Crum In The Mirror

Papaw

2010-07-16T00:13:00.000-07:00

A man isn't about his vices, or the ill words he's spoken, or even the people he's hurt. Those things are remembered, but they're not the make up of a man. Not of one that gives a damn, at least. A man that gives a damn continues on past these things, and makes up for his shortfalls through time. There's a reason why the oldest generation is wiser than the young. It's not because they were saints, it's because they weren't and found a way to change.

Jessica and Mila

2010-06-24T19:24:00.000-07:00

All is Vanity

2010-05-24T22:25:00.000-07:00

A selfish writer only looks to himself for inspiration, and he will always find something to feed his creativity, because through his eyes all that is within him is important and profound. But I tell you the truth, few who find their own feelings profound will ever write anything worth reading. To write well others must be more important to the writer than writing itself. By being unselfish, a writer opens his subconscious to the truth around him, and therefore relieves the stress of sounding profound, because authentic truth is the only thing a writer needs. Without it he flails along the page like a fish on land, struggling in vain to find fresh water. All is vanity except that which will cross over after death, and the only thing that crosses over is relationships.

M. Night Turner

2010-03-18T19:20:00.000-07:00

My buddy and old roommate Mike Turner left us for Portland yesterday, but we were able to take a hike up to Cahuenga Peak (by the Hollywood sign) a few days before, so he could soak up the SoCal sun one last time. Here's a few of the better pics, the first one being M. Night Turner in all his glory, basking in the glow of a brighter future up north. Anyway, take a look. Here's to you bud, have fun up there...

Going Downtown

2010-02-05T13:18:00.000-08:00

About a month ago I got a new Nikon camera, but haven't had much of a chance to play around with it. Last night me and my photog friends finally had a proper playdate downtown. We were wanting to shoot some hobos on skid row, but found it much more intimidating in person. We eventually settled on cityscapes and trains instead. Crack heads are crazy, man.

Check 'em out:

The State of the Judicial System

2009-11-13T11:40:00.001-08:00

The Superior Court of Los Angeles County. The place where the summoned masses gather for jury duty. The place where everyone has an excuse. Suddenly, the bi-racial turn racist, and the slight limpers turn parapalegic. Why will people say anything to get out of jury duty? Really, you're paralyzed. I'm pretty sure you're not, bitch. I'm kind of interested in this whole judicial stuff, myself. Convicting murderers and rapists doesn't sound so bad to me. And in my opinion, I'm one of the best decision makers I know. I imagine part of me would lean not-guilty, just because prisons are crowded and our state has a budget deficit already. Why feed people and shit when we don't have to? Don't we do that enough with homeless bums already?...

Then again, I think another part of me would lean guilty, just cause I'd love to taste blood and really jack someone's life up. But only if they deserve it and look like a real bad guy. Which is something else that makes me a good judge. Not only am I good decision maker, but I'm pretty good at knowing if someone's guilty based on looks. Big pores are always a sure sign. Sometimes it's tough, though, like if they have that James Dean, bad boy-type charm going for them. In that case he's bad, but he's not that bad. He might've knocked up a few girls without paying child support, but at the end of the day you still want to hang with him cause he's cool. And if you want to hang with him so much, is he really that guilty? The answer is no, he's not. You vote not-guilty and take him down to Jumbo's Clown room for a drink. Some decisions are even easier, though, like with Asian people. I really don't like how their houses smell, so I could use less of that in the world. Asian smells should stay in Asia...or prison. Just far away from me, that's all. Verdict: Guilty!

Oh, and back to excuses. Everyone has one here. This judicial dude named Bill came out and did a little speech about juroring, then took questions from us. Every one of them was an excuse. "What if I have an ulcer?" "What if I don't gots money for lunch?" The excuses came pouring in, and one Asian lady got up and said, "I can not speaka da goo English...no goo." Or some shit like that. Bill said she sounded fine to him, and that her excuse wasn't valid. Then some guy after her said he just had a heart attack, and Bill said he better have a doctor's note for that heart attack bs. He didn't have a doctor's note, so I don't blame Bill for what he said. Then the Asian lady stood back up, giving the best excuse ever:

"But sah, sah...I haff to drive on freeway."

