The Era -- Day By Day

[LizzieMaine]

("Hey Sal," greets Solly Pincus, standing by the mailboxes in the foyer of 1762 63rd Street, as Sally descends the stairs to get the mail. "Yeh," sighs Sally. "Y'tawk't'wim?" queries Solly. "Yeh," repeats Sally. "He tol' me what t' lawyeh said 'bout t'at contrack." "Did he awlso tell ya," continues Solly, "what t' lawyeh said about t'em GI Bill loans?" "No," headshakes Sally. "I been try'na tawk t'wim 'bout'tat too. 'If ya gonna do t'is, don' fool aroun' wit' no leases,' I says to 'im. Buy outright,' I says t'wim. But he do'wanna tawk'about GI anyt'ing. Hawnes' t' gawd, Solly, I know what hap'nt when'ee was inna Awrmy, an' I know he ain' oveh'rit, but.." "Yeh," nods Solly. "Look, lemme ask ya. Awr YOU in awn'is deal? D'YOU t'ink it's a good ideeh?" "Not t'at contrack," dismisses Sally. "But lissen. We been goin' alawng onnis Big Joe's t'ing f' six mont's now. An' ev'ry time he makes a lit'l progress awnit, sump'n goes wrawng. I t'ought it was gonna be GOOD f'rim, get 'is min' awff t'wawr an' awlat, but I lay t'eh at night, an'ee's tossin' an' toinin' an' worryin'. Maybe t'is Ozone Pawrk t'ing'll woik, maybe it's gonna be just anot'eh disasteh. But at leas' -- it'd mean he was innit f'keeps, y'know? He'd have t' concentrate. He'd have beah down an' really push, an' not jus' drift alawng. Y'know?" "Yeh," nods Solly. "Well, I got an ideeh. Le's not tawk about it 'eeh. Lissen, meet me down at t' Maneh Cafehteria in fifteen minutes. Don' say nut'n t' Joe. I'll tell ya what I got in mind...")

("He said," frowns Joe, slapping at the papers on the counter, "t'at it looked like a *plumbeh* wrote it." "Who's this maaan Gelman anyway," snorts Uncle Frank. "A lawyeh wit'n awffice awn Montague Street," snaps Joe. "A real REAL ESTATE lawyeh, t'at's who. Look, come clean, huh? What's goin' awn 'eeh?" "Oi joost wint oovar t'talk t' this man Snodgrass," sputters Uncle Frank. "It taaaarns oot he oows me a soom'a mooney from th' oold days, an' Oi thaaat we moit work oot soomthin' in exchange farr -- an amaaaaritization of th' debt. So we -- ah -- rewroot th' ****tract t' reflect..." "Look," sighs Joe. "It ain'nat I don' 'preciate'cha tryin'a help. But Misteh Gelman says t'at contract wouldn't hold wawteh, an' I betteh not sign it. But what he *is* gonna do is look it oveh an' make some suggestions. An'en me'n Solly will go oveh'rit wit' Snodgrass." "Solly Pincus," frowns Uncle Frank. "He'll want a piece'a'ye business. Sixty parrcent if me own experience is any..." "Hey," heys Joe. "Solly's a smawrt guy. Me, maybe I ain' so smawrt. So if Solly c'n help me, an' if Misteh Gelman can help me, t'an maybe t' smaaaawrt t'ing t'do is..." "Oi should be insoolted," glowers Uncle Frank. "Look," apologizes Joe. "I din' mean..." "A ploombar who wroites a contract that woon't hoold watarr," grumbles Uncle Frank, "can't be mooch'va ploombar....")

("We can't afford both a stadium and a school. We start tearing down the school tomorrow.")

(Some interesting names in that New York Cubans box score.)

(Hey kids, try this trick on Dad!)

(You're a real dirtball, Ian. A real dirtball.)

(Meanwhile, the comedy relief...)

(Point of Order: can you get a suntan if you're invisible?)

(Well, this is certainly going to be nostalgic and wholesome.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

People in Andover don't get around much.

"El Cheapo." Hehehehehehehehehehe....


Just because you dress up like the Asp doesn't mean you ARE the Asp.

When you start a new job, it's important to know the score.

We notice you're sitting by yourself.

Ew.

"We have rules against keeping dogs in rooms!"

"The Underfed Look."

They all hire their thugs from the same agency.

