Want to buy or sell something? Check the classifieds
  • The Fedora Lounge is supported in part by commission earning affiliate links sitewide. Please support us by using them. You may learn more here.

The Era -- Day By Day


Where The Tourists Meet The Sea

("Oi'm tellin' ye, Francis," thunders Ma, "soomthin's gaaaht t'be DOON! Oi confronted Haahps Gaffney, an' he ADMITTED lettin' Leonora in th' back room with'im! Saaaid it was an aaaaaccident, aan' it woodn't happ'n again. Oi told 'im if it did, th' Haaahppar would do no more haaahpin'!" "Whaaat's th' haaaarm." sighs Uncle Frank. "She's joost a choild, she doon't have no ideaar what's gooin' aaahn in tharr, whaat haaarm c'n it be?" "Ye don't pay attention to 'aar," frowns Ma. "Ye don't realize how BROIT she is. Ye remembar what Sally was loik, how ye had to step smaaart t'keep harr from catchin' aaahn t'things. Well, Leonora is TWOICE that. Lissen to haar TAAAAHLK. She dooon't just goo goo an' gaa gaa no maaar. She's poot'n t'gethar sentences. She can READ. Yestarrrday she said roit out lood, in frooonta Solly Pincus, whaaaar th' nick'ls coom froom!" "Ahhhh," scoffs Uncle Frank, thru a sip of two-cents-plain, "Solly Pincus. Solly Pincus knoows fool well what's gooin' aaahn here, hee's been thaaat back room 'imself enoof toimes." "Next toime," scowls Ma, "it moit NAAAHT be Solly Pincus. Maybe she'll spoot aahf to haaar MOOTHAR! D'ye know what thaaat'd do t'Sally t'knooow what we been keepin' froom'ar aaahl these yarrrs?" "What makes ye think," burps Uncle Frank, "she doon't aahlready know? She ain't doomb." "Ooooh," dismisses Ma, "if she knew, we'd'a haaaard aboot it boi now. R'membar how she useta caaahry aaaahn aboot 'gamblin' is oopresssion'a th' waaarkin' claaaahss?' Aaaahnyway, leavin' Sally asoide, whaat if Leonora saaays soomthin' in froont of, well, say, a coppar? An HONEST coppar!" "Foind one," chuckles Uncle Frank, draining his glass." "Ye gaaaht an ans'aaar t'ev'rything, Francis Leary," scoffs Ma. "Don'chee?" "Oi do," nods Uncle Frank. "And noo Oi'm aaahf t'go see me good friend Saaargeant Doyle. An haaahnest coppar." "Maaark my waaards," warns Ma.")

Chinese infantrymen have cleared the Japanese from the railway and road junction on the western edge of Myatkyina, as bloody fighting raged thru that city's barricaded streets for the sixth straight day. A communique revealed that the cornered Japanese were counterattacking repeatedly from Myatkyina's western and southern outskirts in a desperate attempt to break out of the tightening Allied trap.


("MAAAAARK MY WAAAAARDS!" bellows Ma, as Uncle Frank saunters out, letting the screen door bang behind him.)

No families in postwar New York will live in "unsanitary houses," pledged Mayor LaGuardia yesterday. Speaking before a meeting of the Citizens Housing Council at the Cosmopolitan Club in Manhattan, the Mayor outlined the city's plans for the construction of $120,000,000 worth of low-coast housing projects as soon as materials and labor become available. "We are going to press for laws," declared the Mayor, "to compel vacating of all unlawful properties," and promised that the improvement in property values resulting from the removal of slum areas will offset the cost to taxpayers for the construction of the new projects."

The newly formed Communist Political Association held its first rally last night at Madison Square Garden, where approximately 20,000 persons heard CPA President Earl Browder issue a call for further, closer cooperation among the United States, Great Britain, and the Soviet Union. Browder gave particular attention to the need to protect British trade from the penalties of "free competition" against America's "unlimited resources and mass production."

