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Fantasite, v. 1, issue 2, February 1941
Page 16
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FANTASIPS by DONN BRAZIER Those who attended the Chicon will remember a fan who came to the party in a gorilla suit (or was it a bear suit?) Later, when the nurse, Honey "all-he-had-left-was-his-personality" Smith, had tired of rubbing salve on toes afflicted with the hot foot by one, rollicking, slightly pixelated gentleman, this fan removed his fur piece and drew out a banjo. Even now I haven't quite figured out which of the two, the gorilla suit or the banjo, caused the most terror. Anyway what I'm getting at is that the certain fan might better have worn a wolf skin. Let me elucidate. When this fan once journeyed to California. he hapened to overhear a man in a book-shop buying a book for the pert little dancer, Dixie Dunbar . The name of the book? THE WOON POOL by A. Worritt. Later, this fan languished in his hometown way back in Indiana. Then one day, who should make a stage appearance but Dixie Dunbar: "Ah", plotted the fan to himself;' "Here's my chance!" He knew where the local dime store kept its Buck Rogers Spaceships, and from there it was but a short hop to the florist. Backstage by messenger went a dozen white carnations tied with a bow and one rocket ship - nothing else. After the show, the fan tagged along in the rocket's exhaust and presented himself at Dixie's door. All went, and he even met her dog. If you think that's all. guess again; for what young lady fan where is writing what long air mail letters to whom? Not only that, but look to this column for further developments which I cannot disclose at present. Suffice is to say that Broadway, bright lights, and an oriental dancer all play their parts. Some of you may have wondered who is responsible for the amazing Art Widner Jr I don't mean his possessions of The Skylark of Woo-Woo, nor do I mean his astounding impersonation of the tipsy Giles; I do mean his penchant for poll taking. He calls himself "The Gallup of Fandom", but once upon a time he confided to me that he might publish a mag someday which bore a title more appropriate, I think. The title? THE POLL CAT. I'm only kidding of course, Gallup, and the more you do in that line the better; and if you readers haven't voted in his last testpoll of favorite fan mags you better hop to it. I think I know who is responsible. Somebody gave or sold a counter, which is operated with the thumb and fits into the hand in some devlish way, to Art. Then Art, still a high school lad and not taken to emulating the incredible Giles as yet, would stand long weary hours on the corner and count out-of-state licence plates. WIth that raw detail he would compute innumerable percentages. From there he graduated to formulating his own private hit parade of popular songs, with the assistance of fan Lee Croutch. And now we have "The Gallup of Gandom" The guy that gave his counter; he's the one! Authors are human just like everyone. That's hard to believe I know, but consider the case of Carl Jacobi. Like many an author and would-be author, he dreamed of a place he could call his own, a place to work in quiet and solitary retreat, a place where great masterpieces would be written. Finally, he no longer dressed; he built a cabin on Red Cedar Point on Lake Winnstonka, Winnesota
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FANTASIPS by DONN BRAZIER Those who attended the Chicon will remember a fan who came to the party in a gorilla suit (or was it a bear suit?) Later, when the nurse, Honey "all-he-had-left-was-his-personality" Smith, had tired of rubbing salve on toes afflicted with the hot foot by one, rollicking, slightly pixelated gentleman, this fan removed his fur piece and drew out a banjo. Even now I haven't quite figured out which of the two, the gorilla suit or the banjo, caused the most terror. Anyway what I'm getting at is that the certain fan might better have worn a wolf skin. Let me elucidate. When this fan once journeyed to California. he hapened to overhear a man in a book-shop buying a book for the pert little dancer, Dixie Dunbar . The name of the book? THE WOON POOL by A. Worritt. Later, this fan languished in his hometown way back in Indiana. Then one day, who should make a stage appearance but Dixie Dunbar: "Ah", plotted the fan to himself;' "Here's my chance!" He knew where the local dime store kept its Buck Rogers Spaceships, and from there it was but a short hop to the florist. Backstage by messenger went a dozen white carnations tied with a bow and one rocket ship - nothing else. After the show, the fan tagged along in the rocket's exhaust and presented himself at Dixie's door. All went, and he even met her dog. If you think that's all. guess again; for what young lady fan where is writing what long air mail letters to whom? Not only that, but look to this column for further developments which I cannot disclose at present. Suffice is to say that Broadway, bright lights, and an oriental dancer all play their parts. Some of you may have wondered who is responsible for the amazing Art Widner Jr I don't mean his possessions of The Skylark of Woo-Woo, nor do I mean his astounding impersonation of the tipsy Giles; I do mean his penchant for poll taking. He calls himself "The Gallup of Fandom", but once upon a time he confided to me that he might publish a mag someday which bore a title more appropriate, I think. The title? THE POLL CAT. I'm only kidding of course, Gallup, and the more you do in that line the better; and if you readers haven't voted in his last testpoll of favorite fan mags you better hop to it. I think I know who is responsible. Somebody gave or sold a counter, which is operated with the thumb and fits into the hand in some devlish way, to Art. Then Art, still a high school lad and not taken to emulating the incredible Giles as yet, would stand long weary hours on the corner and count out-of-state licence plates. WIth that raw detail he would compute innumerable percentages. From there he graduated to formulating his own private hit parade of popular songs, with the assistance of fan Lee Croutch. And now we have "The Gallup of Gandom" The guy that gave his counter; he's the one! Authors are human just like everyone. That's hard to believe I know, but consider the case of Carl Jacobi. Like many an author and would-be author, he dreamed of a place he could call his own, a place to work in quiet and solitary retreat, a place where great masterpieces would be written. Finally, he no longer dressed; he built a cabin on Red Cedar Point on Lake Winnstonka, Winnesota
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