The Weekend is Over. Los Angeles is expecting torrential rains and flash flooding. Not cool for the "burned areas", but a definite lift from the perputual sunshine of California life. Let's just hope things don't get too crazy: rain here can be as destructive as fire. As destructive as thin personalities who thrive on materialsim and Hollywood fantasies.

I picked up an interesting woman yesterday... at Amoeba Music. Lol. JUANA MOLINA. She didn't sing a word of English. Only Spanish. And man oh man. Yeh, you guessed it. I'm in love again. Juana is delicate and full and quietly poetic with enough soul to send you drifting into neverland while driving through Little Armenia on Sunset Blvd near Interstate 10.

Today should be full. I'm going to do some major cutting on my new play Crossing America. I have a reading in NYC next month and I want the read to be smooth and clean and successful. After working on my play Farewell Miss Cotton I've learned my language-dense plays don't fall easily from every actor's lips. And I'd rather spend my rehearsal discovering plot and story inconsistencies than interpreting language.

I also plan to write a few scenes from my newest play. It's a period piece set in rural Kentucky circa 1845. About a free family of color with Underground Railroad ties and a strange woman who appears on their steps in search of refuge. I'm excited by this play. I get to play around in history [i love history]. And I get to explore the lives and impulses of free people of color. [My maternal grandmother's family were considered "free people" and were free BEFORE Kentucky became a state in 1792. They worked as barbers and shoemakers and tobacco farmers. Many of them were poor and the laws governing their lives were abominable, but their testament to early America is one I find fascinating. And the stress and contradiction of living as free people in a slave state makes for some damn important drama.

Well... I'm off and running. Juana Molina is calling me from the living room. And you know me: I'm a sucker for a woman with a voice that stirs the soul.

Until next time,

Keith

My cousin Raphael called me a few days ago from Oklahoma City. Raphael is the son of my first cousin Robin-Roberta. He's 25. Lean. Tall. Light Brown Eyes. An interesting genetic pseudo-cloning of me. DNA trips me out. Actually my friend Hortense and I were just having one of our deep-down spiritual-intellectual conversations we've been having since our time began 15 years ago in the neo-Bohemia of San Francisco's Lower Haight, when we were uncombed and performing poetry and always in need of some good vegan Shepherd's Pie. We were talking about DNA and if we actually inherit our ancestor's eyes. Not the physical eyes of course. But what they've seen; their perspective; their experiences. Hortense and I were talking about how some family members feel like they belong to the same tribe. And some clearly don't. That they're some family who share the same sense of humor, the same inkling toward breaking rules; and some who turn up their nose to such "frenzy".

But we're both fascinated with the idea that there's possibly something in the DNA that creates tribe. Something my great grandfather Leslie read in his Lit class 100 years ago while attending Walden University that has shaped me. Something my great grandad Pa Lucious refused to endure as sharecropper in the small remoteness of Crawfordville, Georgia that has informed me. That even with Hortense, who was adopted at infancy and upon meeting her birth father, was overwhelmed by how much her father smiled liked her, roared against injustice like her. We're no scientists, that's for sure, but we concluded each of our ancestors experiences must have added a layer to how we react to and move through the world. And not just from the standard intra-cultural conditioning, but something inside, something molecular, passed down through DNA. That our entire being is layered with experience from every ancestor who's come before us.

Raphael feels like the same tribe.

Not that he's out breaking rules [like me], or that he participates in discussions that challenge religion, environmental consciousness and other left-wing tendencies [like me], but there was something in his voice. A certain "understanding". A certain heads-up and calm knowingness of his world, and a complete unwillingness to participate in the bullshit involved with crazy. Something that reminded me of my uncles, my brothers, my mom, 70 percent of my cousins, me.

And after his joking confession that he was "finally putting on weight", things got real interesting. My mom's family shares this inherited extremely high-metabolism that has time-traveled through our blood for at least three generations and has molded us into these lean, hyper creatures]. My Uncle Gordon once told me he didn't stop looking like a 20 year old until he was 40. So when Raphael mentioned he was over-eating at Mickie D's and now he's gone from 140 pounds to 150, I immediately bulldozed him with, Have you seen the movie Supersize Me? Yeh, you know me. I got pushy. [He was a tribe member afterall. He'd understand my crazy bulldoze tactics for truth.]. Anyway... He asks what was Supersize Me? I told him it was a movie about food. And to rent it and call me afterwards. He responded with a calm non-defensive: Oh, it sounds like something that's gonna change my world.

[Hey, I'd do anything to save a tribe member from the ugly of bad eating].

So... just yesterday, Raphael emailed me and there was one line in the body of the message: "Just letting you know I watched Supersize and now I'm scared to eat McDonalds."

Oh, the joy of sharing DNA, of sharing a state of being, of seeing the world through layered molecular memory. See, I got a feeling somebody way back when rejected the culinary disease-making of pork, or some such. 'Cause food-consciousness just seems pre-determined, and very molecular, in my way of being.

Until next time,

Keith

I was hanging out in Santa Monica yesterday. Plenty of sun. Blue skies. And a strong ocean salt breeze. Now that's my idea of procrastination. [Trust me, I got plenty of work to do. I have a screenplay to read; one to write, and a play that's anxiously awaiting for its Act Two]. Anyway, I was sniffing around one of my three favorite spots in Santa Monica. Hear Music. The other two are: Broadway Deli and Burke Williams Health Spa [ i almost proposed to the last person who gave me a mind-blowing Swedish massage].

But Hear Music is truly music-topia. I purchased Mozez's CD So Still. MOZEZ is a British kat who reminds you a little of Seal, but more soulful, eclectic, daring with his range. And with lyrics that personally inspire emotional and spiritual revolution.

After I jonzed at Hear, I decided to check out this indie flick on the Third Street Promenade called WINTER PASSING. It stars Will Farrell and Ed Harris. Winter Passing was written and directed by my playwright-friend ADAM RAPP. Adam and I met back in '96 at the Public Theater in NYC when we were part of their Writer's Group that also included Madelene Olnek, Ruth Margraff, Kia Corthron, Carlos Murillo, Brian Freeman, and Diana Son. All of us eager, experimenting with form and truth-telling and boldy complaining we'd rather have a production than a writer's group. Adam and I shared a connection to the midwest: He was born in Illinois, I was born in Ohio. His mother had passed away that year, my mother passed away the year before. He was an outcast; I was an outcast. He loved inventing language. So did I. [Languages that help restore our faith in our individuality and to wipe clean the part of the Midwest that tortured us.]

Winter Passing is Adam's first feature film. And I loved it. It was poetic and simple and edgy and real and dark and very much Adam.

It's so inspiring to see your peers continuing to evolve and be courageous and continue to committ to the art of story telling.
It reminds me of why I'm here, on earth. We must tell our STORIES! No matter what.

