From near and far, east and west, and
even north and south, fans came to New
Orleans for the 9th World Science-Fic-
tion convention.
(illo:hotel)
The convention site was the beautiful
St. Charles, a hotel equipt with all
the latest modern conveniences.
All of them (the fans) came
well-equipt with luggage for
a long stay in N.O.
(illo: hotel registration)
After they had checked in they set about meeting
the convention chairman, Harry B. Moore, who
welcomed them to New Orleans and offered to
serve them as best he could during their stay.
(illo: Have you been audited?)
One of the first fans to arrive was
The editor of this magazine, Lee
Hoffman.
In the words of Lee Hoffman, "I was
one of the first persons to arrive
for the Nolacon. I left Savannah
Sunday evening and arrived in N.O.
at 3:15 Monday afternoon.
I was met by Shelby Vick who had
arrived earlier that day.
Shelby had the Triumphal Chariot. A creation which the New Orleans Police refer to loosely as a car. And it's about as loose a car as they can refer to. In fact, if it were any looser it would be lying about the streets of N.O. in little heaps. Under the brake pedal Harry the Bee keeps an ex-fan who refused to join the Nolacon committee, and every time you put on the brakes this fan screams and everyone on the streets looks at the driver.
Shelby, on hearing that I hadn't had anything to eat for over 20 hours (that's since I left Savannah) insisted on driving me straight to the place where Harry the Bee works. This is an industrial building of some kind, and Harry will no doubt be glad to know that I remembered about it. The dazed and starved condition I was in might have caused an engram.
Harry the Bee is a very nice young fellow with a haircut like a suede-brush. He doesn't really carry a copy of Dianetics everywhere he goes ... only to most places. He offered to work on my engrams, and after I convinced him that I like myself the way I am, we all drove back to N.O.
I checked in at the St. Charles and Shelby checked in some blocks down at the Coral Hotel.
After I finally got to eat, we discovered Bill Morse, a CanFan, in the St. Charles, and the rest of the evening was devoted to much talk on ininportant subjects.
The next day was spent in wandering about New Orleans, particularly record shops. That evening we joined Fred Hatfield, who showed us around N.O. or rather the French Quarter.
After a drive out to the Huey Long bridge and a discussion of education, semantics, stf, and what is the world coming to, it was brought to the attention of those assembled (ShelV, Bill, Hats and myself) that we hadn't eaten for 10 hours, so Hats took us a to joint in the quarter for po'boy sandwiches. A po'boy, in case you're not familiar with them, is a loaf of French bread sliced lengthwise down the center and (if you're eating in a tourist trap) numerous food-stuffs. Just what the ones we were eating, were filled with I don't know. But I think I either got the sink stopper, or the dish rag.
After the po'boys we went back to the hotel, bade each other good night, decided we were still hungry, and went to the Bourbon House for coffee (I swear it was coffee!)
After that we found another joint where we had more of the so-called food. We sat around there and discussed the MYOB and the Avoidist Movement (both of which will be explained somewhere else).
Around 3 A.M. we quite for the night, as we wanted to be up early to meet any fans that might arrive.
Wednesday morning I had just gotten up and was dressing when I hear a knock at my door. I shouted "Who is it?" and received the reply "Bob Johnson.
Bob Johnson is a rather normal (for a fan) looking young fellow whose teeth don't really stick out ..... much. He was carrying with him a stack of ????? which he told me he had to sell, or he wouldn't be going home from the con.
Wednesday, Thursday and Friday were a mad scramble, a jumble of meeting fans, and a continual inquiry at the registration window. In fact we drove four clerks to madness and two to suicide. Here's how we did it, in case you should ever want to try the same thing yourself. We made a list of fans we expected at the Nolacon, divided the list up into groups, and took turns asking if members of each group had registered yet. By the time we had gone through all the groups, it was late enough to start over at the beginning of the list.
(illo: At the Bourbon House ... on Avoidism from theory to sciences.)
But after the arrival of Bob Johnson,
the next group to arrive found us. We
were standing in the lobby of the St.
Charles clutching a Nolacon booklet when
a long sleepy lad approached and asked
if we were fans. We admitted it and
he told us he was Ed Walthers of
the Nameless Ones.
