The Era -- Day By Day

[Harp]

World Cup late last nite, Norwegians beat Senegel; then Algeria and Jordan had a knock down dragout.
Today's sheets given perfunctory peruse with nothing caught over coffee but Slits' tortious verbal riposte,
quite salacious sip contemplating Dragon Gal's immediate situation. Meanwhile, Stateside, Binnie has flown
the coop and left Selene the obligatory note; which kills off Ian inside this isosceles triangle.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Sal," whispers Joe. "You 'sleep?" "No," sighs Sally, glancing at the radium glow of the alarm clock, its hands pointing to 2:35. "Whattaya t'ink I oughteh do?" Joe continues, staring into the murk. "T'at guy, t'at Benny Kessleh. He tawked so fast. An' it soun'ed like it made sense, I guess, but --- well, I dunno. Does it make sense, even? T'go in awna deal like t'at, sign a contrack t'pay foehty bucksa mont', an' I can't even get any meat!" "You been out'eh," notes Sally. "You seen'at traffic. Awlem chumps goin' out t' racetrack. Got nut'n but money t' spend. An'neh hungry. Whattatey gonna eat at t' race track, some rotten hot dawg outta doity wawteh? You go in out t'eh, an' once t' meat DOES come back, y'make a tonna money." "Racetrack closes f' t' winteh, t'ough," points out Joe. "Novembeh t' April. T'at's five mont's wit' no money comin' in out'eh. But t'at foehty bucks still gotta get paid." "What if y' make so much money inna summeh," replies Sally, "it'll getcha t'ru t' winteh?" "Who's gonna run it?" questions Joe. "Me? Who's gonna run t' grill at t' stoeh?" "Bink Scanlan knows how t' do it," counters Sally. "She's lazy, but she ain't dumb. An' Ma can keep'eh on'eh toes. An' maybe when t'ings get goin' y'can hieh somebody." Joe considers all this. "Sal," he resumes, "did you trust'at guy Benny?" "I guess so," hesitates Sally. "I mean, I -- uh -- neveh hoid'v'im, but -- um --- he hadda hones' face." "Jus' t' face, huh?" queries Joe. "Hey," insists Sally. "I'm good at judgin' faces. I mean'nat night at Roselan, I fois' seen you. I had you figyehed. I seen you an' Solly stanin'eh, an' I hadja bot' figyehed. An' heeh we awr." "Solly too, huh," muses Joe. "Ummm," stammers Sally. "T'at ain' what I..." "Huh?" "Go t'sleep, Joe....")

("I neveh t'ought I'd be glad t'be awnis stupid train again," sighs Sally. "An'now t'ey wanna hike t' faeh." "Yeh," yehs Alice, her mind not on the ride. "Sal," she exhales. "Lissen. I gotta tell ya sump'n." Sally squints over at her friend, takes off her glasses, buffs the lenses with her sleeve, and puts them back on. "Sueh," she nods. "What's awnya mind?" "Sal," repeats Alice, "a bunch'vus have been tawkin'." "So I heeh," glowers Sally. "Well," Alice continues, "we d'cided we wanna tawk t' YOU. Can you come down t' t' Ginsboigs' place t'night?" "I got school," rebuffs Sally. "T'marra," counters Alice. "It's impoehten'. Seven t'oity, t'marra night." "Alice," sighs Sally. "If t'is is about..." "Not'eeh, Sal," headshakes Alice, indicating the full train. "Not'eeh. Not now. T'marra night, at t' Ginsboigs, seven t'oity. We got sump'n we wanna say." "Oh," ohs Sally. "Awright. T'marra night. Seven t'oity. An' *I* got sump'n t'say....")

(These golden moments won't last forever...)

(Of course, there's the fact that eliminating Sunday doubleheaders adds another single-admission home date to the schedule, and goosing attendance in that way would certainy be acceptable to El Chea --uh -- Mr. Rickey...)

(Nineteen years she worked there, and the pail was full of her blood and sweat...)

(Hmph, you're no Norma Talmadge.)

("Wait, she's a girl?")

(There's a Tear For Every Broken Heart In Swampland.)

(It's nice to have security.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

As I recall, the News was strongly in favor of lifting the non-fraternization ban. No doubt anticipating material for Page Four.

