FANDOM NUMBERS A Collection of Verse on Science Fiction Fandom by SOURDOUGH JACKSON Version 1.0 COPYRIGHT NOTICE!!! All poems contained in this publication are COPYRIGHT 1987 by Sourdough Jackson This is an experiment in "disktop publishing". Permission is granted to individuals to make copies to give away and to non-profit organizations to distribute for a nominal copying fee (e.g. user-group libraries). Permission is also granted to upload and download this document to and from electronic bulletin boards. In all cases, this permission is contingent upon the document being copied in its entirety, including this copyright notice. No deletions or amendments are permitted. Permision is !!!NOT!!! granted to upload this document to CompuServe! Any attempt to do so will be considered a copyright violation by the publisher. SYSOPS: If you are running a FIDO or similar public board, you are encouraged to spread this document around, provided it is kept intact. If you are running a conference on The Source, Tymnet, BIX, or similar commercial networks, please contact the publisher regarding the legalities of copyrighted materials appearing on your system. If you are a CompuServe sysop, delete this file AT ONCE and notify the publisher immediately as to the name and address of the person uploading it, and the date and time it was uploaded. Anyone wishing to distribute this document for profit must contact the author or the publisher to make contractual arrangements. James G. Jackson Disktop Publishing 31 Rangeview Dr. Lakewood CO 80215 Again, private individuals are encouraged to spread this document around as much as possible, providing the document is kept intact and no charge is made. IF YOU ENJOYED THIS VERSE, and like to keep a poet happy and writing more verse, please send a contribution of $5.00 to James G. Jackson 31 Rangeview Dr. Lakewood CO 80215 UPGRADE POLICY: All those who send the requested contribution to the author will receive a free upgrade when the document is significantly expanded. This is VERSION 1.0. With every turn of the disk in the drive: To him who helps the poet thrive By swapping silver for the use Of verse, sweet blessings from the Muse. But woe to him who plays the thief, Deletes this message--grant him grief! For every time the disk spins round, His luck shall tumble to the ground. THE (DARKOVAN) '68 CHEVELLE (tune: Plastic Jesus, rather mutated) I'll never fear no Terran blasters Long as I got my Regis Hastur Glued to the dashboard of my '68 Chevelle! If the Terranan get nearer, I've got a Zandru on my mirror So he'll take 'em all to frozen Hell. I got Durraman and his donkey flying on the hood Darkover tourist bumper stickers fore and aft look good. I'll never fear no Terran blasters Long as I got my Regis Hastur Glued to the dashboard of my car. In the Hellers, "Two To Conquer" Really means, in this old clunker, Four of her six cylinders are missing, out again. In this snow she just won't last Up to the top of Wolf Creek Pass So we stop and put on tire chains. Freezing stiff, we monitor the trouble in her mill. Starstones out, we think real hard and work a healing spell. I'll never fear no Terran blasters Long as I got my Regis Hastur Glued to the dashboard of my car. Stayed at an inn one stormy night, Forgot to turn off the car's headlights. When morning came, the battery was dead beyond recall. "Get your starstones out and link up, Energons in mass we'll think up!" Said I to my Circle in the hall. I got a 40-channel matrix-powered CB set When we have our ears on, all the smokies' thoughts we get. I'll never fear no Terran blasters Long as I got my Regis Hastur Glued to the dashboard of my car. THE BLOODY CON (tune: Goodnight Loving Trail, by Utah Phillips) You've read all the books, so your red robe you don And freak out (like mundanes) the whole ruddy con, And the trufen make bets as to what you're high on-- Chorus: It's the crimson sun, it's the bloody sun In the purple sky, shining so grand, Where the pines get trimmed back by the avalanche track And the banshees all wail o'er the high mountain trail-- Don't you feel the Ghost Wind gettin' under your skin? Just remember you're on Terran land. When you go to sign up in the register-line The con-bureau lass, eyebrows high, says, "Oh, fine!" 'Cause you're blank-n'ha-blank or Ardais-Elhalyn-- (chorus) With your bedsheet of red and your glass bead of blue You can do anything that a Keeper can do Except lose the blues that're getting to you-- (chorus) When at the filksing, you're not sure you'll survive. Your Keeper's lament drew a snicker or five And this astro-jock wants to feed you to the drive-- (chorus) When a zap-gunner empties his piece in your face You want to draw sword, for it's such a disgrace They don't keep the Compact at all in this place-- (chorus) And when the con's over, and home you've gone back, You put on your boots, take your hat from the rack And head for the hills on your horse's strong back 'Neath the golden sun, 'neath the yellow sun, Through thin air it's shining so grand, Where the pines get trimmed back by the avalanche track And the coyotes wail o'er the high mountain trail-- Don't you feel chinook-wind gettin' under your skin? On the weekdays you're just a cowhand! FAKEFAN OF DARKOVER (tune: Okie From Muskogee) Years ago,I read some top-grade stories About a snow-bound shipcrash colony. I loved 'em all, but ne'er went off the deep end; My fanac never grabbed control of me! Chorus: And I'm proud to be a Fakefan of Darkover! I'll talk the books from here to Hastur's Hall, Pub zines, hack apas, write filksongs, and drink up Australian bheer, the greatest high of all! I don't have a single scrap of laran; If I did, I'd hold it close to me, Save it for the rain or for religion, Not spread it 'round a con for all to see! (chorus) I don't live back in the Middle Ages; I don't think much of folks who think I should. I'll keep my Selectric and computer Because my handwriting's no damned good! (chorus) I know a few nice but nutty women Who all think they are Free Amazons. I support the Equal Rights Amendment But who do these folks think they're putting on? (chorus) I don't have a Darkovan persona; I am too fond of my sanity. If I stick to writing and discussion, Fanac ne'er will grab control of me. (chorus) Most trufen are wary of Darko-fans, Too far gone in some strange fantasy. Let's pub zines instead, just like fen used to, And write like Willis--here's to heresy! (chorus) TWO CONCOMS (tune: I've Got No Use For Women) Only two World SF Concoms, only the meetings that run Lengthy and boring till midnight, only the slogging's begun; Only a green band of staffers working to please all the fen . . . Only a shockwave of fanfeuds where local fandoms had been. Then scorn not the World SF Concom, the concom that drills through the dirt, The wholly disorganized concom, the concom that loses its shirt. You can never be sure of your concom, but this you know always, right off: A concom's too often a con com, and a smoffer is always a smof! Only two World SF Concoms, only BNF's above, Only new blood--at the bottom, only some smof on the move, Only a regional chairfan, only pretending to work, Only bad write-ups in LOCUS, only an ouster, berserk. Then mock not the World SF Concom, and put not all trust on one side, The rumbling and bickering concom, the concom wrapped up in its pride. You can never be sure of your concom, but this you know always, right off: A concom's too often a con com, and a smoffer is always a smof! Only two World SF Concoms, only the budget's been blown, Only departments in chaos, only confusion's our own . . . Only procedural problems, only political screws, Only "All locals, resign!", only fanfeuding and blues. Then mock not the World SF Concom when into your city it comes, One green and one ill-prepared concom--which separates workers from bums. You can never be sure of your concom, but this you know always, right off: A concom's too often a con com, and a smoffer is always a smof! Only two World SF Concoms going to pot as before, Only we've seen it too often, only we're waiting no more. Only a call for our gofers, only experience past, Only a few wrecking spoilers, only we've learned it at last! Then mock not the World SF Concom, but take off your beanie to same, The grouchy, cantankerous concom, the concom that taught us the game! For all that we know in the Art Show, and all they've forgot on Ops Staff, We learned in the Scrap o' Two Concoms, which lasted two years and a half. O mock not the World SF Concom, not even when contracts are signed-- The concom that's not quite a concom, the concom that cons its own kind. You can never be sure of your concom, ut this you know always, right off: That a concom's too often a con com, and a smoffer is always a smof! BALLAD OF THE THREE SMOFS (tune: Ballad of the Three Kings, by Gordon Dickson) Three fans set out for to run a con, And Secret Masters were they, With T.O. charts and big budgets on And staffs to hold harm at bay. Three smofs set out for to run a con, Prepared for the struggle at dawn, The Lady of Sercon, the Lord of the Puns, And the Chairfan of Worldcon! The Sercon