The Era -- Day By Day

[Fading Fast]

An' I'm glad of it, 'cause I couldn't stan' a guy like t'at, y'know what I mean? Awrways gotta have'n opinion 'bout ev'ryt'ing, neveh knows whenta shut up." "Oh yes," nods Dr. Levine.



And now we understand why so many psychiatrists see psychiatrists.

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"So yawr t'one married t'wawkin' loudspeakeh. Heh. Moeh poweh to ya."

I did not have Bink on my Bingo card for walking off with line of the year, but she now has a shot.

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Great picture. Some photographer was on his game.

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Looks like Private Bailey won't make corporal.

Private Bailey, it appears, does not always make the best choices for herself even when big, life-altering decisions are involved.

Oh, and it might not be spelled correctly, but based on the comment his divorcing-him wife made, William Seeman was appropriately named.

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"Mooooothar a' maaaaarcy!" gasps Ma. "Huh" huhs Joe? "FRANCIS!" bellows Ma...

And the butterfly flaps its wings a little harder.

Alice: "Honey, did you just feel a cold breeze?"
Krause: "Yeh."

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Grab some popcorn, folks, the show's just beginning...

OOOOOOOH!!!!!!!!!!!

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"Malingerer!"

If he's really upset, I bet the Soviets are less picky.

 

[LizzieMaine]

(Joe is on his third egg cream of the afternoon, as bulletins crackle over the radio behind the counter, and Ma paces back and forth. "Whoy haasn't tharrr been any waaard?" she demands. "That pitchaaar in th' Daily News SHOWED they libarrated that camp! Boot naaaht a WAAAARD fr'm anywoon!" Joe makes no reply other than to shove his glass across for a refill. "Ye'll weigh a toon,"sighs Ma, mixing the requested beverage. "Not that it'd haaart'chee to poot aahn soom weight, ye'd think a cook would get faaarst caaahl oon th' food." "Neh," mutters Joe. "Some days y'baehly get t'lick th' can it come in." He settles back on the stool and regards his mother-in-law. "Y'dunno what it's like," he exhales. "Ev'ry day, ev'ry night awl ya see is faces goin' by inna line, wit'teh trays out. An' ya t'row t'food down. Nobody tawks. T'ey eat an'nen'ey come back t'marra an'ney eat again. T'same faces. Until one day t'ezz'a face missin'. Y'dunno who he is, what 'is name is. He's jus'a face, just anot'eh face, an'nen -- he ain't. An'nez some new face. Day afteh day. Y'feet freezin,' y'han's so col' y'can' hawrdly hol' t'spoon. Lookin' at t'em faces, an' ya wondeh which one's gonna be missin' next..." Joe sighs again, and plunges a new straw into the glass, as Ma twists a dishtowel in her hands and gazes at the radio as if to summon the next bulletin by sheer force of will...)

("So ya ain' hoid nut'n?" queries Sergeant Doyle, between bites of a Toomey's Diner ham and cheese sandwich without the ham. "Naaat a bloody waaard," shrugs Uncle Frank, frowning into a cup of lukewarm coffee. "Nora seen that pitcharr in th' paper yistarrday an' she's fit t'be toied." "Yeh," nods Doyle. "I seen'at. Pretty healt'y lookin' buncha boys f'bein' lawked up inna camp. Mickey was prob'ly runnin' th' jernt." "Boy wasn't half as broit as 'e thinks 'e is," mutters Uncle Frank. "Smawrt enough," snickers Doyle, "t'get 'imself caught so'ee could sit out mosta t'wawr." Uncle Frank shoots him an accusatory look which barely conceals the fact that he himself has allowed this thought to cross his mind. "Well,' sighs Uncle Frank, "we oughta be gett'n some kinda waaard." "I heeh Sally's husbn's home awready," continues Doyle. "T'dancin' bohunk. T'ey say he got out on a --" and here he makes a twirling gesture with his index finger directed at his temple. "Moin'jee lip," growls Uncle Frank, "Ahhr Oi'll moind it faarr ye." "S'what'eh sayin,'" shrugs Doyle. "You know how gossip is innis neighbehood." "Seems Oi pay ye," Uncle Frank scowls, "t'see thar AIN'T noo gossip." "Heh," hehs Doyle, patting his mouth with a napkin and putting on his cap. "Y'c'n stawrt wit' payin' f'me lunch!")

(And if you'd like to tune in on Butch's Declaration of Non-Candidacy our friends at WNYC have the surviving portions of the broadcast https://www.wnyc.org/story/may-6-1945.)

(American History - one real estate swindle after another.)

(Poor Whit. When the end comes for a pitcher, it comes brutally.)

(Mr. Krehbiel has lost all sense of proportion.)

(To go with the unfortunate hairline.)

(What, you mean I don't have Blue Cross?)

(Well, it's better than the bottom of a cistern.)

(Someday Patrolman Gerald Dunn hopes to be a famous Secret Operative like his big brother Dan.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"Christawmighty," exhales Sally. "I'm glad we didn' go t' t' coicus." "Yeh," nods Alice. "T'kids don' need t'see nut'n like t'at." Sally is silent for a long moment. "Yeh," she finally agrees. "But I wasn' even t'inkin'a t' kids..."

Smile big for New York's Picture Newspaper!


I guess he's what the racetrack boys call "a good mudder."

Well, certainly not in the biblical sense.


"But we done made a pile a' money sellin' them weeds t'that travelin' swing band!"

"Bad enough we called the last one 'Casablanca.'"

And I bet he doesn't whine about it like Warbucks would.

"Sergeant Wallet, I'd like you to meet the chief of the project, Professor Von Brau -- uh, Brown. Professor Van Brown."

Scared Walrus Plushie is a new one.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily Worker...

There's a New World Coming.

 

[Fading Fast]

Someday Patrolman Gerald Dunn hopes to be a famous Secret Operative like his big brother Dan.

Big brother Dan would have missed that clue. That said, I do miss that strip - it was fun in its kitschy, earnest way.

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"Christawmighty," exhales Sally. "I'm glad we didn' go t' t' coicus." "Yeh," nods Alice. "T'kids don' need t'see nut'n like t'at." Sally is silent for a long moment. "Yeh," she finally agrees. "But I wasn' even t'inkin'a t' kids..."

Even if you're not suffering from PTSD, that is brutal to see.

It was a full Page 4 today, as there was also a story that felt scripted right out of Hollywood about the wife who remarried after her husband was reported dead, only for him to show up alive later. Tinseltown has made several versions of this story, a few even before the war. Also, it could all be fine - whirlwind romances happen - but the wife did remarry quite quickly.

And finally, Pvt. Mary Bailey is back and in the brig where at least she won't be able to make any more stupid decisions for the time being.

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Proving that Page 4 was overflowing, they had to move this story to another page:

How much did the reporter enjoy writing that line? Seriously, what 35 year old man or woman is talking on the phone naked at 10:45 in the morning?

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Well, certainly not in the biblical sense.

At least Hotshot did finally get in a sincerely funny line.