I guess that's one way to learn how to be a broker.

"And, repellent one, I shall rip out your bowels with the jagged end of the bone..."

In the spectacular all-star revue of life, we all have our turn on the stage...

Nice poker face, hon.

It's not too late to leave town.

Where would we all be without Influential Delegations to pull the strings...

Be nonchalant...

"You'll eat egg gruel and you'll like it!"

There's nothing more refreshing on a hot summer day...

 

[Fading Fast]

"...An' *I* got sump'n t'say...."

When don't ya?

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

Nineteen years she worked there, and the pail was full of her blood and sweat...

This strip, like "Invisible Scarlet," makes it hard for you to like it.

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

As I recall, the News was strongly in favor of lifting the non-fraternization ban. No doubt anticipating material for Page Four.

These are unsolvable problems without creating worse problems. Young men and women like having s*x – how do you stop humans from being human?

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

I guess that's one way to learn how to be a broker.

Brutal era for investing.

Jack Karp looks like he'd sell insurance and he sounds insufferable.

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

"And, repellent one, I shall rip out your bowels with the jagged end of the bone..."

You're not wrong at all, but Jesus, Lizzie, that's a lot of anger. Oh, and I think you spelled "bowels" wrong.

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

Be nonchalant...

Allow me to steal from you: tick, tick, tick, tick...

 

[Harp]

Read Eastern Star marital/sibling-law ******* story with its cryptic laconic farewell note....

American GIs stationed post war Germany chasing local girls shouldn't surprise anyone; including Army
chaplaincy, normally quite grounded where grunts are concerned. Drink, gamble, fight, chase women.

Selene is not entirely unsympathetically drawn. Ian may still have a shot with her. Binnie might surface,
Ian can screw it all up again like a dawg, and Selene patch things with her far more mature daughter.

Dragon Gal and Slits are quite conversant under the circumstance. Slits hammered one out but is still standing in the batter's box waving his stick looking for the ball. All talk and no action. A real crash and burn.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("I hate fish," mutters Bink Scanlan, as Joe dips the cod filets in the bow of potato-based batter. "Any poeht," shrugs Joe, "inna stawrm. Until we get meat again, we soive fish." "Cap'n Joe," snickers Bink. "Yotta weah one'a t'em hats like Popeye." "You weah one if y'wanna," replies Joe. "In fack, y'gonna be spen'in' a lot moeh time backa t'is grill." "Who says?" sniffs Bink, turning a page in the latest Modern Screen. "I guess you ain' hoid," returns Joe. "I'm prob'ly not gonna be aroun' ---" "WHAT?" erupts Bink. "Well, it's ABOUT TIME ya give'eh t' aieh!" "What?" puzzles Joe. "It was on'y a matteh'ra time befoeh y' foun' out!" exhales Bink. "T' t'ink she got away wit' it as lawng as she did!" "What?" repeats Joe. "Runnin' aroun' like one'a t'em Jeezabells," spits Bink, "an' wit'cha BES' FRIEN!" "What?" baffles Joe. "I'd expeck t'at fr'm t'at big flap-eehed louse," sneers Bink. "But t'at SHE should do it' WIT' 'IM, an' RIGHT UNDEH YAWR NOSE, well..." "Whaaaaaaat?" wails Joe.....)

