Henrietta, Texas, October 1961: I got elected Band King. I’m not sure why. Perhaps there was a dearth of candidates.

As a practical matter, this meant two things. One was that I’d get my picture printed real big in the year book, and saying “Band King.” Yahoo.

The other was that I could have a free band jacket.

The fanciest and most coveted school jackets would have the school colors (black and gold, which really came out black and orange) with sleeves of real leather. This kind of jacket was absolutably de rigeur, a must-have.

I had a different idea. As usual, it caused trouble.

I was thinking ahead, about leaving for college next year. I didn’t think my high-school jacket with real leather sleeves would actually be that spiffy. It would be, like retro, man.

So when Mr. Raeke, the band leader, sat me down with the catalog, I ordered my jacket with a plain grey flannel body. He peered over the catalog.

“Not black and gold?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

Then he asked me what kind of sleeves. Again I chose plain grey flannel material. He raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

Then he asked me what color for the High-School Letter. I requested no High-School Letter. He smiled and wrote up the order. Now I had a nice stylish grey jacket coming. A nice, free jacket. I was happy.

The next day, he told me he’d sent off the order. “I had to fight,” he said. “The principal thought you ought to have a letter.” He smiled again. I was happy, too.

All that week, I heard indirect muttering. So-and-so at the school board had heard, and he thought it was outrageous. I didn’t care.

Some weeks later my nice, free, stylish grey jacket came.

I liked it. I liked it a lot.

As anyone can see, the Bloggard has been unable to create many micro-stories just lately.

I’ve become immersed in other projects, that’s what creates the interference.

My voicemail business has diminished (cell phones are very popular these days) and I’ve had to make adaptations to that business (see 24Metro Voicemail and Free Web), for example, providing free domain-name, email, and websites for voicemail clients.

In addition, at Mobius Megatar we’ve revamped the inventory system, so that we can now sell pre-built musical instruments from stock, and to offer these instruments I’ve created a new EBay store at the EBay “Megatar Store”. Our new inventory system makes it possible for a musician to purchase an instrument with immediate shipping, instead of waiting 3-7 weeks for the order to be built.

I’ve also intensified my investigations of the last ten years regarding the behavior of financial markets, with somewhat encouraging results, and this takes time, too.

There’s more, but that’s enough. And so I must permit the Adventures to languish at present. My goal was to create an autoblography, and that’s been done. (See A Year and a Lifetime.)

Over 400 micro-stories are already available here. See them listed alphabetically by title in the Archive Section.

And information about my “How to Get a Boyfriend or a Girlfriend” manual will be found in The Sweetheart Report posting.

Down the road, when time permits, I will be back to create more Adventures of Bloggard.

Thank you for your readership.

Los Angeles International Airport, January 2000. Two nicely dressed ladies were sitting near me, and as the flight was late, I suppose they fell into conversation.

The first woman seemed to be a brusque, arrogant California woman, apparently married to a very wealthy man. The second woman was a well-mannered elderly woman from the South.

The conversation centered on their children, and the California woman said, “When my first child was born, my husband built me a wonderful mansion in Bel Air.”

The lady from the South commented, “Well, isn’t that nice.”

It wasn’t long before the first woman was boasting again. “Then,” she said, “when my second child was born, my husband bought me a beautiful Mercedes Benz.”

Again the lady from the South said, “Well, isn’t that nice.”

Encouraged, the first woman said, with an air of pride, “Then, when my third child was born, my husband bought me this beautiful bracelet.” She jangled the bracelet, and it glittered in the bright light.

The lady from the sound again said, “Well, isn’t that nice.”

The first woman seemed to realize she was bragging, and she turned to the second lady and asked, “Men are so funny. Did your husband buy you presents when you had your children?”

The lady from the South replied, “Only the first one. When I had my first child my husband sent me to Charm School, something I’d always wanted to do.”

“Charm school?” asked the California woman. “What’s so interesting about going to charm school? Is it useful?”

“Well, yes,” replied the lady from the South. “I found it quite useful. For one thing, in Charm School I learned that, instead of saying ‘Who gives a rat’s ass’ I could instead say ‘Well, isn’t that nice.'”

January 1979: R.J.’s mother had been a music major, and so when they joined the small rural church, perhaps it was natural that she volunteered to lead the music, since they had nobody to play piano or organ.

However, since she’d been a vocal major, in fact she couldn’t play piano or organ either, but that didn’t slow her down. She got a three-ring binder, and wrote in the lyrics, and above the lyrics she wrote the chord symbols such as “C”, “D7”, and “G”. Then, she’d strum her autoharp and lead the choir, singing sweetly together.

About that time, two brothers who were truck drivers started attending the church, and in a rural church, since it’s the custom for everybody to pitch in, it soon developed that they were standing behind R.J.’s mom with their two guitars.

She’d start playing the next song, and they would listen for a measure or two, and then they would follow along. And follow along they could, quite well.

One day, she saw them huddled around her three-ring binder, and she overheard their discussion.

“What are those letters written above the words?” asked one of the truckers. His brother gaped at him.

“What’s wrong with you?”, his brother replied, “Can’t you read music?”

June 5, 2004: Today Ronald Reagan died at age 93. Although my friend Donny Burkman met Mr. Reagan once upon a time, I never did, although I shot him the bird one evening, which could have got me shot by secret service guys, but it didn’t.

I recall little of Reagan’s time. I recall only a sunday comic where an aged hippy referred to him as “Ray Gun,” and at the time of Mr. Reagan’s presidency, it was cool to act contemptuous of the president’s foreign policy.

As if us young folks with no experience in anything somehow knew more about how to run a country. Now, older, I realize that I don’t even know how to act in major motion pictures.

So long, Mr. Reagan. I apologise for my poor behaviour.

But I was much younger then, and knew everything.

Now I am older and wiser, and know far less.

Oakland, CA 1976: I sped over the Bay Bridge on my shiny Yamaha motorcycle, very sportif in my brown motorcycle jacket, jeans, and high boots. I needed to register my Thumbtack Bugle business name in the East Bay.

I found the Oakland courthouse perched between one-way streets, and wrapped inside a freeway exit. It was kind of hard to get there from here, if you know what I mean, but I wrestled the motorcycle around in the parking lot after a couple of wrong turns, and pulled out onto the street, and at just that moment a city bus swept down from the freeway.

No problem for active me.

I swooped myself and motorcycle over a traffic island, and let him pass, then pulled out in his slipstream.

At the red light, I pulled up into the left lane, and the driver, sitting behind the open window just above me, grinned down at my quick maneuver. I grinned back.

“Do you get the same points for someone driving a car as for a pedestrian?” I asked him.

“Naw!” he said, “We get higher points for pedestrians, but you guys on motorcycles, you’re quick! So you’re worth three extra points.”

June 10, 2004, but thinking back to Henrietta, Texas in 1960: My basement hippy pad had three walls painted a cool blue, and the fourth a burnt orange color. I’d painted them myself.

Then, Donny Burkman and I had made paintings

of abstract art by the simple expedient of floating oil-based paints atop the water in the bathtub, and dragging large cardboard through the oils. Donny and I were considerably happier with this art than was my mother, whose bathtub we’d used.

The first appeal of my basement hippy pad was that it was not in the house, so teen angst and sensibility were hidden, as is proper. Gone to ground, you might say.

The second appeal was that I could listen to records without comments or volume requests, as is cool, man.

Ray Charles and the Raylettes were a favorite. Boy, didn’t they shake that thing?

Ray today, gone tomorrow.

Ray Charles died today. Damn! First Miles, now Ray.

What’d I say?