Purple People Picker

It was one of those nights that we all have from time to time, full of paranoia and unfounded fears about anything and everything and nothing. Except this night was a turning point for me.

It was a Thursday and I had closed up Think-A-Holic Lounge again, being the last one to roll out the door and down the steps for the umpteenth time. I was in the process of publishing my sixth sci-fi thriller while working on my seventh novel, which is literary fiction for a change. Being full of think-a-hol and happy thoughts, I was walking the fine line between being a mere reflection of Michael Casher and becoming the Real McCoy.

When I reached the sidewalk I thought I heard footsteps behind me, soft flapping sounds like flippers hitting the concrete. I turned around and this is what I saw. I spoke to the purple thing as though I’d been expecting it.

“Go ahead and grab me,” I said. “Take me aboard your evil starship and turn me inside out and upside down and flip and flop me all you want. I don’t care anymore.”

“Hmmmpphh!” said the purple people picker. It lowered its arms. “Well, you’re certainly no fun.”

And then the hideous creature did a one-eighty and clomped down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. As for me, I headed home to build another chapter in book six (book building is formatting a finished manuscript for publishing) and maybe write a few lines in book seven. As far as I was concerned, the purple creature incident never even happened.

Bouncing Bobby

Think-A-Holic Lounge hired a new bouncer the other day to back up Bot Boy (see the Bot and Paid For posting). There have been way too many fights at the Lounge ever since that traditionally-published author started hanging out here. I'll admit that most of these fights were started by me.

The new bouncer's name is Bobby and he claims to be from the planet Samoa-sun. I like him and have bought him flaming shots of think-a-hol on several occasions after his shift was over. We regulars affectionately call him Bouncing Bobby.

Bouncing Bobby can throw a full-size drunk out the door and toss him or her further than any dwarf tosser in France. And, here at Think-A-Holic Lounge, drunk tossing is perfectly legal.

Star Maker

The Lounge closed early for the Thanksgiving holiday, shutting its doors at midnight last night. Even though Think-A-Holic Lounge has no actual position in the physical universe and cannot be pin-pointed in the space-time continuum, it respects all known holidays in this solar system.

A large crowd had gathered around this particular customer (see pic) who had just blown in from the planet Saturn, which everyone knows is still the jewel of the solar system as well as a hotbed of publishing gossip and where most shakers still do their shaking. He was buying drinks for just about everyone and I mentioned to Angus, our big-ass bartender, that this was the real reason for this goofball's popularity.

"Wrong," Angus replied, looking a little starry-eyed himself.

"Oh?" I said, arching my eyebrows in the process. This was the big Scot's cue to embellish his theory out loud.

"Yessir, lad," Angus said, "when this jasper blew in from Saturn the scuttlebutt around here was that he was a writer who'd recently been published by a traditional publishing house on Earth."

"I see," I told him, totally unimpressed. I knew that only meant that this joker from Saturn either had an inside connection to the Great Publishing Wizards in Big Apple City or else he had penned his book after doing considerable market research and had written only what the market would bear, not what he had a mind to write.

"And that makes him just about as close to being a big star around here as you can get ," Angus added. "Hell, all the rest of us are either unpublished or self-published. POD people, you know, most of us." His starry-eyed gaze dimmed slightly as he remembered the real reason he was here at the Lounge. "Pour you another one?"

"No thanks," I said, tossing a couple singles on the bar. "I think I've had enough think-a-hol for one night."

Then I went outside where the air was decidedly cleaner and my mind clearer and began the long trek back home.

Agented Submission

The other night I found a wallet laying on the floor in the men's room at the Lounge. I hesitated to pick it up, for obvious reasons, but I finally submitted and turned it into Angus, our big-ass head bartender. He looked inside for some ID and all he saw in there, besides a lot of folding money, was this wallet-sized picture.

"Oh, yeah," said Angus. "I know this guy." He showed me this picture.

"Wow," I said, "not only does this guy carry around a lot of cash, he's also pretty scary-looking."

"I heard that," Angus replied, turning the picture over to see if there was a phone number or an address on the back.

"What's he do for a living?" I asked.

"Oh, he's a literary agent from Big Apple City," Angus responded.

