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Fantasite, v. 1, issue 6, November-December 1941

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gag? Because, mark my words, if Singleton should return to the fold, he'd have behind him one of the most spectacular reputations of any stfan -- and believe it or not, I think it would go over with a loud, triumphant bang!

I strongly suspect that Earl Singleton is even now in our midst! No sir, I'm not telling; but I also have strong convictions as to the name under which he is masquerading, and wish not to make a fool of myself or reveal the identity of the person suspected. But like the inevitable Cheshire Cat, I'll sit back and grin and preen myself and wait for the day of Singleton's discovery, when I can say while smirking, "Mister, I knew it all the time." And at the same time I can reflect on the fact that stfans, though singly of high, unique intelligence and discernment, are as a group as big a pack of suckers as the rest humanity; i.e.: Barnum didn't miss...

Closing now, I'd like to look into the future. Egotistically, as is my want, I wish to devote, in each column, the last few paragraphs to a study in moods. By which I mean this: I will take a prominent incident from the life story of some fairly prominent stfan and display it publicly, laying it open and playing it up for the world to see. Naturally, being in no sense a scandal monger, there will be no revelation of the person's identity. And further, I wish to impose upon any who do recognize the disclosure, the promise of secrecy. Bear in mind, this thing I intend doing is not ridicule; the private lives of any of us are things pretty sacred, and I would be the last to blaspheme them. But there is more of drama and amusement in the life of stfan than in all his stf, so, with no offense intended, and in all confidence...

Let's call him...well, this being a fantastic sort of a thing, let's call him Jon Do. As memory recalls it, he was an average guy, and as any average science fiction fan, he had his little fanmag, his sweetheart, his very good friend. All three, to a stfan, would be precious indeed. And he had money; and position; and both of these, I surmise, would be valuable to anyone. That fanmag -- he strove for it, published it, and...it didn't appear. 

Stolen. Not literally, you understand, but stolen morally as sure as God gave stf to fandom. By his best friend. Well, what the hell would you do? Probably the same as this guy: you'd worry about those trusting fans, who were probably calling you all sorts of a heel, you'd get drunk, and you'd go out and argue with your best gal. You'd say to hell with fandom and you'd think more than passively, about getting out from under everything...

Maybe then, as happened here, your friend would repent a bit, and that mag would get mailed out finally, and things would begin to iron out a bit -- just a bit. Something, even when that best friend came partially back, would be lacking, but with a shrug you would go out, get a job and pretend it all didn't matter a damn. You'd make money and find out that, after all, you hadn't lost every friend in the world.

In fact, by the very Lords of Creation, you'd even make a few new ones! Well, now! You'd feel like writing Briggs the cartoonist, and saying, "Mister, here's another theme for that 'grand and glorious feelin'"...Well, now, wouldn't you?

But there's still something lacking. What? Hmmm...what would be lacking in the life of any real young stfan, after he'd regained money, stf, and friends? You guessed it, pal: you'd look up that little red book, you'd jot down afresh in your memory that cherished address and phone number. Bud, there's a lot of dark corners on a moonlit night, aren't there? And you'd forget all that foolishness about drink and disgust and suicide; and you'd begin to live a pretty sweet life all

Saving...

gag? Because, mark my words, if Singleton should return to the fold, he'd have behind him one of the most spectacular reputations of any stfan -- and believe it or not, I think it would go over with a loud, triumphant bang! I strongly suspect that Earl Singleton is even now in our midst! No sir, I'm not telling; but I also have strong convictions as to the name under which he is masquerading, and wish not to make a fool of myself or reveal the identity of the person suspected. But like the inevitable Cheshire Cat, I'll sit back and grin and preen myself and wait for the day of Singleton's discovery, when I can say while smirking, "Mister, I knew it all the time." And at the same time I can reflect on the fact that stfans, though singly of high, unique intelligence and discernment, are as a group as big a pack of suckers as the rest humanity; i.e.: Barnum didn't miss... Closing now, I'd like to look into the future. Egotistically, as is my want, I wish to devote, in each column, the last few paragraphs to a study in moods. By which I mean this: I will take a prominent incident from the life story of some fairly prominent stfan and display it publicly, laying it open and playing it up for the world to see. Naturally, being in no sense a scandal monger, there will be no revelation of the person's identity. And further, I wish to impose upon any who do recognize the disclosure, the promise of secrecy. Bear in mind, this thing I intend doing is not ridicule; the private lives of any of us are things pretty sacred, and I would be the last to blaspheme them. But there is more of drama and amusement in the life of stfan than in all his stf, so, with no offense intended, and in all confidence... Let's call him...well, this being a fantastic sort of a thing, let's call him Jon Do. As memory recalls it, he was an average guy, and as any average science fiction fan, he had his little fanmag, his sweetheart, his very good friend. All three, to a stfan, would be precious indeed. And he had money; and position; and both of these, I surmise, would be valuable to anyone. That fanmag -- he strove for it, published it, and...it didn't appear. Stolen. Not literally, you understand, but stolen morally as sure as God gave stf to fandom. By his best friend. Well, what the hell would you do? Probably the same as this guy: you'd worry about those trusting fans, who were probably calling you all sorts of a heel, you'd get drunk, and you'd go out and argue with your best gal. You'd say to hell with fandom and you'd think more than passively, about getting out from under everything... Maybe then, as happened here, your friend would repent a bit, and that mag would get mailed out finally, and things would begin to iron out a bit -- just a bit. Something, even when that best friend came partially back, would be lacking, but with a shrug you would go out, get a job and pretend it all didn't matter a damn. You'd make money and find out that, after all, you hadn't lost every friend in the world. In fact, by the very Lords of Creation, you'd even make a few new ones! Well, now! You'd feel like writing Briggs the cartoonist, and saying, "Mister, here's another theme for that 'grand and glorious feelin'"...Well, now, wouldn't you? But there's still something lacking. What? Hmmm...what would be lacking in the life of any real young stfan, after he'd regained money, stf, and friends? You guessed it, pal: you'd look up that little red book, you'd jot down afresh in your memory that cherished address and phone number. Bud, there's a lot of dark corners on a moonlit night, aren't there? And you'd forget all that foolishness about drink and disgust and suicide; and you'd begin to live a pretty sweet life all