Kayo's getting bored, usually his trolling displays a touch of finesse.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Worker...

And all the chips are on the table...

 

[Fading Fast]

'If ya gonna do t'is, don' fool aroun' wit' no leases,' I says to 'im. Buy outright,'

Yup.

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"Solly Pincus," frowns Uncle Frank. "He'll want a piece'a'ye business.

What kills Frank is that Solly is the exact guy Frank wants to be: the guy people go to for advice, guidance, help, etc., not because he asks them to, but because people want to. Joe should take Solly in as a partner – Solly's already earned it and Joe needs him.

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

"We can't afford both a stadium and a school. We start tearing down the school tomorrow."

Honorary degrees are like almost everything else: they start out good because they are smartly done and limited but end up as just another con/graft/PR game.

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

Point of Order: can you get a suntan if you're invisible?

Because otherwise the science in this strip is perfect.

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People in Andover don't get around much.

Why would a town have, effectively, two mayors?

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

When you start a new job, it's important to know the score.

It is indeed. The hard part is knowing who's giving you the honest score and who's working you from day one.

 

[Harp]

Caught Mary Worth this morning, which I habitually give glance, noting the bottom caustic comment
writ directed at Ian McLane; whom I thought had flipped for that cute brunette babe Serene. Nowze, this
blonde cutie Binnie pops up and Mrs Worth is concerned.... Whatza goin onza here? Spill the beans Liz pulease.

The baron's misfits talk like a killing mid flight and jump exit planned Terry's plane. Drug dealt death.

 

[LizzieMaine]

It appears to be a swipe of several recent-to-1946 movie plots, and the smart money down at Lieb's Luncheonette is on Binnie being Serena's secret daughter. Because gawdfabbid an actress be, what, 40 years old?

 

[Harp]

Serene's got Suzanne Pleshette syndrome with P.P.P.pt. ( Peyton Place preggers past tense).
But why drag an upstanding war veteran and conservative like McLane into the dirt?
He's doubtless casting a straight republican ballot, blonde or brunette, and obviously oblivious the mother-daughter connect, so that angle of dangle direct heat of the...well, it ain't it.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("You need glasses," snorts Lottie Schreibstein, skipping a fragment of slate roofing shingle across 63rd Street. "Go bot'eh somebody else," growls Solly, looking over the top of the sheaf of papers he is holding six inches from his face. "Ya gett'n old!" scoffs Lottie, bending down to pick up a flattened tin can from the gutter. "Hmph!" hmphs Solly, resting the papers on the stoop, and glowering at his adversary. "Whatcha read'n?" smirks Lottie, dropping the can on the pavement. "Looooooove lettehs fr'm Bink Scanlan?" "Business papehs," snaps Solly. "Grown up stuff f'grownups. Now go tell ya mot'eh she wants ya." He picks up the papers again, and leans a bit closer, the better to make out the fine print. "I hoid," Lottie ventures, "ya gonna take oveh Big Joe's." "Who says?" glares Solly. "A lit'l boid tol' me," sneers Lottie. "An' Leonoreh tol'at lit'l boid!" She glances down at the can and picks it up again. "Hey," heys Lottie. "You wanna play potsy?" "Hmph!" hmphs Solly, shoving his face closer to the papers. "I betcha don' even know HOW!" taunts Lottie. "I do TOO," snaps Solly. "Now g'wan, get lawst." Lottie snickers, fishes a chunk of brick out of the little patch of weeds next to the stoop, and quickly lays out a grid on the sidewalk. She tosses the can into the square marked "1", and executes a quick hop in and out. "Y' hit t' line," calls out Solly. "Lessee YOU do it," retorts Lottie. "I ain' got no potsy," grouches Solly. Lottie scans the gutter and selects a ragged chunk of rusty fender, shed by some passing truck. She holds it up and flourishes it. "Chiiiiiiicken!" she taunts. "Bwak bwak BWAAAAK!" "Awright!" roars Solly, slamming the papers down on the step. He strides to the sidewalk, grabs the metal fragment, and prepares to toss. "Nooooo," insists Lottie. "No faeih, you got lawng legs!" She jabs a finger toward a sidewalk crack. "You stan'," she commands, "back T'EH!" With a growl, Solly complies, and tosses the metal fragment. It clatters to the pavement well short of the mark. "Unnnnndarrhand you throw!" calls out a voice from a first-floor window. "And mit a flip in the wrist!" continues Mr. Ginsburg. "Ahhhhhhh...." grumbles Solly, as he retrieves his marker and plans his future strategy....)