"I see," I replied. "Better let me have a double think-a-hol." But first I headed back to the men's room to wash my hands again.

Flaming Thoughts

Angus, the big-ass head bartender at the Lounge, is also the ghost of a dead Scottish poet, as I've said before. And he just got back from his one-week Halloween vacation last night and read me his latest poem.

It's about the Loch Ness Monster and it's not for publication and I listened carefully as he recited it, even though it wasn't very good, in my opinion. Then I told him about my latest book and then we bought each other flaming shots of think-a-hol.

They looked like this.

Harry the Temp

Thursday night my real ego and me (the black sheep alter ego) finished writing novel #6 and I celebrated alone by having a double shot of think-a-hol at the Lounge. None of the regulars were there and Angus was off until after Halloween, his favorite holiday.

A new face was behind the bar (see pic), hired by a temp agency for a one week stint at Think-A-Holic Lounge, with the possibility of going perm. His name tag said, "I'm Harry. How may I help you?"

"I just finished another novel," I told Harry, "and I'd like to celebrate with a double-shot of the 'ol elixir."

"You mean think-a-hol?" he asked, looking dazed and confused.

"You got it Jack," I said. "Now off with ye, me lad, and be lively." Ever since I saw the second bar scene in It's A Wonderful Life I've wanted to say that to a bartender.

"The name's Harry," Harry said, pointing to his name tag and trying to smile but not doing a very good job of it. "That's a double, is it?"

"Better make that a triple," I told him. I knew it was going to be a long night. And one hell of a long week.

A Message from Angus

"Don't think and drive."

This has been a public service announcement from Think-A-Holic Lounge and your local think-a-hol distributor.

She Rode a Comet

I ran into this interesting woman at the Lounge the other night just before last call. I tried to snap her picture with my cell phone camera but every time I pointed it at her she gave me a backhand and I fell off the stool. After three or four attempts, I finally gave up, even though our antics were wildly entertaining to the regulars who were still lurking there.

She wouldn't even tell me her name and all I can really remember about her is that she had auburn hair, a pale complexion accentuated by the right amount of freckles in just the right places, and that she spoke with what they used to call "an Anglicized accent", which made her sound like part of the Knickerbocker upper crust from 1930's Manhattan. I fell in love immediately.

When she was ready to leave, I asked her if I could walk her out and she said that would be fine.

"Where's your car?" I asked her once we were out in the parking lot. It was one of those starry nights that I like so much.

"Huh?" she replied, looking well over her limit of think-a-hol.

"What are you driving?" I asked, rephrasing the question.

"A comet," she said.

"Wow," I cooed, "I haven't seen a Mercury Comet in years. Is it fully restored?"

"Huh?" she said.

"Where's your Comet?" I asked, cutting to the chase.

"Up there," she said, pointing to a part of the sky just above the roof. And, much to my disbelief, there it was. A big, bright geostationary comet waiting for her above the Lounge.

Well...I'm not sure how she got aboard that comet and I probably should have waited around and found out for myself. But, like a scared rabbit, I went back inside and ordered another shot of think-a-hol, instead. And then another.

I hope I get to see her again one day soon. But opportunities like that usually come around only once. And I'm still kicking myself for not hitching a ride on her comet.

Bot And Paid For

I had my first falling out the other night with Angus, the ghost bartender at Think-A-Holic Lounge. He does all the hiring and firing at the Lounge.

Angus replaced the two masked doorpersons (see the Employees-of-the-Month posting) with a bot (see pic) on loan from my book reviewer, who lives on the planet Mercury. Angus said he did this to save money on benefits but I know damn well that Think-A-Holic Lounge, which is owned by a conglomerate from the planet Pluto that manufactures ripoff brands of men's and women's colognes, doesn't even pay minimum wage, let alone offer benefits to their sorry-ass employees.

Anyway, this is what the new "bouncer" looks like. Angus calls him Bot Boy.

I call him a "mistake", but not to his face.

Blog Bird from Outer Space

Since Think-A-Holic Lounge is not located in the normal space-time continuum we get all kinds of people dropping in, especially on the weekends.

Last weekend this androgynous poppin' jay plopped down on the bar stool next to me and ordered a "Dum-Dum", which is a popular drink in the Milky Way Galaxy and a special elixir that effectively offsets the affects of think-a-hol, which is the most popular drink with locals at the Lounge. Then s/he asked me a point-blank question in a highly accusatory tone of voice that turned heads.

