The Era -- Day By Day

[Harp]

The Bridget Waters trial is panning out golden truth. Justice listens attentive ear to
words spoken written testament when voiced from the grave.

Snake seems found. A penultimate chapter follows tomorrow.

 

[Farace]

I worked with one of those actual 1930s-era teletype machines at my first radio job, and changing the ribbon was not a task for the fainthearted.

I don’t know if it was quite that old, but my college radio station got a teletype that was all black metal, on a metal stand, clattering away. Very heavy, it very well may have been left over from the ‘30s. At some point, someone named it “Betty.” Eventually it was replaced by a more modern beige plastic unit that just didn’t have Betty’s personality.

The station was rather small, and the only available space to put it was in the bathroom.

 

[LizzieMaine]

At another station I was at the teletype lived in the bathroom, which for several of the gentlemen on the staff gave a whole new meaning to "rip and read."

(Um, will the censorbot let that pass?)

 

[LizzieMaine]

("On the stairs sitting,Yussel?" questions Mr. Ginsburg as he steps into the foyer. "'S rainin'," sighs Joe. "T'at concrete stoop ain' too comf'table f' t'inkin' when it's wet." "Ah,' concedes Mr. Ginsburg, lighting his pipe and taking a seat on the step. "Perhaps then I will get comfortable too. You are not woiking today?" "Goin' in at 11," sighs Joe. "Bink's openin' up, an' I'll go in f' t' aftehnoon. I wish Ma'd get back, I'm awready tiehd." "I got a letter yesterday," confides Mr. Ginsburg. "From mine son. He is saying with the trials over he should be home again soon. Perhaps within the month even." "Be good t' see'im again," nods Joe. "Good ol' Milt." "Of course, he will need a place to live," sighs Mr. Ginsburg. "But with us he can stay until." "I wondeh," ponders Joe, "if 'e'll be -- y'know, diff'ent." "Older, he'll be," shrugs Mr. Ginsburg. "Wawr changes people," exhales Joe. "T"at's what'em cops was sayin' t' ot'eh day, y'know, whenney tawked t' me. 'Bout Solly, I mean. I tol' 'em Solly wasn' no killeh, anney said 'wawr changes people.'" Mr. Ginsburg takes a deep puff of Half and Half, considering this proposition. "Can a man," he propounds, "become something he does not inside truly wish to be?" "T'at's what I useta t'ink," acknowledges Joe. "I ain' so sueh now." ""War," maintains Mr. Ginsburg, "did not change you." "Yeh, it did," contends Joe. "No," insists Mr. Ginsburg, "nodt where it counts...")

("The wide open spaces," sighs Sergeant McManus, surveying the Staten Island landscape as the car pulls up to a squat clapboard structure with two gasoline pumps announcing its function. "Let's hope we get something out of this," exhales Sergeant Bronson as the car grinds to a stop. A grizzled fellow in blue striped overalls emerges from the building. "What'll it be, gents?" he greets. "Police officers," announces Brosnan, stepping out of the car as he flashes his badge. "Oh," stammers the proprietor. "Look, if it's about'em ration stamps..." "We'd like to talk to you," explains Brosnan, "about a report you filed last December." "Ohhhh," ohs the proprietor. "Took ya lawnganuff." "Yes sir," acknowledges Brosnan. "I wonder if you could remember anything more specific about the man that drove off without paying that night, or about his car. Anything at all." "Hmmm," hmms the station owner. "Well, y'know it was late, an'neese lights out'eeh ain' so bright. I remembeh was a Ford, an ol' Ford, maybe 1930, 31, like t'at. Black, maybe dawrk blue. New Yawrk plates, yeh. I was lookin' at' 'is taillight, y'see, as 'ee drove awff, so t'at plate was right in fron'na me. "Mm," replies Brosnan, as McManus takes notes. "You remember anything about the driver?" "Didn't get much of a look at 'im," shrugs the man. "I hoid'im t'ough, he tawked pretty loud." "Is there anything else," sighs Brosnan, "anything at all?" "Well -- hey!" declares the man. "I jus' remembehed sump'n. C'mon inside." The two detectives follow the proprietor into the station, where he scans a shelf of flat-rate manuals and selects a greasy volume. "I t'ink I mighta --" he mumbles, as he riffles the pages, "I t'ink I mighta wrote down 'is numbeh. T'is book was open awna desk, an' I -- yeh, t'ehr'it is, right'eh.' "Hmmm," hmms Brosnan. "Get this, Bill, in the margin. 6 L 6 8 dash 1 8." "I guess I din' give t'at inna repoeht I cawlled in," admits the garageman. "Guess I was so mad, slipped my min'." "Do you remember, sir," pursues Brosnan, "if it was a 1945 or a 1946 plate?" "Black wit' yelleh numbehs," returns the proprietor. "1945," confirms Brosnan. "Thank you, sir, this is very helpful." "Heh," hehs the man. "I take back awlem t'ings I said 'boutchoo cawps. Neveh t'ought you'd bot'eh wit' t'ree dollehs.' "There's a lot more at stake," replies Brosnan, "than that....")