Lady was first to boast. "A Multi-track Program have I Assembled to lay the fannish ghost And friovolous play deny. Science Fiction is Literature, Great Thoughts the authors address. Worldcon's for the savant pure, And not for fa-annishness!" The Maker of Puns was the next in line, The Ops Chief hat on his poll: "A system flexible, well-prepared To break any bind's my goal. With back-ups ready for any crash, Strong staffers swim in my pool-- He'll try to enforce his disruptive Law, But Murphy shall never rule!" The Chairfan led the troops from behind, The Hindmost devil was she. "The crew's assembled, we're standing tall In serried ranks orderly. Everyone says they're ready now. No matter what blow will fall, Our system manuals and comm-net Give Chaos no room at all!" Three smofs set forth to run Worldcon Before the mountains so high; A throng of thousands did meet them there Under the thin blue sky. Three smofs with help to their labors bent-- When smoke cleared, and all was done, Fa-a-ans took Sercon, and Murphy took Pun, And Eris took Worldcon! AH, DENVENTION Ah, Denvention! Weary were days We labored so fen could have fun. While they partied, we slaved in a haze Till our hostly hard labor was done. But in truth, I remember the fire Of our purpose, our spirit, our show-- Did it lie down in grave and expire? Tell me, where did our brother-band go? I'M AN APAHACK (tune: I'm A Lumberjack) I'm an apahack and I'm OK, I write all night and I sleep all day. Chorus: He's an apahack and he's OK, He writes all night and he sleeps all day. I bang out sixteen zines at once--too many, I confess. I'm always crowding deadlines, but I make 'em nonetheless. (He bangs out sixteen zines at once--too many, he'll confess. Hee's always crowding deadlines, but he makes 'em nonetheless) (Chorus) My FAPAzine runs quarterly, and WOOF's is annual, And 'cause I'm hyper, every week I write for APA-L. (His FAPAzine runs quarterly, and WOOF's is annual, And 'cause he's hyper, every week he writes for APA-L.) (chorus) I never go to cons because I'm writing all the time And if I went, I'd miss a deadline--what an awful crime. (He never goes to cons because he's writing all the time And if he went, he'd miss a deadline--what an awful crime.) (chorus) I'll win a Hugo someday if the stress grows not too great And makes me chuck my apas out, for then I'll gafiate! (He'll win a hugo someday if the stress grows not too great And makes him chuck his apas out, for then he'll gafiate!) (chorus) B.D. ARTHURS B.D. Arthurs, apahack, Gave AZAPA forty whacks. And when that pagecount war was done, He gave FAPA forty-one. BRUCE M. DANE (can be sung to a slightly-modified "Jesse James") Now you've got a huge concom At your local SF con And you're overstaffed from Chairfan to the bottom, But at Worldcon, fen are loafers; You will do your work with gofers-- All too few, and you'll bless the fan that's got 'em. Now I used to spend my days In a sleepless, hungry haze A-working in the Worldcon's hurricane And of all that wasted crew The greatest chap I knew Was this guy in Operations, Bruce M. Dane. He was "Dane! Dane! Dane! "You carny-show magician, Bruce M. Dane! "We've been here six whole hours "So go use your magic powers "And get us some relief now, Bruce M. Dane!" At Iguanacon did he Run all con security And more than half of Operations, too. Every fan-jack from L.A. Worked the live-long bloody day And then stood shifts for all the dark night thru. When Phoenix phans recovered And new energy discovered They ran a Westercon just last July They needed someone tough To run Operations' stuff So when all was ready, Bruce Dane was their guy. And it was "Dane! Dane! Dane! "You fugghead, where have all the gofers been? "Now you fill all I require "Or I'll tell all to Mike Glyer "If you don't give me my workers, Bruce M. Dane!" I shan't forget the day When the hired guards slipped away And we had no damned security at all. We yelled "Help!" to Operations For some fen to man our stations And they sent us just one man to catch the ball. Bruce Dane saw our predicam- Ent and then devised a system That covered all the doors and kept us sane. The Art Show at Denvention Was saved by his attention As he tramped the hall with walky and a cane. So it was "Dane! Dane! Dane! "Some crazy's come to volunteer again!" Though FILE 770's panned you, Still this I've got to hand you-- You're a truer fan than I am, Bruce M. Dane. THE BURST VESSEL SONG (tune: Tomorrow Belongs to Me) We've just run a con for three hundred-odd fans, Well-organized down to a T. Let's go for the gold and bid for Worldcon-- Tomorrow belongs to me! The voting is less than a year down the pike, We'll wow 'em with parties so free. Our budget must go for food, cokes and bheer-- Tomorrow belongs to me! Our hotels are grand, and our con center, too, The pride of our native city. We won't tell a soul they're spread all o'er town. Tomorrow belongs to me! Our image is fine, we are young and we're strong, We've scads of great publicity. We've swept inexperience 'neath the rug. Tomorrow belongs to me! We're at the Worldcon; they are balloting now, Campaigning's as tough as can be. Our parties should pull us the votes we need. Tomorrow belongs to me! They've counted the votes. WE'VE WON IT AT LAST! Let's celebrate our victory! But why do the smofs snicker in their bheer? Tomorrow belongs to me! Tomorrow belongs, Tomorrow belongs, Tomorrow belongs to me! CAPTAIN COORS (tune: The King, by Steeleye Span. Or, Who Killed Cock Robin) Who gives him the Bath? I, said the bheer-can When I am well-shaken I'll give him the Bath! Who'll sing the psalms? I shall, said Yang The Nauseating, I'll sing the psalms. Who lays on the sword? I, said the Art Show, His wallet I'll hollow. I'll lay on the sword. Who'll shake his hand? I, said No-Sleep, On coffee he'll keep. I'll shake his hand. Who fastens his belt? I, said the Banquet. I am so rank that He'll tighten his belt. Who fastens his spur? I, said Convention, For egoboo's mention I'll give him the spur. Who brings him the wine? I, said Room-Party So noisily hearty, I'll come with his wine. Who'll put him to proof? I, said All Fandom, Whatever is in him I'll put to the proof. Who names him for knight? We, said his pals, For us there's none else Our very own knight. At SF conventions all over the West Was a BNF made, to stand with the best. SPACE CHAOBOY (tune: Space Cowboy, by Steve Miller) I've tramped along "The Trail of '98", My shield "Azure, Eight Mullets Or". Under "All Plain Sail" I've stalked "Killerwhale" On a "Sunjammer Round the Horn". "In the Wake of the Battlecruiser" I've fared With the old "Skull and Roses" my flag. Under "Bare Poles" I've run in the Valley o' Sun With "Grand Ol' Space Opry" my rag. Now it's SPACE CHAOBOY And THE EYE IN THE BHEERAMID! I'm a Space Chaoboy And you thought I was an apahack dead! Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah! COME ON IN (tune: "Come On In", Even Dozen Jug Band) Come on in, ain't nobody here but me. Come on in, ain't nobody here but me. Sit down, read anything you care, Pulps are right in the bookshelves there. Come on in, ain't nobody here but me. Come on in, ain't nobody here but me. Come on in, ain't nobody here but me. My Kaypro's up, running WordStar now, Just write anything you want, and how! Come on in, ain't nobody here but me. Come on in, ain't nobody here but me. Come on in, ain't nobody here but me. Let's pub a fanzine and write it hot, Pop a stencil in the printer's slot. Come on in, ain't nobody here but me. Come on in, ain't nobody here but me. Come on in, ain't nobody here but me. Sipping our Foster's brew so slow While inking, cranking my mimeo, Come on in, ain't nobody here but me. Come on in, ain't nobody here but me. Come on in, ain't nobody here but me. We'll play Fish tapes at maximum gain Till the ink's all dry or the neighbors complain. Come on in, ain't nobody here but me. Come on in, ain't nobody here but me. Come on in, ain't nobody here but me. Collate, mail--let's celebrate! We'll win a Hugo, just you wait! Come on in, ain't nobody here but me. CON FARR (tune: Windmills/Circles/etc.) In days gone by, when 'twas proud and lonely To read science fiction and be a trufan, Some fen got together, invented conventions, And altered their consciousness--Con Farr began! Chorus: Around and around and around go the con fen, Fatigue they don't notice in their state of mind. Hunger and thirst signals all go unheeded; "Sleep--what is that?" as they stumble half-blind. Worldcons and Westercons merrily prospered, Smaller cons in their wake eagerly climbed. A young fan in Denver from Star Trek discovered A name, which was "Con Farr", for our amok time. (chorus) All through the weekend the fen roam the hotel, Eating and sleeping but little, at best. A little free bheer and caffeine in large doses Makes fen in Con Farr think they need no rest. (chorus) Con Farr will take you through con suite and parties, Con Farr will see you through filksings till four, Con Farr will deck you if you're on the concom, Con Farr means Monday you're dead on the floor. (chorus) And we insane ones who bid for the big ones, Fishing for entropy, sunk