("Sal???" gasps Joe, seeing all color drain from his wife's face as her eyes flare and the pupils dilate. "Sal!!! Leonoreh! Go getcha mot'eh a glassa wawteh! SAL!!!!!!")

(Hence the expression, Head-ache. And McCarthy better not go to Mexico, he won't like tequila at all.)

(Elumphants? TOOTSIE???)

(Porky Pig never gets the respect he deserves. He really is the perfect straightman.)

(And to think you moved all the way out there to get away from him...)

(Chili may never get to be Miss Rheingold, but I bet she could get a deal with Wonder Bread.)

(Why does this guy look like Bob Hope crossed with Mussolini?)

(Except Butch doesn't have that contract anymore. Oh well, there's always law...)

("The Queen of Cambodia?")

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"Little Augie Pisano." Hey, whatever became of Seymour "Blue Jaw" McGoon?

Lard is OK once you get used to it...

Annnnd that's that...

"Oh, you can trust me, Grampaw. I've sunk submarines!"

A foot pedal??? I always wondered how they rigged those wheels, but I figured it was more complicated than that...

Pop wishes Aunt Pruny would visit.

Well, at least it's not a *flooding* cave.

Nice boots.

Her heart's just not in it anymore.

"And you should have seen him kick Wilmer!"

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

Effect...

And cause...

 

[Fading Fast]

"Y' hit t' line," calls out Solly.

Best line because it tells you Solly was really paying attention. You got writer's gold in these two.

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

"Sal???" gasps Joe, seeing all color drain from his wife's face as her eyes flare and the pupils dilate. "Sal!!! Leonoreh! Go getcha mot'eh a glassa wawteh! SAL!!!!!!"

What the heck happened? I thought he was playing well.

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

Chili may never get to be Miss Rheingold, but I bet she could get a deal with Wonder Bread.

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

Annnnd that's that...

Jesus.

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

Her heart's just not in it anymore.

It really doesn't seem to be. She needs to get Hu Shee back to run things for a bit until she finds her footing again.

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

Cause/effect.

It's still with us in some form. From yesterday's WSJ:

MLB Owners Just Proposed a Salary Cap. It Could Cost Them an Entire Season.​

In the first salvo of a potentially ugly labor battle, the 30 franchises proposed a ceiling for the first time in more than 30 years​

 

[Harp]

Johnny Camera's odyssey finale is great news. Ms Wengler's comatose state decidedly mixed however her child has birthed. And GIs returning home perish Icarus fiery flight. Fateful rule of Life boils down mere chance.

The Little Rock courtroom whippings spilled some coffee. Learned trial judge tongue lashing is old hat, but actual leather is an altogether new kick.

And as to Ian McLane's conundrum, adversarial possession actually exists in law, which will move towards property settlement said issue. As to Ian, the Homeric aphorism, ''Aphrodite robs the wits of the wise, so'er prudent,'' certainly applies.

Assault won the Belmont Stakes to belt out a grand slam season.
Last nite, post positions were drawn this year's run for a somewhat less stellar equine cast. I haven't looked results yet; though fate favors a better placed Renegade than his rail anchored Churchill Downs box ride.

And speaking of Fate, Dragon Gal quixotically seems a bit lost amidst fortuned life and death.
I may be reading Milt's mind but my impression is that postwar China will not be so favorably disposed our ice queen for long.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Y'dam'right I did!" declares Sally. "Soon's I came to, I wen' right oveh t' Schreibstein's an' cawlt Weste'n Union, an' I senna wieh t' t'at rat Benswangeh!" "Ben who?" puzzles Alice. "Benswangeh," sneers Sally. "T'at bum t'at owns t' Pittsboigs an' sol' Petey downa riveh!" "I t'ought'ee got sold t' San Diego," queries Alice. "Ain'nat in Mexico a' sump'n?" "It's in Califawrnyeh," growls Sally. "I looked it up in Leonoreh's 'cyclolpedia. It's right BY Mexico. Petey can jump sout' anytime 'e wantsta. An' it'd soive'm right!" "I can't b'lieve," exhales Alice, "you wen' out innat rain." "Wasn' rainin' when I wen' oveh," argues Sally. "When I come back, it was rainin'. Awmos' hadda swim c'rawsta street." "I gotta han' it to ya, Sal," shrugs Alice. "You say ya gonna do sump'n, ya do it." The bus rattles on as the conversation lulls. "Hey," heys Alice. "Whassit cawst t'sen' a wieh t' Pittsboig?" "I wouldn' know," snickers Sally. "I sen' it colleck....")

