My friend, John Eoyang,

died today.

He was born in China 79 years ago, the son of Chinese diplomats. As a child, he was raised in London and Paris. His parents gave him (and his brother Peter and sister Mary) Western names because they thought they would remain in the West. However Mary returned to China where she managed to survive the Maoist years despite being educated and very Westernized.

He came to the U.S. in 1937 and attended the University of Michigan. By the time he retired from working he had had several professions. He was a gifted singer and worked as such in the Chicago area for many years. He later earned advanced degrees in psychology and worked as a prison psychologist in Oklahoma, Wisconsin, and Minnesota.

He married my best friend, Glenda, in 1977.

He was one of the many people I know who absolutely detested the state of Texas - in any of its manifestations. With most such people the hatred seems to be irrational. But hatred, as all things, with John, was completely and hopelessly rational. Because of Glenda's family he occasionally had to visit here. But in the last ten years, I think he might have come only once.

One odd incident I recall:
In the mid 1980's, Glenda's mother was the principal at "Boy's Ranch" - a 1930's styled orphanage, part dude ranch - part reform school. Her mother of course lived out there - it not being close to anything at all. John hated Boy's Ranch - always (no matter who he was addressing) referring to it as a Hitler-Jugend camp. He hated the forced table manners, the prayers, everything. John was staying with me in town. On a Sunday morning I drove out there to deliver him. While we were driving, he started rummaging in the glove compartment of my old VW, where he happened to find an old joint, which amused him. It so happened that I had not paid attention and was running low on gas, so we stopped in the village of Channing to see if we could find some. The only place with any sign of life was the town cafe, where we inquired. It turns out there was only one gas pump in the town, and at that hour we would have to visit the local sheriff who could unlock it for us. So we found the small house of the "sheriff" whom obviously we had awaken. He stumbled down the steps buttoning his shirt and buckling his belt. He was a creamy muscular towhead, tanned and covered in blond hair. He could not have been much more than 22. John of course charmed him with small talk, and he gladly let us fill up. As we got in the car, the guy was inside closing the small station. John insisted that we leave the joint on the pump for him as a gift. I 100% totally freaked - knowing that this would not be well received - but we split as fast as we could - and that was that.