy for not remembering him, but not Walt.

H. H. Holmes, I presume?

All together now, students. What's Goofy....?

"Besides, she gave up cooch dancing years ago. I hear she's a WAVE now."

Getting in a bit late, arent'cha bud?

 

[LizzieMaine]

And finally...

Mr. Rickey slips his copy of today's Daily Worker under his desk blotter as his assistant enters. "Ah there, Parrott," he greets the minion. "I have an assignment for you." "I'm sorry, sir," shrugs Mr. Parrott. "Comerford tells me he just can't get uniform pants in your size. But he knows someone down at the docks who might have a line on an old sail he could cut up and..." "Cease your prattle, boy," interrupts the Mahatma. "What do you know of collegiate atheltics?" "I guess I know a fair bit," Mr. Parrott acknowledges. "Brooklyn College, St. John's, Fordham, Columbia, NYU..." "What do you know of activities on the Coast?" injects Mr. Rickey. "Specifically the University of California at Los Angeles?" "Um," ums Mr. Parrott. "More specifically," continues Mr. Rickey, "the seasons of 1939 and 1940." "Well," fumbles Mr. Parrott, "I supposed I could go over to the Eagle and go thru the morgue." "Be particularly alert for news of a fellow named -- ah -- Robertson," directs Mr. Rickey. "Robertson, Robertson..." ponders Mr. Parrott. "Wait, do you mean ROBINson?" "That might indeed be the name," nods Mr. Rickey. "Any particular reas..." begins Mr. Parrott. "You have your assignment," declares Mr. Rickey. "See that your work is thorough and promptly completed." "Yes sir," acknowledges Mr. Parrott. He pauses at the door, glancing at the bit of newsprint protruding from beneath the blotter on his master's desk. "Oh," he injects. "How'd Pinky Rankin do today?" "That will be all, Mr. Parrott," frosts Mr. Rickey...

 

[Fading Fast]

"An'ney don' tell me what I wanna know 'bout Joe, " vows Sally, "t'eh's gonna be some hell raised, an' I'm'na one gonna raise it.

It doesn't happen often, but I agree with Sally. She's his wife; he's in a nearby hospital, and she has a right to know what's going on.

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Does anybody believe a single word of this?

Not a chance.

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Interesting casting, William Bendix usually plays lovable lugs.

True, but in panel one, I thought it was Nick Gatt's brother. Kind of like a "Tom Conway to George Sanders" situation - one sibling always has the better career.

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I believe Mr. Crybaby Lawyer needs to look up the definition of contingency fee.

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Sure, Terry, you can trust him. Look how Hu Shee trusts him.

Hu Shee [Thought bubble.] "So am I having sex with somebody today or am I not having sex with somebody today?"

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"Oh," he injects. "How'd Pinky Rankin do today?" "That will be all, Mr. Parrott," frosts Mr. Rickey...

LOL

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Where's Annie and, what's his name, Dirty, Gritty...no, that's not it, Sandy, that's it – where are those guys today?

 

[LizzieMaine]

Today's episode was so exciting I was unable to even look at it.

I should think by now Annie would have a healthy skepticism of kindly old ladies.

 

[LizzieMaine]

(A single dull yellow light burns inside the Bedford Avenue headquarters of F. Leary & Sons Plumbing and Heatng as a bulky figure looms out of the night, approaches the door, raps three times, and is admitted. "Awright, Frank," exhales Alice. "I gotta faveh." "Soo Oi figyarred," shrugs Uncle Frank. "Ye nivvar coom ovarr here t'remenisce aboot oold toimes." "Heeh," offers Alice, proffering a wrapped parcel. "White Owl Invincibles, ten cents straight. Jus' t' kin' ya like." "Ye have me fool attention," acknowledges Uncle Frank, his eyes glittering. "I need t' truck," explains Alice. "Awn Sunday. I need t' truck." "Ye can't have it," sighs Uncle Frank. "Awright," eyerolls Alice, reaching into her coat and producing a second parcel. "T'eh. Ya gawt a hunnet smokes. Now how 'bout t'truck." "Can't do it," insists Uncle Frank. "I oonly gahht enoof gas coopons farr me oon business." "Don't gimme t'at," dismisses Alice. "Tell Inky t'run some awf." "Ah," ahs Uncle Frank. "Oi fear Mr. Quinlan has nahht quoite masstarred that' particular challenge. At least naaaht enoof far ME t'take a chance." Uncle Frank pauses long enough to open one of the parcels, slice open the seals on the box inside, and withdraw a single cigar, glistening in its cellophane jacket. He fingers it thoughtfully as Alice fidgets. "What," he resumes, peeling the cellophane from the cigar, "d'ye need a trook farr?" "It's about Joe," decares Alice. "Sal musta tol' ya he's at t'at place out'n Deeh Pawrk." Uncle Frank nods, and as he snaps a match on the sole of his brogan and applies it to the cigar, he nods for her to continue. "T'ey won' tell 'eh nut'n. She wawnts t'go out'eh an' if t'ey don't telleh what's goin' awn, she's gonna, I dunno, bust t'jernt up a'sump'n. I tol' 'eh I don' t'ink it's such a hot ideeh, I mean, it's one t'ing t'trow railroad conductehs awff t'platfawrm, but, I mean, t'is ain't'a Pennsylvania Railroad she's dealin' wit', it's t' U. S. Awrmy. But you know how she is." "I do," agrees Uncle Frank, puffing a satisfying blue cloud into the hanging overhead bulb. He bites his lower lip and leans back in his swivel chair, his gaze drifiting thru the smoke to a box of dusty pipe fittings on the shelf over the desk. 'Tharrr's a man," he resumes, "aaahn th' O-P-A oos me a favaaar. He doon't knoo it yet, boot he's goona foind oot farst thing in th' marnin'. Ahhhhn WOON condition." Alice takes a deep breath. "Frank, I tol' ya, I've gone straight. I ain' goin' awn no jawbs... " "Th' woon condition is... declares Uncle Frank, "Oi'm gooin' with ye. Don't say a warrrd t'Nora, boot Oi'm gooin' with ye." Alice considers the offer. "Deal," she concedes. ""An' Sal sits inna middle. So we c'n bot' keep an eye on 'eh." Uncle Frank nods in agreement, and takes another slow puff on his cigar...)