Congrats, Adam!

Until next time,

Keith

My good friend NICHELLE TRAMBLE tagged me today. Which means I must answer the following questions and then tag someone else within the BLOG-O-SPHERE. I finally feel like I'm part of the club.

FOUR JOBS I'VE HAD.

1) Legal Proofreader [in 1999 it paid 19 dollars an hour!!!]

2) Cater-Waiter in NYC

3) Customer Service Rep for Bank One

4) Copywriter for Pacific Bell Yellow Pages

FOUR MOVIES I CAN WATCH OVER AND OVER.

1) CROOKLYN [Frances Foster's performance is absolutely AMAZING and REAL and HILARIOUS]
2) INDEPENDENCE DAY [the first half. everything AFTER the attacks is boring]
3) ALIEN/ALIENS
4) JEFFERSON IN PARIS

FOUR PLACES I'VE LIVED.

1) San Francisco [near the Panhandle. LOVED IT! Plenty of fog, bike riding and writing in my journal]
2) Harlem [I had a slumlord from HELL. We had rats, mice, drugs in the lobby and an old woman on the fifth floor who kept mistaking me for a Haitian cousin Pierre.
3) Iowa City, Iowa [good place to be. met some GREAT FRIENDS. perfect college town]
4) Laramie, Wyoming [was there for three months. winter started on oct 3 with a blizzard. i was a graduate student in the English Dept at Univ of Wyoming. Arrived with a novelist, who was their writer-in-residence. Between Lola posting daily erotica on the wall, some bizarre splatterings of blood in the bathroom, and being one of 103 black students, all of which played sports, except 7 of us, it was an interesting time]

FOUR TV SHOWS I LOVE.

1) SIX FEET UNDER [i'm so sad it's gone].
2) FRIENDS[it's my chance to veg. my friends hate me for watching it and they don't understand my bizarre allegiance to Jennifer Anniston]
3) GOOD TIMES [the reruns remind me of being young]
4) THE 4400 [ i love sci-fi and the idea that we're not alone in the universe]

FOUR PLACES I'VE VACATIONED.

1) CARACAS, VENEZUELA
2) ISLA DE MARGARITA [near Trinidad]
3) LAS VEGAS
4) PENSACOLA, FLORIDA [my grandfather was born there and i spent a summer there as a teen]

FOUR FAVORITE DISHES.

1) STEWED GARLIC-JERK CHICKEN [my specialty]
2) GRILLED SALMON [my dad's version. it's amazing]
3) BLACK CAKE [my good friend Patrice's mom sends me some every Christmas from Brooklyn]
4) HOT TURKEY PASTRAMI ON WHOLE GRAIN W/MAYO AND MIXED GREENS

FOUR SITES I VISIT DAILY.

1) BBC
2) NEW YORK TIMES
3) NPR
4) SOME KIND OF PORN [just kidding. or am i?]

FOUR UNDERRATED CONVERSATIONAL TOPICS.

1) Cherokee Blood in the Black Community [it's deeper than we think]
2) California's Fresh Produce
3) EATING WELL and EXERCISING
4) CORETTA Scott King's funeral at her anti-human rights daughter Berniece King's church.

Now, I am tagging Scruffdiva at B-Girl Stance

Weekend opening of my play FAREWELL MISS COTTON is officially over. And I've been fluttering for the last few days. A little anxious. A little ungrounded. I'm usually like this after a play opens. With a month worth of adrenaline devoted to the success of an opening, the feeling of withdrawal is painful. It puts you in mind of that post-orgasmic feeling many of us experience after a tumble in the hay. Depleted. A "now what?" look on our face. And, trust me, it's not like I don't have LOTS to do. Because I do. I have a new play to continue writing. I have a screenplay I need to finish. I have taxes to prepare. But, I tell you, none of that will be as satisfying and orgasmic as the ups and downs and hard labor and joyous collaboration of rehearsing then opening a play. So this brother was feeling a bit fluttered. And since I don't smoke cigarettes I couldn't sit quietly and puff away my post-orgasmic state of being. So... I decided to seek a temporary fix: some good ole fashion "cruzin for music". And boy, did I find a beaut: Her name is CORINNE BAILEY RAE. She is eclectic and warm and fresh and cute and from London and Oh my God, I'm in love. She is exactly what I needed. A voice to caress my mind, hold up my heart and kiss all over my soul. A voice to replenish and re-inspire, point me in a new exciting direction of creativity and art and dare I say God. [YEH, I GOT IT BAD].

I do this every now and then: secretly fall in love with some vocal newcomer. The list of lovers is short but always profound: RES, LIZZ WRIGHT, RILO KILEY, BLONDE REDHEAD and SI SE.

And each time, I'm completely devoted, sometimes happily obsessed and absolutely determined to find nothing wrong with one word, one note, one lyric. And this time around Corinne Bailey Rae will experience this neo-soul hippy brother 's glowing devotion 24-7, 365. Breakfast, lunch and dinner!

So as Corinne and I lay here, under morning light, drinking water... loving each other, I say to you: Corinne got this special way of making all of the heartaches of theater-making worth every moment. And it's tripping me out!

Until next time,

Keith

p.s. If you don't hear from me in a minute, it's because... Corinne promised to love me like no other.

Good news! My play FAREWELL MISS COTTON opened last night and it went very well. Yes, there were a few bumps, but hey, that's life. Plus, it was only the second performance in front of the audience. My good friend and actress extraordinaire Patrice Johnson was there lending her support, and my always-supporting agent Steve Simons. Thanks Patrice. Thanks Steve.

If you're in L.A., come check it out at the Black Dahlia Theater on Pico Blvd.

Well, I'm off and running. I have a few friends visiting me from San Diego today and a brother needs to scrub his bathroom.
And kitchen. And bedroom. And I need to hit Trader Joe's and buy some free range chicken. One of my friends spent several years living in Jamaica and can cook the hell out of some "rice and pea" and jerk chicken.

Until next time,

Keith

My play FAREWELL MISS COTTON had its first preview last night. And things were a bit bumpy: actors going up on lines, energy scattered, the director taking notes after notes, moments of complete joy, audiences tilting a little to the left, the playwright pulling his hair out [if he had any], the artistic director suggesting radical changes in the script. It was a night not to be forgotten. And a night to be expected.

The one thing that makes me cringe about theater is PREVIEWS. It is the most vulnerable time in a play's life. It's like watching your kid take his first few steps. Everything is wobbly and new and tight and bouncy and happy and very very scary. But I'm learning to be more confident about watching my plays take their first few steps. I'm learning to let things go and trust that I have nurtured and greased and smiled upon and reprimanded and done the best I could, and more importantly I'm learning to be a healthy parent and accepting that I can't baby my baby forever.

