republished with permission

He had a thick shock of hair as white as new-fallen snow, a jaw that Bob Kane would love to have drawn on the Batman (and frequently did), and a gravelly voice that sounded like a wire-haired terrier being combed against the grain.

He was my friend, the legendary Lou Tabakow, founder of First Fandom and God Emperor of CFG (Cincinnati Fantasy Group), and I'd like to tell you a little about him.

For Foundation's Friends
republished with permission

What kind of man was Isaac?

Let me tell you a story that took place in 1987.

I was in Westchester County, New York, to toastmaster a convention known as Lunacon. I got there a day early, and walked to the train station, where I planned to take a train to Manhattan, do a little shopping, meet my friend Barry Malzberg for a late lunch, and get a ride back with him.

Problem was, there were dozens of trains to choose from, and no one had given me a schedule. A little old lady—she must have been in her seventies—took pity on me, asked me where I was going, and since it turned out we were both waiting for the same train, she offered to ride with me and let me know where to get off.

We got to talking during the train ride, and I mentioned the reason I was in town, and she replied that she didn't know much about science fiction, but she had always wanted to meet the world-famous Isaac Asimov. And, without even knowing for a fact that he would be there, I told her that if she showed up on Saturday night, I'd be happy to introduce her.

Written for Lan's Lantern
appeared in Fosfax
republished with permission

In my life, I have written a grand total of three fan letters to writers. One of the recipients, Barry Malzberg, became my closest friend and occasional collaborator. Another, humorist Ross Spencer, also became a good friend. The third was African writer Alexander Lake, who died on Christmas Day, 1961, a month before I wrote to him. I've always regretted not meeting Lake, who has been virtually forgotten by the American reading public, despite a number of bestsellers.

I recently moved Resnick's Library of African Adventure from St. Martin's Press over to Alexander Books. The primary reason was to bring Lake back into print.

Sounds simple, right? I mean, hell, all editors do is sit on their judgment all day and see what comes in the mail.

Well, sometimes it's not quite that easy. Take Lake, for example.

Hell, take the whole damned chronology:

1954: I buy the paperback edition of Killers in Africa at age 12, take it to summer camp with me, read it in its entirety once a week for two months. From that day to this, I am fascinated by all things African, I take 5 safaris, I write 13 books and 18 short stories set in Africa, and I never forget that it is Alexander Lake who awakened this passion in me.

He was a clown with a difference – when he wasn’t busy amusing the press, he killed some 300,000 of his own people and invaded a neighboring country. Even the war had aspects of a circus.

He was Idi Amin, of course. As a young man he had enlisted in the Kenyan army, and had actually become its heavyweight boxing champion. When he returned to his native Uganda, he rose rapidly in the military, and when he could rise no higher, he overthrew Dr. Milton Obote, who was no Lincoln-in-the-making, and became President in 1971.

Obote fled next door to Tanzania, where the President of that nation, Julius Nyerere, gave him sanctuary – and when Amin decided it was easier to kill off his political opposition than win them over to his side with compelling arguments, Nyerere also offered sanctuary to some 20,000 Ugandans who were fleeing for their lives.

All this took place during the first two years of Amin’s reign.

Amin, for reasons a lot of us have yet to comprehend, was the darling of the Western press – at least for awhile. But in bits and pieces, Uganda’s darker secrets began coming out. He turned government buildings into mass torture chambers. He began committing genocide on any Ugandans who were not from his own tribe. He erected a statue of Adolf Hitler in the middle of the capital city of Kampala, declaring the Fuehrer to be his hero. Though Uganda’s economy was pretty much run by, and dependant upon, Indians, Amin kicked them all out of the country. Then, when the economy tanked and inflation skyrocketed, he invited them back – only to kick them out (and appropriate their property and their businesses) a second time. He couldn’t afford to feed his army, so he allowed them to poach their meals in the game parks. It’s said he even practiced cannibalism on his own infant (or unborn; the accounts differ) son.

Copyright (c) 2000 by Mike Resnick.

by Mike Resnick

Let me start by saying that I love books and magazines. I like the heft and feel of them. I grew up with the printed page. I can’t remember ever having a house where most of the wall space wasn’t covered by overflowing bookshelves. I don’t especially like reading my science fiction off the computer screen.

But as a science fiction writer—and one who has to pay the bills with his science fiction—it’s my job to look ahead and see what’s coming, and whether I like it or not makes no difference. It is not a matter of Good or Bad, but rather of True or False. And the truth is that we’re not going to be pulping as many forests in the future.

Twenty years ago, when the Internet was just taking off, just about every established science fiction writer was approached by start-up publishers. The pitch was always the same: give me something for free today and I’ll make you rich tomorrow (or maybe next week, or possibly in 17 years, or conceivably in . . .) Every one of them went belly-up.

Copyright (c) 2000 by Mike Resnick.

Just saw Van Helsing. I have to preface this by saying I thought Stephen Sommers' The Mummy was a better film than any of the Indiana Jones films, and that the sequel, though flawed, was at least enjoyable.

This one isn't quite as dumb or as bad as The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, but it comes mighty close. An hour into it Carol, who never leaves a film or a play, turned to me and whispered that she was ready to walk out if I was. I couldn't believe it wouldn't get better, so we stayed. I was wrong. It got worse.

For Challenger #24 (reprint)

WHERE DO YOU GET YOUR CRAZY (NOVEL) IDEAS?
by Mike Resnick
It's hard for a science fiction writer to go anywhere without being asked, at least once, "Where do you get your crazy ideas?" The number of facetious and/or contemptuous answers, at least that I'm aware of, is nearing the thousand mark, and yet it seems to do nothing to discourage the endless recitation of the question.

Oasis 15 Program Book

Memories of My Dad

by Mike Resnick

My dad should have been born in New York. There is no
question in my mind that if he had been, he'd have found and
joined the Futurians, collaborated with Cyril Kornbluth, feuded
with Don Wollheim, worked for Fred Pohl, and had affairs with Judy
Merril and Virginia Kidd. They were his kind of people, but he

MY PAL ROSS
By Mike Resnick

I’d like to tell you a little about my late friend, Ross H. Spencer, because his story is unique.

Ross loved his native Youngstown, Ohio, but he moved to the Chicago area to work in first a Studebaker and then a Ford plant. He took time off to help win the war in the Pacific, for which he was properly decorated and from which he made most of his lifelong friends. He fiddled a bit with poetry, but never wrote a word of fiction in his life, except maybe to the IRS. Then, in his early 50s, he had a serious heart attack, brought on by too many beers and too many cigarettes.