Who's this douche bag Rico?
This is the trailer to my buddy Brandon Vedder's short film, Puffer Fish. It was selected to the 2009 Malibu International Film Festival last month, and faired pretty well, I'd say. Really well, actually. Check out AllCutUpFilms.com for more info on the guy...
PS: For a small fee, Rico will make an appearance at your next birthday party, baptism, or bar mitzvah. Message me for more info.
9/23/09
7/4/09
One More Day
Time's a wastin',
While I'ma pacin'.
But it's around,
Without a frown.
Cause she smiles,
When I walk that extra mile.
Time's a wastin',
While I'ma erasin'
Work years in the makin',
Without the takin'.
But what's the exchange
When I have so much to change.
Time's a wastin',
While I'ma chasin'
That memory, a dream, a stream
Of happiness, of love, from above.
Time's a wastin',
While I'ma facin'
All this misery, mistrust, and lust;
A life on the cusp that's never enough.
Time's a wastin'
While I'ma lacin'
These boots of mine,
Planning to find some reason or ryhyme
To time and space
And everyone's face.
I'ma wastin',
Watchin' time a racin'.
Old, fray, and gray;
I lay and decay,
Prayin' for just one more day.
While I'ma pacin'.
But it's around,
Without a frown.
Cause she smiles,
When I walk that extra mile.
Time's a wastin',
While I'ma erasin'
Work years in the makin',
Without the takin'.
But what's the exchange
When I have so much to change.
Time's a wastin',
While I'ma chasin'
That memory, a dream, a stream
Of happiness, of love, from above.
Time's a wastin',
While I'ma facin'
All this misery, mistrust, and lust;
A life on the cusp that's never enough.
Time's a wastin'
While I'ma lacin'
These boots of mine,
Planning to find some reason or ryhyme
To time and space
And everyone's face.
I'ma wastin',
Watchin' time a racin'.
Old, fray, and gray;
I lay and decay,
Prayin' for just one more day.
5/19/09
No One Calls Me Back #2
I really hate Myspace. I hate the top friends bs, the spam profiles that keep sending me friend requests, the long searches for people I probably shouldn't be talking to anyway, and most of all, the hours I've wasted doing nothing. I guess you could say I'm "socializing", but my gut tells me a computer isn't real socialization, just like text messages aren't the same as talking. It's the easy way out, and somehow I'm wasting more time doing it the easy way, which makes NO sense. With all the time I've wasted on Myspace I could have built an underground lair, complete with torches and mazes and all the other mainstays a cool lair has (and I could never hate something that kick ass). Even so, I won't be deleting my profile anytime soon, like a nicotine habit that's hard to kick. I'll tell myself it's gone by tomorrow, and enjoy my last long drag- I want to change my default pic and holla at some girls one more time. If they holla back, maybe I'll buy one more pack.
5/14/09
Five Good Beers
Do you ever sit around and think about beer? I do. Here's some of my favorites:
Boddington's
Blue Moon
Fat Tire
Negra Modelo
New Castle
Anything I should try?
Boddington's
Blue Moon
Fat Tire
Negra Modelo
New Castle
Anything I should try?
4/20/09
My Lunch
I've made a point of staying away from writing about everyday stuff, like what I eat for lunch or how I hate LA traffic. I don't particurlarly like those types of blogs, so why write one? Tonight, though, I have only random, everyday things on my mind, so I figured I'd give the "typical" a shot. Here's what I've been up to since my last post.
-A few weeks ago I spent a long weekend at a ridiculous beach house in Malibu. The house was so close to the water I could fish from the deck (i.e. she only want me for my pimp juice). I had an amazing time. Too good, actually. I was depressed for a week after leaving. There's something about a nice vacation that completely messes up my equilibrium. When it's all over, all said and done, I convince myself I still deserve to be there. So when I get home and receive a call about a broken toilet, I typically want to rip someone's head off. Needless to say, I didn't answer the phone much those days.
-I have a couple of writing gigs that are currently in limbo (i.e. awaiting decisions from the big wigs). One is a feature length comedy involving belly dancers. It would be low budget (five million-ish), but a great first credit. I pitched my idea on Friday, and had a lengthy discussion with the executive producer afterwards, which is a good sign. The other gig is for a friend's show that's developing at HBO. If the show is greenlit I'll be on board as a staff writer, which would be an amazing opportunity. I'm excited about both, and should learn my fate fairly soon. If you pray, pray for me.
-And most importantly, I became an uncle on Saturday morning. Her name is Elizabeth, and I'll be flying to Virginia Tuesday to meet her. I'm a big fan of babies, so I'm pumped. I'll be there for a week, chilling with the fam. It's been five years since I've been back home to Stafford. Every year that's passed the place has become less real in my mind, like a dream world. In a few days I'll be there, staring it dead in the face. I might just freak out and have a seizure. Part of me hopes the trip goes horribly, so I can leave with a clear concsience. I have a feeling Elizabeth will make it tough on me. Here's to another week of ignored phone calls.
-Oh, and I had pizza for lunch. And a smoothie. I splurge on Sundays.
Until I return from VA, PEACE!
Crum
-A few weeks ago I spent a long weekend at a ridiculous beach house in Malibu. The house was so close to the water I could fish from the deck (i.e. she only want me for my pimp juice). I had an amazing time. Too good, actually. I was depressed for a week after leaving. There's something about a nice vacation that completely messes up my equilibrium. When it's all over, all said and done, I convince myself I still deserve to be there. So when I get home and receive a call about a broken toilet, I typically want to rip someone's head off. Needless to say, I didn't answer the phone much those days.
