The Era -- Day By Day

[Farace]

"A one-time circus queen and ******** rider." Hey, ever hear of a guy named Langford?

What the heck is wrong with "dilettante" that caused our censor bot to block it?

I was assuming the censored word was “********,” but still . . .

EDIT: I guess I was right, b a r e b a ck it is. This is ridiculous.

Terry drags like Hector these days. Milt might have been in his cups or merely despondent.
Whatever, but strip's off rails and seems utterly lost rhyme and reason.

I’ve been wondering if Canniff wants to leave his successor in a in a difficult spot to continue from. Is he bitter about being removed, or is he glad to be rid of it? (Reminds me slightly of my time in college radio; one semester the DJ before loved to try to leave me with a song that it would be impossible to segue out of.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Nora, me dear," oozes Uncle Frank. "D'ye knoo what's cooomin' oop? Our annivaaaarsary!" 'Oor annivarrsary," glowers Ma, "is Decemmmbar faarst. Moor than a moonth away." "Noonth'less," enthuses Uncle Frank. "Oi think we should doo soomthin' special. Oi think we boooth d'sarrve a vacation. Faaaaar away fr'm here." Ma glares over the top of her glasses. "Doon't give me thaaat look," protests Uncle Frank. "Oi've got it alll planned. Get away fr'm th' cooold weatharr. "It's sixty eight degrees oot," observes Ma. "Oi made all th' arrangements," declares Uncle Frank. "Oi caaaalled in soom favarrs, collected soom debts, an' Oi got th' tickets right here. Get packed, th' train leaves in noinety minutes." 'What koinda debts???" demands Ma. "Jimmy didn't realize he oowed me soom money," twitches Uncle Frank. "Whaaaar'd HE get it?" drives Ma. "He got it froom his woife. He toold'arr he wanted t' go away t' golf camp. She handed 'im th' checkbook, an' wished'im good luck." Ma inspects the tickets. "Havaaaana???" she blurts. "Sleeparr coach t' Miami, an' thin aaaanward by boat," explains Uncle Frank. "Joe c'n run th' stoor faaaar ye." "But what aboot me clients??" snaps Ma. "Heckie knoos that business," jitters Uncle Frank. "How ye ixpect," explodes Ma, "t' get intarr Havana withoot noo BLOOODY PAPAAARS?" "It's been taken care oov," insists Uncle Frank, glancing frantically at the clock. "We woon't ixactly be landin' at th' regular wharrrf..." "Yaaaaar insane," dismisses Ma. "Nora," warns Uncle Frank, "troooost me aaaahn this....")

("Those men," frowns Mrs. Ginsburg, peering out the parlor window. "Still they watch. Questions they ask, Mendel. I don't like it, I don't like at all." "Mm," nods Mr. Ginsburg, knocking the dottle from his pipe. "About Sergeant Pincus. They came to mine shop yesterday. I told them what I know, the truth. And nothing more." "And what do they want with him?" questions Mrs. Ginsburg. "It is nothing, Esther," frowns Mr. Ginsburg. "A misunderstanding is all." A knock at the door interrupts the conversation. Mrs. Ginsburg steps to the door. "Hey Misteh G," pipes the voice of Lottie Schreibstein, "y'gotta phone cawl." "Ah," nods Mr. Ginsburg. "I have been expecting...")

("Twelve dollehs!" gushes Bink, waving the check under Joe's nose. "T'at's what'ey paid me! F'stan'in'eh wit' a coffee jawr on, an' Rosa skatin' aroun' me in coicles! Twelve dollehs!" "Nice woik," marvels Joe, "if y' c'n get it." "Whez t' ol' lady?" demands Bink. "She said'at Zeno's a fake, but he said I was comin' inta money, an' I DID. Wait'll I show 'eh..." "She ain't heeh," shrugs Joe. "She'n Uncle Frank jus' left. Packed a coupl'a grips an' out t'ey went. Said I'm in chawrge till'ey get back." "Oh," frowns Bink. "An' Ma lef' me t'is list," continues Joe, "of t'ings you gotta do, you'n Heckie. I din' read it, but I t'ink you know what it is." "Oh," glares Bink, accepting the sealed envelope. "I neveh get t' have no fun..." "Y'ain't heeh t' have fun," reminds Joe. "Oh, an' I putcha baby t'bed." "NEVEH," growls Bink, thumping up the back stairs, "get t' have no fun....")