Today marks the 100th anniversary of the first public telegraph message, sent by inventor Samuel F. B. Morse by wire from Washington to Baltimore, a distance of about forty miles. In the century since Morse tapped out "What hath God wrought?" the telegraph served as the foundation of a vast global communications network unimagined and unimaginable even to Morse himself.


(Good luck to you.)

Production of nylon hosiery will be so stepped up at war's end that every American woman can expect to own nine pairs. So stated Aretta Lynch Watts of the duPont Company to a meeting of the Women's Guild of the Church of the Epiphany. She warned, however, that the exact point where the needs of war production will give way to civilian manufacture is a question that cannot at this time be answered.


("But just in case, also do a run of "POSITIVELY NO CREDIT.")


("Witticisms from the cash customers were conspicuous by their absence." Yeah, this season's taking a toll on everybody. Oh, and this Nuxhall kid is a pretty old-looking fifteen.)

Not all the Dodgers went fully in on the silk-nightie look last night. Although all the boys turned out in their new bridal-satin home uniforms decorated with broad blue stripes, Dixie Walker and Frenchy Bordagaray declined to wear the matching white satin caps, appearing on the field instead in their regular blue wool toppers. No explanation for this divergence from la mode was given.


(You can't fool your doctor!)


("Just as an example, they keep using that ridiculous Nigel Bruce. Harumph! Haw!")


("Yes fraud! Don't tell me you haven't been getting half price at movies!")


("The Mirror Of Dorian Gray.")


(AMERICA'S NUMBER ONE HERO DOG is always prepared for company.)


Where The Tourists Meet The Sea
And in the Daily News...


I miss Tommy Manville.


"Coming events..."


So much for the matching sweaters.


At a certain bowling alley on Empire Boulevard, "Blubber Fitz-James" instigates waves of merriment.


This month in "Film Romances..."


"Oh yeah, I caught their act once at Minsky's."


Well, I mean, it's not like there's anything else to do.


Just don't call it "Times Square."


As the pieces move into position...


That shirt with those pants? Tsk indeed Moon, you're slipping.


One Too Many
St John's Wood, London UK
Boston the bride and Burms. Caniff might use this later.:oops:

If Terrence is aboard this lone ranger he'll obviously survive crash or silk hit jump. And sweat out another stoolie act or two,no doubts here. I found a 1938 comic compile about Burma beneath Milton Caniff cite published in the 1970s.
Amazon at a bargain three bucks and some change. On its way to Hogwarts isle. :D
Last edited:


Where The Tourists Meet The Sea

("I wisht I'd find eighteen hunn'et inna laun'ry bag," sighs Alice. "Awl we eveh fin' is lint." "Mmm," mms Sally, not hearing a word of it. "Hey, whatcha read'neh?" Alice continues "Letteh f'm Joe? Whas'see got t'say?" "Hmm?" replies Sally, looking up from the multi-page missive. "Nut'n, jus'a lotta poissonal stuff, 'bout t'at -- uh -- business las' week. Nut'n 'bout you." "Ah," ahs Alice. "You tawk t' Minkoff 'bout t'at, like y'said y'was gonna?" "T'at's -- um -- poissonal too," demurs Sally. "Don' be a buttinsky." 'Sawry," shrugs Alice. She sighs deeply and returns to the paper. "Heh," she says, "t'is one guy heeh -- wife wantsa d'voece 'cause he spanked 'eh. Soives 'im right. 'He is now ovehseas.' Yeh, tough guy, go spank Hitleh." Sally sighs, folds the letter, and tucks it into her overall pocket. "Joe's boit'day is comin' up y'know," she notes. "Less'n two weeks. I gotta t'ink'a sump'n t'send 'im." "Knit 'im a sweateh," suggests Alice. "He's in Marylan'," snorts Sally. "It's nine'y degrees downeah, an'nee spends 'is time inna kitchen, an'nit's ev'n hotteh'nat. He don't need no sweateh." "Davega's awrways gotta sale on socks," suggests Alice. "I awrways get'tim Davega socks," dismisses Sally. "He's sicka Davega socks, 'n b'sides, half'a time t'ey come awready wit' pre-made holes. No moeh'ra t'at." Sally leans back against the seat and exhales. "If 'e was home," she resumes, "we'd go out dancin'. I remebeh when we was fois' goin' t'getteh, we wen' out on'nis boit'day, oveh t't'City. Went t't' Pennsylvania, y'know? T' Madhattan Room. Benny Goodman. Buck fifty coveh chawrge each, an' I says "put t'at money back inya pocket, boit'day boy, t'is is my treat." We was awl dressed up. I borrehed t'is dress fr'm one'a t'gals at woik, t'is eggshell-coleh dress cut downa heeh inna back, an' Joe wen' out an' ren'ned a dinneh suit. An' we got inneh oily, got a table right down neeh t'ban'stan'. I coulda reached up t'eh an' pulled t'clarinet right outa Benny Goodman's mout'. An' we got up an' danced, an', y'know, it was mos'ly collitch kids inneh, y'know, fr'm C'lumbia an'awlat, an' we showed'm how Brooklyn dances." Sally sighs again. "An' now," she concludes, "I'm goin' t'Joisey ev'ryday in ovehrawls an' Joe's sweat'n inna Awrmy kitchen. An' we gotta little goil kinda goin' t' NYU." "Yeh," nods Alice. "I soitenly ain' wheh *I* was back t'en. I guess time mawrches awn." "Sometimes," sighs Sally, "Y'wish it didn'." "Speak f'y'self," comments Alice.)


