Entropy Gradient Reversals

Sudden Death - Denver over Green Bay
An EGR Exclusive Special Report by Rudy Bloom

Dear Rageboy:

On Friday I had done the math, watched the Weather Channel and had the numbers... Sunday's Super Bowel and a big H over the Great Basin meant good skiing in Tahoe. I was wrong. Somehow I forgot that the 9ers weren't playing. After driving to Truckee, I saw the horror... crowds of Sony Bono wannabees packed in 4x4s. The only alternative was to keep driving to Reno for buffet and whores (gambling? Ha! A statistician's fevered nightmare).

Next day we returned to the slopes but had to park in another county. I found the only refuge was black diamonds on the Backside (not a sexual reference). After skiing enough and toking in the trees (gawd, the Red Coats on patrol must moonlight for Dan Lundgren), we boarded a shuttle bus for the long trip back to "Revenge of the Son of the ...". Later, during the drive home, my girlfriend said, "You really should stop talking so casually about murdering people and burying them in the snow. Didn't you notice how quiet the shuttlebus got, you know, after that guy commented on the crowds thinning out?".

"So, it's ixnay on the eoplepay urderingmay?"

"I think so".

Hmmm. I haven't yet come to a conclusion about such a lifestyle change. I find unnatural death really is a crowd pleaser, and their nervous pause is merely a moment of reflection on the fragility of mortal life, not a look for available exits. If they thought about sudden death as much as I do, they would stop looking for emergency exits. Like being in a falling elevator, people think all one need to do is jump up just at the right moment, and everything will be OK. Nowadays, with everything on video tape, a citizen can see a dozen real deaths for breakfast. How much time is there for that elevator hop? What about ducking the driveby spray of MAC-10 plugs? Oh, and let's not forget "In the unlikely event of a water landing...".

Unless you have bought steerage on the Titanic, there simply will not be enough time to say or do anything. You hit the tree without a word, and the light switch is flicked off, just.. like.. that. No waving good-night to the nurse. Think about it. Now.

... and shut up about all those dead crack whores in my trunk.

Your correspondent,

Rudy Bloom

Channeling Marlon Brando in the Outback
An EGR Exclusive Special Report by "Rudy Bloom"

Dear RageBoy:

For every Christmas Holiday since I can remember, which is only 3 years now thanks to the medication, I have gone to the desert, far away from malls, seasonally-pine-scented kitty litter and Kathy Lee. Get away, get away, RUN AWAY. The first 2 ventures I used my trusty car "Son of the Revenge of the Ants," but with low clearance and front wheel drive, truly getting away from the masses was not possible. While the Xxxmas population of the Panamint and Death Valley environs is low, it is channeled onto the macadam veins and dangerously clustered at the "outposts." Furnace Creek in December is more like Sarasota Florida than you would ever want to experience. Snowbirds in their RVs, along with the Hun and the Jap, fill the "trading post," and the buzzing sound is enough to make you walk around without your pants on. Of course, this behavior runs contrary to specific regulations of the NationalSocialist Park Service, their motto being "We put 'U' back into the Park System... Universal Access, User Fees, Utility Hookups." Not this year.

A slow learner, but a steady one, I found a reliable 4x4 rental agency in Bishop near the top of the Owens Valley. After posing as the unrepentant progeny of C.E. Mulholland at a local waffle shop, we packed the Jeep Cherokee to the roof, locked on a 3-D fix with GPS, and headed for the first of 3 mountain passes named "Devil's Gate." Within 20 minutes we engaged the 4WD, and left it that way for the next 400 miles.

I see no real need to tell you exactly where we went, and there are no longer compelling reasons to keep secrets. Our destination is no longer a secret, no more of a secret than the location of the Titanic. Anyone can go there now, anyone with the proper equipment, FlexTime schedule and independent power supply (I use PV). One is advised to drive an American-made vehicle there, as you can't keep sand out of the gas tank on the Jap trucks. This spot has even been annexed by the NsPS, imposing limits on the semipermanent rat bastard residents. Just the same, you didn't hear it from me. When we arrived, pissing blood from damaged kidneys, a man, naked but for an open bathrobe and several dozen scrotum rings, said "Welcome to Paradise." He was not anyone's picture of Paradise, and the place looked like a giant had spilt massive amounts of laundry detergent on it. Paradise isn't the name for the place either. But I've already said too much.

I spent the next few days calcifying, mineralizing, precipitating, flocculating and sedimentizing. I also cooked a lot of meat. One morning I was seated near a soft spoken man from Marin, who was describing to another man a vision he had had the day before while hiking. He had seen a man with feathers appear before him, and this man had a message for the other man. "He says you must stop fighting what you are fighting. He says you must go to a special place in the forest and spend 3 days there, getting in touch with what it is that is hurting you. Then you will be better."