(No no, it's Notre Dame SINKS Navy. I shouldn't have to tell you people this.)

(Little Beaver is the only sidekick in comics who isn't a net liability.)

(Out in Hollywood, A. Hitchcock has an inspiration...)

(We all have our color preferences, but most of us are not quite so FORCEFUL about it.)

(162?? As the saying goes, "only half the lies the Irish tell are true.")

(Get set for the reporters! "Hey, I'm busy!" -- Janie)

(I should think that Mr. Biffle's index cards would make for very interesting reading...)

(Counterpoint? Showoff.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"The cops had to separate them."

"Sawrry, Bink," shrugs Angie Capiello. "It's fifty cents an oueh now. Inflation, y'know...'

Don't shake the microphone, kid -- you'll pop the ribbon.

It's a heartwarming miracle. Kindle the flames of Molech!

Rubinoff and his Violin are on the phone with their lawyer.

I dunno, could we maybe cram a few more people in that first panel?

"Snazzy snood?"

When it's too late to speak to the manager.

All right. We've got seven weeks left, so start talking.

You can't make a man be something he doesn't want to be inside...

 

[LizzieMaine]

And incidentally...

Start saving up.

 

[Fading Fast]

I doubt many felt it in 1946, I wouldn't have if I had been a Japanese citizen then, but losing the war and adopting this constitution was the best thing that ever happened to Japan. What the country would accomplish in the next several decades would be nothing short of amazing.

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

"There's a lot more at stake," replies Brosnan, "than that...."

These guys make me nervous. I want them to leave Solly alone.

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

162?? As the saying goes, "only half the lies the Irish tell are true."

I hope Nero enjoyed his kink as it proved quite expensive in Roman lives and treasure.

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

I should think that Mr. Biffle's index cards would make for very interesting reading...

As soon as Ma gets back, tell her I want the "under" on 20 pounds.

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

"The cops had to separate them."

I'll bet you to save him. "Heaven has no rage like..."

Also, you have to love that she was okay with him being a criminal, but two-timing her was unacceptable. Her moral meter had an interesting balance.

 

[Harp]

Bridget Waters faces capital punishment boxed an eight male, four female jury.
My cynical jackleg shade tree mechanic take is she committed deliberate intentional
murder. However, lingered doubt remains that this colleen might have read the tea leaves
writ moment; so killed spouse in self defense of herself and child. I would vote to acquit.

''American aviator, unknown rank, all honor.'' And Milt stirs a grave counter clockwise.

Another outstanding Mary Worth cartoonist sketch. And this time my fav girl, Bric-a-brac.
Or, Bric-a-bra. Milt should scribble note, though he has stepped up to the mark with prior
pneumatic Dragon Gal draw. Just not nearly often enough; also, said Dragon Gal depiction
cast her genetic hereditary trace more Occidental probable ****** flush.

 

[Harp]

Off Topic: I voted this morning in beautiful Oak Lawn, Illinois.