One of the things that makes me gleam about PREVIEWS is they give the play a chance to walk on its own. It's a letting go process. And if you've treated it well and loved it and been hard on it, it will shine, it will walk and then run and then jump.
It's all about TRUST. It's all about accepting the process of art, of life.

My play FAREWELL MISS COTTON opens tonight at the Black Dahlia Theater in Los Angeles.
Keep your fingers crossed I can continue to trust my baby will be just fine!

Until next time,

Keith

Light-skin bashing is still in effect in the good ole US of A.

Yesterday I was in a "creative" meeting with three other men—two over 50; one around 30. We ranged in color from dark brown to pecan-brown. All three of these men were actor-types. Very talented actor-types. The television was on in the background—a repeat of a NY Undercover featuring Cynda Williams. Cynda was an actress who got her big break playing Denzel Washington's love interest in Mo Betta Blues. Cynda Williams is light-skinned. Trust me when I say the testerone was popping when Cynda sashayed her "yellow" across the boob tube. Then the conversation took an interesting turn—who was Cynda banging. Was it Billy Bob Thornton? Was it Bill Paxton? Frankly, I didn't care, but the consensus was Bill Paxton. Cynda met him when she was cast in the indie flick One False Move. Then somehow the conversation segued into the oddities of a nationally-known solo performer who is also light-skinned. There was much talk about how gifted he is and that he isn't working as much as he should. Then someone said they thought he was challenged by being light-skinned. That lighter-skinned actors had a harder time than darker-skinned actors these days. As the momentum of the convo escalated so did the name calling. Because suddenly the term "high-yella" was thrown across the room and hit me right in the lip. Then somebody tossed "high yella motherfuckers" at my Fica plant and it's still recovering. But when "pretty yella niggas on TV talking about the Oscars, primping their newly-permed hair" put a dent in my wall I thought THAT IS ENOUGH! My eye was twitching.

My mother was light-skinned. So was my grandmother. So was my grandfather. So were all of my mother's siblings. My brother. My cousins. Some of my mother's friends. My niece, my nephew. My brother's wife. And although I understand institutional and social intra-racism. You know the litany: Black against black. Light against dark. House slave verses field slave. And all other sorts of "skin" cancers. But just because I understand doesn' mean I tolerate.

Three things that DIDN'T happen in my house: We never used the word "Nigger" or "Nigga", term of endearment or not. We didn't wear fashionably holey jeans [my grandmother thought it was a deliberate attempt to look poor]. And we did not discuss complexion unless it was describing someone. I.e., "Light like me" or "Dark like her brother". It was always OTHER people who would point out color. I remember during a childhood spat a kid said to me: "At least my mother ain't some skinny white lady and my daddy ain't an African." [My mother was very light with reddish hair and hazel eyes, and my father was darker-skinned and would often don Dashikis]. Or the time this darker-skinned friend saw me at the mall with my mother and my grandmother and two first cousins and she viciously said, "Why are you always with light-skinned people?" Or the time my mother and I were driving on Route 4 toward Tri-County Mall and my mom stopped too quickly at a red light. The woman behind us, a darker-skinned woman, pulled alongside us, rolled down her window and screamed "Yellow Bitch".

For a long time I used to sit like a duck when it came to the color war. It seemed everywhere I stepped someone was pointing out color to me. Although it made me furious and confused, I didn't say a word. A part of me felt like people were asking me to choose between those I loved and the color line that seperated them from the darker world. But one day something hit me. I could no longer sit like a duck and say nothing. That I can't always hide behind being "politically or socially" informed. There comes at time when you just got to stand up for something. And I stand up AGAINST light-skinned bashing. Yeh, I'm sure some intellectual could find a lot of holes in my stance, but this is about passion, not understanding.

So yesterday, after the meeting with the three actors quieted down, I pulled out a picture of my mom's family. Yeh, I got that bold. And I showed each and every one of them. I didn't preface the picture with anything except, This is my grandparent's 20th anniversay pic. The three men were quiet. Maybe they didn't sense the connection, maybe they didn't care, maybe they went home and chanted seven Hail Marys. I don't know. But I feel very resolved to say: Light Skin Bashing Ain't For Me! Not In My House!

And for those out there who still default into bashing skin hues... think about this: it doesn't self-empower; it only creates more division amongs those who need serious UNITY.


Until next time,

Keith

Yesterday I received phone calls from THE THREE MUSLIMS. Hakeem, Said and Rashaad. I've been participating with espionage activity and Islamic take-over agendas for the last ten years with THE THREE MUSLIMS. Our latest crusade is to ambush the snack aisle at K-Mart. It's full of preservatives and artificial ingredients that have been known to kill lab rats on contact. I'm not supposed to reveal this information, but since my cell and COMPUTER is now tapped, well, what's the point of all the secrecy. Right?

I hope you know I'm LYING! lol.

Hakeem is a good friend who I've known for nearly 15 years. Hakeem grew up in Oakland in the Nation of Islam, and although he no longer participates in the Nation, he is a secular yet practicing Muslim. He called yesterday to share some good news: He's now manager of Marketing Services at Universal Pictures. I met Hakeem when I was living in the Bay Area. He moved down to L.A. to pursue a career in the music industry. I'm happy he's been plugging away and now resting comfortably over at Universal.

Said [pronounced Sa-eed] is one of my closest friends. He's actually not Muslim at all. His mother's Jewish and his father's Persian with socialist tendencies. Said grew up in Pittsburg in the Socialist Worker's Party with his mother. And recently found out that Random House will be publishing his first book—a memoir about growing up in the Socialist Worker's Party.

Rashaad is also a good friend. I met Rashaad 9 years ago at Dartmouth College in New Hamsphire. I was there participating in a theater residency with the New York Theater Workshop. A former football player with a mind as sharp as glass, Rashaad was a freshman English major who had been bit by the "acting bug" and was determined to become an actor. Rashaad is not Muslim either. Actually, his mother is Puerto Rican and his father is a Black attorney from Jersey. Rashaad gave me a call yesterday to let me know he's been short-listed for a top-notch film school.

The good news of Rashaad spun us into a conversation about films. About films that inspired us, that shook up our humanity. I shared my litany of An Angel at Our Table, Boys Don't Cry, Tu Mama Tambien, Salaam Bombay, To Sleep With Anger, Daughters of the Dust and Crooklyn. His litany included: Motorcycle Diaries, Braveheart, Passion of Christ, Glory, Do The Right Thing, Million Dollar Baby and Crouching Tiger.

