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GLOM, issue 13, May 1949

Page 1

             'GLOM'
                I3
        FAPA (May '49)

          Publisher:
     Forrest J Ackerman

    IT HAPPENED ONE NITE; or
    A TALE OF TWO CITIES; by
    F o r r e s t J A c k e r m a n

   On Saturday night, 26 Feb 49, in Alhambra, Cal, suburb of Los Angeles, a small group of self-styled ex-fans, anti-fans, quasi-fans (fans is the queasiest people) etc was busy making a big noise about EEEvans, Walt Daugherty, F JAckerman and allied bad boys, and castigating that crumb-joint of corruption, that cesspool of faniquity, that home of homogenized milquetoasts, that mutilater of fine minds, that pockmark on the proud face of fandom: this name, this tradition, this land we love—this England!  In brief, the insurgents were engrossed in their favorite game, HATE THE LASFS, as manifestered in their club organ, Wild Hare (the fanzine for rabbit fans).
   And what was happening the while in LA proper?  The muchly maligned LASFS was feting one of its favorite sons (of batches, that is)—bachelor EEEvans.  And at a buck seventy-five per plate!  A dinner was being given in honor of Evans’ progress in the writing field.  Of the many fangelenos who were attempting to write salable fiction in ’48, Everett had been most successful.
   At the Evans Evening such staunch supporters as Francis Laney and Chas Burbee and Al Ashley were unaccountably missing.  Still, without having been there, I’m sure any of these gentlemen could give you a vivid account of what went on.  After all, you weren’t there either: how could you tell the difference?  A typical report might be expected to run something like this: “Have you heard about the Evans fiasco?  Saint Everett offered to buy a meal for anybody who’d come and listen to him modestly explain how a half dozen other guys helped him touch of a word or two of his stories to make them sell.  Of course he drew a small crowd of the unemployed in LA fandom, plus that illiterate honorary member of the LASFS, Willard Thompson (the poor fan’s Walter Daugherty).  The food was good; the Foo was not.  The more sensitive of the fans had difficulty in refraining from regurgitating when Saint Everett began pouring on the saccharine, and by 9:30 the banquet room had thinned out, leaving only a handful of doubtful characters, although there was no doubt in my mind as to their characters……” That’s the unkind of crap that Laney churns out and we all do nothing about.
   The fact of the matter is—Wait a minute, let me preface this.  I recognize that you sitting off there in Pennsylvania or Denver or DC or wherever you may be can’t very well tell whether what Laney is saying is true or whether my version is.  When I say “Ray Bradbury rose and stated, in introducing the Guest of Honor, ‘There have been two completely happy days in my life.  The first, that Summer day in 1941 when I sold my first story to ’Super Science’; the second was the day I learn that E. Everett Evans had sold his first story.”—when I report this as having happened, well, it could be pure imagination on my part, maybe Bradbury wasn’t even there.  Maybe when I say I could produce 37

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'GLOM' I3 FAPA (May '49) Publisher: Forrest J Ackerman IT HAPPENED ONE NITE; or A TALE OF TWO CITIES; by F o r r e s t J A c k e r m a n On Saturday night, 26 Feb 49, in Alhambra, Cal, suburb of Los Angeles, a small group of self-styled ex-fans, anti-fans, quasi-fans (fans is the queasiest people) etc was busy making a big noise about EEEvans, Walt Daugherty, F JAckerman and allied bad boys, and castigating that crumb-joint of corruption, that cesspool of faniquity, that home of homogenized milquetoasts, that mutilater of fine minds, that pockmark on the proud face of fandom: this name, this tradition, this land we love—this England! In brief, the insurgents were engrossed in their favorite game, HATE THE LASFS, as manifestered in their club organ, Wild Hare (the fanzine for rabbit fans). And what was happening the while in LA proper? The muchly maligned LASFS was feting one of its favorite sons (of batches, that is)—bachelor EEEvans. And at a buck seventy-five per plate! A dinner was being given in honor of Evans’ progress in the writing field. Of the many fangelenos who were attempting to write salable fiction in ’48, Everett had been most successful. At the Evans Evening such staunch supporters as Francis Laney and Chas Burbee and Al Ashley were unaccountably missing. Still, without having been there, I’m sure any of these gentlemen could give you a vivid account of what went on. After all, you weren’t there either: how could you tell the difference? A typical report might be expected to run something like this: “Have you heard about the Evans fiasco? Saint Everett offered to buy a meal for anybody who’d come and listen to him modestly explain how a half dozen other guys helped him touch of a word or two of his stories to make them sell. Of course he drew a small crowd of the unemployed in LA fandom, plus that illiterate honorary member of the LASFS, Willard Thompson (the poor fan’s Walter Daugherty). The food was good; the Foo was not. The more sensitive of the fans had difficulty in refraining from regurgitating when Saint Everett began pouring on the saccharine, and by 9:30 the banquet room had thinned out, leaving only a handful of doubtful characters, although there was no doubt in my mind as to their characters……” That’s the unkind of crap that Laney churns out and we all do nothing about. The fact of the matter is—Wait a minute, let me preface this. I recognize that you sitting off there in Pennsylvania or Denver or DC or wherever you may be can’t very well tell whether what Laney is saying is true or whether my version is. When I say “Ray Bradbury rose and stated, in introducing the Guest of Honor, ‘There have been two completely happy days in my life. The first, that Summer day in 1941 when I sold my first story to ’Super Science’; the second was the day I learn that E. Everett Evans had sold his first story.”—when I report this as having happened, well, it could be pure imagination on my part, maybe Bradbury wasn’t even there. Maybe when I say I could produce 37