The Adventures of Bloggard

Been Around the Block. Got Some Stories. These are Them.

Ruru the Guru is the only Telepathic Operator?

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San Francisco Yellow Pages, 1986: In the Yellow Pages that year you’d find listed “Third Ear Telepathic Answering Service” at 221-3333. If you called it you might hear this —

“Hello and thank you for calling Third Ear Telepathic Answering Service, the round-the-clock telepathic answering service!

“I am your Host and Operator Ruru the Guru, speaking to you direct from the Himalaya Hideaway.

“Hold it! Hold the phone! I’m getting a telepathic message at this very minute!

“Uh … Uh … it was for me.

“The question was- Ruru, are you the only one that works at Third Ear?

“Well, yes. Yes, I am.

“But you got to realize, the Himalaya Hideaway here exists primarily in the Astral Plane, where as you all know, time flows funny.

“The result is that we can serve you round the clock with telepathic answering service, using no additional staff!

“And you know what? No time, no overtime!

“No overtime, no benefits!

“So who benefits?

“You do!”

Ruru the Guru — Can We Sell Cars?

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San Francisco Yellow Pages, 1986: In the Yellow Pages that year you’d find listed “Third Ear Telepathic Answering Service” at 221-3333. If you called it you might hear this —

“Hello and thank you for calling Third Ear Telepathic Answering Service, the modern telepathic answering service that can help you move your merchandise!

“I am your Host and Operator Ruru the Guru, speaking to you direct from the Himalaya Hideaway.

“Several people telepathed in last week wanting to know can we sell cars …

“Well, we can’t exactly sell them, but we sure can tell your friends and neighbors about em! So here goes —

“1973 Edsel, lo mileage, one owner, sky blue, $525 or best offer.

“We also got a Corvair, rebuilt engine, velcro upholstery, wire wheels. Make an offer.

“Last, here’s a modified ’57 Fairlane, Mack diesel engine, complete with bronzed baby shoes and foxtail. $1500 firm. Man, that does sound sharp!

“You want em? Just let me know.”

Tutti-Fruity

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When my mother told me this story it touched my heart, because in a way, it was part of who she was for the rest of her life …

Henrietta, Texas, Summer 1922: My mother, Margaret Hurn, known as Maggie, was six years old, and very excited that Saturday. For the first time, riding down the dirt road in the wagon with her mother and father, Maggie was going to town.

She had a nickel in her hand. She held it tight.

Eight miles seems so little now, for any car can cruise the paved road in just a few minutes. But on that day, on the dirt road in the wagon behind the horse, it took several hours, with the sun high above and dust rising to float in the air behind them, and she was holding that nickel all the way.

She had a plan.

Tutti-Fruity ice cream. That was the plan. A nickel would buy a big double-dip ice-cream cone at the Henrietta drugstore. The soda fountain there had a marble top, and fancy stools that spun around with shiny red seats. Behind the counter, lined up before the huge mirror, was a shelf of colored bottles. Every kind of delight, in town, right there at the soda fountain.

Maggie wanted Tutti-Fruity.

She was shy about going in, but her father said, “Go on,” and gave her a nudge, so she edged slowly through the door. Instantly dismayed because everything was so fancy, she waited, holding her nickel, and before long, the big man behind the counter noticed her and leaned over.

“What would you like, little girl?” he said. Perhaps a bit deaf, he spoke loudly, and it startled Maggie. She cast her eyes down.

“Tutti-Fruity,” she said softly.

“What’s that?” he said. “What would you like?” Maggie felt suddenly dismayed, embarrassed, as if scolded.

“Tutti-Fruity,” she said softly.

“I can’t hear you!” the man said loudly, “What do you want?” A well of tears blurred her vision.

“Tutti-Fruity,” she whispered.

“What?!!” he demanded. “Speak up!”

But now it was too late. Confused, ashamed, she ran crying from the store.

All the way home, on the long journey up the dirt road as the late shadows grew longer across the road, sitting in the wagon, she held the nickel in her hand.

Rabbi Moishe

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Rome, 1847: The Pope announced that all Jews, not being Christian, as is proper, would have to leave Italy. Of course, there was a great outcry, and so for appearance sake, the Pope announced that he would debate the matter with one of the Rabbis. If the Rabbi won, the Jews could stay in Italy.Rabbi Moishe was chosen for the debate.