-I have a couple of writing gigs that are currently in limbo (i.e. awaiting decisions from the big wigs). One is a feature length comedy involving belly dancers. It would be low budget (five million-ish), but a great first credit. I pitched my idea on Friday, and had a lengthy discussion with the executive producer afterwards, which is a good sign. The other gig is for a friend's show that's developing at HBO. If the show is greenlit I'll be on board as a staff writer, which would be an amazing opportunity. I'm excited about both, and should learn my fate fairly soon. If you pray, pray for me.
-And most importantly, I became an uncle on Saturday morning. Her name is Elizabeth, and I'll be flying to Virginia Tuesday to meet her. I'm a big fan of babies, so I'm pumped. I'll be there for a week, chilling with the fam. It's been five years since I've been back home to Stafford. Every year that's passed the place has become less real in my mind, like a dream world. In a few days I'll be there, staring it dead in the face. I might just freak out and have a seizure. Part of me hopes the trip goes horribly, so I can leave with a clear concsience. I have a feeling Elizabeth will make it tough on me. Here's to another week of ignored phone calls.
-Oh, and I had pizza for lunch. And a smoothie. I splurge on Sundays.
Until I return from VA, PEACE!
Crum
3/15/09
K@L Coming Soon
Me and film school buddy Andy Makishima have been working on a comedy web show of late, and recently finished shooting the first two episodes. The show's called "Krum@Large!" (or "Krum At Large!" for those who are mildly retarded), and we're planning on sharing them sometime in the next few weeks. I'm not only the co-creator of the show, but lead actor as well. The world will finally view- in awe- my all-encompassing acting talents. By next year I'll be spitting on Leo Dicaprio and he'll like it.
Here's a teaser pic, like a weird Sasquatch sighting:
Yes, that's a tomahawk.
Here's a teaser pic, like a weird Sasquatch sighting:
Yes, that's a tomahawk.
3/7/09
Hook
A few nights ago I dived into the treasure chest that is my collection of VHS tapes and pulled out Hook, the 1991 Spielberg film starring Robin Williams and Dustin Hoffman. I spent the evening in the company of Captain Hook, the Lost Boys, a middle-aged Peter Pan. I love this movie. When I was 9 years old I wasted an entire summer watching it. Everyday at lunch time, while enjoying tasty tuna sandwiches and kool-aid, I dived into a magical world that I wanted so badly to be apart of. I wanted to crow, fight, fly, and play games with hot little fairies. Who wouldn't, right? To this day, 17 or so years later, I can still quote the film line for line, and regularly work the juiciest nuggets into everyday conversation. My favorite line plays out something like this:
Acquaintance: I just want to get away, go on vacation...go on a little adventure. I think I need it.
Me: Death is the only adventure you have left.
No one ever seems to know why I would say such a thing, which baffles me. If you were a kid back in 91', how do you not remember Hook? I take offense when someone my age doesn't understand, so much so that I refuse to tell them where it's from if they don't. It's one of my many tests. If you don't know this movie, I'm not sure we can be friends. The real problem is, which I've contemplated often, is if you're not imagining Dustin Hoffman in a long, curly wig when I say this line, you might just jump off a ledge upon hearing it. But ah well, I enjoy saying it, so I'm going to keep saying it. If they jump, they jump.
Anyways...
One thing that's remained the same since I was a child is my desire to be a Lost Boy, and I hope that never changes. I hope I'm always that nine year-old kid, who for every day one summer fought Captain Hook with nothing more than than pudding sprayers, marble guns, and some fat kid who rolled down stairs. I hope I'm always young at heart. After returning from my two hours in Neverland that night, I was up until four in the morning thinking about it, truly inspired. Lately I've been trying to pin down ideas for my next screenplay, and trying to decide what type of film I should write. After re-watching Hook I now know, whatever the idea is, I need to create a world with the same magic as Neverland. I want to write something that makes me feel as giddy and adventurous as Hook does; something that's a monument to my still present child-like wonder.
Let the brainstorming begin...
Acquaintance: I just want to get away, go on vacation...go on a little adventure. I think I need it.
Me: Death is the only adventure you have left.
No one ever seems to know why I would say such a thing, which baffles me. If you were a kid back in 91', how do you not remember Hook? I take offense when someone my age doesn't understand, so much so that I refuse to tell them where it's from if they don't. It's one of my many tests. If you don't know this movie, I'm not sure we can be friends. The real problem is, which I've contemplated often, is if you're not imagining Dustin Hoffman in a long, curly wig when I say this line, you might just jump off a ledge upon hearing it. But ah well, I enjoy saying it, so I'm going to keep saying it. If they jump, they jump.
Anyways...
One thing that's remained the same since I was a child is my desire to be a Lost Boy, and I hope that never changes. I hope I'm always that nine year-old kid, who for every day one summer fought Captain Hook with nothing more than than pudding sprayers, marble guns, and some fat kid who rolled down stairs. I hope I'm always young at heart. After returning from my two hours in Neverland that night, I was up until four in the morning thinking about it, truly inspired. Lately I've been trying to pin down ideas for my next screenplay, and trying to decide what type of film I should write. After re-watching Hook I now know, whatever the idea is, I need to create a world with the same magic as Neverland. I want to write something that makes me feel as giddy and adventurous as Hook does; something that's a monument to my still present child-like wonder.
Let the brainstorming begin...