(Careful, Mr. Lichty. Rankin will put you on a list.)

(And we thought this was going to be a dull winter...)

(These two have a very strange marriage.)

(Yeah, Granny, it'll go right over your head...)

(Um...)

(My father's boxing career.)

("And somebody clean these @### gutters!")

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Have we covered everything?

Start taking notes now, before it gets complicated...

The first year you don't do it, the neighborhood whispers, but eventually they get used to it...

You come here in your slick suit and your panama hat and your three-pointed pocket square...

And who might be on the other end of that line, HMMM?

Ever notice in this strip, the bu llet never lodges in the target?

Back to the grind...

See here we thought Walt was just poking along selling furniture. We didn't know about the whole loansharking thing...

Now all you have to do is decide who sings lead.

Once you learn to wrestle, you never forget.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Worker...

General Wood is the Chairman of the Board of Sears & Roebuck, and was the chairman, and one of the largest individual bankrollers, of the 1940-41 America First Committee.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Nora, me dear," oozes Uncle Frank.

This sentence, well, really, just the verb, tells you almost all you need to know.

Get away fr'm th' cooold weatharr. "It's sixty eight degrees oot," observes Ma.

Perfect.

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

"Y'ain't heeh t' have fun," reminds Joe. "Oh, an' I putcha baby t'bed." "NEVEH," growls Bink, thumping up the back stairs, "get t' have no fun...."

Joe and Alice have a lot in common. They'd have made a good couple, but Sally adds the spice that Joe knows he needs and can't provide on his own. And, Bink, did you have fun making the baby?

Separately, the great annual "where to eat cheap for Thanksgiving" contest will be starting soon.

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

These two have a very strange marriage.

I don't really understand the point of this strip.

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

Have we covered everything?

Ironically, Frank and Ava would marry in five years. At least that one went well.

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

You come here in your slick suit and your panama hat and your three-pointed pocket square...

The bowtie didn't even make the list. It's really the three-pointed pocket square that sent you over the edge, isn't it?

 

[Harp]

Somewhere I read that Artie Shaw was approached inside a South Pacific latrine
by a sarcastic lieutenant commander who wanted to shake the hand that had touched
Lana Turner's bare ******s; whereupon, Shaw-an enlisted man-offered another part
of his anatomy with tactile Lana Turner intimate provenance.

Dragon Gal's gotta be around the corner someplace on the other end of that phone.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("He cawls us awl in'eeh f'ra meet'n," frowns Sally, glancing at the Ginsburgs' parlor clock, "an'nen he don' show up." "He was inna stoeh t'is aftehnoon," observes Lil Schreibstein. "Makin' awlese phone cawls." "Yesterday I spoke with Mr. Hoishkewitz, the lawyer," adds Mr. Ginsburg. "He said he will do what he can, if Sergeant Pincus..." "Leonoreh!" snaps Sally. "Stop pestehrin'at parakeet!" "He stawrted it," glares Leonora. "He says 'e's gonna be heeh," declares Joe, "he'll be heeh." "That policeman, that detective," reports Mrs. Ginsburg, "is still watching outside. Sometimes it is a different man, but always he is there." "I don' like t'is," growls Sally. "He gimME a look t'is mawrnin', an' I give HIM a look right back." "Hmm," frowns Alice. "Yeh," agrees Krause, as the conversation is interrupted by a knock at the door. "Sawry I'm late," apologizes Solly Pincus. "I been -- busy. Um, I'll get right t' t' pernt. I know t'ez been a lotta tawk, an' I know a lottayez been questioned by t'em cawps. So I'm gonna cleeh t'is up right now. I didn' ki ll t'at guy, t'at T'ud Wilentz. I wen' out'eh t' Joisey t'at night, 'cause I'd hoid w'eh he was, an' I wen' out' t'eh t'inkin' I was gonna -- well, let's jus' say I was gonna give HIM a taste 'a what he give ME, an' what t'at rat cawp Flannehry give Sammy. An' I found 'im, an' I gave it to 'im in spades. But I did NOT sh oot'im. I lef' 'im onna flooeh spitt'n out t'eet', but I did NOT sh oot'im, an' I did NOT t'row 'im inna riveh. I lef' t'at house, an' I was gonna drive straight t' state p'leece an' tell'm wheh t' pick up t' gawrbage, but t' truck broke down an' I neveh got t'eh. An' I hadda hitch a ride home." A long silence hangs over the room. "Why, after," questions Mr. Ginsburg, "did you not go to the police?" "Din' seen no pernt," shrugs Solly. "By t' time I got a ride, I figyehed he'da been lawng gone." "Ah," nods Mr. Ginsburg. "T'at was dumb," admits Solly. "Yeh," murmurs Krause. "We know y' din' do it," declares Joe. "An' we'eh gonna help ya fin' out who did," insists Sally. "I have spoken," injects Mr. Ginsburg, "with Mr. Hoishkewitz. On Monday morning, he says you should come see him." "Yeh," nods Solly. "Inna meantime, don' say nut'n, awright? T'moeh tawk goes aroun..." "T'ey betteh not tawk t' ME," growls Sally...)

