A Childhood Gone

You know childhood is really gone when those who peopled your youth are gone. Two such left us this week: Peter Graves and Robert Culp. I had crushes on both of these guys because I love spy series. Graves was so suave and brilliant in "Mission Impossible." But Robert Culp represented a whole other dimension to me. I liked him when he was the cowboy, Hoby Gilman, in that series, I think it was called "Trackers." But when he became Kelly Robinson, the tennis player, in "I Spy," he became more than a hero. Of course, Sheldon Leonard who originally cast Culp and Cosby earns a big round of applause. This was in the early 60s -- still a time when TV Land was so ultra-white that people all across the country would yell at each other to hurry up and watch if there was anybody black on TV. The scripts were written to show the two spies as co-workers and perhaps pals, but Culp was so genuinely affectionate, he and Cosby really did seem like best friends. He always said great, insightful things about Cosby--for all the years afterward, he spoke with reverence of Cosby's talent. I think he was always an under-recognized talent and man. I am the admiring Ruth Adkins Robinson.

Who do you write for?

Somebody said, "Better to write for yourself and have no public than to write for the public and have no self." So what does that mean for somebody like me who writes for the public, for a living? What it means is that I also write poetry, which nobody much has seen, nor will anyone else ever read. Those poems, some of which were written while I was in high school live in a box that I have carried around with me all these years. The fancy handwriting remains the same, but I can almost tell what I was going through at the particular time by the difference in the tone of the poetry. The top of that box says destroy if you are going through this because I am dead. There is another box that contains my autobiography. On its lid it says, take this one to my agent/publisher. I figure the thrills, intrigue and adventures on those pages cannot hurt the girlfriend of the Mafia don, the murdered Jose Mendendez or the Genius. But I don't want to share the poetic soul of Ruth Adkins Robinson.

Save Me From Amateurs

Do I have a target painted on my forehead? Or my backend? I must. It must say, all amateurs who want to get in show business, hit this idiot right here. And that blow must trigger an automatic response from me. Sure, let me open up my head full of knowledge, my mouth full of advice, the whole kit bag of experience gained over the past thousand years. Let me take my time in the trenches, the all night 'get the magazine out marathons,' the rat infested backstages and other delights and give it to them for free. I get stuck, suckered by the seemingly innocent person who just wants a word or two of guidance. I know how hard it is to get started, I do. Nobody much wanted to give me a hand and I've tried to ease that for a whole lot of people. This most recent experience has cured me, though and now I'm done carrying people up the mountain on my back. So take note, if you know anybody at all who thinks they can write for print, produce a hit series, write a million selling song, be the editor in chief of something--all things I know how to do in the dark.....please tell them you don't know anybody named Ruth Adkins Robinson.

Whatcha' Drinkin'

I got my nice red water bottle and filled it with water from my Britta filter; then I got my nice silver water bottle and filled it with water from the reverse osmosis pump attached to my kitchen sink. Each day, I try to figure out which one of them tastes better than the bottled water I have forsaken in the wake of reading that to get one bottle of er, bottled water, it's necessary to burn, churn, fire up three liters of nasty old ordinary water and that takes a lot of oil. Ok. A used to be friend of mine once told me that George Bush (the ugly) and Dick Cheney (the criminal mind) were running around South America buying up water and that was a long time ago. She is a real greenie so I sort of didn't really pay any attention to her, but maybe it's past time that we all should be paying better attention. Check this out: More people die from polluted water every year than from all forms of violence, including war, the U.N. said in a report Monday that highlights the need for clean drinking water. The report, that came out yesterday to coincide with World Water Day, said an estimated 2 billion tons of waste water — including fertilizer run-off, sewage and industrial waste — is being discharged daily. That waste fuels the spread of disease and damages ecosystems. The report is called "Sick Water" and to say that it makes me sick to read about it is an understatement. 3.7 percent of all deaths are attributed to water-related diseases, translating into millions of deaths. More than half of the world's hospital beds are filled by people suffering from water-related illnesses, it said. So I'm asking, whatcha' drinkin? And more importantly, does what you are drinking have water in it? Where did that water come from? I know one person who is not trying to be contaminated and that's Ruth Adkins Robinson.

Pictures and a Thousand Words

One picture is worth a thousand words, somebody said. This writer cannot agree with that. Here is what I think: If the picture is accompanied by several hundred words, it is enhanced. I was just looking at a batch of photos of me. I plan to post them on here a few at a time, with the stories that go with them. But the first photo isn't even a picture of me. It's a picture of an ice sculpture of the logo of the California African American Museum. The night was in October of 2007 and that night I was really celebrating being dubbed CAAM's "Visionary Writer." I love my Museum life, having been the co-curator of two important shows, plus writing many catalogs, producing many videos, editing all the issue of Museum Notes, our newsletter and being able to contribute wall text panels and just about any other writing assignment needed. Plus I am surrounded by great art! Pretty nice stuff for Ruth Adkins Robinson

