roman the rapist

Here's what I think.... Roman the Rapist needs to go to jail and become Bubba's new girlfriend. Then he can see just how much fun being raped really is!!! All the people protesting his arrest can kiss my ass. He did the crime and he should do --oh maybe one year for every year he's gone free since drugging and raping that 13 year old. I don't care how mature she seemed--SHE WAS THIRTEEN YEARS OLD... HE PLED GUILTY. SEND him to prison where he belongs. I'm an outraged Ruth Adkins Robinson

Am I Islamophobic

When I heard about the planned prayer by Muslims in Washington, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. George W. Bush is the president who began hosting a Ramadan iftar, which is the meal that breaks the daily fast during Ramadan, but the stupid Rethuglicans don't care about that fact, they just want to crucify President Obama as a Muslim. This year the anniversary of 9/11 came just before the end of Ramadan, which was marked by a commemorative stamp and an iftar dinner at the White House. That whipped the haters into a fury, prompted all kinds of viral e-mails and blog postings critical of Muslims and Islam. I am mystified by Muslims. I have problems with the horrific treatment of women. I understand, however, why they hate us and want us out of their country. I don't like it that the nightly news is peppered with some new bomb threats and yet another bearded terrorist with the name Hussein arrested --all Muslim radicals wanting to kill us all. Not only do they want us out of their country, they want us dead in our country. I want them to just go home. When I was typing this, I was trying to remember if I had any Middle Eastern friends. I have always had followers of Elijah Muhammad as friends. Yet so help me, I am guilty of racial profiling I think. What do I do about this?

Faith followed Annie Home

The little black Pom mix followed Antoinette home from church, two miles, lots of stop lights and some serious traffic and Annie was sure she give up, but the little dog kept coming, right up to and through the gate. Knowing I never wanted a dog in the house, Antoinette got the beautiful young Cecelia to come and beg me to let the dog stay. "Lemme see the dog."They brought the dog. Ok, she looked up at me with those big brown eyes and I was done. So I said she could stay--for a while. The first thing the dog did was sit as close to me as she could without sitting on me, she followed me from room to room. Ever the one to let my imagination build a story, I decided that the dog had been the beloved pet of some lady who had died because the dog never wanted to let me out of her sight--ever. She barked when I left the house. Now the problem in my house is that nobody here is a dog fancier. These people love cats and of course we have a couple of those. I don't like them either, but what can you do. So my dilemma now is that the Twins have their own apt., Cecelia and Elijah are now all day at school and Larriann is over at chef's college learning to stuff, chop, and all the other things that they must do. I am gone from morning to night and the dog is lonely. So I ask my old, dear friend Cheryl Dickerson who is 100 percent a dog lover if she wants to adopt Faith Banks. She said she'd audition the dog for a week to see if the two of them and her other puppy liked each other. When I told my family, they were all huffy puffy wanting to know how could I give the dog away. My reply was the dog needs attention, which she can't get here. So I pack up the food, the leash, the brush, the dog perfume and off to Sherman Oaks I go, Faith curled up in the back of the car--practically grinning at getting to go for a ride and sticking her head out the window. Cheryl thinks the dog is cute and tries to be friendly. But Faith, knowing something is in the wind isn't having it. She is looking at me like, what are you doing. I decide to leave, sneakng away like a thief in the night and when I call Cheryl 15 minutes later, she tells me Faith has been sitting by the front door, barking ever since I left. I'm not sure how this audition is going to work out at all. Holding my breath, I'm Ruth Adkins Robinson

Doin' A Happy Dance

It's been a hard year this first nine months, and I had told my ace Charmaine Jefferson that I'd be happy if just one little area of my life could get straight. Really, everything, everywhere and everybody seemed so screwed up for months on end. But suddenly, the skies opened up and it started raining good stuff on my head. At one point, I looked up wondering if Skip had just gotten so tickled at my silliness at his funeral that he had opened up the locked floodgates for me. Could be. After nine long months, my loan modification documents came through, I got a new literary agent, I jumped into discussions on a screenplay that I do want to write, I got the greenlight on a project with SdP and somebody actually paid me some money they'd owed me far too long (the rest of you can step up here and do the same). So I am going to treat myself to a Thai massage and then wrap myself in words to complete the October issue of Museum Notes and that book treatment and the unfinished chapter on the book I already have in the works. But first, look over here, this is me doin' a happy dance. I'm Ruth Adkins Robinson.

