DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | MFS Bulletin, v. 3, issue 8, whole 20, February 22, 1943

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MFS Bulletin, v. 3, issue 8, whole 20, February 22, 1943

Page 4

forgotten bookstores where lie grat dusty shoals of precious, and rare mags, untouched by human hands, and first editions may be had for a few cents.
"And when he offered to let me have World D for three cents, I turned him down, because the dust jacket was wrinkled around the edges."

Other tales Manse tells concern themselves with the unique collection of Frank Robinson, which is kept sealed under glass at constant temperature and pressure; the Walt Liebscher and all that he implies; and a plethore of juicy fantasy movies.

In common with the rest of the MFS I am gripe, gripe, gripe, griping about Shel's flittering tendencies. It seems this particular bar sinister on our coat of arms is organically incapable of maintaining the same address for more than two weeks at a time. The result is that each and all of us are continually getting letters addressed to Araas, with polite requests that we see he receives them. One of these days, there's going to be a bomb hidden in the pile of Araas mail I bring to the meeting...

It has been dawning upon me lately that my financial resoruces have been growing lower and lower. Tonight I added up debts against cash on hand, and found myself ten dollars short of what I needed to live the rest of the month. I paced the floor, searching old pockets, dresser-drawer corners, etc, for additional resources. No luck. Finally I ended up by staring at my mags. I would have to suction them off.
I couldn't touch my Asteunding or Unknowns -- I'd stave first. But I remembered stacking in the sttic a miscellaneous pile of more or less worthless mags that didn't fit anyplace. I ought to be able to spare most of them.
I hauled them out. There was a stack of Amazings on top. I picked them up. The first four had Efgar Rice Burroughs as lead novel. I thumbed through them. They stank, but then I cut my teeth on ERB. I put them aside. The next Amazing was a bit bent at the edges, but it had "I, Robot" in it, so I put that aside, too. The next was an Argosy -- an, old copy with a couple of amputated serials in it -- but it had a future fiction story in it that I liked. I piled it with the rest. Then there was a pile of old Wonders,  Astonishings, etc. There was nothing in them at all worth reading, but they were the first mags I picked up when I began to haunt the second-hand bookshop on Lake street. I browsed through them. I began reading.
I'm still broke.

The thought has just struck me to tickle my imagination with visions of the readers of this column. I can see Fortier someplace in California, snorting and blowing over it; Araas pinning it to the wall and throwing rotten fruit and vegetables at it, as he has often threatened to do; Frank Robinson, who, from what I hear, is a very good man indeed, holding it at arms length and sniffing daintily; Phil MFS BULLETIN Bronson reading it in LA, remembering he hasn't answered my last 3 letters, and, I hope, write me a postal card. And an indefinite number of fans writing Gergen acrid letters. Little Hypothetical Fan, you've caused a busy day.

Saving...

forgotten bookstores where lie grat dusty shoals of precious, and rare mags, untouched by human hands, and first editions may be had for a few cents. "And when he offered to let me have World D for three cents, I turned him down, because the dust jacket was wrinkled around the edges." Other tales Manse tells concern themselves with the unique collection of Frank Robinson, which is kept sealed under glass at constant temperature and pressure; the Walt Liebscher and all that he implies; and a plethore of juicy fantasy movies. In common with the rest of the MFS I am gripe, gripe, gripe, griping about Shel's flittering tendencies. It seems this particular bar sinister on our coat of arms is organically incapable of maintaining the same address for more than two weeks at a time. The result is that each and all of us are continually getting letters addressed to Araas, with polite requests that we see he receives them. One of these days, there's going to be a bomb hidden in the pile of Araas mail I bring to the meeting... It has been dawning upon me lately that my financial resoruces have been growing lower and lower. Tonight I added up debts against cash on hand, and found myself ten dollars short of what I needed to live the rest of the month. I paced the floor, searching old pockets, dresser-drawer corners, etc, for additional resources. No luck. Finally I ended up by staring at my mags. I would have to suction them off. I couldn't touch my Asteunding or Unknowns -- I'd stave first. But I remembered stacking in the sttic a miscellaneous pile of more or less worthless mags that didn't fit anyplace. I ought to be able to spare most of them. I hauled them out. There was a stack of Amazings on top. I picked them up. The first four had Efgar Rice Burroughs as lead novel. I thumbed through them. They stank, but then I cut my teeth on ERB. I put them aside. The next Amazing was a bit bent at the edges, but it had "I, Robot" in it, so I put that aside, too. The next was an Argosy -- an, old copy with a couple of amputated serials in it -- but it had a future fiction story in it that I liked. I piled it with the rest. Then there was a pile of old Wonders, Astonishings, etc. There was nothing in them at all worth reading, but they were the first mags I picked up when I began to haunt the second-hand bookshop on Lake street. I browsed through them. I began reading. I'm still broke. The thought has just struck me to tickle my imagination with visions of the readers of this column. I can see Fortier someplace in California, snorting and blowing over it; Araas pinning it to the wall and throwing rotten fruit and vegetables at it, as he has often threatened to do; Frank Robinson, who, from what I hear, is a very good man indeed, holding it at arms length and sniffing daintily; Phil MFS BULLETIN Bronson reading it in LA, remembering he hasn't answered my last 3 letters, and, I hope, write me a postal card. And an indefinite number of fans writing Gergen acrid letters. Little Hypothetical Fan, you've caused a busy day.