("Pooeh kid," sighs Bink, laying aside the newspaper. She gazes into the crib, where young Frankie squirms in a fitful sleep. "Maybe you ain' gotta fawrt'eh," she continues. "Butcha got plenny a' uncles....")

(This is what happens when you throw away the instructions...)

(Retire? Hm, I wonder if they have horse racing in Vera Cruz?)

(Charlie Plumb must have something against his editor right now...)

(HAH! Who writes your dialogue, Ursula Parrott?)

("I got a thirteen week contract here as comedy relief, an' I ain't nowhere near relieved yet!")

(At least she knows how to read "5.")

(Oh, well, at least you have a plan...)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"Oopsy daisy!"

"Oi swaaaar t' ye," vows Uncle Frank, indicating the four crates stacked on the floor, "thaaaar ain't a bit 'a p'tataaar in thaaat beer." Shaughnessy the Butcher squints at the cases and steps around his counter. He reaches into one of the crates and selects a bottle. He takes a long look at the label. "Is thaaar woon 'F' in 'Schaefer?" he queries, "arrr two?"

"If I can remember the exact words, this might work. Do you have a big blanket I could use? Or a rug?"

Again, "Ew."

"I mean, I know someone with two good legs who doesn't do half the work..."

"We can't ALL be Sinatra!"

It's a pity he can't find a way to sublimate all this -- ah -- energy into some sort of productive labor.

Gold Digger of 1946.

Ever get the feeling your life's in a rut?

To be honest, by now he's probably down to about 75 cents.

 

[Fading Fast]

"I t'ought'ee got sold t' San Diego," queries Alice. "Ain'nat in Mexico a' sump'n?"

"Whassit cawst t'sen' a wieh t' Pittsboig?" "I wouldn' know,"

I love her.

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

HAH! Who writes your dialogue, Ursula Parrott?

In that case, shouldn't she be much older and he be much younger. Just sayin'.

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

"I got a thirteen week contract here as comedy relief, an' I ain't nowhere near relieved yet!"

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

"Is thaaar woon 'F' in 'Schaefer?" he queries, "arrr two?"

Oy, Inky.

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

"I mean, I know someone with two good legs who doesn't do half the work..."

Kudos to Frank King for being ahead of his time.

 

[Harp]

So much misery and suffering this morning's paper, first cup of coffee.

The light side is Ian McLane's apparent infatuation with Binnie Adair; whatever attendant dialogue,
he's obviously rebounded with an exquisite lovely young lady.

Glanced over the sailors seated bar picture and write up. Whenever the Fleet anchored Athens, all US Army
personnel were warned to stay station; consequently, we went to town looking for trouble. Young and dumb
bar brawls accomplish nothing but a good time had by all.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Oi'm tellin' ye, lad," assures Uncle Frank, "aaaahl th' meat is as good as Oi'm showin' ye here!" "I dunno," ponders Joe, poking at the unwrapped sample with the edge of his spatula. "I mean, it looks awright, but..." "Tell ye what," proposes Uncle Frank. "Froy it oop ahhn ye grill tharrr. Take a boite. An' thin tell me if ye doon't foind it t'be taaaahp-grade beef." With a suspicious squint, Joe turns on the burners, and waits for the grill to heat. "Wheh y'gett'n it?" frowns Joe. "It ain' -- hot, is it?" "Ohhhhh, now Joseph," smiles Uncle Frank. "Yee've knoown me aaaahl these years. Ye know that Oi'm..." "A bootleggeh," snorts Joe. "Oi'm an independent businessman," smooths Uncle Frank. "Oi merely facilitate arragements, an' me dealin's aaare beyaaand reprooch." "Butcha ain' gonna tell me," sighs Joe, slapping the meat on the grill, "wheh y'got it." "One moost pr'tect," asserts Uncle Frank, "woon's trade secrets." Joe watches the meat sizzle as Uncle Frank sips his two-cents-plain, and when the proper time has elapsed, he slides the patty onto a tin ice-cream dish and pokes it with a spoon. "Good juices," he shrugs. He severs a small piece, sniffs it, hestitates, and takes a bite. "Well?" questions Uncle Frank. "Hmm," hms Joe, chewing carefully. "Good textcheh," he admits. "Good flaveh," he adds, and swallows. He runs his tongue over his teeth. "An' no aftehtaste. Huh. T'at ain' bad." He pries off another piece and consumes it with a bit more enthusiasm. "May I?" requests Uncle Frank, and Joe offers another spoon. "Oh, yes," he nods, thru a generous bite. "Saaaaartainly oopta th' Big Joe's standarrd." "I dunno," sighs Joe, gazing down at the depleted patty. "It's jus'..." "Joe, me boy," urges Uncle Frank. "Take me advoice. Doon't look'a gift haaaarse..." "Ohhhhhh," exhales Joe. "Ohh," inhales Uncle Frank. "That ain't what Oi meant...")