"Aren't you that indie author who's all over the Web?"

"I might be," I replied, not wanting to own up to something right away that might not be a good thing for me.

"Hmmpphh!" the half-human and half-bird snorted contemtuously. "Well, i tried to leave comments on some of your blogs and they wouldn't take. What kind of blogs are they anyway? I never heard of blogs that you can't comment on." S/he then lit a cigarette and blew the first puff right in my face. I could hear Angus, our big-ass bartender, stifling a laugh as he witnessed this social event going south.

"That's really none of your business," I explained to the bird thing. "Besides, if you have something you want to get off your chest, why don't you just get your own blog and post it?"

The face on the androgynous birdman-birdwoman thing turned six shades of red, s/he having been bested by my brilliant think-a-hol-fueled logic, and did an about face. One to its advantage, of course.

"My!" it squeaked caustically. "Aren't we touchy and defensive tonight! I was just kidding!"

Angus was unable to stifle a loud guffaw at that point and I disappeared into the men's room to collect myself. When I came back I noticed the bird-not-a-bird creature sitting at a table across from another author and the first thing out of its mouth struck me funny this time around.

"Aren't you that e-book fantasy writer?" the bird with the little beard and the page boy hair-do asked him.

"Not anymore," he lied. "I gave that up when I published my first book of blogs and it hit the New York Times bestseller list like flies take to shit".

It was my turn to laugh this time and I kept laughing on my way out the door and all the way home.

Think-A-Hol

Think-A-Holics, like me, mostly drink think-a-hol at the Lounge but other beverages are also served there. Still, nothing provides inspiration for writing like good ol' think-a-hol, especially when it's served neat and with no chaser.

In small amounts, think-a-hol (see pic) can enlighten even the darkest and unusable mind and in larger quantities it can even produce revelations, but only in minds that are already ripe for them.

There are many types of think-a-hol and not all of them go down easily. Some burn the tongue and then settle like warm heat once downed. Other kinds are smooth and even buttery but, afterward, sour the stomach and burn the heart.

Not all think-a-hol costs the same. Some of the cheapest stuff will bring out the best in a person while, more often than not, the most expensive blends will show the worst and darkest side of those who drink it.

But, once you become a think-a-holic, there's absolutely no turning back.

Won't Get Fooled Again

I was working pretty late the other night. Right up until midnight, in fact, running more ads in online newspapers for Michael Casher, my flesh-and-blood other self, despite the fact that only spammers and scam artists respond to these pathetic book ads.

I was low on think-a-hol at home so I decided to mosey on down to the Lounge and knock a few big ones back and then stroll leisurely home while enjoying the clear, starry night. About a block from the house this odd-looking vehicle pulled up beside me (see pic) and I heard a mechanical voice talking to me from an external speaker.

"Hey, pal," said the alien voice, "need a ride?"

"No thanks," I said almost automatically. "Been there and done that." I was, of course, referring to Michael's childhood alien abductions and the alien pricks in this particular flying saucer damn well knew it.

I thought the bastards would zap me good after that remark or just beam me aboard for the hell of it but the alien craft just zoomed out of sight. When I rounded the corner there it was again, asking another guy the same question.

It was Angus, the big-ass Think-A-Holic Lounge bartender, getting something from his car. I watched in utter fascination as ol' Angus dropped his trousers and mooned everybody in the ship. Then I laughed like hell when the goofy-looking UFO tore out of there like it was under attack or something.

I was so impressed by Angus McCloud's spontaneous, almost lackadaisical spurning of these extraterrestrial mad scientists (that's all they really are) that I gave Angus an extra large tip that night. And, by the way, neither one of us has seen that UFO ever since that strange, starry night.

Thank heavens for that.

Over My Limit

As I've said before, I usually hang out at Think-A-Holic Lounge in the afternoon when most people are off doing other things and rarely do I close the place up at night. But, lately, I've been in a blue funk because of supernaturally orchestrated events that have been keeping our five published science fiction thrillers out of the hands of the reading public. "Me" being Jonco Bugos, the inseparable and overlooked alter ego of a certain independent science fiction author.