("Hey Leary!" calls a sarcastic voice from inside the Flatbush Pharmacy as Uncle Frank pauses on his way into Lieb's Candy Store to select a newspaper from the sidewalk rack. "T'at's a nice nightshoit y'got! Whehya get t'at, Lane Bryant?" "Ahhh, stoof it, Lowery," calls back Uncle Frank, as he steps thru the screen door, letting it bang closed behind him. "That's what ye get," snickers Ma, "'f' roonin' inta th' street with my baaaathroobe on!" "Sirens goo off," grumbles Uncle Frank, "an' ye caaaan't be too particular." "Ye did look fetchin'," Ma continues, as she slides a glass across the counter. "Chenille suits ye." "Hmph," hmphs Uncle Frank, considering the bubbles in his drink. "Oi used t'be a respected man in this community." "Toime," laughs Ma, "maaaarches aaaahn.")

Soviet guard units repulsed a series of German attacks on the Soviet bridgehead northwest of Tiraspol on the west bank of the lower Dniestr River yesterday, killing 400 enemy troops and knocking out a quantity of war material including 20 tanks. Russian forces turned back a total of four German attacks on the bridgehead, destroying in addition to the tanks four self-propelled guns, three armored cars, 40 trucks, and 15 carts.


("Ahhhh," sighs Corporal Solomon J. Pincus, leaning over the bar at the Old Reliable. "I waz'zeh, it wasn'AT bad." "Yeh," muses the bartender. "I mean, just ONE bench?")

The last surviving Civil War veteran in Brooklyn will lead the borough's Memorial Day parade next week. Ninety-nine year old Daniel Harris of 231 Woodbine Street, who enlisted in the U. S. Navy at the age of 17, and served with the South Atlantic Blockade Squadron, will ride in an automobile at the head of the march on Tuesday, beginning at 9:30 AM at the corner of DeKalb and Bedford Avenues. Veterans of the Spanish American War, and both World Wars will march with their various VFW and American Legion posts, as will various civic organizations, the Boy Scouts, and the City Patrol Corps.

Seven merchant seamen shoving off from Brooklyn this week will leave behind a present for the struggling Dodgers. The seamen have filled a miniature sea chest with an assortment of vitamin pills administered to them while at sea, in hopes that the tablets might serve to stimulate an improvement in the Flock's fortunes.

In Honolulu, the war has brought a business boom for tattoo parlors, where a total of thirty three tattooists have all the customers they can handle. Conservative estimates place the annual take in the shops at more than $500,000, with about 65 percent of the customers described as non-commissioned Navy personnel, and another 25 percent are Army enlisted men. About 90 percent of all tattoo customers are in their late teens or early twenties, and most express the hope that a tattoo will make them seem more "salty." Navy insignia, anchors, and such slogans as "Remember Pearl Harbor" are the most popular designs, with only a minority requesting the more traditional "Mother."