While standing in front of the Poll election staff table, I noticed a New York Yankees World Series ring worn by a male contemporary; whom removed it for my closer appraise and explained he had been a team bat boy for the 1962 World Series. He'd known all my favorite guys: Mickey Mantle, Roger Maris, Yogi Berra.... I've now held a Yankees Series ring, and, for an altogether too brief moment was a kid again.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("T'at's what Sobol tol' me," emphasizes Rosa. "Week afteh next t'eh gonna be onna show. Edgeh Boigen an' Chawrlie McCawrt'y! In poisson! T'ey sell cawfee onna radio, we sell it on television, gonna be one big fam'ly!" "Wowwwww," gapes Sammy. "I neveh met no celebrities b'foeh. Cep' f' you." "I neveh met no puppet befoeh," chuckles Rosa. "At leas' not one t'at admits it." "This is an opportunity," declares Shirley. "Bergen plays nightclubs." "Yeh," nods Rosa. "Sobol tol' me befoeh he was awna radio, he useta play t' Rainbow Room. C'n you imagine me'n Bink doin' oueh act inna Rainbow Room?" "Hmm," frowns Shirley. "Yeh, I know," shrugs Rosa. "But she's done awright so fawr. I jus' gotta woik up some material t'at woik in clubs, maybe some kin'a dance numbeh." "Misteh P is t' one t'ask 'bout dancin'," reminds Sammy, just as Joe enters from the back room, buttoning his jacket. "Hey Misteh P -- " begins Sammy, but Joe returns only a glare. "Whas'awlis' sitt'n aroun'??" he snaps. "Leave t'em stools f' t' payin' customehs!" "Oh," stammers Sammy. "Sawry," mumbles Rosa. "We were just..." begins Shirley. "Skip it," interrupts Joe. "I gotta go look at some meat. R'membeh what I tol' ya 'bout t'em stools!" He slams out without further conversation, as three sets of eyes follow. "What's eat'n him?" huffs Rosa. "It's this business with Solly Pincus," exhales Shirley. "It's awl oveh Bensonhoist," frowns Sammy. "Awlem people t'at hang aroun'a Maneh Cafeteria, t'ey yack an' yack about it. T'ey come in my folks' place, an' my pop chews 'em out pretty good, but t'at don' stop'm." "I don' know 'im too well," admits Rosa. "Bink t'inks 'e's a rat an'a bum, but you know how she is." "Is she still seeing that ridiculous swami," scowls Shirley, "that Zemo the Mighty or whatever he calls himself? "Yeh," snorts Rosa. "She says las' time she seen'im, he was sayin' a bunch'a crazy stuff 'bout Frank Leary." "Huh," huhs Shirley. "Huh?" questions Sammy. "Huh," nods Shirley...)

("Here it is, Pete," announces Sergeant McManus. "They just sent it down. We got a make on that plate from the gas station." "Let's have a look," requests Sergeant Brosnan. "It's about time we got a break on this." Brosnan scans the sheet. "Hm," he hms. "1931 Ford sedan, registered to Ethel Fleckman, 1220 Carroll Street, Brooklyn." "Could have been her husband that night," offers McManus. "Son, brother, nephew..." "Have them run a check," sighs Brosnan, "to see if there were any reports of that car being stolen. And if it's clear, we'll be paying her a visit." "Carroll Street," ponders McManus. "Where is that?" "Crown Heights," replies Brosnan. "Few blocks north of Empire Boulevard." "Where's that street map," requests McManus. "No need," continues Brosnan. "I know that area pretty well. And you know who lives about eight blocks down from there?" McManus considers the question, and the light goes on. "Could be a coincidence," admits Brosnan. "But seems odd we've got so many coincidences all pointing toward Frank Leary...")

(Corruption of mind, corruption of office, corruption of soul.)

(It's best to learn these lessons before you're old enough to learn them the hard way.)

(Woo hoo, second place and only one game under .500. Isn't pro football great?)

(Obviously a Stella Adler graduate.)

(I'm afraid I don't care for this man's strange bloated head.)

("I did TOO take a shower!")

("Tuberculosis? But I bought Christmas Seals!")

(I didn't figure Kitty for a "three hots and a cot" type, but you can never tell...)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Bare Cashier? I thought LaGuardia banned clubs like that.

You know, I think it just might be *full-grown* imbeciles.

It'll all be over soon.

The key to radio acting is to underplay the dialogue and just slightly overplay the emotion.

Either way, you've got another seven weeks to work it out.

"Good fertile soil, well aerated with plenty of nitrogen. We shall raise a mighty crop for Molech."