Only Angus McCloud, the 400-year-old ghost of a dead Scottish poet and our big-ass head bartender, is willing to listen patiently to my several conspiracy theories about how otherworldly forces have conspired to keep people from reading Michael Casher's books. I'm convinced that these "psuedo gods" pull this shit because they know damn well that no one can read even one of my novels and remain the same person (sounds arrogant, I know, but it keeps me going when the going gets rough). But I get tired of crying about it to Angus, whose responses are just occasional grunting or head wagging or a slight tipping of the chin. Hell, I know he's not really listening, he's just being polite.

So I've been lapping up the think-a-hol pretty good after midnight these days and even way after last call. I feel like I'm not myself anymore, that I've become someone else, an alien life form in this author's body. I still feel this way and especially after last night at 2:00 am when I stumbled out of the Lounge and down the front steps. It was dark, of course, and there was a clear sky. And when I looked up to view what I thought was a full moon, this is what I saw instead (see pic).

Well, maybe I was just a wee bit over my limit of think-a-hol. But, then again, maybe not.

Devil in a Red Dress

I had just sent a book off to a reviewer on the planet Mercury, where the surface temperature is that of molten lead on the side that always faces the sun. On the side that doesn't face the sun, your saliva would freeze in your mouth so no one goes there either. Apparently, Mercurians live inside their hollow planet, just like the Venusians do.

This reviewer got a free book and the cost of sending it to her via NASA was a thousand times the cost of the book itself. I figured she'd be objective and, being an expert of some kind in my genre, she'd write a decent review.

One afternoon I was telling all this to Angus, our big-ass head bartender at Think-A-Holic Lounge when I heard high-pitched laughter coming from the end of the bar. I was pretty well high on think-a-hol by then and all I could make out was this hideous red face with horns.

I asked Angus who in the hell she was or who in the hell did she think she was. Ol' Angus fought hard not to laugh in my face and he finally spit it out. "I think she's your book reviewer," he said, "and it looks like she came all this way just to see your face."

When I turned to look at her again she was gone. But she left her trident behind and one day she'll return for it and then I'll have the last laugh.

Brush with a Black Hole

I had a cosmic revelation at the Lounge last night right after last call. The think-a-hol was flowing freely because of this yahoo (see pic) from out of town who started buying drinks for everyone as soon as old Angus, our big-ass bartender who is the ghost of a dead Scottish poet (no not a famous one, a self-published one), bellowed for last call.

Anyway, I pulled out my state-of-the-art cell phone and secretly snapped a digital picture of this nonhuman stranger. Not all living creatures have arms and legs and a face. I photographed this annoying asswipe with the big pocketbook right after I heard him tell Angus that he was the entity responsible for turning a lot of people over to the dark side on Earth. Angus thought the stranger meant that he worked for the devil and that made the little shit laugh like hell.

He told Angus that he was an electrical creature that lived inside everyone at one time or another but that he felt most a home with the "Y" generation on planet Earth and he said that's why teens and twentysomethings there are so fascinated by the dark side of everything, why they wear so much black and "why they worship dark, cookie-cutter bad-asses on clones of sci-fi TV shows" (his words). He also said that's why no one could get a clear picture of him, too. He never stayed in one place long enough for much light to bounce off him into a camera lens.

That's when Angus spilled a drink on him and the little bastard left. On his way out I heard him mumble something about being late for a screenwriters' conference in Vegas. This was my first encounter with a living, breathing black hole and I hope I never run into another one.

One Way

Angus and I get a kick out of this one guy (pictured) who strolls into the Lounge every Friday night for a single malt scotch which he later chases with a Canadian brew and a bag of pork rinds (go figure). We call him One Way but only behind his back.

Every road in the universe apparently leads to this prick's doorstep but he'd be the first to deny it, if confronted. Hell, he'd probably be shocked if someone suggested that his whole life was a one-way street headed his way. The last time One Way was in Think-A-Holic Lounge Angus was in the process of telling me how much he was enjoying the hot summer weather when One Way rudely interrupted him. "Not me, man. I like winter. I don't understand how anybody can enjoy this sweltering July shit." Angus said nothing and went about his business.