("YOU HAVE HEARD THE WORD OF ZENO!" thunders the voice. "Yeh," grins Bink Scanlan, squinting into the cloud of incense. "An' you was right! I made twelve dollehs, an' awl I hadda do is dress up like a jawr'a instant cawfee!" "BEHOLD, IT WAS WRITTEN," rumbles the seer, "AND SO IT HAS COME TO PASS." "An' I'm gonna do it again," declares Bink. "Rosa says if t'ey like me t'ey might sign me t'wa contrac', an' maybe t'at Misteh Sobol c'n help us get some nightclub jawbs. He's a pretty good guy, y'know? Cou'ese, it's gonna be kind'a hawrd t'get away f' rehoisals, what wit' Fatty an'na Ol' Lady gawn." "Really?" questions the prophet. "Yeh," nods Bink. "I mean, din'choo know t'at awready? I mean..." "ZENO KNOWS ALL," proclaims the wizard. "THERE ARE NO SECRETS FROM ZENO." "Yeh," nods Bink. "Y'said. Lissen, how DO y'know awlis stuff? "ZENO'S SECRETS," affirms the swami, "ARE HIS OWN....")

(And honestly, isn't that what life is all about?)

("Didn't you fire Dressen," reminds Mr. Parrott, "and then hire him back at about half what he was making before?" "The books," asserts Mr. Rickey, "must balance." "And then you gave him raises," enumerates Mr. Parrott, "so after four years he's back to what he was making in 1942." "As the scripture tells us," concludes Mr. Rickey, "the laborer is worthy of his reward." "So Lester Rodney tells me," replies Mr. Parrott. "What?" "Nothing.")

(And here I thought Lionel Atwill died.)

(Point of order: isn't a hovel a little shack or a shanty? I guess you could say a tenement is a bunch of shanties piled up, but still.)

(The extra ten is somebody's percentage. Try and be less obvious.)

(Yep, that's what all the promoters are.)

(Kitty is the most tragic figure in comics.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Jeezuz...

"Why, he would have made what he was making in 1942, and the sky thereafter would be the limit!"

"Does she have a dog, a big dumb orange dog?" "Oh yeah. Mangy, smelly thing. Always showing his teeth!!"

Sammy will never go out for football, and he isn't nine feet tall, but if he was...

The stage is set...

Now that that's settled...

Get it in writing.

Has she finally smartened up and left town forever?

Page four? Nahhhh.

At least finish the ice cream.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Worker...

There has long been the feeling that Dressen has been the real brains on the Brooklyn bench, and if you didn't think so, he'd be happy to tell you.

 

[Fading Fast]

"T'ey betteh not tawk t' ME," growls Sally.

Dear God, no. Don't talk to her, please.

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

And honestly, isn't that what life is all about?

Only ten minutes away, Skeezix and Nina are racing to get there to put in a bid, too.

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

The extra ten is somebody's percentage. Try and be less obvious.

This is not at all how banking works, then or now.

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

Kitty is the most tragic figure in comics.

She's also quite self-absorbed. She really believes all these things are happening because people or dogs are making active decisions to hurt her. The thing she'd never accept (and most of us can never accept): ninety-nine percent of the time, no one is thinking about her (or us).

