Another EGR Exclusive from Our
Roving Correspondent Rudy BloomHey Chris,
How are ya, Big Guy? Raging OK? Got all of the catheters out without too much of a mess? As you must know, I've been overly medicated in my own way, with a schedule that has refused to let up. Last week was one of those 9 cities in 7 days affairs, all wildly successful and enormously expensive. I finished the week in the FitzPatrick, an often fine Irish-run NYC hotel, arguing with a tall blonde about policy. She says the hotel policy is to charge $1 for each 800# I call from my room, on top of $275/night for staining their towels. I presented her with my policy that prohibits me from ever giving a 6' cunt in a severe black suit something for nothing. Minutes later I was out in the rain, needlessly suggesting to my Brazilian cabbie that conditions mandated he drive on the sidewalk. Felonies later he drove up an exit ramp and somehow squeezed into the Lincoln Tunnel mayhem, and got me to EWR for a flight back to SFO. Somehow arriving 8 minutes before an on time departure w/o ticket proved no problem, and I was off to the only truly important meeting of the week... the 50th wedding anniversary of the couple that saved my life... Harold & LaVon Hall.
No kidding, real people, all true stories, including incredible tales of my survival in the Age of Nixon. My own small part was a mere walk-on role in their grand tale, a footnote rightly, although in Harold's recently published autobiography he generously devoted several paragraphs to a pair of hairballs who visited in the summer of '74. I won't bore you with my personal contemporaneous details, droll accounts of "finding oneself" and living *on* *the* *road* and tiny little squares of flavorless gelatin that carried a remarkable price-learnings ratio. In truth (our major goal here, eh, RB?), I was pathologically naive and had succumbed to my own PR on the need to separate myself mentally, physically and financially from everything... Everything. When one's inherited frame of reference has been irrefutably proven to be a construct of dubious, if not outright evil, intentions, lacking an address, a wallet and a plan seemed divinely inspired. But it's not about me.
Harold & LaVon both came from the prairie of South Dakota, hard land to farm in a hard time. Their tales before marriage were similar: abject poverty, farm foreclosures, and hope despite the evidence. I will not recount the whole autobiography here for you, as you will soon be reading it in a new edition, but let me give you some highlights. They both clawed and scratched their way