DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | Spaceways, v. 4, issue 1, whole no. 24, December 1941

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Spaceways, v. 4, issue 1, whole no. 24, December 1941

SPACEWAYS                                                   7
            THE LOG OF THE FOOFOO SPECIAL

seemed like a big enough reason for the extraordinary heat increase over a certain speed. Having worked in a service station, and knowing a little about cars, I should have tumbled, but didn't.
   We steamed into Deebeethompson town (alias LincolNebraska) about time for lunch. the Sage of Salk Creek had already left for Denver, and we tried to locate a more obscure fan, Dale Wissert whom Don had mentioned to me, but no soap. He was at the movies. 
   
   A lively altercation was held between Pretty Boy and myself on one side and the rest of the party on the other, over whether we should eat in a likely-looking beerparlor or elsewhere. PB and I finally went in the beep joint and had ourselves a fairly decent fried chicken dinner and were served by an extremely friendly waitress who looked something like Ginger Rogers, so we called her Ginger. We became so engrossed in throwing the bull with said waitress that we were about half an hour late when we returned to the car, and so found three pairs of disapproving eyebrows regarding us. We felt smugly Bacchanalian. 
   Perhaps an explanation of this "beep" business is due to the uninformed. In many of the western cities and towns a rather silly law has been passed, forbidding any establishment to advertise the sale of any alcoholic beverages. Some places get around it by saying "We sell iy, but can't say so" or "You want it? We have it", but most of them are considerably less imaginative (and also thrifrty, not wishing to buy expensive neon or signs or to pay for altering the old ones), so merely black out the tail of the "R" in "BEER", thus making it "BEEP". These signs amused us no end thruout the trip, and we called it 'beep' exclusively from the first sign on.
   In case anybody should ride up in a golden space ship and ask you, Nebraska is fah-lat! It is so flat that it is the nearest thing to two dimensions that science can obtain. Driving across it—the mostest thing it ain't nothin' else but, is boring. Two incidents, besides the numberless stops for water, were all that marked our passage. 
   First was the discovery and a picture of what is undoubtedly the smallest place in the USA in point of population. Out there they have signs announcing the name of each town and the population. We passed many of them with only 100 or so, and a couple down in the two figure class. The record, I think, was something like 73 when we came to the sign indicating that here was Red Willow. 
   I stopped the car, and we all gaped. Then Bell took a picture of it with the rest of us behind it. There is undeniable proof. Reads thte sign: "Red Willow, pop. 9". Yes, I said nine, N-I-N-E. There was a farmhouse 'way off in the distance, and we assumed that was where the nine people were. Maybe it meant nine prairie dogs, I dunno. 
   The other incident was running into a ring-tailed, double-barreled, rootin' tootin' high-falutin' whamzowie of a western thunderstorm. We ran into it head-on and were thru it in ten minutes or so, but while it lasted--wow!
   The rain came down as if somebody had ripped a hole in the bottom of Lake Superior andheld it over us. The lightning jabbed itself into the ground like gigantic white-hot forks being stuck into beefsteak,and less than a second later, thunder would come with a long, drawn-out "c-r-r-r-r-ackkk!" that made me think of a second Grand Canyon being formed in one swell foop. If an ordinary thunderstorm is Wagnerian, that one was positively Stravinskyan'
   Soon after, our tires chuckled liquidly on the wet streets of Bekleman, not far from the Kansas border. The sidewalks were neatly rolled up, and carefully stacked by the fire house, but we finally persuaded a fifteenth rate, one-arm joint to drag some cold cuts and potato salad from the refrigerator. The nearest place of any size was in Colorado, so we decided to bed down in Benkleman's only hotel.
   Milty and I slept together, and the railroad tracks ran almost underneath our window. This we thot no harm, since what would be coming thru that sleepy little town at that hour? How wrong we were! Around 3 AM, a streamliner came thru, doing about 100 per.
             (continued on page 20)

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SPACEWAYS 7 THE LOG OF THE FOOFOO SPECIAL seemed like a big enough reason for the extraordinary heat increase over a certain speed. Having worked in a service station, and knowing a little about cars, I should have tumbled, but didn't. We steamed into Deebeethompson town (alias LincolNebraska) about time for lunch. the Sage of Salk Creek had already left for Denver, and we tried to locate a more obscure fan, Dale Wissert whom Don had mentioned to me, but no soap. He was at the movies. A lively altercation was held between Pretty Boy and myself on one side and the rest of the party on the other, over whether we should eat in a likely-looking beerparlor or elsewhere. PB and I finally went in the beep joint and had ourselves a fairly decent fried chicken dinner and were served by an extremely friendly waitress who looked something like Ginger Rogers, so we called her Ginger. We became so engrossed in throwing the bull with said waitress that we were about half an hour late when we returned to the car, and so found three pairs of disapproving eyebrows regarding us. We felt smugly Bacchanalian. Perhaps an explanation of this "beep" business is due to the uninformed. In many of the western cities and towns a rather silly law has been passed, forbidding any establishment to advertise the sale of any alcoholic beverages. Some places get around it by saying "We sell iy, but can't say so" or "You want it? We have it", but most of them are considerably less imaginative (and also thrifrty, not wishing to buy expensive neon or signs or to pay for altering the old ones), so merely black out the tail of the "R" in "BEER", thus making it "BEEP". These signs amused us no end thruout the trip, and we called it 'beep' exclusively from the first sign on. In case anybody should ride up in a golden space ship and ask you, Nebraska is fah-lat! It is so flat that it is the nearest thing to two dimensions that science can obtain. Driving across it—the mostest thing it ain't nothin' else but, is boring. Two incidents, besides the numberless stops for water, were all that marked our passage. First was the discovery and a picture of what is undoubtedly the smallest place in the USA in point of population. Out there they have signs announcing the name of each town and the population. We passed many of them with only 100 or so, and a couple down in the two figure class. The record, I think, was something like 73 when we came to the sign indicating that here was Red Willow. I stopped the car, and we all gaped. Then Bell took a picture of it with the rest of us behind it. There is undeniable proof. Reads thte sign: "Red Willow, pop. 9". Yes, I said nine, N-I-N-E. There was a farmhouse 'way off in the distance, and we assumed that was where the nine people were. Maybe it meant nine prairie dogs, I dunno. The other incident was running into a ring-tailed, double-barreled, rootin' tootin' high-falutin' whamzowie of a western thunderstorm. We ran into it head-on and were thru it in ten minutes or so, but while it lasted--wow! The rain came down as if somebody had ripped a hole in the bottom of Lake Superior andheld it over us. The lightning jabbed itself into the ground like gigantic white-hot forks being stuck into beefsteak,and less than a second later, thunder would come with a long, drawn-out "c-r-r-r-r-ackkk!" that made me think of a second Grand Canyon being formed in one swell foop. If an ordinary thunderstorm is Wagnerian, that one was positively Stravinskyan' Soon after, our tires chuckled liquidly on the wet streets of Bekleman, not far from the Kansas border. The sidewalks were neatly rolled up, and carefully stacked by the fire house, but we finally persuaded a fifteenth rate, one-arm joint to drag some cold cuts and potato salad from the refrigerator. The nearest place of any size was in Colorado, so we decided to bed down in Benkleman's only hotel. Milty and I slept together, and the railroad tracks ran almost underneath our window. This we thot no harm, since what would be coming thru that sleepy little town at that hour? How wrong we were! Around 3 AM, a streamliner came thru, doing about 100 per. (continued on page 20)