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.