(Hmmm. John Rankin? Buncombe Bob Reynolds? Martin Dies?)


(I thought I read that Musial was 1-A. Why is he still here and hitting .364?)


("Well -- ah -- my editor says I don't write women very well, and I was -- ah -- trying to -- uh -- get into the mindset...")


("My fortune teller.")


(Did you know a search warrant allows a NEWSPAPER REPORTER to search your house? I certainly didn't!)


(Actually, it used to hang in the lobby at Loew's Roman. Look, that's Claudette Colbert.)


("Hey, bring the radio out! It's almost time for Our Gal Sunday!")


Where The Tourists Meet The Sea
And i the Daily News...




Remember this? The Army certainly does.


Between these two and 88 Keyes, do you get the sense Mr. Gould doesn't much like show folk?




"Who's up for some combat!"


Laurel & Hardy?


"Oh, until something better turns up. He's always wanted to work in a fish market."


A good idea? WILMER? The world turned upside down.


By all means, frantic parents will love that.


Admit it, we've all got one of those lists.
New York City
In Honolulu, the war has brought a business boom for tattoo parlors, where a total of thirty three tattooists have all the customers they can handle. Conservative estimates place the annual take in the shops at more than $500,000, with about 65 percent of the customers described as non-commissioned Navy personnel, and another 25 percent are Army enlisted men. About 90 percent of all tattoo customers are in their late teens or early twenties, and most express the hope that a tattoo will make them seem more "salty." Navy insignia, anchors, and such slogans as "Remember Pearl Harbor" are the most popular designs, with only a minority requesting the more traditional "Mother."

It wasn't only tattoo parlors that saw an uptick in business:

"$3 for 3-Minutes." The going rate was $3 for servicemen - sessions lasted 3-minutes. Of the $3 charge, the madam took $1 off the top; the prostitute paid for room, board and laundry from her $2 cut. (FYI, that's about $55 today...for three minutes!)

Hotel Street-Sailors.jpg


"Well -- ah -- my editor says I don't write women very well, and I was -- ah -- trying to -- uh -- get into the mindset..."
"So, that explains why my step-ins are all stretched out."
"Can we talk about something else?"


Where The Tourists Meet The Sea

("Well," sighs Sally to herself, fingering the business card she has withdrawn from her overall pocket, "heeh goes." She steps to the payphone on the wall of the Western Electric cafeteria, lifts the receiver, fishes in her pocket for a nickel, and dings it down the slot. With a decisive motion, she dials O. "Lawng Distance," she requests. "Poisson to poisson. Brooklyn. Docteh Lee Levine. SLocum six oh t'ree sev'n sev'n." She waits, rolling her eyes and tapping her feet impatiently as the connection goes thru. On the operator's request, she drops a quarter down the slot, sounding a hollow gong deep within the telephone. "H'lo," she greets as her party answers. "Um, izzis Docteh Levine? Um -- Docteh *Lee* Levine? -- Oh, no, uh, no, I -- uh -- jus' didn' know you was a woman, 'at's awl, Docteh Minkoff neveh said -- Yeh, t'at's right, Docteh Minkoff, Docteh Simon Minkoff? Yeh, he tol' me I should call ya, he said he was gonna mention -- yeh. Oh, right, Sally Petrauskas. P-e-t-r...oh, right, right. Um, so he tol' ya 'bout why -- yeh. I guess what I needed t'ask foist is -- I mean, I'm a wawr woikeh, right, I'm cawlin' fr'm Weste'n Electric out heehr'n Koiney? -- In Joisey, yeh. An' I on'y get one day awff, 'at's Sunday -- an' I take my lit'l goil t'see Docteh Minkoff on Sunday mawrnin' -- yeh, so Sunday aftehnoons. You can? T'at's swell. Two t'oity. Yeh. Wheh you at?" "Hey Sal, c'mon," interrupts Alice, stepping up to tug at Sally's sleeve. "T'bell rung. Lunch break is oveh. Y'gotta get back onna line." "Shuddup," she hisses. ""M onna pho -- no, nawt you, Docteh, tez somebody yellin' in my eeh. Yeh, my bawss. Oh, well she ain' really --" "C'mon, Sal!" interrupts Alice again, more urgently. "Justa MINUTE, willya?" growls Sally. "I'm sawry, she's havin' a conniption heeh. Whe'd you say again? Alice -- gimme t'at pencil. Yeh. 1454 President, awff Kingston. Yeh, I know wheh t'at is. We lived on Kingston when I was a baby, an'nen we moved oveh t' Rogehs 'n Midwood. My ma still lives t'eh, runsa canny st-- Yeh! Sweeney, Ma Sweeney t'ey cawl'eh. Y'have? Huh, smawl woil', huh?" "Let's GO!" demands Alice, folding her arms and thrusting out her chest in attempt to exercise intimidating authority. "Yeh, yeh," snaps Sally. "'Mawlmos' done. Awright t'en. Sunday at two t'oity, 1454 President. I'll be t'eh. -- T'ank you. -- G'bye." Sally returns the receiver to its hook, and as the coins clink into their receptacle, she regards her supervisor. "Y'know," she snickers. "You look funny when ya stan' like t'at." "You," proclaims Alice, "gawt a probl'm wit' aut'ority." "You ain' aut'ority," mehs Sally, as the two head back to the line.)