2/27/09
Book of Dreams: Champion Couch Kickers
Recently I went to an exhibit at the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences called Fellini's Book of Dreams. If you don't know, Federico Fellini was an Italian film director who's films were filled with dreamlike imagery. His film 8 1/2, from 1963, is one of my all-time favorites. Anyway, Fellini used to write down his dreams every morning, compete with drawings and speech balloons. Most of them involved mammoth-sized breasts, which was a bit repetitive, but still fascinating.
Since the exhibit I've felt inspired to keep a dream journal like Fellini, as I've always found the subconcious dreamworld infinitely more interesting then reality. So from now on I'll be posting my dreams, the interesting ones at least (I've posted a dream once before, called Cheetara and Our Baby).
Before I post a new dream I want to share one from January 27th, 2002. I was flipping through an old journal tonight and happened to come across it. So you know:
- This was during my first year of community college in Virginia.
- RJ, Savanah, and Demetrius were friends of mine in high school.
- Buster was my brother's dog.
This is exactly how I wrote it seven years ago:
"Last night I dreamed about a Japanese game of some sort. At first it was me, RJ, Savanah, and a few other people. We were just talking in a room when me and RJ start doin kung fu on each other laughing. Then this Japanese guy showed me how to kick people off a couch. What he was showing me was an actual sport, and he started training me to do it. It was funny because he could barely speak English, so I struggled to understand him. So eventually we start a season of kicking people off couches, and we go up against other teams, our rivals. We win at the end of the season, which meant we got to release a turtle in the ocean. We go to a beach where there's some sort of turtle graveyard that's full of orange shells. The orange turtle shells surrounded me and my trainer. Why would we release this turtle where the other turtles died from predators? I have no idea. Well then Buster came floating along in the ocean, and I had to go out and help him get air because he wasn't getting any under water. Then we had an end of the season speech and Demetrius came by and started talking. I kept interrupting him, which was hilarious, and then we all looked out a window that appeared out of nowhere and saw a guy playing baseball."
There's no breasts, I know. Unfortunately, even nowadays, my dreams typically involve adolescent games more so than the female anatomy. It's a problem, and I'm working on it. I just want Fellini to be proud.
Since the exhibit I've felt inspired to keep a dream journal like Fellini, as I've always found the subconcious dreamworld infinitely more interesting then reality. So from now on I'll be posting my dreams, the interesting ones at least (I've posted a dream once before, called Cheetara and Our Baby).
Before I post a new dream I want to share one from January 27th, 2002. I was flipping through an old journal tonight and happened to come across it. So you know:
- This was during my first year of community college in Virginia.
- RJ, Savanah, and Demetrius were friends of mine in high school.
- Buster was my brother's dog.
This is exactly how I wrote it seven years ago:
"Last night I dreamed about a Japanese game of some sort. At first it was me, RJ, Savanah, and a few other people. We were just talking in a room when me and RJ start doin kung fu on each other laughing. Then this Japanese guy showed me how to kick people off a couch. What he was showing me was an actual sport, and he started training me to do it. It was funny because he could barely speak English, so I struggled to understand him. So eventually we start a season of kicking people off couches, and we go up against other teams, our rivals. We win at the end of the season, which meant we got to release a turtle in the ocean. We go to a beach where there's some sort of turtle graveyard that's full of orange shells. The orange turtle shells surrounded me and my trainer. Why would we release this turtle where the other turtles died from predators? I have no idea. Well then Buster came floating along in the ocean, and I had to go out and help him get air because he wasn't getting any under water. Then we had an end of the season speech and Demetrius came by and started talking. I kept interrupting him, which was hilarious, and then we all looked out a window that appeared out of nowhere and saw a guy playing baseball."
There's no breasts, I know. Unfortunately, even nowadays, my dreams typically involve adolescent games more so than the female anatomy. It's a problem, and I'm working on it. I just want Fellini to be proud.
2/11/09
25 Random Things About Me
I was extremely reluctant to give in to this '25 Things' craze, but I couldn't help but think what my random things would be. I wondered so much, actually, that a week ago I went ahead and wrote them out, all the while promising myself I'd never show them. Now I need a new blog topic, but I don't feel like writing anything new. Eventually laziness trumps morals. Here they are:
1. I hate hardwood floors because I can’t comfortably roll around on them. I like rolling in the floor.
2. If I was alive pre-Columbus sailing the ocean blue, and I could choose to be any race I wanted, I’d choose to be Native American. Loincloths are amazing.
3. I hate technology but am addicted to it.
4. I hope that one day I become so filthy rich that I forget who I am.
5. In actuality, I’m scared #4 could happen, and sometimes wish to remain poor.
6. I once needed a black actor for a movie but couldn’t find one. I decided to cover myself in mud and play the role myself.
7. I want to meet Rachel McAdams so we can reenact all the scenes from the Notebook. I hate you Ryan Gosling.
8. I'm an explorer at heart, in a world where every land has been explored. This depresses me.
9. In middle school, me and my best friend would toss around a rusted circular saw blade that we found in the woods. Eventually it ended up STUCK IN MY LEG.
10. I grew my hair long so I would look more like a writer and less like a frat boy. It didn’t work- now people think I’m an actor. I'm not sure if that's better or worse.
11. I love God but don’t fully understand who he is.
12. I’ve secretly wanted to fight someone- anyone- for quite some time, to see how I’d react in battle. So far no one has started an altercation with me, and I can’t bring myself to start one either. Someone punch me, please.
13. I have many nicknames by various people, some good and some bad. They are: J, JC, Just, Juson, Crumzo, Crumster, Papa Crum, Crumasauras Rex, Crum Dizzle, Crizzle, Forest Crump, Donald Crumsfeld, Crumdoleeza Rice, J. Crump, and last but not least Crumpelstiltskin.
