THE Justin Dudley CENTURY

My Geekiness is Getting in the Way of my Nerdiness

2008-02-28T08:48:00.000-08:00

I am a geek. I am not afraid to say that anymore. The only reason that I bring this up really, is because most people don’t understand where this love of all things nerd stems from. Well, my gentle readership, I will enlighten all of you in this very essay.

Last night, I purchased Justice League: The New Frontier, a DC animated film based on the award winning graphic novel by Darwyn Cooke, one of my favorite working comic writers/artists working today. The film takes place in the late fifties, which in comic chronology makes it The Silver Age of comics. The Silver Age was the time when heroes started to take the forms and incarnations that fans know and love today. This is when the final designs for Superman, Green Lantern, Batman, and The Flash all became evident. It was during the watching of this fantastic film, I came to realize something….comics are one of the few true Pop Culture loves that I have, and will always have.

Now, mind you, I have plenty of loves in Pop Culture; I love many diverse kinds of music, films, art, and books, but comics where my first and most intense loves as an adolescent. I can even tell you my first foray into comics, The X-Men, the very first issue of the now classic last story arc by Chris Claremont. I was given two large stacks of comics by my mother, who had picked them up at a garage sale. I was nine years old. I had been familiar with heroes such as Batman, the X-Men, and Spider-Man through the sorely missed Fox Kids cartoon series (Interesting Side Note, to this day many hardcore comic fans, myself included, maintain that these cartoons were the single truest incarnation of the comics ever on TV or in films, but Hollywood is starting to come round now). I had never before tried the comics that these were based on, but when I did…there was no going back. After that, I was a child possessed; I bought up and devoured any issue of any main hero, albeit Marvel or DC, I could find. Hell, I even had issues of Spider-Man: The Clone Saga! That’s how devoted I was to this medium. Interests in video games and other fads came and waned, but comics remained, up until this very day.

The real turning point in my love of comics though came in 1999, when I discovered that comics were not necessarily confined to the standard superpowered men in tights. This is when I discovered the likes of Mike Mignola’s Hellboy, Mike Allred’s Madman, Stray Bullets, the genius of Frank Miller and the two books that forever changed my life as a comic fan: The Watchmen by Alan Moore and The Sandman by Neil Gaiman. I was still living in Seymour with my mother and still buying up so many Marvels and DCs, I could have had fucking stock in them, when I was introduced to a friend of my mother’s who lived by us in the projects (yep, I used the live there). I didn’t know this, but he was a HUGE comic fan, had been since he was my age, but in was introduced to the heavier comic scene through Frank Miller’s The Dark Knight Returns, a book I took in and was blown away with later that summer. I was sat down, after a long conversation about heroes and the story arcs that were taking place at that time, and was given the trade paperbacks of The Watchmen and Sandman: Preludes and Nocturnes. Think back to the first time you saw Casablanca or the first time you ever listened to your favorite band of all time…now multiply that by a thousand. The pages, the art, the story, and the dialogue seemed to jump into life as I read it. It was beautiful and sad and angry and everything I never knew that I would love.

Since then, there has been no going back. I have loved and will love comics until the end of my days. To be totally honest, I can’t tell you what it really is about them; I think it might be the fact that it our culture’s form of literary gods or perhaps maybe they show me a world with hope and larger than life protectors that will stand up for those who can’t stand up for themselves…but I really think it just might be my one and only link to childhood and I can’t lose that.

In Brightest Day, In Blackest Night,
-J. PARTRIDGE, THE ENEMY.

I could be anything, anything but sticking around

2008-01-28T08:22:00.000-08:00

I realize it’s been quite a while since I’ve posted anything, and I sincerely apologize.

…

Wait a second…

Wait just a goddamned second!

Ya know what? I’m not sorry! This is MY blog! This is MY Century! And I’ll update any time I damn well please!

*takes breath*

Okay. That’s better.

I got a lot to cover, ladies and gentlemen, so strap yourself in to your seats and prepare to spend some time with J. Dudley, Earl of Studley.

First, Mr. Partridge and I have decided to finally move forward with the creation of an improvisational/sketch comedy group here in Wichita Falls. This is an idea we’ve tossed around for well over a year and we came to the conclusion two weeks ago that we have no more excuses left to put it off further. I’ll go into detail later once we hash some things out, but if you live in the area and would like to contribute in ANY way (we’re looking for performers, writers, and… well, anyone who knows what they’re doing… because we most certainly don’t), call me, email me, or Myspace me.

-

On December 11th, on THIS blog, I wrote the following:

I think Obama is going to win Iowa. It'll be close, but he's going to take the prize. In doing so, Hillary's air of inevitability will evaporate completely and the win will push the esteemed Senator from Illinois into the driver’s seat of the front-runner stockcar. From there, Hillary wins New Hampshire but by a razor-thin margin. She’ll claim a huge victory but anyone with a real instinct for the political game will sense that it is only a token win. Obama cleans up in South Carolina in a blowout that no one could have predicted two months ago and it’s smooth sailing from there as he the voters scream “FINISH HER!” and Barack “Kano” Obama punches Foreward, Down, Foreward, B, A, B, Foreward, Start into his Super Nintendo control pad and rips Hill’s still-beating heart out.

Well, Obama won Iowa (though I was wrong in predicting it would be close… because he DESTROYED her worthless ass), Hillary won a very “razor thin” victory in New Hampshire, and His Audaciousness most certainly had the truest definition of a “blow out” in South Carolina on Saturday… so please, feel free at any time to begin worshipping me. I’ll take gifts of gold, frankincense, and Mir as well as celestial virgins and cherry cheesecake.

Now, I realize that it may not be “smooth sailing” considering no one at this point knows how Super Tuesday is going to turn out next week, but I’m predicting now that my main-man WILL be the Democratic nominee sooner than we think and that in January of 2009, we’re going to be treated to an epic, Kennedy-esque inaugural that may quite possibly make grown men weep with tears of pride.

This entire process has been an amazing civic roller coaster ride, hasn’t it? I’m particularly sentimental because unlike a majority of the primary voters in my party, I’ve been a loyal fan of Senator Obama since his keynote address at the 2004 Democratic National Convention.

Infact, on July 27, 2004, I wrote this prophetic piece on my old blog…

Okay... have you ever watched some rookie nobody kid... in anything be it sports, movies, television... anything, where you KNOW that this person is delivering a performance that is going to not only make him a star, but will propel him to greatness?? Barrack Obama literally just went from someone no average person knows about, to a future president… the future African American president... I'm not over exaggerating... his speech was THAT good. He had the crowd in the palm of his hand and had him CHANTING his name during the speech... something they didn’t do for Clinton, Gore, Hillary, or Carter. I wasn’t the only person with my mouth open... everyone there could feel that this guy is a star. Tomorrow, everyone is going to be talking about this guy... and his name will be on a lot of peoples lips... though no doubt mispronouncing it. - I'm saying it here... This man will be president one day. Write that down.
We’ll see, my friends. We’ll see.

Aside from that, I also find it odd that up until 6 months ago, I had an amazing amount of respect for Bill Clinton. I can safely say now that that respect had dwindled to practically nothing. I of course still think he was a fairly good President (especially compared to the jerkoff known as Dubya), but his actions lately are inexcusable and downright pathetic. Obama's opposition of the war a “fairytale”? Really, Bill? Perhaps my dad has been right. Perhaps… Perhaps… Perhaps… Slick Willy really IS an unscrupulous piece of shit? If so, then perhaps he and his wife really are a perfect couple. Power-hungry, unethical, spineless ambassadors of the Washington establishment.

Check out this great article written by Philip Gailey of the St. Petersburg Times for more on the Clintons and their Nixon-ian tactics.
--

If I were to compare the year 2007 to a movie, then I'd most definitely say it was the Godfather, and as for 2008? It looks like it's shaping up to be the Godfather Part II, which means it'll be even BETTER. Below is a list of films I'm most looking foreward to.

Star Trek (December 25th) - J.J. Abrams (producer/creator/director of LOST, Alias, Cloverfield, MI: III) is currently filming this prequel/reboot of sorts of the original Star Trek series with the original characters all recast with younger actors, among them Zachary Quinto (of Heroes fame) as Spock, Chris Pine as Kirk, Karl Urban (Eomer in Lord of the Rings) as McCoy, and Simon F'ing Pegg (Shawn of the Dead/Hot Fuzz) as Scotty. And if that isn't badass-enough, the ORIGINAL Spock, Leonard Nimoy, returns as THE star of the film. No Shatner as Kirk, unfortunately, but I have a reeeeeally good feeling about this. I can't wait to feel like a full-fledged nerd again!

Quantum of Solace (November 7th) - Daniel Craig IS James Bond in the 22nd film in the franchise. A direct sequel to 2006's AMAZING Casino Royale, Bond finds himself on a mission to uncover the truth about Vesper's death; a mission that leads him to the "organization" hinted at in CR and the leader of it, Dominic Greene (Mathieu Amalric), who plans to overtake one of the world's most important natural resources. As a life-long James Bond fan left disallusioned and spiteful after Pierce Brosnan's horrible span of films, Craig and the team behind Royale made me fall in love with this character all over again. I am most certainly as excited as a man can be with his clothes on.

Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull (May 22nd) - My God, I can't believe I'm actually writing about the 4th Indiana Jones film without having to use "rumored", "on the backburner", or "George Lucas needs to get off his pathetic fat ass and greenlight a goddamned script before I pop a cap in his hackish, fat ass". This film, or different variations of it, has been planned since 1990. I remember reading about the desires of Spielberg and Ford since 1996 when I was a subscriber to the now defunct Cinescape magazine. In 2003, I remember restraining myself from spitting at the television when Lucas announced in an interview with Entertainment Tonight that he had rejected the Frank Darabount (of Shawshenk Redemption fame) script that Ford and Spielberg loved. And then came the day in 2006 when a 100% positive greenlight was given, and I wept tears of nerd joy. So basically, if this film ISN'T good... then the fate of the world may be at stake, as well as my sanity. Count on it.

The Dark Knight (July 18th) - It's gonna be reeeeeeeally strange watching this film now that Heath Ledger is dead. Not necessarily because the fact of his death will be in everyones mind, but because of the new details emerging about how seriously he took the character of the Joker and how it may have driven him in nuts. But regardless, EVERYTHING about this film looks and sounds amazing.

Get Sm art (June 20th) - When I was a kid, I worshipped this show. Being a Nick @ Nite junky, I feel I was partly raised by Donna Reed herself, with Dobie Gillis, Mr. Ed, the gang from F-Troop, Dick Van Dyke, and especially Agent 86 himself and his beautiful partner 99 as my neighbors. Not only that, but for nearly two years I PLAYED MAXWELL SMART on the playground with my friends. Richard was the Chief, John was agent 13, Daniel was the dog... K-13, and my girlfriends (yes, plural... they didn't mind sharing the title), Lindsey and Crystal shared the character of 99. As strange as it sounds, it was so much fun that it kept us occupied at recess for two freakin' years! And now Steve Carrell is bringing the character of Max to a whole new generation, with Anne Hathaway by his side as the lovely agent 99. I think after seeing the film, I'll take a walk around the old playground... just for old-times sake.