if we win, Run down to zippo on Wester- or Worldcon-- But next month we're up, and it's Con Farr again. (chorus) DISASTERS COME IN MANY FORMS tune: Leeches Come in Many Forms, by Leslie Fish chorus: Beware, beware, all prudent fen beware, Disasters come in many forms And you'll find them everywhere. Troubles come for trufen, that's the way the planets go; Remember Worldcon that you ran five weary years ago? But now some eager neo tells you with an eager smile, "Let's bid for Worldcon; we've not had one here in quite a while." (chorus) His first con was Denvention II or Chicon or some such. Of concom jobs he's had a taste, but not done very much. He missed the Big Show, he complains, and then he boasts so loud He'll run a Worldcon that'll do you and all fandom proud. (chorus) He gathers friends around him and infects them with his zeal; He wonders why you think he's handing you some half-baked deal. He tells you "Not to worry--we can do it--don't complain," While you and your old comrades swear,"Gawd, nevermore again!" (chorus) You see the monster coming and you try to hold it back By shrugging off, or scaring off, or exploding clouds of flak. That neo's just made bolder still by everything you say. You know who'll do his dirty work, and you want to move away. (chorus) So if that neo comes with Worldcon plans he wants to do, Listen quite politely, but don't let him sucker you. Run him out of town if he won't heed a word you say; Kick his arse to Boston-town, or better, to L.A. [spoken: Where they love to run Worldcons ALL THE TIME!] (chorus) FAFIA (tune: When the Levee Breaks) If I keep on studying, gonna fafiate. If I keep on studying, gonna fafiate. When I fafiate, it's gonna be a black, black day. Mean old paper, typer just moans and groans. Mean old paper, typer just moans and groans. No fanac, folks, just dry ol' history bones. Fanzines pile up, sit on the shelf unread. Fanzines pile up, sit on the shelf unread. When I fafiate, feel I'm close to dead. All last night, sat at the table and crammed. All last night, sat at the table and crammed. When you fafiate, you feel like one of the damned. THE FEN SANG "BOUNCING POTATOES" (tune: "The Band Played `Waltzing Matilda'") When I was a neo a crudzine I pubbed And I dreamed one day I'd win the Hugo. But every loc panned me and told me I'd flubbed, Giving brief comments on just where to go. But an old trufan took me aside and said, "Kid, Forget -all about that blown crudzine you did. Start afresh with my help and of crud you'll be rid." And he helped me crank out my next zine. And the fen sang "Bouncing Potatoes" As my mimeo cranked through the night. And amid the black ink, stencils and corflu stink, We got that zine to come out right. How well I -remember my first sf con When I drank bheer and coffee like water. They told me collecting was -marvelous fun; I walked in like a lamb to the slaughter. The hucksters were waiting; they'd primed themselves well. They rained me with bargains on pulps they would sell. And in ten minutes flat my dough went clean to hell, Nearly put me right into the poorhouse. And the fen sang "Bouncing Potatoes" As I carted Astounding's away. I had got mine, and the hucksters felt fine, For we started again the next day. After that I went back to my home SF club Full of energy, words, and desire. For six years or so I would pub and I'd pub While around me the fanzines piled higher. Then a letter one day knocked me arse over head-- I couldn't believer the short message I read, But three times I looked, and still the thing said, "Nominated you are for a Hugo." Now I'd go once more bouncing potatoes To Worldcon. I was so proud Of my top-grade genzine with its repro so clean. How I'd stand out in any fan crowd. So they gathered us up, Hugo nominees all, And they fed us a poisonous dinner. The authors and artists took rocketships tall While my patience grew thinner and thinner. The toastmaster reached "Best Fanzine" finally, And I ogled that spaceship; soon mine it would be. But he called up a fan, and that fan wasn't me, And my heart plunged right down through the floor. And the fen sang "Bouncing Potatoes" As we losers did rue this dark day. None of us cheered, we just sat there and stared, Then we turned our long faces away. And still, every Labor Day trufen convene To talk, drink, laugh, sing, whoop and holler. I come every year and I bring my fanzine Though the fanzine fan crew's getting smaller. The Fanzine Room we run to try to bring more New blood to revive a forgotten lore But the young neos ask me, "What's all the fuss for?" And I can't make sense of that question. And the fen sing "Bouncing Potatoes" As the thousands throng all through the hall, But as year follows year, fewer fanzines appear. Someday none will be published at all. And their ghosts are still heard By the call-girls at that swimming pool, "You'll come a-bouncing potatoes with me." THE FILKSONG FEN Who killed science fiction? Feed a starving robot. I We are the filksong fen We are the tuneless fen Singing together Helmets filled with bheer. Huzzah! Our flat voices, when We're wailing together Are loud and cacophonous As chainsaws in logs Or Indy cars on oval tracks In our far corner. Words without notes, tunes out of key, Volume and force, energy unrestrained; Those who have crossed Our reckless path, to reach their own Worldcons, Remember us--if at all--not as mad Sozzled souls, but only As the filksong fen, The tuneless fen. II Songs you dare not hear in dreams In Worldcon filksings These will all appear: There, space is dark, The wreck in a Marcon ballroom There, is a Dorsai swinging And spell-swords are In murder singing "Take me back to Tinnys Sea In a '68 Chevelle." Dare you come much nearer To Worldcon filksings? Let us also sing Such heart-bestirring songs as Brothers, Few Days, Daydreams, Privateer, A Toast for Unsung Heroes--sing Hope Eyrie-- Never ends the circle In the midnight Worldcon. III This is the live time This is music time Here the lusty voices all Are raised, here they retrieve The best-forgotten songs of stoned fen's hands, All to the plunking of a folk guitar. Is it like this In Day's other Worldcon-- Waking for brunch At an hour unholy Rumbling with hangover? Time should not be From bedtime to afternoon. IV One key is not here There are "n" keys here In this hallway of murdered tunes In this foggy hallway This raucous crew where we found Worldcon In this blast of notes bejumbled We bray together We have a ball Gathered in this hall of the shaking hotel. Tireless, unless The Sun appears-- So the black-coffee urn fills All the filksingers' cups In dark midnight Worldcon The only hope Of filking fen. V Let's sing the "Ballad of Eskimo Nell, Eskimo Nell, Eskimo Nell" Let's sing the "Ballad of Eskimo Nell" At six o'clock in the morning. Between the coffee And the cup Between Off Centaur And the tape Falls the Shadow. Gimme that real old time religion! Between Gasparik And his axe Between the filkbook And the song Falls the Shadow. Young Man Mulligan is very long. Between Pierre And his piano Between Bob Asprin And the Tully What evil lurks In the hearts of men-- Who knows? The Shadow! Let's sing "The Orcs' Marching Song"! Old Time Religion Young Man Mulligan Orcs' Marching Song This is the way the Worldcon ends This is the way the Worldcon ends This is the way the Worldcon ends Not with a snore but a filksong! TO LESLIE FISH In truth, you ride on the ebb and flow Of music's tide when the full moon's high. The trufen of waking nights all know Of eagle's landing there in the sky, And how your voice leaps times out of mind Over the web of twelve-string chords, And think your song a banner in wind, And follow you, singing off-key words. GAIL RAY (tune: Rimini) When I left home for Gail Ray's sake By the trufen's road from Worldcon I vowed my heart was hers to take With her and her truck from Worldcon (When Phoenix blew the Worldcon--) And I've worked MileHi and I've worked King And the Westercon where the filkers sing As rich as the love of my Gail (As warm as the heart of my Gail) And I have the Captain, and I have the Hun And the Amazon, but best, most fun, I've got my Gail! When you go to the World Convention Where thousands of fen hell around, Remember the Luck of the Gofer Who left Arizona's home ground! Oh, dear were the ladies who kissed him And the bheer-drinking buddies he found, But his heart was swept off to the mountains And he left Arizona's home ground! And he left home, etc. When you go to the World Convention, Which is one big entropy bomb, Remember the Luck of the Gofer Who pratfell onto the Concom. He carried his rules and his paperwork, He posted his staff in the room, Till Chaos barged in and took over And blew the plans of the Concom. And he left home, etc. It's eight hundred miles to Phoenix Plus a hundred-and-ten to Tuscon And life has been love in the mountains And work on a Worldconcom. But whether the Beaver goes with us, Or we're cornered by Murphy--alone, I'd sooner be Gail Ray's husband Than work on another Worldcon! For I'm now home for Gail Ray's sake From the trufen's road to Worldcon. She knows my heart is hers to take Anywhere else but