("Whassat stuff, Ma?" queries Leonora. "Go readja book," dismisses Sally. "Why'a puttn'at onya face?" frowns Leonora. "I gotta go somewhez t'night," replies Sally. "It makes ya look funny," dismisses Leonora. "Whehya goin'?" "T' school," replies Sally, as Leonora tips her ear. "T' Collitch. You know I go t'eh coupl'a night a week." "You neveh put t'at onya face befoeh," notes Leonora. Sally frowns at her reflection, and dabs the wet sponge again under her eyes. "Someday," she sighs, "ya gonna get t'ese bags undeh ya eyes. An' some smawrt-mout' kid is gonna say 'hey gran'ma' t' YOU." "What kid cawlt you 'gran'ma?" demands Leonora. "Was it Lottie???" "No," sighs Sally. "It wasn' Lottie." "Good," declares Sally. "Cause if she did I'd hafta kick 'eh again." Sally pauses again. "Again??" she frowns. "Do'worry," grins Leonora. "I betcha she won' cawl ya crazy no moeh!")

(Hey, that guy Snodgrass gets around...)

(If you want to see the most intimidating pitching motion you'll ever see in your life, find some footage of Walter Johnson in his prime. He could throw 95 mph with a delivery that was so sidearm it was almost underhand.)

(Charlie is really thinking this thru, isn't he?)

(GRamercy 5? Be careful, I hear Artie Shaw lives around there.)

(I love a good cowboy romance.)

("I guess it won't kill me" is not the way to go thru life...)

(That UNGRATEFUL LITTLE BRAT.)

And finally, as Sally makes her way to Brooklyn College, she stops at the Out of Town Newsstand in the Flatbush Avenue station. "You got any Pittsboig?" she demands. The newsdealer shifts his cigar, and nudges his head toward the edge of his display. "Fi' cent," he wheezes. "Says t'ree cents!" glowers Sally. "Fi' cent," repeats the newsdealer, rolling his cigar back to its original position. Sally scowls and fishes a nickel from her handbag. "Awlat," she growls as she heads to the exit, "f' one page...."

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"****y Boylin??" You're making that up.

See, Inky? This is how you spell it.

"I had hoped you'd find it endearing..."

"SO far..."

Eventually every new job settles into the same old routine...

"Oh well, we're done here. Get the putty knives."

Don't make too many plans, kid. There's a lot going on in the world...

On the other hand, there's something to be said for getting on with your life.

It's such a simple scheme even she's bored with it.

Sure you want to keep going with this, hon?

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Worker...

There's a New World Coming...

 

[Fading Fast]

Hey, that guy Snodgrass gets around...

Probably, as the saying goes, too soon to go to Europe for a vacation.

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

"Says t'ree cents!" glowers Sally. "Fi' cent," repeats the newsdealer, rolling his cigar back to its original position. Sally scowls and fishes a nickel from her handbag.

I have this vague half memory of paying a premium for some out-of-town papers but I seem to remember the dealer telling me that transportation was the reason why, not just scowling, but heck, it's a newsstand in Brooklyn in 1946, it might not be run by Robert's Rules of Order.

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

"****y Boylin??" You're making that up.

Ever since James Bond and P*ssy Galore, I'll believe anything in a name.

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

"SO far..."

My dad might have said that, too. It was a trust-but-verify generation.