A ton of other great non-franchise/geek-orgasm films are coming out as well, and I'll be sure to note them later. Seriously, this year is going to be amazing!

Special shout out goes to my pal Sara whom I met at Toby's a few weekends ago. She's cute... AND it feels like she's my twin. But as cool as she is, I WILL destroy her at Monopoly. Count on it.

And that's it for now, my babies. I promise I'll write more soon. Afterall, I can't let MY Century be overrun by the likes of Justin "Dances* with Fat Chicks" Partridge, now can I?

- J.

* - "dances" = codeword for something else entirely. muwahaha.

You Were Going Places, Kid...

2008-01-24T14:52:00.000-08:00

The good always seem to die young.

Heath Ledger, 28 years old, was found dead in a New York apartment on Tuesday. All signs, as of the writing of this, are pointing to an accidental overdose on sleeping pills. The news has sent shockwaves throughout the Hollywood community.

Upon hearing the news of Heath Ledger’s death, my first reaction of complete and udder disbelief, I didn’t see how this could happen. My second reaction, I am sad to say, was a sneaking suspicion that this was some crazy, over the top viral marketing technique to promote The Dark Knight, but that impulse was quickly silenced. This was a guy who, though popular and a critical darling, was poised to become the next great young superstar. He was charming, good-looking, and easy going. His recent roles included a character based on Bob Dylan in Todd Haynes’ I’m Not There and, of course, The Joker in The Dark Knight. I had never really paid that much attention to Ledger, until just recently because of TDK, but whenever I would see him on screen, I would find myself always watching him. He had a natural charisma that echoed into all of his roles. It is sad to see someone this young, this talented, and this dedicated to the profession of acting be taken away so young.

It’s River Phoenix all over again.

Heath Ledger will be sorely missed in Hollywood and I regret to think on everything that we will be missing with him gone.

-J. Partridge, The Enemy.

"I have to keep talking. If I don't, I will most likely SHIT MY PANTS IN THIS STAIRWELL!!!"

2008-01-24T14:46:00.000-08:00

Viral marketing is a funny thing. You see, the thing is that the whole concept can actually hurt or help your film. If your movie is great, the campaign works. If your movie is a hunk of shit, people wonder why the hell you even tried. Cloverfield was a movie that I was on the fence about. I had seen the no-named teaser in front of Transformers and thought, like the rest of the audience, “What in the fuck is Abrams doing?!” I had speculated with the rest of the basement-dwelling masses about whether this was a Voltron movie or just a really shitty story about a Lovecraftian creature attacking New York. I had also grown weary of the constant secrecy and goofy market tactics, which Abrams now, due to his extreme distain for giving shit away, is known for. Still, I wondered what the fuck Abrams, director Matt Reeves, and writer Drew Goddard were up to. Now I know…they were changing movies as we know them.

Cloverfield is more of an experience than a film. It is something that just screams to be seen in theaters. The entire concept (found footage and giant monster attacks a city), though tired and tried, is given a tense and emotional reboot by Reeves and Goddard. Drew Goddard is a name you need to get used to hearing, based on this script; I would not be surprised if he becomes Hollywood’s new, hot writer. Big props also to Reeves, his taut visual style and Spielberg-like (that’s right, I said it) slow reveals just might have written his ticket to the big projects. Also, another crew shout out to creature designer, Neville Page, for creating something that really no one has even seen before. It truly is something that is equal parts terrifying and unnamable.

The story, though slow starting, packs a real weight. It is a simple point A to point B thing, but the way in which the characters interact and think is what makes to buy into the concept of this being an actual event that has occurred. Rob is heading away to Japan for a new job, his brother and his brother’s fiancée are throwing him a party, and his best friend, Hud, had been put in charge of filming testimonials of the people at the party. Halfway through the party, Rob’s long unrequited love, Beth, shows up in the arms of another man. They fight. She leaves…then its monster time. This initial sequence plays like a Nine Eleven-esque, firsthand account of what is going down. Explosions are happening, debris is falling, people are screaming and running down stairs, and, most importantly, no one knows what in the ever loving fuck is going on. One extra is even heard saying, “It’s another attack!”…the entire movie plays on the fear that gripped us that day, though instead of terrorists, it’s a big fuckin’ thing. They turn on the news to find that they know just about as much as they do. A roar pierces the commotion and something tears its way down the street, eating and wrecking everything in its path. Panic sets in as the evacuation starts, but Rob gets a garbled call on his cell phone. Beth is hurt, she is bleeding, and she can’t move. Rob decides to go back into the heart of the city, ground zero of the monster’s wake, and rescue her. Friends in tow, he starts to make his way into Midtown and this is where the movie starts to take leaps and bounds. The rest of the ninety minutes play like an intense documentary. Characters die and something happens that hasn’t happened to me in a long time of movie going…I care. These people are real to me and that is the real beauty of Cloverfield, it puts a human face on an extraordinary situation and makes it very visceral.

My only real gripe about the movie and it’s really only because I am such a geek for this sort of thing, is the lack of explanation of the monster. I know there is, most likely, a shit load of clues hidden throughout the movie (which I am told there is) that explains it, but I am kinda lazy and I like to know where shit comes from. Also, the start before the first attack drags a bit and some cutting could have tightened that up. Aside from those minor things, Cloverfield is the kind of movie that comes around every once and awhile that completely changes a genre and a highly, HIGHLY recommend that you partake in this.

Trying not to go that way, because there is horrific shit that way,
-J.Partridge, The Enemy.

I Wish..

2008-01-22T22:57:00.000-08:00

I wish I could watch my life through a glass or a mirror so that I could remember everything I saw. Because between you and me I can't remember shit.

I'm pretty sure that I would probably go back in time and kinda kick my ass and the asses of others for the crazy shit that happens.

I wish that I could save the world.
As a little kid, I was like any other, rendered uttlery useless by the powers of tv, Captain Planet! was the culprit. Let's save the world kids! Yay! And then at the end of the show I was like...Holy Shit I wanna be a superhero.

So I wish I were a superhero.

I wish the world really was flat. I blame Christopher Columbus. Prick.

I wish there were less days in a month and more hours in a day.

I wish I could get smarter without getting older.

I wish I had telepathy.

Sometimes I wish life was a cartoon and we could just be funny.

I wish that all of the time in the day could be like the time right between sunrise and the beginning of a new day. That would be great. That would make a great movie...Jack Black in The day without a day..dun dun dun..its a comedy, thriller, drama, tearjerker, documentary about a guy who wakes up one day and finds out thats all there is...just a day that has no day whatsoever. Does he find the day, hell no. Does he just sleep all of the time...mmmm, no. Will his life change once the day comes back...what the hell are you talking about? Its just a day without a day. You wake up thats all there is. End scene. Millions.

I wish that I could fly.

I wish I could invent something. The guy that made Breathrite nose strips had a friggen paperclip up his nose when he came up with that crap. A paperclip. And now a bandaid that you put on your nose to help you breathe better. Millions.

I wish I could invent something like Ron Popeil. Just set it and forget it.Millions.

I wish I could be invsible at random times during the day...not all the time just sometimes.

I wish I had a billion Myspace friends, so that I could possibly be the most popular gperson in the world. Mwuhahaha. I don't even know why that would impress me, but I think it would impress anyone.

/thecornman

Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now

2008-01-16T17:39:00.001-08:00

Disclaimer: If you haven’t seen the film The Departed, first off, you are an idiot and you must see it at once and secondly, I describe, in great lengths, the ending of said film in the essay below. If you wish not to know the ending of the film, please skip the first paragraph of the essay. Also, a hearty thanks to Sir Justin Dudley (whose century is his) for the bit of punch-up he gave to this article.

Remember the last twenty minutes of The Departed? Billy Costigan had finally caught the rat inside the State Troopers in the form of Frank Costello’s lapdog, Colin Sullivan. Costigan is inside an elevator to bring Sullivan to justice at long last. There is a moment in which he breaks down and pleads with Billy to just kill him, in which Costigan replies, “I am killing you”. The ride ends, the door opens, a shot rings out, and the brains of Billy Costigan are now painting the back wall of the elevator. The bullet that crushed the hearts of thousands of love-struck Leo-lovers (including me, I’m not ashamed to say) came from the gun of another Massachusetts state trooper. Immediately following, the chubby black guy whom Costigan attended the police academy with comes running down the steps, met with the gruesome visual. A beat is followed by another gunshot resulting in the death of the token “fucked” black guy in Boston. It’s then shockingly discovered that this no-named, red-shirted* trooper was yet another mole put into the department by Costello. And Sullivan, being the dirty, no good motherfucker that he is, splatters THAT guy’s brains as well in a wonderful orgy of gratuitous, cerebrum smashing that only our Lord Scorsese can deliver. Of course, Sullivan gets away and lies his way through the funerals and gets his life back on track. Cut to his apartment, who is standing there with gun in hand? Marky-fucking-Mark Whalberg, who takes one shot and one shot only. Long story short, everybody gets a bullet save for Marky.

This is in a nutshell, how my day went on January 15th, 2008. Single handedly, the worst single day of my life, for now. What follows is a short hand account of the day’s events from the time I wake up to the time I rested my weary head. Enjoy my pain.

I wake up and get ready and attend my first class. All in all, the day didn’t seem that bad from the start, everything just seemed kind of stagnant and that was totally ok with me. So, I noticed that I was not on the role for my first two classes…this concerned me, so I walk over to the Office of the Registrars to inquire about what in the blue fuck is going on. I talk to them and I am told that I am unenrolled from every single one of my classes and that I was sent a letter telling me that I would have to update my schedule, according to what they need me to do. I am the only one around my household that checks the mail and I never received such letter, when I relay this to the wonderful woman behind the counter (at this point, I didn’t want to kill everything), I am told nothing…the only answer to this was a shrug of the shoulders. Fuck.

I am also told that I have to totally redo my class schedule. So, I walk out of the Hardin Building, with head still held high, to redo it. Oh, did I mention that my advisor wasn’t fucking there, at school? Yeah, so after about a wait of thirty minutes (it is now about 11:30), my advisor rolls in, we do the damn thing, and I am off to the Academic Advisement thingy that I have to go to on campus. I sign in, sit for a bit, and think quietly to myself, “Buck up, Kiddo! There is no way that things can get any worse!” I forget that these are words that are said before every real disaster in history. The people who work there are going to lunch and will not be back until about 2:30, I have to pick up my sisters in Iowa Park by three. Good Lord. So, I talk her into a meeting at two, which should give me ample time for the kid fetching.

Cut to two, after a brief nap and lunch for myself. I am back at the AA building and sitting in the waiting room. I am called back. I start to explain my situation and the advisor appointed to me nods and starts to work it all out with me. She gets me all signed up and enrolled. For the first time, during the day, I am happy and things seem to be looking up, but then I take a look at my classes. Every other class is wrong. I am just waiting for a bus. I interrupt a meeting and tell her what has happened. It seems that my actual major’s advisor has written down the wrong call numbers for my majors classes. It is during the correction of this mistake that I come to realize that Midwestern State University is the Wichita Falls equal to the Bush Administration. No one knows what the hell is going on with the students, the staff is in shambles, and MSU has absolutely no exit strategy.

