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The Era -- Day By Day


One Too Many
St John's Wood, London UK
Some days like this night-midnight-by London chime our gallant's panel eludes down scroll,
so I surmise Ms Elizabeth's cryptic cipher as to content and proceed forthwith.

The Jewett murder is disgusting and cowardly, though the Lind case offers more sawdust
for a skull rolled by executioner axe with killer Miller drop stop a shooter then cop insanity.
Me Irish arse Miller's gone but now back pig's sty. His noggin is for the sawdust sure.


Where The Tourists Meet The Sea

("Well," wells Sally, "Joe's boit'day is a week fr'm t'marra, an' I figyehed out what I'm gonna send 'im." "Oh yeh?" replies Alice. "Y'fin' some Davega socks wit' no holes inn'm?" "Neveh min'a jokes," dismisses Sally. "I t'oughta sump'n special. See, right now, Joe is t'foit'est away fr'm Brooklyn he's eveh been in 'is life, t'foit'est away fr'm home. So I figyeh, if he can't be home, I'm gonna sen' home t'him." "Howya gonna do t'at?" puzzles Alice. "You ain' gonna try t'sneak inta camp like ya done when he was at Upton, awr ya? B'cause you remembeh what...." "No no no," rushes Sally. "I was tawkin' t' -- um, somebody yest'day -- about I was, y'know, wonderin' 'bout t'at, an' she says t'at ain'a good ideeh. But she come up wit' t'is ideeh instead. See, I got t'is jawr, t'is glass jawr fr'm Crown Pickles, right? An' las' night I kin'a wen' aroun' t'awlese places wheh Joe likes t'go -- you know, out onna stoop outfronna t'house, oveh t' Satellite Pawrk, oveh t' Ma's stoeh, up by Ebbets Feel, t'Patio Theateh, oveh t' Roselan', downa Coney Islan', oveh t'awlem places. I even wen' upta Williamsboig, up on Lennid Street t'eh, by t' house whehr'ee grew up. I was ridin' aroun' f'six houehs. An' ev'ry place I went, I picked up sump'n -- you know, a piece'a gravel, a piece'a brick, some grass, some doit, y'know, lit'l pieces' a stuff, an' I putt'm awl innis jawr." "Pieces 'a home," nods Alice. "T'at's a swell ideeh." "An'NEN," continues Sally, I got some scissehs an' I clipped awff a lit'l piece a' my haieh, an' a lit'l piece a' Leonoreh's, an' evn' a little piece a' Stella's. An' I cut a little piece a' clawth off t'at chaieh wheh Joe likes t'sit, y'know, wit' his feet inna oven when it's cold, an' I wrapped 'em up put t'em inna jawr too. An' I put t'coveh awn, an' I dunked it in some hot wax, y'know, t'seal it up. An' onna label I wrote, 'Home -- 1944.' Y't'ink he's gonna like t'at?" "Yeh," nods Alice. "He's gonna like it." "T'is poisson I tawked to yest'day," adds Sally. "She's pretty smawrt.")


("Lotta action awready," comments Hops Gaffney as he tosses his canvas pouch on the counter. "Gonna be a hot election." "Make oop f'basebahl business faaaahlin' off," nods Ma, slipping the pouch under the counter. "Oi gaaaht anoothar assoinment fahr ye. Oi want ye t'foind out soom infarrmation aboot a dooctar boi th' name 'a Levine, a wooman dooctar. Foind oot whattar game is. Foind out what business me daaaghtar has with'arr." "Y'can't ask'eh y'self?" mutters Hops. "Oi didn't catch thaaat," frowns Ma, her voice taking on a menacing edge. "I'll get right awn it," cringes the Hopper. "Oi'll be waitin'," smiles Ma.)

Police are searching for a tall mystery man who assaulted a patrolman and a woman as they sat together on a bench early yesterday in Grand Army Plaza. Patrolman James Sullivan, off duty and in civilian clothes, was sitting with Helen Mahoney of 764 St Johns Place shortly after 3 AM when they heard a rustling in the bushes behind them. A man described by Miss Mahoney as "a Negro six feet tall" approached Sullivan from behind and struck him over the head with some sort of weapons, rendering him unconscious. The assailiant, she reported, struck her as well, but she raised her arms to ward off the blow, and the man fled.


(Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick...)


(This one seems more like a Litchy.)