We slumped into a gloom when one of us mentioned the opening of Tyler Perry's Family Reunion. You probably wonder why would somebody do something crazy like that. Easy. It's me. I'm always trying to stir up things. LOL. I defended Tyler's back porch comic ingenuity in his creating of MaDea—the "black man in Drag" Grandmama with gun and scripture in tow. The character is funny, but for me the buck stops there. I can do WITHOUT the movies. Rashaad had a similiar response. And as a budding filmmaker, he expressed disgust and disappointment at the lack of films that chronicle the complexity and humanity of "black" life and experience. With all of the Barbershops and Beauty Shops and Best Mans and other such thin depictions of "black" existence, Rashaad and I couldn't understand why more filmmakers weren't demanding such films to take a backseat to more complex films. But with money on the mind of EVERY film producer and studio, a consensus has been created: the only way to get black folks to spend money at the movies is to feed them something thin and it better make them laugh [or horny; or both].

So with that said: Rashaad and I's discussion catapulted into resolution: we must stick to our guns and tell our stories and be mavericks and understand the money dilemna will always reign, but that can't stop us from believing THICKER stories can make folks laugh, cry, think, change, shoot a bullet through the screen... something, anything. And hope that black folks will happily spend money to see themselves costumed in integrity and realness on the silver screen. [And not DRAG]. Yeh. Me and the Muslim got some work to do!

Until next time,

Keith

Los Angeles. Monday. Expected temp: 85 degrees. Sunny. I'm about to jump on my bike and run some errands. Grab some breakfast at some outdoor sunny spot known for its freshly-squeezed selections. And then maybe I'll check out that French flick CACHE with Juliette Binoche [I've been mad for her since the 1988 flick UNBEARABLE LIGHTNESS OF BEING].

All this to say: Today will be light and simple and clean and healthy. And I may even dig for a little inspiration out here in this barren desert.

Until next time,

Keith

My father, William Joe Adkins, will have his Deacon Quorum Questioning today. Something he's been studying for during the last few weeks. After today, he will be deemed officially a deacon at Golden Leaf Baptist Church in Cincinnati, Ohio. My father is an interesting man: A retired truck driver, he's well-traveled and has a low tolerance for bullshit. In his youth he was considered quite handsome and a very good dresser [those components still exist today]. His friends range from neurotic divorcees to musicians to police officers to big jolly men from Alabama who have been rumored to kill for family—literally. He's a great story teller as well. He's able to spin the most bizarre heat to the simplest event: Like the time he called me and said his Uncle Esper died of the fan. I remembered feeling Wow, the Fan? Uncle Esper was an extremely healthy 99 year old living in Atlanta. Who had a girlfriend and lived alone. A decade ago, during one of those Atlanta heatwaves, Uncle Esper fell asleep with the fan blowing, caught pneumonia and died.

My father is also Baptist. His parents were Baptists. His father, the late-Reverend Clarence Adkins, moved to Cincinnati from Crawfordville, Georgia around 1942 to work for General Electric [then maker of war plane engines]. Shortly after that, a wave of other Adkins migrated to Cincinnati in search of better employment and to rid the racist limits of their rural Georgia homes. Not long after, Clarence built his very own church. Golden Leaf Missionary Baptist. It became spiritual and social sanctuary for many migrating Adkins, and later a church home for many others.

After my grandfather passed away in the mid '70s, his nephew Carl took over as pastor of Golden Leaf and several years after that Carl sold my grandfather's small church and rebuilt a much larger one on the other side of town. Most of the original members followed [mostly of the Adkins clan], and new members joined. Quadrupling Golden Leaf's size.

The thing about Golden Leaf Baptist Church is the Adkins are considered royalty. A large picture of my grandfather—known for his wisdom and warmth and generosity, hangs on a wall in a room dedicated just to him. My grandmother was first lady of the church. The Deacon Board were mostly Adkins. The Ushers. The choir; the children creating havoc in the basement. And although I grew up 80 percent Catholic, whenever I attended Golden Leaf with my father or his mother, I was embraced and kissed like I was a prince.

I say all of this to say: my father being deacon at Golden Leaf is an amazing and honorary thing. Yes, it definitely adds a new level to my father's multi-layered life. But for him, I think it's more about reaching a level of Christian respect. And about sashaying his Adkins royalty. He IS the middle son of the late-Reverend Clarence, father of Golden Leaf. His mother WAS first lady. And now he's FIRST cousin is pastor.

I don't follow the religious ways of my father and his family [or my mother's family]. I believe in a Divine Power. And although I understand the language and culture of the Bible-belt, I am not Christian. By choice.

But I am happy for my father today. This means a lot to him. He's Golden Leaf royalty after all, and deserves the highest prestige available. My father is wise, warm and very generous. And I know he's told me he and his father weren't very close, I wonder if he can see himself in Reverend Clarence's legacy. I'm sure if the late-Reverend Clarence Adkins were alive today he would see it. He would be very proud of his middle son. Not just for becoming deacon of the church he built, for understanding legacy, but even more for carving out a life even bigger than the Reverend dreamed the day he left Crawfordville, Georgia.

Good luck, Dad!

Until next time,

Keith

Yesterday I attended a beautiful memorial service for a good friend's mom: people laughed, cried, gave testimony to a life well-lived. At the repast, a tall actress-writer told my friend's WIFE that it was good seeing her, but she had wished it was under...[the actress' speech slowly became garbled and quiet and she didn't complete her thought]. My friend's wife stopped in her tracks, prepared to battle something that seemed to be mildly irking her nerves. She asked the tall actress what she was going to say. She then said: "You were going to say 'You wish it was under better circumstances.' Weren't you?" Then she added "I wish people would stop that. There's nothing bad about death. It's a part of life. It's a time to give testimony to life." The tall actress smiled embarrassingly but then agreed. My friend's wife is quite an amazing being: actress, singer, thinker, gallery owner. And I'm often revived by her candid "crack life open" approach to living. It reminds me of my own mother's "crack it open" motis operati. See, when it came to funerals: my mother was clear. She believed in wearing bright colors to funerals. She would say death doesn't have to be gloomy. Hard, sad, a "good riddance" even, but not gloomy. I gave my friend's wife a hug and she offered me some black eyed peas. I accepted the offer. And then everyone went on laughing, discussing, joking, eating. Living.

Until next time,

Keith

Nikki Giovanni. Last night I rode over to Pasadena in search of THE Nikki Giovanni. And I found her. Standing behind a podium at CalTech, speaking to a crowd over 700. Let me clear things up: Nikki Giovanni was scheduled to speak during CalTech's Social Activists Lecture Series last night and I attended.