I leave the red tape covered institute of learning, enrolled and wanting to get some things right today. I pick the girls up with no incident, but I realize I need gas. I get money and proceed to the North Texas Rehab Center. It is at this lull in the narrative, that I will introduce a sub-plot that will come to play later, tonight is the starting auditions for the show this semester: A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum. I leave the girls with my mom and start toward a gas station, only to promptly run out on an access road. I curse my family’s name and start making phone calls to be rescued. Remember that sub-plot? Here is comes, I had been on the fence about auditions anyway and had finally decided to do it, so I called my mom to break the news, with the school of thought that if you are a theatre major, you need to do shows. I had called the director, who had assured me that the rehearsals would not be as time-consuming as my first show, The Importance of Being Earnest. I call my mother, who does not take the news well. She is still under the impression that I am still, at best, a high school sophomore, and plays are still a thing that is second…it’s not like I can make a career of it or fucking anything. It really boils down to me not being able to work as much and the complete disgust my parents have for helping me out from time to time with money issues. At some point in my family’s history, one of our women fucked a Jew and so began the line.

So, I, feeling cornered, start to lash out and the conversation is ended and I am saved by Dearest Stephanie Burris and Cutesy Daisy. I have to go BACK to the NTRC and buy my dad a fucking hat…I can’t make something like that up. I walk into my mom’s office and my dad is there. He asks me if I have gotten an estimate for the fender bender I got into the previous weekend. I reply no and start to explain my day. Now, one thing you have to understand about my mom is that her method of making a point is that she really just belittles you until you crack, which is immediately what happened. She is trying to hammer home the point that I was lazy last semester, failed a class, and have to repeat. She did this over and over and over until…

“I AM NOT GOING TO BE IN THE FUCKING SHOW!”

Yeah…I was going to tell her I wasn’t going to anyway…but yeah…

So, my mom kicks me out of her office and I get a stern taking to by my dad, which I really thought was going to end in a public flogging. Then I attend a Majors and Minors meeting and have to tell everyone that I can’t audition and have to endure all of the shit that came with that.

All in all, I lived a twenty-four hour Smiths song. The only thing that could have made things any worse was if I would have gotten a random blood test and the results being that I had AIDS, Sickacell, and Rickets all at the same time. Enough of this! This is the last pity post! Well, until something else bad happens…Be looking out for a Cloverfield review and a music article soon.

Good Night and Good Luck,
-J.Partridge, The Enemy

* It would be safe to assume that many of you do not know what the term “red-shirted” means. It would also be safe to assume that many of you are clueless motherfuckers who only care about pop-culture history starting in the year of our lord 1999. Well, my hapless friends, to be red-shirted means to be killed… Star Trek style. In the original series, Kirk, Spock, and McCoy would usually be accompanied on away missions to ‘strange new worlds’ by two or three security guys dressed in red Star Fleet uniforms. And 9 out of 10 times, these guys would be phasered to death, crushed by falling boulders, left on the planet to freeze to death, or poisoned by strange alien flowers spraying hazy death pollen… likely a form of 23rd century “insta-AIDS”.

So there ya go. Enjoy your random irrelevant 60’s pop culture reference of the day. You’re welcome. Hang on, If you haven’t seen The Departed and do not get the red shirt thing, you really don’t need to be reading this blog…or breathing…ever…

I just spent $140 on supplies for ONE CLASS

2008-01-14T18:54:00.000-08:00

Well… the first day of a new semester is now officially coming to a close.

Thank God.

All last week, I was really excited about getting back to my super-fun friends up in bustling Oklahoma City. But when I got up here, I realized that I wasn’t looking forward to being with these people (who are actually pretty boring and the city is just as lame as Wichita Falls)… I was anticipating getting away from my damn sister. Those of you who know Courtney will sympathize.

Now, at the end of Day 1, I am still trapped with Courtney, I’m away from my WF buddies, AND I’m not making 18 bucks an hour anymore. This is not an inspiring beginning to a new year.

A little about my two most noteworthy classes-

My math teacher has embraced his senility with open arms. He babbled aimlessly for the first 10 minutes of the class then a giant gorilla walked in the door. The gorilla very kindly introduced himself as Winston and proceeded to tell the teacher to sit down, shut up, and that he would be teaching this class from now on. As Winston the Gorilla launched into a lecture about the politics of building contractors-vs-Tarzan, the girl next to me woke me up and told me that class was over. I departed that building and headed over to my wellness class.

The teacher over there had each of us think of a word that describes us that starts with the same letter as the first letter of our name. For instance (and these are actual examples people used): Jolly Julia, Laughing Leslie, Enigmatic Eric, Silly Scott. After the teacher yapped about her two sons, Matthew and Mark, I decided that Wise-Ass Whitney probably wouldn’t go over well. She even asked Eric to define enigmatic. Ladies and gents, she was serious. Most of the people in the class laughed a bit, but when she just kept staring at him, he finally said, “You know… like an enigma? *silence* A puzzle?”

It is going to be a long semester.

A Commencement Address by Neal Boortz

2008-01-10T19:43:00.000-08:00

This is a long one, I realize that, but stick with it and you can accomplish anything, such as reading this lengthy speech. It's worth it, and you'll appreciate it.

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Neal Boortz

Many commencement speeches are boringly predictable. Neal Boortz a Texan, a lawyer, a Texas Aggie, and now a nationally syndicated talk show host from Atlanta. His speech is far different from what either the students or the faculty expected. Agree or not, his views are thought provoking. It would have been particularly entertaining to have witnessed the faculty's reaction! Don't stop reading if and when you find things that disturb you, you'll find other stuff that you'll find genuinely part of the reality of life in the Untied States of America.

His Commencement Address

"I am honored by the invitation to address you on this August occasion. It's about time. Be warned, however, that I am not here to impress you; you'll have enough smoke blown up your bloomers today. And you can bet your tassels I'm not here to impress the faculty and administration. You may not like much of what I have to say, and that's fine. You will remember it though; especially after about 10 years out there in the real world. This, it goes without saying, does not apply to those of you who will seek your careers and your fortunes as government employees. This gowned gaggle behind me is your faculty. You've heard the old saying that those who can - do. Those who can't - teach. That sounds deliciously insensitive. But there is often raw truth in insensitivity, just as you often find feel-good falsehoods and lies in compassion. Say good-bye to your faculty because now you are getting ready to go out there and do. These folks behind me are going to stay right here and teach.

By the way, just because you are leaving this place with a diploma doesn't mean the learning is over. When an FAA flight examiner handed me my private pilot's license many years ago, he said, 'Here, this is your ticket to learn. The same can be said for your diploma. Believe me, the learning has just begun. Now, I realize that most of you consider yourselves Liberals. In fact, you are probably very proud of your liberal views. You care so much. You feel so much. You want to help so much. After all, you're a compassionate and caring person, aren't you now? Well, isn't that just so extraordinarily special. Now, at this age, is as good a time as any to be a liberal; as good a time as any to know absolutely everything. You have plenty of time, starting tomorrow, for the truth to set in.

Over the next few years, as you begin to feel the cold breath of reality down your neck, things are going to start changing pretty fast... including your own assessment of just how much you really know. So here are the first assignments for your initial class in reality:
Pay attention to the news, read newspapers, and listen to the words and phrases that proud Liberals use to promote their causes. Then, compare the words of the left to the words and phrases you hear from those evil, heartless, greedy conservatives. From the Left you will hear "I feel." From the Right you will hear "I think." From the Liberals you will hear references to groups -- The Blacks, The Poor, The Rich, The Disadvantaged, The Less Fortunate. From the Right you will hear references to individuals. On the Left you hear talk of group rights; on the Right, individual rights.

That about sums it up, really: Liberals feel. Liberals care. They are pack animals whose identity is tied up in group dynamics. Conservatives and Libertarians think -- and, setting aside the theocracy crowd, their identity is centered on the individual. Liberals feel that their favored groups have enforceable rights to the property and services of productive individuals. Conservatives and Libertarians, I among them I might add, think that individuals have the right to protect their lives and their property from the plunder of the masses.

In college you developed a group mentality, but if you look closely at your diplomas you will see that they have your individual names on them. Not the name of your school mascot, or of your fraternity or sorority, but your name. Your group identity is going away. Your recognition and appreciation of your individual identity starts now. If, by the time you reach the age of 30, you do not consider yourself to be a libertarian or a conservative, rush right back here as quickly as you can and apply for a faculty position. These people will welcome you with open arms. They will welcome you, that is, so long as you haven't developed an individual identity. Once again you will have to be willing to sign on to the group mentality you embraced during the past four years.

Something is going to happen soon that is going to really open your eyes. You're going to actually get a full time job! You're also going to get a lifelong work partner. This partner isn't going to help you do your job. This partner is just going to sit back and wait for payday. This partner doesn't want to share in your effort, but in your earnings. Your new lifelong partner is actually an agent; an agent representing a strange and diverse group of people; an agent for every teenager with an illegitimate child; an agent for a research scientist who wanted to make some cash answering the age-old question of why monkeys grind their teeth; an agent for some poor demented hippie who considers herself to be a meaningful and talented artist, but who just can't manage to sell any of her artwork on the open market. Your new partner is an agent for every person with limited, if any, job skills, but who wanted a job at City Hall; an agent for tin-horn dictators in fancy military uniforms grasping for American foreign aid; an agent for multi-million-dollar companies who want someone else to pay for their overseas advertising; an agent for everybody who wants to use the unimaginable power of this agent's for their personal enrichment and benefit. That agent is our wonderful, caring, compassionate, oppressive government. Believe me, you will be awed by the unimaginable power this agent has: power that you do not have; a power that no individual has, or will have. This agent has the legal power to use force, deadly force to accomplish its goals.

You have no choice here. Your new friend is just going to walk up to you, introduce itself rather gruffly, hand you a few forms to fill out, and move right on in. Say hello to your own personal one ton gorilla. It will sleep anywhere it wants to.

Now, let me tell you, this agent is not cheap. As you become successful it will seize about 40% of everything you earn. And no, I'm sorry, there just isn't any way you can fire this agent of plunder, and you can't decrease its share of your income. That power rests with him, not you.

So, here I am saying negative things to you about government. Well, be clear on this: It is not wrong to distrust government. It is not wrong to fear government. In certain cases it is not even wrong to despise government for government is inherently evil. Yes ... a necessary evil, but dangerous nonetheless ... somewhat like a drug. Just as a drug that in the proper dosage can save your life, an overdose of government can be fatal.

Now let's address a few things that have been crammed into your minds at this university. There are some ideas you need to expunge as soon as possible. These ideas may work well in academic environment, but they fail miserably out there in the real world.

First is that favorite buzz word of the media, government and academia: Diversity! You have been taught that the real value of any group of people - be it a social group, an employee group, a management group, whatever - is based on diversity. This is a favored liberal ideal because diversity is based not on an individual's abilities or character, but on a person's identity and status as a member of a group. Yes, it's that liberal group identity thing again.

Within the great diversity movement group identification - be it racial, gender based, or some other minority status - means more than the individual's integrity, character or other qualifications.