The 85th and 88th Divisions of the 2nd Army Corps, composed entirely of draftees, are in the thick of the fighting in Italy as the first all-Selective Service units to go into combat. The divisions, under the command of Maj. Gen. Geoffrey Keyes, are credited with smashing the southern flank of the German lines. The 88th includes many draftees from the New York and New Jersey areas.



Whit Wyatt will take the mound in his bridal whites tonight under the arc lights at Ebbets Field, as the Dodgers wrap up their series with the Reds. It will be Wasp Waisted Whitlow's first attempt at pitching since he went six innings against the Cardinals almost a month ago.


("Thank you, babushka. For your trouble take a dollar off my bill.")


(Oh Sibyl....)




(The Gardenia Club? Won't you two feel a little out of place? Or maybe not, who am I to say?)


(And when plucking, always follow the curve of the brow bone to create a natural arch.)


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


GIve the poor sap a break, Judge -- maybe he only reads the Herald-Tribune.


The Summer Sisters -- 1-1 each, that Navy guy, Captain Bowline -- 50-1, Vitamin Flintheart -- 100-1.


He's got a point, you wouldn't want it to pick up a smell.


Assuming you don't get drafted.




Lamarr, Hedy?


"What, me help that skinny old SOB? AFTER HE JILTED ME?"




You know, I bet the Army would take you if you asked.


Pat's been dreaming of this day for years.


One Too Many
St John's Wood, London UK
British intelligence washed a corpse ashore France loaded case chock full false invasion
plans all to fool Gerry. The more prescient German commanders probably knew an invasion
would prove Normandy-and ultimately be successful.


Where The Tourists Meet The Sea
No Eagle today due to the Memorial Day holiday, but as Brooklyn pauses to watch its last Civil War veteran roll by, it carries under its arm a rolled-up Daily News...


"Remin' me at lunch," urges Sally, nestling a small parcel in her lap. "I gotta get Joe's present inna mail t'day. Gonna send it special d'livery." "I awrways f'get boit'days," sighs Alice. "I ain' even sueh what my own boit'day is. T'sistehs said t'ey foun' me onna Fulton Street L on Septembeh twenny-fois' 1910, an'ney figyehed I was about foeh yeehs ol', so I say my boit'day is Septembeh twenny-fois', 1906. But t'at prob'ly ain' right." "Yeh," nods Sally, never quite knowing how to react to stories of her friend's past. "Ya boit'day, onna ot'eh han," comments Alice, "I awrways r'membeh, an' y'know why? You was bawrn onna same day t'at big boat sank, t'Titanic. April fift'eent', 1912. I remembeh whennat happ'nt, y'know -- not you bein' bawrn, but I remembeh t'sistehs tawkin' 'bout how it was a ship'a sin, an' Gawd was takin' 'is judgmen' onnit. An' y'know, I wondehed what a ship 'a sin was like." "T'at ain' my boit'day," corrects Sally. "My boit'day is April toit'eent', 1913." "It is?" replies Alice. "Well how'm'I s'posta remembeh t'at?" "Well, uh," shrugs Sally, "I was bawrn foeh days afteh Ebbets Feel open't. An' I'll tell ya how I know t'at. See, my pa was a hod carrieh whenney was buidin' it, an' when it was awl done, Judge McKeeveh gives a buncha tickets t't'woikehs. Ol' Man Ebbets neveh done it, he was a cheapskate, Ma tol' me, ev'n woise'n Rickey, but McKeeveh did, an' my pa got one'v 'm. An'nee went t't' game, 'n afteh t'game, he wen' out drinkin', an'ee wen' onna foeh-day bendeh. Neveh come home. An' heeh's Ma, 'bout t'have a baby. Well, she tol' me when he fin'ly DID come home t'ey got in a big screamin' fight, t'rowin' t'ings an'awlat, an' right inna middle of it, she goes inta labeh. An' Pa runs out t'find help, an' awl'ee can find is Tommy McCullough -- t'is goat fawrmeh lives up t'street, Mildred Kelly's ol' man in fack -- an' Tommy McCullough izza one d'livehed me. April toit'eent', 1913. An'nat's how y'remembeh it." "Yeh," nods Alice. "When y'splain it like t'at it makes sense." "Prob'ly hawrd t'remembeh Joe's boit'day t'ough," admits Sally. "Ev'n I f'get it sometimes. June sixt'. What eveh happen't on June six't? I ask ya...."