14. I saw my first vagina at 4 years old on a playground, behind the jungle gym. Me and my friends gathered around a circle and showed each other what we were working with. I thought it looked like two balls without a penis. It was confusing.
15. I hate roaches, and sometimes have nightmares about giant ones attacking me.
16. I ran around the house naked until I was 10 years old, until my Dad finally explained why it was weird.
17. I don’t care for my first name, mainly because it’s so common, but also because it reminds people of *NSYNC.
18. I compulsively checked my height in high school because I was worried I wouldn’t grow.
19. One time when I was little my dad brought me to his office for "take your daughter to work day." I haven't been the same since.
20. After #19, I begged for an easy bake oven and a toy kitchen set. The other daughters taught me the joys of baking corn bread with a light bulb and grilling plastic hamburgers. If that's gay, then count me in.
21. The worse drug I’ve done is air duster in high school. It gives you a deep voice, which made me laugh.
22. Three years after graduating from college, I still haven’t picked up my diploma.
23. I once had a job as a Kirby Vacuum salesman, in which I went door to door pitching an $1800 cleaning tool.
24. My parents taught me about sex with the help of a book from a Christian bookstore, in which an illustrated Jesus tells you why boys and girls are different, and how you're supposed to be married before you explore those differences. It never actually mentioned HOW people have sex. I had to learn the normal way, by watching my brother's porn.
25. When I was a baby I fell down the steps and fractured my skull. This may explain a few things.
1. I hate hardwood floors because I can’t comfortably roll around on them. I like rolling in the floor.
2. If I was alive pre-Columbus sailing the ocean blue, and I could choose to be any race I wanted, I’d choose to be Native American. Loincloths are amazing.
3. I hate technology but am addicted to it.
4. I hope that one day I become so filthy rich that I forget who I am.
5. In actuality, I’m scared #4 could happen, and sometimes wish to remain poor.
6. I once needed a black actor for a movie but couldn’t find one. I decided to cover myself in mud and play the role myself.
7. I want to meet Rachel McAdams so we can reenact all the scenes from the Notebook. I hate you Ryan Gosling.
8. I'm an explorer at heart, in a world where every land has been explored. This depresses me.
9. In middle school, me and my best friend would toss around a rusted circular saw blade that we found in the woods. Eventually it ended up STUCK IN MY LEG.
10. I grew my hair long so I would look more like a writer and less like a frat boy. It didn’t work- now people think I’m an actor. I'm not sure if that's better or worse.
11. I love God but don’t fully understand who he is.
12. I’ve secretly wanted to fight someone- anyone- for quite some time, to see how I’d react in battle. So far no one has started an altercation with me, and I can’t bring myself to start one either. Someone punch me, please.
13. I have many nicknames by various people, some good and some bad. They are: J, JC, Just, Juson, Crumzo, Crumster, Papa Crum, Crumasauras Rex, Crum Dizzle, Crizzle, Forest Crump, Donald Crumsfeld, Crumdoleeza Rice, J. Crump, and last but not least Crumpelstiltskin.
14. I saw my first vagina at 4 years old on a playground, behind the jungle gym. Me and my friends gathered around a circle and showed each other what we were working with. I thought it looked like two balls without a penis. It was confusing.
15. I hate roaches, and sometimes have nightmares about giant ones attacking me.
16. I ran around the house naked until I was 10 years old, until my Dad finally explained why it was weird.
17. I don’t care for my first name, mainly because it’s so common, but also because it reminds people of *NSYNC.
18. I compulsively checked my height in high school because I was worried I wouldn’t grow.
19. One time when I was little my dad brought me to his office for "take your daughter to work day." I haven't been the same since.
20. After #19, I begged for an easy bake oven and a toy kitchen set. The other daughters taught me the joys of baking corn bread with a light bulb and grilling plastic hamburgers. If that's gay, then count me in.
21. The worse drug I’ve done is air duster in high school. It gives you a deep voice, which made me laugh.
22. Three years after graduating from college, I still haven’t picked up my diploma.
23. I once had a job as a Kirby Vacuum salesman, in which I went door to door pitching an $1800 cleaning tool.
24. My parents taught me about sex with the help of a book from a Christian bookstore, in which an illustrated Jesus tells you why boys and girls are different, and how you're supposed to be married before you explore those differences. It never actually mentioned HOW people have sex. I had to learn the normal way, by watching my brother's porn.
25. When I was a baby I fell down the steps and fractured my skull. This may explain a few things.
2/10/09
Notes From Girls #2
In 2003 I transferred from a community college in Virginia to Long Beach State in California, so I could study film. At this point in my life, during my first semester in California, I was dealing with a lot of drama resulting from my move across the country. Specifically speaking, I was trying my best to keep a long distance relationship going with my girlfriend back home. Eventually we broke up, or I should say she broke up with me. I was devastated. A week after the break-up I received this note from an anonymous girl. It was slipped under my dorm room door at night, probably only moments after I whimpered my way to sleep. I found it on the floor the next morning, only feet from my bed. It cheered me up like nothing else could.
1/24/09
I'm A Black Man.