Brace yourself. You are about to move from this academic atmosphere where diversity rules, to a workplace and a culture where individual achievement and excellence actually count. No matter what your professors have taught you over the last four years, you are about to learn that diversity is absolutely no replacement for excellence, ability, and individual hard work. From this day on every single time you hear the word "diversity" you can rest assured that there is someone close by who is determined to rob you of every vestige of individuality you possess.

We also need to address this thing you seem to have about "rights." We have witnessed an obscene explosion of so-called "rights" in the last few decades, usually emanating from college campuses.

You know the mantra: You have the right to a job. The right to a place to live. The right to a living wage. The right to health care. The right to an education. You probably even have your own pet right – the right to a Beemer for instance, or the right to have someone else provide for that child you plan on downloading in a year or so.

Forget it. Forget those rights! I'll tell you what your rights are! You have a right to live free, and to the results of 60% -75% of your labor. I'll also tell you have no right to any portion of the life or labor of another.

You may, for instance, think that you have a right to health care. After all, Hillary said so, didn't she? But you cannot receive healthcare unless some doctor or health practitioner surrenders some of his time – his life - to you. He may be willing to do this for compensation, but that's his choice. You have no "right" to his time or property. You have no right to his or any other person's life or to any portion thereof.

You may also think you have some "right" to a job; a job with a living wage, whatever that is. Do you mean to tell me that you have a right to force your services on another person, and then the right to demand that this person compensate you with their money? Sorry, forget it. I am sure you would scream if some urban outdoorsmen (that would be homeless person" for those of you who don't want to give these less fortunate people a romantic and adventurous title) came to you and demanded his job and your money.

The people who have been telling you about all the rights you have are simply exercising one of theirs - the right to be imbeciles. Their being imbeciles didn't cost anyone else either property or time. It's their right, and they exercise it brilliantly.

By the way, did you catch my use of the phrase "less fortunate" a bit ago when I was talking about the urban outdoors men? That phrase is a favorite of the Left. Think about it, and you'll understand why.

To imply that one person is homeless, destitute, dirty, drunk, spaced out on drugs, unemployable, and generally miserable because he is "less fortunate" is to imply that a successful person - one with a job, a home and a future - is in that position because he or she was fortunate." The dictionary says that fortunate means "having derived good from an unexpected place." There is nothing unexpected about deriving good from hard work. There is also nothing unexpected about deriving misery from choosing drugs, alcohol, and the street.

If the Liberal Left can create the common perception that success and failure are simple matters of "fortune" or "luck," then it is easy to promote and justify their various income redistribution schemes. After all, we are just evening out the odds a little bit. This "success equals luck" idea the liberals like to push is seen everywhere. Former Democratic presidential candidate Richard Gephardt refers to high-achievers as "people who have won life's lottery." He wants you to believe they are making the big bucks because they are lucky. It's not luck, my friends. It's choice.

One of the greatest lessons I ever learned was in a book by Og Mandino, entitled "The Greatest Secret in the World." The lesson? Very simple: "Use wisely your power of choice."

That bum sitting on a heating grate, smelling like a wharf rat? He's there by choice. He is there because of the sum total of the choices he has made in his life. This truism is absolutely the hardest thing for some people to accept, especially those who consider themselves to be victims of something or other - victims of discrimination, bad luck, the system, capitalism, whatever. After all, nobody really wants to accept the blame for his or her position in life. Not when it is so much easier to point and say, "Look! He did this to me!" than it is to look into a mirror and say, "You S. O. B.! You did this to me!"

The key to accepting responsibility for your life is to accept the fact that your choices, every one of them, are leading you inexorably to either success or failure, however you define those terms.

Some of the choices are obvious: Whether or not to stay in school. Whether or not to get pregnant. Whether or not to hit the bottle. Whether or not to keep this job you hate until you get another better-paying job. Whether or not to save some of your money, or saddle yourself with huge payments for that new car.

Some of the choices are seemingly insignificant: Whom to go to the movies with. Whose car to ride home in. Whether to watch the tube tonight, or read a book on investing. But, and you can be sure of this, each choice counts. Each choice is a building block - some large, some small. But each one is a part of the structure of your life. If you make the right choices, or if you make more right choices than wrong ones, something absolutely terrible may happen to you. Something unthinkable. You, my friend, could become one of the hated, the evil, the ugly, the feared, the filthy, the successful, the rich.

The rich basically serve two purposes in this country. First, they provide the investments, the investment capital, and the brains for the formation of new businesses. Businesses that hire people. Businesses that send millions of paychecks home each week to the un-rich.

Second, the rich are a wonderful object of ridicule, distrust, and hatred. Few things are more valuable to a politician than the envy most Americans feel for the evil rich.

Envy is a powerful emotion. Even more powerful than the emotional minefield that surrounded Bill Clinton when he reviewed his last batch of White House interns. Politicians use envy to get votes and power. And they keep that power by promising the envious that the envied will be punished: "The rich will pay their fair share of taxes if I have anything to do with it. The truth is that the top 10% of income earners in this country pays almost 50% of all income taxes collected. I shudder to think what these job producers would be paying if our tax system were any more "fair."

You have heard, no doubt, that the rich get richer and the poor get poorer. Interestingly enough, our government's own numbers show that many of the poor actually get richer, and that quite a few of the rich actually get poorer. But for the rich who do actually get richer, and the poor who remain poor ... there's an explanation -- a reason. The rich, you see, keep doing the things that make them rich; while the poor keep doing the things that make them poor.

Speaking of the poor, during your adult life you are going to hear an endless string of politicians bemoaning the plight of the poor. So, you need to know that under our government's definition of "poor" you can have a $5 million net worth, a $300,000 home and a new $90,000 Mercedes, all completely paid for. You can also have a maid, cook, and valet, and $1 million in your checking account, and you can still be officially defined by our government as "living in poverty." Now there's something you haven't seen on the evening news.

How does the government pull this one off? Very simple, really. To determine whether or not some poor soul is "living in poverty," the government measures one thing -- just one thing. Income. It doesn't matter one bit how much you have, how much you own, how many cars you drive or how big they are, whether or not your pool is heated, whether you winter in Aspen and spend the summers in the Bahamas, or how much is in your savings account. It only matters how much income you claim in that particular year. This means that if you take a one-year leave of absence from your high-paying job and decide to live off the money in your savings and checking accounts while you write the next great American novel, the government says you are 'living in poverty."

This isn't exactly what you had in mind when you heard these gloomy statistics, is it? Do you need more convincing? Try this. The government's own statistics show that people who are said to be "living in poverty" spend more than $1.50 for each dollar of income they claim. Something is a bit fishy here. Just remember all this the next time Charles Gibson tells you about some hideous new poverty statistics.

Why has the government concocted this phony poverty scam? Because the government needs an excuse to grow and to expand its social welfare programs, which translates into an expansion of its power. If the government can convince you, in all your compassion, that the number of "poor" is increasing, it will have all the excuse it needs to sway an electorate suffering from the advanced stages of Obsessive-Compulsive Compassion Disorder.

I'm about to be stoned by the faculty here. They've already changed their minds about that honorary degree I was going t o get. That's OK, though. I still have my PhD....in Insensitivity from the Neal Boortz Institute for Insensitivity Training. I learned that, in short, sensitivity sucks. It's a trap. Think about it - the truth knows no sensitivity. Life can be insensitive. Wallow too much in sensitivity and you'll be unable to deal with life, or the truth so, get over it.

Now, before the dean has me shackled and hauled off, I have a few random thoughts.

* You need to register to vote, unless you are on welfare. If you are living off the efforts of others, please do us the favor of sitting down and shutting up until you are on your own again.

* When you do vote, your votes for the House and the Senate are more important than your vote for president. The House controls the purse strings, so concentrate your awareness there.

* Liars cannot be trusted, even when the liar is the president of the country. If someone can't deal honestly with you, send them packing.

* Don't bow to the temptation to use the government as an instrument of plunder. If it is wrong for you to take money from someone else who earned it -- to take their money by force for your own needs -- then it is certainly just as wrong for you to demand that the government step forward and do this dirty work for you.

* Don't look in other people's pockets. You have no business there. What they earn is theirs. What you earn is yours. Keep it that way. Nobody owes you anything, except to respect your privacy and your rights, and leave you the hell alone.

* Speaking of earning, the revered 40-hour workweek is for losers. Forty hours should be considered the minimum, not the maximum. You don't see highly successful people clocking out of the office every afternoon at five. The losers are the ones caught up in that afternoon rush hour. The winners drive home in the dark.

* Free speech is meant to protect unpopular speech. Popular speech, by definition, needs no protection.

* Finally (and aren't you glad to hear that word), as Og Mandino wrote:

1. Proclaim your rarity. Each of you is a rare and unique human being.

2. Use wisely your power of choice.

3. Go the extra mile ... drive home in the dark.

Oh, and put off buying a television set as long as you can. Now, if you have any idea at all what's good for you, you will get the hell out of here and never come back.

Class dismissed."

I killed my dinner with karate, kick 'em in the face

2008-01-03T22:23:00.000-08:00

Yeah yeah yeah, I know I haven’t posted anything yet. But tonight, in a hotel in Dallas, I feel inspired.

After working 3 straight 10-hour days, I am no longer exhausted. I haven’t slept, nor have I gotten to really relax but presently, I am wide awake. I’ve got Sex and the City on TV as background noise as I try to figure out what I can write about, and I have suddenly become aware that I have no idea where my phone is. In cruising myspace, facebook, and a few other websites that I frequent, I’m seeing a large number of year end and New Year’s reviews and wrap ups. I think I’ll add mine to the masses.

2007 was fun. I took a semester off school, made some money, moved not only out of my home, but out of the damn state, and made some wonderful friends. My New Year’s Eve was a pretty accurate representation of my year as a whole. My day began with a few text messages to friends, asking where the evening’s festivities would take place. Partridge had no idea, as usual, and Dudley gave me details a few hours later, also as usual. After working a bit, I get ready and head out to Cornman’s. Upon entrance, I’m informed that we’re listening to Beatles LP’s, drinking champagne, and Cornman has been drinking since 5. After establishing that I’m less entertaining than the boys, I decide it’s better to watch, drink, and listen rather than be clever. This plan worked well. I got to be a part of their exceedingly dysfunctional group, and enjoy a truly comfortable and fun New Year’s Eve. After we came back inside from the boys smoke break, Dudley insisted on seeing me in the kitchen. I was the given information I will never forget:

“Put your hands on your head like a big, old moose,

Keep your elbows high, and your legs loose.

You jump around the floor, ad you skip and prance-

The next thing you know, you’re doing the Antler Dance!!”

Once Cornman had let us know roughly 47 times that he had a white cashmere scarf, and that we should be jealous, midnight was upon us.

3…2…1… Antler Dance time!

I was regrettably unable to participate in the antlered festivities, as I was taking pictures and getting a video of the first occurrence of this new tradition. I finished my champagne, and headed out about 20 minutes later. ‘But Whitney,’ I’m sure you’re thinking, ‘why the hell did you leave a New Year’s party at 20 minutes after midnight??’ The answer to your question is a ridiculous one, and one which I will answer in 2 parts.