Three things you should know about me and Nikki Giovanni. One, when I was in elementary school in Woodlawn Ohio every other month Nikki Giovanni would visit my classroom and read poetry. Although quite small, I always sensed she was someone special who seemed very grounded in the conjuring of "words". Two, during my last year of high school my mom and her husband Ron moved us from the townhomes of Springdale to a house on Burns Avenue. Burns Avenue is the street where Nikki Giovanni grew up; a landmark she frequently mentions in her writing. We moved literally one block away from her legendary home. [It's also worth noting, a good friend of mine from high school and also senior class president, Tracey Farley Artis, laid claim that her family actually moved into the Burns Avenue landmark once the Giovanni's moved out.] Three, over the Winter Holidays my mom's youngest brother, Roger—my favorite, creative, smart, good-looking uncle, paid me a visit at my dad's. Once he arrived, he handed me three books—a collection of Langston Hughes' poems called DON'T YOU TURN BACK, and two Nikki Giovanni collections: The Women and the Men and Cotton Candy on a Rainy Day. He found them at a yard sale.

Needless to say, last night was special for me. Although I arrived a bit late and was seated in the balcony with only a birds-eye view of Mz Giovanni, it was a night of inspiration and thought and truth. When I walked in she was dropping knowledge about Mars, about black folk and the Middle Passage, about those 17th-century Africans making a decision to live, to endure their new unwelcoming world across the Atlantic, about if there's anybody on this planet who'd understand how to transport and survive a far away place like Mars, it would be black Americans. It was moving.

She also re-told the haunting and horrific story of Emmitt Till's murder. I didn't know he was slightly overweight; I didn't know he stuttered; I didn't know he suffered with polio and walked with a limp. I didn't know his murderers drilled a hole into his eye before dumping him in that water. I didn't know the town's sheriff said that it was a shame his mother kept his casket open; I didn't know his mother said she kept his casket open to show the entire world THE SHAME.

I sat there listening to Nikki, laughing with Nikki, crying with Nikki, and I wondered if her shadowy presence in my childhood watered my creative seeds. If I owe a bit of my creative journey to her. And then I remembered something so spectacular. When I was in the first grade I wrote and illustrated a book. It was called THE SILLY PUPPET—about a puppet boy who was willing to do anything, anywhere, including kissing the ground and jumping to the sky. It won the Young Author's Award. The award ceremony was in an auditorium somewhere in Cincinnati. I remembered being a bit late and forced to sit in a far away seat, but when they called my name to receive the award, guess who was my presenter... Yes, Miss Nikki Giovanni.

Last night was not quite coming full circle, but it damn sure was very close.

Until next time,

Keith

February 9. Los Angeles. Expected temp: 90 degrees. [See yesterday's post re: Global Warming]

Woke up this morning and called my boy Jimmie D. Woody. Jimmie is a do-all artist—actor, director, painter, go-getter with a heart of gold who after earning his master's from Columbia University, moved back home to Cleveland to handle family matters, and has been trying to break loose from the Mistake on the Lake every since. Jimmie and I met several years ago when he directed a workshop of my play WILBERFORCE at the Cleveland Public Theater. We bonded over the THEN recent losses of our mothers.

Jimmie helps me calm down in times of theatrical crisis. And I needed some serious calming. Last night was the first dress rehearsal for my play Farewell Miss Cotton. [We open NEXT FRIDAY]. And things were a MESS. Actors still going up on lines; actors calling for lines. A frustrated director; an overwhelmed stage manager. And me. The playwright. Sitting in the back row, thinking I've done something wrong. That I've written an incomprehensible play that is so dense with language that the actors can't even understand its logic, or memorize its dialogue. And somehow that has spun the entire cast and crew into a frenzy. [Warning: I don't know how much you can really trust what I just said. I'm a playwright, who has a tendency to beat his head against the wall until opening night when everything is USUALLY perfect. Once, I even beat my head against a wall about my very own TYPO. I think you understand what I'm getting at. Yes, at times, I take artistic license and get a bit crazy].

Jimmie talked me through my chaos and fear and then recommended an amazing remedy for the playwright blues: TAKE THE DAY OFF. So... the cast and crew of Farewell Miss Cotton at the Black Dahlia Theater will not see Keith Josef Adkins tonite. I'm no longer in the mood for beating my head against the wall. I'll be at one my favorite grub spots, Cobras and Matadors, eating some damn good Tapas. That is after I go see Nikki Giovanni lecture in Pasadena.

Until next time,

Keith

Wednesday morning. Los Angeles. Expected temperature: 90 degrees! Oh, and it's February. Ain't global warming fascinating! Several years ago, when I was living in New York City, starving. I think the year was 1997. I'm not sure. When you're starving everything's a blur [it's from all of that light-headedness]. Anyway, I was working for this internet company called The Mining Company. My job was to surf the site for faulty links, misprinted text, etc. One morning I decided to read the New York Times, something I rarely did then: It was strictly the Village Voice, or no voice at all. I found this tiny tiny article nestled deep between blurbs about liposuction and Katie Couric's teeth... it was an article by the National Weather Service. It stated: our globe's climate was undergoing a major shift. That within the next two years the average American would NOT be able to walk down the street and say Oh, a twister during an Ohio Christmas is not big thing. This has been happening for years. Relax. The tiny article clearly suggested that our weather would be unrecognizable and highly unpredictable. I remember telling a lot of my friends about this story, and they just looked at me like, Here Keith goes again. Harping on the extremes. And of course there were those who blew a hole in the story by claiming the bible's Book of Revelations says the same thing, but even better, there will also be wars and rumors of wars and brother against brother all under a falling sky, LITERALLY.

Which brings me to this:

Yesterday evening, after a long day at rehearsal, I came home and watched Coretta Scott King's funeral telecast on CSPAN from New Birth Missionary Baptist Church. Now she was one beautiful, amazing woman. The whole fact that she attended Antioch College in Yellow Springs Ohio, a notoriously progressive, leftist, artsy, critical-thinking institution of higher learning tucked away in plain-Jane Ohio, well... that says A LOT about the late Mz King. She even had plans to graduate and pursue a career in performance and progessive social activism, much like her HERO, the socialist and outspoken artist Paul Robeson. Mz King had the soul of a real RADICAL. And then much of that vivacity seemed to be submerged once she married the young Christian minister, Martin Jr. Or did it? According to a few of my radical, intellectual sister-friends in High Places... Coretta may have very well been the MIND behind the MOVEMENT.

Which brings me to this:

I actually wanted to segue into a discussion about religion and black people and New Birth Missionary Baptist Church's crusade against homosexuality, and Fred Phelps saying Coretta was being punished by the wrath of God for promoting the homosexual agenda, and Bernice King leading the march to her father's grave speaking out against gays and their rights, and if Coretta really would have wanted to have her funeral in such an anti-human rights place when she was ALL ABOUT human rights. And when will some black people, in particular, examine how they're using Christianity to legitimize their hatred and FEAR of "the different"; of themselves. But I won't discuss that. Not today at least.

