User talk:Idontcareanymore

All the names I wanted were already taken :(

Harlan Ellison, belles-lettrist

What are the odds? Turns out he was a loudmouth braggart as early as 1952, when he got a letter published in the June issue (pp.134-5) of Thrilling Wonder Stories. He's clearly an innovator as well, since he anticipates the appearance of the ~lol so randome~ 14-year-old internet girl stereotype {*holds up spork*}. Anyway, I have no idea what he's rambling on about, and editor Samuel Mines seems less than impressed with the missive. [I made two comments in this fashion, adding first names to two illustrators mentioned only by surname in the letter.]

CAME THE DAWN

by Harlan Ellison

All right Mines: You maligner . . . you subversive prevaricator. YOU BUM!!!

I am exerting my Constitutional right to squawk.

Happy I was to buy the February ish of TWS; even happier to find one of my favorites Jack Vance therein; even was I sublime in my ignorance till I got to THE FRYING PAN.

It was about one-eighth of the way through that something began to rumble about. When I hit the phrase, ". . . a visitation a few days ago," I knew something was up.

Knowing how your rag . . . er . . . mag is made up in the Summer for the February time, I realized the visitation on the fire had taken place sometime in the Summer — at about the time I was in New York from here in Cleveland.

A kernel of thought pounded at my cerebrum, "Could it be? But no . . . it was too foolish to hope."

And then. . .

Yes then, you sneak, I read, ". . . doors opened ve-e-e-ry slowly."

And in the rapture of reading I cried out, "I did not open them slowly!"

This brought gurgles of discomfort from my Geometry teacher who thought the reason I was studying my book so hard was that I was entranced with hoary ole Pythagoras and his Theorem.

Making weak excuses, I returned to the FRYING PAN, the suspicion growing more and more material.

I hit it.

He was seventeen . . . he was an out-of-towner . . . he was fairly good-looking (modest though I be, you said it kid, not me) well-dressed (it was my one and only good blue suit and I had my copy of SS covering the hole in the jacket).

As I read on I kept repeating to myself, "Wait till the members of THE CLEVELAND SCIENCE FICTION SOCIETY see this. Boy, I'm in. I've arrived."

Then I hit it again. Or it hit me.

CAN I HAVE IT . . . GIVE ME NO . . . GIVE . . . I WAN

You double-crossing. . .

Let me tell, in retaliation, how it all happened. It was part of my Summer vacation from slaving over a red-hot pencil. I was in N'Yawk with my Ma. I thought it would be nice if I went to see the eds of all my favorite magazines.

So I went to see JWC jr. (who, by the way is not eight . . . or nine feet tall. When an awed fan like myself sees him, and hears him, he appears to be twenty-three and ½ feet tall. And I'd like to hang onto that notion if ya pleez. And I'd advise anyone who'd like to meet a really "intelligent" fellow to run to N'Yawk an' meet John W. also. It's quite an experience. Boy, did we have a talk on Dia. . . But that's another story.)

And then I lightly tripped the gay fantastic to the offices of Standard Publishers or some-such-concern.

T'was there that I pushed the doors open in a VERY BUSINESSLIKE and calm, cool manner and was stunned by the ethereal beauty of the gee-orgeous doll behind the glass-panelled booth.

(If you read this, Honey, ask Sam to let you copy down the letterhead. RSVP!!!)

She sat there, her (I betcha) goddess-like, legs out of view (dammit) and smiled at me in a manner that induced the awe-struck giddy feeling. Not, you ham, the idea of seeing you in what you so laughingly call, "The flesh."

Falling back upon the old time-honored wolf-call of all seventeen year olds (not versed in your tactics of chasing the poor black-an'-blue seek) I said something to the effect that she was radiantly becoming in that gossamer veil of Macy's spun magic.

I was not coarse enough to whistle at one so bee-ootifull.

. . . and it pleaseth me no end to hear that she thought I was fairly good-looking. At least she didn't scream, turn and run.

Then I met you.

What a let-down!

Here I see this sharp office, a sharper sec . . . and then you.

Oh no!!