Last night I was having drinks at Frank 'N Hank, a dive bar in Koreatown. It's a quaint little place, with a nude lady on the wall, a Korean lady bartender who's hard to understand, and all the other dive bar mainstays. It's Friday, and there's about eight people in the place, with me and a friend (who I'll call Alicia) being two of them. Me and Alicia are talking, minding our own business, when an African American man in his fifties sits beside us. He has a scarf covered in peace signs around his neck and a deck of Tarot cards at his side. Gerard (as I'll call him) interrupts us, in a polite manner, and after brief introductions begins to rattle off a spiel about his Oprah appearance and various celebrity clients, including Courtney Love and some guy on "The Unit," which I've never seen before. He claims he's a "reader" and even asks the Korean lady bartender to confirm the fact, which she does. Apparently they're friends, and her name is Snow. He continued his spiel, but I couldn't tell you what he said- all I could think about is the juxtaposition between Oprah and a dive bar called Frank N Hank, and if Snow and Gerard ever fly to Chicago together to visit her.
Gerard then asks Alicia her initials, and she tells him. Without hesitation he says that she's an artist who hates her 9 to 5 job, but does it to pay the bills. He pauses, then says "you need to calm down...you'll be okay." Knowing what I do about Alicia, he was right about the first assertion, although I don't think it was a big leap considering that most people in Los Angeles call themselves an artist of some kind, and an even higher percentage hate their 9 to 5 job. As I have no idea what the second assertion was about, the jury was still out on Gerard the Oprah Psychic. He goes on, telling Alicia things about her mother, which she says are true, but I have no way of knowing for sure. Alicia thinks he's for real. I maintain that he's a fraud.
Then he looks to me- IT'S MY TURN. And I'm ready to prove to Alicia- and all his horse shit celebrity clients- that he's just a smooth talker with a tragically hip scarf. He asks me my intitials, and I tell him. He says that I could never work a 9 to 5 job, like Alicia does; that I have to be my own boss. He pauses, then says "you're fine." I must admit, I was a little impressed. Over a year ago I traded my 9 to 5 job at a four star hotel for one that allowed complete freedom. It was the best decision I've ever made. I quickly realized, though, as he started talking to Snow, that I was more flattered then impressed, simply because he said I was fine, whereas he told Alicia she needed to calm down. I was happy to be perceieved as the one who had it all together. This realization makes me doubt him again. I still maintain he's a fraud.
As if he senses my challenging stare, he turns away from Snow and looks me dead in the eye. Then he hits me with the haymaker--
"You're a black man in a white man's body."
I've always felt most psychics made generalized statements that were typically true for most people. This statement (as well as the small rant afterwards about slavery) was ever so bold, considering I was in no way dressed like an aspiring rapper. Not only was it bold, but it's true (in a way). If you don't believe me, these four reasons will prove it:
1. For the past four months I've been writing a dark drama about a black slave in 1820's Virginia. The reason I chose such subject matter is because I've always been fascinated with slavery and African American culture.
2. My best friends in Virginia are black.
3. I am widely accepted by black strangers, in an odd way. I feel comfortable telling black jokes right in their midst (as if I'm black), and for some reason they never get upset, and in most cases love me for it.
4. I can dance, and have what most basketball players would call "mad hops."
After Gerard's haymaker statement, my challenge had been accepted and met. My mental accusations toward him had been proven wrong- he was truly talented. There was a reason why Courtney Love, the guy from "The Unit," and Oprah all sought his advice. In that moment he could have told me I would die in an hour and I would have believed him. Fortunately his next words had nothing to do with death at all. He simply said, with extreme confidence, "Alicia, your shoe is untied."
I looked down curiously, knowing Gerard couldn't see her shoes at all, as they were hidden under the bar. Time slowed down as I squinted through the darkness, looking for a loose lace, but I found no lace at all...
Alicia was wearing sandals.
Gerard then asks Alicia her initials, and she tells him. Without hesitation he says that she's an artist who hates her 9 to 5 job, but does it to pay the bills. He pauses, then says "you need to calm down...you'll be okay." Knowing what I do about Alicia, he was right about the first assertion, although I don't think it was a big leap considering that most people in Los Angeles call themselves an artist of some kind, and an even higher percentage hate their 9 to 5 job. As I have no idea what the second assertion was about, the jury was still out on Gerard the Oprah Psychic. He goes on, telling Alicia things about her mother, which she says are true, but I have no way of knowing for sure. Alicia thinks he's for real. I maintain that he's a fraud.
Then he looks to me- IT'S MY TURN. And I'm ready to prove to Alicia- and all his horse shit celebrity clients- that he's just a smooth talker with a tragically hip scarf. He asks me my intitials, and I tell him. He says that I could never work a 9 to 5 job, like Alicia does; that I have to be my own boss. He pauses, then says "you're fine." I must admit, I was a little impressed. Over a year ago I traded my 9 to 5 job at a four star hotel for one that allowed complete freedom. It was the best decision I've ever made. I quickly realized, though, as he started talking to Snow, that I was more flattered then impressed, simply because he said I was fine, whereas he told Alicia she needed to calm down. I was happy to be perceieved as the one who had it all together. This realization makes me doubt him again. I still maintain he's a fraud.
As if he senses my challenging stare, he turns away from Snow and looks me dead in the eye. Then he hits me with the haymaker--
"You're a black man in a white man's body."
I've always felt most psychics made generalized statements that were typically true for most people. This statement (as well as the small rant afterwards about slavery) was ever so bold, considering I was in no way dressed like an aspiring rapper. Not only was it bold, but it's true (in a way). If you don't believe me, these four reasons will prove it:
1. For the past four months I've been writing a dark drama about a black slave in 1820's Virginia. The reason I chose such subject matter is because I've always been fascinated with slavery and African American culture.
2. My best friends in Virginia are black.
3. I am widely accepted by black strangers, in an odd way. I feel comfortable telling black jokes right in their midst (as if I'm black), and for some reason they never get upset, and in most cases love me for it.
