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Fantasite, v. 2, issue 4, November-December 1942
31858063099612_009
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FANTASITE................9 TAKE A BREAK. . . BY CPL. DOUG BLAKELY OH, BROTHER, this is the Ah-me. Before this goes any further, let it be said that this "Take a break, youse guys!" is one of the few welcome sounds we hear. It's the call for a ten-minute time-out period; a smoke, a chance to park your weary bones and beat your gums with another G-I. So, take a break, youse guys. Reader, you will undoubtedly fall into one of three classifications: You're either exempt from the draft because of age of some physical trait, or you're thinking that some time, in the rather too-near future, you're going to trade your civvies for khaki, or else you're in it. If you're in the first classification, read on and find out what it's like on this side of the fence. In case you fall into the second classification, let this writer give you some idea of what you're in for, and how being in the service is going to affect your status as a fan. If you publish a mag, you might as well forget it. There might be a rare instance where you'd be an office worker with a mimeo machine handy, and enough spare time to get the thing out, but the chances are very strong against it. There are too many details, such as procuring the proper paper, which is going to be mighty difficult if you're stationed in some remote place, and you'll find that the Army loves remote places. Your training isn't going to last long enough for you to get the machinery of production into efficient operation. You are going to run into plenty of trouble if you try to keep up with your mag, so you might as well cover up your typewriter and mimeo machine for the duration, and kiss your collection goocdbye. Because your little brother is bound to get into it sooner or later, and if he doesn't your mother will turn your mags into the scrap drive. You can't win. But if you're just average Joe Phann; a nice, likeable guy with no homicidal or editorial traits, the Army isn't going to stop you from reading all the pros and hams you want. The big rub here is that you can't save 'em. For some reason, we have a place for everything, and everything goes into its place, adn there just isn't any place for a big stack of magazines. Or even a little stack of magazines. So you'll have to buy 'em, read 'em, and toss 'em into the nearest G-I can with a sob of heart-rending anguish. Your only consolation is the sympathy of the civilian fans, but on occasion this will become a hollow triumph, because you know that at the moment you are tossing away the latest UNKNOWN, some fan back home is gloating over his huge collection. Of course, even in this magazine-rack-to-you-to-G-I-can system, it is far better to have read and tossed away than not to have read at all. After you throw your ninth or tenth magazine away it won't bother you so much. In case it does, we might suggest that you sneak down to the orderly room some night and deposit a few pro mags on the magazine table. After that, keep an eye on things, if you can. Sooner or later, some guy will pick one up, attracted by a monster on the cover, and if enough guys pick up enough magazines, you may either discover a fellow fan, or you might be the guiding factor in getting someone started on the road to ruin and corruption. That's what we did, hoping to discover another fan; but so far, it's been no soap. The guys will pick up the mags, gawp at the cover for a while, and skim through in a dazed fashion, and out of pure curiosity, sit down and read a story. This writer feels fairly safe in saying that he has started three or four G-I's as fairly constant readers, but lacking the background of civilian Joe Phann, they probably won't turn into drooling enthusiasts. One of the best things about fandom is the mutual exchange of banter when a gang of fans get together. And that's one thing the dog-fan misses. To be truthful, this writer has been in the army about a year, has been in four different camps, and has yet to find a real fan among the soldiers. So you have a good chance of not finding anyone with whom you can exchange the ideas and chatter which are dear to
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FANTASITE................9 TAKE A BREAK. . . BY CPL. DOUG BLAKELY OH, BROTHER, this is the Ah-me. Before this goes any further, let it be said that this "Take a break, youse guys!" is one of the few welcome sounds we hear. It's the call for a ten-minute time-out period; a smoke, a chance to park your weary bones and beat your gums with another G-I. So, take a break, youse guys. Reader, you will undoubtedly fall into one of three classifications: You're either exempt from the draft because of age of some physical trait, or you're thinking that some time, in the rather too-near future, you're going to trade your civvies for khaki, or else you're in it. If you're in the first classification, read on and find out what it's like on this side of the fence. In case you fall into the second classification, let this writer give you some idea of what you're in for, and how being in the service is going to affect your status as a fan. If you publish a mag, you might as well forget it. There might be a rare instance where you'd be an office worker with a mimeo machine handy, and enough spare time to get the thing out, but the chances are very strong against it. There are too many details, such as procuring the proper paper, which is going to be mighty difficult if you're stationed in some remote place, and you'll find that the Army loves remote places. Your training isn't going to last long enough for you to get the machinery of production into efficient operation. You are going to run into plenty of trouble if you try to keep up with your mag, so you might as well cover up your typewriter and mimeo machine for the duration, and kiss your collection goocdbye. Because your little brother is bound to get into it sooner or later, and if he doesn't your mother will turn your mags into the scrap drive. You can't win. But if you're just average Joe Phann; a nice, likeable guy with no homicidal or editorial traits, the Army isn't going to stop you from reading all the pros and hams you want. The big rub here is that you can't save 'em. For some reason, we have a place for everything, and everything goes into its place, adn there just isn't any place for a big stack of magazines. Or even a little stack of magazines. So you'll have to buy 'em, read 'em, and toss 'em into the nearest G-I can with a sob of heart-rending anguish. Your only consolation is the sympathy of the civilian fans, but on occasion this will become a hollow triumph, because you know that at the moment you are tossing away the latest UNKNOWN, some fan back home is gloating over his huge collection. Of course, even in this magazine-rack-to-you-to-G-I-can system, it is far better to have read and tossed away than not to have read at all. After you throw your ninth or tenth magazine away it won't bother you so much. In case it does, we might suggest that you sneak down to the orderly room some night and deposit a few pro mags on the magazine table. After that, keep an eye on things, if you can. Sooner or later, some guy will pick one up, attracted by a monster on the cover, and if enough guys pick up enough magazines, you may either discover a fellow fan, or you might be the guiding factor in getting someone started on the road to ruin and corruption. That's what we did, hoping to discover another fan; but so far, it's been no soap. The guys will pick up the mags, gawp at the cover for a while, and skim through in a dazed fashion, and out of pure curiosity, sit down and read a story. This writer feels fairly safe in saying that he has started three or four G-I's as fairly constant readers, but lacking the background of civilian Joe Phann, they probably won't turn into drooling enthusiasts. One of the best things about fandom is the mutual exchange of banter when a gang of fans get together. And that's one thing the dog-fan misses. To be truthful, this writer has been in the army about a year, has been in four different camps, and has yet to find a real fan among the soldiers. So you have a good chance of not finding anyone with whom you can exchange the ideas and chatter which are dear to
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