A couple of minutes later I ordered some onion rings to go with my cheap draft beer and before Angus could depart for the kitchen One Way remarked, "Y'know, I don't understand how anyone can eat those onion rings and wash them down with that domestic stuff." I usually don't rock the boat and just let One Way have his say and tonight was to be no exception. But then he said, "Me, I'm a single-malt man. And a big fan of Canadian beer. Hell, that's all I drink. That's all I ever want to drink."

I turned to him and said, "Y'know, I don't understand how anyone can drink that overrated sour booze and drag on that over-priced brew like it was mother's milk but then I don't have to understand something to accept it. Or to just leave it alone. Here, let me buy you another round."

One Way looked at me like he'd been slapped in the face. Then he gulped down the rest of his imported beer, stuffed the half-eaten bag of pork rinds into his blazer and left in a big huff.

When Angus returned with my onion rings he asked me what happened to One Way and I replied, "I don't know. I guess he had too much reality for one evening."

Happy Sad

One of the regulars at Think-A-Holic Lounge is another side of independent author Michael Casher, one that is rarely seen in public. His appearances here at the Lounge are rare, but always welcomed. We call him Happy Sad because he's either one or the other. Despite the fact that he writes terrific science fiction novels that combine hard sci-fi, action/adventure, mainstream and romance for a new sci-fi experience that almost defies labeling, he's not very widely read. Yeah, go figure.

When Happy Sad finished his first novel four years ago he was elated and bought rounds for everyone that night. After each successive novel we all noticed that he was less happy and more sad. One night last week Angus and I bought him enough rounds until he came clean with the reason for his long face.

"What's to be happy about?", he confided, "I'm a self-published author who sells his books on the Internet.”

Angus asked the poor guy what was wrong with that and Happy Sad replied, "The problem with being a P.O.D. "indie" author selling my books on the Web is that I'm just a needle in the cyberspace haystack, along with every Tom, Dick and Harriet and any eleven-year-old kid with a story to tell and enough keyboard skills to publish it. We're a penny a dozen."

I argued that his books were, by far, better than most traditionally published sci-fi thrillers.

"Yeah," said Happy Sad, "but that don't mean shit in cyberspace."

All Angus and I could do was let him cry in his beer, nurse his think-a-hol and then sleep it off in the back room. What else could we do? The poor sap was right.

The Dark Side of Thinking

One of the reasons Think-A-Holic Lounge has so few customers in the afternoon isn't because most people are at work during those hours. That might be a good reason anywhere else but the Lounge is not located in real time or real space.

No, the real reason this cosmic watering hole has only a handful of regulars in the afternoon is because of an anomaly that often occurs there and always without warning. It's a powerful vortex that tries to split struggling authors into two people, one of them a failure who gives up writing altogether because of abysmal book sales and the other a wide-eyed fool who continues to court and even suck up to the publishing gnomes of Bad Apple City who have been known to chew up new authors and spit them out without even tasting them.

I got caught in the vortex, myself, last night just before last call (see pic). As you can see, I was way over my limit of think-a-hol and deluded into believing that I was Michael Casher — the real McCoy — and not merely Jonco Bugos, his reflection and alter ego. Anyway, I got caught in this powerful vortex last night and, even though it nearly split me in two, it couldn't even begin to wipe the shit-eating grin off my face. Over the years I gradually became immune to its effects and, in fact, each time it tries to split me in two, it only squeezes another book out of me.

The Glass is Always Greener...

Our dedicated doorpersons tried to refuse this odd-looking creature entrance to Think-A-Holic Lounge this past Saturday night (see pic). This green-faced person wouldn't tell us who he or she was and couldn't produce any ID and he/she certainly didn't look like any think-a-holic I'd ever seen before. A loud argument ensued at the door and that brought Angus, our big-ass ghost bartender out front, ready to kick butt and knock heads, if necessary.

He immediately recognized the green face and aplogized profusely to the miffed patron who then declared out loud that it had no genders or gender bias and was, in fact, a trans-species of some sort. I was just heading out of the Lounge, myself, at that moment, to go home and blog a little before bed. That's when I heard Angus tell Heckle & Jeckle (the names he recently gave our unnamed doorpersons) that they should "damn well remember" the face of the person they just tried to refuse entrance to because it's the face everyone sees in their mirror whenever they're envious of someone else's achievements.