He and a companion, Lee Bishop, had been
travelling with Jack Speer, but has be-
come separated from him in Texas.
(illo: sitting at a table drinking coffee)
Both had been without sleep for around
forty hours and they were trying to get
a room. They were encountering some
difficulty because their luggage was
in Speer's car. I offered to lend
them my suitcase, but they declined
the offer with the hope that Juffus
would arrive soon.
He got there two days later.
(illo: Bishop of the Beard and Ed Walthers)
Later we discovered two members of the
Detroit contingent in the lobby of the
hotel.
"Two other fans are here," they informed
us. "Max Keasler and Richard Elsberry."
"Goody," we chortled and settled down to
wait.
We recognized Max and Rich from their photos in Fv. They did not recognize us. At least they didn't recognize me. After introductions they picked their jaws up off the floor and as a mob, we set out to find a radio station.
While we were searching another fan joined our group. Paul Cox. He told us that he'd seen us and realized that we had to be fans. What else?
We found a station, WWL, and invaded the disk Jockey on duty en masse. After convincing him that we were neither invaders from Mars, nor Buck Roger's Junior G-Men, we left in search of another station.
We wandered about the French Quarter, Frightened a night-watchman, bought tamales off a push cart, and finally gave up for the night.
The next day began to pour by the bucketful. Everytime I walked through the lobby I saw leering faces that could only belong to fans. Most of them did.
Friday was T-day, the day Tucker was to arrive. He of the many deaths and various other episodes which some callous fans are wont to call "hoaxes". Tucker, I had to meet.
Paul Cox was the one who spotted him signing in. Immediately be semaphored the news to Shelby Vick and myself. "Room 858" Immediately we set forth through the mad labyrinth of the St Charles in search of the eighth floor. And there it was, right on top of the seventh. Down we plunged to the far end of a corridor, to The Room.
Shelby, forearmed, was wearing a T shirt with the words "Shelby Vick" emblazoned across the front of it, and "You are now behind Shelby Vick" on the back. Cox and I, on the other hand had removed our identification cards with malice of forethought.
Knock, knock.
Mari Beth opened the door and welcomed us in. Innocently grinning, we entered. Tucker, himself, thinking that he had eluded the Youngfan element, had stripped to the waist and was washing up after his drive. Trivial expressions of welcone were tosseed about in the customary manner. Then Shelby spoke: "You know who I am?"
(illo: Bob Tucker gleefully entertaining unidentified fans, immediately after his arrival in New Orleans.)
Tucker glanced at the shirt and replied in the affirmative.
"And of course you know Lee Hoffman?" ShelV continued.
Tucker looked at me. He looked at Paul. Then again at me and said, "Yes." Then he paused, looked again at Paul and said "No." With an air of surprise he raised a hand toward Paul and said "You're....?"
ShelVy raised a hand toward me and said, "Her!"
Tucker paused and stared at me.
Breathless we anticipated a witty comment, a morsel of that famed LeZ humor. Then Tuck spoke...
"I'll be damned."
After several questions based on letters which had passed between us, and my signing my name for him, Tucker finally gave in and accepted me as Lee Hoffman.
After that we made a strategic retreat to the lobby of the hotel, to await more fans.
The first official unofficial gathering took place Friday night. It was a party given by Fred Hatfield. After leaving it, I returned to the hotel where a smoke-filled room was in progress. After sitting and talking for a while, we broke up and wandered off with the intent of going to bed.
"Let's eat first," someone suggested. Lee Bishop, Stephen Schultheis, ShelVy and I wandered down to a seafood house and ate.
After that we went back to the hotel in search of another smoke-filled room.
(illo: -- popular publisher and guests --)
Somebody suggested we try Max Keasler so we went to beat on the door of 770. Finally a weary Max stuck his head out and asked what we wanted. He assured us that there was no smoke fulling 770 that night and suggested several places we could go.
So we sat down in the corridor and made up li'l peepul until the roundsman came by and inquired as to why we were sitting on the floor in the corridor in the middle of the night.
I don't think he believed us.
The next day the convention itself began.
(To be carried on in the next ish)
Data entry by Judy Bemis
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