"But just to be sure," concedes the Magistrate, "let me read it again."


"Hmm. A dollar twenty, a Raleigh coupon, and three red points?"


Next Tuesday? Guess they won't forget their anniversary!!


"Never mind, there's no school today anyway. HEY POP CMON WE'RE MISSING THE PARADE!"


I wasn't expecting Mr. Gray to go full ACAB.


Wait'll you meet his brother More.


Guess who's been reading Elizabeth Hawes.


Nothing says "Memorial Day" like a wild drunken revel.


Anything's better than a British jail.
New York City
I think I've lost the thread in "Harold Teen" along the way: why can't Shadow run either the soda-fountain shop or the youth center? Or get a job in a war factory? I get that his height keeps him out of service, but why can't he do anything?


Where The Tourists Meet The Sea
He was working for Pipdyke last year when Harold was an executive there, so i'm not sure what his excuse is now. I imagine Pop doesn't trust him not to consume all the stock if he runs the soda shop, and from what we've seen of his recreational habits, maybe he isn't the most wholesome choice to run a youth center...

He ought to go to work in an airplane factory, they actually need people who can fit in the tight enclosed spaces inside the fuselage.


One Too Many
St John's Wood, London UK
Chatterley isn't smut but a candid surmise of Eros and war's continuance during peace.
By way of extension the kingdom lost a generation of matrimonial union during the First War
so Lawrence captured a moment in time, fully told in the pages of Lady Chatterley's Lover.

And speak of tight fuselage, Burma is loosed again on Terry albeit vicariously.
And Milton Caniff's mindset is free to detract common sense altogether what with that Flying Tiger not having gotten his paws all over her during the ride back from Cherry Bombastland.
With al the lurid details spattered splatter across page uno, a little lovemake n' take aboard
a DC-3 enroute dovetails storyboard. :confused:


Where The Tourists Meet The Sea
("Well?" demands Ma, as Hops Gaffney tosses his pouch on the counter. "What did ye foind out?" "Oh yeh," quavers Hops, nervously clearing his throat. "Wait," interrupts Ma. "Not heer." She jerks her thumb in the direction of Leonora, absorbed in her nickels at the opposite end of the counter, and tugs at her ears. Hops nods with understanding, and they step over to the magazine rack, Ma keeping an eye cocked in the direction of her granddaughter. "Ahhlroit," commands Ma in a harsh whisper. "Spill it." "I ast aroun'," replies Hops, his voice equally low. "I done some checkin'. T'is Docteh Levine's got'n awfice 'bout haffa mile fr'm 'eeh, up on Pres'dent. Ya daughteh wen' inneh Sunday aftehnoon, an' was inneh 'bout an houeh. T'en she come out, wawks oveh'ndown by Ebbets Feel, an' stan'saroun'neh f'ra while like she's look'n f'sump'n, an'nen she comes back heeh." "Who told ye this?" demands Ma. "Guys I know," demurs Hops," t'at live up t'eh. T'ey awrways keep'n eye on what's goin' awn. I slipped 'm a fin an' toins out t'ey see a lotta t'ings." "Ahhl roit," nods Ma. "What do ye know aboot this docteh? What's she look like?" Hops exhales, scratching his chin in search of the right way to put it. "Well," he hesitates, "kin'a like you, 'cept she's shawrteh, an' heavieh, an' she's got black haeih, an' she don' weah glasses, an'neh face is awl diff'nt." Ma scowls, riffling thru various neighborhood faces in her mind before lighting on one. "Oi think Oi've seen'ar," she nods. "Wooman lookin' loike that cooms in heer fr'm toime t'toime, buys a paparr an' a Milky Way bar. Soometimes a magazine too, one'a thim p'litical magazines. One toime she aaast me did Oi carry th' Daily Warrker, an' Oi said 'I do NOT.' Anoothar toim she ast me do I carry prophylactics! Oi said I do NOT, an' sent harr next door t'th chemist. Oi got a feelin' she's a coppar, one'a thim undercovarr coppars!" "Well," ventures Hops, his eyes shifting nervously, "what I hoid is she's one'a t'ese kinda doctehs --" He trails off, trying to remember the exact word. "She's a -- obstachiatrist? I t'ink t'at's what I hoid." "An ooobsta-- " puzzles Ma. "Ye mean -- an oobstetrician?" Hops shrugs, and fumbles for a cigarette. "Yeh," he nods as he lights up. "T'at must be it. I guess..." "Ye guess?" demands Ma. "Um," quavers Hops, "um, yeah, I guess t'at's right." "An oobstetrician?" exhales Ma, her eyes flashing. "That's a doctarr d'livers babies. An' Sally went t'see one f'ran houarr on Soonday. An' Joseph left here ovarr a moonth ago." She reaches into her apron, and presses a five dollar bill into Hops's hand. "Ye doone good, boy," declares Ma. "Now off with ye, an' naaaht a worrrd t'anyone!" Hops bustles out, his shoulders bouncing with relief, as Ma returns her attention to Leonora. "Well Oi'll be..." she exhales, her face creasing into a broad grin. "Well Oi'll be!")

