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Le Zombie, v. 4, issue 7, whole no. 42, September 1941
Page 11
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THE STAR STOMPER introducing a new column by Foot Pad Thursday night I sat down in my favorite easy chair, logs glowing in the fireplace, whiskey bottle within easy reach, the September Amazing in my hand. I drank in the cover. I read the magazine from cover to cover. I almost caught myself drinking from the bottle. To make sure I didn't miss anything, I read it completely thru again. Editorial, stories, letters and ads. And then I carefully filed the book away, to preserve and read again the lead novelette another day. Cripes but the magazine is awful! How Palmer can sit there in his office and turn that stuff out by the ream is beyond me! How anyone can stand the fiction is even more non-understandable. I think it is fit for only morons. I wouldn't be caught dead with the magazine in my hands! Sitting there, afterwards, thinking of the dear dead days of long ago, when Amazing was in flower, I burst into tears. Actual tears. They cascaded down my shirt front. I was wearing a pale blue shirt with a brown candy stripe I picked up for a bargain. Ah! for those days when Amazing amounted to something! When dear, stuffy old Doc Sloane piloted the book, More splashed the covers, and "foreigners" dominated the dried-up reader columns. When the circulation was so low it was mistaken for a fanzine, and each issue carrie an Edgar Allen Poe reprint ( easily procurable in book form in the most common libraries) to fill space. And now look-- gaudy covers, putrid stories, leading circulation ----- I burst into tears anew! Then I turned my eyes towards New York. In the mind's eye I looked at the fans of that great city. How I was saddened at the spectacle that met my eye! The great, glorious Queens League now but a smouldering ember of it's former self. The small deadly flame that was those radicals of fandom -- the Futurians -- running the city, dominating it with their dangerous doctrines! Two of them editing professional magazines; a half a dozen more writing successfully for them! Oh, the horror of it! And my friends, the real fans of the city, floundering in the depths of darkness. Truly, New York City is a fan city of the past. If I could but turn time back, divert the branches of time, give the deserving fans a break! I have just read a good book. I don't remember the name of it, but I know it was a good book. I recommend it to the fans. Fans are notoriously narrow-minded and intolerant. This book will point out the wisdom of being otherwise. This book should do the fans a lot of good. It will teach them to respect each other's intellect, and goodness knows they need some such lesson pointed out to them. Fanzines seem to be nothing but smut sheets wherein each fan insults his brother fan's intelligence and privacy. I wish I could remember the name of the book. I insist that you aren't educated until you have read it! Conforming to my predictions early in the year, Comet has folded up. I spent almost an hour of my valuable time to write Mr. Tremaine a letter warning him of this very thing. It is a pity more editors will not listen to the sound advice we more intelligent fans have to offer. I know I could have saved Comet. Let us hope Mr Tremaine now realises this!
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THE STAR STOMPER introducing a new column by Foot Pad Thursday night I sat down in my favorite easy chair, logs glowing in the fireplace, whiskey bottle within easy reach, the September Amazing in my hand. I drank in the cover. I read the magazine from cover to cover. I almost caught myself drinking from the bottle. To make sure I didn't miss anything, I read it completely thru again. Editorial, stories, letters and ads. And then I carefully filed the book away, to preserve and read again the lead novelette another day. Cripes but the magazine is awful! How Palmer can sit there in his office and turn that stuff out by the ream is beyond me! How anyone can stand the fiction is even more non-understandable. I think it is fit for only morons. I wouldn't be caught dead with the magazine in my hands! Sitting there, afterwards, thinking of the dear dead days of long ago, when Amazing was in flower, I burst into tears. Actual tears. They cascaded down my shirt front. I was wearing a pale blue shirt with a brown candy stripe I picked up for a bargain. Ah! for those days when Amazing amounted to something! When dear, stuffy old Doc Sloane piloted the book, More splashed the covers, and "foreigners" dominated the dried-up reader columns. When the circulation was so low it was mistaken for a fanzine, and each issue carrie an Edgar Allen Poe reprint ( easily procurable in book form in the most common libraries) to fill space. And now look-- gaudy covers, putrid stories, leading circulation ----- I burst into tears anew! Then I turned my eyes towards New York. In the mind's eye I looked at the fans of that great city. How I was saddened at the spectacle that met my eye! The great, glorious Queens League now but a smouldering ember of it's former self. The small deadly flame that was those radicals of fandom -- the Futurians -- running the city, dominating it with their dangerous doctrines! Two of them editing professional magazines; a half a dozen more writing successfully for them! Oh, the horror of it! And my friends, the real fans of the city, floundering in the depths of darkness. Truly, New York City is a fan city of the past. If I could but turn time back, divert the branches of time, give the deserving fans a break! I have just read a good book. I don't remember the name of it, but I know it was a good book. I recommend it to the fans. Fans are notoriously narrow-minded and intolerant. This book will point out the wisdom of being otherwise. This book should do the fans a lot of good. It will teach them to respect each other's intellect, and goodness knows they need some such lesson pointed out to them. Fanzines seem to be nothing but smut sheets wherein each fan insults his brother fan's intelligence and privacy. I wish I could remember the name of the book. I insist that you aren't educated until you have read it! Conforming to my predictions early in the year, Comet has folded up. I spent almost an hour of my valuable time to write Mr. Tremaine a letter warning him of this very thing. It is a pity more editors will not listen to the sound advice we more intelligent fans have to offer. I know I could have saved Comet. Let us hope Mr Tremaine now realises this!
Hevelin Fanzines
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