First of all, the more she spoke in English the more she discounted the first excuse, and second of all, the guy who just had a heart attack received no sypathy, and for some reason you think your freeway excuse will!? If you're going for a second, even better excuse, you've got to go big. Real big. I just saw that movie Precious, and I think that girl, with her fat and her down syndrome babies and her Aids-ridden breast milk...even she couldn't mess with Bill. And if a girl with two incest babies can't escape jury duty, then no one can. So just shut up Asian lady and shit down and do your time like the rest of us...

After a few more excuses Bill got tired and sent all of the whiners to a lady who's job is evaluating excuses. Seriously? What's America come to? Do we really need to pay someone just to tell us our excuse sucks? Isn't that your spouses job? Oh, wait, we don't have spouses anymore because we complain so much. No wonder there's so many divorces and incest babies, cause we've got stupid Asian women walking the streets, talking about, "Ah, sah...I haff to drive freeway." Asian women have no respect for the judicial system. At all. And we're letting them clog up the system with this shit, people!

In conclusion, I do know one person who cares about the judicial system, and that guy's name is Bill. I'm going to join him, will you? NO MORE EXCUSES, AMERICA! Precious didn't give excuses when her daddy impregnated her the first or second time, and neither should you.

St. John

2009-10-01T17:44:00.000-07:00

Everyone's dying
Everyone's dead
Caged wolves with lips of red
So off with your foot and tongue and ear
Raise my head,
As if my turn isn't near.

Suck you off, tuck you in
God's gift turned now to sin
She'll rob your nickel, rob you blind
Then raise her palms,
For the soul you can't find.

Mothers, Fathers
What do they know?
Family and friends are friend or foe?
Blood runs deep, blood runs long
Children raise their weapons,
From here to St. John.

Everyone's dying
Everyone's dead
So stomp the rabbit's and lamb's and deer's head
Show them their mortality
Raise your glass,
Here's to equality.

Puffer Fish

2009-09-23T17:30:00.000-07:00

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.

70's Photo Shoot

2009-07-29T16:13:00.001-07:00

Dusting off a few old ones...

One More Day

2009-07-04T11:57:00.000-07:00

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.

I'm A Father

2009-06-16T16:48:00.000-07:00

Every few years I have the urge to really scare the hell out of my parents. About five years ago, during my first year on the west coast, I decided to make a surprise visit back east for Thanksgiving. I paid $300 I didn't have for the flight, which meant I had to make the most of the impromtu trip. For me, this meant breaking into my parents house at 1AM and pretending to be a burglar. My Mom nearly had a heart attack when she saw me, and had chest pains for three days after.

Back to present day. It's been 5 years, and I've been waiting for another opportunity. Then in walks Jessica, a girl I've been dating recently. She has a daughter named Mila, who's 2 years old. I told my parents about Jessica, but not her daughter. My parents are visiting me in September, and I was licking my chops. I wanted to see their face when I introduced them to my first born daughter from a one night stand with a crack whore 3 years ago. I had it planned out in my head, it would have been genius.

Problem is, Jessica wanted me to tell them about Mila much sooner than September. And I guess that's the right thing to do, right? So I rushed it. I sent them an email instead, late Saturday night. My parents return from church on Sunday around noon, when they read the paper and check their email. My plan was to call them shortly after to tell them it's a joke, and share a good laugh. It didn't go to plan.

Here's the email:

Mom and Dad,

There's been something I've been meaning to tell you, but haven't had the right words. I've tried, believe me, but the recent problems with Pappaw and Grandma have made it harder to spit out, as I know you've both been worrying enough as it is. Considering I'm fairly more comfortable with written words over spoken ones, I've decided to write this email, just to let everything be known. You have a second granddaughter [editor's note: my brother's daughter is the first]. Her name is Mila, and she will be 2 years old in August, although I've only known about her for a couple of months. In the fall of 2006 I dated a Persian girl named Paria for a couple of weeks, and soon after we broke up she moved back to her hometown in Texas due to money issues. She recently moved back to Long Beach in April, which is when she told me about Mila. I was shocked to say the least, and had a hard time believing it all, so I decided to wait for a blood test before I told you. I received the results of the blood test a month ago, and found out that Mila is indeed mine. I've been a coward about telling you, I know. I'm so sorry, I should have told you much sooner. You can thank Jessica for encouraging me to do this now, for if it wasn't for her I would have probably prolonged it further...

