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Fantasite, v. 1, issue 1, November 1940

Page 5

NOTES AND NUTS ON THE CHICON
BY
BOB TUCKER

That Morojo maintained a room at the Hotel Chicagoan is indeed a fortunate thing, for many of us, and blamed handy too. "689" was the little convention hall, the unofficial meeting place of any fan who cared to wander in. We lolled all over the beds, perched ourselves on the desks and bureaus, hung out the window, occupied the bathroom, ate cake someone's mother sent up, wrote letters home, eyed eagerly a glass of phony whiskey set temptingly within reach (( Tell me, Morojo, did anyone finally "bite" and drink that concoction?)), undoubtedly ran up a bill against the room via the nickel phone, swapped stories, let spill news, speculated on the reasons of the various peoples' absence, and changed our trousers.

At various times, in and out of that room drifted all the "names" in attendance: Widner, Singleton, Ackerman, Freehafer, Tanner, Rocklynne, Smith, Tarr, Rothman, ---well, it's a safe bet that at one time or another every out-of-town fan (as well as all local ones) dropped into "689". Morojo, Pogo, and Kuslan were patient hosts. In this room formed a "clique" that more or less hung together during the convention and did things together. Nice things of course: Morojo, Pogo, 4sJ, Freehafer, Korshak, Reinsberg and myself.

I recall the two Chicago lads showing we out-of-towners the city Friday night. Passing a Walgreen drug store a brainwave broke out, and was satisfied until we had all ridden up and down the escalators (moving steps to you) in divers ways; until finally the clerks glared meaningly in our direction. Remembering the old gag that the customer is always right, someone purchased a box of licorice sticks and the half-dozen of us sauntered down Madison Ave. chewing on the little black delights. I overheard the doleful warning: "this'll go into Le Zombie!"

At some unremembered point we picked up Meyer, and journeyed to a bus station where Dikty and Shroyer were due in sometime that night. That our wait was in vain, we sleepy innocents did not discover until much later. Buses came and departed and time dragged heavily onward; frequent trips to the washroom did little to relieve the monotony until Reinsberg produced a pack of ESP cards, whereupon we amused ourselves and countless but patrons by showing what rotten telepathers we were.

I once met Kuslan, Korshak and Singleton emerging from the revolving doors of the hotel, hunting for someone. "What's up?" I asked. "We're hunting for Shroyer," was his answer, - "seen 'im?" upon a negative reply, they migrated up the street. I went thru the doors and just inside stood a happily beaming Shroyer.

( contd. next pge. )

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NOTES AND NUTS ON THE CHICON BY BOB TUCKER That Morojo maintained a room at the Hotel Chicagoan is indeed a fortunate thing, for many of us, and blamed handy too. "689" was the little convention hall, the unofficial meeting place of any fan who cared to wander in. We lolled all over the beds, perched ourselves on the desks and bureaus, hung out the window, occupied the bathroom, ate cake someone's mother sent up, wrote letters home, eyed eagerly a glass of phony whiskey set temptingly within reach (( Tell me, Morojo, did anyone finally "bite" and drink that concoction?)), undoubtedly ran up a bill against the room via the nickel phone, swapped stories, let spill news, speculated on the reasons of the various peoples' absence, and changed our trousers. At various times, in and out of that room drifted all the "names" in attendance: Widner, Singleton, Ackerman, Freehafer, Tanner, Rocklynne, Smith, Tarr, Rothman, ---well, it's a safe bet that at one time or another every out-of-town fan (as well as all local ones) dropped into "689". Morojo, Pogo, and Kuslan were patient hosts. In this room formed a "clique" that more or less hung together during the convention and did things together. Nice things of course: Morojo, Pogo, 4sJ, Freehafer, Korshak, Reinsberg and myself. I recall the two Chicago lads showing we out-of-towners the city Friday night. Passing a Walgreen drug store a brainwave broke out, and was satisfied until we had all ridden up and down the escalators (moving steps to you) in divers ways; until finally the clerks glared meaningly in our direction. Remembering the old gag that the customer is always right, someone purchased a box of licorice sticks and the half-dozen of us sauntered down Madison Ave. chewing on the little black delights. I overheard the doleful warning: "this'll go into Le Zombie!" At some unremembered point we picked up Meyer, and journeyed to a bus station where Dikty and Shroyer were due in sometime that night. That our wait was in vain, we sleepy innocents did not discover until much later. Buses came and departed and time dragged heavily onward; frequent trips to the washroom did little to relieve the monotony until Reinsberg produced a pack of ESP cards, whereupon we amused ourselves and countless but patrons by showing what rotten telepathers we were. I once met Kuslan, Korshak and Singleton emerging from the revolving doors of the hotel, hunting for someone. "What's up?" I asked. "We're hunting for Shroyer," was his answer, - "seen 'im?" upon a negative reply, they migrated up the street. I went thru the doors and just inside stood a happily beaming Shroyer. ( contd. next pge. )