Since Rabbi Moishe spoke no Italian, and since the Pope spoke no Hebrew, it was agreed that the debate would be silent.

At the historic meeting, the two spiritual leaders sat gazing at each other for a long while, charging their spiritual batteries as it were.

Finally the Pope held up three fingers. Rabbi Moishe held up one finger.

The Pope nodded, paused in thought, then circled his finger around his head. Rabbi Moishe pointed to the ground.

The Pope frowned, paused, then gestured to one of the Bishops, who brought the Sacred wine and wafers. But undaunted, Rabbi Moishe produced an apple from his robe, held it up to the light, then took a big bite.

The Pope threw up his hands. Rabbi Moishe had won. The Jews could stay in Italy.

In chambers, his Bishops crowded around. They were not certain; what had happened? The Pope spoke wearily.

“I indicated the Holy Trinity,” he said, “But the Rabbi pointed out that all are one.” The Bishops nodded. “I pointed all around us, to show that God is Everywhere … but the Rabbi pointed to the ground to indicate that God is right here!” The Bishops nodded again. “Finally,” said the Pope, “I showed him the Holy Sacrament of Redemption, the wine and the wafer, but he just produced an apple to show the Original Sin. There’s nothing else. He won.”

And on the road, the other Rabbis were questioning Rabbi Moishe, who explained, saying, “The Pope said we had to leave in three days, and I held up one finger to say ‘Up Yours!’ Then he circled all around to indicate that we had to leave, and I pointed to the ground to indicate that we’re staying right here!” The Rabbis nodded.

“Then what happened?” asked the Rabbis.

“I don’t know,” said Rabbi Moishe. “He brought in his lunch, so I had mine.”

Dream

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Henrietta Texas, 1959: When I was fifteen, my room was a garret built atop our house on Omega Street, and from my windows looking east, I saw her walking up the sidewalk.

Slowly, a stranger, a young girl perhaps fourteen, with dark hair and almond eyes, perhaps two blocks away. Well, I admit it. I had binoculars.

She looked about her as she walked, maybe seemed a little timid. A block before our house, she crossed Omega Street, and vanished from sight up the sidewalk behind the old Baptist Church. I knew every kid in town. I’d never seen her before.

But I was to see her again.

When school started, within a few days I’d learned her name — Linda — and she was absolutely beautiful.

But she was younger than me, a class younger, so I rarely saw her, and in my clumsiness never professed myself. Then, too, I fell in love with three or four other girls soon after.

But on a band trip to the Wichita Falls Swimming Pool, somebody brought a portable radio, and toward the end some of us danced in the gazebo. After a few words, Linda said yes.

Holding her in my arms, with her breasts soft against me, and the scent of her body so near … it was very, very difficult. Sweet and painful all at once.

The song on the radio was “Dream,” by Don and Phil Everly. Even now, hearing in memory the Everly Brother’s voices blending in harmony, I can feel again that longing and lust and sweetness and pain.

I never became involved with Linda. I had joined the school band, playing drums, having been completely inept at football and track. I was busy. I had things to do. There were girls in my own class. I couldn’t really flirt in the hall. She was just too young, just a kid.

And yet, so odd how a memory can persist. I recall the scent of her skin, the touch of her hair swaying gently against my throat, the soft and halting way she followed as we slow-danced together, turning round and round through the white-painted gazebo in the warm summer air, and the Everly Brothers harmony as they sang.

“I can make you mine, taste your lips of wine,
anytime, night or day …
Only trouble is, gee whiz,
I’m dreaming my life away …”

Dreams. They’re the stuff life is made of.

They’re the truth, the dreams.

 

Mount Shasta

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Seventeen Thousand Feet High

Mount Shasta, California, Yesterday: At 17,000 feet, the mountain towers above the range, the last of summer’s snows shading its flanks above the treeline.

The roads pass by to the west and south. There are no roads to the north and east.

To the south, McCloud is an old mill town nestling in the trees. The mill bosses paid no attention to the view, and just lined up the smaller houses on a grid, but from all the yards the mountain looms overhead. The managers homes, further up the slope, are reluctantly grand rustic victorians beneath the trees.