4. I can dance, and have what most basketball players would call "mad hops."
After Gerard's haymaker statement, my challenge had been accepted and met. My mental accusations toward him had been proven wrong- he was truly talented. There was a reason why Courtney Love, the guy from "The Unit," and Oprah all sought his advice. In that moment he could have told me I would die in an hour and I would have believed him. Fortunately his next words had nothing to do with death at all. He simply said, with extreme confidence, "Alicia, your shoe is untied."
I looked down curiously, knowing Gerard couldn't see her shoes at all, as they were hidden under the bar. Time slowed down as I squinted through the darkness, looking for a loose lace, but I found no lace at all...
Alicia was wearing sandals.
1/23/09
Pappaw Land: Synopsis
I mentioned during a previous post that I wrote a script, called "Pappaw Land," that takes place in Wise, Virginia, the small coal mining town where I used to spend summers when I was young. Last May I submitted the script to the Sundance Screenwriters Lab, and it happened to become a Semi-Finalist come July. I figured I'd give you an idea what the script is about, for anyone interested. This synopsis is the same one I sent to Sundance last year--
"The main title, “Pappaw Land,” comes in scrawled across the screen in a child's hand, the heading of a yellowed fourth grade assignment fluttering against the dashboard of Stanley Nichols' car. Fresh out of high school, he drives past the trashcan fires and stray dogs of the fabled land, known by most as Wise, Virginia, as he recounts the idyllic childhood summer he wrote of ten years earlier. Despite it’s painfully polluted landscape, the magic of Wise remains real and intact, when it’s searched for. Stanley's journey is in finding magic that exists in the everyday, love in the dependable, and God in a rustling tree house and the muddy creek.
Stanley grew up in a Virginian suburb, and rather than move to Florida with his retiring parents, he drives to the backcountry to stay indefinitely with his Pappaw. His dying car and his dying dog Hobbes are all he takes along. The story unfolds in quiet scenes that pass like humid summer days—and that reach for the star-filled beauty of warm summer nights. Stanley and his Pappaw are kindred spirits from their first meeting. The old man winks rather than scolds; when something needs to be fixed, they fix it together, their hands blackened with coal and grease. Life only begins to speed up in Wise after Stanley meets a wild brown-haired girl named Emily by the creek, and her BB-gun wielding brother.
A rift forms between Stanley and everything-not-Emily—even his family and faith are forgotten in a hot wave of teen angst. The first act of the film, moving leisurely through his town explorations with Hobbes and his first time at Pappaw’s church, gives way to a fiery second act after his meeting with Emily. The crescendo builds as Stanley ignores his old Pappaw, and then betrays him by stealing his church keys. Stanley sneaks into the church, exploring not just the labyrinthic structure but the nubile body of his brown-haired addiction. The church throughout the script is a present, radiating entity. Like the writer's own faith, it's never obtrusive or somber, but rather, a solid place of warmth and questioning.
Stanley's revelation in the third act occurs not in a sexual, romantic, or even social realm, though these elements are certainly present; he finds a transcendent truth in himself. Cliché, you say, but true nonetheless. Stanley must put a dying Hobbes to sleep in a modern animal hospital, and in this moment we see that the eight-year-old Stanley that first visited his Pappaw in Wise is immortal—that innocence doesn't always have to be lost when you grow up. In the end, a moral—and "Pappaw Land" is what I would call a moral tale—can be found in doing good, in living well, and experiencing what there is in this world to experience, with blackened bare feet."
*I find it impossible to write a synopsis of my own work, so I had the brilliant Mike Turner do it for me.*
"The main title, “Pappaw Land,” comes in scrawled across the screen in a child's hand, the heading of a yellowed fourth grade assignment fluttering against the dashboard of Stanley Nichols' car. Fresh out of high school, he drives past the trashcan fires and stray dogs of the fabled land, known by most as Wise, Virginia, as he recounts the idyllic childhood summer he wrote of ten years earlier. Despite it’s painfully polluted landscape, the magic of Wise remains real and intact, when it’s searched for. Stanley's journey is in finding magic that exists in the everyday, love in the dependable, and God in a rustling tree house and the muddy creek.
Stanley grew up in a Virginian suburb, and rather than move to Florida with his retiring parents, he drives to the backcountry to stay indefinitely with his Pappaw. His dying car and his dying dog Hobbes are all he takes along. The story unfolds in quiet scenes that pass like humid summer days—and that reach for the star-filled beauty of warm summer nights. Stanley and his Pappaw are kindred spirits from their first meeting. The old man winks rather than scolds; when something needs to be fixed, they fix it together, their hands blackened with coal and grease. Life only begins to speed up in Wise after Stanley meets a wild brown-haired girl named Emily by the creek, and her BB-gun wielding brother.
A rift forms between Stanley and everything-not-Emily—even his family and faith are forgotten in a hot wave of teen angst. The first act of the film, moving leisurely through his town explorations with Hobbes and his first time at Pappaw’s church, gives way to a fiery second act after his meeting with Emily. The crescendo builds as Stanley ignores his old Pappaw, and then betrays him by stealing his church keys. Stanley sneaks into the church, exploring not just the labyrinthic structure but the nubile body of his brown-haired addiction. The church throughout the script is a present, radiating entity. Like the writer's own faith, it's never obtrusive or somber, but rather, a solid place of warmth and questioning.
Stanley's revelation in the third act occurs not in a sexual, romantic, or even social realm, though these elements are certainly present; he finds a transcendent truth in himself. Cliché, you say, but true nonetheless. Stanley must put a dying Hobbes to sleep in a modern animal hospital, and in this moment we see that the eight-year-old Stanley that first visited his Pappaw in Wise is immortal—that innocence doesn't always have to be lost when you grow up. In the end, a moral—and "Pappaw Land" is what I would call a moral tale—can be found in doing good, in living well, and experiencing what there is in this world to experience, with blackened bare feet."