Worldcon! (But we ran one helluva Worldcon!) My friend's the Captain, my friend's the Hun And the Amazon from far Tuscon Where the sun is as bright as my Gail (And warm as the heart of my Gail!) And I have the Captain, and I have the Hun And the Amazon, but best, most fun, I've got my Gail! A HEROES' SONG Sung by the heroes of SF and fantasy over Sourdough and Gail, in their bridal sleep at a Convention. We who are bold, bold and young, Yet to come! Thousands of tales, thousands of paths, That we come from: Give to these children, dreamers of worlds, Starlight and song; And the strong-brewed spirits of quest and love, Their whole lives long: Give to these children, dreamers of worlds, Vision-filled friends. Is anything better, anything greater? Tell us it then: Us who are bold, bold and young, Yet to come! Thousands of tales, thousands of paths, That we come from. THE HOSTING OF THE FEN The host is riding down Fed'ral Way And over the slush to Southwest Bank, Thea waving her purple hank And Dana calling Away, come away: Empty your back of its mundane load; The cyclone opens the road to Oz; Y'all come back up our fannish cause, Y'all come travel the Golden Road, Y'all come dance in the ring, take part; And if any join in our faerie band, We come between him and the cares on his hands, We come between her and the weight on her heart. The host runs rapid from night to day And where is there weight, or grief, or care? Thea flaunting her purple there, And Dana calling Away, come away. HYMN BEFORE AUCTION (tune: Hymn Before Action) The Art Show's full of pictures Whose sheets are clogged with bids; The staff and gofers look like They're really on the skids. Ere yet we loose our Combine, Ere yet we make our raid, Fleet Hermes of Light Fingers, Lord God of Bargains, aid! High hope mixed with lost bearings, Bold heart with ne'er a fear, With purse and wallet bulging We'll face the auctioneer. In air that's clear or smoky, In silence or a din, We pray, Fast-Talking Loki, Our bidding fights we'll win! For those who bid beside us On artwork we don't need, Who lack the sense that guides us-- We'll bid up till they bleed! In fun, we'll leave 'em sitting At prices they can't pay, So Brucifer's fell Hammer Hits them, not us, today! It's panic, flight, and terror When that game's played on us-- There's two we want that HE wants, The orn'ry little cuss. He's got more dough than we do Plus mouth and gall to spare-- Lord Elcin of the Thunders May pound us, fair and square! Ah, money we must borrow, Our cash flows ere sundown, For there is more tomorrow Before the show shuts down. Since profit's born of credit To each at bitter need-- Great Mammon, surnamed Visa, With bankers, intercede! E'en now the bidders gather, E'en now we're coming in, As Thou didst help us always, Help Thou our group--again-- To "steal" each piece sans trouble Of bid-wars we can't win And take all at low prices, St. Dismas, Thief and Friend! "I AM OF WORLDCON" "I am of Worldcon "And the joyous crowd at Worldcon "And time takes off," sang she. "Come, for hilarity, "Come dance with me at Worldcon." One fan stood all alone In his convention gear, One solitary fan Of all carousing there Had turned his beanied head. "The day is not far off "And time takes off," he said, "And cons get tight and tough." "I am of Worldcon "And the joyous crowd at Worldcon "And time takes off," sang she. "Come, in prosperity, "Come dance with me at Worldcon." "The planners are prize fools "Or the plans they make are cursed, "The main convention halls "And the meeting rooms are burst. "And all the smofs," cried he, "Their wits are falling off "While dollars spark their eyes; "Time takes off, time takes off." "I am of Worldcon "And the joyous crowd at Worldcon "And time takes off," sang she. "Come, claustrophobically, "Come dance with me at Worldcon." CRAZY JANE AND THE PEDANT (Crazy Jane is the author's dulcimer) Bring me to the music-quern That I, when comes my rightful turn, (All sit frying in the pan) May sing bad press upon his head Because of Filking Jack, who fled. "Faaaannish" was the least he said: The sercon wight, such a fakefan. Nor was he well-known when he ran To silence Jack the Filking-fan, (All sit frying in the pan) Not so much a BNF, Yet he, a tome clutched in his left, Cried,"He's voiceless and tone-deaf!" The sercon wight, such a fakefan. The Pedant has a skull, I 'test, Thick as the granite mountain crest (All sit frying in the pan) Nor can he hide in white and black That sensahumah is his lack, But lampoon-verse sings my Jack: The sercon wight, such a fakefan. Jack's returned from finding me And takes me to the quern, for he (All sit frying in the pan) Plays and sings until quite late With bards and glee-men, elven-state, But if that other comes, I grate: The sercon wight, such a fakefan. CRAZY JANE AND JACK THE FILKER I know that oft when fen meet (I may not sing alone) The more I sit late in his lap The more my songs are flown, For music's but a circle round About the dusk and dawn. A lonely fan the filker is With no-one in his lap, Naught but crumbling twiltone sheets Within a binder's snap, No-one to accompany The overshadowed chap. Once I was left to lie alone On an empty shelf. The twiltone sheets now make my bed; I've done well for myself Since the harping Gael found me-- Or maybe 'twas an elf. CRAZY JANE IMPROVED I care not what the ops-smofs say: All that dreadful planning-churn, All those crises, night and day, Cannot slow the music-quern; Daft the fan is, hopes in air, Who swaps sweet music for a Chair. Fiawol, fiawol. To sing with verve of seas that boil, To beller out with "Hearts of Oak", To wail while burning midnight oil Makes the hotel windows crack: So follow well, if fun's your plan, A scribbling, noisy filking fan. Fiawol, fiawol. WHO GOES WITH JOPHAN? Who will go quest with Jophan now, And pierce the stencil's waxen sheet, And publish fanzines by the score? Young fan, fire up your mimeo With ink and stencils, twiltone sheets, And never run you silent more. And no more dig too deep and find A concom's muddied maya stew, For Jophan rules the clunking drums And guides the faned's journey blind Until that faned on the true Enchanted Duplicator comes. JOPHAN AND THE LADY Jophan: This whole night have I chased all through the halls And you have shifted form and speed and place, First as a hoka on whose fuzzy head Beanie and fez swapped places, then you seemed A hani springing on from room to room, And now at last you show a human shape, A lady dressed in motley, day-glow bright. Lady: What would you, dean of the proud Fanzine Fans? Jophan: Well, it's like this, most strange of all confans: Young speedy Hlavaty pubbed zines with me; Some months we labored, and his words were fair, And what to me was toil unending, was For him so easy, so I gave to him My stencils, corflu, mimeo and paper. Lady: What would you, dean of the proud Fanzine Fans? Jophan: A fan well-known! And that's what's creebing me. I drink amid the trufen at the cons, And go to clubs, and talk to neofans Who listen to my tales of long ago; Yet still the words I write weigh on my heart. Lady: Whaddya want, Jophan? Jophan: Be no more a fan, But gafiate and live more leisurely. Lady: Look on my violet hair and amber cheeks And on my rainbow hands--you say you're bored? You just got laid this morn, you look quite well-- You want for me to help you gafiate? Jophan: A fan is but a foolish hedonist Who wastes his energy on idle dreams. Lady: Take, if you must, this little golden fruit, And eat it all; your problems will be solved. Jophan: I see my life unfolding like a fanzine From page to page; I have been many things-- A keg of bheer, a bookcase full of pulps, A house of happy friends who meet each week, A faned cranking at the mimeo, A chairfan sitting on a seat of spikes-- And all these things are wonderful and great, For now I have grown younger, knowing this. Ah, Lady, Lady, how great webs of joy Lie hidden in the golden, giddy thing! JUBAL AND TUBAL FAN (tune: Jubal and Tubal Cain, by Leslie Fish) Jubal sang of the Golden Years And the days of Campbell, gone-- But Tubal got him some volunteers And organized him a con. Old--old as the pulps we hold, Young as a neofan, Strangely seen is the strife between Jubal and Tubal Fan! Jubal sang of the fane of Foo And the fame fanpubbing brings, But Tubal 'corporated anew And printed officious things. Rank--rank as the corflu stank, Black as the blotches ran, Inky and hot is the fight they've got, Jubal and Tubal Fan! Jubal sang of a time of joys When all fanfeuds should cease, But Tubal pulled dark, dirty ploys And showed his fandom "peace." New--newer than Doctor Who, Old as the First proud Fans, Drawing a crowd is the feud avowed Twixt Jubal and Tubal Fan! Jubal sang,"Bring, if we would, The break-even ethic back." But Tubal ran cons as he could And ran them high in the black. High--high as the profits fly, Low as the service ran, Whoever they be, they can never agree, Jubal and Tubal Fan! THE LAST TRIP TO PHOENIX (tune: The Last Trip to Tulsa, by Neil Young) I used to shuffle papers, it put me in a bind, I flew to a convention to try to lose my mind. I ran into a