But I was as polite as possible. Not let-down that you weren't eight feet tall — just let-down that you weren't HUMAN.

We talked (you talked) for a while and then I politely asked if you had any original illos around. I didn't want to have wasted all that time for nothing. I figgered I'd better see something worth looking at besides the Cutie.

So you took me in and showed me a breathtaking masterpiece by Schomburg that, as I write this, is forthcoming.

Figuring, "What have I got to lose," I asked if there was any chance that I might either purchase or obtain the pic.

The answer was no.

I asked if I might purchase or obtain an illo.

The answer was no.

I asked if I might purchase or obtain an advance copy of the next ish of SS or TWS.

The answer was no.

BUT I GOT ONE ANYHOW SO THERE: NYAAAAH!!

And if I'm not making so bold, may I ask just how I got the brush, M-i-s-t-e-r MINE(dies)s?

I had a hard enough time trying to get out to have a few (thousand) words with your sec.

None-the-less, I feel that you should have at least tried to find out about whom, you were spikkink about if you were spikkink about. And don't try to wiggle out of it by saying that why do I think I'm the one mentioned that you get hundreds in every day . . . etc . . . etc. . . CAUSE IT WAS ME AND I KNOW IT.

But seriously, Sam and Jerry (or if you are the same person, JerrSammy), I'm only kidding. It really was a thrill to break into print (outside of one letter in OW) and in a column too!

Already the fellas can't live with (or without) me.

Frankly, the only way that I will consider this affront squared, is if you send me an original illo (except something by [Paul] ORBAN. Whyinahell don't you fire that scribbler?).

Something by Finlay or [Peter] Poulton will do nicely (what's the matter with this kid? is he nuts?).

But to the ish's recently.

My expectations were really in a fizzle when you told me in your office about VULCAN'S DOLLS. I waited patiently in hopes of a new classic and while the story was without a doubt completely absorbing and had different twists to a dust-covered, old theme, it left me, at the finish, with a feeling of, "Hmmm . . . maybe I missed something."

So I went back and read it again.

"HMMM . . . maybe I missed something."

I didn't attempt to read it a third time.

It is pretty sad though, when a really great authoress like Margaret St. Clair has to use the crutch of alien-like words in every other line to put across a feeling. Dak-dak, phlomis, ilarigilang, Bettla-nut, sampa, guita flowers, etc., etc.

Trash.

There will be many, no doubt, who will disagree with me. That is their prerogative. It's my opinion and I like it.

As for BARKUT . . . I started reading it when it was started in the little-known FANTASY BOOK magazine. When they neglected to finish it, I was disheartened. I thought I'd never see the ending of what I thought was a good start to an even better story.

Brother, was I mistaken.

Leinster fell right on his proverbial kan-kan when he hit that hunkatripe. It started out pretty fair, but you can tell where he had to hit the deadline. The words tumble over themselves in an effort, feverish at that, to spell out HACK-HACK-HACK.

Please dear Master, let Hank Kutt's new one be something terrific to make up for these other two let-downs.

But, and I say this without fear of retaliation, you publish two of the best STF mags in the business.

As you said to me, "Amazing is for the babies; Astounding is for the technicians; SS and TWS are for the in-betweeners."

Pal, meet another in-betweener.

So I wanta sign off. You'll be hearing from mine-trooly again (at this point we listen to Mines' scream reverberating down the hall as he plunges to his doom from the window in an abortive effort to escape my wrath. What?) before long.

Oh yeah, CHAD . . . you was wonderful.

And in conclusion . . . DUCK BUTTER FOREVER!! — Yours very Bulbofaggingly (the above word is patented by myself) — 12701 Shaker Blvd., Cleveland, Ohio.

P.S. Please print the hull letter. My friends will stab me if it don't appear.

So we printed it all — every miserable word — just to show you there's nothing up our sleeve. And your version is no different from ours, except that yours stutters more. So what are you screaming about? It made you a celebrity in Cleveland, didn't it? Egad, if the rest of Cleveland boycotts us I won't be surprised. Incidentally, you can thank Jerry Bixby for making you famous. He wrote the original mistake. I'm too modest.