The Era -- Day By Day

[Harp]

World Cup late last nite, Norwegians beat Senegel; then Algeria and Jordan had a knock down dragout.
Today's sheets given perfunctory peruse with nothing caught over coffee but Slits' tortious verbal riposte,
quite salacious sip contemplating Dragon Gal's immediate situation. Meanwhile, Stateside, Binnie has flown
the coop and left Selene the obligatory note; which kills off Ian inside this isosceles triangle.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Sal," whispers Joe. "You 'sleep?" "No," sighs Sally, glancing at the radium glow of the alarm clock, its hands pointing to 2:35. "Whattaya t'ink I oughteh do?" Joe continues, staring into the murk. "T'at guy, t'at Benny Kessleh. He tawked so fast. An' it soun'ed like it made sense, I guess, but --- well, I dunno. Does it make sense, even? T'go in awna deal like t'at, sign a contrack t'pay foehty bucksa mont', an' I can't even get any meat!" "You been out'eh," notes Sally. "You seen'at traffic. Awlem chumps goin' out t' racetrack. Got nut'n but money t' spend. An'neh hungry. Whattatey gonna eat at t' race track, some rotten hot dawg outta doity wawteh? You go in out t'eh, an' once t' meat DOES come back, y'make a tonna money." "Racetrack closes f' t' winteh, t'ough," points out Joe. "Novembeh t' April. T'at's five mont's wit' no money comin' in out'eh. But t'at foehty bucks still gotta get paid." "What if y' make so much money inna summeh," replies Sally, "it'll getcha t'ru t' winteh?" "Who's gonna run it?" questions Joe. "Me? Who's gonna run t' grill at t' stoeh?" "Bink Scanlan knows how t' do it," counters Sally. "She's lazy, but she ain't dumb. An' Ma can keep'eh on'eh toes. An' maybe when t'ings get goin' y'can hieh somebody." Joe considers all this. "Sal," he resumes, "did you trust'at guy Benny?" "I guess so," hesitates Sally. "I mean, I -- uh -- neveh hoid'v'im, but -- um --- he hadda hones' face." "Jus' t' face, huh?" queries Joe. "Hey," insists Sally. "I'm good at judgin' faces. I mean'nat night at Roselan, I fois' seen you. I had you figyehed. I seen you an' Solly stanin'eh, an' I hadja bot' figyehed. An' heeh we awr." "Solly too, huh," muses Joe. "Ummm," stammers Sally. "T'at ain' what I..." "Huh?" "Go t'sleep, Joe....")

("I neveh t'ought I'd be glad t'be awnis stupid train again," sighs Sally. "An'now t'ey wanna hike t' faeh." "Yeh," yehs Alice, her mind not on the ride. "Sal," she exhales. "Lissen. I gotta tell ya sump'n." Sally squints over at her friend, takes off her glasses, buffs the lenses with her sleeve, and puts them back on. "Sueh," she nods. "What's awnya mind?" "Sal," repeats Alice, "a bunch'vus have been tawkin'." "So I heeh," glowers Sally. "Well," Alice continues, "we d'cided we wanna tawk t' YOU. Can you come down t' t' Ginsboigs' place t'night?" "I got school," rebuffs Sally. "T'marra," counters Alice. "It's impoehten'. Seven t'oity, t'marra night." "Alice," sighs Sally. "If t'is is about..." "Not'eeh, Sal," headshakes Alice, indicating the full train. "Not'eeh. Not now. T'marra night, at t' Ginsboigs, seven t'oity. We got sump'n we wanna say." "Oh," ohs Sally. "Awright. T'marra night. Seven t'oity. An' *I* got sump'n t'say....")

(These golden moments won't last forever...)

(Of course, there's the fact that eliminating Sunday doubleheaders adds another single-admission home date to the schedule, and goosing attendance in that way would certainy be acceptable to El Chea --uh -- Mr. Rickey...)

(Nineteen years she worked there, and the pail was full of her blood and sweat...)

(Hmph, you're no Norma Talmadge.)

("Wait, she's a girl?")

(There's a Tear For Every Broken Heart In Swampland.)

(It's nice to have security.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

As I recall, the News was strongly in favor of lifting the non-fraternization ban. No doubt anticipating material for Page Four.

I guess that's one way to learn how to be a broker.

"And, repellent one, I shall rip out your bowels with the jagged end of the bone..."

In the spectacular all-star revue of life, we all have our turn on the stage...

Nice poker face, hon.

It's not too late to leave town.

Where would we all be without Influential Delegations to pull the strings...

Be nonchalant...

"You'll eat egg gruel and you'll like it!"

There's nothing more refreshing on a hot summer day...

 

[Fading Fast]

"...An' *I* got sump'n t'say...."

When don't ya?

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

Nineteen years she worked there, and the pail was full of her blood and sweat...

This strip, like "Invisible Scarlet," makes it hard for you to like it.

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

As I recall, the News was strongly in favor of lifting the non-fraternization ban. No doubt anticipating material for Page Four.

These are unsolvable problems without creating worse problems. Young men and women like having s*x – how do you stop humans from being human?

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

I guess that's one way to learn how to be a broker.

Brutal era for investing.

Jack Karp looks like he'd sell insurance and he sounds insufferable.

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

"And, repellent one, I shall rip out your bowels with the jagged end of the bone..."

You're not wrong at all, but Jesus, Lizzie, that's a lot of anger. Oh, and I think you spelled "bowels" wrong.

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

Be nonchalant...

Allow me to steal from you: tick, tick, tick, tick...

 

[Harp]

Read Eastern Star marital/sibling-law ******* story with its cryptic laconic farewell note....

American GIs stationed post war Germany chasing local girls shouldn't surprise anyone; including Army
chaplaincy, normally quite grounded where grunts are concerned. Drink, gamble, fight, chase women.

Selene is not entirely unsympathetically drawn. Ian may still have a shot with her. Binnie might surface,
Ian can screw it all up again like a dawg, and Selene patch things with her far more mature daughter.

Dragon Gal and Slits are quite conversant under the circumstance. Slits hammered one out but is still standing in the batter's box waving his stick looking for the ball. All talk and no action. A real crash and burn.