I had to laugh my ass off out in the parking lot at that remark because I knew damn well that our doorpersons and everyone else, for that matter, would purge that tidy bit of advice from their brains as soon as possible. If they even heard it at all.

Employees-of-the-Month

Think-A-Holic Lounge doesn't discriminate between thinkers and non-thinkers at the door or when hiring staff. Everyone is welcome at this watering hole.

Our doormen (pictured) are often referred to as doorpersons because no one really knows their genders or species or whether they're thinkers or not. They may even be think-a-holics, who knows? Anyway, our "bouncers", as they're often called, are virtually inseparable and have worked together in many countries and on several planets and we're proud to have them as employees at the Lounge.

Unfortunately, the thing about these two jokers is that no one knows when they'll beam up and leave us working the door by ourselves. Angus, our ghost bartender, can hardly tie his own shoelaces, let alone distinguish between thinkers and think-a-holics, or even tell if our patrons have half a brain when they ask for service.

And, as for me, I'm usually too busy scribbling notes for my next book on a cocktail napkin or reaching for a bar towel.

Bad Apple

I really enjoy being in Think-A-Holic Lounge on a sunny afternoon when hardly anyone's there and sunlight filters through the two front windows. I feel like less of a think-a-holic and more like a regular guy when I quietly knock down a few in the afternoon and then walk leisurely home.

This afternoon, however, there was this annoying hotshot in there (see pic) and I could tell right away he was from Big Apple City and that he was in publishing. I couldn't help overhearing his boisterous bragging as he talked the leg off Angus, the ghost bartender, and one of the barmaids who had nothing better to do than sit there and listen since she had no customers to wait on. The goofy smart aleck, who looked like Darth Vader turned inside out, kept pressing her knee and she let him do it because he had a reputation as this great big tipper in The Bad Apple.

I gladly listened to his lame lies and sorry come-ons as I nursed a watered-down drink, until I heard something that made me want to invite him outside and, of course, I'm not the type to start a fight. Especially not in a bar because there are way too many guys willing to do that at the drop of a hat.

Anyway, this publishing guy (and I'd bet a fin that he was an editor for a big publishing house) said, "Writers are like sheep. You simply lead them to the trough and then to the slaughterhouse. Zip zip. Hell, publishing is easier than shooting fish in a barrel."

I left the Lounge shortly thereafter in a big huff but not before the barmaid spilled a drink on that hideous creature and Angus stole ten Solar Dollars off him. I'll have to remember to give both of them great big tips next time.

Pink Elephants

Drunks used to brag about seeing pink elephants (see pic) all the time but think-a-holics prefer to hook up with really attractive and interesting people after last call at The Lounge. People whose thinking caps seem to be either the best or the biggest at that time. Sometimes they're simply the first ones a think-a-holic has encountered.

More often than not, these seemingly elusive and captivating denizens of the thinking underworld turn out to look like this one (see other pic) in the morning. And that's enough to make anyone wish for pink elephants.

Starlight Becomes Her

People will tell you all kinds of things under the influence of heavy thinking and most of what they say is true. Think-a-hol is an even better uninhibitor than alcohol and it has better and longer lasting side effects than booze. But the two a.m. babbling of the star monster I ran into the other night (as we both sat nursing drinks that the ice had long since melted in) was just a lot of tongue wagging, in my opinion.

She said she wasn't from any star, she said she was made of stars and when you looked at her in the dim light, stars were all you could really see. When I asked her what she did for a living, she said she spent most of her time staying just out of reach. I asked her what she meant by that but she kept moving to the next stool each time I asked her a question.

Rather than shout my questions at her, I decided to just let her go for the time being and finally she just disappeared altogether, although I didn't hear the Lounge door open and close. I finally asked Angus, the ghost bartender, what the deal was with her and he said in a low voice, "One day last year a POD author actually reached out and touched her. And she hasn't been the same since."

Mirror Mirror

I was excited the other night about going to Think-A-Holic Lounge because I heard that a sensational new comic was making his debut appearance there that night. This guy was actually a real loser who pretended to be this great impressionist but his cool one-liners always saved him from being run out of town on a rail, so to speak.