American invasion forces pushed on toward Mokmar airstrip today after knocking out 11 enemy tanks in the first armored battle of the Southwest Pacific war. Eight enemy tanks were destroyed outright, and three others damaged so badly that they were considered knocked out, according to a headquarters communique.


(Well, at least they didn't throw a bench.)


("What???" erupts Miss Kaplan, slapping away the brown paper package before her. "I ain' wearin'AT! You c'n put a BACK onna dress! Y'got it cut so low now y'cn'see t'awpa me -- uh -- you knows. B'sides, I mean, how'dya even y'know -- keep it awn?" Mozelewski sighs, reaches for a napkin, and begins sketching a careful diagram. "Hmph." hmphs Miss Kaplan. "You engineehs, y'rawlalike.")


("Really? Read it again!")

A crowd estimated at 350,000 turned out yesterday to watch Brooklyn's annual Memorial Day parade. It was, however, a solemn and silent crowd, with only a few sporadic bursts of applause in response to the prancing drum majorettes. Most people stood in quiet salute as unit after unit of local veterans and civic organizations marched in review. Brooklyn's last Civil War veteran, 98-year-old Daniel Harris, sat at attention in his faded Navy blues, as he rode in an open car escorted by twelve mounted horsemen.

("HAH!" hahs Sally. "Y'know who'sa on'y one lef' from t'at Vaughan trade t'at's still inna big leagues? PETEY! SO T'EH!" "T'at ain' true," interjects Alice. "Hamlin's wit' t' At'aletics." "I said," huffs Sally, "BIG leagues." "Oh yeh," concedes Alice.)

Pirate manager Frankie Frisch cringed in embarassment yesterdayafter catcher Spud Davis came to the plate out of the proper batting order and got a single. Chuck Dressen bounced immediately out of the dugout to call the error to the attention of Umpire Tom Dunn, who summoned Frisch out to the plate for an explanation. It turns out that between Davis pinch-hitting for pitcher Max Butcher and then replacing Al Lopez as catcher, and Joe Vitelli coming into pitch, but batting in Lopez's spot, Frankie had inadvertently erred in making note on his lineup card. When the situation was suitably untangled, public address announcer Tex Rickards crackled out an explanation that began "In the confusion...", causing poor Frankie to cover his face with his palms. Davis's hit was disallowed, and when his actual turn to bat came around, he grounded out.




("But you do have to admire her resilience!")


("On what charge!" "That suit is a menace to public health!")


(Don't look so enthusiastic!)


(And that's how Junior got the idea to invent the lint roller.)


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


Word to the wise, Winnie. Some friendships are less worth cultivating than others.


"And not only that, she kept calling me 'Gherkin!'"


C'mon, Vitamin, forget them, the Slither Sisters need the work.


Awww, one big happy family.


"The world's greatest director! It says so right here on his letterhead!"


"Heh!" snickers Alice. "She's funny lookin'!"


The use of a strong wind as a visual metaphor for Phyllis is absoluely brilliant. Mr. King is one of the true geniuses of his art.


Careful, Pop. Remember last time.


Hey, that Fritzi Ritz gets around.


I wonder if the DL has operatives in this jungle?


One Too Many
St John's Wood, London UK
The widowed mature soldier in the UK has five kids and volunteered for service?
SCARLET O'NEIL and THE GUMPS I occasionally glance. The former is a bit too supernatural
for my likes and latter just poorly facial drawn to my aesthetic, but things seem tad kinky
with cross dress female impersonator.

Why Burma drives herself bonkers over baloney buccaneer bollocks when she could
be embraced in Terrence's Aero horsehide clad arms is beyond moi. If she's out there as
a lost lamb in the jungle food chain, India is cobra riddled ready to bite.


