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Fanfare, v. 1, issue 5, December 1940
Page 11
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FANFARE 11 SLAN!-DER b y Joseph Q. Gilbert This is strictly a highbrow column. In it, I shall endeavor to cheerfully unload every two months, the full weight of my inhibitions, dislikes, and profound reflections on fandom in general. Being a strictly highbrow columnist, I shall say, "Thou art an odiferous fabricator," instead of, "You're a stinking liar." Everything in it will be my opinion, not necessarily Widner's or Singleton's, or any of the Strangers. If anyone wants to fight, I advise him to -- this'll kill you! -- join the army. If he's already been conscripted, then he should aim all disintegrators, ray guns and stinkweed bouquets in my direction--not at the editors of this magazine; they wouldn't appreciate it. My neck is stuck out (filthy, isn't it?), and if anyone wants to take a swing at it, over anything in the colyum, go ahead. I'll go 'round and 'round with him as long as it doesn't involve me in a fan feud. I don't like fan feuds...Fan feuds are stoopid, and if anyone doesn't believe it, just let him look at New Fandom. With which sage remarks, I wobble complacently into oblivion... The Chicago Convention is over. The last happy fan has been gently detached from his lap post, handed his inevitable typewriter, and politely told to kindly get the hell out of Chicago. The last bewildered pink elephant has been trotted down to the city zoo, and the last Feudurian has disappeared in a wake of soapboxes and choruses of the Communist Internationale. An exhausted Mark Reinsberg has wiped his moist brow with a trembling hand and sworn, "Never again!" The city of Chicago has been returned to its foundations and the world is at peace again. No cry of "Stink Captain Future!" or "Listen, Bud, ya gotta read Escape or ya ain't eddicated!" disturbs the peace of the sleeping city. The Chicago Convention is over. And seriously, I believe we all owe a debt of thanks to Mark, and Tucker, and all the others who worked so hard to prove that a convention can be a success without exclusions, without glory hunting, and without hysterical assertions that the fan world would collapse if this or that organization was not regarded as the alpha and omega of all fandom, if we did not get behind and push, push, push, for dear old Lamebrain J. Pumphandle and his colossal fan organization. The series of yearly conventions will, it seems, definitely continue. Denver is next. If the second Southern Expeditionary Force does not strike out like the last one, we'll be seeing you there! It strikes me with disagreeable force that Donald A. Wollheim's PLANET THAT TIME FORGOT in the Fall issue of PLANET STORIES is just about the lousiest bit of nothing at all I've seen in quite a while. Rather a disappointment, too, since Don's excellent little short, THE HATERS, in the October UNKNOWN. Wollheim has potentialities as a writer -- but then, so did Kummer. . . And you're quite welcome to take that any way you please -- I'm not completely sure what I mean by it myself. Speaking of DAW, reminds me of the card sent about a letter of mine in SPACEWAYS, in which I commented on the graphological significance of his handwriting. That card went:
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FANFARE 11 SLAN!-DER b y Joseph Q. Gilbert This is strictly a highbrow column. In it, I shall endeavor to cheerfully unload every two months, the full weight of my inhibitions, dislikes, and profound reflections on fandom in general. Being a strictly highbrow columnist, I shall say, "Thou art an odiferous fabricator," instead of, "You're a stinking liar." Everything in it will be my opinion, not necessarily Widner's or Singleton's, or any of the Strangers. If anyone wants to fight, I advise him to -- this'll kill you! -- join the army. If he's already been conscripted, then he should aim all disintegrators, ray guns and stinkweed bouquets in my direction--not at the editors of this magazine; they wouldn't appreciate it. My neck is stuck out (filthy, isn't it?), and if anyone wants to take a swing at it, over anything in the colyum, go ahead. I'll go 'round and 'round with him as long as it doesn't involve me in a fan feud. I don't like fan feuds...Fan feuds are stoopid, and if anyone doesn't believe it, just let him look at New Fandom. With which sage remarks, I wobble complacently into oblivion... The Chicago Convention is over. The last happy fan has been gently detached from his lap post, handed his inevitable typewriter, and politely told to kindly get the hell out of Chicago. The last bewildered pink elephant has been trotted down to the city zoo, and the last Feudurian has disappeared in a wake of soapboxes and choruses of the Communist Internationale. An exhausted Mark Reinsberg has wiped his moist brow with a trembling hand and sworn, "Never again!" The city of Chicago has been returned to its foundations and the world is at peace again. No cry of "Stink Captain Future!" or "Listen, Bud, ya gotta read Escape or ya ain't eddicated!" disturbs the peace of the sleeping city. The Chicago Convention is over. And seriously, I believe we all owe a debt of thanks to Mark, and Tucker, and all the others who worked so hard to prove that a convention can be a success without exclusions, without glory hunting, and without hysterical assertions that the fan world would collapse if this or that organization was not regarded as the alpha and omega of all fandom, if we did not get behind and push, push, push, for dear old Lamebrain J. Pumphandle and his colossal fan organization. The series of yearly conventions will, it seems, definitely continue. Denver is next. If the second Southern Expeditionary Force does not strike out like the last one, we'll be seeing you there! It strikes me with disagreeable force that Donald A. Wollheim's PLANET THAT TIME FORGOT in the Fall issue of PLANET STORIES is just about the lousiest bit of nothing at all I've seen in quite a while. Rather a disappointment, too, since Don's excellent little short, THE HATERS, in the October UNKNOWN. Wollheim has potentialities as a writer -- but then, so did Kummer. . . And you're quite welcome to take that any way you please -- I'm not completely sure what I mean by it myself. Speaking of DAW, reminds me of the card sent about a letter of mine in SPACEWAYS, in which I commented on the graphological significance of his handwriting. That card went:
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