Faking the Funk Since 2002

I'm killing this journal.

Why am I killing this journal?

Because I'm not sure why I do it. When I started, over three years ago, I figured it'd be a nice place to vent, keep track of my thoughts, my proclivities toward the melodramatic that, with some retrospect, I'd be able to adjust and correct. I thought, in other words, it'd help build a better Andy.

But that soon turned into me doing a cyber-vaudeville routine. It became me trying to entertain first, inform later, reflect last. I've used this journal to publicly disembowel my "enemies." I've used it to propogate indefensible opinions, often for the sake of agitation or personal enjoyment. LiveJournal has fueled my cynicism and turned me into a contrarian. I've used this blog to embarrass ex-girlfriends and attempt to swoon new ones. I've used it to pre-empt criticism I KNOW is coming.

What I haven't used it for, however, is to build a better Andy.

I almost never return to past entries. I can't remember the last time I used my blog to chart my "personal growth" or whatever. And if I had a nickel for every time, in a state of either extreme boredom or extreme emotional anxiousness, I made a meaningless, cryptic, and often passively aggressive post, I'd have a shit ton of nickels. And what good are nickels in this, The Age of the Quarter?

So I'm not DELETING the journal, as I'd like it to be here for me to return to in time. And I'll certainly continue to read and comment to YOUR journals. And heck, I'll probably create a new blog in time, one with a more clearly defined mission. But for now, ELPH8 bids you all a fond adieu.

Adieu.

Tonight Ragan Fox is reading "poetry" at the "poetry slam." Apparently, he's a very good "writer" and "performer." Even though it's all his fault that we got dropped in Duo Quarters at AFA in '99. Come to Ego's around 8ish.

Because also: There's a limerick head-to-head. It shall be deadly. To whet my limerick whistle, I cranked a few out this morning. You can tell by how low-quality they are just how well my mind is suited to limerick-writing.

( Rick's Limes )

Dear out there-ers,

Tomorrow hundreds of nonprofit staffers, board members, and staffers will decend on Austin for my company's annual conference, Crossroads. So I should be far too busy to update, shouldn't I?

Signed,
Chicken Sans Head

I doubt that "George Bush doesn't care about black people."

If I suddenly wasn't around anymore, what shit of mine would you pillage at the estate sale?

What does it mean when someone says, "I'm a conservative"?

Being devastated has its priviliges.

Namely, discounts on alcohol and prolonged conversations with cute waitresses.

My Three Fugees rolled into Austin last night. I gave them a mini-tour of south Austin before we hit Opal's for some divine cheese fries, a handful of $2 Shiners, and nostalgia. We ended up sitting next to another NOLA fugee whose house WAS flooded. But her giant stack of french fries, her endless stream of beers, and her tattoos seemed to keep her company.

Tonight, I'm introducing My Three Fugees to the slam. It's the NEW SHIT SLAM, y'all, which means I may not read, having blown a majority of my "new shit" in the last couple of weeks. That's right: I blew my new shit. Tot gross.

I wish I'd thought of this line for a poem, which I heard on an episode of Nip/Tuck: "If Anne Frank had been living in your attic, she never would've made it past 'Dear Diary...'"

I'll be Nina Simone:
defecating on your microphone.

Today, I'm taking in three refugees. Of course, there's a mini-uproar about that nomenclature: the refugees saying that they don't want to be called refugees. But they are seeking refuge, which is sorta the definition. So I'm taking in refugees, damnit.

Three girls, all from NOLA. They got out before the storm hit but now they're out of jobs and wandering TX in a daze of What Do We Do Now? I know one of them--my first girlfriend from the 5th grade--but the other two are strangers. Lesbian strangers at that!

Do you get good karma points for housing refugees who you already knew? Or do they have to be poor and/or of a minority group to count?

To those of you who suck,

See this mind? Henceforth, I shant be paying you ANY of it. Shame, too, 'cause it's a good mind.

In Christ's Name,
Andy B. Bukake

p.s. Ahhhh, my friends list seems so much less self-righteous now. Calgon, take me away.

It appears I've lost some "friends" on LJ. I suspect it's because my first reaction to the politicizing of a natural disaster wasn't a full-throttled embrace of it, instead choosing to reflect on the fragility of life, nature, dignity, etc. Which is fine.

Totally fine.

I will approach this tragedy my way. You process it yours. And no harm done. I just hope that we can all--myself WAY included--can acknowledge that our political opinions, our beliefs about how the world works, do not define us. They are not us. They are just streams we step into, then out of again.

I'm trying to open myself to new ways of thinking. More precisely, I'm trying NOT to adhere myself to a system of thought that denies the possibility that other truths may "work" better for me. Thus, I have changed my mind, in part, about the current administration's role in the atrophied relief efforts. It is obvious, thanks to some of you guys, that short-sightedness was at issue here. Thanks for clearing that up for me.

But right now, placing blame--as the eloquent and fiercely intelligent doctortina recently posted--doesn't seem like the best use of our efforts. Donate money if you wish, donate clothes too, and medicine, make a phone call, house a family. Or, just sit down in a quiet room and consider.

Considering is doing me wonders these days.

