Some time back, I referred to telephone recordings made by “Lonesome Cowboy Tim”. These used to run on a (secret) telephone number in San Francisco, and the story changed from time to time. The story in general was that Lonesome Cowboy Tim lived out on the prairie with a lot of critters, and they had various adventures which were very, very funny.

It seems that lots of Cowboy Tim fans still remember those days. I heard from Frank Mitford from south Florida and several others. Some of them have recordings.

In an attempt to bring these recordings back to the world, I’ve registered “lonesomecowboytim.com“, and will be putting a website up in that location. Hopefully, I’ll be able to garner recordings and post them there, and perhaps some other fans would like to help with this project, so that you can return with us now to those thrilling days of yesteryear.

Lonesome Cowboy Tim will ride again!

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.

[From Bankrate.com:] Further responses for your telemarketer-calling pleasure —

TRIXIE’S
Assuming that you have caller-ID, and know it’s not your friends or your mom, you answer: “Trixie’s Call Girl Service. Press ‘one’ for an appointment. Press ‘two’ if you are seeking employment. Press ‘three’ if you are a law enforcement officer.”

Then, no matter what they say, or what touch-tones they press, repeat the above.

QUALITY CONTROL
After they’ve started, you say, “This is good! Hang on!” Make a clicking sound, then say, “The rest of this call is being recorded for quality assurance.”

If they stumble or say anything, jump on it suspiciously. Interrupt more and more, and begin to ask for their name and callback number and the name of their supervisor. If you wish, pretend to yell to someone offline, saying, “Joyce! Pick up line six. It’s one of our guys. You won’t believe this!”

THE FEDS
Interrupt them and demand to know how they got this number. Before they can reply, tell them to be quiet and listen, because there’s not much time.

Tell them federal agents are en route to their location, and to follow your instructions to the letter if they want to avoid being shot. Tell them to shut down their computer and all other devices in their office, hang up and unplug the phone, then to kneel down in the middle of the room. They are then to cross their ankles and place their hands on their head and stay that way until the agents arrive. Then hang up.

Flash! Just when you thought it was safe to come out of the water, new research reveals extensive use of a powerful chemical within many industry groups worldwide, suggesting a powerful effect upon our overall health.

For revelations about the now-widespread use of dihydrogen monixide in our world, see Dihydrogen Monoxide Research Division (DMRD), located in Newark, Delaware.

Why aren’t our governmental agencies on top of this?

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.

Mount Shasta, 9am: A week ago, about this time, our dog Tulip passed away; Yesterday and today have been hard, remembering, and also remembering last Tuesday when we awoke exhausted, with a hole in the morning.

While we sat at table over coffee, late-sleeping Tulip should have come walking, stiff and stretching, from the bedroom while we said “Good morning!” and “Here she comes, here she comes!” That’s the way it’s supposed to be.

Have you ever noticed how, in tough times, syncronicity appears, and consciousness alters?

When Tulip was boarding at the animal hospital, we knew she’d be ill on her return, and in our rented house with carpeting, we’d need to keep Tulip in the kitchen with its durable floor.

Adrienne called the Noah’s Ark petstore, and spoke with the owner, a blonde woman we’d never met. However, the week before, the local newspaper displayed an article on cat rescue folks, and in the photo this same woman sat with a cat who looked exactly like Komodo Kittie that we’d placed with the Humane Society.

Adrienne wanted a baby gate, to close the kitchen from the carpet. The pet-store lady said she’d ask a woman named Chris at the Humane Society. “She’s a pet communicator,” said the pet-store woman, “I don’t know if you believe in things like that.”

Adrienne, very much, does.

In fact, musing with me the day before, she’d wished she knew a pet psychic, and when the pet-store woman reached Chris, Chris said she could help, and asked for Adrienne’s name. Chris already knew who she was, and the pet-store woman said, “Adrienne? Oh! You’re that Adrienne!” The story of Komodo Kittie had made the rounds, you see.

Chris said that her dog Nikki would help guide Tulip when the time came. And Chris then reminded the pet-store woman that there was a nice gate stashed in the back room of the pet-store, which had been forgotten.

“That’s right!” said the pet-store woman, and invited Adrienne to come over. Adrienne drew Angel Cards, and they said “Creativity” and “Spontenaity.” I don’t draw Angel cards, but every day I check the Fortune Cookie built into this site. Although the fortune is randomly selected from my quotes collection, quotes appear which I swear I’ve never seen before.

In the afternoon, Adrienne said she didn’t know how she’d go on, without Tulip. And in my office, the fortune cookie selected a quotation from Adrienne herself. “Don’t stop,” it said. “Just keep moving. — Adrienne Gallant”

The pet store gate was double-size. This was good, because we needed a double-size gate. Adrienne asked how much it would cost. The woman said, “Just take it. Take it with you.”

As we set up the gate, Adrienne again tried to reach the pet communicator, with no luck. And when, a week ago, the sun rose on Tulip’s last day, and when Adrienne rose in that early light, she pulled an Angel Card. It said, “Grace.”

The vet we reached on the phone agreed to come and set Tulip free of that broken body. She was a vet new to us. She was named Dr. Roberts, or actually, Dr. Grace Roberts.

While Dr. Roberts was preparing the injections, the phone rang. We didn’t want to talk, but it just kept ringing. “Go answer it,” I told Adrienne, “We don’t want it ringing.”

There, at that last moment, was Chris, the pet communicator, with words of comfort. Adrienne thanked her, hung up, then sat on the floor, and we stroked and spoke with Tulip as she passed away.

Later in the afternoon, from Chris Adrienne heard that Tulip was being escorted by guides including the dog Nikki and a horse, and that the journey would take three days. Adrienne tears up, telling me. “I wanted to tell them that Tulip couldn’t run very long,” she says.

During these three days of Tulip’s journey, we’ve been told to encourage Tulip to keep moving. And once she gets where she’s going, then she’ll be able to come back and visit us. Well, that sounds like a good idea to me, because I like her a lot, and miss her terribly. All this week, I hear Adrienne crying. “Keep moving, Tulip,” she says. “Keep moving.”

Two weeks ago, and two weeks before that, Adrienne told me of peculiar dreams. In the earlier dream, she and Tulip were walking and they met two strange dogs. These sound frightening, for they were tall, wild, stiff-legged, with dark coats and glowing pale blue eyes. Yet she and Tulip were not afraid. She awoke.

They’re guides, she thought.

In the later dream, again she and Tulip walked along a path, and topping a ridge they came upon a field, a field much larger than a football field, and upon the wide green grass, hundreds and hundreds of border collies were running, walking, playing, prancing, as far as you could see.

Adrienne spoke to Tulip, on the leash near her hand. “Look, Tulip,” she exclaimed, “All your cousins!”

But Tulip was no longer on the leash.

The leash was empty. And in the dream, Adrienne cried, knowing that Tulip had gone. Tulip had joined her cousins, out upon the sweet green grass.

Playing, running, prancing, I can see Tulip, blending with all the others, black and white and joyous, running with all the border collies of the world.