Another prominent New York City fan of the 1960s was Fred Lerner, who was largely
responsible for the birth of academic-related interest in science fiction that
eventually led to the establishment of the Science Fiction Research Association in
the early 1970s. However, during the early and middle 1960s, he was active in many
of the myriad New York science fiction fan clubs of that time. Here is his
remembrance of that era, and some of those organizations.
"Stranger in a Strange Land is
garbage!"
The Columbia College dormitories were quiet
at the end of December 1962, and the desk clerk in Livingston Hall didn't have much
to do. So he had plenty of time to talk about science fiction with an otherwise
unoccupied freshman. I had been praising a recent Heinlein novel when our
conversation was interrupted by an unsolicited comment from a passer-by.
I turned to confront the interloper, but
soon found myself listening more than talking. Carl Frederick's opinions of
Heinlein may have been misguided, but he knew something that I didn't, something
that I very much wanted to know. He was active in Fandom, and I wanted to be.
I knew that Fandom existed. I'd read
Sprague de Camp's Science-Fiction Handbook, and I'd purchased a copy of
Robert Bloch's The Eighth Stage of Fandom during a visit to Stephen's Book
Service, the shabby storefront a few blocks off Book Row that was the first science
fiction bookstore in the world. I had heard some of the speeches from a World
Science Fiction Convention on New York's eclectic radio station, WBAI-FM. I knew
that there was a subculture of people with a serious interest in science fiction,
and I wanted to be a part of it. But I didn't know where to begin.
Well, it was steam engine time. Had I not
met Carl, I surely would have learned about local fan clubs and conventions if I
continued to visit Stephen's. A chap I knew in high school had a friend who was
active in Fandom, and no doubt our paths would eventually have crossed. My primary
extracurricular activity was WKCR-FM, the campus radio station, where I was general
dogsbody on a book program called "The Printed Word." I was allowed to do an
interview of my own, and surely my chosen guest, John Campbell, would have put me
in touch with one of the local clubs.
As it happened, Carl steered me to the
Evening Session Science Fiction Society at nearby City College, and I soon got into
the habit of spending my Friday evenings at its raucous meetings and the convivial
post-meeting gatherings in the HiLite Bar a few blocks away on Broadway. Many of
the folks I met at my first meetings are still active in Fandom: Elliot Shorter,
Jake Waldman, John Boardman, Ed Meskys, Bruce Newrock, and Stu Brownstein.
Locus wasn't even a gleam in the eye of Charlie Brown, whose interests were
concentrated on his forthcoming marriage to Marsha Elkin. Some of the other folk I
remember from those days don't seem to have remained in Fandom: Judi Sephton, Barry
Greene, and Joan Neufeld (later Serrano) were among the most active members in
those days.
The club's cumbersome name was routinely
abbreviated to 'Sci-Fi', evidence perhaps of its less-than-sercon attitude toward
science fiction. Like other college-based SF clubs of the time, its business
meetings were considerably more drawn out than necessary, prolonged by punning,
mock parliamentary procedure, and other manifestations of young fans revelling in
their eccentricity. It could get tiresome: I remember the disgust which a typical
meeting engendered in an SF-loving friend whom I had brought along. But there was
more to the club than fooling around.
The subsidy that Sci-Fi received from the
CCNY student government was generous enough to allow inviting the occasional guest
speaker. This was more often than not Randall Garrett under one of his many
pseudonyms; after his talk he would translate the five dollars allotted to buy him
dinner into a few pitchers of beer at the HiLite. I don't remember anything of the
talks he gave at Sci-Fi meetings, but I have never forgotten something he told me
as we were walking together to the 137th Street subway station late one Friday
night: "Anybody can write a story when he's got a story to tell. The true
professional is the man who can write a saleable story when he hasn't got a story
to tell."
Sometimes the program was a film, usually
a Republic serial with a title something like "Flying Disk Men from Mars." We
would watch all twelve episodes in one evening, with the bridge fanatics among us
scrambling between reels to a makeshift card table to get in a hand or two while
the projectionist was getting the next part ready. And toward the end of the
school year we would argue passionately how to cast the club's corporate vote for
the Hugo awards.
Few of Sci-Fi's members were actually
enrolled at the School of General Studies of the College of the City of New York,
but there were enough genuine Evening Session students to hold the required offices.
This guaranteed meeting space and speaker fees. Otherwise the club had little
contact with the college, and less interest in the internal politics of its student
government. Our interest was in science fiction, in Fandom, and in each other.
Some of the people I met at my first meeting are among my closest friends in Fandom
to this day.
It was through Carl Frederick, John
Boardman, Jake Waldman, and Elliot Shorter that I was introduced to the rest of the
New York fan scene. The Eastern Science Fiction Association met monthly in Newark.
Led by the likes of Sam Moskowitz, Lester Mayer, and Julius Postal, it was a sercon
group. On the first Sunday afternoon of each month we'd gather in a basement
meeting room of the Newark YMCA to hear a guest speaker, usually a prominent writer
or editor. Afterwards most of us would walk a couple of blocks down Broad Street
to Child's Restaurant to join our guest at dinner.