Which brings me to this:

With global warming encroaching and the polar caps melting [officially] and Coretta Scott transitioning, I'm compelled to say this: Some of us know we are here for something great. It's a whisper in the ear, it's a dream we refuse to remember; it's something locked into our DNA. And that something great may not be to build an empire of kings, or discover Atlantis, or climb a mountain and just sit there and chill, but to simply recognize we are here on Earth and that today we can breathe and think and see and hear and that we have that right by any means necessary... well, that may be as great as it gets. And that's a whole lot of greatness!

Until next time,

Keith

I woke up this morning, feeling a little congested: that's what happens when you live in southern Cali and February temps reach 80 degrees and wild fires plague the hills in every direction. Yesterday there was literally ash falling from the sky. And, no, that ain't the first time. My neighbor even had her front door wide open and says Isn't it a beautiful day? I'm like, what part of the day is beautiful? That huge plume of smoke drifting across the sky or how everyone's car is littered with ash? She smiled 'cause she thought I was joking. And I'm like: Is she an idiot? We're sucking down embers, woman. Don't be surprised in five years if we have BLACK LUNG!

Anyway... I check my email: and to my surprise my short film INVISIBLE SCREAM was selected for the 5th Annual Arizona Black Film Festival. Good news! Now I have a legit excuse to travel to Phoenix in mid March. Which means I can also travel to Sedona—the amazing spiritual haven that's nestled in red mountains and word is there some healing vortex surrounding the place that stirs your spirit so much you can't even sleep. MY KIND OF SPOT!

I also received an email from a playwright-friend who's down at the Alabama Shakespeare Festival this week workshopping her new play. Another actor-friend emailed me yesterday explaining she was there acting in Carlyle Brown's play PURE CONFIDENCE, and how she didn't understand why I wasn't there. So, here's the deal: ASF commissioned me to write a play about George Washington Carver. And I did. And after four years of development and readings the former artistic director, Kent Thompson, decided to produce it February 2006. Well, Kent Thompson left to AD at Denver Center Theater, and some kat named Geoffery Sherman took over at ASF. And in June 2005 Geoffery called me and told me he didn't like my play, that he let his "black" friend read the play and he didn't like it either, AND he wasn't going to produce it. Nasty, right? Well add on: the tone is his voice was curt, uncaring and rude. Imagine my shock. I never met this man in my life. The former artistic director LOVED the play, everyone was excited to produce it, and then this guy comes in and yanks the rug. It took me a good two months to get over that completely. There's a lot more I'm leaving out, but I'm trying to control my impulse to fly down to Alabama, walk up to Geoffery and @%*$&(#)%*#)#**$* all up and through that theater.

So... six months later. I get this email from my playwright friend who tells me Geoffery is treating her very unprofessionally. After a succesful reading of her play [including standing O], she walks over to Geoffery to say Hello and get a sense of his response. The first thing that comes out of his mouth was: Do I owe you money? THEN... she tells him all is good, but that she wanted to express her excitement about the audience's response. He tells her, Well, I guess I wasn't as moved as everyone else. Then he laughs. She then sees him the following day and he pulls her to the side and says: Too bad you're not black. She said she just looked at him. He then apologized and said that was a horrible thing to say. Things you need to know immediately: my playwright-friend is white and she's written a play about black quilt-makers. Geoffery Sherman is white and a JACK ASS.

I don't know how this man is getting away with this behavior. And why the Alabama Shakespeare Festival community is tolerating it. Especially with their reputation of embracing, developing and producing such heavy-hitters as Kia Corthron, Regina Taylor, Carlyle Brown, Romulus Linney.

I'm really disturbed by what's going on down at Alabama Shakespere Festival. And that this Geoffery is getting away with being horrible to playwrights. If you see a letter to the editor of American Theater magazine, don't be surprised. I just feel I owe it to myself and the theater community to expose this man's TOXIC-NESS. I probably need to take my butt to Sedona, Arizona first and think it over. Maybe Sedona will shed some sincere spiritual light on how to deal with a man who's obviously so no right for the business of empowering art and culture.

Well, I'm off into the ash-filled air of L.A.

Until next time,

Keith

It's Monday. It's California. It's February. And the temp is expected to reach 80 degrees today. And to my disbelief, I'm not doing any writing today except for this. Well, that's the hope [I've reached some bizarre yet exciting auto-pilot when it comes to writing. i wake and write. if i don't, life feels off balanced]. So the plan today is to abstain. A little imbalance never hurt anybody.

Anyway, the plan for today is also BIKE RIDING. Hang out up in Los Feliz, eat some clean food and sit in the sun. It's been a crazy month for me. I've been in rehearsals for my play Farewell Miss Cotton. We open Saturday and I'm numb and scared and excited and tired.

I love theater. It is truly sacred and pure and the stage is most definitely sanctuary. And the more I write the more I'm certain storytelling is one of the most important forms of empowerment. It's as ancient and divine as memory. Most of my friends are in the business and/or creation of storytelling whether it be professionally or just as a way of life. I love this path I've chosen. I would have it NO OTHER WAY. It truly allows me to reach the farthest corners of myself. And if I'm not continually growing and learning and being I AM UNHAPPY. So I thank the Divine for showing me my path!

BUT...

Farewell Miss Cotton has knocked me off my feet and my butt is sore as hell. In between the actors' schedules, my rewrites [which were plenty], finally landing a director, the actors threats and complaints and joke pitches and tardiness and excuses, not to mention my defensiveness and need to self-protect and learning to surrender to the director's vision and letting go of my need to write the perfect play, and then add on a crunch time of a three week rehearsal, I need some serious R and R. RIGHT NOW!

So...

Until next time,

Keith

Last night I had a jonz for some good eating. And for those of you who don't know me, I LOVE me some good, clean food. And by clean I mean: no saturated fats, no dairy, hopefully organic, no lingering fried scent in my clothes when I get home, and a top of the line Pinot Noir or Red Zin selection. Yes, I'm a snob and I ain't afraid to admit it. So after I got home from rehearsal last night I was trying to decide what to do. My friend and actress extraordinare Patrice hooked me up with two comps for Carl Hancock Rux's theatrical-musical-book reading at the Red Cat; my boy Reggie invited me to his little sister's 26th Birthday Bash in Long Beach, but what I was really jonzing for was some grub. So I called my good friends and former co-workers Karin and Regina [running buddies from my days as TV sitcom writer on Girlfriends]. The thing about Karin and Regina they always have dinner plans. And like me, they like it CLEAN.

So I bamboozled my way into their reservations at this new trendy spot called Memphis in Hollywood [a recommendation from a co-worker]. Oh, a brother was ready to lick his lips. But we had to wait, and wait some more and wait some more. Forty-five minutes later, the hostess showed up, grinning and apologizing, and escorted us upstairs to our table. If she had showed up thirty seconds later I would have gaffled that order of fried calamari from the table next to us. And dared them to say a word!

