Ah, that’s beautiful… We got a lot of little teenage blue eyed groupies who do anything we say…

Title from Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show“The Cover of ‘Rolling Stone'”

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I want to start a one man “band” making loud, angry, destructive heavy music. This is going to be quite a process:

1.))) Dust off my guitar and start jamming.
2.))) Dust off Stacy’s old keyboard, and our Grandpa’s fucking bad-ass electric organ, and relearn how to rock out on keys.
3.))) Procure a drum set and start banging on shit, freaking out like Animal and generally annoying everybody into submission.
4.))) Soundproof the basement (just kidding, sister…)
5.))) Record a shitty demo, transfer it to tape, and hang out in front of record stores in a crust punk jacket begging for donations.
6.))) Talk to anyone who will listen about all my plans when we get our big break, man. We’ll be on tour overseas with Sleep and you’ll still be stuck here baking your fuckin’ homemade gluten free scones, bro…

All this seems very involved, so I better start slow and just focus on settling on a band name for now. Uterine Betrayal and Death Stench Creeps are both already taken…

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© Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

No Class Like Business Class…

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Savoring my last few days in the City of Sin, I devoted the early morning today to wandering the Strip in a sleep-deprived, caffeine-abutted ethereal haze.  We’ve seen what madness and cabaret, what filth and fortune, The Meadows have to offer during a busy off-season weekend.  But, what happens to the party once jobs, families, decency, and responsibilities have pulled the weekend warriors away?

There seem to be only two basic types of people on the Strip on a Tuesday morning in the off-season:

There are, scattered about haphazardly, the Hangers-On, the Last in Line, the Do or Die…those with True Grit.  These are the people you can respect, for their tenacity in spite of all odds.  Whether through some mutated hopeful clinging to The Dream, or through a final and absolute descent into the blackest void of No Fucks to Give, they are here, they are grasping for even the smallest foothold from which to pull themselves up, to rise mightily above decadence and obscurity, and they will not be deterred.

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Then, there is the other type.  These were the suffering, insufferable fools crammed together in frantic, delay-laden airports across the Winter Wasteland, USA Edition, all day yesterday.  These were the arrogant bastards gathered like lemmings in the Flamingo lobby last night, slowing hotel check-in to a sluggish, mind-numbing crawl.  (An hour and a half. Ninety fucking minutes. You serious, bros?!)  These are the oxygen-deficient, synaptically ineffectual knuckle-draggers shuffling confusedly around Out of Service elevators, eyes glazed over with mindlessness and apathy, cluelessly incapable of piecing together an alternate route for their straight-line lives.  They are the business class, the pants-suit and dress shirt and tie wearing conventoniers, the corporate movers and shakers, and they possess a self-righteous sense of superiority that stands in stark, moronic contrast to their cubically lobotomized, willfully ignorant mindlessness.  Fucking “business people.”

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We have experience in this realm that cannot, for all hope and decency, be forgotten or resolved.  Our time in the world of Commerce and Politics and Excel Spreadsheets of DOOM was relatively short-lived, but it did instill a few strange and terrible skills whose utilitarian import is questionable at best.

For example, We can spot a narcissistic, idiotic, douchebag CEO from a good 783 feet away.  But — and here’s the rub — we are powerless to do anything with this knowledge but glare on in judgmental scorn.  At most, perhaps an irreverent, sardonic aside, spoken to the world at large in a subdued tone as our respective parties pass by one another in pedestrian shuffling.

It really is too bad we’re not allowed to abduct and terrorize motherfuckers anymore…

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© Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.