*I find it impossible to write a synopsis of my own work, so I had the brilliant Mike Turner do it for me.*
1/22/09
Notes From Girls #1
I like to keep a box of old letters, greeting cards, concert tickets, receipts, and other random memory markers. My most prized possession in this box of junk is a collection of notes from various girls, dating back to high school. Most of them are from the days before texting was mainstream, when handwritten ink on crinkled paper was the best form of flirting if you didn't have the nerves for a face to face talk. I just love handwritten notes, and plan on posting more in the future.
This one is from a girl I'll call Sally. My best friend Randy knew her from one of his classes and suggested I talk to her. It was my junior year of high school about a month before Prom, and I didn't have a date yet, due to the fact that I wanted the best looking girls in school, but never had the balls to talk to them. Randy suggested Sally knowing she was a step down from my usual crush, and might actually be interested. I refused at first, mainly because I was ridiculously picky for a short shy kid (I was 5 foot 5 inches tall until a growth spurt the next year). As another week went by without a date for Prom, I finally gave in and decided to give her a chance, as desperate times call for desperate measures. I made contact via a handwritten note, taking painstaking measures to craft a piece of flawless literature even my joyless English teacher, Mrs. Erskine, would melt over. Although I can't remember what I wrote, I know it was perfect. This is her response:
We didn't go to Prom together.
This one is from a girl I'll call Sally. My best friend Randy knew her from one of his classes and suggested I talk to her. It was my junior year of high school about a month before Prom, and I didn't have a date yet, due to the fact that I wanted the best looking girls in school, but never had the balls to talk to them. Randy suggested Sally knowing she was a step down from my usual crush, and might actually be interested. I refused at first, mainly because I was ridiculously picky for a short shy kid (I was 5 foot 5 inches tall until a growth spurt the next year). As another week went by without a date for Prom, I finally gave in and decided to give her a chance, as desperate times call for desperate measures. I made contact via a handwritten note, taking painstaking measures to craft a piece of flawless literature even my joyless English teacher, Mrs. Erskine, would melt over. Although I can't remember what I wrote, I know it was perfect. This is her response:
We didn't go to Prom together.
1/21/09
Nomad
I grew up in northern Virginia, staying there the first two decades of my life until I was grown and able to leave it behind for California, where I've been for five years now, the first two of which I was content. The past three years I've often dreamed of even farther away places to live, in extreme seclusion. I love much of what the city offers, but many times it has me thinking of living in forests alone, or with a tribe of some sort. I want to feel what it's like to only worry about survival in the most primal form. Over a year ago I did extensive research on living conditions in the rainforests of Costa Rica, hoping to find a way to make the possible move agree with the more reasonable side of my brain. When it didn't, I did research on a more accepted form of banishment, called the Peace Corps. The problem there is, you can't choose your destination, which means I could end up on a cold mountain in Ukraine instead of a warm village in Africa. I like cold, but not frostbite cold. Then I thought about Costa Rica again. It still didn't work out.
Since then my preferred destination has been Wise, Virginia, a small town in the southwest part of the state where I spent summers with my Pappaw when I was young. It's no Costa Rica, and is even considered a dump by some, but it still strikes a nostalgic feeling inside me like no other place. I would never want to live there long term, but I think a year or so would do me good. Not to mention I've written a script about the place, which would give me a real reason to spend time there- to do rewrites. It's this time of year, December and January, that always has me thinking of the past year and the one to come, and when I contemplate the most drastic type of lifestyle changes (like a move to Costa Rica). This winter has been even worse for such day dreams, especially after my once a year trip to Wise over Christmas to visit family. Being there, with the locations for my script right in front of me, had me scheming schemes and dreaming big dreams. I wished it never ended, but it always does. Even if I stayed there for a few months, it would eventually end. The script would eventually be finished, and so would the fantasy.
So now that I'm back in Los Angeles, two thousand miles from Wise, I wonder which road to take. Sometimes I wish to be beaten. I want someone to put me on my death bed. Maybe then what's really important will pop into my head and I'll know- know what to do. I'm so confused right now it's pitiful. I don't know which step to take. I long for people, for a feeling, for love, for a fantasy. I want to feel like I did in Wise over Christmas. It's such a disappointment to know even if I stayed there the feeling wouldn't. It'd leave in a week, I'm sure. That's why my longing is unattainable, because no matter where I am or who I'm with, I will eventually long for something else. So what is life's lesson in this? Do I chase my ever changing longing or do I stay put, waiting out my waves of angst patiently, knowing clarity will come? What if clarity never comes? What if chasing those longings is all we have to look forward to? What if I'm supposed to chase it, use it up, then move on to my next new thing? Am I a nomad or a life long resident? Am I a runaway father or a stay at home mother? Am I using all I have to travel the world, or am I saving to buy a house? Do I live in fantasy or reality?
Since then my preferred destination has been Wise, Virginia, a small town in the southwest part of the state where I spent summers with my Pappaw when I was young. It's no Costa Rica, and is even considered a dump by some, but it still strikes a nostalgic feeling inside me like no other place. I would never want to live there long term, but I think a year or so would do me good. Not to mention I've written a script about the place, which would give me a real reason to spend time there- to do rewrites. It's this time of year, December and January, that always has me thinking of the past year and the one to come, and when I contemplate the most drastic type of lifestyle changes (like a move to Costa Rica). This winter has been even worse for such day dreams, especially after my once a year trip to Wise over Christmas to visit family. Being there, with the locations for my script right in front of me, had me scheming schemes and dreaming big dreams. I wished it never ended, but it always does. Even if I stayed there for a few months, it would eventually end. The script would eventually be finished, and so would the fantasy.
