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Chaos, v. 1, issue 4, April 1945
Page 9
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WILLIE WATSON AAGHHH! IT'S ABOUT TIME SOMEBODY KNEW SOMETHING ABOUT WILLIE WATSON THAT wasn't the product of his own distorted imagination. Outside of various and obscure notes in his own publications nothing has been written on the subject (Watson). Watson is therefore a virgin field. I proceed : There is no truth to the rumor that Willie fell soundly asleep at his first GGFS meeting. Fact is, the comatose expression and glassy gaze are part of wee Willie's makeup. My own impression, when first setting eye on this pudgy phenomenon, was one of repulsion. Fartier, Wright, possibly Riggs & Wyers, certainly I, and a Marine scientifictionist named Geo Wheller were all comfortably ensconced in Wright's cozy little room on Maple Street in Oakland, halfheartedly awaiting the arrival of the first Westbay fans since Goldstone, Kenealy, and Waldeyer ; James Kepner and Bill Watson. Without Kepner, I knew nothing. Watson was remembered for a series of letters printed in practically every promag in existence at the time. I had often thought of dropping a note to this latter person, in the interests of stf and fandom, but of course I never got around to it. So the door opened and James and William entered. I remember Jimmy seemed very well dressed, quiet and possessed, and -- this is a conceit of my own -- to be continually repressing a secret smile. Willie was a very large person with no salient features and a stupid expression. Afterwards, for no definable reason, he reminded me of a frog. There was something indisputably batrachian in his countenance. To me, anyway. Nobody else remarked this so I put it down as a passing fancy. However, there was nothing particularly remarkable about friend Watson. He was introduced, took a chair, and slowly -- slowly -- descended into a coma. As Sturgeon put it : he unlaxed. The eyes went glassy -- I expected them to turn up in the sockets at any moment -- his body went flaccid at the joints, his face sunk on his chest, his hands hung limply about three inches from the floor, &, altho I can't be sure of this last, a tiny trickle of drool edged out from his lower lip -- like spit from a busted baloon. /Don't kid yourself -- we had a hole in our cheek./ That was all. The vital essence, was, evidently, far, far away; perhaps composing another letter to Campbell. We ignored him. He was A Young Fan...though I am not sure Bill knew this at the time. Eventually the conclave broke up; Watson shook himself, rubbed the poppy from his eyes and, appropo of nothing, rumbled the phrase that I have intimately connected with him, lo, these many years : "GREAT GOOEY GOBS OF GREEN GORILLA GUTS -- and me without my spoon!" That is what I remember about Bill Watson since I first met him on lorl. Two weeks later a post card arrived from 1299 California Street complimenting me on a letter in TWS. I was forced to revise my first impression. This person was obviously possessed of some critical perspicacity. I countered with a full length letter agreeing
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WILLIE WATSON AAGHHH! IT'S ABOUT TIME SOMEBODY KNEW SOMETHING ABOUT WILLIE WATSON THAT wasn't the product of his own distorted imagination. Outside of various and obscure notes in his own publications nothing has been written on the subject (Watson). Watson is therefore a virgin field. I proceed : There is no truth to the rumor that Willie fell soundly asleep at his first GGFS meeting. Fact is, the comatose expression and glassy gaze are part of wee Willie's makeup. My own impression, when first setting eye on this pudgy phenomenon, was one of repulsion. Fartier, Wright, possibly Riggs & Wyers, certainly I, and a Marine scientifictionist named Geo Wheller were all comfortably ensconced in Wright's cozy little room on Maple Street in Oakland, halfheartedly awaiting the arrival of the first Westbay fans since Goldstone, Kenealy, and Waldeyer ; James Kepner and Bill Watson. Without Kepner, I knew nothing. Watson was remembered for a series of letters printed in practically every promag in existence at the time. I had often thought of dropping a note to this latter person, in the interests of stf and fandom, but of course I never got around to it. So the door opened and James and William entered. I remember Jimmy seemed very well dressed, quiet and possessed, and -- this is a conceit of my own -- to be continually repressing a secret smile. Willie was a very large person with no salient features and a stupid expression. Afterwards, for no definable reason, he reminded me of a frog. There was something indisputably batrachian in his countenance. To me, anyway. Nobody else remarked this so I put it down as a passing fancy. However, there was nothing particularly remarkable about friend Watson. He was introduced, took a chair, and slowly -- slowly -- descended into a coma. As Sturgeon put it : he unlaxed. The eyes went glassy -- I expected them to turn up in the sockets at any moment -- his body went flaccid at the joints, his face sunk on his chest, his hands hung limply about three inches from the floor, &, altho I can't be sure of this last, a tiny trickle of drool edged out from his lower lip -- like spit from a busted baloon. /Don't kid yourself -- we had a hole in our cheek./ That was all. The vital essence, was, evidently, far, far away; perhaps composing another letter to Campbell. We ignored him. He was A Young Fan...though I am not sure Bill knew this at the time. Eventually the conclave broke up; Watson shook himself, rubbed the poppy from his eyes and, appropo of nothing, rumbled the phrase that I have intimately connected with him, lo, these many years : "GREAT GOOEY GOBS OF GREEN GORILLA GUTS -- and me without my spoon!" That is what I remember about Bill Watson since I first met him on lorl. Two weeks later a post card arrived from 1299 California Street complimenting me on a letter in TWS. I was forced to revise my first impression. This person was obviously possessed of some critical perspicacity. I countered with a full length letter agreeing
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