Photo by Beth Gwinn.

Before I begin I’d better tell you of the time I saw Robert Reed, the superb Nebraska writer, entering the SFWA (Science Fiction Writers of America) suite at a WorldCon (World Science Fiction Convention). He was looking rather glum, for he had been nominated for a Hugo® (the World Science Fiction Award, voted on by readers, not professors) and had not won it -- this was in fact the Hugo Losers’ Party. By a curious combination of circumstances, I myself have never been nominated for a Hugo. So I went up to him and growled, “My consolation is that I’m not a LOSER like you!” --Midwestern humor; if you don’t insult somebody, it’s because you don’t like them. As I started to say, Bill Wu was born in the USA, the son of US citizens, thus becoming a citizen by a loophole in the migration laws. This all happened a long time ago, you understand. He is a mutt, with a grandmother of Scottish, English, and Welsh descent or is that escape, and a Chinese-born father. So he’s one-fourth white, sort of an Asian quadroon. Pity it isn’t one-eighth; then he’d be an octoroon, a more beautiful term. When I first met him he was in the grip of some dread disease that kept him coughing, great racking coughs which rendered him incapable of speech, except short gasped words like, “Yeah.” Most intelligent conversation I’ve ever had with him. Bill went to a famous school I’d never heard of and got a doctorate in American Culture. I’ve heard his explanation of what that is, but could never quite make it out. His thesis is a handsome book that would look good on your shelf: THE YELLOW PERIL. I’ve read it, and so have his parents and his cousins, whom he reckons up by dozens. His credits include collaborating with me, and a few lesser items -- he is also a Hugo LOSER, and has been pilloried on TWILIGHT ZONE. etc. The etc. includes lots of books you shouldn’t read and a couple you can’t, because they either are out of print or unpublished. If you can find HONG ON THE RANGE, get it -- funniest SF western that I’ve ever read. (It’s the only SF western that I’ve ever read.) And the fabulous Jack Hong stories have yet to be published in hardcopy, true sign that we live at the End of Days. Bill and his cousin Holly Mae Franking are working on a book about his Grandmother, but their title isn’t firm yet. (Her own title for her story was, MY CHINESE MARRIAGE, by M.T.F. -- she thought it best not to use her name.) There’s a link above to his boring Web page, which is full of autoidolatrous guff and some slanders of me. I believe he even takes some of the credit for the success of our collaborations. When we are together, strangers think we’re drunk, for we laugh at dumb jokes, and do incredibly dumb things like getting lost on a straight highway. (Neither of us drinks.) The reason for this behavior is that together, our collective IQ drops about 40 points, and the reason for THAT is that it’s an average of our intelligence. Even a very dumb guy can get a doctorate; Bill will tell you so himself. You will understand when I explain that Bill’s doctorate is in American Culture, and not neurosurgery, like his father’s.

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