A report broadcast by Radio Moscow today indicated that Gestapo chief Heinrich Himmler is believed to be en route from Berlin to France to take personal command of efforts there to suppress underground activity in advance of the anticipated Allied invasion of Western Europe. Himmler's departure coincides with the broadcast of invasion instructions to French patriots from the headquarters of General Dwight D. Eisenhower. A crackdown on underground activity by Gestapo agents and Vichy French militia collaborators has already rounded up several thousand members of the Resistance, but sabotage and terror attacks are continuing against German targets within France. Meanwhile, a dispatch published in Stockholm reports that a secret order will be released from Gestapo headquarters on invasion day, ordering all French men between the ages of 18 and 60 to report to occupation authorities within four hours of its release, and that any man found on the streets after that time will be "shot on the spot."

In Britain, some 37,000 volunteers have responded to a call from the Admiralty for yachtsmen and others with knowledge of seamanship to man small craft for harbor duties to be assigned for short periods of time under an invasion emergency plan. It was also reported that thousands of British families have cancelled Whitsunday holiday plans, and annual vacation trips, in view of the Transport Ministry's warnings that all civilian rail service is subject to cancellation without notice as invasion day approaches.


(Coming Events Cast Their Shadows Before....)


("I could win'nat," sniffs Miss Kaplan. "If I had t'right cloes, o'coehse. Butchoo know, I give awl my, y'know, coveh goil type stuff t't' Russian Wawr Relief. T'em gals oveh t'eh oughta have a chance t'look, y'know, beautyful too, y'know? When'ney ain' drivin' tanks an' snipin', I mean." Mozelewski looks up from his copy of Vogue, and snickers. "Yeh," he mutters. "Awwright, wise guy," snaps Miss Kaplan. "Ya so smawrt. Ya awrways criticizin me cloes. Ya awrways doodlin' dresses in ya magazine'neh. Put up a' shut up! You design me a dress an' I'll wear it innat contes' an' we'll see jus' how much ya know!" Mozelewski squints at Miss Kaplan for a long moment, and slaps his pencil down on the lunch table. "Awright," he declares, extending his hand. "DEAL.""Deal!" grins Miss Kaplan, shaking on the bargain. "On'y one t'ing, t'ough," she insists, gesturing downward. "I don' weah no peplum." "You," snorts Mozelewski, "don' NEED no peplum.")