Min in panel two -- I make the same face every morning of my life.

Hey kid, how's college going? Cracking those engineering books?

Honor among thieves.

Well, if he wasn't before, he is now...

 

[Fading Fast]

"Skip it," interrupts Joe. "I gotta go look at some meat. R'membeh what I tol' ya 'bout t'em stools!" He slams out without further conversation, as three sets of eyes follow.

Responsibility either makes you a man or a mouse.

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

Corruption of mind, corruption of office, corruption of soul.

Always.

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

I didn't figure Kitty for a "three hots and a cot" type, but you can never tell.

Having recently taken in a group of six feral kittens, nursed them to health (while paying some staggering vet bills), to then hand them over to a state no-kill adoption agency, the biggest lesson I took out of the experience (where my girlfriend did 90+% of the real work) is that our lovely suburbs mask a brutal Hobbesian world for the non-pet animals living in our midsts. Perhaps, Kitty understands that, despite all her cynicism.

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

It'll all be over soon.

I won't miss all the texts from friends I never knew I had telling me whom to vote for and why.

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

Either way, you've got another seven weeks to work it out.

One would think Caniff would, at minimum, want to get Pat and the DL back into the act pretty soon. I assume the final strips are all written by now since he tended to work six weeks in advance and he's got to focus on getting his new strip up and running.

 

[LizzieMaine]

There is a special and honored place in the hereafter of your choice for anyone who takes care of feral cats. Over the past thirty years I've taken in four, and the most recent spent three years hiding under my guest bed. And at this moment, she's sitting on the back of my chair, trying to figure out if she can balance on top of my head and by doing so, keep me from leaving for work.

And speaking of which I look forward to driving to work and not having to look at the fungal eruption of political signs blotting both sides of the road.

 

[Harp]

I suspect the Bridget Waters involuntary manslaughter verdict blossomed jurors' doubt,
occasioned inherent case subjective allude and a deceased husband's grave written
account of a troubled woman. I believe the learned trial judge should have taken the verdict
away and resolved this by acquittal.

Snake becomes Banquo, a ghostly haunting presence through remainder story.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Ain'choo worried," wonders Alice, standing in the voting line at PS 48, "t'at'cha gonna run inta t'at Miss Ring heeh? T'at one t'rew ya outa t' school?" "Miss Ring can go sit onna tack," scoffs Sally. "I got my rights, an' ain'no dried-up grade school principal c'n t'row me outa t' polls." "Well anyway," continues a conversation between two women ahead in the line, "you gotta t'ink t'ez sump'n to it. T'em soiplus stoehs is a racket, an' I bet he wasn' even no real sawrgeant." "It wouln' s'prise me," agrees her friend. "If y'ask me, ev'rybody inna buildin' is nuts. Well, maybe not t'em old people, t'at taileh an' 'is wife. Even if he WOULDN'T put no cuffs on Harry's blue soige durin'a wawr, even'no he was gonna pay extra. But migawd, t'em ot'eh people. T'at crazy woman, didjoo know she beat up a railroad engineeh an' t'rew 'im in fronna'va train? Single handed! T'ey hadda wipe up t' pooeh man wit'a blotteh! She's crazy! No wondeh t'at pooeh moax she's married to sits out awnna fieh'scape at awl houehs spittin' inna street." "Y'know what *I* hoid??" returns the other. "I hoid she's a cawmuniss'! Like t' die! T'ey even sen'nat awrful lit'l goil t'ey got t' some special cawmuniss school inna City, wheh she's loinin' how t' do SABOTAGE!" "Sump'n awrta be done," declares her friend. "Um, Sal --" whispers Alice. "Don'doo nut'n, don' stawrt nut'n..." "T'at lady," declares Sally, in a voice just slightly louder than necessary, "is entitled to 'eh freedom'a speech." The conversants pause, and shoot Sally a united scowl. "Jus' like *I'M,*" Sally continues, "entitled t' MY freedom'a speech! Now..." "Waitaminnit, Sal," interrupts Alice. She glares at the haughtier of the two women thru narrowed eyes. "Pawrdon my extrusion," she purrs, "but don' I *know* you fr'm someplace? Oh, *I* know, I met you one time inta Roulston's downa street! Remembeh t'at, Sal? I tol'ya bout'tat, din' I? T'is pooeh lady an' me had a convehsation, an'nen she slipped an' fell int'wa whole big pile a' cans a' t'mateh juice." "Terri'bl,' snickers Sally. "Fawlin' down," headshakes Alice, "an' inna midl'a t' day....." "HMPH!," hmph the disdainful pair, and an awkward silence drops over the line.....)