("It couldn't happen soon enough," declares Inky Quinlan. "This suit is unbearable." "I like it," shrugs Bink Scanlan. "It's so shiny I c'n fix me face wit'out a mirreh. Hey, hol' still, I t'ink I got p'strami in me teeth." "We wouldn't want Jimmy Leary to see that," sneers Inky in a tone meant to sting. "Neh," nehs Bink, fluffing her hair in the sheen of Inky's blue-serged back. "Jimmy LIKES p'strami!")

(General, you have no idea.)

(We must be getting close to the end, because Mr. Lichty has today resorted to the oldest joke of the war.)

(Thanks, Mr. Holmes, for the most depressing column of this whole depressing week.)

(Just as there are no ex-Marines, there are no ex-jitterbugs.)

(Fortune? From a hokey import business? Tell us, Mr. Brand, just what is it that you -- import?)

(Hey, where do *I* sign up?)

(Good thing, because I'm afraid he'd laugh out loud at whatever that is on the hem of your dress.)

(If there's one thing I don't need to see today, it's a skinny-dipping Nazi.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"Act your age, Leopold!" -- Deems Taylor.

Well, I'd like to think the News has better comics.

That's what happens when you let the dog do your research.


I really want to know what got into Gus Edson that he should give us this story.

"NO! You know how hard it is to get new baggage in this strip???"

"Speak for yourself, Louise. Ever go on a hayride?"

You know, Terry, there's a word for this.

Besides, I mean -- you're the guy who came up with "Alison Valentine Wallet."

It's one thing to just be an idiot, it's quite another to work constantly to find new ways to be an idiot.

You know, for such a stocky guy, Uncle Willie sure spends a lot of time in the air.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

"Stanley Frank!" exhales Mr. Rickey. "Sir?" queries Mr. Parrott. "You will recall," frowns Mr. Rickey, "that Mr. Frank made a good deal of trouble for Mr. MacPhail some time ago with his expose in Collier's magazine..." "The Saturday Evening Post, sir," corrects Mr. Parrott, chuckling at the memory. "That was a mighty hot article too. Blamed Larry for blowing the pennant in '42." "I shall not tolerate Mr. Frank's interference in my own affairs," vows Mr. Rickey. "Or in the affairs of the Brooklyn club. Or in -- ah -- any plans that I might implement -- ah --in the future. Your assignment, Mr. Parrott, is to quell such interference at the source." "Me, sir?" stumbles Mr. Parrott. "You know the ways of newspapermen," notes Mr. Rickey. "Mollify him. Take him on a riotous tour of local establishments where -- ah -- strong drink is dispensed and -- uh -- stimulating entertainment is provided in accompaniment." "But sir..." stammers Mr. Parrott. Mr. Rickey holds up his palm to stem the objection. "I shall provide," he continues, "an expense account to cover the cost of this assignment." "Well then," brightens Mr. Parrott. "That's diff---" "I believe five dollars per man per evening should be sufficient," proposes Mr. Rickey. "Oh," ohs Mr. Parrott. "I shall also appreciate the suppression of Nat Low," continues Mr. Rickey. "Of the -- ah -- Daily Worker. I am advised that these Communists are a debased lot, with a propensity for dull conversation and -- ah -- vodka." "Yes sir," sighs Mr. Parrott, backing to the door...

 

[Fading Fast]

Uncle Frank nods, and as he snaps a match on the sole of his brogan and applies it to the cigar, he nods for her to continue.

Nice writing, Lizzie.

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"An' Sal sits inna middle. So we c'n bot' keep an eye on 'eh."

In their own insane way, these are good people.

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Fortune? From a hokey import business? Tell us, Mr. Brand, just what is it that you -- import?

"Fortune," no kidding, didn't he have to take from the partners' capital just to get her the $1000? And wait till he sees what the tariff increases coming in 2025 do to his business.

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That's what happens when you let the dog do your research.