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

"Why, he would have made what he was making in 1942, and the sky thereafter would be the limit!"

And here we are in 2026 and two of the lower salaried ball clubs are in the World Series. Money can only take you so far in building a winning team in sports (or almost anything).

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

"Does she have a dog, a big dumb orange dog?" "Oh yeah. Mangy, smelly thing. Always showing his teeth!!"

"Get my lawyer on the phone!"

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

Sammy will never go out for football, and he isn't nine feet tall, but if he was...

My money would be on Shirley in that conversation with the coach.

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

The stage is set...

Yup, never count Caniff out: he's good at his job.

 

[Harp]

Assorted crimes and horrific infanticide. The jewel thieves cat burglar meowing makes
better reading however as does those Brooklyn College students upholding the First Amendment
against tyrannical administration.

The two GIs who deserted and received a decade were lucky.

About two hundred and twenty five miles north of the DMZ and thirty miles west of the South
China Sea is a place called Phu Tinh Ghia, where tigers prowl and Milt has likely Lazarused
Snake Tamberlin. Too much tangent deflection for Burms to be brought back. I had thought
the wrap party would be a real gate crasher but guess not.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Awright," exhales Joe. "I got some t'ings i wan'cha t' do." "Oh," sighs Bink, pushing aside her ice cream dish. "I need y' t'' open up t' stoeh inna mawrnin',' Joe continues. "It takes me at leas' twenny minutes t'get oveh'reeh fr'm Bensonhoist, an'nat means I gotta leave home at five t'oity afteh bein'eeh till nine-t'oity t' night befoeh. But you live heeh, awl you gotta do is come downstaiehs.' "I dunno," ponders Bink. "T'at'sa lotta extra woik." "Awl ya gotta do," insists Joe, "is come downstaiehs, toin awn'a lights, take t'money out'a t' safe an' put it inna cash registeh, go out awna sidewawk an' bring inna bundles a' papehs an' put'm inna racks, pull up t' shades an' toin' aroun'a sign onna doeh from 'closed' t' 'open,' an' be ready f'rawlem guys come in onna way t' woik t' buy papehs an' cigarettes. Can ya do t'at?" "I dunno," eyerolls Bink. "It souns like a lotta extra woik. What if somebody wants t'bet a numbeh?" "You know how t' do t'at," frowns Joe. "I hoid t'at ya run f' Ma f'ra yeeh b'foeh Heckie stawrted." "I dunno how t' open t' safe," challenges Bink. "I ain' no yegg." "Lissen," sighs Joe. "I know sump'n about you. You ain' as dumb as you wawn' people t' t'ink you awr. Maybe y'c'n fool some people wit't'at dumbell stuff, but y'can't fool me. An' because you ain'at dumb, I know you wouln' do nut'n so dumb as t' steal outa t'at safe. So I'm gonna show ya how t' open it." "Oh," ohs Bink, her demeanor shifting just enough for Joe to notice. "Yeh," he nods. "But don' worry. Ya secret's safe wit' me...")

("ENTER, O SEEKER OF KNOWLEDGE!" booms the voice. "Whatcha smokin' ineeh," snickers Sergeant Doyle, pushing aside the beaded draperies. "Don't tell me I'm gonna hafta run ya in f' reefehs!" "Tommy Doyle!" gapes the wizard, his eyes bulging beneath his elaborate headgear. "Fuzzy Zenofsky!" chuckles Doyle, taking a seat before the stunned soothsayer. "Hey, t'at's some beaveh ya got goin'eh. It suits ya." "Neveh thought I'd see YOUR ugly p uss again," headshakes Zeno. "Yeh," nods Doyle. "I hoid you was back in town, t'ought I'd come by, pay me respects. You just get out?" "Nah," replies Zeno. "I got out coupl'a yeehs ago. Good behavior, huh? Been doin'is an'nat, diff'rent places aroun'. Butcha know, I got kin'a homesick, so I come back'eeh coupla months ago. Figyehed I might try th' ol' flim flam f'ra while, check out th' new crop'a suckehs. Been meanin' t' look up some'a th' old crowd. Hey, whattaya hear from Hops Gaffney?" "T' Hoppeh," muses Doyle. "He kinda hopped outa town coupla yeehs back. Hoid 'ee was doin' a stretch out west onna countehfietin' rap." "Hah!" snorts Zeno. "Hey, t'at reminds me, izzat guy Inky Quinn..." "Quinlan," nods Doyle, lighting a cigarette. "Flooehwawkeh inna dress stoeh." "Ahhhh," laughs Zeno. "I hope t'ey count t' money real close." "Yeh," snickers Doyle. "What about," questions Zeno, his eyes darkening, "th' plumbeh?" "He's still aroun'," confirms Doyle. "I knew t'at awready," smirks Zeno. "I been -- advisin' -- that kid that's livin' down'eh, th' one Mickey knawcked up. Don't f'get, ZENO KNOWS ALL." "So I heeh," nods Doyle. "Maybe you tell me 'zackly whatcha try'na pull, an'nen we'll bot' know." "You c'n tell Frank Leary," glowers Zeno, "he'll find out soon enough.....")

