The Wyoming Chronicles Continue.
[See Tuesday and Wednesday posts]

On October 3 Lola woke up and decided she wanted to drive to Fort Collins, Colorado. The home of Colorado State University and a thirty mile drive south through snow-capped mountains and breathtaking mesas. Lola [and her friend visiting from Long Island] gathered a few traveling goodies: water, cookies, chips, broccoli tips, and then we all marched toward the Volvo, anxious to spend the day in the excitedly more diverse town of Fort Collins.

As we drove thru downtown Laramie toward the highway I noticed what seemed like half of the town scurrying in and out of Walmart and the nearby grocery store. I pointed it out to Lola [I was driving, she was busy being chauffeured.] Lola looked over at the could-be mayhem and then back toward her Long Island visitor and continued her convo about married men and the troubles they find.

The drive down to Fort Collins was spectacular. Mountains on both sides of the state highway. Hawks, deer and I believe we even saw an elk and an eagle.

Once we arrived into Fort Collins we could feel we were shining. Vegan restaurants, a bookstore with an African-American section. Black students who were NOT athletes. [Out of the 106 African American students at the University of Wyoming, both undergrad and grad, 98 were athletes. There were 10, 000 students altogether.] After finding easy parking for the Volvo, we hit the streets of Fort Collins. We were exhaling. We were smiling. We were near some BLACK FOLK... well, kinda. We quickly found a great little restaurant that catered to meat-free needs and supplied my favorite: water, no ice.

Once the food arrived we got comfy and urban. We discussed the presence of blackness in white academia, Lola's experiences with insane artists from San Francisco, her accusations that Toni Morrison stole her ideas from the works of Henry Dumas [I disagreed], Ishmael Reed's anglophilia [I didn't know the man so I didn't care], the mouth-dropping classicness of Lena Horne and her biggest muse: John Coltrane, oh, and course, her loving daughter at UCLA. After Lola exhausted us with her never-ending life, we left and headed toward a Native American store where we perused in silence for over an hour. It started to rain. I had my eye on some moccasins. It started to rain. Lola sat in a corner, skimming through Black Elk Speaks. It started to rain. The friend from Long Island was trying to find some knickknacks to purchase for her two children at home alone with her momentarily estranged husband [they were going through some things].

It started to rain.

And the cashier behind the counter announced that for anyone driving back up the pass they should leave because it was expected to snow. When we asked about those traveling back to Laramie, the cashier looked at our out-of-town faces and said: You didn't hear? Laramie is expecting a blizzard. You guys need to get out of here.

We were in the Volvo on US Hwy 287 within ten minutes.

As I drove, Lola was certain all would be fine. It was only raining. I explained that rain turns to snow in the mountains and I that I've never driven through snow in the mountains during a could-be blizzard. She said this: Toughen up, don't get soft on me.

We drove. It rained. And then... it started snowing. And snowing. And getting windy. And snowing harder and harder and windier and windier until I could not see out the front windshield. We were driving through a blizzard on October 3.

Needless to say, I was scared out of my wits. The snow started to blow horizontally which was causing my vision to be challenged. Not to mention I had to pull the car over a few times to wipe the snow off the windshield [the wipers were also of no use]. The danger of that was you couldn't see anything out on that highway, so any minute a truck or a car could have bulldozed right into us. The danger of that was it was extremely cold. The danger of that was I could have rung Lola's neck, period.

After pounds of snow, after literally being run off the road by a Mac Truck, we finally made it back to Laramie. It took two hours. And even though Laramie had "been spared" [there was six inches of snow instead of the expected two feet, we were at our wit's end. And classic Lola said something quite classic. "We should have stayed in Fort Collins. But next time we travel Keith, I need you to check the weather forecast. You need to cover all bases."

Until next time,

Keith

I found an apartment. Brooklyn. Clinton Hill/Fort Greene area. Nice. The garden apartment of an amazing brownstone. And check this out: it has a working fireplace!

The Wyoming Chronicles Continue.
[See YESTERDAY'S POST]

One morning Lola woke up and said her friend aka numerologist aka attorney called and told her to look out for danger at her front door. So interesting enough during breakfast a bizarre man was walking down the street, picking up garbage cans and throwing them. He walked by our house but since there was no garbage cans in view he kept walking. Lola saw this as the "danger at her front door". Within minutes she had gulped her last bit of eggs, swallowed some OJ and announced she was riding down to Denver [she had no intentions to be ambushed by that garbage-throwing racist neo-Nazi. Her words, not mine]. In other words, she left me there to battle the danger of my own. And if I had checked my assistant handbook I would have noted that on page 44C it reads clearly: During neo-Nazi racists garbage attacks, assistants must be willing to be hung, whipped or left to flush the toilet. [Homegirl left in such a hurry she forgot to flush her shit. Literally.]