Anyways, I know I've made some mistakes in my life, but after the last couple of weeks with Mila, I can't say that she is one of them. I've already grown attached to her, and I can't wait for you to meet her when you visit in September. She's the most adorable little girl you'll ever see. I've attached a picture so you can see for yourself. I know this is all a bit much, but I believe it's a good thing. A great thing even. As you know, God works in mysterious ways! Please call me when you get this. We obviously have a lot to talk about.

Love,
Justin

I woke up earlier than normal Sunday morning. I was feeling guilty. I called at 11AM while they were at church, to leave
a message about the prank email. I had to tell them it's a joke, before they read it. The phone rings and rings. I'm waiting for the outgoing message, that comforting robotic voice. Then it happens-- my Mom picks up the phone, sounding less than chipper. My parents weren't at church. They skipped church. Why? Because my Dad checked their email much earlier than expected, at 7AM. My Mom spent ALL morning crying for the child, the difficulty of a broken home, and the fact she'd rarely get to see her granddaughter. Not to mention they pulled out pictures of me as a toddler and compared them to Mila. They found resemblances.

I'm a horrible son.

Book Of Dreams: Andy's Gay

2009-06-11T12:45:00.000-07:00

I had a dream last night that involved an appearance by my buddy, Andy Makishima. Here it is:

Andy is gay and cast in a short film by a lesbian director, who looks a lot like Ellen Degeneres. I visit the set of this epic film to pay my respects and say hi. They're shooting by a pond, and it's beautiful. In the scene Andy has an argument with his co-star and real life lover, Rupert. After the argument, Andy has to jump into the water. Don't ask me why, I got the impression it was the beginning of a little action scene. Like they fight, then some off screen danger comes along, forcing Andy to jump in and hide. I'm guessing the next beat would be Rupert jumping in as well, followed by the two of them making amends, as the danger would show them what's really important- love. They would then frolic amongst the lilly pads, as two gaybies would.

Anyway, I was watching the argument, and was amazed at how intimate and real it felt. Ellen did a great job of casting real life partners. Later on, during a short break, me and Ellen discuss Andy's acting talents, as well as Andy and Rupert's real life relationship problems. They are both method actors, and the on screen fighting was leading to problems in the bedroom. That conversation prompted Ellen to reveal to me she was having relationship problems as well, with her girlfriend Austin. We had a great heart to heart, riffing on marriage and love and existence. We definitely bonded.

After the shoot I went over to Andy and Rupert's apartment to have some baked Alaskan salmon with cream sauce, and they gave me a DVD player. I was overjoyed, as I was having issues with mine.

Then I woke up.

No One Calls Me Back #2

2009-05-19T10:54:00.000-07:00

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.

Five Good Beers

2009-05-14T00:28:00.000-07:00

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?

My Lunch

2009-04-20T02:15:00.000-07:00

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

Book of Dreams: Squatting A Marlin

2009-03-31T13:38:00.000-07:00

I've mentioned before my dislike of the name Justin. Why? Because it reminds people of *NSYNC. There's nothing I hate more then people calling me Justin Timberlake, probably because I'd rather be considered a respected filmmaker then a (possibly gay) boy band member. The funny thing is I've always respected J.T., and wouldn't mind being his best friend forever (aka my BFF). To be honest, I even owned my fair share of *NSYNC albums back in high school (ok, all of them). I told myself they were for the ladies, but that was obviously self-denial. For one, I didn't know any ladies. And even if I did, it didn't explain how I'd bump "Bye, Bye, Bye" ALONE in my car (with windows up and tightly sealed, of course). So, in conclusion, I hate what I love and I love what I hate. It's all the same to me.

Now that you've been warned of my man crush for J.T., you'll be able to understand my most recent dream. Here it is:

I'm at the gym working on my pecs, benching like 300-plus pounds like a champion. [Editor's Note: Most of J. Crum's dreams start this way and should]. Suddenly Justin Timberlake comes by with a friend, stopping at the bench next to me. I want to talk to him, but I wish his idiot friend would leave. He starts watching sports news on a nearby TV, and the Orlando Magic highlights are on. I know that I have an opening because J.T. has roots in Orlando. I quickly ponder questions that will show him how awesome I am, but all that comes out is:

"You lived in Orlando, right?"