hotel from the hundred-degree draft; My friends were in the lobby; it was like I'd never left. Got lost, but found the con suite, and feeling rather cheered I stayed to help the Captain drink up all the free bheer. I woke a mite hung over, my head felt full of snow, The morning was dark over, I went down to see a pro Who read to us a story of an antihero sour-- And if I hadn't known her, I'd've been abed that hour. I went to see the hucksters, where I nearly met my doom Trapped between the tables where there wasn't any room. I was sitting down to banquet; it was Mexican buffet. There was something strange upon my plate. I ate it anyway. The chili beans were yellow and the taco meat was green, The enchilada sauce was blue. My stomach loudly screamed, "There's nothing you've put into me which I can digest!" I listened to the speeches; left the seconds to their rest. I went to watch the masquerade to see my pals in rags-- The oddest were assembled in a hurry from a bag. One wore a saint's halo, and one just shuffled on And said,"I'm Woody Allen, and I run the WesterCon." Then they cleared the chairs away to hold a dancing school. I grabbed some Colo. Kool-Aid and I headed for the pool. I was sitting by the poolside, sipping at my suds, The jacuzzi overflowed; it was jammed with fannish bods. Then Captain Coors walked over, his tricorn on his bean, The mob in the jacuzzi yelled, "Come and join the scene!" The Captain said, "No thanks, I'm not quite that much a fool." The mob got out and grabbed him and chucked him in the pool! The pro I mentioned earlier, whose name is Marion, Wrote up a short story entirely at the con. She started writing Friday night and read it Sunday am, They auctioned off the first draft--it went for fifty clams! 'Twas on my last trip to Phoenix, just before the snow, If they have a Westercon there, be sure to let me know. THE NEOFAN Where runs the faery highway All sideways to the sun, There stands a shining hotel Where bubbling sounds of fun Attract the elves to come; There we hold our finest con: Time so merry; Ship of steel and dance of faerie. Come away, O neofan! Where the starships lift and land With the trufen's jolly band To all worlds, more full of wonder than you can understand. Where with the pirate hordes of Boskone The staunch Gray Lensmen fight, Far off on desert Barsoom; We read it all the night, Stacking golden novels, Mingling ents with rays of Rovol Till New York has taken flight; World to world we leap And hire a Dorsai colonel To help the Champion Eternal Drive Chaos from his keep. Come away, O neofan! To the port where swanships land With the trufen's jolly band To all worlds, more full of wonder than you can understand. Where the wandering Louis Wu goes, Far beyond the Fields We Know, On dunes that Muad'Dib knows, Where Conan felled his foe, We seek for out-of-place bards And whistling to their souls Share with them stellar dreams; Reaching for the shards Of song as lightly rolls The Con of Time's Branched Streams. Come away, O neofan! Where we'll argue Seldon's Plan With the trufen's jolly band Thru all worlds more full of wonder than you can understand. Away with us you're going, O glory-bound? You'll feel no more the pinching Of mundanity's dull round. Know you well that it is we, Run from Rim to Mars, Who, with the ancient Sidhe, Are the People of the Stars. Welcome now, O neofan! Ten leagues past the wide world's end, To the trufen's jolly band And all worlds, more full of wonder than you can understand. NOISE (tune: Greensleeves) What noise is this rolling down the halls Shaking up the walls with such feeling? It sounds like music, but not quite that Of Beethoven or Bach or Bruce Springsteen. This, this is a filksing, friend, It's a bardic circle in full array. Sit down, there's room for one more As we warble and bellow and bray. "What is a filksong?" you ask, but there Is no hard and fast definition. You might as well go and ask a fan What he means when he says "science fiction." Songs, songs of men on the Moon, Songs of elves and the Dorsai clans, Past, future and Kipling tunes All get sung by the filksinging fans. Some songs are "ose" (which means "sad and grim"), While others are sweet-loving mellow, And some are crammed with outrageous puns And some sing of tubs of lime jello. Some of the best (and the worst) Are preserved in print or on tape cassette For sale in the Hucksters' Room. Sev'ral dealers will have them, I bet. A bardic circle's quite simple, though From appearances chaos seems the norm, You have three choices when comes your turn: You can pick, you can pass, or perform. If you want to sing a song It matters not if you've no guitar. Sing out now, and don't be shy. We all started from where you now are. THERE'S NO SUCH THING AS A LOUSY VOICE!!! For, although an op'ra soprano's here, She loves to listen to all fen sing Whether right on key or nowhere near. Likewise, if you feel inspired To write a filksong, more power to You, for all these songs came from The typewriters of trufen like you! (repeat first eight lines). NO WORLDCON (tune: No High Ground, by Leslie Fish) Up to the haggard chairfan, Out with the ragged troops. Committee, staff, and gofers only stretch so far. Sooner or later, this things gonna fall apart; Don't think that it won't happen where you are. No Worldcon, no Worldcon, no Worldcon anymore! The World S.F. Convention's growing larger every year, Gone are days when running it was egoboo and bheer. It takes five hundred staffers and a thousand gofers strong To keep the monster running straight that lays 'em all along! No Worldcon, no Worldcon, no Worldcon anymore! Some cities' con facilities are just too small to cope. Some concoms lose their shirts when they've been handed too much rope. Programming, Dealers, Art Show all get spread about the town And no one knows how best to keep the swelling numbers down! Up to the haggard chairfan, Out with the ragged troops. Committee, staff, and gofers only stretch so far. Sooner or later, this things gonna fall apart; Don't think that it won't happen where you are. No Worldcon, no Worldcon, no Worldcon anymore! Some say that pros should run it, but I'd rather see it dead Than pay for my con membership five hundred bucks a head To pay some damned consultants in some blasted high-rise towers-- It won't be Worldcon, for it won't be any child of ours! No Worldcon, no Worldcon, no Worldcon anymore! To limit members? Then it would not be all fandom's con. But handling crowds like this requires hard work from everyone. There's never enough volunteers, so let us automate In ways so gofers won't require a techie doctorate! Or no Worldcon, no Worldcon, no Worldcon anymore! Ain't no order here, not unless you make it. Ain't no system here, unless you build it all. Ain't no info anywhere unless you keep your walky there; Murphy's hydra's everywhere to make the Worldcon fall! The only friend the concom has is systems free of kludge; Success goes to the ones who best can organize and judge. So question all procedures on what purpose they fulfill, And if the answer's "Nothing," why, just chuck 'em with a will! Up to the haggard chairfan, Out with the ragged troops. Committee, staff, and gofers only stretch so far. Sooner or later, this things gonna fall apart; Don't think that it won't happen where you are, where you are, Don't think that it can't happen where you are. No Worldcon, no Worldcon, no Worldcon anymore! THE ONE-SHOT OF F. ORLIN CONFAN Let us go, then, you and I, When the Arch of Heaven is spread against the sky Like Christmas ribbon looped about a flame. Let us fly o'er continents and seas in haste, O'er sandy, scrith-y waste, To find salvation for this tanj'ed ring-- (Two hundred pages more may end the thing)-- Dancing, out of balance, thinking fun To rub against the sun, To lead the author to a high impasse . . . Don't ask, "How does he win clear?" Let us go and drink some free bheer. In the con suite fen speak heatedly Of shadow squares and instability. The sweet brown fog that rises, falls and clouds the window panes, The purple haze about a few issues from the windowpane, Mixed with spirits rising from the bottom of the bathtub, Staggered across the keys, typewriting lines Of story made by many hands that ramble sodden, Slipped by the pool (nude), made a sudden leap, And seeing that it was six a.m. and light Rolled in the coffee shop, for "Food is sleep." And indeed there will be time For the bull-voiced singer carrying no tune, Boxing our ears with barrack-ballads flat. Much time, no fear, for Beam and bheer, To insert a stencil fresh into the typer's slot. There will be time to stir and twist the plot From what the previous six had done their best To tie it in an ultra-Gordian knot. Time for bheer and time for Beam And time to cook a fiendish story line And stir spaghetti until it recombines Into a mass, the stuff of pros' worst dreams. In the con suite trufen discuss fears Of Ringworld Engineers and puppeteers. And indeed there will be Grimes: On page the last he walks on. Do I dare Leave him in his spacesuit standing there With a small hole near the knee-joint leaking air . . . (They will say,"How the atmosphere