So there I was. All alone in Laramie, Wyoming while Lola was living it up in the City of Denver. Which was fine. Time away from Lola was beyond a much-needed luxury. In that week alone, she had accused me of drinking her buttermilk, misplacing the galleys from her editor, and of screwing up an important interview with Essence [they called 30 minutes earlier than scheduled and Lola-girl was in one of her "I'm not going to answer you Keith when you call my name because I told you 9am thru 10am was Lola-time" moods].

Luckily, a few hours after Lola left for Denver, a student I met on campus called and I was able to blow off some steam. The student was African-American, female, and a Cheyenne, Wyoming native. She also called while I was cooking some buttermilk catfish [Lola was off the bean in many a way, but she could hook up this fried catfish that was battered in buttermilk and that would resurrect your grandmomma's favorite uncle Earl].

So... as the oil was heating up on the burner and I was complaining to the Cheyenne-native how "Lola woke me up at 7am to take out the trash... " smoke started to spill into the living room from the kitchen. I told my girl to hold on for a sec. I ran into the kitchen, the pan of oil was SMOKING bad. And numbskull Keith the Assistant throws water into the oil and YES, that was crazy, and YES, a fire jumped out of that pan, up and across the ceiling, and by the time [cause I was running], by the time I got to the kitchen door to escape and swung the door open, that cold air hit that fire and out it went. Just like that. Talk about scared. Talk about your 25 years on earth flashing in front of you, talk about the mystery of saving grace. Man! I was one scared and fluttered brother.

After I looked around and made sure I wasn't dead, I could hear the faint scream of somebody on the phone, screaming my name over and over. The Cheyenne-native was at her wit's end. She said all she could hear was the sudden roar of fire and one big scream. I assured her that she heard right: there was a fire and that was me screaming.

The fire didn't seem to burn anything. But it did leave a smoky-smell and a kitchen ceiling singed in black. I got to scrubbing. I opened every window and door in the house. And I got to scrubbing. I burned incense and sprayed Lysol. And I got to scrubbing. And after three hours of scrubbing, freezing from the cold blowing thru the windows, more scrubbing and boiling a pot of water spiked with cinnamon [cinnamon will cut thru any order], I sat down and waited for Lola to come home.
There was still a thin diluted presence of black on the walls and the house still reeked of burned oil and smoke, but there was nothing more I could do, but wait for Lola to come home and evoke my assistant license.

She finally arrived. With bags of goodies [for herself]. And, of course, she wasn't speaking. Well, until she walked into the kitchen and asked it I had been cooking. I said Yes, but that I burned her famous catfish. She grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge, walked to her room, closed the door and locked it.

I thought later that maybe her numerologist slash friend slash attorney was right. Danger did arrive at her front door. It was called a oil fire in the kitchen. And her self-indulgent ass was too self-indulged to notice.

Lucky me.

Until next time,

Keith

I'm still in NYC. And after several days looking for an apartment, hanging out with my people, seeing a Broadway play featuring a friend and amazing-actress Saidah Ekulona and an interesting film that blasted one of my favorite music groups, Blonde Redhead, at the ending credits, I'm fitting in some time to blog.

On Sunday evening I was having steamed soy with Amaretto flavor with my boy Said. We were nestled tight at this outdoor cafe called Cafe Orlin on 2nd Avenue and 9th Streets. I don't know how I began talking about this. I'm not sure if it was Said's recounting of how his 15 year old nephew asked his father "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't smoke marijuana." His father, Said's brother, replied, "You're not gonna get any out of me." Or maybe when I ordered my steamed soy with Amaretto flavor, the waitress brought me steamed soy with real Amaretto and I got a bit tipsy... whatever is was, I told Said about my experience with Lola.

Lola Tilson was a novelist and a woman and 43 years old when I was around 25. Lola was invited to the University of Wyoming in Laramie as a writer-in-residence for one full semester, to sort of fill in the void that Terry McMillan left after spending a few years there. No, I never met Terry, but her reputation preceded her from the halls of the English Department to the night clubs of Denver [75 miles south]. And when I say reputation, I don't mean she was restructuring a latent-racist English Department so its students are fed not only the likes of Faulkner and Joyce but also Rudulfo Anaya, Henry Dumas, and of course Lola Tilson.

Lola Tilson wasn't actually her REAL NAME. I'm withholding that. A brother's got to protect himself.

Lola and I's connection happened after a semester in her creative writing class at San Francisco State University. Lola took a liking to my uncombed hair and crystal-rubbed underarms, [and my young maleness] and invited me to the University of Wyoming as her assistant with a promise of graduate status in the English Department. I accepted. [A young brother was all about adventure.]

Lola was an artist. An eccentric artist. Being an artist, too, I tend to be eccentric-friendly. Although I'm not a believer in artist equals Crazy. In other words, the cutting off of ears, and temper tantrums when your water ain't room temp is not how I roll.

