The Jazz Age is hell on nerves. Our man gets up late, because his shoddy alarm clock ceased to ring; he chugs throat-searing coffee, nearly gets his internal organs liquefied by a motorcar, holds back the barf that seeks to evacuate the greasy ancient “meat” he had for lunch, gets a headache from the riveter outside the window, gets chewed out by his boss – the riveter must have seen him lean out the window and throw up – then spends the Fitzgerald Hour wide awake, wearing his prison jammies.

JUST AN ORDINARY DAY.

So take Dr. Miles’ Nervine. It is not habit-forming, so don’t feel bad about taking it seven times a day.