1) I’m a moron. I should have stayed. Especially after Dudley’s phenomenal midnight toast. There’s nowhere I would have rather been either, man.

2) I had to be at work. Allow me to state that again, because it bears repeating. I had to leave a New Year’s Eve party at 20 minutes after midnight, after drinking 3 glasses of champagne, to be at WORK.

The job that I was going to was at MSU, where I was part of the 4-person crew responsible for taking down the decorations in the warm-up gym at the coliseum. I arrive 10 minutes late… to one other person working. That’s right, folks. I’m tipsy, the other girl there is tipsy, and that’s it. The 4-person job that was supposed to last no more than an hour had just transformed into a 2-person job that would take 3 and a half hours. When I realized this, I texted Partridge and Cornman to let them know that I was not going to be able to finish ringing in the New Year with them.

I arrive at my house at 4 a.m. I am pissed, sore, tired and I feel jilted. An evening that started with such promise had ended with me collapsing onto my bed, fully clothed and crying, and passing out.

Even though my night ended poorly, I still had more fun in the few hours I was hanging out with the guys than I’ve had in a while.

But, in the end, it’s all semantics anyway, right?

The Good. The Bad. And the Royal Jelly.

2007-12-28T18:34:00.000-08:00

Ladies and gentlemen... I have a confession to make.

Usually, when reflecting upon past experiences, I steer away from the awkward moments... focusing on the triumphs and very little on the tragedies. But in doing so, I think I've kept some wonderful life-stories away from you good folks; stories that could teach you, inspire you, make you laugh, make you cry, or appreciate life a little more.

And that is why I've decided to open up and reveal a few stories about...

My early sex-life.

This may be shocking to believe, and if some of you have to take a deep breath before and after you read the forthcoming statement, feel free to do so. We'll wait on you.

Ready?

I wasn't always the Golden-God of sex that I am at this very moment.

Exhale. Deeply. Relax... think happy thoughts.

Shocking, right? I'm sure many of you expected me to have skills from the day I popped out of my mum's jelly roll, but... my dear readers... I am only human. Mortal. If you prick me, I bleed. And, in my journeyman days, if you touched me, I came. Immediately.

But those stories will wait. Instead of saving the best for last, I've decided to save the best for FIRST. I'm unpredictable.

Today, I'm revered for my oral skills. Indeed, cunnilingus is truly one of my favorite Sunday afternoon pastimes. And if you talk to any learned girl of the world, they'll tell you that if the guy truly doesn't know what he's doing, it's a pretty shitty experience for the receiver. It doesn't take much to bring a guy to that climax, obviously.

Up down Up down Up down, start, B. Orgasm. "You Win!" *ding ding ding* "boom shacka lacka lacka!"

But women? Their glimmering bottle openers are as complicated to operate as a nucleur reactor... and sometimes just as dangerous.

This is the reason that I bloviate (look it up, pervs) about mah skiiiiillz.

But it wasn't always that way.

Nah suh, I had to earn my chops just like every one else.

How?

Well, I watched a lot of Jenna Jameson girl-on-girl action as a teenager. I took notes. I studied. I did other stuff that's not relevant to what I'm trying to say. But the point is that her educational videos gave me the general idea of how to work that finely tuned instrument. My experiences in the flesh didn't prove to be as successful as the Jamester, but I learned a little more with practice and experience.

My moment of supreme glory took place with a married, black girl who instructed me. Indeed, if we were to use wrestling terminology, she and I stepped inside the squared circle and gave quite the slobber knocker, though not in front of a sold out crowd hanging from the rafters. I was good. I knew it. I found my magic.

But my next opponent wasn't quite the same... caliber... as the Master of the Mocha.

She was... well... sensitive. Very, very sensitive. So when I went for the chow, I did so with the starving sensation of a starved marine entering the mess after 24 hours of slugging through the trenches, and she reacted with the predicted scream of the marine's enemy combatant 24 hours earlier before meal time. Killing makes a man hungry. So do catholic school girls.

I took the hint and slowed down. Gently. Gently. Like rocking a fucking baby to sleep. Like Paul Newman eating that last 10 hard-boiled eggs in Cool Hand Luke. I was trained by a black tiger, damnit, and I didn't have time for this tomfoolery.

But I stayed in the game. I'm not a selfish person when it comes to pleasure.

A few minutes pass when, suddenly, the headlights of a car flash quickly past the window, the sound of a car pulling into the driveway.

Jumping up and off of my parents bed, I scrambled for the front door to make sure it was locked so that, if it was them, it could spare some time for fuckin' Emily Litella (dated SNL jokes rock) to get her panties back on and out of the pit of Parental anguish.

But luck was on my side, kids. The headlights were from a car turning around and using my driveway as a pivoting point. Suddenly, I turned towards the bedroom and shouted that everything was okay... that Papa Bear was coming back to the cave of sensitivity. But as I walked (hard) towards that door, my eyes narrowed... my hunger grew... and my mission was clear. I was going to make this girl like my style. Why should I have to be like Rocky in Rocky II and fight right-handed just to throw Apollo Creed off guard? I may not be a southpaw by fist, but I was a natural-born cunnilingus killer, goddamnit, and she wasn't going to stop me!

I shoved the door open. I stomped my foot like a bull and I charged.

And tripped.

On a towell.

And my mouth, wide open, teeth glistening...

hit her...

hard...

on the clitoris.

And as I rushed her to the emergency room, I reflected upon the tragedy and learned a hard lesson.

...

Never leave towels out when you plan to stampede towards a woman's guardian of forever.

The end.

- J.

A Young Politicado's Prayer To God

2007-12-28T14:49:00.001-08:00

Dear Lord, how are you? I know we haven’t spoken in awhile and things have most likely have been busy for both of us. I know I have been. Finals have been ridiculous and you have had to deal with the fact that your chosen people are killing each other off at an alarming rate in the sand….not to pass judgment or anything, but can you maybe get all that shit under control? I mean, they have been at it for more than two thousand years. You would think that you would maybe push them in a direction that we can all enjoy, but I digress. I really just want to talk politics.

Now, I have just recently got into this whole game and I find it really fascinating, but I have to say…shit is getting shabby. Our intelligence agencies have more holes and leaks in them than a Taiwanese brothel, our courts are fighting over things that have no bearing on our day to day lives, and our political hierarchy is a punch line. Once again, if this is supposed to be your favorite nation, which according to the very reliable source, Pat Robertson, it is, you would think you would have a hand on the wheel, so to speak. I know you have been tied being omnipotent and everything, but seriously, you have got to get your fucking ducks in a row, God. That is where my request comes in.

All I am asking for, as a young man, is a competent administration this next time around. No more fake wars, No more wire taps, and no more fear of our government. I just want a political scene that I am not embarrassed as hell of. I just want a president that I can say that I am proud to be behind. Hell, I guess I am really wanting is hope. I know you can do it for not only me, but for everyone. Be a pal, God. That’s all I am asking.

P.S. Sorry about all the swearing…

P.P.S. Oh yeah, great job on getting Saddam hung. That was fucking sweet.

P.P.P.S. Sorry about the swearing again…

In The Name of the Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost,
-J.Partridge, The Enemy

Post-Op: The Wisdom Teeth Ordeal

2007-12-28T14:46:00.000-08:00

Post-Op: The Wisdom Teeth Ordeal

Ok, I do have to say that it really wasn’t all that bad. As a matter of fact, the things that are the real bitches are the things that you have to do afterwards. Anyway, what follows is a day-by-day rundown of the entire thing. Hope you enjoy my pain, bloodsuckers.

The Procedure

I wake up, bright and early, after a night of uneasy sleep. I leave everything that I have that is worth stealing, which is really nothing, behind and get shipped off to my grandparents’ house. When I get there, I am really fucking hungry, but one of the stipulations of the process is you can’t have anything to eat past midnight the previous day, to make matters worse my grandma is a food wizard. So, I have to smell and feast my eyes upon a counter-full of delicious breakfast food, that I can’t fucking eat. This is going to be awesome…

7:45 rolls around and I pile into the truck to go get things cut out of my head. When we get to the office, we are greeted by the cast of “Chico and The Man” minus Grandpa Joe. Also, their son is crying his damn eyes out in the operating room…what a bitch. I sign some papers, ditch my coat and shoes, sit down in the dentist chair of doom, and get to it. I allow myself a diva moment and request that Bob Dylan be played while I am waiting. The first time around I saw that the quack had some cd’s in his room; Gordon Lightfoot, Cat Stevens, and Dylan. The nurses, God bless them, complied and promptly started to gas me up.

Have you even seen Little Shop of Horrors? Well, for those of you that suck, let me explain the reference. In the movie, Steve Martin plays a sadistic dentist that abuses laughing gas. I have never had laughing gas and had always thought that the performance was just an exaggeration of the effects of the stuff. I was dead wrong, dear readers. As soon as that wonderful concoction of chemical wonders hit my lungs, I knew exactly why people get arrested for having tanks of this stuff in their house. I even inquire to where I could purchase some…the question was quickly tossed aside. The only thing that worried me was the fact that my entire right side started to twitch violently. Upon seeing this, I asked if it was normal. The answer that I received was less than satisfactory: “Oh…not really…but different people have different reactions to the gas”. Fantastic, I am going to Belushi on laughing gas or better yet twitch myself onto the instrument table.

By this time, I am I.V’ed and am starting to go under. I am under for the better part of an hour and a half. At the first consultation, I am warned that I might be conscious through the last part of the operation, which, of course, happens. The only thing I really remember about that is the fact that Dr. Farr was talking to me, essentially giving me a play-by-play of what the hell he was doing to me. And he kept calling me “kiddo”…yeesh, there is nothing creepier than someone calling someone kiddo while they are asleep.

After all is said and done and my mouth resembles something akin to the opening frames of a CSI episode, I am told that I am free to leave. I remember only bits and pieces of this, but what I do remember is trying to reason with the doctor about why I didn’t need a wheelchair and that I was “well damn able walk to” (the quote, by the way, is verbatim because a nurse told me about it when I went back of a follow up check-up). I also remember trying to laugh when I accidently spit blood all over the front desk, waiting for my mom to sign some stuff. Laughing directly after oral surgery is something like someone jabbing your back gums with white hot knives…not pleasant.

The Aftermath

Now, I was home, all iced up, and with dumb looking fucking socks tied around my head. I had taken a few aspirin and was told by my doctor that, if stronger meds were needed that there would be a prescription waiting. I took four ibuprofen and realized about three seconds after taking them that I needed way stronger pills (Like I was going to say no to free pills?). So, the next few days were spent watching random ass movies, getting mellowed by the Blue Wonders, and eating more pudding and soup than any man of eighteen ever should. I did have a notebook and pen by my bed at all times so I could write down anything I just thought of. Here are some golden nuggets from this experiment:

“I wish I could detach my face”

“Pain is playing a fifteen song set in my skull”

“Light me on fire soes my teeth will stop.”

Isn’t modern medicine fun?! Well, that’s it, dear readers. I would like to thank all my wonderful friends for putting up with my bitching during those days and a big fuck off to some for not visiting. Be back later, kids with something else for you to chew on.