Mo' Joe the Schmo

Yeah, yeah, yeah, his Daddy's not a racist says Joe the Schmo's son. Of course, Joe's little boy is running for attorney general in South Carolina, home of some of the most notorious racists ever to creep into a black bedroom. So everybody black needs to run for the hills if Sonny Boy Wilson wins -- imagine the prosecutions and legislation headed in the wind. But to further make the point about Schmo's true views, back in 2003, Wilson called it "unseemly" and a "smear" for Essie Mae Washington-Williams, the illegitimate daughter Strom Thurmond had with the 16 year old family maid to tell the world the old dog was her Daddy. Excuse me?? What was unseemly was old Strom sticking it where Southern gentlemen have been sticking it for the last couple of hundred years--statutory rape and all that be damned. How is it a smear to call your Daddy your Daddy? Of course Strom, who practically wore white Klan robes right on the floor of the Congress didn't want anybody to know about Baby Girl. He did pay for her education and some other stipends. And, oh Lordy, Lordy, his 'other' family recognized her and she is listed on the monument to him, right alongside his white children. She should be grateful, I guess Joe thinks. After a lifetime of keeping it hid (she was born in 1925) I think she was brave to acknowledge him. I wonder if she ever sat and looked at the veins in her hands and wondered about the blood coursing through them? Whose blood, whose genes? Imagine a life of knowing your own father thought anything black was subhuman and had no rights or liberties. Painful. I'm Ruth Adkins Robinson.

Who Is a Liar?

Richard Nixon lied to everybody alive, including himself for several years before he fled the White House in disgrace. Nobody ever screeched at him in Congress. My boy Bill lied and as vindictive as the ReThuglians and Ken Starr were to him, nobody was screaming at him in Congress either. This oinker from South Carolina would never have screamed at the two white Presidents you can bet. But clearly Joe Wilson thinks it's ok to insult the black President, I guess because he's still reeling that a black man is now the most powerful man in the world. I'm sure his hillbilly butt can't stand it. After all, he disrespected the man and the office without any thought they just might haul his sorry self out of the building. These are the peole they address as "Distinguished Gentlemen." Well, maybe Joe doesn't really fit that tag. Think I'm kidding about this? This racist hillbilly voted against removing the Confederate Flag from being displayed over the state house. Why would I doubt that he has black friends back home in South Carolina. What happened to Wilson in the wake of his bad behavior? Jerk gets off with a little bitty slap on the wrist. Ok, so big deal, the House has voted to admonish Wilson over his "You lie" outburst to President Barack Obama during the President's health care speech to Congress last week, but it doesn't begin to do enough. Wilson is the liar here. He's a liar to all the people who voted for him in his state who could use some help with their health care situation. Like all the criminal deeds done by the Republicans of late, this will have no traction, nothing will really happen to Wilson as a result of this, but we can all hope that when he gets back to his natural redneck environment, somebody just kicks his ass on G. P. I'm Ruth Adkins Robinson, happy to be a Democrat.

There are times when only grease will do

Skip's funeral today and the repast where I saw some old friends and some old enemies made me want to live in this moment.... right now.... today. So I cooked and ate and listened to music. I didn't count anything that remotely resembled a calorie, a carb or fat content. In the South where I am from, they say "There are times when only grease will do." So I fried some chicken, made some green beans, fried some corn and okra and made some Johnny cakes. I slathered everything that needed it with a ton of butter and presented it to myself on my favorite bone china, Royal Albert Old Country Roses. While I ate, I listened to Otis. Only his aching heart felt right for my own weary heart. Then I took a nap on my couch. Old comfortable habits feel especially good when the freaking world seems haywire. I'm up now, with some writing to do before morning, because life's needs make you keep moving. I'm tired and want to sleep but duty calls and I always answer. I'm Ruth Adkins Robinson

The Weekend of My Embarassment

On Saturday during the day, I had the enormous pleasure of hosting "Conversation at CAAM" where a World War II fighter pilot, bank president, NAACP area president, Police Commission Board chair and all around brilliant lawyer Elbert Hudson spoke of the past and the future, patterns of behavior established by his family, and offered footsteps to follow. He is a hero to me for his lifetime of service, his personality and his commitment to the race and the community. I was proud Saturday afternoon. Then things changed so hard, I wanted to hide in my house because of the beyond stupid actions of Kanye West and Serena Williams. You never know what ignorant behavoir Kanye is going come up with (although when he said on live tv that George Bush was a racist, it made me chuckle). But running up on stage to embarass every living body at the Video Music Awards ranting and screaming is beyond the pale. We know he's nuts and somebody ought to call the rubber truck to come get his behind. But what he did doesn't bother me as much as Serena's antics. She and her sister have always been golden, charmed, blessed. Well, until yesterday. Everyone who is waving the John McEnroe flag in comparison ought to check the facts. Mac was entertaining and even on his craziest day never said fuck you and threatened to kill the line judge. He got his share of bad press and it was all sort of 'ok, he's got a bad temper, but we like him anyway.' But the people who do not like Serena have been waiting for the opportunity to blast her. Sports writers are saying she has no dignity and no sportsman like qualities she's a coward and was beaten by a player fresh off maternity leave. In general they damn her saying although she has called herself the best player who ever held a racquet, she isn't, never was and needs to sit her behind down and stay there. Well, let me tell you, I'm old enough to remember when tennis was a white athletes game. They let 'the one' in, Althea Gibson. There was nervousness when Arthur Ashe got into the game, but soon there were sighs of relief all around because both those players were exemplars of sportsmanship, dignity and class. There've been people waiting ever since for black players to show their asses to prove it wasn't a wise idea to let just anybody play the game. Sorry to say, Serena's ass is showing. I'm Ruth Adkins Robinson.