Anyway, I hesitated to turn on the ceiling light in my tiny bedroom because it always makes me feel like I'm in an interrogation room somewhere in the Middle East and I'd rather not feel that way. So, I touched my boudoir lamp on the night stand just once and stood in front of the mirror. What I saw is pictured here. I knew instinctively who the jaybird was.

"Jonco?" I said a little too timidly. I knew damn well that I would not see Michael Casher in the mirror but his alter ego instead. I also knew that I was somehow that alternate personality. I just have a hard time accepting this behind-the-scenes role in his life, that's all.

"Um hmm," the image said back.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, being careful not to antagonize him.

"Oh, just making sure you're out the door by ten so you're not late for your act," Jonco scoffed.

"Oh," I replied, "I almost forgot who I was for a moment."

"Well, get you ass in gear, then," Jonco ordered and then he fled deeper into the mirror where I couldn't see him or hear him or wring his neck.

Last Call for Think-A-Hol

The other night I was in the Lounge around last call when I spotted this smug little prick (see picture) talking to the Think-A-Holic Lounge bartender, who is the ghost of a big-ass Scot named Angus. I recognized the little guy who was busting the bartender’s chops because he was bragging about something I’d suspected all along. The little turd was telling Angus that he was the alien presence on Earth responsible for making sure that I had no readers.

He clowned around a lot while he yakked it up — buttering up ol’ Angus by telling him that he was the most frightening ghost he had ever seen and that he had a flair for making Manhattans that tasted more sophisticated than the Stork Club’s (as if the little goober had ever been in that elitist New York watering hole) and typical new customer crap — but I got the gist of what he was saying.

He said he put suggestions into people’s heads just when they were about to click on the ADD TO CART button at Lulu.com, usually making them think the phone was ringing or that they had to pee right now or else they’d have an accident. The little green bugger even went so far as to convince prospective buyers that the end of the world was happening at that very moment and that they should hide under their desks immediately. Then, while they were answering a phone that wasn’t ringing or trying to pee when they didn’t really have to or hiding under their computer desks like terrified snails, they would lose their Internet connections and then either get mad at me or forget about me altogether.

I was getting really peeved, sitting there nursing my draft and listening to all this crap, and I finally asked Angus to throw the little prick out. But all Angus did was smile like the big goof he really is and say, "Last Call! Last call for think-a-hol!"

Think-A-Holic Lounge Bartender

Angus McCloud. The 400-year-old ghost of a dead Scottish poet.

"Boo!"

Alien Road Kill (Well, Almost)

The other day I was celebrating Spring by driving out into the countryside, past some of the roadhouse dives that I used to frequent (the ones that are still standing) when I noticed that I was being followed by a strange object that looked a lot like a flying saucer. So, I pulled over and got out and the thing behind me also pulled over and, to my surprise, it was a spaceship of sorts.

A funny-looking creature crawled out and I thought he was going to pull out a ray gun and let me have it. Instead, he said the strangest thing, something you’d never expect to hear from a Little Green Man from Mars or any extraterrestrial.

He said, "Hey, pal, is there any place around here where I could get a thick ham steak and some okry on the side and maybe a big slab of pecan pie?"

I said, "Well, hell, this isn’t Georgia. You’re about five states shy of that kind of stuff."

He looked ticked-off for a second and I thought for sure that he was going to zap me with some awful kind of beam that would make me glow all over and then disappear. But all he said was, "All right, then. Do you know where I could get a shot-and-a-beer and some really scorching Buffalo Wings?"

I wanted to laugh my ass off but I kept thinking about ray guns and hideous alien torture devices and junk like that so I simply answered him. "Sure thing, buddy," I said. "Just follow me."

Still On the Lam from the Illuminati

I haven't been in a bar or a tavern since 1991 when I first suspected that Illuminati agents were gunning for me in those kinds of places. They knew I wanted to write books that exposed a lot of the crap they were pulling behind closed doors.

This is a picture of one Illuminati operative who was recently working undercover as a bouncer at a roadhouse in Potter County, PA, where I stupidly stopped for a beer and a burger last summer. When I recognized him I quickly snapped his picture with a cell phone camera and then I turned and ran like hell, falling down in the gravel parking lot and skinning my knee and everything.

