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Shangri-L'Affaires, whole no. 11, November 1942

Page 5

THE SHANGRI-LA GRAPE VINE 
BY LOTHAR PENGUIN
It's a Grape Life if you don't weaken. This is an apt observation credited to Archie, the Wine Weevil. At this point someone else countered with: "What are YOU grapin' about?" Much can be learned about life from observing the Wine Weevil at work, and the above observation may well be taken to heart by all those who find cause to grape over this column.

Mel Brown, the intrepid Mr. Fall Guy, was happy the other night. "I'm getting a divorce," he chortled, looking your correspondent right in the face from the corner of his eyes. "That shouldn't be hard," we said. "I'm going on a blind date Wednesday," Brown proffered, endeavouring to rally. "What would you expect," we said. Appearantly Brown exercises some strange hypnotic effect on the fairersex, much like the Cobra hypnotises birds, for Morojo came running over to the club on a Sunday with a little note which se claims she found under the door. "Hello Dear. Hi Mel. Hope to see you soon. Your gal from Pasadena." This, more than all the surveys in Washington, shows that the manpower situation is still accutre. We wonder if the gal is accute.

Who is the souse? This might well be the querry of passerby on Bixel on a Sunday a few weeks ago.  had not Bronson and Yerke saved their buddy Benson from an all night stay in a weed patch, a particularly seedy one, at that. It was just after the Big Binge. Yerje, having bid Good Night to Brown, was walking down the hill when he heard a discordant singing floating out from a hedge across the way. "These California crickets are getting damned loud," he muttered to himself. The Crickets in question turned out to be the B Brothers high in the hedge, rendering "Carry Me Br-r-ack to Old Virginny." After some persuasion, Yerke managed to get them to climb down from their perch. "Good Night, boys, I'm going to bed," Benson sighed, and fell into the weeds in a direct frontal attack. Bronson and Yerje walked onup the hill. they soon realised that Brother Benson was not following. "He's still in the weeds hic," Benson tittered. "We got to get 'im," Yerke decided. They went back. ALORS. Where is Benson! The weeds, they hide the body from view. We cannot find him! For minutes, the two figures poke in the weeds under the overhanging street light. At last the body quietly snoozing with the nose buried deep in an ant hill, was located and dragged up to 1055 Wilshire.

More about that night. Who, under the influence of some friendly todd'y gushed about, shaking everybody's hand and slobbering: "Phil, you're the greatest artist in the world! Ah! Buns! What a great writer you can be. Why, you could make a thousand dollars a hic week!" And who, when introduced to T/5 Bob Hoffman, was so unhappy because he was stinko and could't really meet a fellow fan in town on afurlough. Next morning someone said, "Well, how did you like meeting Hofflam?" "Hoffman," demanded the fan, "who in hell is Hoffman?"

WHO DEPARTMENT.  Who is in the habit of coming into the clubroom afterhours, borrowing Wierd Tales by the year and leaving large puddles of strange, unidentified liquid by the door so that, despite repeated warnings from all clubmembers whenever they opened the door during the meeting, Sam Russell put his foot squarely in the middle of the mess

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THE SHANGRI-LA GRAPE VINE BY LOTHAR PENGUIN It's a Grape Life if you don't weaken. This is an apt observation credited to Archie, the Wine Weevil. At this point someone else countered with: "What are YOU grapin' about?" Much can be learned about life from observing the Wine Weevil at work, and the above observation may well be taken to heart by all those who find cause to grape over this column. Mel Brown, the intrepid Mr. Fall Guy, was happy the other night. "I'm getting a divorce," he chortled, looking your correspondent right in the face from the corner of his eyes. "That shouldn't be hard," we said. "I'm going on a blind date Wednesday," Brown proffered, endeavouring to rally. "What would you expect," we said. Appearantly Brown exercises some strange hypnotic effect on the fairersex, much like the Cobra hypnotises birds, for Morojo came running over to the club on a Sunday with a little note which se claims she found under the door. "Hello Dear. Hi Mel. Hope to see you soon. Your gal from Pasadena." This, more than all the surveys in Washington, shows that the manpower situation is still accutre. We wonder if the gal is accute. Who is the souse? This might well be the querry of passerby on Bixel on a Sunday a few weeks ago. had not Bronson and Yerke saved their buddy Benson from an all night stay in a weed patch, a particularly seedy one, at that. It was just after the Big Binge. Yerje, having bid Good Night to Brown, was walking down the hill when he heard a discordant singing floating out from a hedge across the way. "These California crickets are getting damned loud," he muttered to himself. The Crickets in question turned out to be the B Brothers high in the hedge, rendering "Carry Me Br-r-ack to Old Virginny." After some persuasion, Yerke managed to get them to climb down from their perch. "Good Night, boys, I'm going to bed," Benson sighed, and fell into the weeds in a direct frontal attack. Bronson and Yerje walked onup the hill. they soon realised that Brother Benson was not following. "He's still in the weeds hic," Benson tittered. "We got to get 'im," Yerke decided. They went back. ALORS. Where is Benson! The weeds, they hide the body from view. We cannot find him! For minutes, the two figures poke in the weeds under the overhanging street light. At last the body quietly snoozing with the nose buried deep in an ant hill, was located and dragged up to 1055 Wilshire. More about that night. Who, under the influence of some friendly todd'y gushed about, shaking everybody's hand and slobbering: "Phil, you're the greatest artist in the world! Ah! Buns! What a great writer you can be. Why, you could make a thousand dollars a hic week!" And who, when introduced to T/5 Bob Hoffman, was so unhappy because he was stinko and could't really meet a fellow fan in town on afurlough. Next morning someone said, "Well, how did you like meeting Hofflam?" "Hoffman," demanded the fan, "who in hell is Hoffman?" WHO DEPARTMENT. Who is in the habit of coming into the clubroom afterhours, borrowing Wierd Tales by the year and leaving large puddles of strange, unidentified liquid by the door so that, despite repeated warnings from all clubmembers whenever they opened the door during the meeting, Sam Russell put his foot squarely in the middle of the mess -5-