("Well," huffs Sally, surveying the neighborhood tribunal sitting behind grim faces in the Ginsburg parlor. "Ain'NIS a pitcheh postcawrd." She pulls up a bridge chair, sits down, and slaps her hands on her thighs. "Awright," she announces. "I'm 'eeh. Whassisawlabout?" "Should I tawk?" mutters Alice. Mr. GInsburg nods assent, as Mrs. Ginsburg regards the defendant with a mixture of pity and disappointment, Lil and Morrie Schreibstein exchange whispers, and Krause gnaws nervously on the stub of a dead cigar. "Awright," sighs Alice, clearing her throat. "Um," she ums. "Um, we t' people..." Mr. Ginsburg pulls her arm, and as she leans down, he whispers in her ear. "Oh," she replies. "OK. Um, Sal, we awr consoined t'at ---" "Awright," repeats Sally, rising from her chair. "Neveh mine'is. Lissen t' me. I know what allayez been sayin' behin' my back -- my FRIENS, sayin' behin' my back, I ask ya. Well, I come down'eeh t'tell ya t'eh ain' nut'n goin' awn between me an' Solly Pincus." She pauses as the air goes out of the room. "T'eh," she continues. "I said it out loud, awright? Ain'nat whatcha awl been sayin'? Behin' my BACK? My FRIENS??" "Sal," interrupts Alice, "we jus' ---" "Skip it," snaps Sally. "I'm gonna say t'is, an' I'm on'y gonna say it once. I been married t' Joe f' nine yeehs an' I ain' neveh even LOOKED at anybody else, least of awl Solly Pincus!" "Petey," mutters Alice, glaring into Sally's eyes. "T'at's diff'ent," dismisses Sally. "He's a Dodgeh. Awr'ee was. An' don'choo daeh bring up Rudy Vallee. Joe is t' man I married, an' Joe is t'on'y man I need. So I do'wanna heeh no moeh'rabout it." "Sal," glares Alice. "We SEEN ya. Awll'vus. Runnin' aroun' t'get'eh, whisp'rin', right out'n public. Wheh t'ez smoke, t'ez a Camel." Sally takes off her glasses and rubs her eyes. "Awright," she sighs. "T'ey say as soon's ya tell one poisson a secret, it ain' a secret. But I'm gonna trust allayez wit' sump'n, an' you betteh sweah t' gawd what I'm gonna say ain' gonna be said t'nobody outside'a t'is room." She surveys the group, as every eye follows her. "Awright," she reiterates. "Heeh's what me an' Solly been doin'......")

(In times of war, prepare for peace...)

(Hig throws a knuckler now? No more "high hard one?" Somewhere, Fitz is smiling.)

("Buh buh boooooooo....")

("Sumptuous Elegance? Is that up by Tuckahoe?")

("That's where they usually end up!")

(I wonder how the Inspector is getting along back in the city without Janie to solve all the crimes?)

(On the other hand, Sandy is back in the city sleeping at his desk with his feet up.)

(Kitty's been sitting there for six weeks waiting for a chance to say that.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

I bet they're the absolute TALK of Hewlett, Long Island.

So all you penny-a-loosie guys lay off.

"That's different. I was highly motivated."

That's that. Take another sh ot, just to make him jump.

Ew.

"Ah. You want Sgt. Doyle, down in the insurance departent."

Some value authenticity in a candidate.

Sweating, kid?

The 52-20 Club is now in session.

Negotiating from a position of strength....

 

[Fading Fast]

"Runnin' aroun' like one'a t'em Jeezabells," spits Bink, "an' wit'cha BES' FRIEN!" "What?" baffles Joe. "I'd expeck t'at fr'm t'at big flap-eehed louse," sneers Bink. "But t'at SHE should do it' WIT' 'IM, an' RIGHT UNDEH YAWR NOSE, well..." "Whaaaaaaat?" wails Joe.....

"Awright," she reiterates. "Heeh's what me an' Solly been doin'......"

Yup, time to bring this one to a climax.

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

I bet they're the absolute TALK of Hewlett, Long Island.

Ms. Muriel Boswell Elliot Forrest Watts Jr.

We've seen better and longer, but it's still a respectable entry in the Page Four insane-name category.

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

Ew.

He's insane.

Chaz, BTW, today said the most intelligent thing I think he's ever said.

 

[Harp]

With the Capone gang illiterates looking to infiltrate thoroughbred racing news syndicate press,
and international war torn provenance horse ownership issues, all ties in with this Stephen Foster weekend.
I'm surprised at the smaller carded fields and prefer eight entrants or more per race, but the prize money
guarantees Derby world class betting handle. I also presume substantial World Cup soccer wager spillage over into Churchill Downs speculation as the global press has been agog over favorable American WC stadium
city hosting. Town n Gown. Ranch, Texas barbeque, and Walmart nailed the WC down.

I must say, and not to brazen, but Slits is hardly the cunninglinguist USDA prime stock Dragon Gal merits.
Slits talks like a real connoisseur of women but renders oratory worthy Shapespeare's cast of Henry before
Agincourt.