Me and My Royalties

When my old friend Sigidi posted up the lyrics to my song "MS" on FaceBook, it brought back some memories--good and bad. I worked very hard on David Oliver's albums, writing most of the songs with him, including "MS." and "Friends and Strangers" later a hit for the wonderful Ronnie Laws. Nice to see the lyrics, sad to think that i have never, ever been paid a penny for my publishing or writing royalties because David died and the music is in the hands of two very shady people, Martin Cohen (known as Mutt for obvious reasons) and Wayne Henderson of Crusaders fame. When all this went down in 1977, I was just a kid with no power and no connections, although I written some songs with Ray Charles a few years earlier. So, the two guys laughed at me and I thought there were two things for me to do --get a gun and blow the bastards to the hell they deserve or just stop writing songs for the rest of my life. I chose to stop writing music and moved into writing things I could control. The bottom line here is that for the next 30 odd years those nasty men have no doubt enjoyed spending the money that was mine (and David's) I wonder if there is anyone with any suggestions on how royalties could get in the hands and bank of Ruth Adkins Robinson

Mo' Mo

As promised, I dug through my transcripts and found all that Mo'Nique had to say about some other folks winning an Oscar, back in 2002. At the time, there was a lot of chatter goin' around that Denzil and Halle had both been awarded their Academy Awards as some kind of conspiracy within the Academy to recognize "black actors." And there was chitchat within the black community that they only got them for playing bad characters. Mo' got right into it, "Nothing was given! Nothing! They earned those Oscars. Nobody did them a favor!" She went on to say that Denzil played a bad cop, but he played the hell out of that bad cop "I believed him!! I believed him!! And that nobody should say anything about Halle's character either. "You don't have to like the people they played, but you have to respect how well they played them!" Ok, now. So if you flash forward to 2010 and all the negatives that folks have been saying about the character that Mo' played. It was hard to watch, no doubt she was a monster in a mother suit, but there was no conspiracy within the Academy this year, either. Mo' leaned into it and played it like she was born to it. People believed she was that character--just like she believed Denzil was that bad cop. And like she said about the other people in 2002, Mo' earned it and I can always say, I know somebody that got cursed out (but at least didn't get beat up) while on the set by a future Academy Award winner and that would be Ruth Adkins Robinson.

Mo'Nique Talking Hard

It's funny how, er, stars line up. Back in 2002, eight years ago or so, I was writing and producing a show called "Oscar's Black Odyssey: From Hattie to Halle," and I asked Mo'Nique to come and be interviewed about what Oscar means, who has won the Golden Man, who hasn't, why they haven't, who should have at least been nominated and who has not. And while nobody in their wildest dreams ever thought she was going to ever get an Oscar worthy role (yeah, I don't care what she said in all those interviews, she didn't think it back then anyway). She had something to say which I found really interesting and she made it into the final cut. So tonight I'm going to look at the show and read the transcript of the interview and see if she was lining up the stars way back when. Stay tuned. This fascinates Ruth Adkins Robinson.

Another Wonderful, Surreal Day in L.A.

Laying face down on the massage table, a traditional Chinese masseuse works the stress knots out of my back, Outside I can hear the clanging, chanting Hare Krishnas six feet away. As the tourists pass by this tiny, tented stretch of the Venice Boardwalk, a dozen languages are audible, barely covering the rush of skateboard wheels, barking dogs challenging each other and the Island walker-on-glass trying to scare up a crowd, offering that this was his last performance of the day all in that lilting voice that suggested tropical breezes somewhere.
I sit up and the gentle masseuse helps groggy me into my shoes and jacket, we bow to each other when I pay him and he promises to be there on Wednesday when I return with a brand new bunch of knots. I wrap up pulling my scarf close. There are no warm breezes today in Venice. It is a blustery March afternoon. The sand is whipping against the bare skin of those silly enough to think this stretch of beach by the Pacific is 'pacified' at all. People start stepping up their pace as the sun falls suddenly into the ocean, streaking the sky pink. I sit at the ocean's edge and watch for a while and Elijah stops on his fixe bike to show me one of the tricks in his growing arsenal. The ocean, the sun, the sky, the sounds --this sensory bombardment is one of the joys of living in Los Angeles. I came from a place in time where everyone mostly looked and sounded alike and when I got lost in books as a child, I decided when I grew up I wanted adventure and strangeness, a wide cultural and racial mix, different accents, different impressions and different worlds. The 10 mile drive home is an easy run and it's good to know that all this waits just a click or two away when I need to get my head clear. I love this city and all it has to offer Ruth Adkins Robinson

Writing for a Living

I write for a living. I am very proud of that. Back in the day, When people would tell me they were also a writer, my arrogance would cause me to say some self-aggrandizing nonsense like, "You are not a writer unless you cash checks at the bank with 'writing' noted on it. Like I do." What a ass. Part of that was youthful silliness, part of it sheer gratitude that I did get paid to write. Let's face this truth: Not all people get to do the thing they do best and get paid for it. I guess that's why I was/am so insecure. Imagine stringing words together that people really like and really pay you for? Giggle. Like getting paid for eating or watching TV or sitting in the library. I like to do those things and frankly, I do them well, but nobody is going to pay me to do them. I do expect to be paid to write. Which brings me to another new development. I have become the queen of barter, sort of. People are forever asking me to write something for them, just because I write for a living. Because I am a big softie, sometimes I do that. But more often these days, my conversations go something like, 'what have you got to trade me for writing something for you?' My Uncle Hawk must be laughing out loud at the whole Indian notion of this, but trading does work. I've gotten a massage, an oil change and condo for a weekend in Palm Spring. All good. Now if I can just keep anybody from trading me a small pox infected blanket, I'll be the bartering Ruth Adkins Robinson