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Southern Star, v. 1, issue 4, December 1941

Page 2

[[comic]] Amazing Stinks! LA in 42 Capt. Future  Do I Sound T̲H̲A̲T̲ Bad? [[/comic]]

DENVENTION DAZE!
by Milty

It is not my purpose here to speak of the great saga of the Widneride, whose many adventures will be related elsewhere. We begin at the point where the vaguest darkness became visible against the Western horizon and we strained our eyes at it until it was finally certain that it actually was the outline of the Rocky Mountains.
     So we landed at the Hotel Shirley-Savoy, and Widner went to call up Lew Martin or Olon Wiggins, while in the meantime I found Wiggins wandering around the lobby. We hello'd all around, registered at the desk, picked up two letters which contained, respectively, the results of the FAPA election and a precious pay check; and upped to the fifth floor, where the entire convention appeared to be located, except for a few capitalists who could afford more. 
     After getting settled, the first step was a visit to the Daugherty's room, where a mob was crowded consisting of Mr. and Mrs. Daugherty, Ackerman, Morojo, the Futurians, Evans, and many, many other old friends, whom I greeted in a confusing whirl of autograph signing and picture snapping.
     Before we knew what was happening, Daughterty had the omnipresent recorder switched on, and we Widneriders were cutting the groove which would preserve our voices for ever and ever.
     After that, things are rather confused, for the Futurians kidnapped me and held me captive for the rest of the evening, their purpose being to roll me for the green paycheck that nestled snugly in my pocket. But their efforts were in vain, and even after they took me to a marvelous bookshop where I bought librettos of Siegfried and Boris Goudounoff for 5¢ each, even after I got plastered on their quart of Seagrams, I still refused to enter their unholy poker game and retained my bank roll. The sole result of that evening was the Vermouth stain that adorned my pants for the rest of the convention -- and Milty's gratitude to the Futurians for allowing his ambition to be fulfilled. 
      The next morning, bright and early - well, slightly tarnished and moderately early, we started the Convention. Nothing happened all morning except gab, picture snapping, gab, autograph hunting, handshaking, looking at fanzines, gab, looking at original illustrations, making recordings, and talking. Lots of fellows made recordings of the voices of various fans to take back with them, or to send as greetings to various people.
     Walt Liebscher and I cut a marvelous boogie-woogie record, with him doing the right hand part and me the left hand. It was truly inspired (the Elmer could do all of that by himself) and on the other side I put a Bach Tocatta Daugherty, the louse, kept the record.
At about noon, they cleared the crowd out into the foyer so that the register could be signed by all. Lew Martin dashed out to get a register book and also a couple of beers, and when he returned, we started. ((On what? the register or the beers?))
      One by one we signed, filing solemnly into the hallowed meeting
[[marginalia right]] [[comic]] [[/marginalia right]]

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[[comic]] Amazing Stinks! LA in 42 Capt. Future Do I Sound T̲H̲A̲T̲ Bad? [[/comic]] DENVENTION DAZE! by Milty It is not my purpose here to speak of the great saga of the Widneride, whose many adventures will be related elsewhere. We begin at the point where the vaguest darkness became visible against the Western horizon and we strained our eyes at it until it was finally certain that it actually was the outline of the Rocky Mountains. So we landed at the Hotel Shirley-Savoy, and Widner went to call up Lew Martin or Olon Wiggins, while in the meantime I found Wiggins wandering around the lobby. We hello'd all around, registered at the desk, picked up two letters which contained, respectively, the results of the FAPA election and a precious pay check; and upped to the fifth floor, where the entire convention appeared to be located, except for a few capitalists who could afford more. After getting settled, the first step was a visit to the Daugherty's room, where a mob was crowded consisting of Mr. and Mrs. Daugherty, Ackerman, Morojo, the Futurians, Evans, and many, many other old friends, whom I greeted in a confusing whirl of autograph signing and picture snapping. Before we knew what was happening, Daughterty had the omnipresent recorder switched on, and we Widneriders were cutting the groove which would preserve our voices for ever and ever. After that, things are rather confused, for the Futurians kidnapped me and held me captive for the rest of the evening, their purpose being to roll me for the green paycheck that nestled snugly in my pocket. But their efforts were in vain, and even after they took me to a marvelous bookshop where I bought librettos of Siegfried and Boris Goudounoff for 5¢ each, even after I got plastered on their quart of Seagrams, I still refused to enter their unholy poker game and retained my bank roll. The sole result of that evening was the Vermouth stain that adorned my pants for the rest of the convention -- and Milty's gratitude to the Futurians for allowing his ambition to be fulfilled. The next morning, bright and early - well, slightly tarnished and moderately early, we started the Convention. Nothing happened all morning except gab, picture snapping, gab, autograph hunting, handshaking, looking at fanzines, gab, looking at original illustrations, making recordings, and talking. Lots of fellows made recordings of the voices of various fans to take back with them, or to send as greetings to various people. Walt Liebscher and I cut a marvelous boogie-woogie record, with him doing the right hand part and me the left hand. It was truly inspired (the Elmer could do all of that by himself) and on the other side I put a Bach Tocatta Daugherty, the louse, kept the record. At about noon, they cleared the crowd out into the foyer so that the register could be signed by all. Lew Martin dashed out to get a register book and also a couple of beers, and when he returned, we started. ((On what? the register or the beers?)) One by one we signed, filing solemnly into the hallowed meeting [[marginalia right]] [[comic]] [[/marginalia right]]