If you follow the road around the mountain you come to Mount Shasta City.

Interstate 5 is a broad-flowing river, roaring up from Los Angeles past San Francisco and vanishing in the north, passing a stone’s throw below Mount Shasta City. Jump off the Interstate, and the old highway winds past old-style motels and into town, looking quite swept up. The Nursery, Lily’s Restaurant, Casa Ramos, and Has Beans coffee house appear as the road grows wider.

If you continue past the health food store, you’ll pass Smith street climbing the hill to the right, and the thoroughfare will make a slow curve to the left. The old downtown runs for several blocks, filled with chiropractors, bookstores, and chock-a-block with spiritual healers, city buildings, and real estate offices. You could turn left on Lake street, ride the bridge over the Interstate 5, and wander out to Lake Siskayou. There you can rent a boat or a catamaran.

Or, you can follow the old highway to the north, past the farm implements, mini-storage, and the newspaper office, to rejoin Interstate 5 roaring up into Oregon.

But Adrienne and I will stay. We’ll be on Smith street.

This weekend, son-in-law Joe and I completed the first part of moving. On Friday, we hired two guys standing near Burger King. If you hire the guys near the mall, they are Guatamalan. If you hire the guys near Burger King, they’re Mexican. Joe and I packed, then Luis and Roberto dollied to the truck, and Joe packed. It took all day, and filled up a 25-foot Penske truck.

On Saturday we set off early, and six hours later parked beside Tulip’s new home, where Adrienne and I will also live. A guy named Matt appeared at the back door to help unload. Some things went to storage and the rest into the garage and shop. After a long, hot day, we found beer and food at Casa Ramos, and bid adieu to Matt. Joe and I crashed on air mattresses he inflated from the cigarette lighter socket in the truck.

On Sunday we drove home and returned Mr. Truck. I was exhausto. It was great. Going to sleep a while now.

Enter Ruru the Guru

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San Francisco, 1981: It was actually because of Lonesome Cowboy Tim.

Lonesome Cowboy Tim was the alternate persona of a disk jockey who’d emigrated from Houston to San Francisco, back back in the days of answering machines, before all this voicemail foolishness.

There was a phone number, and when you called it was answered by Lonesome Cowboy Tim, saying “Howdy, Buckaroos!” and then he’d recount some adventure that he and the prairie critters had experienced recently.

Since it was a single line on an answering machine, after some weeks you’d find the line always busy. Then the number would be changed, and you’d have to somehow find it again. This was a challenge, because it was purely word of mouth, yet somehow we always found Lonesome Cowboy Tim.

When Network started up the Third Ear Telepathic Answering Service, we’d not intended to have a phone number at all, since the answering service was telepathic, but the phonebook rep insisted we had to list a phone number.

So I set up an answering machine with Ruru the Guru. Here’s what it said …

“Hello! And thank you for calling Third Ear Telepathic Answering Service. I am your host and operator, Ruru the Guru, speaking to you direct from our Himalaya Hideaway.

“You know, many people have telepathed in recently, asking me, ‘Ruru, just how does one leave a message for Third Ear Telepathic Answering Service?’

“Well, it’s very simple. It’s just like using a telephone. You just lift your little mental receiver, and you listen for your mental dial-tone …

“Awwooo-ooo-ooo-ooo!

“Then you just mentally dial my number — 426 299737 19937 49972 29973 299 503 — and then I’ll answer, any time, any place. Then you just leave your a mental message for anybody, whether you know them or not, and I’ll deliver it right inside their head, immediately!

“Just remember: it’s mental.”

Cajun John

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Henrietta, Texas, 1959: John P. was a thin, wiry guy a year older than me, with a nervous air and a perpetual smile. His family was from Louisiana, with a mild Cajun accent. John signed up for Latin class, and was forever lost. I helped him some, and we became friends, though he was alien and odd.

The story goes that one day John climbed up onto the Coca Cola truck, with the intent to steal a case of cokes, while the Coke man was inside the A&P grocery store. But the Coke man came wheeling his handtruck out the rear door, and caught John atop of the truck. The Coke man scowled.

“What are you doing on that truck?” he demanded.

John didn’t even blink. “What truck?” he said.

Once John invited me to [Read more…]

 
 

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