("Who could be calling at this hour," mumbles Mr. Rickey as the jangling of the bedside telephone shatters the quiet of a Forest Hills night. "I'LL SEE YOU IN HELL YOU PSALM SINGING FAKER!" bellows an all-too-insistent voice before the Mahatma can left the receiver fully to his ear. "MacPhail?" Mr. Rickey growls. "OF COURSE YOU REALIZE," the caller booms, "THIS MEANS WAR! AND I ALWAYS WIN AT WAR! ASK THE KAISER!" "You're drunk," groans Mr. Rickey. "Or insane. The line blurs." "AND STOP CALLING THIS NUMBER!" blasts MacPhail, as the line goes dead....)

(Cowboys with telepathy? "Weird Western Tales!")

(A good photographer understands the rules of perspective.)

(If you're going to spend the rest of the morning trying to actually read the handwriting, well, you're as hopeless a case as I am.)

(Yeah, and the very next verse talks about bringing the princes to nothing and making the judges of the earth as vanity. Which sounds more like something Mike Gold might suggest...)

(You gotta admit, Von Stroheim never gives any role less than 100 percent.)

(Wouldn't that spoil the balance of the r ifle? And wouldn't the recoil REALLY HURT?)

(Ew.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...



KIDS TODAY

That's why I just leave the clothes in the basket. Plus you can fit a lot of books in the drawers...

"Poor Themesong's Mother." She's got a name, you know. At least I assume she does.

Aim high, kid.

Hey, maybe they'll all get super powers...

There's a metaphor here.

One of these days Mosely's plot summary will be so long he'll have no room to draw anything at all.

Coming events....

Crispin wonders whatever became of April Kane...

Someday they're going to run this guy out of town...

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Worker...

Coming events, again...

 

[Fading Fast]

I know you wouln' do nut'n so dumb as t' steal outa t'at safe. So I'm gonna show ya how t' open it." "Oh," ohs Bink, her demeanor shifting just enough for Joe to notice.

Message delivered; message received.

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

"Who could be calling at this hour," mumbles Mr. Rickey as the jangling of the bedside telephone shatters the quiet of a Forest Hills night. "I'LL SEE YOU IN HELL YOU PSALM SINGING FAKER!" bellows an all-too-insistent voice before the Mahatma can left the receiver fully to his ear. "MacPhail?" Mr. Rickey growls. "OF COURSE YOU REALIZE," the caller booms, "THIS MEANS WAR! AND I ALWAYS WIN AT WAR! ASK THE KAISER!" "You're drunk," groans Mr. Rickey. "Or insane. The line blurs." "AND STOP CALLING THIS NUMBER!" blasts MacPhail, as the line goes dead.

Dear Lord. I'm just old enough to remember when all sorts of odd calls came in at a time when people moved heaven and earth to pick up the phone when it rang. It was one-on-one, but a pretty captive audience, which led to a lot of shenanigans and outright sc*ms. We know sc*ms haven't gone away – we're drowning in them – but the phone ones only work on those, what?, over 70 (with exceptions, of course). That market will be gone in ten to twenty years.

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

Aim high, kid.

"I can have the kids out for parties."

Like there is any way she could relate to another kid her age.

"This is my tea set."
"This is a picture of the type of sub I blew up."
"These are my stuffed animals."
"This is a picture of Nick, now let me tell you about Nick."