"Bo walked his owner right into the hands of a Nazi...in America! That wasn't easy to do.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Oi was thinkin'," proposes Uncle Frank, studying the bubbles in his two-cents plain, "that t'marra aftarnoon we moit -- oh, Oi doon't know, maybe poile inta th' trook an' go f'ra bitoova droive. You, me, and -- oh -- maybe Sally. We doon't get t'spend aaaahl that mooch toime as -- ye knoo -- a fam'ly these days. It moit be a pleasant ootin. Whot'dye say?" Ma looks up from her ledger and frowns. "Ye knoo ye ain't gahht th' gas coopons f'r sooch a thing as that. 'Nless yarr plannin' on usin sooma thim woons Inky Quinlan poots oot, in which case Oi'll make oop a big paaahta haaaht soup t'bring ye whoile yarrr await'n troyle." "Oi gaaaht cooopons," glowers Uncle Frank. "Real woons, noo less." "An' ye knoo," continues Ma, "what that bloody trook does t'me poiles. Laaast toime Oi couldn't sit doon f'ra week." "Ah," concedes Uncle Frank, with the slightest bit of eyeroll. "An' aaahn toopa THAT," continues Ma, "With th' baseball gooin' again, Soonday's goona be me busy day." "Ah," nods Uncle Frank, with studied nonchalance, "Well, 'p'raps Sally and Oi could..." Ma slams shut her book and glares at her husband. "Now see here, Francis Xavier Leary," she squints. "If YOU an' SALLY think ye can pull soomthiin' ahhhf on me, yarrr sadly mooch mistaken. Th' soon nevar roos ahhna day th' loikes'a you two can frame oop aahn me an' get away with it." "Um," ums Uncle Frank, twiddling his glass "Oi knoo fool well what'ch'yeer oopta," declares Ma, fixing Uncle Frank in a merciless gaze. "Yarrr gooin' oot t'that haaahspital, is whar yarrr gooin; wharr Joseph is." "Well," nods Uncle Frank, "if warrr ooot that way, it ocaaaared that we moit..." "Well, you goo oot thar," directs Ma, "an' whin ye see that bloody boohunk, ye tell 'im this. Oi'll not have 'im lollygaggin' in noo haaahspital, whin he could be ROIT HERE, ahhn THAT STOOL, swillin' doon me egg creams like th' good Larrrd intended." Uncle Frank unfurls a broad grin. "Oi'll be sarrrtain," he agrees, draining his glass, "t'do that." "See," concludes Ma, reopening her ledger, "that'chee do...")

("Naaaaaht a WOON!" blasts Shaughnessy the Butcher. "Come now, dear fellow," purrs Inky Quinlan. "These coupons are of course entirely bona fide. Certainly you would accept fifty red points for -- ohhh -- a single chop?" "Oi'll GIVE YE A CHAAAAP!" roars the meat man, brandishing his cleaver, as Inky beats a quick retreat....)

(Listen -- the whirlwind...)

(When he's done send him over to do my yard.)

(Sigh. It's going to be a long April.)

(No conglomerating without a permit from the WPB.)

(Right this way to Page Four, folks...)

(Eighty years from now, this guy would have his own Subreddit.)

(I think Edward Arnold would have been better in this part.)

(You know, if you get tired of the whole Escape Nazi bit, the circus is always looking for good quick-change acts.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"Stokowski! Ptui! I, Toscanini, shall NEVER appear on the Page Four!"

I wonder how often Jimmy Jemail gets punched?

I don't have any idea what Johnny Jingo's real deal is, but Johnny Jingo certainly seems to be having a good time with it.

Gee, Walt, I remember with Skeezix, Rachel did most of the work while you were out in the alley shooting the bull with your buddies and bragging how you'd never get married...

Well, it worked for Chili Williams.

And here we go again...

No, no, aim lower. Remeber when Burma set Captain Judas's beard on fire?

All right, dog. Now what?

Ahh, Coney Island in the spring...

What? He's a wrestling promoter.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

And in his sanctum, Mr. Rickey gazes out the window into Borough Hall Plaza and ponders his course of action...

 

[Fading Fast]

"...Well, you goo oot thar," directs Ma, "an' whin ye see that bloody boohunk, ye tell 'im this. Oi'll not have 'im lollygaggin' in noo haaahspital, whin he could be ROIT HERE, ahhn THAT STOOL, swillin' doon me egg creams like th' good Larrrd intended." Uncle Frank unfurls a broad grin. "Oi'll be sarrrtain," he agrees, draining his glass, "t'do that." "See," concludes Ma, reopening her ledger, "that'chee do..."

Awww

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Listen -- the whirlwind...

Whether what followed is right or wrong, "Stern justice" is doing a lot of heavy lifting in that article.

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Right this way to Page Four, folks...

He's already (maybe) an accessory to a crime. Write the $1000 off, give her 2 or 4 or whatever weeks of severance is normal (heck, double it) and pray to God you never hear from either of them – or the police about them – again. Sometimes money really is the cheapest thing.

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All right, dog. Now what?

"Sad to say, wait for our opportunity, and then it's another run for it."