(""No Rooms To Let," reads Sergeant McManus, glancing up at the crudely painted cardboard sign in the front window of the nondescript two-story brownstone on Carroll Street. "Lot of that going around," nods Sergeant Brosnan, as they climb the stoop and ring the bell. "Yeh?" questions a thin middle-aged woman, glaring out from a chained front door. "Ethel Fleckman? We're police officers," announces Brosnan. "Like to ask you a few questions." "I got no rooms," growls the woman, "n' I don' caeh if ya cawl yaself Thomas J. Dewey. I'm awl full up." "Do you own a 1931 Ford sedan, ma'am?" insists Brosnan, thrusting his badge close to the cracked door. "Maybe," acknowledges the woman. "T'oity-five dollehs an' you c'n drive it away." "No, Mrs. Fleckman," sighs Brosnan. "MISS Fleckman," snaps the woman. "I useta be a Missis, but I took back my maiden name!" "Miss Fleckman," acknowledges Brosnan. "Have you ever loaned that car to anyone? One of your roomers perhaps?" Miss Fleckman scowls. "Y't'ink I'm stupid?" she spits. "T'ese loafehs an' bums t'at stay heeh?" "I see," nods Brosnan. "Wait," hesitates Miss Fleckman. "T'eh was one time, t'is one bum t'at lived 'eeh. He said 'e needed t'go see 'bout a jawb someplace. I let 'im use t' cawr, ten cents a mile, an'ee betteh bring it back wit' a full tank." "Is that so ma'am," replies Brosnan, exchanging a meaningful glance with his parnter. "Do you remember when that was?" "Had to be last winteh sometime," shrugs Miss Fleckman. "I t'rew t'at guy out las' spring, he was t'ree weeks behin' on rent, an' I ain' gonna carry nobody when'nez people linin' up'na street f' rooms." "Ah," nods Brosnan. "Could you tell me his name, please?" "Uhhhh," uhs Miss Fleckman, "I don' remembeh. I jus' cawled 'im Al. I don' stan awn fawrmality in my place." "I see, Miss Fleckman," exhales Brosnan. "Wait," injects the landlady. "I jus' remembehed. When I t'rew 'im out, I kept 'is grip t'make up t' rent he owed." She unchains the door and beckons for the detectives to follow. "Lemme see'f I c'n find it." The detectives enter the foyer while she retreats to a dark alcove. "Nice place," observes McManus. "Mm," agrees Brosnan. "I wonder," sighs McManus, "if she's got a waiting list....")

(Eventually that cynicism will consume you.)

("JUDAS PRIEST!" bellows the voice from behind the office door. "Excuse me," bustles Jane Ann Jones, racing toward the door with a fire extinguisher in hand. "It happens a lot," shrugs Mr. Parrott to Mr. Mann. "You'll get used to it...")

(All right, that wasn't in the script!)

(Yeah, yeah. Maybe loosen that string tie, I think that's why your head is all swollen.)

(Cheap gray suits? Dull ties? Scuffed shoes? Hangdog demeanor? YEP THEY'RE DETECTIVES!)

("And you'll need to put down a nonrefundable ten percent deposit. I've seen you fight.")

(The Information Economy, 1946 Edition.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Hank Greenberg? In a boiled shirt? And we don't get a picture? UNFAIR!

"Do the sardines smile as you take them out of the can?" You find poetry in the most unexpected places.

"He thinks he's such a big shot because he used to be a colonel!"

Honey -- run like hell.

Good enough. Sure.

When I get hungry in the night I eat one slice of cheese, and then I lie awake feeling guilty about it...

That's it, kid. You've done the world a public service.

The ratings will be spectacular. Got anymore relatives?

"I have absolutely no idea what to do next."

These are difficult times for the minor nobility.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Worker....

Now give us a diagram.

Pro basketball? It'll never catch on.