Lola was demanding. Not only did I buy the groceries, gas her Volvo, do research for her new novel, co-teach a Literature course [which meant I was teaching it. She never showed for class], I also answered the phone, booked interviews, checked her numerology chart, scouted for possible Nazi racist in the Wyoming landscape [and for Black cowboys], and occasionally would read her daily erotica [that was her way of trying to mack].

But it was her Short Story Writing course where the shit hit the fan.

Toward the end of the semester, all eleven students [including me] were to hand over their short stories for assessment. Lola graded each and every one, thoroughly [she had a gift for creative assessment]. After she completed my assessment, she called me into her office [which she always kept locked, with a stone set behind the door, in case a stranger, LIKE ME, would get the impulse to go in there and steal her newest novel and make it my own. NOT!]

Anyway, Lola showed me my story which earned an A+ with red comments of praise everywhere. Her instructions were clear: since you're gonna make copies of each story so we can discuss them in class, I don't want the other students to see that I've given you such high marks so I need you to go through your story and white out 80 percent of my comments and give yourself an A-, then make copies, that way the other students won't think I'm given you favoritism.

And like a good assistant, I did it.

Then it happened: while I was handing out my story for the class to read and discuss a student noticed that some comments were whited out AND that "somebody" had erased my plus from my "A" and inserted a minus. I was busted. Lola never looked up from the desk. And when a few other students joined in and started expressing the "oddness" of the white outs, Lola walked out of the room, leaving me to discuss my story alone.

After the other students were dispersed, I found Lola sitting in her Volvo. I opened the passenger door. We drove five minutes in silence and THEN she spoke: "You deliberately made me look bad in front of my students! I told you to be careful with the white out. Now I could lose my job at this white motherfuckin school! Why would you do that, Keith?! I've been tolerating you for a while now. You're incompetent and negligent. Get out. " [Trust me, I was apologizing and defending throughout her tirade] "Get out of my car." Now I explained we were 10 minutes away from the house and that it was FIVE BELOW ZERO, but she didn't care. My instructions were clear: Get out of my Volvo!

I got out. And froze my ass off.

By the time I arrived home, Lola had vacated and left a note that she was driving to Denver for some time alone. And if any of the students called and inquired about her sudden exit from class earlier, tell them she was feeling nauseous.

The following morning she returned and didn't speak to me for THREE days.

I seldom think about that incident in Wyoming. I usually reminisce about the Rocky Mountains and the Aspens and the trip to Boulder, Colorado to hear Ivan Van Sertima speak. But Lola... I seldom think of.

I guess I'll have to continue my Wyoming Chronicles.

Let's see, maybe the one where I set the kitchen on fire... or no, the one where we got caught in a killer blizzard.

Until next time,

Keith

I'm up early. Doing some last minute washing, cleaning and writing before my flight to NYC at 8 am. It's been a good minute since I've posted. And here's my reasoning: I have two major writing deadlines I'm trying to manage and trust me that requires plenty of focus and creative flow. And I've been a little bit preoccupied about escaping the sunny lethargy of southern Cali and returning home to the hodge-podge excitement of the homogenizing NYC.

Good news updates: my short film Invisible Scream will screen at the Reel Black Film Festival at Stanford University next month, and my play Wilberforce will be presented by Ploughshares Theater Company of Detroit at the Michigan New Works Festival in June. If you're in either or place, check me [or them] out.

Safe travels.

Until next time,

Keith

I was just preparing to go to bed and there was a news update about a major tornado ripping through Iowa City, Iowa, home to my alma mater, the University of Iowa. I have a few GREAT friends in Iowa City and eastern Iowa. Please send them your well-wishes and positive vibes and thoughts of endurance. Tornadoes are no joke. And as you can see the past few years twisters have been getting stronger and more numerous. And if anyone doubts that global warming is not at work on our planet... I have this to say: Get real!

I'll keep you posted.

Until next time,

Keith

Last week I was sitting in my favorite NYC restaurant, Quantum Leap. A sanctuary of clean, organic and unbelievably tasty vegetarain food [and salmon] nestled in the heart of the Village, right smack dab next to the New York University. Now the thing about Quantum Leap is that it's mainly patronized by make-up free, leather-free, perfume-free, Village Voice-reading youngins with a leaning toward regularity and a complete disgust for red meats [dead or alive].

Enter: An obese woman doned in make up and what smelled undeniably like Macy's top of the line perfume [and I'm pretty sure NOT cruelty-free]. And when I say "obese", I mean it was very difficult for her to squeeze through the front door.
And she let everyone in the restaurant know with loud yelps of discomfort and struggle.