I always take these sort of revelations the wrong way. Call me what you will, I am a bad man because I can't bite my lip hard enough to keep quiet. In this instance, I spoke up in sotto Marlon Brando...

"I too have had a vision... and it was a very strange vision that I found very peculiar... yes, very strange and peculiar. I was walking over there, right over there near those rocks, those large rocks over there, do you see them? No, to the right. It does not matter. I saw a small rodent, perhaps a possum, or muskrat, or a weasel, and he had a message for me to give to you... A strange message, but a message I will give you anyway... this little creature, which was the size of a doorknob, or a large muffin, maybe even a coffee mug that was lying on its side and furry, but with beady eyes and ratlike tail, but smaller than a woman's handbag, though I suppose it couldn't be as furry as a woman's handbag, it appeared to be furrier than most women's handbags. It was certainly furrier than a coffee mug, and the tail was very much unlike a coffee mug... but that does not matter now. This creature said to me to tell you this. Eggs. You are eating too many eggs. Then he said there is a special place you must go, a place where you will understand what is hurting you. That place is a green grocer. There you will find the answers to your questions. This message I give to you."

Some people upon hearing sotto Brando think I am impersonating M. Brando. The closer truth is that sotto Brando comes from deep within me, where I keep all precious memories of cartoon versions of MB. Chuck Jones had Bugs Bunny, Daffy, etc. all meet a sotto Brando, so have Ren & Stimpy, and now South Park. Sotto Brando is where I go when I want to be heard, but have nothing nice to say. In fact, sotto Brando is for when you have nothing to say whatsoever. As in (sotto Brando):

"I have nothing to say."

See? Always works for me. And it worked then and there.

Other things happened there, but I'm not telling you. Nothing bad, but telling would be bad. After about a week, we disconnected the solar panel, left behind some essential supplies and packed up the Jeep. Driving west, then south, east, north, east and south eventually got us to the lower Death Valley. We began the long drive up Anvil Springs to Mengel Pass, and paused there for a PB&J. As that day's destination was a prime location in American folklore, we began work on our long and complex project, "The Brando-Manson Radio Hour." It goes something like this...

(sotto Brando) "Hello and good evening or afternoon. Why is this microphone covered with padding? Oh, I see. On today's show we are going to explore some of the final days of the Family at Barker Ranch. Now it was common knowledge that the ruggedness of Golar Wash prevented most vehicles from reaching the ranch, yet somehow you managed to get a school bus up there. Charles, would you be willing to share with us how this was achieved?"

(sotto Manson) "How about I just come over there and kick the dogshit out of you?!"

(sotto Brando) "Charles, Charles... heh heh, always with the quick wit. Let's go to the phones now. Boulder, Colorado, do you have a question?"

(sotto Manson) "I roll the nickels around here!"


We renamed Mengele Pass, and descended to the Wash, low, low 4WD, and slow too. In the old days, we would have wandered up numerous dry washes into box canyons, looking for the ranch, but I had an accurate GPS plot for Myers Ranch. Charles and the Family moved down the road to Myers when they thought the Inyo County Sheriff was nosing around too close to Barker. In the end, though, everything came together at Barker, and we found it too. For the first time I could remember (damn medication), here was a bit of history that looked exactly as it should. Perfectly preserved by the remoteness and dry high desert, 30 years have changed nothing. I went directly to the cabinet under the sink, where the deputy had found a small scruffy bearded man dressed in buckskin. In the presence of the sheriff, the girls took off their clothes and flirted and urinated, a cute trick Charlie taught them. The deputies were confused, but the arrests went forward. So much for psychological warfare.

It's all been co-opted now, cleaned up, tidy even, for the NsPS has appropriated the land and posted rules for camping at the Barker Ranch. There is even a guestbook to sign, but the long rough drive in has muddle-numbed up the pilgrim's comments. "Dropped by to see Charlie, but he wasn't home! Ha Ha!" Jeeze.

(mano Brando, 12/27/97) "The horror."
M. Brando

So I checked it off my Life List and we left. After the huge buildup of how rough the Golar Wash was supposed to be, big deal. I could shit a rougher road. Down down, the Pantymints we dropped, and we were out. Paved road again, 65 mph. RVs. Silverheads. Beer on tap.

Back in Bishop, the rental agency guy took a look at his dusty Jeep and said, "Next time I can give you a better price." What, no cleaning charge? What about that roach hole in the carpet? How about those drill holes in the floorboard, where I attached the navigation equipment? Did I mention the blood and vomit? The man had washed "Son of the Revenge of the Ants" while we trashed his SUV and didn't ask any embarrassing questions. Still, slower people would later ask me what I did for Christmas, and the honest reply is "nothing."

Your correspondent,

Rudy Bloom

PS (sotto Brando) Does this answer your question?

More Rudy

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