Black Exotic Dancers

I was giving the visual arts curator Michelle Lee a hand with her upcoming CAAM exhibition on the "Harlem of the West" the Fillmore in San Francisco earlier today. In her section on burlesque, I was appreciating the beauty of the women, Lottie The Body and Toni Elling. Then I remembered the first exotic dancer I ever saw. Talk about beauty! There once was a whole grip of clubs in Los Angeles where you could go and dance your legs off and also watch some professional dancers. This one night somehow I got a seat up close to the night's performers. I was still pretty naive and when my date, Cornell, told me the dancer was a man, I didn't believe him. Embarassed and curious, I peered closer at Sir Lady Java. Nothing about that dancer said man to me. His skin was velvet. His shape as curvy as mine and stare as hard as I could I just couldn't find any evidence of any male equipment. It got me thinking about what propelled him up onstage changed from man to woman. Over the years, I've talked to female impersonators and found many different reasons for their choice to perform. One year when Sammy Davis (pictured here in the Fillmore) judged a female impersonator's competition, he and I talked about how stunningly beautiful some of the contestants were. That's it. It all goes back to beauty I guess. Men like Java were too beautiful to live 24/7 as men, I think. But gender identification is curious and confusing. Take the case of Caster Semenya, the runner who has been challenged over gender issues. She runs too fast to be a woman, so let's subject her to total humiliation. This person who is 18 could be forever damaged by what she was subjected to this week. I have no idea what will happen to her, but I wish people could just appreciate the beauty of her running and let her be. I'm Ruth Adkins Robinson

What Happened to Civil Rights?

Lubna Hussein would rather go to jail than pay a fine because she wanted to make a point about the Civil Rights of women, which pretty much doesn't exist in the Sudan. So instead of popping for the 400 bucks, off she went. That used to happen here, but doesn't so much anymore. I was talking to John Mack, president of the Police Board and longtime head of the Urban League about what happened to the country. We were rabid marchers and protesters when John and I were young. There was fire in bellies of the young. Who blew out the fire? It is like somebody said, "Ok, we have our Civil Rights now so let's get on with the party and making some money." Who are the Civil Rights people now? Can't think if any? That's the point. In our weekly get togethers Regina Jones and I were talking about the very same thing. She bemoans the fact that people write emails to each other but do little else. Where is the leadership, she asks? I don't know either, but I can't imagine why people think no action is necessary. There are sharp reminders of a past neither dim or distant. My favorite JAG colonel, William John Glasser was perhaps to be posted at the Pentagon again and I asked him how it was in that building. He said, "Oh, it's just a building with too many bathrooms." Sound puzzling? Well, remember when the Pentagon was built, colored and white had separate facilities. Does that mean black officers couldn't pee alongside enlisted white men, they could only pee with the brothers? Yes that's what it means then and now, really. Just one stat to leave you with on this cool Wednesday. In the highest rank of four star general in the air force or even the three star, how many black officers are there? Consider this, President Clinton awarded Benjamin O. Davis his fourth star after his death, 'cause despite the fact that he was commander of the Tuskegee Airmen and many other notable accomplishments, he only reached 3 stars. Groaning and wishing for equality for women in pants and people in uniform, I'm Ruth Adkins Robinson

Bashir's Got His Freaking Nerve

I'm watching Night Line and they are doing a tribute to all the people who have died this summer. Tributes are appropriate for this long, hot summer of loss. So many have left us, young and old. But for that snake Martin Bashir to be sitting there looking all sad about those who died makes me queasy. " He spent eight months following MJ around and the end result "Living with Michael Jackson" twisted the public's viewpoint. Bashir started the downspiral into accusations of molestations for MJ. It made your American career, didn't it Martin? Turned you into a bigger than life talking head anchor. As surely as the doctor who shot him up, you pulled the trigger on Michael Jackson. How well do you sleep, anchorman? When I used to be a journalist, it was to report the news, not twist it to suit your fancy. Be careful should the tide of public opinion turn against you. Look closer Bashear there's a lot of people like me jeering. I'm Ruth Adkins Robinson.