And of course the waiter seated her next to me. My mouth full of mixed-berry tofu pie and loving every morsel, but Miss Macy's saw my savoring and actually gave me the most disgusted, nauseated look I've ever seen in my natural born life. The way she looked at me I thought I had made a mistake and was actually gnawing on the head of a rat.

Well, she was finally seated, and it literally took two minutes to sit her butt down. Not because of her weight, but because she literally looked around her seat for... roaches, crumbs, another person, something. Whatever it was she was not going to relax until she found it. And she did. And I still have no idea what it was.

But I do know she needed assitance from the Waiter to order. Not only had she never been to a "place like this", but she was in a hurry and needed something on a plate and her face within ten minutes [her words, not mine]. The waiter suggested the Macro Platter [a vareity of tasty steamed... before the waiter could finish his pitch, she yelled out for all to hear: Oh, please, that sounds DISGUSTING!] I looked at her, the waiter looked at me and I then looked at the waiter and we both found ourselves being LOOKED at by HER. Her response: "Are you two going to give goo-goo eyes all day or you going to bring me this grilled salmon in peanut sauce, heavy on the peanut sauce."

After a moment of reveling in my own self-ordained pompous good eater versus bad eater crap, I thought: Wow. Where did this woman come from? With her perfume and make up and frustrations. I thought: maybe she stumbled upon this place during her lunch hour because there was not enough to time to make it uptown to her favorite Italian eatery, or maybe during a dinner with friends the week before a friend suggested this place to help curve her hyper-tension issues, or maybe her physician told her she better 86 the meats and potatoes or she literally may not live until Easter. Whatever the reason, she pulled out the latest John Grisham novel and waited for her grilled salmon, daring anyone to look her way, daring anyone to make her feel unwelcomed. So I smiled, and of course she DID NOT smile back.

Exit: A brother like me gathering my things to vacate this newly uncomfortable environment. But during my escape, the obese woman looked at me, her face smothered in "Why is he leaving? Was it something I did?" I love a contradicted woman.

I guess what I'm trying to say is this: I'm often fascinated by the torrid journey one must take toward over well-being. There's nothing easy about choosing life. And this woman was a classic example. I only wish I had the stamina to endure the torridness of each and every journey, but life is short and a brother got his own life to choose. So good luck and good eating!
I just hope next time she doesn't feel the need to share her stress all over my mixed-berry tofu pie.

Until next time,

Keith

I'm finally back from NYC. And I must say, I was dreading the return to the land of perpetual sun and endorphines.
The decision has been made: I'm moving back to NYC in the next eight weeks. No joke. Oh, and I'm moving to Brooklyn.
Yes it snowed and rained and the wind blew and it was cold and also warm and the black population is vanishing in Manhattan. [I would walk for BLOCKS and see NOT ONE face engineered with the seeds of the African diaspora]. And yes, that disturbs me and concerns me and saddens me. And the city has become a lot more polished and corporate, but as long as I'm nestled deep in Brooklyn, embraced by its weak yet steady diversity and its cultural and artistic energy I will be fine and inspired and ready for war, whatever this globe deems necessary for me to fight for my right to be ALIVE and participate in this thing called LIVING. But it is in NYC where I NEED to be. WANT to be. WILL BE.

I'm still in Brooklyn. And loving it. Besides the blister on the bottom of my right foot [i haven't walked like this is five years], I'm happy and feeling rejuvenated and feeling at home. Mmm. Home? Yeh, folks, looks like I may be moving back to NYC! Well, I guess when you have real estate brokers looking for roomy apartments in the Fort Greene/Clinton Hill area of Brooklyn you might as well say you're pretty much moving back.

Come on, who can resist on-going cultural stimulation, good friends who think and have passion and drive, and my favorite restaurant Quantum Leap, and the near-fight between a 60 year old woman and a twenty five year old younger woman, and the big goofy Irish cat singing "Pretty Black Woman" to the unenthused Puerto Rican sister behind the counter at Sprint, and some amazingly talented actors who make the reading of your new play sound like scripture [thanks Myra Lucretia Taylor and Keith Randolph Smith and director Liesl Tommy], and an associate artistic director of a major theater who applauds your "growing, stronger, energized writing", and the rain and the rats and the 14 year old kid who tells his mother to shut up because she's talking too loud and she does shut up and he continues explaining his argument for attending Clown School in Paris, and the slow running C Train, and the heroine addict who simply wanted somebody to cream cheese her bagel, all wrapped tightly under one of the most exciting cities in the history of mankind.

Oh... at this very moment... it's SNOWING!

I'll keep you posted. And I'll touch base again when I'm back in Los Angeles.

Meanwhile, check out my Radio Interview with the National Public Radio affiliate in San Francisco/Berkeley. My long-time friend Kevin Cartwright interviewed me last Saturday about August Wilson and the current state of theater and black folk.


Until next time,

Keith