Going Gonzo,
-J.Partridge, The Enemy

the good die young...

2007-12-27T15:57:00.000-08:00

I awoke this morning to the news of former Pakistani Prime Minister Benazir Bhutto's assassination and I was stunned and deeply saddened. I passed up an opportunity to see her speak at MSU in 2002 and I regret it now more than ever. She may have been the last, best hope for Democracy in that region, and what happens now is anyone's guess. What's certain is that the world lost an amazing human being, and the more time I witness pass before my eyes, the more I realize that genuine leaders of her quality are dangerously rare.

"Finally, turning toward home, I wave good-bye to Lincoln, whose bronze statue stands in the dead center of the square. Then I nod at Gandhi, whose bronze statue stands on the square's western edge.

They shot him too."

Sarah Vowell, Assassination Vacation

The Pastry Gang War of 2007

2007-12-21T10:37:00.001-08:00

We had to spend most of the morning hauling chairs and bleachers from several of our WF locations, and about an hour ago, as I was following the truck, we had to come to a sudden stop. Why? Because two gangstas, in separate cars, were stopped... side by side... in the middle of the road... arguing.

I'm not gonna lie. I started to get scared. I hate to seem racist or stereotypical, but downtown Wichita Falls isn't exactly the most respectable area of the city... and I was almost sure one of them was going to pull a "gat" and "pop" the other one right there in the middle of the road. Even worse, I feared being hit by a stray bullet.

Well... one of the gangstas DID pull something out to use as a weapon...

It was at that point when Gangsta #1 screamed "fuck you, bitch!" and launched a HUNNY BUN... yes, a tasty, glazed pastry... at Gagsta #2's car. Then Gansta #1 sped away with his enemy on his tail.

I was laughing at the absurdity of the whole ordeal but then I had a thought.

Wouldn't it be great if gang members put their guns in the ground and used honey buns instead? Or better yet... if they all lived in harmony, finding peace at the center...

the center…

of a tasty, glazed pastry?

Think about it.

- Justin Dudley

It May Sound Cliche, but I'll Do It Anyway

2007-12-16T18:16:00.000-08:00

"Go placidly amid the noise & haste, & remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly & clearly; and listen to others, even the dull & ignorant; they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain & bitter; for always there will be greater & lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time. Exercise caution in your business affairs; for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals; and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity & disenchantment it is perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue & loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees & the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever our labors & aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery & broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be careful. Strive to be happy."

This is a letter found in old St. Paul's Church, dated 1692. It was addressed to Desiderata. I first saw this letter hung on the men's bathroom wall at the small church I attend. Once at an estate sale, I found a copy of it for sale and now is displayed on my wall for those entering my home to read if desired. It's a letter of wisdom and advice. I would like to follow this doctrine on a daily basis, but keeping to any kind of ethics or schedule is difficult for any person. "Do not distress yourself with imaginings." I find myself thinking too much. Another quote I admire by a former professor of mine, Laura Jefferson; "Don't avoid thinking, but think in ways that produce action." This quote was in reference to acting, but I can relate it to life. I sit most of the day thinking and dreaming how things would be if this happened or that happened. I do not focus on the present and what could be happening.

This letter has great wisdom to offer. Life is too good to waste thinking without moving.

I Like Cupcakes...

2007-12-16T00:53:00.000-08:00

BUST-A-MOVE is a good game. I was doing well, until Waldo stepped in. It doesn't matter what I do... he does it better.

Say something, Ashley.

"Ummm... Mike Adame's passenger side car door doesn't work. I had to crawl through the driver's side. Ummm... we should have some apple cider... hot. hahaha... "

Is that it?

"I don't know... is it?"

Riveting. We shall now commence with the enjoyment of many cider-ed beverages. Mainly apple.

"You look at me in disgust and all I see in you is potential!" - Frodrick Q. Roosevelt

2007-12-13T18:56:00.000-08:00

Allow me to post a strange little text message conversation with a girl whom I’ve been Myspace friends with for nearly a year and whom I’ve met, in the flesh, only once. A meeting, I might mention, that I believed was a success in that we had a good time. Shortly after, she began ignoring me. By “ignore”, I mean that I called a few times, sent a couple of text messages, and didn’t get a response. And that, literally, is that.

Me: hey, kid. i’m sorry if i’ve been a pest lately. i hope i’m not too deep into your shit list.

Her: …my god.U didn’t do anything.U piss me off bc u wont get off my ass calling,texting,and messaging all the time. i dont like people bugging the shit out of me.

Me: This is where youre being dramatic. A text every other day and a call a week can hardly be classified as how you describe it. If youd like me to take the time to prove this then i will.

Her: Thats a lot when i dont respond and obviously want space. I dont know any other way to put it.

Me: That would make more sense to me if we had anything more than a bizarre, casual friendship. Weve met once and you already need space? Do you know how ridiculous that sounds? Perhaps its even more ridiculous to care but I take this bullshit personally.

Her: I dont need to prove shit. I need u to quit being a weird ass.

Me: Calling me weird in this would be funny if it didnt offend me. Youre being unreasonable and cruel, kid. But whatever. merry christmas anyway.

Now, it some cases I’ll admit that I have come on strongly in the past to other girls, but this particular relationship (if it can be defined that way in any classical sense of the word) is exactly how I’ve described it. She’s an interesting girl, and I won’t insult her or trash talk her on a blog, but I felt I had to post that conversation because it’s the strangest thing worth mentioning that’s happened to me in… well, the last 20 minutes.

And now for something completely different.

The idea for the J.D.C. (the physical phenomenon, not the blog) came to me as an epiphany after being dumped by someone I should’ve dumped first (and tried a few times unsuccessfully). For a short 45 minutes, I found myself depressed. That weak, un-manly trait soon gave away to bitter resentment. And in this state of mind, I set about a new philosophy. Soon thereafter, I determinedly sat down at my computer and posted a sort of mission statement on my Myspace blog.

You can read it here.

In it, I made a vow to myself that I would accomplish goals that I should have set and followed through on a LONG time ago.

Among them...

to find a better paying, more fulfilling job
get back into school
find a WOMAN on my level

But most importantly, these would be caveats in a large, grand plan.

To make this century MINE.

And with the accomplishment of the first vow (which I shall call Project Lightening Claw, to give it a James Bond-ian feel), I can report confidently that my plan is going exactly how... I... um, planned.

I am now a proud employee of the Wichita Falls Boys and Girls Club. My position is that of a membership coordinating assistant, dealing primarily as the "heartbeat" of the organization's administrative department. The pay is excellent (for THIS particular area), the benefits even more so (because they're FREE, my babies!), and the opportunity for promoting higher in the organization is promising. I doubt this will be my life's career, but it's most certainly a positive step in the right direction. For the first time in a long, long time... I'm excited about my future. I'm excited about a goal accomplished. And I'm most certainly excited about MY century.

As for the remaining two goals?

Operations Flaming Indoctrination, and Findapussy are currently in progress.

Pre-Op: The Wisdom Teeth Ordeal.

2007-12-12T14:38:00.000-08:00

Son of a bitch…

I am really not looking forward to this. I found out, on Tuesday, that all four of my wisdom teeth are going to have to come out…on FRIDAY! Now here is the thing, I have never had any kind of major surgery at all, like none whatsoever so the prospect of me getting an IV injected into my arm, to put me in a state of “semi-consciousness” (not sleep..Semi-consciousness!) To have some crackpot, fucking Wonka-esqe oral surgeon rip out four things that were, until recently, parts of my goddamn mouth!

Here is how it all went down: I rushed into my 12:45 appointment at Dr. Farr’s office for a consultation and found my mom waiting there for me. The paperwork had all been taken care of and it was off toward the back. First off, what is it about dentist’s offices and subsequent work-spaces that just scream “people have died here…the wrong way”? And secondly, why are all dental hygienists just always pissed off? Oh yeah, they are dental hygienists…their job is to chumscrub all of the plaque and terrible mess off of people’s teeth and gums. They are the deckhands of the dentistry trade.

So, I get sat down in the really ominous/goofy chair and I was told to roll up my hoodie sleeve so she can take my blood pressure. Fucking why? I really don’t see the correlation between things that I EAT with and the blood that pumps through my veins. I smell a scam; I remind myself to keep alert. So blood pressure is taken and I stare at the monitor for a bit…there is nothing more terrifying than any kind of EKG machine. Period. After getting told that my O2 levels were low, this is just another way of saying that I am grossly under athletic, the dentist comes in.

Ok, I am sure Dr. Farr is a great guy, but I get a real Willy Wonka vibe from this cat and when I say Willy Wonka, I mean a guy who rides around in a truck with a camper in the bed that has “free ice cream” spray painted on the side with a jar of Cloro-kid in the seat next to him at the ready. The way he talks is even creepier. After every other word, there is a smacking sound that is made with his lips. It is extremely off-putting. Here is an example: “So, right now (smack) what we are really (smack) trying to do is to (smack) try and weigh the (smack) risks involved with (smack) the procedure like this against (smack) the pros. (Smack)” Imagine actually considering a man that talks like that performing any kind of surgery on you. This guy should be pushing a fucking broom at some school and jerking off into the boiler, in the basement after hours.

So, we take some x-rays and check me teeth. My lips were also Vaselined, to “keep my lips from chapping.” Holy shit, I now know what medical care is like in Africa. This, as you can already tell, added considerable creepy points to this guy. All in all, it was a basic (I think) wisdom teeth consultation, with the cap off of the whole affair being the scheduling of the operation, which I really didn’t want to be that soon. I needed at least a few days to prepare, but Dear Readers, I am thrust into it and I must walk the road to the end.

This will most likely be my last entry for awhile. I shall return for a Post-Op update and resume my musing posthaste. I hope that you all will miss me and give me tons of sympathy in my coming time of hardship in pain. If not, I shall embark on a revenge spree that would make Sweeny Todd’s razors look like mere pocket knives. Until next time, my friends.

God, I better get some great fucking pills after this.

Out On Highway 61,
-J,Partridge

News and Notes

2007-12-11T13:12:00.000-08:00

CENTURY update:

I don’t want to jinx this by giving away too much or making it sound like a complete, done-deal… but I may have found the perfect job! Two months ago I applied for it and had an interview that went very, very well, but unfortunately the organization ended up going with someone else. However that someone left a few weeks ago after being offered a much higher paying position elsewhere, so the job opened up again. After interviewing again, I seem to be the front runner and I’ll know something definite by the end of the week or early next week. Pray for me, my friends. After such a long time of languishing between dead end jobs and temporary assignments, God may be finally rewarding me. THE Justin Dudley CENTURY appears to be getting off to a wonderful start!

As for THE Justin Dudley CENTURY blog, things are starting off nicely. Special thanks to Mr. Partridge, The Corn-man, and .mathr. for contributing thus far. Look for something great from the Representative of Estrogen as soon as she finishes her finals. A splendid time is guaranteed for all.

--

I’m a lover of lists. Especially “all time favorite lists”, and I intend to showcase a few of them over the next few weeks, including books, songs, and movies. But right now, allow me to present…

TOP TEN LIST OF PET NAMES… that Abby Lee and I call each other on a daily basis.

