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Le Zombie, Special Convention Issue, 1939
Page 3
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A DAY AT THE CONVENTION! by that [inamitable] Hoy Ping Pong ------------------------------------------------ LO! I have attended a science fiction convention. A world science fiction convention! It was a most unique affair. Not at all what I had expected! I had attended in the belief that I would witness a great, big, old fashioned country reunion, replete with back-clapping, hand shaking, flashing smiles, jovial strangers acting like brothers, happy chattering groups gathered about each editor present, fans from across the nation running with eager smiles into one another’s open arms, the publishers standing around with arms in vests, beaming……etc. Golly, what a let-down I was due for! That I didn’t see any such thing goes without saying. I came away a much disillusioned and heart broken young Chinaman. I also came away a hungry Chinaman, a poorly clothed fan a broke fan! It seems that in the rush to the table where the free eats work, half of my new Sears store clothes were torn from my back by the mob, as souvenirs, in the mistaken belief that I was Clark Ashton Smith. And some dirty $#*@%!! lifted my wallet! (There must have been somebody at the convention who was not a fan!) I escaped from the melee with a cold-ham sandwich and a bottle of red pop but didn’t get to keep them long --- a gang of big uncouth Philadelphians jumped me and stole them! And then my little pleasant dream catles were ray-gunned one by one as I looked about the floor of the convention hall , where everything was sweetness and light, and saw: Eando Binder and Ed Hamilton slugging it out in a far corner, over who had swiped who’s plot. A group of cheering fans ringed them in, lending encouragement, while overhead perched on a window-still sat Dick Wilson’s pet vampire taunting: “Plots? What plots?”………… Six young fans from Brooklyn deeply absorbed in a marble game (for keeps, too!) immediately in front of the speakers rostrum, upon which Moskowitz was vainly trying to make himself heard when someone took him square in the eye with a tomato! The tomato was red; now I wonder? Ray Bradbury and Milt Rothman, two rival (and) budding fan-authors, cat calling at one another across the aisle: “You’re a Saturnian gadzook!”; “I am not! Your grandmother chews Jupiter-juice!”; “She does not so! Anyway, I saw your second-Uncle filching Moon-dust!”; “T ’aint so! You eat Venus pods!”; “That’s a lie! You’re a dirty Martian liar!!”…etc. Walter Fleming rushing joyfully up two Morojo, throwing his arms about her neck shouting “Comrade! Esperantico!” as he kissed her lightly on the cheek. She promptly slapped him down with a wicked left hook and Ackerman jumped up and down on his chest! The Auctioneer holding up a rare copy of THE TIME TRAVELLER for bidding only to have four fans jump at it at once, snatch it from his hand in four seperate peices, leaving the auctioneer holding up a bit of blue paper the size of a postage stamp, crying; “What am I bid? ……….. One fan actually slapped another on the back but he immediately followed up with a right hook and a haymaker, and: “…. so I am a bum poet, eh? …. so I don’t know my metre, eh? …… so I swill beer in low dives, eh? …… so I believe in FooGhuism, eh? ….. etc. I saw Ted Dikty of Indiana sell Hyman Tiger of Brooklyn the Brooklyn Bridge at one end of it, while Dale Hart of Texas was selling it to Don Wollheim of New York City at the other end. (over)
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A DAY AT THE CONVENTION! by that [inamitable] Hoy Ping Pong ------------------------------------------------ LO! I have attended a science fiction convention. A world science fiction convention! It was a most unique affair. Not at all what I had expected! I had attended in the belief that I would witness a great, big, old fashioned country reunion, replete with back-clapping, hand shaking, flashing smiles, jovial strangers acting like brothers, happy chattering groups gathered about each editor present, fans from across the nation running with eager smiles into one another’s open arms, the publishers standing around with arms in vests, beaming……etc. Golly, what a let-down I was due for! That I didn’t see any such thing goes without saying. I came away a much disillusioned and heart broken young Chinaman. I also came away a hungry Chinaman, a poorly clothed fan a broke fan! It seems that in the rush to the table where the free eats work, half of my new Sears store clothes were torn from my back by the mob, as souvenirs, in the mistaken belief that I was Clark Ashton Smith. And some dirty $#*@%!! lifted my wallet! (There must have been somebody at the convention who was not a fan!) I escaped from the melee with a cold-ham sandwich and a bottle of red pop but didn’t get to keep them long --- a gang of big uncouth Philadelphians jumped me and stole them! And then my little pleasant dream catles were ray-gunned one by one as I looked about the floor of the convention hall , where everything was sweetness and light, and saw: Eando Binder and Ed Hamilton slugging it out in a far corner, over who had swiped who’s plot. A group of cheering fans ringed them in, lending encouragement, while overhead perched on a window-still sat Dick Wilson’s pet vampire taunting: “Plots? What plots?”………… Six young fans from Brooklyn deeply absorbed in a marble game (for keeps, too!) immediately in front of the speakers rostrum, upon which Moskowitz was vainly trying to make himself heard when someone took him square in the eye with a tomato! The tomato was red; now I wonder? Ray Bradbury and Milt Rothman, two rival (and) budding fan-authors, cat calling at one another across the aisle: “You’re a Saturnian gadzook!”; “I am not! Your grandmother chews Jupiter-juice!”; “She does not so! Anyway, I saw your second-Uncle filching Moon-dust!”; “T ’aint so! You eat Venus pods!”; “That’s a lie! You’re a dirty Martian liar!!”…etc. Walter Fleming rushing joyfully up two Morojo, throwing his arms about her neck shouting “Comrade! Esperantico!” as he kissed her lightly on the cheek. She promptly slapped him down with a wicked left hook and Ackerman jumped up and down on his chest! The Auctioneer holding up a rare copy of THE TIME TRAVELLER for bidding only to have four fans jump at it at once, snatch it from his hand in four seperate peices, leaving the auctioneer holding up a bit of blue paper the size of a postage stamp, crying; “What am I bid? ……….. One fan actually slapped another on the back but he immediately followed up with a right hook and a haymaker, and: “…. so I am a bum poet, eh? …. so I don’t know my metre, eh? …… so I swill beer in low dives, eh? …… so I believe in FooGhuism, eh? ….. etc. I saw Ted Dikty of Indiana sell Hyman Tiger of Brooklyn the Brooklyn Bridge at one end of it, while Dale Hart of Texas was selling it to Don Wollheim of New York City at the other end. (over)
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