So now that I'm back in Los Angeles, two thousand miles from Wise, I wonder which road to take. Sometimes I wish to be beaten. I want someone to put me on my death bed. Maybe then what's really important will pop into my head and I'll know- know what to do. I'm so confused right now it's pitiful. I don't know which step to take. I long for people, for a feeling, for love, for a fantasy. I want to feel like I did in Wise over Christmas. It's such a disappointment to know even if I stayed there the feeling wouldn't. It'd leave in a week, I'm sure. That's why my longing is unattainable, because no matter where I am or who I'm with, I will eventually long for something else. So what is life's lesson in this? Do I chase my ever changing longing or do I stay put, waiting out my waves of angst patiently, knowing clarity will come? What if clarity never comes? What if chasing those longings is all we have to look forward to? What if I'm supposed to chase it, use it up, then move on to my next new thing? Am I a nomad or a life long resident? Am I a runaway father or a stay at home mother? Am I using all I have to travel the world, or am I saving to buy a house? Do I live in fantasy or reality?
1/20/09
Scribe Asylum Photo Shoot
If you didn't know, for the last couple of years I've been a member of a writer's group called The Scribe Asylum. We've always kept the group fairly private and to ourselves, but lately we've been creating some great material that we'll want to showcase to the public fairly soon. The first step in this is to create a logo of some kind, which prompted us to do a little photo shoot last night. Our goal is to take one of these images (or one of the many others), and work it into the logo. The concept for the shoot was this:
"A writer goes insane from writer's block (or a bad pitch meeting), and scribbles all over himself, covering his face in ink."
I'd love to get some opinions on the pics. Which of the photos below do you think would work best for a logo?
*all photos by Colin Mika*
"A writer goes insane from writer's block (or a bad pitch meeting), and scribbles all over himself, covering his face in ink."
I'd love to get some opinions on the pics. Which of the photos below do you think would work best for a logo?
*all photos by Colin Mika*
1/19/09
Cheetara and Our Baby
I've been having strange dreams lately. My dreams are normally rather childish, like something you'd see in a cartoon from the 80's. Thundercats, GI Joe, stuff like that. Lately they've featured people from my past, and seem to be deeper. I can't help but think what they mean, if anything.
Here's a recent one involving a girl from a couple of years ago that I dated briefly (so brief that the intimacy of the dream is shocking to me). For the sake of anonymity I'll call this girl Cheetara:
I'm in a parking garage, waiting. Suddenly a car pulls up, and it's Cheetara and her current boyfriend. She's pregnant, or atleast I know she is, even if it's unseen, and it's mine. Everyone knows it's mine, and I have some sort of kingship over this newbie because of it. He leaves us to it, because she's about to have the baby, even though she's walking and talking normally like there's no baby at all. We walk outside, along a beach that leads to the hospital. Cheetara is walking on an elevated path or sidewalk above me and beside me, while I'm in the sand. I'm so happy about the baby I can barely stand it, I feel like I'm about to pop myself. "Watch this," I said, as I prance and skip in circles as if I'm airplane, then explode from my knees into the air as if I'm a merman jumping out of the shimmering water, so desperate for her to see my joy. We walk further and eventually I sit her down by the path she was on, just before we reach the hospital. We're eye level now, and I rub her pregnant belly, now large and plainly visible. I can't stop thinking that my baby, our baby, is inside. Not one thought creeps into my head about the other guy, or any of our problems, there's just joy. I look Cheetara in the eye, wanting to tell her how much I love her, but instead say, "I just want to let you know, I love this baby so much." She smiles as if she knows I love her too, but neither of us utters a word about it...
Then I turned into the Cobra commander and ripped my baby from her belly, leaving her for dead as I gazed into my son's newborn eyes. Then I woke up.
Here's a recent one involving a girl from a couple of years ago that I dated briefly (so brief that the intimacy of the dream is shocking to me). For the sake of anonymity I'll call this girl Cheetara:
I'm in a parking garage, waiting. Suddenly a car pulls up, and it's Cheetara and her current boyfriend. She's pregnant, or atleast I know she is, even if it's unseen, and it's mine. Everyone knows it's mine, and I have some sort of kingship over this newbie because of it. He leaves us to it, because she's about to have the baby, even though she's walking and talking normally like there's no baby at all. We walk outside, along a beach that leads to the hospital. Cheetara is walking on an elevated path or sidewalk above me and beside me, while I'm in the sand. I'm so happy about the baby I can barely stand it, I feel like I'm about to pop myself. "Watch this," I said, as I prance and skip in circles as if I'm airplane, then explode from my knees into the air as if I'm a merman jumping out of the shimmering water, so desperate for her to see my joy. We walk further and eventually I sit her down by the path she was on, just before we reach the hospital. We're eye level now, and I rub her pregnant belly, now large and plainly visible. I can't stop thinking that my baby, our baby, is inside. Not one thought creeps into my head about the other guy, or any of our problems, there's just joy. I look Cheetara in the eye, wanting to tell her how much I love her, but instead say, "I just want to let you know, I love this baby so much." She smiles as if she knows I love her too, but neither of us utters a word about it...
Then I turned into the Cobra commander and ripped my baby from her belly, leaving her for dead as I gazed into my son's newborn eyes. Then I woke up.
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