DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | Fanfare, v. 1, issue 5, December 1940

Transcribe
Translate

Fanfare, v. 1, issue 5, December 1940

Page 12

12     FAN-FARE

SLAN!-DER

Psychological I am
I know my own psychoses
For Freud and I don't give a damn
He can't plumb my neuroses.

Which, I think, is stinking poetry, but the idea is nice. 

I want to take a little space right here to boost a fan who has not taken first place in Art's poll, who doesn't make a loud noise, or shoot off his mouth, or indulge in fan feuds. A fan who is almost alone in the fan field in that no one hates him, and everybody likes him. An honest dealer, and just a damn nice guy -- Julius Unger.

I am singularly griped, not to say disappointed, disaffected, discouraged, discomfitted, disconcerted, and discommoded by the conduct of one J. Chapman Miske. It is my opinion that Mr. Miske has not behaved with decorum befitting a gentleman and a scholar.
It seems that a non-fan friend of mine is fond of mine is fond of poetry, and was so interested in J. Chapman's FAPA pub, Chaos, that he asked me to get him a copy. Accordingly, I wrote the beloved fan in question requesting a spare copy if any were on hand. Far from shrieking in frenzied glee at the opportunity of sending one copy of Chaos to someone who actually wanted it, friend Miske did not even answer my communication.
If this were an earlier day when knights put on tin pants and went galloping gloriously out to get 'em torn off, I would challenge J. Chapman to a duel at dawn on the field of honor - - marshmallows at fifty paces - - and leave his quivering corpse to stink up the landscape. But inasmuch as our rotten, putrid, disgusting, and revolting social system -- damn this Feudurian propoganda! -- does not allow this, and since I can't be awakened before nine every morning, this is unfortunately out of the question.
However, I have brewed up a scheme to thoroughly chagrin the grumbling grouch of choo choo avenue. I shall present a copy of one of my own poems. Kindly walk, do not run, to the exits. Thank you.

ODE OF A FAN TO HIS ALTER EGO

Breathes there a fan
With soul so dead,
That he never to himself had said,
This is my own, my Remington Rand!

Ain't it booful?
To every fan who will rip off a barn door and send it to me with a short letter of not more than 65,000 words why he thinks this poem is the greatest achievement in English literachooer, I will set up the STAR'S mineograph and run him off a copy.

One of my fondest dreams has been of that bright and beautiful day when Art will conduct a poll on the biggest dope in fandom, and I could come prancing demurely forward to claim first prize. Anybody can be a number one fan, but it takes real genius to be the prize jackass of fandom. In manly frankness, dear reader, I thought that I, J. Gilbert, had what t took to be number one dope in the fan world.
But alas! My castles in Spain stopped a Loyalist shell and came

Saving...

12 FAN-FARE SLAN!-DER Psychological I am I know my own psychoses For Freud and I don't give a damn He can't plumb my neuroses. Which, I think, is stinking poetry, but the idea is nice. I want to take a little space right here to boost a fan who has not taken first place in Art's poll, who doesn't make a loud noise, or shoot off his mouth, or indulge in fan feuds. A fan who is almost alone in the fan field in that no one hates him, and everybody likes him. An honest dealer, and just a damn nice guy -- Julius Unger. I am singularly griped, not to say disappointed, disaffected, discouraged, discomfitted, disconcerted, and discommoded by the conduct of one J. Chapman Miske. It is my opinion that Mr. Miske has not behaved with decorum befitting a gentleman and a scholar. It seems that a non-fan friend of mine is fond of mine is fond of poetry, and was so interested in J. Chapman's FAPA pub, Chaos, that he asked me to get him a copy. Accordingly, I wrote the beloved fan in question requesting a spare copy if any were on hand. Far from shrieking in frenzied glee at the opportunity of sending one copy of Chaos to someone who actually wanted it, friend Miske did not even answer my communication. If this were an earlier day when knights put on tin pants and went galloping gloriously out to get 'em torn off, I would challenge J. Chapman to a duel at dawn on the field of honor - - marshmallows at fifty paces - - and leave his quivering corpse to stink up the landscape. But inasmuch as our rotten, putrid, disgusting, and revolting social system -- damn this Feudurian propoganda! -- does not allow this, and since I can't be awakened before nine every morning, this is unfortunately out of the question. However, I have brewed up a scheme to thoroughly chagrin the grumbling grouch of choo choo avenue. I shall present a copy of one of my own poems. Kindly walk, do not run, to the exits. Thank you. ODE OF A FAN TO HIS ALTER EGO Breathes there a fan With soul so dead, That he never to himself had said, This is my own, my Remington Rand! Ain't it booful? To every fan who will rip off a barn door and send it to me with a short letter of not more than 65,000 words why he thinks this poem is the greatest achievement in English literachooer, I will set up the STAR'S mineograph and run him off a copy. One of my fondest dreams has been of that bright and beautiful day when Art will conduct a poll on the biggest dope in fandom, and I could come prancing demurely forward to claim first prize. Anybody can be a number one fan, but it takes real genius to be the prize jackass of fandom. In manly frankness, dear reader, I thought that I, J. Gilbert, had what t took to be number one dope in the fan world. But alas! My castles in Spain stopped a Loyalist shell and came