Cleared for landing.

Finally.  After two whole fortnights of searching, I have found a band.

It probably won't be my only band, or even my favorite band, but it's a solid group of individuals with studio space in a band factory on the west side.

All it took to get the offer was performing a blood ritual and dazzling them with my spoken word performance.  My only real concern with the band is that they practice naked in front of a large window.  After practice they shave each other, but the shaving part doesn't really bother me.

The nice thing about drumming regularly is that your hands get mangled. I feel like more of a man, with the cuts and blisters to prove it.  My chest hair is growing in thicker.  My moustache is greasier.  I'm even less sensitive to the feelings of others.

Happy Friday y'all.  Look for me at brunch tomorrow midday.  I'll be the greasy haired guy watching to see if you finish your potato wedges.

Ramk out.

Ass...bestos

Ha! Assbestos...

So, I'm on a serious search for a band now. It's like looking for a job in a lot of ways. I lie, telling them by email (to some craigslist address) that I have completed high school and haven't served time for white collar crimes.

Last night I played with a band called "The Tampons" or something like that.

A friend's* blog recently reminded me of a job I had and loved for a long time. Bar tending. It's a great job for anyone with a dull mind and the ability to make anyone believe you are seriously poor.

I used to be the favorite bartender for a group of executives from an advertising firm in the Entertainment District. They would come in for lunch almost every day and I would serve them most of the time. Those dudes paid for two of my three mobility scooters.

In the evening, my job would be to flirt with everyone in sight and up-sell certain brands. One minute I could be telling a lady that her hat is really sexy and she should drink Grey Goose instead of Smirnoff, the next minute I could be telling a dude that his dreadlocks are extra phat and he should try Blanche de Chambly if he likes Hoegaarden.

Oh, I haven't heard back about the job with the Laotian Embassy yet. Starting to lose hope. Trying not to cry...

Love,
Ramk Chardri

*At my faux birthday party she told me I wasn't her friend. Then she stole my shoes. Girl you crazy, drop them like they're hot.

Out with the Old

Big changes are coming in my life. I know because I can smell it.

One way I know is that I have been feeling a little stale. I should get a walk-in refrigerator to keep myself fresh. My naturopathic doc calls it mental dullness. She looked at my brain through my ear and indicated that it looked grey and mushy.

I think she thinks I’m stupid, and it’s possible that she is completely right. I have suffered from medical grade stupidity for all of my life. It’s a little surprising that I have been able to pull together a relatively successful life despite my medical condition. I haven’t always been such a successful dude. Two weeks ago I had a serious crack problem, but things are turning around...

Some of the expected changes:

• This week will be the official wardrobe changeover from winter to summer. I have to air out my thong swimsuits and patch all of the holes. 
• I will make a new friend. This new friend will have a hot tub in their back yard and will invite me over all of the time.
• I will play with three new bands in the next month. Two are already signed up!
• I will stop making deals with the devil. That includes any of you who I deem to be toxic.
• If the Laotian embassy doesn't get back to me, I will find a job with another embassy representing a small narcissistic government.
• I'm gonna buy a house in Parkdale or Roncesvalles.

Going to Joy Bistro tonight for Dave's 72nd birthday party. Should be fun except that he only eats prunes and he orders everyone's food for them. 

I also went to a Peruvian place this weekend called La Cocina de Dona Luz with my brethren Oliver Vasquez Toledo. The Peruvian fare there is great, but since Oliver is visiting from Mexico for only a couple of weeks, he has trouble following the rules. The waiter asked him politely to get down from the table top but he just kept on dancing and taking off his clothes. A lot of the other patrons didn't seem to mind. A couple of them even paid him for the entertainment by putting $5 bills in his underwear. Nothing is wrong with Oliver, the problem is that table top dancing is taboo in Canada.

Viva la revolucion!

Meeting You

I know what you're thinking.

"Gee whiz, I wish I could meet that Ramk guy."

I get that a lot.

Hold on. Don't be thinkin' stuff like that too quickly. You don't even know me. I could have horns, breath fire, sport a third leg or smell like oysters. You should be more careful. I won't always be around to get you out of trouble.

You may be able to tell who I am by the things I yell in the subway. If someone isn't holding onto one of the hand rails or stripper poles, I can't keep myself from screaming at them: "HOLD ON OR YOU'RE GONNA FALL". I don't think people really mind it, except for babies. Babies get so upset when people yell at them.

a link*

Don't worry, I want to meet you too. But, how is that ever going to happen? All you are is a faceless internet surfer who happened to catch the wave headed in my direction. Hang ten. I'm going to the beach bar to get a drink with an umbrella in it.

Maybe I should set up a live video site. That way we could meet and you wouldn't be exposed to my musk.

Peace to Kyrgyzstan.


*brought to you by the good people of P.D.R. Laos.