1) kitten (her)
2) puppy (me)
3) sweetiekins (her)
4) sweetie pie (me)
5) sugar nipples (her)
6) lovah (both)
7) sugar booger booboo nuts (me)
8) snooky wookem dumpling buns (her)
9) snippy whippy love poodle (me)
10) little lady cheesy puffy (her)

--

It’s not my intention to make this blog an outlet for my political views like I did with my last blog, but I will from time to time pop in to share my current opinions and update those of you who care on the ever changing political news stories of the day. One of the reasons I’ve asked my friends to participate with their own material is to politely give you, the reader, something to gnaw on if you find yourself not giving a shit about… well… things that matter.

You’re welcome.

But, for you caring, intelligent individuals out there, enjoy this informative diatribe that I’m about to bring foreward.

If you’re as avid of a 2008 election follower as I am, then you’re probably aware of the top two stories coming out of the primary states at this very moment.

Obama and Hillary locked in virtual tie in Iowa

Following Obama’s terrific performance at the Jefferson-Jackson dinner in October (arguably his finest speech since his breakout address at the 2004 DNC), Obama has finally caught up to Heir Clinton in all of the major polls leading up to the crucial Iowa caucus, a mere three weeks away. And thanks to sister Oprah’s help in the campaign, his Audaciousness is now only just a few points behind in New Hampshire and South Carolina. If the "big mo" (momentum) continues, then this race... already promised to be a dramatic one... will be a true nail biter.

I for one, can't wait. I try not to make predictions but it's hard for me not to do so with this much interest and hope vested. This race could go any way, and while I am fascinated that I can actually type that (because, really, who ACTUALLY thought Hillary would have ANY competition a year ago?), it makes me all the more nervous. In any case, I'll give it my best and pray to God that I don't jinx anything in doing so.

I think Obama is going to win Iowa. It'll be close, but he's going to take the prize. In doing so, Hillary's air of inevitability will evaporate completely and the win will push the esteemed Senator from Illinois into the driver’s seat of the front-runner stockcar. From there, Hillary wins New Hampshire but by a razor-thin margin. She’ll claim a huge victory but anyone with a real instinct for the political game will sense that it is only a token win. Obama cleans up in South Carolina in a blowout that no one could have predicted two months ago and it’s smooth sailing from there as he the voters scream “FINISH HER!” and Barack “Kano” Obama punches Foreward, Down, Foreward, B, A, B, Foreward, Start into his Super Nintendo control pad and rips Hill’s still-beating heart out.

He then goes on to become the next President of the United States of America.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, there! Hold your fuckin’ mule, Mr. Dudley!”, you say. “What about the Republican nomination? Hmmm?”

Well, that leads me to the second biggest election ’08 news story.

And my views on the matter may actually surprise some of you.

Mike Huckabee, front runner?

It's really astounding to me how my political instincts seem to grow keener as the years pass; my predictions more accurate. When I was 6, I predicted that George H.W. Bush would beat Dukakis. In Junior High, I predicted from the outset that Bill would beat Bob (though I proudly had a photo of Senator Dole displayed in my locker). And, of course, who could forget my excited pimping, on my old blog, of Barack the night of the 2004 Democratic convention?

Well, as far back as last year, I was telling my political-savvy friends to keep an eye on the former Governor of Arkansas, and I wasn't talking about Bubba.

Friends, I've been following the 2008 game since the DAY after the 2004 election, and one thing I noticed at the very beginning was that the Republicans didn't have a clear front runner.

Three candidates were, at first, considered in the "top tier"

* John McCain - the maverick war hero who gave Dubya a run for his money in 2000 until the Jesus-loving Governor of Texas, along with his Mark Hannah-ish political hitman Karl Rove destroyed him in South Carolina by spreading rumors that he was the father of an illigitimate black child. Republican historical conventional wisdom said early on that he would be the favorite this time around (since Republicans have a history of nominating "who's next"), but his anti-Bush actions post 2000 and the hot water he got into by trashing Pat Robertson and Jerry Fallwell soon proved too much for the man to take on. He will not get the nomination. No, Mr. McCain will only go down as one of the great "what if's?" of presidential election history.

Rudy Giuliani - I'll admit that I was once a fan of Rudy. Less than a year ago I included a picture of him on my Myspace heros section. Even though I find him harder and harder to like as the election season rolls on, I still find that I have a soft spot for him. I guess after Katrina and the numerous other Bush Administration screw ups, I find that anyone who can manage a crisis correctly still deserves a measure of respect. But, aside from Pat Robertson... who shockingly endorsed him recently (showing that the old fuck is just losing it), seeing the christian right line up against a pro-gay, pro-choice, and anti-gun ex mayor of New York City would be like living in bizarro world. To put it simply: it ain't gonna happen. And if that ain't gonna happen, then I have my doubts as to whether he can win the nomination OR the general election.

Mitt Romney - that other pro gay, anti-gun, pro-choice ‘publican (until recently when he had a change of heart… ie: decided he wanted to be President). There are FEW Republicans I LOATHE more than this bastard. Not counting my opinion that he's just a slimy, bigoted hack, this guy's flip flops make John Kerry look like Harry Truman. Say what you will about George W. Bush but at least HE has a spine. At least HE has conviction. Mitt Romney has neither. His problem with the religious right, who he's desperately trying to court, is that he's a Mormon. I realize that what I'm about to say may be rightfully interpreted as bigoted itself, but any Christian faith/cult that believes the Garden of Eden was in Missouri is... quite simply... INSANE. To justify this petty remark, I need only to quote Woody Allen. "I'm a bigot... but for the Left."

Not only did the Republicans not have a clear front runner, but the primary voting bloc... the religious right... seemed to be without viable options as well. Who on earth could the evangelicals unite behind? There was Sam Brownback, an ardent pro-life Senator from Kansas... but with the personality of a carp, I didn't really see his campaign going anywhere. No one else, it seemed.

And then I learned a little about Mike Huckabee. On paper he sounded like a heavyweight. A successful two-term governor of a southern state who also happened to be a former Baptist preacher. Filing his name away for future reference, I kept tabs on him but never considered him to be a top-tier-worthy candidate. But nearly a month after first hearing about him, I stumbled upon a speech from him on C-Span.

I was immediately impressed.

I didn't agree with anything he was saying on the political issues of the day, but being a fan of great oratory, I was struck by his skill and almost addictive affability. That doesn't happen often, I think. Not to me and certainly not to anyone else I know. The only other candidate off of the top of my head that seems to have that same affect is Barack Obama on a few Republicans in my family. My grandmother, for example. She's hated every Democrat since Harry Truman, but she goes crazy for him. I found that surprising, obviously, but I couldn't relate... until I saw the Huckabee speech. Afterward, I started to tell people about him. "Watch for this guy. He's going to be huge. I'm not sure if he'll get the nomination, but I think he's most certainly the next Republican VP candidate", I stated in an email to my friend Matt several months ago.

Something strange happened, though. Actually, nothing happened at all. He languished... he stalled. Never registering above 6%, I began to lose hope. Not hope that he would be the next President, mind you, but hope that someone so decent could perhaps be successful in a party that I had lost all hope in. He continued to deliver great speeches and he continued to have solid debate performances... but... nothing. Even the evangelical community seemed tepid in it's response.

Then I figured out why. I watched a speech given by him to a major conservative convention, and in that speech, he spent most of the time talking about how Christian Conservatives should spend more time helping the less fortunate, feeding the hungry, and clothing the poor than gay bashing, tax cuts, and guns. Immediately after the speech, an interviewer asked a random group of convention goers their opinion of him and the common response was "he sounds like a damn liberal!"

What's astounding about that statement is that helping the less fortunate SHOULDN'T be a conservative OR a liberal position. Nor should it be a christian position. To me, it's a HUMAN position. Even more astounding is that Huck is most certainly a conservative. Aside from a few, modest and reasonable tax increases as Governor, he may have the most solid conservative record of anyone other than John McCain or Ron Paul. For those reasons, I can't vote for him because I don't share the same philosophical views. But I can share respect and admiration.

And it's because of this that I'm "tickled pink" about his sudden rise in the polls. After coming in a close second place in the Iowa straw poll a month or so ago (beaten only by Mitt Romney who spent millions in buying votes as opposed to Huck who could not afford to buy a single vote), and an impressive showing in the last CNN/Youtube debate, he is now polling first place in Iowa and gaining steadily in New Hampshire and South Carolina. The evangelical communities in these states are helping, though it's yet to be seen if the religious right nationally will rally in the same way. In national polls he still doesn't register highly, but the ONLY polls that matter right now are those conducted in the primary states.

So, where do we go from here?

That's as unpredictable of a question as the election process itself. Anything could happen in the next three weeks, and I'll continue to watch it closely. You should too. Whether you are as interested in politics as I am or not, this time in our lives is guaranteed to never be boring.

To the Undiscovered Country.

The Future.

- Justin Dudley

Alvin Lucier is s-s-sitting in a r-r-r-r-room...

2007-12-11T11:20:00.000-08:00

I'm still turning this over, in my brain. How is it possible that this man's voice hasn't put me to sleep, yet?

If I ran into Mr. Lucier, on the street, my first thought might be to avoid any and all conversation. I don't think I'd even ask him for the time. I would likely be running late and anything he'd say would only make me much later. Still, there is something undeniably satisfying about hearing him speak. He doesn't strike me as the sort of loony you'd find among the ranks of such giants as John Cage and Syd Barret, but he's definitely among the more interesting and potentially prolific artists of his time.

Case in point. "I Am Sitting In A Room" is a 15 minute snoozer, in which Lucier attempts to remove his stutter. Nevermind the fact that he also embarks on an exploration of the amazing properties of resonant sound and frequency that will inspire generations of musicians, young and old, bent on pushing the boundaries of their own music to new levels of experimentation. Nope. He just wants to "smooth out any irregularities [his] speech might have." Nutter.

Audio:

I Am Sitting In A Room (rar)

I Am Sitting In A Room (mp3)

BONUS!! UbuWeb has a page of downloads from Lucier. Be sure to check out the documentary, A Sound Waves Artist.

UbuWeb Sound - Alvin Lucier

DISCLAIMER: This post is likely not the sort of article that Justin prefers. It is, however, my immense desire that everything I have to say will be in stark contrast to the humor you might get, from this blog. Quite simply... I hope that it bores you to tears.

:)

Paths of Glory: The Rat War of 2007 - Part 1

2007-12-10T16:05:00.000-08:00

The following is the first of a two part essay involving my recent rodent dilemma. Special thanks to Justin Dudley for helping me edit and put it in essay/blog form.

October 15, 2007

I have a problem.

It doesn’t relate to drugs or alcohol; credit cards or pornography. Nor does it have anything to do with the IRS, though I have battled that organization of bastards in the past. My problem doesn’t consist of anything of a habitual nature, and for the first time in a long time… this plague of nuisance ness isn’t even human.

My problem… consists of two members of the Rattus norvegicus genus.

Rats.