I thought I heard him laugh when I tore out of there in my Ford Ranger, which I just sold last week for more money to buy burgers with. Without the beer, of course.

"Mugged Blogger Returns from Bog"

I'm back after being abducted by aliens disguised as computer salesmen and major booksellers, who tried to take all my money but only found one Canadian dime, two shiny new pennies and a half-sucked sour ball in crumbling cellophane in my pockets. Which they took.

Then they hit me upside the head and dumped me in a foggy ditch where I woke up this morning, still the alter ego of a science fiction author but not knowing quite what to do with the five novels in my backpack that they completely overlooked.

I might sell them for food but then I just might use them to whomp the next computer salesman or bookseller who tries to puts his or her hands in my pockets again. And that was a lemon sour ball, too. My favorite.

A Warning from Hell

I looked in the mirror today and this is what looked back.

I said, "Who are you?"

"The Jersey Devil, who in the hell do you think?" it said.

Then I said, "Why do you look like one of the Great Publishing Wizards of Big Apple City who scare off all the new voices in fiction and spend all of your time guarding your worn-out lair of ethnically-chosen authors?"

And the thing in the mirror said to me, "Because we are one in the same."

I said, "You're wasting your time, here, because you don't scare me."

It laughed and then its image began to waver and fade, but not before I heard it say, "You'll never sell a book, Michael Casher, you'll never sell a book Michael never sell a book never sell...."

And then my own face smiled back again and I continued shaving like it had never happened. Actually, I was tickled pink that someone had recognized me as Michael Casher and not merely his alter ego. Just like a lot of psychological side kicks, I like hearing a good lie once in a while and then pretending that I'd just heard the truth.

Author's Note 5-5-14: That's right, you lurking Jewish bastards, It's YOU who kept me out of the bookstores. Because my fiction wasn't filthy enough to be promoted by whores and dark-souled greedy traitors like you and Steven Spielberg to fill your filthy coffers. God's chosen people, YOUR ASS. The Draconians invented that "iniquitous fairy tale" just for you people, because they knew how to get you fuckers by the short hairs, with the hideous notion that you were members of an "exclusive club" when what you really were was the greediest and most hateful group of human beings to ever cover the earth with your terrible numbers. You call us Goys and revel in it and when we type the word "Jew" into Google search we're committing a hate crime. Not on your life. Who in the hell do you people think you ARE? YOU are the goddamn criminals. And you damn well know it.

1+1=3

The old mathematical formulas are apparently no longer in effect, like having lower gasoline prices when supplies are plentiful and demand is great.

The price will be high because the oil companies know they'll get their sales, regardless of price, if people are still driving a lot. And when supplies are low and demand is great, prices are naturally high and no one argues that case. And the scenario of low prices and low demand simply never occurs in the motoring real world, it's just there to show that all things are possible in our vast universe.

Even the fantasy realm of high gasoline supplies combined with low demand. The prices used to come down, in that event, but when the Earth polar shift occurred back in the 1970s making wrong into right, up into down and black-and-white into a more usable gray, the oil industry jumped on that bandwagon for a long, free ride that will seemingly never end.

These days, if any business offers a product that isn't selling, they simply raise their prices instead of lowering them. Then they just sit back and watch American consumers, like lemmings headed for a cliff, flock to the pumps and the malls, bleeding their bank accounts to death along the way. Is it any wonder that when I run ads for Michael Casher's books I get sales pitches instead of readers in return?

But what the hell am I complaining about? Up in Mexico and way down in Canada, things are probably no better.

What is a Think-A-Holic?

A think-a-holic is someone that other people accuse of thinking about things too much.

A true think-a-holic is a also a doer, a man or woman of action, not just a dilettante who mezzes out in front of the tube during commercials or who goes to the library to meet people instead of actually reading books and periodicals.

A think-a-holic suspects that there is a better way to do a lot of things but isn't fooled by flash-in-the pan fads that try to displace the conventional and the traditional with superficiality.

A think-a-holic actually knows what the word superficiality means.

A think-a-holic would never confuse another think-a-holic with someone who simply has an obsession with thinking and not doing anything. Those who obsess don't read books. They just obsess.

Too radical for you? Then you're probably not a think-a-holic.

Go out and celebrate.