Between the Dashes

I've been reading all the comments about Skip Miller and idly wondering what will they say when I die. Skip was a gentleman, endlessly gracious and giving and while nobody much has said it, Skip was fine as wine. Maybe that sounds flip to some, but it would make Skip grin, no doubt. No bad posts or thoughts for Skip. Not many people will that be true about. I remember on the occasion of the death of a pretty famous member of a singing group, we were standing at the funeral and one man said "I'm waiting for (group leader's name goes here) to die, because I want to go piss on his grave." Whew. That was funny and it was also deep. Do I have a chance to change things in case anybody wants to piss on my grave? Well, they say about me in life that I have talent and a bad temper. I am devoted to my family and to work. But there is never enough time to max out the talent, to do all the things you want to do with your family. Pundits always say it's what you do between the dash (your birth and death dates) that counts. Skip was given 61 years between his dash --not nearly enough for those of us who could use some more Skip. Not enough for KC and the kids or Tony or Miller or Suzanne and so many others. If you ask a little kid how long 61 years is, he will just stare at you trying to imagine such a giant number of years. If you ask a retiree how long 61 years is, he will say not nearly enough. Time seems to be moving slowly this weekend. Maybe I'm just running through Jello. I can't seem to focus because one more death seems like the straw for this camel. Can't clean up, can't fire up my creative self. Not much Labor happening on this Labor Day. When I told my dear friend in Argentina that I was taking this harder than I expected. He said, "maybe you will rearrange your priorities now." Hmm. Not knowing how much time I have, I've just chosen to waste some of it--thinking about what's between my dashes and what I need to do about it. I'm suddenly hoping I can do some things so folks will be somewhat kinder when talking about Ruth Adkins Robinson

Tell the Truth, Ruth

Facebook haters must all be twelve and never fell out of touch with anyone they considered a friend. Without a clue to where they've gone, or where to look, friends get swallowed up by the mists of time. Then suddenly they are on the pages of Facebook. Fantastic. Today is a prime example of what I mean. I got a FB friend request from someone I knew in my 20s when I was trying to be a songwriter. The request said "Tell the truth, Ruth" and it came from Sigidi Abdullah. He sent me his phone number and I called him in a split second because he's one of those people that I truly missed having in my life. I grinned to myself while dialing remembering what he looked like back in the 70s. He seemed about six eight or so, all Afrocentric and skinny. Sigidi's hair was also about six eight or so--sideways. He had this loping walk and his hair would lope right along. He was also a fantastic songwriter/musician. There was a group he led called Conjur. I always got a kick out of the names of the group members: Sigidi, Ronji, Umbagi and Harold. I loved the way the names rolled of my tongue until you got to Harold! Our Harold was killed a few years ago by some silly bitch who rolled through the intersection of Pico and LaBrea at too high speed. Anyway, Sigidi and I wrote some songs together and one called "Willie Pass the Water" was recorded on somebody or other, it might have been Conjur, I don't remember. But since writers can't help themselves, Sigidi had to tell me the lyrics to a song he'd just written and I laughed outloud in pure joy--from having to listen again and because the song was so great. It's all good, Sigidi. Also coming out into the light, my old friend Fred Wesley from back in the day when I taught Sam & the Goodtimers their first choreography. Of course, you know Fred from James Brown and George Clinton fame. Just the greatest trombone player in the world. There are others, wonderful newsman Larry Carroll for instance. More on this subject later from Ruth Adkins Robinson

Lost My Warrant, Lost My Mind

So in June, the State of California stopped paying people like me who work as independent contractors. Everybody who isn't living in a cave knows they started issuing IOUs to us dumbbutts. I'm not good with pieces of paper so I've lost the two IOUs that I've received. Of course you can guess what madness ensued when I realized I'd lost them. Because of course they weren't really lost, I had just put them up somewhere safe. It is the story of my normal, insane pattern of doing things. Put it up somewhere safe. So I dedicated the entire last five days to finding those two unremarkable looking slips of paper. My house now looks like a bomb went off in there and only after I looked in the same place that I had looked ten times earlier did I find ONE OF THEM. Right there in my passport case, I found very neatly folded up a State of California warrant for some thousands. So today I gave in and simply filed a notice of loss for the other one because I must get on with the other parts of my life, languishing for the last five days. Of course, I have lost many things by putting them up 'somewhere safe.' A diamond ring that I especially liked, I've had to get my birth certificate from the Department of Vital Statistics of Kentucky so many times, they probably think I'm selling the thing, all kinds of memorabilia, and very often I discover that which I have put in safekeeping. So this weekend, I bought a fireproof box to keep in the house to put things in. This is not to be confused with my safety deposit box at City National, where I keep important jewelry and other secret stuff. See, I put the safety deposit keys up somewhere safe and until I find them, the new little box will have to do. I'm Ruth Adkins Robinson