J.T. says something, I can't remember exactly what, but he wasn't that interested. Luckily for me, it didn't matter. Moments later his idiot friend leaves and J.T. has to ask ME to spot him. Checkmate. Me and J.T. start pumping some major iron together, Arnold-style. We're doing tricep presses, incline presses, decline presses, the works. With each passing exercise J.T. becomes more and more like my trainer. He's pushing me to muscle failure, and I'm trying hard to impress. As we go along the exercises get stranger and stranger, like balancing weights on our heads and repeatedly flinging weights from one foot to the other. I question our form, but J.T. says we're doing fine. If he says we're fine, we're fine. I don't question my trainer again.

Suddenly the gym changes into an aquarium! It's like an aquarium and gym combined, the workout equipment sits between the fish tanks...

J.T. says it's time for squats and he starts SQUATTING A MARLIN. Unfortunately there's no more marlins lying around, so I have to find something to squat ASAP, cause I don't want J.T. mad at me for holding back. I ask one of the employees to find me something to squat, and he quickly pulls a creature out of it's tank. The creature is something like I've never seen before- it's similar to a sea turtle, but with a jelly fish-like circular flap around it's body instead of a shell. J.T. is still squatting, and starts screaming at me to squat the damn thing. I go to pick the creature up, but he scampers away and hides behind an ab machine. I get frustrated and start chasing him in circles around the ab machine, but he's a quick sea bugger. Eventually the creature gets frustrated and displays a nice set of teeth, which scares the hell out of me. He smells my fear and promptly chases ME in circles around the ab machine. All the while J.T. is growing impatient and pissed, he just keeps screaming: "SQUAT IT, SQUAT THE FISH NOW!!" I want to get my pump on as much as anyone, but I'll be damned if I mess with teeth like that.

So me and the creature continue our endless circles, taking turns chasing one another. Eventually the employee comes and takes the creature away, apologizing for his grumpiness. I look up towards J.T. and know I'm in trouble- he just finished his massive set of marlin squats and is marching toward me like a madman...

Then I woke up, just in time. Hopefully J. Tizzle will calm down by the time we get pumped later tonight.

K@L Coming Soon

2009-03-15T15:55:00.000-07:00

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.

Hook

2009-03-07T20:35:00.001-08:00

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...

Notes From Girls #3

2009-02-28T15:10:00.001-08:00

My senior year in high school I happened to meet a random girl I'll call Katie. Katie was a sophmore with a school girl crush, and I wasn't always particularly receptive to her advances. She was cute and flattering, but I didn't take her seriously, mainly because of her age. To me, a senior who was about to graduate, she wasn't a day over ten years old. She reminded me of a girl from fourth grade who used to scream with delight every time she saw me. A couple of times I found Katie standing by my locker, waiting for me. One of those times she gave me this:

The "guy talk" she mentions:

The morning hours before the letter were spent in carpentry class, and two of the guys from class knew Katie. These are the two "guys" she was referring to. They asked about me and Katie, and I told them I wasn't going to pursue her, that I had my eye on someone else. Their response:

"Well you should at least get a blow job or something, man. Hot damn!"

A few more blow job jokes come and go, and I laugh along, saying "yeah, right," thinking it's all a big joke- a big joke that would stay in the sanctum of the workshop. The problem is that didn't happen, and they told Katie about our "talk," even though I didn't say but two words. And not only that, Katie was into it. In fact, she found it "really interesting!!" I like girls who are eager to please, but damn. I couldn't believe they told her what was said, much less the fact that she liked what she heard. The image of her as the innocent ten-year-old quickly vanished, along with the gleeful screams, the kicks under the table, and the notes of yes, no, or maybe. Post-letter Katie was a different person to me, and I couldn't look her in the eye again- not because of what she wrote, but what she thought I wanted in return for a date or simple phone conversation. So time passed- awkwardly- until I graduated a few months later.

It wasn't until summer that I realized eye contact isn't needed for a blow job.*

*This is an extremely innappropriate joke, and I apologize. I never had sexual relations with Katie.

Book of Dreams: Champion Couch Kickers

2009-02-27T01:31:00.000-08:00

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.