Anyway, we sat down at our table, surrounded by lots of who's-who in funky new jeans, some mellowing red velvet walls, and a waitress who looked like she won her job as a consolation prize on a game show. You know the type, out of her element but grinning and grateful. I finally ordered. A glass of Pinot Noir, a mixed green salad, pan-seared yellow tuna and steamed broccoli. And after a long suffering twenty minutes the food arrived... dirty. Man! I wasn't sure what to say. Karin and Regina seemed to be enjoying every morsel. But, in my opinion, that crap was not CLEAN: over-seared tuna without sufficient taste, mixed greens tossed in SALT, and broccoli that was stripped of tip and was all stalk. After a couple of minutes, I looked into Karin and Regina's plates and to my surprise: they had stopped eating, too. Thank God! I wasn't the only one. We agreed: not a good choice of good clean eating. Karin even confessed: I'm very particular about my food. And Regina was like, What's up with dumping blue chesse dressing on my sirloin? Yes! Hot Spot Memphis didn't realize you can't go bamboozling those with a leaning for clean. Then Karin took the words out of our mouths: "Look around at these people. These are not the kind of people who would care whether their tuna was seared in butter or olive oil." [Or something like that]. Well, we left, unfulfilled, but happy we had not given up CLEAN for trendy red walls and a waitress who won her job as consolation on a game show.

Until next time,

Keith

Hey Folks. It's Saturday. And I have a confession: Yesterday I let road rage get the best of me. It all started on the corner of Packard and Orange Grove Streets. I pulled up to the four-way, ready to turn left, when this brother in a big hoopty TRUCK pulled up to the four-way as well, but HE barely stopped and DIDN'T GIVE ME MY RIGHT OF WAY! You see where this is going? So I made my left and rode his ass all the way down Orange Grove, speed bumps at all. What he do? Nothing. He didn't even know I was there. He was happily sitting nine feet up in the air, chit-chatting on his cell. So once he got to Whitworth Street he drove forward and I made my sneaky right—if I kept up speed and went my favorite alternate route I could easily cut him off on San Vicente and show him what this L.A. Driver was made of. So right I went, a quick left on Genesse then up to San Vicente where DAMN! some teenager eating a bag of organic chips was walking AS SLOW AS A SNAIL! And there he walked, slow and slower and even slower, ON PURPOSE. I'm telling you it was like he was 95 years old. Anyway, by the time the chip-eating CHICKEN crossed the road, the Hoopty Truck had crossed San Vicente and was heading toward Olympic. My sneaky plan failed. Talk about feeling like a deflated loser. So I kept driving... [I remembered at that point my original mission was to go to Whole Foods and get some lunch: fried organic chicken, sauteed spinach with garlic, and a bag of Uncle Eddie's Vegan Peanut Butter and Chocolate Chip Cookies.] I approached this little narrow stretch that separated San Vicente eastbound and San Vicente westbound. I stopped at the stop sign. Quickly let me describe this stretch: westbound San Vicente traffic flows in front of the stop sign; eastbound San Vicente traffic flows behind you, except for a little leftie exit that allows eastbound to connect to westbound [the route the Hoopty Truck took]. You with me? Now, there I was at the stop sign waiting for the eastbounders connecting westbound to finish their connections. They finished. I then looked to my left to see if any traffic was coming so I can make my turn into the westbound. And there was. But one white SUV seemed far away enough to have compassion for a brother like me trying to make that left toward the west. Hell, let be honest: I said to myself he BETTER slow down and let me turn 'cause I needed to exercise my machismo on the road, Punk! So I turned with attitude and when that SUV saw me turning HE SPEEDED UP double notch and was skidding toward my gray Accord, rubber burning and all. And all I could think of was this fool is going to hit my car. Not personal injury, but auto injury. The SUV came literally within two inches from creating a major fender-bender. Let me correct that: Keith came within two inches of creating a major fender-bender. Yes, my selfish-needing-to-feel-like-Grand Daddy-of-San-Vicente looked like a fool. Yes, folks were driving by staring at me, pointing, shaking their heads in disapproval. So what did I do? I did what any humilated jack ass would do. I took my butt home. The End.

Don't let this FOOLISHNESS get the best of you.

Until next time,

Keith

I got the need to resurrect Step N Fetchit for a quick minute. This past Saturday my boy Reggie Coleman and I went to see a play called CONFESSIONS OF STEP N FETCHIT, written by the late Matt Robinson [of Sesame Street fame] twelve years ago. Reggie is an amazingly intelligent and compassionate film editor who would move a mountain if somebody let him discuss African-Americans in early Hollywood. It's his passion. He emailed me three times before I finally committed to attending the play with him. But I let him know if it was wack, me and him were going to dook it out in the lobby of the theater. Anyway... CONFESSIONS was... dare I say, interesting. For the record, I consider myself one of those brothers who's able to discourse on blackness rather it be the the don'ts of pork to who's who in black REGRESSION. But Step N Fetchit... I never thought about more than two minutes. He was a fool. And whenever some old black and white movie would pop on the boob tube [my mother loved the Classics] and Step N Fetchit would show up scratching and lazy, she would switch the channel and say, We don't have time for that Silliness. Needless to say, Step N Fetchit became as abominable as watching the Brady Bunch in our house.

Reggie and I sat center. One row behind a group of three women who introduced themselves as Mable, her sister Mae and the Old Geezer, who were out that night to be entertained and to think. And I was like, Cool. 'Cause I love vibrant and intelligent seniors. They reaffirm brilliance ain't got to shrivel up after retirement. The play started and so did my angst. CONFESSIONS felt like a cry for acceptance. Matt Robinson apparently interviewed Lincoln Perry aka Step N Fetchit and regurgitated a speech on Why I Was a Fool And You Better Love Me. Don't get me wrong, I was eating up the info. Step was born in the Keys off the coast of Florida. His father was an entertainer. He joined a circus. His real name was Lincoln Perry. And the moniker Step N Fetchit originated from a dance where you smoothly double step to the left then turn around quick to fetch your hat from the floor. But the big revelation was when a Hollywood Movie Studio put out a casting call for a Lazy Dimwitted Black Man with long-term contract possible, and Step showed up, certain he would land the gig. And he did. When the studio execs saw him sitting under a tree, eyes bugged, lips poked, looking lost, well... the rest is cinematic history.

Many claim Step was a comedic genius. I don't doubt that. The details and specifics of his character were breath-taking. But in the play, Step claims the root of his character comes from the slave community. That since the slaves realized they'd never be rewarded for hard labor, in order to avoid it, they'd act "lazy". And that enslaved people would entertain themselves with re-enactments of a lazy slave being lazy. That made as much sense as the Devil had a Wife. The "reward" for NOT working was a beating, being sold, no food. And I can't imagine enslaved southerners deciding to be lazy and then comedy coming out of that. And if so, that requires some legit chit-chat on self-hatred inspired by enslavement in a play about one of the most talked about "bafoons" of our time.