The Eagle Editorialist notes the recent demolition of the abandoned Polish Tower at Flushing Meadow Park as marking the passing of the last remnant of the World's Fair. "It seems hardly possible," he reflects, "that only four or five years ago we were looking goggle-eyed at The World Of Tomorrow. Now and then we come across a relic -- a dusty paperweight, for example, in the shape of the Trylon and Perisphere (remember?) and we get a momentary start. We seem to be looking back at The World Of Yesterday."


(Before the Internet...)


(What, Leo popping off again? "Told ya so," snickers Arky Vaughan.)




("I was so young. In 1912.")


(It must be dull to be a cop in this town, with reporters doing all the work.)


(Oooh, look, Ramon Navarro!)


(But first, clean up that mess on the kitchen floor!)


Where The Tourists Meet The Sea
And in the Daily News...


A car accident? Well, it beats being punched thru a glass coffee table by Hugh Casey.


In case you lost track.


Of course you do.


Yep, Allison. Meaning "Son of the Alley." Yeh, Uncle Walt was a real wag in those days.


Ah, the secret Nazi war on Poverty Row.


Easy as that.


War Is Hell.


Pasty Patton has an uncle in the service.


Movies on paper.


Wow, a bureau drawer FROM LOESER's. Now that's luxury!


Where The Tourists Meet The Sea

("Whassat?" queries Sally, noticing Alice immersed in a thick pamphlet. "You take a papeh fr'm t'at J'hoveh guy inna station t'eh?" "Oh no," dismisses Alice. "T'is is sump'n I got fr'm New Utrick. R'membeh I said I was gonna go t'night school, me'n Siddy bot'? Well, we took t'test, y'know, t'see how much we awready know, an' Siddy done OK, but t'ey say I need t'take whatchacawl ya redeemable classes bef'oeh I c'n stawrt." "Remedial," corrects Sally, carefully controlling her expression. "Yeh, whateveh," nods Alice enthusiastically. "T'ey say I c'n do it t'is summeh, y'know, by mail ordeh. T'ey sen' me t'ese books heeh an' I sen' back t'ansehs. So I'm studyin' up. T'is one heeh is ya readin'. Y'know, when I was wit' t' sistehs, I on'y got upta t' sixt' readeh b'foeh I run outa t'eh, so I guess I gotta do some catchin' up. I wisht I was like Siddy, he's awrways readn'. Populeh Mechanics, Populeh Science, he reads awlem popular magazines'eh. Butcha know, t'moeh y'do it t'easieh it is. T'is mail ordeh school, t'ough, it c'n be kinda confusin'." "Oh yeh?" replies Sally, swatting at a fly with her rolled-up Eagle. "Yeh," nods Alice. "Like yes'tday, I was t'ree pages inta me lesson be'foeh I realized it was from Seehs n' Roebuck." "Ah," ahs Sally, bringing the paper down smartly atop the bald scalp of a man in the row ahead.)

Reports from Soviet territory liberated by the Red Army since the Battle of Stalingrad have revealed innumerable cases of massacres of civilians by the German invaders. A report issued by the Soviet Scientists Anti-Fascist Committee discloses that both civilians and prisoners of war have, under Nazi occupation, been starved to death, infected with typhus, dysentery, or other diseases, placed in pits and immersed in latrine filth, physically mutilated, and otherwise tortured, often under the supervision of Nazi doctors. It was also noted that small children have been deliberately bled to death, and their blood used provide transfusions for wounded German soldiers.




(Is Lichty taking kickbacks from the AMA?)


(You can tell the summer doldrums are already here when half the theatrical page is taken up by classified ads. Hey, wanna buy a hot Buick?)


(Mr. Burr misses the most interesting facts about Eddie "The Fiddler" Basinski -- he is, in fact, in addition to being an adept middle infielder, a professional concert violinist who holds a chair with the Buffalo Symphony Orchestra. Swing it, Eddie!)


(Joe Swiergosz? Does he have curly black hair and look like John Garfield?????)


(Look, let Sibyl do this in her own way.)




(Quite "Hi?" Well a big hello to you too!)




Where The Tourists Meet The Sea
And in the Daily News...