grows thin!") The Hamiltonian ships of war stand pois'ed to begin Their planet-wrecking spree amid the rav'ning beams and battle din-- (They will say,"But how the characters are thin!") Do I dare Blow up the universe? In a nanosecond's time There is room for space disruption and an entropy reverse. For I can see him here already: Man Who Counts. My fav'rite space-time heroes all are here. I can see them striving vainly with the weird That six rash, sozzled writers have in jest pronounced To leave each other no way to write free-- The stencil stares at me. And I have quaffed six bheers already, drunk them all-- The cups of joy that loosen tongue and muddle head, And when it is muddled sit I, scratching whiskered chin, I sit here stuck, not knowing what will fall-- Then how should I begin To tie up all the loose ends, to sort the quick and dead? The stencil stares at me. And I have heard three songs already, heard them all-- As I sit cogitating, unbegun-- Of Ringworld Engineers and Thompson guns. Is it little teeny eyes That make me analyze Songs that fill a crowded room up, when mixed with alcohol? The stencil stares at me. Now, how should I begin? * * * * * * * * * Shall I keep blind Rhysling squeezing tunes in space While sniffing smoke come belching out the tubes And listening to the Geiger chatt'ring, sirens wailing? I should have been a hack in days gone by Scribbling for pennies, ne'er reprinted once. * * * * * * * * * And the con suite party roils and roars so joyfully Smoothed by Beam's Choice rounds, Awake . . . wired . . . by gaming Ron Bounds, Blotto on the floor, and dancing stonedly. Do I, after bheer and grass and pretzels, Have the wit to force the words onto the stencils? But though I compose and try to simplify, Though I let John Grimes (much decompressed) drop out of this stale saga, I am no author, just a drinker of lager. The stuck plot and characters just grouse and bicker And I can see the eternal Kibitzer read these lines and snicker, And in short, I want to cry. But will it read so poorly after all, After the smo-o-o-oths, the lager bheer, the grass, Among the empty cans, amid the kitchen sinks and glass, Will it all come out flat, To go berserk swinging Schroedinger's odd cat, To go squeeze the universe into a ball And pitch it toward some macrocosmic batter, To pull Heinlein's Lazarus out of the tale, Where he did not belong, not at all, at all-- If one, reading a fanzine on the bed, Should say: "Someone saved the story from its fall This chapter, after all." And will it read so poorly, after all, Will it all come out flat, After the panels and the speeches and the masquerade, After the hucksters, after the art show, after the consuite party until four-- And typing three sheets more?-- It is impossible to cut this story clean! But as if a Comyn starstone drew energons in patterns in the screens: Will it all come out flat If one, reading a fanzine or partying in the hall And pumping up the bheer-keg, should say: "In this chapter, after all, Someone kept the story from its fall." * * * * * * * * * No! I am not Bob Heinlein, nor do wish to be; Amateur-writing fan, for egoboo I write a column, pub a zine or two, Review the pros down by the swimming pool, Hacking for the apas every week (Or so it seems) in oceans of paste ink; Reams of twiltone through my mimeo squeak; Sometimes a fugghead, loudly do I speak, Almost at times uncool. This grows old . . . this grows old . . . I shall slay the worlds and characters with cold. Shall I bring on a heat-death? Do I stop the universe? I shall bring on Zero Kelvin, and let the next fan curse. I can hear three authors singing, worse and worse. I rather hope they will not sing to me. I can hear them singing flatter than before. Orating melodies without a note While heads upon their glasses bob and float. I have fingered all the black typewriter keys To end this crazy one-shot, so perhaps I'll reel off to my room and then collapse. OPS (tune: "Sink the Bismarck") Wot makes the chairfan's 'eart to stop, wot makes 'er nerves break down? It isn't 'assling 'otel deals nor meetings down in town But it's everlastin' problems, and everlastin' grief From the Operations System and the Operations Chief. O the Ops, O the Ops, O the World Convention Ops With its crazy T.O. tangled like a poor old sozzled snake, Security is lined up, from fans to rent-a-cops, But when we turn the radios on, the blessed comm-links break. Wot makes the trufen swear so bad when Worldcon does begin An' every gofer neo is scared out of his skin? It ain't the chanst o' mundanes nosing in and freaking out; It's the Operations System getting tied in knots throughout! O the Ops, O the Ops, O the hairy scary Ops! A-trippin' over paperwork and raising false alarm! We stands on triple-duty and works until we drops And when we've saved the bloomin' con, we're in the funny farm. The Art Show's rather-more-or-less, the Hucksters' Room is cool, Programming's not attended much, the Treasurer is no fool, But the Operations Sys-sy-tem, when all is said and done, Is Darth Vader, and the Alien, and a B.E.M. in one! O the Ops, O the Ops, O the Ghu-forsaken Ops! The rocky-socky mountain-goat, knocked out and paralyzed, Has blocked the whole convention from the bottom to the top, An' when we get it moving, the damned computer fries! It stalls and tears and jumps and grinds its gears into a bind, It loses track forever if you get yourself behind, It's game to laze the whole day long and drink the whole night through, And when it comes to hassles real, it splits itself in two. O the Ops, O the Ops, O the dropping, flopping Ops, When its heads give out entirely and the gophers' eyes are dim, The house is down around us and the problems never stop, It ain't no sweat for Jophan, but for us it's kinda grim. So when the grotty con is done, and we can all unwind, And when the dead-dog party's on, and we're all drunken-blind, The Operations System's down for good and all--it's past! Its ghost gets up to haunt us, and gets revenge at last. O the Ops, O the Ops, O the defunct, rotten Ops, The late, lamented system, in the fanzines now it lies. Our reputations teeter on the brink, and then they drop, For it gets in FILE 770, and then, o' course, we dies! PAPER WINGS (tune: Green Berets, by Barry Sadler) Apahacks jump from the sky Fearless fen raise hue and cry Fen who type all night and day-- Minac holds us all in sway. Paper wings upon our chests We would be bards, fandom's best. One hundred poems, all filed away Only three made the zine today. MC's firing thick and fast Each time comment hooks are cast Hot debate will burn all year-- Keeps word-forges hot, no fear! Paper wings, etc. When all tire of sage and clown We will lay our typers down. But till then we'll campaign words With paper wings and paste-ink swords. Paper wings and tin-plate verse, We hope we're not fandom's worst. One hundred poems don't scan or rhyme Thaat's why three made the zine this time. NOT BOUNCING POTATOES (tune: Waltzing Matilda) Once a jolly trufan went to join a MileHiCon, He'd paid his fees ere he came to the hall, Drove him out to Lakewood and checked into the Sheraton, Bouncing potatoes he found none at all. Chorus: Bouncing potatoes, bouncing potatoes. Bouncing potatoes, the trufannish fall, (Drove him out to Lakewood and checked into the Sheraton) Bouncing potatoes he found none at all. Got him a key when he came up to the hotel desk, Went to his room, where he found, one and all, The fen were duly blocked, which was a minor miracle, And bouncing potatoes he found none at all. (chorus) He was a huckster; he went down to the Dealer's Room. To his alarm (and he was quite appalled), He found a nameless nitwit throwing temper tantrums, But bouncing potatoes he found none at all. (chorus) Up came two gents wearing badges and gray flannel suits. A few quiet words, and the shouts ceased to call. Seems the polite men were Sheraton Security-- And bouncing potatoes he found none at all. (chorus) Set up his table, decided then to push his luck, Went to the coffee-shop for dinner and all, Ordered peas, coffee, roast beef and a salad, too-- Bouncing potatoes he found none at all. (chorus) Coffee came right then, and tasted good, to his surprise. Ten minutes later the meal came to call-- Roast rare and lean; the peas were prime, the salad crisp, And bouncing potatoes he found none at all. (chorus) All that long weekend, expecting worst and getting best, Our trufan would sell books, and party, and all. Not a hassle happened, but that the hotel fixed it quick, And bouncing potatoes he found none at all. (chorus) One p.m. Sunday he went down to the hotel desk Room-score to settle--he feared 'twould be tall-- It was twelve bucks less than the concom had announced, And bouncing potatoes he found none at all. (chorus) Now our jolly trufan has paid for next year's MileHiCon, Paid for his membership, table, and all, For it's gonna be at the Lakewood Union Sheraton Where bouncing potatoes are found none at all! (chorus) THE PROUD AND LONE Tune: The Ship of Stone, by Leslie Fish "'Tis a proud and lonely thing to be a fan." --Robert Bloch Once there were the Proud and Lone