Julie Postal served as Director of the ESFA
during much of the early 1960s, but that wasn't the only group he was involved
with. He was the leader of a group of cinema buffs that called themselves the
Informal Film Society, many of whose members and hangers-on were fans. They met in
a shabby office building somewhere south of midtown to look at films: all kinds of
films, whatever a member or friend might happen to bring in. At one session we
viewed American propaganda films from World War II; at another we saw surreptitious
footage of Haitian voudoun rites, smuggled past a disapproving U.S. Customs.
There was no single group that brought all
of New York Fandom together, though one club had a name that suggested otherwise.
Nobody ever called the New York Science Fiction Society by its official title; it
was always the Lunarians. Once a month, on a Saturday night, we gathered at Frank
Dietz's apartment in the Bronx. The club's ostensive purpose for existence was to
put on the annual LunaCon, and in fact any LunaCon member was thereby deemed a sort
of associate member of the Lunarians. But active membership was conferred upon
those applicants who had passed the Membership Committee's muster and voted in at a
club meeting. This furnished plenty of opportunity for contention at the business
meeting with which each monthly gathering began, as did the year-long discussions
over how the LunaCon was to be run and who was to run it.
Occasionally the business meeting
considered other topics. I remember a weighty discussion as to why Sam Moskowitz
failed to appear in costume at the club's Christmas party. There was some question
as to whether he had been meant to wear a Santa Claus outfit or his birthday suit,
and somehow I was appointed to head a committee to establish the facts of the case.
My motion to table my report to the 227th meeting was passed, establishing by this
precedent a convenient repository for unwanted business. (A few years back, the
227th meeting finally arrived. Brian Burley and some other Lunarians tried to get
me to attend and help clear up all the old business that I had gotten the club to
postpone until then. But by then the idea of leaving Vermont to spend an evening
arguing about such matters with a roomful of Lunarians had lost much of its
erstwhile appeal. I never did find out the outcome of that meeting.)
The Fanoclasts were the other prominent fan
group in New York. A tight-knit group whose meetings were hosted by Ted White, it
was strictly invitational. Its membership overlapped little with other New York
clubs: John Boardman was about the only person active across the fannish spectrum.
This aloofness was less a matter of personal dislike than of lack of shared
interests. The ESFA was about as sercon as a club could get. The Lunarians were
-- if the term can credibly be applied to a fan group of the early 1960s --
bourgeois; despite the foolishness of their business meetings, the real purpose of
the club was the informal conversation that followed the ritual "adjournment for
coffee and cake." The Fanoclasts were the legendary hotbed of fannish Fandom in
New York; they were highly conscious of the legends that surrounded their
alternate-Friday-night meetings, and worked assiduously at sustaining and
increasing them.
What little I knew of the Fanoclasts I knew
at second hand, as I was not invited to membership for several years. Most of the
members didn't know me, and my active participation in the ESFA and the Lunarians
doubtless cast me as too sercon for the group. By the time I began attending
Fanoclast meetings I had come to know several members through the Fannish Insurgent
Scientifictional Association, an open club founded by Mike McInerney and Earl Evers
to meet on the Fridays when there were no Fanoclast meetings.
FISTFA welcomed anyone who cared to attend,
and attracted a very mixed crowd. In addition to hardcore fans of many persuasions,
and whatever out-of-towners might be in New York for the weekend, there were
occasional visitors whose interests barely overlapped those of the regulars. When
Dick Plotz placed an ad announcing the formation of the Tolkien Society of America,
Mike McInerney invited him to a FISTFA meeting. He only turned up once or twice; I
imagine that the shabby apartments in old-law tenements -- bathtub in the kitchen,
common toilets down the hall -- where the club met weren't too inviting. But the
scruffiness of the surroundings didn't deter Harold Palmer Piser. An elderly
gentleman whose passion was bibliography, he had undertaken to compile an index to
fanzines. He had no discernable interest in science fiction or Fandom; but the
fanzine literature was virgin territory, save for the Swisher-Pavlat fanzine index
from the 1950s that he set about to update. His interests sometimes diverged from
the strictly bibliographical; he was an occasional participant in the poker games
that usually took place in one corner of Mike's living room. (Piser never completed
his bibliography, and upon his death his notes were destroyed; we were told that
this had been done at his explicit request.)
It was at FISTFA meetings that APA-F was
begun, the first of the weekly apas. It was soon imitated by fans in Los Angeles;
soon both APA-F and APA-L had transcontinental memberships. The rapid feedback
afforded by weekly apas lured into fanzine writing many New York fans whose
activity had until then been limited to clubs and conventions. The idea spread to
other regions, and took various permutations. Perhaps its most lasting fruit was
MinneApa, a tri-weekly local apa in the Twin Cities in which an entire generation
of aspiring professionals began their literary apprenticeships. In June 1966, I
graduated from Columbia, and in September of that year enlisted in the U.S. Army.
For a couple of years my links with New York Fandom were limited, and when I
returned to Columbia to attend library school in July 1968 it was to an entirely
different fan scene.
But that's another story...
All illustrations by Charlie Williams
|