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Fantasite, v. 1, issue 6, November-December 1941
31858063099505_007
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SAUERKRAUT UND GEFILTEFISH By Carlton J. Fassbeinder Harr-rrr-rumph! The idea for this waste of paper originated when Bronson was in Los Angeles. To be particular, and to let out the sordid details, it originated in a burst of friendly confidence several yards outside of Al's place on East 5th St. after an L.A.S.F.S. meeting. The confidence was induced by one hamburger, a Side Car, a Creme de Menthe, and a Coubra Libra. "Fassbeinder," Bronson said, "I would like some material from you for Fantasite when I get back to Hasty Pudding, Minny." "Who are you talking to?" I demanded. "Me or Minny? Minny is union now, you know." "It was never Confederate," Kentfield, our other member, piped up. "You are dragging in too many subjects for the verb," I interposed, and promptly headed for the verb, erh, I mean, curb. We sat there for a while until the Creme de Menthe passed off. Then we had another hamburger. Tonight, I find that I, as a member of the staff of that L.A. mag known as the Damn Thing, am ripe with opinions on a certain Canadian fan. The delicate balance of fan-purity and fan-filth has suddenly done us a flip-up, and old Doc Fassbeinder, who was standing on the beam of a scale while shaking a Brandy Flip for Dave Elder, the youngest drunk in fandom, lost his balance and did a spectacular ballet dance on the down-swinging beam to land in the cup with fandom's number one dead-beat. This, of course, leaves one open to suit, so we'll say that as far as we know, Leslie A. Croutch is fandom's number one dead-bet. He may be a Scagaway preacher for all that. The only dope we have on hand is some of his letters in which he proclaims himself, with seeming pride and gusto, to be immoral. This is all very fine, and nobody liked a stag story better than old Doc Fassbeinder. But Leslie, dear, there is a difference between delightfully appropriate smut, blended with ample sophistication raison d'etre, and our brand of Canadian Big Jumbo Mud. While the bunch had all night bull sessions in Denver, and pulled off every trick in the bag for three nights, it has a definite abhorence of the fellow who hitches up his pants and brags to all the field in effect: "I'm immoral!" You'd better cut it out, brother. You aren't funny and you aren't interesting. If you want to spread it around what kind of guy you are, don't expect the scientifictionists who take lots of time out to listen to good music, write poetry, and appreciate a few more conventional entertainments to welcome you with open hands. You have style yourself as a writer, we hear. We have even seen some of your stories. Merely calling yourself a writer doesn't you one. The pounding out on a pulp mill of a hundred or so stories and sending them around with a loud huzzah doesn't make you fandom's number one fiction writer. The six or seven Croutch stories I have seen leave one with no more desire than a healthy urge to drink a good glass of water. There, Harry, you see, I told him off. Now let's have that Finn you were wagering. Harry, you know, is the bartender at Harry's Old Fashioned Bar in Lower Hollywood. This is the place where all the cement truck drivers convene. Lots of low-down is passed about, too. While I was bringing Harry's recipe book up to date one afternoon, I heard an interesting bit about Norwin K. Johnson, technocratic side-
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SAUERKRAUT UND GEFILTEFISH By Carlton J. Fassbeinder Harr-rrr-rumph! The idea for this waste of paper originated when Bronson was in Los Angeles. To be particular, and to let out the sordid details, it originated in a burst of friendly confidence several yards outside of Al's place on East 5th St. after an L.A.S.F.S. meeting. The confidence was induced by one hamburger, a Side Car, a Creme de Menthe, and a Coubra Libra. "Fassbeinder," Bronson said, "I would like some material from you for Fantasite when I get back to Hasty Pudding, Minny." "Who are you talking to?" I demanded. "Me or Minny? Minny is union now, you know." "It was never Confederate," Kentfield, our other member, piped up. "You are dragging in too many subjects for the verb," I interposed, and promptly headed for the verb, erh, I mean, curb. We sat there for a while until the Creme de Menthe passed off. Then we had another hamburger. Tonight, I find that I, as a member of the staff of that L.A. mag known as the Damn Thing, am ripe with opinions on a certain Canadian fan. The delicate balance of fan-purity and fan-filth has suddenly done us a flip-up, and old Doc Fassbeinder, who was standing on the beam of a scale while shaking a Brandy Flip for Dave Elder, the youngest drunk in fandom, lost his balance and did a spectacular ballet dance on the down-swinging beam to land in the cup with fandom's number one dead-beat. This, of course, leaves one open to suit, so we'll say that as far as we know, Leslie A. Croutch is fandom's number one dead-bet. He may be a Scagaway preacher for all that. The only dope we have on hand is some of his letters in which he proclaims himself, with seeming pride and gusto, to be immoral. This is all very fine, and nobody liked a stag story better than old Doc Fassbeinder. But Leslie, dear, there is a difference between delightfully appropriate smut, blended with ample sophistication raison d'etre, and our brand of Canadian Big Jumbo Mud. While the bunch had all night bull sessions in Denver, and pulled off every trick in the bag for three nights, it has a definite abhorence of the fellow who hitches up his pants and brags to all the field in effect: "I'm immoral!" You'd better cut it out, brother. You aren't funny and you aren't interesting. If you want to spread it around what kind of guy you are, don't expect the scientifictionists who take lots of time out to listen to good music, write poetry, and appreciate a few more conventional entertainments to welcome you with open hands. You have style yourself as a writer, we hear. We have even seen some of your stories. Merely calling yourself a writer doesn't you one. The pounding out on a pulp mill of a hundred or so stories and sending them around with a loud huzzah doesn't make you fandom's number one fiction writer. The six or seven Croutch stories I have seen leave one with no more desire than a healthy urge to drink a good glass of water. There, Harry, you see, I told him off. Now let's have that Finn you were wagering. Harry, you know, is the bartender at Harry's Old Fashioned Bar in Lower Hollywood. This is the place where all the cement truck drivers convene. Lots of low-down is passed about, too. While I was bringing Harry's recipe book up to date one afternoon, I heard an interesting bit about Norwin K. Johnson, technocratic side-
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