I thought all the news reports were saying, "Hurry, Cain," as in "Come back to earth soon, Cain (of Cain & Abel fame) because the Ultimate Fighting Championships are in September and we think you have a good shot."

Or maybe I thought it was "Hurley/Caine" as in "Check out the new movie, Busted, featuring the dynamic duo of Elizabeth Hurley and Michael Caine."

Or then maybe it was "Hurl a can, Katrina" as in "Hurl a can at the head of your least favorite legislator ... Katrina."

Goodness me, I didn't say I was going to stop WRITING in LJ.

I'm going to stop reading LJ for a couple of days. You guys are really bringing me down.




{Also, I enjoy Mid-American Printing Systems}

Nobody could confuse me for a Bush fan, but I'm a little surprised by how many people here on LJ, and throughout the blogosphere, are trying to pin blame for Katrina's devastation on the current administration. It just seems like the inappropriate response to what's going on, and probably a tad myopic to boot.

I haven't written about it, because what can I write that doesn't instantly become cliched?

Only this thought keeps returning: My hope is that, out of all of this badness, Americans finally get an up-close-and-personal sense of what it's kinda like to live in about 90% of the rest of this planet. Myself included.

Also: I hope we don't start politicizing this too quickly, if ever. It's irrelevant and explotive to do so.

Tomorrow, Hurricane Fascism will make landfall on Austin's downtown bar scene, effectively ripping its soul out and flooding it with do-gooders and ... *GASP* ... clean air. Now, I know many of you have recently quit smoking, and for that, I congratulate you. But for those of us who still smoke---me and Johnny Depp being good, and sexy, examples---the smoking ban that goes into effect tomorrow is upsetting, to say the least. Even if you're a non-smoker, you should respect just how unnecessary, unjust, and devastating this ban is. If you don't, here, let me surround you in my nicotine exhalation.

I mean, if it's good enough for Britney, it's good enough for the rest of us.



To celebrate the last night that logic and sanity rules Austin's bar scene, please attend tonight's

SMOKE SLAM

Same slam time, same slam place (8pm at Ego's), but we'll be encouraging poems about/related to smoking. We'll be taking bets on how many cigarettes I can smoke (yes yes, I'm hosting). DJ Hot Wings (aka, Eirik Ott) will be spinning some smoke-inspired tunes. And we'll smoke until we burn down the place ... or our aveoli.

Besides ...

I read at The Hideout last night---the first time I've read at a non-slam event in months and months. I almost never go to readings other than the slam, which is half by design, often by forgetfulness. And when all you do is slam, you forget what it's like to leave a stage without scores popping up. Turns out, I like that. And then you also get to see poems you'd never see---like this girl, Jen, covering Barbara Adler, and Chris and Luv premiering a group piece, and Danny's weird fish poem, and my lovely Sarah's biting tongue.

How do you slammers feel about open mics?

Leaving there, though, I thought about London. And Dublin. Walking down Congress at night, the streets almost empty, the Capitol looming ahead, I realized how itchy I am to leave. And not because I don't love it here, but because I do.

Sorry I missed the wedding yesterday. But I was hungover from my birthday celebration and feeling a little selfish with my time. I hope to see LiveJournal flooded with descriptions and pictures.

I'm 26 now.

Tonight, I'm thinking of attending my first Scrabble club meeting since the early summer, when slam team rehearsals took over my Monday nights. I hope the gang remembers me. And I hope I can quickly adapt to the new dictionary.

This weekend, I cooked a bunch of chicken, fish, veggies, and shrimp. They're all tucked neatly into tupperware containers. I plan on eating them throughout the week like an army man.

For my birthday present, I picked up the new Athlete CD, the fifth song of which Andy Langer claimed "dwarfs everything on the new Coldplay CD," and he's pretty close. Who knew a song about a premature baby on life support could be so catchy? I also grabbed the new collection of David Foster Wallace stories, "Oblivion." Thus far, it hasn't disappointed.

Sarah so graciously gave me the first plant I've owned since moving to Austin. We don't know what TYPE of plant it is, but its name is Ferris and it looks adorable on the window sill. She also gave me what's turning out to be a very calming book on "loving-kindness." Also, I watched about four episodes of Oz, whose violence is not loving-kindness, but it still, somehow, fascinating.

All in all, a good weekend to turn 26. And I feel more curious and watchful of my life than I have in some time. It's a good thing.

* Also, if I were a rapper, I'd be M.C. Rimshot. And my fans would argue on message boards about whether it's pronounced "rims hot" or "rim shot" and either way, I'd be considered nebulously awesome.

* Also, "Revo-Lotion" is still the grand number one marketing idea of the year.

* And this too: In about two hours, I will be on the basketball court, schooling Tony Jackson and Matthew John on how to lay-up, dunk, and break ankles.

* Addendum: Claudia LeMonde is the raddest Californian I know.

* When I was 10, I woke up in the middle of the night and stumbled into the kitchen, where mom was crock-potting something. I said I hurt. She noticed that while I was sleeping, I'd been stung by bees about a dozen times.

* Thanks for the happy birthday wishes, both of you.

If you've ever been to a concert, you can probably appreciate this rant.