No One Calls Me Back

2009-02-13T20:28:00.000-08:00

Laughter alone is like bullets without a gun,
A wish without a star isn't done.
Then again, my only wish is by the rope to hang;
Throw my body to the moon and back, like a boomerang.
So life wakes me again, unforgiven and last;
Sins do not wash away, the able mind suffers past.
So lay back, close your eyes, wish your wish;
Swallow the disappointment, your last dish.
The air will leave your lungs, the heart will beat no beat;
Your toes numb with needles, heat on top of heat.
It's now clear, in this last moment:
The difference between man and ape is atonement.

25 Random Things About Me

2009-02-11T14:15:00.001-08:00

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.

Notes From Girls #2

2009-02-10T00:42:00.000-08:00

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.

I'm A Black Man.

2009-01-24T13:07:00.001-08:00

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.

Pappaw Land: Synopsis

2009-01-23T12:14:00.001-08:00

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.*

Notes From Girls #1

2009-01-22T19:16:00.000-08:00

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.

Nomad

2009-01-21T14:44:00.000-08:00

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?

Scribe Asylum Photo Shoot

2009-01-20T15:48:00.000-08:00

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*

Cheetara and Our Baby

2009-01-19T15:49:00.001-08:00

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.

Uncle Fester

2008-10-20T22:30:00.001-07:00

I figured I'd inject some silliness into this blog, as I've recently realized my previous posts are a bit depressing. While the others make you contemplate jumping from the Golden Gate Bridge, this one will bring you back from the ledge. This is a video me and buddy Maceo Greenberg made on the fly over the summer, when I took him to the doctor because of the infected ingrown hair on his neck the size of Mt. Olympus, which we nicknamed Uncle Fester. This is Uncle Fester's extraction from Maceo's neck, along with a groovy tune we made over a few beers later that night:

Nevermind, you can jump now.

Aching Nostalgia

2008-10-16T23:24:00.000-07:00

I can't sleep. My mind is flooded with past memories. I've somehow learned everything and nothing since the year 1998. It's the memories of that year, specifically, that haunt me tonight, for whether they were good times or bad, it's a time I'll never see again. Virginia is gone. My childhood friends Richie, Andy, and Eddie are gone. My innocence is gone. 1998 is the year I learned there's more to sex than making babies. It's this year I learned what beer tastes like, then what it tastes like mixed with Kool-Aid. It's this year I learned what it felt like to go trick or treating the last time, to realize you won't be a professional athlete when you grow up, and how special a girl's company can be. That year was full of real burden, real learning, and real shame. I didn't even know what it meant to be cool at that point, and I couldn't even pretend otherwise. I was a 5 foot 3 inch, out of shape, baby-faced late bloomer who played Parks and Rec basketball and averaged 6 points a game. I had no idea where a woman urinated from, besides that it was down "there" somewhere. I thought "evil" things like drugs or alcohol would kill me almost instantaneously. I never asserted myself or spoke loud enough to be heard. That was me in 1998, the 15 year-old Justin Blake Crum; the one who really knew what it meant to be alive, and the one I look up to now. I wish I felt as alive as he did.

Rockin' The Best

2008-10-13T11:56:00.000-07:00

This is a poem (or rap) that I wrote back in high school, while bored in History class. I'm sure it's the best thing I've written. At this point in my life I had just given up smoking weed at the ripe old age of 16, and my white stoner friends were pressuring me to start again. To combat them, I began hanging with some black kids who taught me a thing or two about ballin' and being fly. This is an imagined argument between an Eminem-version of me and one of my old stoner friends:

I look through the window, my homie's smokin' endo.
I say, hey man, you know what though,
I try to be the coolest ever, pimpin', rockin', no lie.

You know, he said, you oughta try this chocolate thai.

Guess you haven't listened before you fag,
I don't smoke, ask again I'll throw you in a body bag.

He said, alright dude cool it, cool it, chill.

Okay, okay, let me go down and pick up my bill,
Let the ladies see me pay for my room service.

He said, yo, stop, you're making me nervous.
Why do you pay for that shit, I'd rather hit the hot spot;
The money making hos east to west,
They pass the test.