Last month, I was sitting on my living room couch when out of the corner of my eye, I saw something run across the floor. Then, a split second later, it was followed by something else, both heading in the direction of the kitchen. Jumping up, I followed in pursuit. I knew by the size of their tails what I was dealing with, but I unfortunately wasn’t able to catch them, for they instantly disappeared.

But they didn’t go far.

All night, I was kept awake by their scratching and scurrying. When I would hear what sounded like rummaging in my pantry, I would leap toward it, golf club in hand, only to find nothing but the usual contents. With one exception. Shit. Rat shit.

All night, I would hear them. They were mocking me. Partying at the expense of my slumber.

This unfortunate series of events plagued me the next night as well. By 2 in the morning, I had given up on sleep and found myself sitting on the couch… golf club in hand… waiting… waiting for the bastards to make a move in my presence. Once or twice they would do so and I’d respond by chasing them into the kitchen, only to find that they had craftily disappeared yet again. I was finally able to nod off by 6 in the morning when the sounds stopped.

The third night was spent in the exact same way. By 4 in the a.m., as I sat on the couch in my pajama’s, golf club in hand, I came to the conclusion that it was either the rats… or my sanity… and seeing as how I was getting low on xanax, I made the decision that the rats had to go.

This morning, I went death shopping.

I had many options. Poisons. Snap traps. Cage traps. Glue traps. These were rats, mind you, not mice. Mouse catching methods do not apply.

Though I had had three sleepless nights, I found that I didn’t harbor hatred towards my foes; just resentment. I craved sleep, not blood. Snap traps were out of the question. I didn’t want to snap the little guys necks in half and have their eyes bulge out. I also didn’t want them bleeding and pissing all over my new carpet, but that’s beside the point.

So I settled on glue traps.

Glue traps are advertised as the more… humane… way to kill things, and being the humanitarian that I am, whenever I plan on killing anything, be it animal… or human… I I prefer to do it in the most humane way possible. Humane as in: clean, slow, painful, and most importantly… clean. Not quick, painless, and bloody (un-clean, un-humane), but the more “humane” way: slow, painful, and clean.

I’m a very clean person.

An hour ago, as the clock chimed midnight, I hear the sound of chaos in my kitchen. Upon inspection, I see that a rat is stuck to the glue trap. Partially. Only his back legs and his tail were captured. Because of this, he’s able to do what the trap is intended to stop: move. To put it simply… he’s going apeshit. And not only is he going apeshit, but by the anger present in his eyes and his combative movements (including growling, hissing), it’s obvious that the little fucker is wanting a war.

And a war I was prepared to give.

Unfortunately, aside from the glue trap, I didn’t have any other weapons at my disposal. By weapons, I of course mean the typical, conventional weapons of war… M16 assault rifle, hand grenades, or a Kevlar Flak jacket. A badminton racket would have to do.

So as I’m searching for the weapon I intend to use, he apparently comes to the realization of what I intend to do to him and he manages to pull himself a short ways from the kitchen to the living room and onto my brand new carpet; a brilliant move, obviously, because now I can’t beat the holy hell out of him. Scanning the kitchen, I find a plastic box with a lid. Grabbing that, along with the racket, I move to the living room where I intend to use the racket to scoop him up and put him in the box, before he shits and pisses all over… the brand new carpet.

I move closer. The growling continues. I move closer. The growling becomes an almost roar of anger. It’s as if he’s a war-hungry rodent-marine, saying, in rat-a-nese, “you want a piece of me, fat boy? Bring it on! Hoo-rah!”

Reaching down, I prepare to slip the racket underneath him… but the sonofabitch counters this by firmly biting down on the racket. I try shaking it but he’s determined to take it away from me. The only way I can regain control is to yank it. The only thing that keeps him from flying off of the carpet and against the wall is the fucking glue on the trap which is now STUCK to my brand new carpet!

Having no other options, I pop him on the head, stunning him, and then quickly flip him into the box, the lid following. But now I realize that I have a new set of problems. What the hell am I going to do with the rat, a sticky trap, and the box? The only answer I could come up with is to throw him in the portable garbage dumpster outside of my house. So, I walk him outside, carefully, and then place him, carefully, on top of some garbage inside of my dumpster, making sure that the rat was stuck to the trap, inside the box, the lid closed tightly on the box, and resting ontop of the garbage inside of the dumpster. With a heavy sigh and a strong, manly feeling of victory, I reentered my house and got ready for bed.

It is now 2 in the a.m. as I sit writing this. Why? Because I cannot sleep. Why? Because my enemy is letting his bitter discontent be known by going apeshit inside of it’s plastic prison, only a few feet away from me. I have a strange feeling that this battle is not over… and that the real war is just over the horizon.

To Be Continued.

Young Fundamentalists vs. Polar Bears or Stephen Colbert’s Wet Dream Comes True in the Bible belt.

2007-12-08T23:39:00.000-08:00

(introductory guest-editorial by the esteemed Mr. Justin Partridge)

I want to tell you a story. It’s an epic story; a story as old as the people who told it to me. It’s a story about dumb vs. even dumber. That’s right kids; I am talking about The Golden Compass and the crusade of the 700 Club and the idiots that give copious amounts of money to it to derail the movie.

I feel though that I should give you a bit on insight into why I sit now at my trusty laptop with a big sweaty glass of Dewers, a half-filled corncob pipe, and a little Grecian boy rubbing my feet, writing this, soon to be venom spitting essay about a movie involving fucking talking polar bears.

Well, pull up a bean-bag and listen close.

The other day I was perusing the sheet music section of my local entertainment depot, Hastings, and I saw a group of fashionable young kids start to swarm around the contemporary Christian music section. I knew right then and there I had to keep an eye on those ruffians; some of the worst crimes in history have been committed by people of this nature. Josh Groban? Yeah. You see my point. So, I am searching through a certain songbook and I hear a conversation start to unfold about The Golden Compass. My ears perk… because I am a fucking nerd. The damndest thing happens though…they don’t seem into it. What? This makes no sense to me. I mean…it’s a movie about talking polar bears. Who wouldn’t want to see that? Don’t these kids like those seasonal Coke ads with the cute and cuddly bears, just getting into precious situations that always end up with a Coke reward? This is pretty much the same thing…except they TALK and WEAR ARMOR! You can’t get much cuter than that in my book.

So, I start to listen closer and that’s when things just start to get goofy. Now what follows is a direct quote from one of the Young Lifers and it is no way a product of my design. This is proven by two things. One: it’s just too damn nutty to come from a sane person and two: if I had written it, I would be a staff writer on The Daily Show instead of slumming for this greasy mic’s blog. One of the future zealots of America was quoted as saying that he was glad that the movie was coming out because it gave “them something to fight against”. The crazy Jesus-train doesn’t stop there, dear readers, oh no…this gospel-fueled, gay hatin’ fiasco is just starting to take off. From what I could infer from the conversation, from a safe distance, of course, these poor, brain-washed young whipper-snappers where planning on standing outside of a local movie theater and handing out flyers that advertise their church (does God really have more shit to sell? What is he, Ron Popeil?) and ask people why they let Phillip Pullman kill the idea of God in the minds of children. It was at this point I had to stumble back to the café and have a stiff swig from the flask before I hit the entire Jonestown High School graduating class of 2007 with a chair. To make matters worse, because it wouldn’t be a story about crazy fundamentalists without these nutballs, when I got home that night, I see that the 700 Club was having a weeklong series of segments about the entire His Dark Materials cycle because people “need to know about the evil about to seep into theaters”.

I see, because the evil that plagues the six o’clock news every night, in the form of drugs, rapes, murders, a meaningless war, government in shambles, and the fact that Chris Daughtry had a hit album just isn’t quite evil enough for people to know about.

Thanks Pat, I am really glad you opened my eyes!

Here is the thing; I have nothing against faith at all. I am not trying to put them down for what they believe in. But holy shit, that is fucking stupid. The movie is about a little girl with a bear and she has to get somewhere…that’s fucking it. The only thing that they can use against it is the fact that a church-like organization is the main source of villainy in the film and books. You know why? Because sometimes the church is fucking scary! You ever seen pictures of Vatican City at night?! It looks like Vincent Price’s dorm room. I am not trying to make a lot of waves here, but I really don’t see the rub. I read the His Dark Materials books when I was twelve years old and you know what I thought? I thought “Cool, talking polar bears that fight.” I read them a second time when I was fifteen and you know what I thought then? I thought “Cool, talking polar bears that fight.”

THAT’S FUCKING IT!

If you want to delve any deeper into the text, be my guest but don’t be mad when people find a meaning that differs from your religion of the week.

Oh and this is really the bitch of it…you ready for this? Phillip Pullman and C.S. Lewis, the creator of one the most beloved Christian fables, and yes I am counting the Bible, The Chronicles of Narnia, were FUCKING FRIENDS! That is the ultimate argument sinker of anyone dumb enough to look into this deeply. Mention that when you try to see Golden Compass and some pencil-necked, Bible-thumper gives you a God sales ad and you will see dreams crushed, faiths shaken, and lives questioned… all in the eyes of one church intern who just wanted to make a difference. To hell with that guy, if he can’t handle the cold hard facts of life then he should have stayed in the Sunday school classes that had to fast forward over all of the best parts of The Ten Commandments.

Its fantasy, kids. That is it. Fat Phil Pullman is a WRITER, someone who, by definition, makes his living telling stories and this story just happened to be read by people who found more in it that makes a bunch of people mad. All I am really saying is that everyone should just take it the hell easy. Just have a Coke and a smile and shut the fuck up about this whole religion-within-fiction thing, because if there is one thing that we can all agree on, it’s that Young Life chicks, though hot, will not put out and God hates chicks that don’t put out.

Giving a strong freshman effort,

J. Partridge.

I'd love to give the world a Vicodin

2007-12-08T15:18:00.000-08:00

I was planning on opening this blog with a line like: "After a little more than a years absence, I have made my triumphant return to the world of blogging!", but such a statement would be deceptive. For example, using the word "triumphant" in any sentence describing the last year and my life would be quite a stretch. Alas, I cannot look at a single event in the last 341 days and claim a victory of any sort (except for a few sexual encounters that I am particularly proud of). Of course, an argument can be made that I haven’t tasted triumph in the 25 years that I have inhabited this planet, and it seems that every year I make a promise to myself (and my readers) that a change will come; a new course charted. Incidentally, I’ve become the boy who cried wolf. But I promise that 2008 will be different. I pinky swear. I swear on my great grandmothers grave. I swear on Barack Obama's audaciously righteous campaign (*awaits audible gasp from those who know me well). This blog will be a journal marking my progress. In addition, several of my more creative friends have volunteered to take part in this “blogazine”, providing them an outlet to express their views, short stories, essays, and rants. Whether the subject at hand is politics, movie and music reviews, rants on the downfall of society, sexual techniques, point/counterpoint debates, or strange, chemically-stimulated dialogue/conversational transcripts, our goal is to never be boring.

So welcome to THE Justin Dudley CENTURY!

Our Mission: to be - Insulting. Abrasive. Stimulating. Egotistical. Satiric. Spiritual. Melancholy. Caustic.

Let the games begin.

Keep on rockin’ in the free world,

- Justin Dudley