Who woke into a mighty dream, And from them grew a motley crew Whose members we all seem. And no matter what hordes convene each year On Labor Day, right behind us, near To the laserbeam's hiss and the warpdrive's drone, To astounding tales of sophont whales, Stand the First few Fans, stand the Proud and Lone. By them the first fanzines were pubbed In Hektograph's gelat'nous sink, And the sheets would fly through the endless sky Taking off from seas of ink. And no matter that now with xerox clean And WordStar we now print our zines, Our fandom's firm foundation stone, All our yesterdays, our written ways Were laid down by the Proud and Lone. By them the first conventions all Were forged, begun from nought, To take their form in immortal storm As the festive fire-spark caught. And no matter how wide our tastes may range, Through books, through songs, through movies strange, Of spaceships, elves, and of laws unknown, We all aspire to vision higher, We companions since the Proud and Lone. Once there were the Proud and Lone, Wide-scattered, shy, and few, When John Carter fought, Adam Link was wrought, And old Doc Smith's Skylark flew. But no matter how crude these tales may seem, These rude-hacked shards of a pulpy dream, They're no longer dreams that we dream alone. All s-f fen are of one kin. We shall not forget the Proud and Lone! A PUBBING SONG Song comes out at the mouth And zines come out at the keys For writing and print, in truth, Are all that fanpubbing is. To sing, I open my mouth, I jest, and tickle the keys. ROOM PARTY I argued, "Neo I am," Then asked, "Am I fan enough?" Wherefore I threw a party To measure my fannish stuff. "Get the bheer, get the pop, young fan, "Fill the tub with ice-cubes and cans." Ah, party, room party, room party, I am host to a roomful of fans. O fandom's the strangest thing, No one's been around long enough To do everything that is in it. The guests talk and sing of s-f And cons and computers and life And they drink down the rounded moon. Ah, party, room party, room party, Post dinner, one can't start too soon. OUR LADY OF THE WORLDCON (tune: Shady Grove) Our Lady loves the Worldcon, loves her like a daughter Although she's not invited much, and most concoms have fought her. Dances through the crowded suites, filksings in the hallways, Brings smooth joy to party rooms, where she's welcome always. Chorus: Lady Eris, you are come--help us drink oour Beam-o. We saved you some Aussie brew and a tub of lime-green jello. Our Lady flew to Aussiecon, where they had no gofers. Made herself an art-show guard, stirred up all the loafers. Danced to Mid-Americon, where they brooked no Trekkies, So she donned Spock-ears and wore them proudly with her beanie. 2nd Chorus: Southgate in '58, and again in 2010! Where'er the Worldcon goes, you'll find Our Lady with her friends. Our Lady did boycott SunCon, but sent her cousin Murphy. The concom made itself quite scarce; the hotel deals were iffy. She danced to hot Iguanacon, where the concom scorned her, Threw her apple in their midst and watched them make disorder. (chorus) (Worldcon falters year by year, the concoms feud forever, But if you quit the bloody com, you won't hold up bad weather). Our Lady danced to Britain's isle, where they called her "Damn Yankee!" So she blessed alone those doors that said "Damn Yankee Party." (2nd chorus) Our Lady danced to Boston town, but the concom spurned her So she up and buried them in sixteen tons of paper! You move sixteen tons and whatta you got? [tune: "16 Tons"] Another con's over and your sanity's shot! She danced to high Denvention and took over Operations. "C&C", all did agree, meant "Chaos and Confusion". (chorus) ChiCon came, Our Lady went, established S.O.P. Of discord and disorder 'neath the Dual Monarchy. At Constellation, she thought it would be a monstrous joke To give the concom what they asked--they said, "Let's go for broke!" (2nd chorus) L.A. in '84 came 'round; she threw curves with both hands To see how Pelz & Crew would handle record crowds of fans. Texas and Australia in '85 ran well, But had she not been there, the parties would've gone to hell. (chorus) Our Lady loves the Worldcon, loves her like a sister, But if spurned, she will make for the concom great disaster. You organize these things may find her presence iffy, But if she leaves for good and all, Worldcon won't last a jiffy. (2nd chorus) Now we're in Atlanta-town, Our Lady is so gorgeou' [rhyme w/Georgia] Freaking out the mundanes as she dances nude thru Georgia! Hurrah! Hurrah! We're going on a spree! ["Marching Thru Georgia"] Hurrah! It's bheer and Beam's Choice makes us free! Our Lady of All Randomness is beautiful to see While we go dancing thru Southgate in '58, and again in 2010! Where'er the Worldcon goes, you'll find Our Lady with her friends! RUNNING A MILEHICON As she comes into the meeting-hall We toss her membership-fees and all, For she is running a MileHiCon; And all that she need do is to ask And somebody puts his hand to the task To take handbills out to Nebrask' And here the Chair is but as the gofer. Her con committee is worn out Or else knows not what it's about, And she is running a MileHiCon; A scratch crew, do what she can, And so she calls up old veterans, A treasurer, printer, ops-smof fan: For here the Chair is but as the gofer. Neos have grown to be trufen And trufen work cons--now and then-- And she is running a MileHiCon; And many a hotel-deal's gone stale That smelled sweet when new as a nail; Now it has made for narsty mail, And here the Chair is but as the gofer. The story's old, the trufen stray While she must hurry on her way For she is running a MileHiCon; Yet never has she failed in her plans To throw a three-day bash for fans, But few wish placement where she stands: For here the Chair is but as the gofer. SECURITY (tune: Susan B., by Leslie Fish) Security! Can you do a little job for me? We need gofers now, immediately, and we've none to hand. I know you've people now--twenty radios are walking 'round. Can I have a few to send on down to help the Art Show stand? Sorry, Personnel Chief, twenty rovers are too few. One's down at the Art Show, and his help will have to do. The con is barely covered; if we drop our guard, we're through And they'll find the con in chaos in the morning! Security! We've got a medical emergency! Harlan Ellison just skinned his knee, and he's going to sue. A fan fears for his life; some punk-rock bozo pulled a knife. And some guy's beating his ex-wife--where the hell were you? Right here, Operations, and an EMT's gone out, The beater and knife-wielder both got nabbed and then kicked out. And if you'd keep your ears on, you'd know what's all about Instead of fearing chaos every morning. Security! There's a joker wanting in for free Down at Registration; what's more, he claim's he's from the Press. He's loud and makes a scene, and he's cussing our folks something mean. Can you maybe send an ex-Marine down to fix this mess? Dammit, Registration, we've already someone there. He's talked that NAT. ENQUIRER man to paying his full fare-- He'll see what other newsmen don't, and scoop 'em all for fair, But you think the con's in chaos every morning! Security! We've got a problem in the Treasury! After counting all the member fees, we are ten grand red. Can you folks run your shows without beepers, phones, or radios? Con Suite needs more bheer, and if we close it down, our rep's stone dead. Never! Mr. Chairfan, have you really gone insane? Our system runs well, but 'twill surely crack beneath the strain With no communications. Let the Con Suite thirst in vain Lest the con dissolve in chaos ere the morning! Security! The Art Show roof is leaking terribly! There's water running down the aisles, you see; it's two inches deep. The artists' nerves are done, they're afraid their colors all will run. Was your crew all out and having fun, or were you asleep? Operations, we're down here with tarps and two-by-fours Which we had to purchase from an all-night hardware store. Call us lazy once again, and we'll work for you no more And the con WILL be in chaos ere the morning! THE SHIPWRECKED HOTEL tune: "Barrett's Privateers", by Stan Rogers The year was 1988 How I wish I was in Denver now! When Worldcon went to the Pavlac team And the shakiest hotel I've ever seen. Rann take them all! I was told we'd cruise the seas like the Vikings of old, We'd have great fun, drink our bheers. Now I'm a shipwrecked fan on a Florida pier, The last of Pavlac's privateers! Oh, Captain Pavlac advertised How I wish I was in Denver now! For twenty-one hundred rich fen who Would make his elite Worldcon crew. Rann take them all! I was told we'd cruise the seas like the Vikings of old, We'd have great fun, drink our bheers. Now I'm a shipwrecked fan on a Florida pier, The last of Pavlac's privateers! The Norway ship was a staggering site. How I wish I was in Denver now! While she pitched and rolled like a bitch in heat We ate bouncing potatoes and mystery meat. Rann take them all! I was told we'd cruise the seas like the Vikings of old, We'd have great fun, drink our bheers. Now I'm a shipwrecked fan on a Florida pier, The last of