Where The Tourists Meet The Sea

("Aaabsolootley ootrageous," laments Uncle Frank, shaking his head at the headline. "It's bloody bosthoons loike that give th'rest'voos a baahd name. I'm glaaahd th' coppars gaaht'em, or oi'da had th' boys pay 'em a visit. Oi wondarr if thar's mooch Oi can do farr th' widows." He looks over at Ma, who is gazing over at Leonora with a beatific smile. "''Ere now," he chuckles, putting down the paper and taking a sip of his two-cents-plain, "wot's gaaht inta ye? Aahl day loong ye been makin' moon oies at that choild." "Ahhh," dismisses Ma, "Joost thinkin' how she waaas when she was a newbaarn baby. Adaaarable little thing." "If oi recaaahl," burps Uncle Frank, "she weighed close onto eight poonds when she was baaarn. Ye poor daughter took it roough, she did. Ahhlmost givin' barrth in that bloody baahlpark." "She's straaang stoof, Sally is," nods Ma. "Of caaarse, th' farrst one is aahlways th'hardest. Next toime it'll go easier." "Next toime?" queries Uncle Frank, pushing his empty glass across the counter. His face crinkles into a smile as his eyes meet Ma's, and comprehension dawns. "Ye doooooon't mean t'tell me!" he grins, as Ma returns an enigmatic twinkle.)

A German submarine stopped the Portuguese refugee ship Serpo Pinto in mid-ocean with gunfire last Friday, forcing the passengers and crew to abandon the vessel, and then, after receiving orders by wireless from Berlin not to sink the ship, took two American passengers as prisoners, it was reported today by crewmembers from the refugee vessel. As the bearded young English-speaking U-Boat captain leisurely awaited orders from his superiors 3500 miles away, the 385 passengers and crewmen drifted aimlessly in horror for nine hours. Three of them, including the 10-month-old daughter of a Polish refugee couple, lost their lives during the transfer from the ship to lifeboats. When the U-boat commander received his orders to let the ship go, all but the two Americans were allowed to re-board, and the vessel resumed its course for Philadelphia, where it docked Tuesday night. The two Americans taken prisoner were 22-year-old Virgilio Magina of Bedford, Massachusetts, and Manuel Pinto of Waterbury, Massachusetts, both of whom were returning to the United States to register with Selective Service.

Off to a head start over the rest of the city in kicking off the Fifth War Loan Drive, Brooklyn schoolchildren today launched their part in the drive toward the borough's $269,994,000 quota. The campaign officially begins June 12, but schoolchildren have already received, courtesy of the various Brooklyn mutual savings banks, the necessary materials for urging friends and relatives to buy more bonds. In the Fourth War Loan Drive, Brooklyn pupils sold $10,000,000 worth of bonds, earning the title of "victory volunteers."


("Ow, don't hug so hard. This bra's still too tight.")

("Hey, you've gotta have a hobby!" -- Tommy Manville.)

The Eagle Editorialist cites the recent wood-alcohol deaths in the Navy Yard district as proof that there needs to be a "quick, severe" crackdown on Brooklyn bootleggers. "It is probably inevitable," the EE acknowledges, that as long as the present shortage of liquor continues, there will be a temptation in certain quarters to revert to the illegal technique of unhappy Prohibition-era memories. The best way to discourage that is prompt and sure action before that sort of thing can become widespread."


("I hear LaGuardia isn't going to take that perfume deal...")


(Goody Rosen with an arm like a salami? THAT Goody Rosen?? Hey, whattaya hear from Jersey Joe Stripp?)


(Honestly, who names their kid "Kingery?")


("I'll make away, with my wife's goofy play..." All right, where's the rest of the limerick?)


(Ever notice whenever there's a character called "Brain," he's always the dumbest one in the room?)


(DID I? DID I? How many drinks did you have, Tom??)


("Children Learn What They Live...")


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




Coffee? Get a pickle ad!


"Sure, Tubby, sure. Whatever you get up to in your compartment's your own business. Now let's have your ticket."


You'd think with a nose like that Andy would have terrible allergies. KA CHOOOO!


Well, doesn't everybody seem to be in a good mood today.


Let the games begin.


A little bit goes a long way.


Well, it beats vandalizing the high school.


Wait'll you get your draft notice.


I dunno, he seems more like Mr. Supercilious to me.

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