"Barbara Hutton's got the dough, par-ley vous! And where she gets it we all know, par-ley vous! We slave at Woolworth's five-and-dime, the pay we get is sure a crime! Hinkey-dinkey par-ley vous!" --Song Of The Woolworth Strikers, 1937.


"T'eh wasn' neveh nut'n like t'is at Crown Pickle," sniffs Corporal Solly Pincus, as Ma slides a freshly mixed egg cream across the counter. "Well, c'ept t'time Joe fell inna brine vat." "No indeed," agrees Ma. "Oi ahhlways found Joseph t'use very clean laaanguage." "Boosheet," comments Leonora, as Solly spews egg cream onto the floor.


Look at that bullet hole! You're not getting your deposit back!


As Skeez and Nina exchange nervous glances.


C'mon, Shad, shut up for a minute and appreciate that the highlight of this poor man's day is when he gets to step dramatically into a joint and announce "I AM ThE SIGN PAINTER."


Lillian Hellman? Hey that'd be an angle!


Just making use of available resources...


"If they weren't all working punch presses on the second shift at the Todd Shipyard, I don't know WHAT I'd do!"


Careful, hon, posing lilke that is murder on your spine.


As Mr. Gould continues his deconstruction of the Hit Parade of 1944...
New York City
"...redeemable classes bef'oeh I c'n stawrt." "Remedial," corrects Sally, carefully controlling her expression." :)


As Skeez and Nina exchange nervous glances.

Yes, that line really stood out; Nina wouldn't have been out of bounds to slap his face.


"Ha, sure, and like a lot of typical do-gooders it didn't cost me a cent!"

Gray is all over the philosophical map.


Where The Tourists Meet The Sea

(Walking along President Street in the muggy afternoon heat, Sally pauses before no. 1454. She stands on the sidewalk for a long moment, examining the three-story house with two simulated Ionic columns cast from concrete flanking the entry. She pauses to examine a small brass plaque over the doorbell. "L. LEVINE M.D. BY APPOINTMENT ONLY. RING BELL." With a deep breath, she does so. There is a bustling from the other side of the heavy oak door, which swings open to reveal a short, heavyset woman with curly black hair and a wide smile. "Mrs. Petrauskas?" the woman greets. "I'm Dr. Levine. Please come in." With an uneasy smile of her own, Sally steps inside.


In a tidy furnished room on 37th Street up in Sunset Park, Miss Kaplan stands atop a stool and frets. "I dunno," she protests, gesturing at the shimmering steel-grey rayon skimming around her, pinned in strategic points and marked with light strokes of tailor's chalk. "Ain'iss a lit'l too mod'enistic? I feel like sump'n outa t'Woil's Faieh." Mozelewski, with a tape measure draped around his neck and pins protruding from his mouth, emits only a "Hm" in reply, as he carefully studies the garment. "An'na coleh!" sputters Miss Kaplan. "Makes me look like a bat'l'ship! Look, how 'bout sump'n t'pep it up a lit'l, huh? Hey, I know, how 'bout a frill, a red-white-n'-blue awrgandy frill up t'back, oveh t'shouldehs, an' aroun', you know, t'ese heeh. I seen a gal inna stage show at t'Paramoun', had one jus' like t'at! Madeja wanna stan' right up an' salute! Huh? How'bout it?" Mozelewski frowns, deep in thought, and then steps forward to apply a single pin at a strategic point. He steps back to consider his work, and pronounces it "Poifeck!")

At Fort Meade, Maryland, Joe sits on the edge of his bunk and glances up at the portrait of Sally in her Woolworth's uniform pinned to the wall, as he reads her latest letter. An expression of concern deepens across his features as a Southern voice from the other end of the barracks calls out. "Hey Brooklyn! We's goin' inta Wawshin't'n, see us some action! Yo' comin'?" "Neh," he frowns, waving his hand in dismissal as he returns to the letter.