Pavlac's privateers! On Labor Day Eve we put to sea. How I wish I was in Denver now! We were ninety-one hours to Montego Bay Puking our guts out all the way. Rann take them all! I was told we'd cruise the seas like the Vikings of old, We'd have great fun, drink our bheers. Now I'm a shipwrecked fan on a Florida pier, The last of Pavlac's privateers! It was hurricane season--never mind! How I wish I was in Denver now! The wind and wave came to spoil our fun; With our ancient turbines we made to run. Rann take them all! I was told we'd cruise the seas like the Vikings of old, We'd have great fun, drink our bheers. Now I'm a shipwrecked fan on a Florida pier, The last of Pavlac's privateers! The art show flats all toppled and fell, How I wish I was in Denver now! The tables got thrown 'round the Hucksters' Place, And the skipper fell, chundering, on his face. Rann take them all! I was told we'd cruise the seas like the Vikings of old, We'd have great fun, drink our bheers. Now I'm a shipwrecked fan on a Florida pier, The last of Pavlac's privateers! On a lee shore we were blown at last. How I wish I was in Denver now! Our ancient turbines made an awful din, But with one great wave the storm drove us in. Rann take them all! I was told we'd cruise the seas like the Vikings of old, We'd have great fun, drink our bheers. Now I'm a shipwrecked fan on a Florida pier, The last of Pavlac's privateers! The Norway shook and pitched on her side. How I wish I was in Denver now! Pavlac got crushed; we all met our dooms As a Florida Key opened all our rooms. Rann take them all! I was told we'd cruise the seas like the Vikings of old, We'd have great fun, drink our bheers. Now I'm a shipwrecked fan on a Florida pier, The last of Pavlac's privateers! Now here I lie on a Florida pier. How I wish I was in Denver now! It's been just a week since we sailed away, And the Worldcon got drowned yesterday. Rann took them all! New Orleans, St. Lou, Cincinatti are on dry land And never move, have no fear. Let's keep our hero off that Florida pier And vote down Pavlac's Privateers! SKALDASPILLIR (tune: Storyteller, by Anne Prather) I'll sing of ships and cannon-fire, Of foul-ups and of fen, I'll sing with tunes I borrowed from A better writer's pen, I'll sing of swords and sorcery, Of grottled greeps and fights, I'll sing of cons and neos And of golden brew at nights. I'll grind out endless parodies Of filkers far away, I'll swipe from friends much closer than I'd really like to say. I'll sing of smofs a-scheming In clouds of egoboo, I'll sing of fanzines and of apa Deadlines overdue. And if you've heard this tune before, With other words more fair, I ask you, please ignore this fact-- I did this on a dare! Filk might (yipe!) get organized If no-one ever wrote Words like these to melodies All on a crazy note. DOWN AT THE SILLY SPRING-CON Down at the silly spring-con my love and I first met; She came to silly spring-con through peaks and snow so wet. She bid me not scorn Trekkies, and she tweaked my beard in jest; And I, neofan and foolish, saw not yet I was blest. At fall-con by the mountains my love and I now stand; Old fans come by to greet us, as we play host to friends. We take our fanac easy, and sing, and draw, and write, For we are young and fannish, and now are filled with light. THUNKA THUNKA tune: Dona Dona (traditional) To fanpublishing came the neo, On his mimeo pubbed a zine. Ink ran over his pages well-composed, No way repro would come clean. Somewhere the fans are cranking Mimeos through the night, Typing, collating, cranking Till dawn's rosy light. Thunka-thunka-thunka-BLOTCH-"Oh, damn!" Thunka-thunka-thunka-thunk, Thunka-thunka-thunka-RIP-TEAR-CRAM! Thunka-thunka-thunka-thunk. To the neo came the old BNF, Showed the youngster how to ink, How to slipsheet or use twiltone, Lest his zines to crud would sink. (chorus) All this mess is (Thank Ghu!) behind us; Hand-crank mimeos seldom turn. Still, a chosen few zines win Hugos. Others are crud, fit to burn. (chorus) SWEENEY AMID THE MOUNTAIN FEN Breakneck Sweeney threads his path Letting the crowd around him close Between his footsteps, to the keg, Striking a stiff, amoebic pose. The merry din of MileHiCon Slips downward to the River Platte Eagle has landed high above-- And Sweeney sits to list' to that. F. Orlin Confan, in his fog, Sits huddled o'er his typer's keys; The woman in Red Sonya steel Sets a bheer on Sweeney's knees Spills and soaks his faded jeans As overturns the plastic cup A barley puddle wets the floor She swears and wipes the brew-mess up. The neofan in buttoned shirt Sits with the filker, moves his lips. The gofer brings in cans of Coke, Ten pounds of ice, potato chips. The quiet neo, buttoned up, At song's end claps and rises first Filker lays aside her axe, Upends a Coke on raging thirst. She and the woman in the steel, Thirst assuaged, no sing duets The neofan with sleepy eyes Stares at fingers' dance on frets. Visits keg and quaffs a bheer, Reaches down, reties his boots, Sees half the people in the room Engaged in Trivial Pursuits, Rises, clutching program-book, Gingerly steps 'cross the floor, Sees F. Orlin sweat and swear, Swear and type on by the door. Reads a line or two and leaves, Finds his room and knocks (he's cheap). Muzzy fan then lets him in. He finds a piece of floor and sleeps. TOMORROW BECOMES TODAY tune: Blake Seven, by Leslie Fish When we won our bid, the old smofs did grin. (Mass confusion, quick kludges, and pluck) How could they predict the mess we'd be in? (Worldcon neos, relying on luck!) We asked for advice, got a ton in our lap. Why did nine-tenths of it prove to be crap? To draw in more fen, we set memberships low, But now we're in trouble--cash quickly does flow. We have two con chairfen (or maybe it's three), Why are they deadlocked? Why can't they agree? We built our T.O. along corporate ways. Why did we fragment? Why did the feuds blaze? We thought we had contracts, but found out too late The hotels found loopholes to jack up the rates. No one kept in touch with 'em, none had the wit. So our Guests of Honor almost up and quit. We built us a staff long ere Opening Day And helplessly watched it fade quickly away. On Opening Day, Registration ran thus: One line. Wait six hours. They blamed it on us! The heat and the smoke in the Hucksters' Room made Complaints by the thousand, plus calls for First Aid. The ten-track program was a Chinese fire drill. The schedules made M.T.A.-Boston look ill. Then Eris dropped in and turned Ops to a zoo. With our system in knots, there was nought we could do. The Con Suite ran out of pop, ran out of bheer; The fen all ran out of cool, patience, and cheer. Logistics ran out of all kinds of supplies; Security ran out of their radio guys. We ran out of reason, we ran out of rhyme, Ran out of ideas, and ran out of time. These shortages could have been fixed in a flash, But the Treasury also ran clean out of cash! Tomorrow, belonging to us, came today. Mass confusion, quick kludges, and pluck Did not do the trick, so we sadly say We Worldcon neos left too much to luck! INK, TWILTONE, AND CORFLU SLIME (tune: Black Powder and Alcohol, by Leslie Fish) Chorus: Ink, Twiltone, and corflu slime, When you wanna print prose or rhyme, When you're stuck at deadline time, Ink, Twiltone, and corflu slime! Take a stencil first, fresh and clean, Roll it straight into your type machine, Trip the ribbon off, then go pound Keys all night--you're going to town. If a typo causes you to frown, Get the corflu out and melt it down. (chorus) When your stencils are finished, go Run off copies on the mimeo, Watch for blotches as you crank her 'round, Watch for white spots where the ink ain't found, Keep the twiltone feeding straight and true, Crank her steady now until you're through. (chorus) When the printing's done, without fail, Collate, staple, put it in the mail To your apa or the genzine fans-- You've pubbed a fanzine with your own hands. Though it's Xerox and WordStar today, You should publish at least once this way. (chorus) A FANED'S LAMENT (tune: Sometimes I Feel So Uninspired, by Steve Winwood) Sometimes I feel so uninspired Sometimes the stencil stares me down. Sometimes I get so very tired Of cranking my old mimeo around. Sometimes the Brand-X stencil tears through While all the punched-out holes make inky dots. Sometimes the cheapo paper bleeds through Covering the copy with black blots. THE WORLDCON (tune: The Kingdom, by Leslie Fish) Now we are come to our Worldcon And the State is a mess, a mess; Our gofers wait at the hotel gate-- Too few for our distress. Now we are come to our Worldcon! Now we are come to our Worldcon! And egoboo's ours to take-- With crises stacked, and Ops gone cracked, And no one at all awake. Now we are come to our Worldcon! Now we are come to our Worldcon! And Chaos is ours to fight, With bloodshot eyes to the morning skies And berserkergang at night. Now we are come to our Worldcon! Now we are come to our Worldcon! But my love's spirits fall. All that we dared for, all we prepared for Avail us not at all. My post is a rotting log For we grope in entropic fog. Now we are come to our Worldcon! ared for Avail us