I said slowly so he could understand:
Cause I've got to be the coolest ever, pimpin', rockin' the best.
Even if I didn't I'd still beat the rest.

Man I know you try to be the coolest ever, pimpin', rockin' the best,
But if you don't stop spendin' you'll be broke like the rest.

Ho back up, you better get yo head, get yo head straight.
You the one spendin' too much money cause you just can't wait
To blaze it up, it's just never enough, so you blaze some more.
You're a mother fuckin' stoner man, so don't be mad that I got some allure.

Shut up trick, you know I got glaucoma.
Besides, you know how I love the aroma.

Fool, you have no diseases, you just don't quit.
You need to learn a little lesson, by the way, where's my hair pick?

What!? You're always tryin' to act black!
You need to smoke this, relax, and kick back.

Shut up while I give you a little program
On how to be the coolest ever, pimpin', rockin' the best.
Even if I didn't I still beat the rest.

The Quiet Night

2008-10-10T23:35:00.000-07:00

As darkness fills the sky it seems to fill me as well, as if the rooms of my spirit go pitch black, one at a time. There's something about night that can force me into melancholy; a lonely and overwhelming emptiness. Today I did exactly what I wanted to do- nothing- yet now I feel unsatisfied and guilty for brushing my day's work aside. It's as if night knows I went unfulfilled during the day, and now seeks it's slow vengeance. I sit here and worry about things uncompleted, all while never lifting a finger to complete them. The quiet of night can be soothing but tonight it's dooming, whispering:

It's over, you've failed. You deserve nothingness, the quiet nothingness. You deserve to listen to your own rotting soul as it kicks and screams, wishing only to free itself from your body.

So I sit through the late hours, as I've done during the day, until morning comes and I can do it over again. For nothingness breeds nothingness, and I have nothing.

The Places You Have Been

2008-10-03T10:53:00.000-07:00

A voice pierces and shakes through my veins;
Inside blood changes, softens.
Images hover in the air, a past that's forgotten;
They rise to the heavens like a burnt offering.
There's judgement, alone and waiting;
He leaves.

Lazy Dreamers

2008-10-01T01:11:00.000-07:00

I’m furious with people who lack the drive to achieve their dreams; the type of people that continually talk about what they want to do, what they want in life, but never lift a finger to see anything through. These lazy dreamers talk a lot, maybe even show a semblance of commitment to their lofty goals, but deep down the talk is empty and the commitment is minimal. Hollywood is a town full of lazy dreamers. I’ve met people who’ve moved from across the country just to get a shot at becoming a filmmaker or actor, but once they’re here they sit idle, forgetting the reason they came in the first place. Maybe they’re just in love with the “magic” of Hollywood, a place where even the lazy can brag to their friends back home about seeing Lindsay Lohan leave a club.

I used to think the “average” people who lived life without a major goal besides family or security were a boring breed, and for many years I looked down on them. Who could be happy with just reproducing? Now I see them as a breath of fresh air compared to those who nightly rattle off half-concocted plans to achieve their fantastical goals, but do nothing during the day to suggest they have any goal at all. I am heartbroken to see many of my friends showing symptoms of the lazy dreamer, and at times I wish to scream with full force:

“Shut the fuck up, you fucking dick! If you want to shoot your shitty independent movie maybe you should try to write one first! WRITE ONE FUCKING PAGE!”

This may be an exaggeration; many of them write a few pages, they just never finish anything. Within their weekly schedules they manage to find a full three hours to commit to their highest of aspirations, while miraculously finding another ten hours to discuss the future possibilities of their aforementioned back breaking labor. It seems to me if you’re in a specific place, like Hollywood, aspiring for a specific trade- like filmmaking- you should manage to spend more than a few hours on that trade. Of course when I mention this fact, in the most polite manner, I get the usual response:

“I have to work my shitty job, and I have a girlfriend. And I do pilates on Mondays. I’m trying to find more time. Maybe next month.”

That’s when I imagine breaking their nose into a thousand tiny, bloody pieces. If you’re resolved to spending all your time working a shitty job and going on dates and doing weird new age exercises, you should just accept the fact that you’re a lazy dreamer. I’d respect you more if you shut your mouth and moved back to Kansas. You’re better off being one of the “average” people than another prick in Hollywood waiting for the big break that isn’t deserved.