What I was hoping for was an archeological dig into the mind of a man who DECIDED to play the part of this Lazy Lost character. And for the play to claim those were the only parts for Black folk back then is... interesting. And I'm up for that kind of conversation. But what about the indie films of Oscar Micheaux? What about actors challenged by seeking success in Hollywood or just "doing film"? What about capitalism being so dictative that the only option for black actors, if they wanted to eat well and put a roof over their heads, would be to play "stereotypical" parts? What about this not being about option at all, but simply about choice. And does any of that show up in black actors and their decision-making today? I would have liked to meditate on that. Kicked in the side with that! Because I left that play feeling cheated. Unrattled. Either Matt Robinson was unwilling to probe deeper into Step's contradictions, or Step wouldn't relinquish.

I guess the one thing I was left with was: Step N Fetchit [aka Lincoln Perry] was a self-proclaimed educated Catholic who made a clear decision to play the part of the Lazy Dimwitted Black Man which made him a movie star, and in his words that's what he wanted more than anything. Oh, and I was reminded by Mae and her siser Mable that the elderly do seek entertaining and intellectual stimulation.

Until next time,

Keith

For the last few days I've been on a bizarre high as a result of a DVD my brother Greg sent me from Cincinnati. The package arrived and I was like, Oh God, what is this man sending me. There was a small note pinned to the front of the package that read: Check this out. Let me know if there's any useful black history there. And of course my sometimes-snobby self thought: What could Greg know about Black History [when in fact he knows a lot. he's an avid History Channel fan. it's just the idea of my brother one-upping me on some history that had my high-brow twitching]. Anyway, I stuck the DVD into my desktop, and there in the enter block read KNIGHTS OF COLUMBUS. [For those of you who don't know, KNIGHTS OF COLUMBUS is a Catholic men's fraternal benefit society that was formed to render financial aid to members and their families.] My mother's dad was a Knight. So I played the DVD and lo and behold, my heart dropped TWO TIMES. The DVD was footage taken from 30 years ago during a Knights of Columbus ceremony honoring my Uncle Gordon's Drill Team [a group of young guys he gathered in the Catholic church and whipped into shape military-style]. Among the Drill Team members were both my brothers, Greg and Victor, my cousins Donny and Gordy, and my Uncle Roger, assistant in command. I couldn't believe it. A little thing you should know about my mother's family: folks got talent and tend to have a gift for the dramatic. My grandmother herself was lively, theatrical and saw every movie from the 30s, 40s and 50s. My grandfather, when he was not wearing his sombreros and dancing the Cha-Cha, he was listening to train albums—yes, albums that literally had recordings of trains going down tracks, loud and fast. Well, this flare for the theatrical spilled over into their children [and grandchildren], but more specifically to my Uncle Gordon, who after a stint in the Navy and landing a great engineering job for Avon, was carpenter, interior designer, movie buff, and ultimately Drill Team Commander. And to see this footage of him in that uniform, with samari sword on his side, thirteen young uniformed teens marching under his command, and then him saluting the Priest, was... wow! Grace, style and committment. John Wayne could have not held a foot up to my Uncle G. And that's fo' real.

But when I didn't think the footage could get any better, the camera panned out over the crowd and there was my grandmother, my uncles' wives, my grandfather [looking a bit out done by his son], more cousins, everyone excited, a few not seeming to give a damn. And then there was this interesting woman in a large fashionable white hat and big sun glasses sitting amidst the plainly-dressed Catholic folk. At first I didn't think much about the woman, until the camera got closer and it was my MOTHER—all independent and daring. I cried immediately. And there sitting next to her, was a seven year old me. I cried again. And there next to me was my mother's oldest brother Clyde, his first wife Eleanor and their young son, Clydie. I tell you, seeing all of this rocked me like I've never been rocked. A moment in time I don't remember. But we were all there, together, celebrating our own gift and understanding of the theatrical.

See, most of the people are dead now: my grandmother and grandfather, my Uncle Gordon and Uncle Clyde, his son Clydie, my mother. All before their time sort of speak. But to see them, us, together, Catholic and black and proud and theatrical... I was reminded what a special place I hailed from, of the blueprint that being demonstrated for me. Damn. It trips me out just writing this. If I had a hat I'd take it off.

Anway, before I could finish viewing the footage, my cell rang and it was my big brother Greg, excited, eager to know if I received the DVD. Eager to tell me how amazing my Uncle Gordon was for organizing the Drill Team, for putting all of his creative juices together and dumping them into my brother and the other teen members. His words: "I know Uncle Gordy did some crazy shit, but he put his heart into the Drill Team, Keith. He brought us together".

I don't know why I felt the need to blog this, but this week has been inundated with loss: Coretta Scott King, Wendy Wasstertein, a good friend's mom, a good friend's loving dog... I guess I'm wanting to give homage in a way, or maybe to ask others to do the same. Maybe I needed to strip away the guck and cringe of memory and zero in on what was clear: I ain't fall too far from the tree, and I like that!

Until next time,

Keith

Well, finally... Yes, I've decided to be courageous enough and begin blogging my life to the cyberworld. For those of you who know me [and for those who don't] I'm about to introduce myself... so, be patient and enjoy the litany:

The name is Keith Josef Adkins. I'm an Ohio-born and -bred brother [we'll talk about the pros and cons of that later]. Cincinnati to be specific. And to be even more specific, I grew up in the Village of Woodlawn—a predominately working-class African-American suburb, 15 miles north of Cincinnati, population 3500.

I'm three fourths Catholic and one quarter Baptist [at least I was raised that way]. I'm half light-skinned and half dark-skinned. I'm half free-radical spirit and half Boy Next Door. But I'm full-blooded artist with a trace of neo soul hippy behind the ears, and sometimes I get this crazy jonz for American history.

I'm a writer of plays, poetry, TV and now I'm embarking into crafting story for the screen. I've lived in Dayton, Ohio, New York City, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Oakland, Iowa City, Iowa, back to New York City then back to Los Angeles [where I'm currently residing in the Wilshire Vista District [that's near some damn good Ethiopian grub and a whole lot of gentrifying].

I have to be honest with you: I have a tendancy to slip and tell my truth every now and then... so don't be surprised if I get all wild and crazy and politcal and anti-this and anti-that and then scream and shout about religion, national leadership, my brother's convertible Corvette, film, and how damn good my daddy can cook!

In all sincerity... I welcome you to my blog. I hope we can begin a discourse on life, on living, on being and on moving our worlds into a healthier, more honest and dare I say EMPOWERED sphere.

Until next time...

Keith