At Lieb's Candy Store, Leonora turns the pages of the Sunday Eagle, as Ma nervously taps the seltzer spout with the edge of a mixing spoon. "Oi'm tellin' ye, Francis," she mutters, "Oi don't loike it. She rooshes in here, draaahps off th' choild, aaaan then rooshes back oot." "Ye harrd what she said," dismisses Uncle Frank, leaning back on his stool as he sips his two-cents-plain. "She's goo'in up t'th' baahlpaark with a petition aboot hoow they should let colared players in th' big leagues. You know Sally an' harr p'titions, noothin' new 'boot t'haat." "Did ye see harr carryin' any p'titions? challenges Ma. "Did ye see har with a clipbaard aahr a pencil? Oi don't think she's gooin' oot with noo p'titions. An' Oi don't know what she IS doin'." She puts down the spoon and breathes deeply. "But I knoow who MOIT know. Leonorah, daaarhlin', waaar's ye Ma goin'?"


In the basement apartment at 1720 63rd Street, Krause and Willie are absorbed with the assembly of a balsa-wood model of a P-51 Mustang. "Hey Siddy," queries Alice, immersed in a book at the kitchen table. "How'ya figyeh out t'is one? 'Jane's jawb is five miles fr'm home. She has an A cawrd t'at all-ots 'eh two gallons of gasoline per week, an'neh cawr gets fifteen miles t'wa gallon. She woiks six days a week. How many days a week can she drive?" Krause rolls his eyes back and runs a swift calculation in his head. "T'ree," he pronounces, as Willie nods with approval. "Neh," nehs Alice. "T'at's wrong." Krause looks at his wife and frowns, but before he can take her thru the calculations, Alice declares "she ain' gotta drive a'tawl. She c'n take t'BMT!" She grins with satisfaction. "Aw," she proclaims. "T'is school stuff is a cinch!"


Aboard a train rattling toward the Camp Kilmer redistribution center, Corporal Solomon J. Pincus leans his head against the window, watching the landscape rush past, and wonders when he'll see home again.)

The pre-invasion "war of nerves" continued at a quickened pace last night, with perfect invasion weather continuing to prevail over the Straits of Dover, and Stockholm reports quoted the Germans as saying a decision in the battle of Rome would be the signal for the Allied drive in the west, to be coordinated with a new Russian offensive in the east. As a light southern breeze barely rippled the waters of the English Channel, an NBC reporter in London declared that Army Ordnance authorities have delared that "invasion plans have been completed."

In Hollywood, Coast Guard Lieutenant Rudy Vallee was yesterday notified that he will be placed on the Inactive Reserve list in July, and cleared to return to civilian life. The 43-year-old crooner built up one of the finest service orchestras in the nation during his time in the Coast Guard, and stated yesterday that he feels that his work there is finished.

Governor Thomas E. Dewey has sufficient delegates pledged to support his candidacy that he can win the Republican presidential nomination on the first ballot at this summer's Republican National Convention. While not all states have yet chosen their delegates, the total currently pledged to Dewey now exceeds the simple majority of 530 delegates required to secure the nomination. However, the GOP faction supporting the candidacy of Sen. Owen Bricker has refused to concede, and is continuing its campaign.


(Ew. Ew. Ew.)


(I wonder if he can play second base?)


("But I told you to bury me NOT on the lone prairie!")


(Twenty cents? Does the OPA know about this?)


(That's not perfume, Van Buren just airs out his bedspread in a tree for four years.)


(Wait'll you see what it does to the crops.)


(Imagine what she could do for Van Mungo.)


(Mr. Brown is one of the most indefatigable of USO entertainers, and with good reason -- you may recall that his oldest son was killed in action a year and a half ago.)


(The microfilm photographer botched this one up, but you can get the gist of it....)


Where The Tourists Meet The Sea
And in the Daily News...




Yeah, watch out for those bangtails!




Of course he's in the basement, where else would you keep him?


Sorry, this is one of those policies that disallows stupidity.


I wish the microfilm guy would fix his exposure, I wanna see the octopus!


How ya gonna keep 'em down on the farm?




You should be used to this by now.


There's the right way, the wrong way, the Army way, and the way that gets the job done.

Forum statistics

Latest member