Happy Holidays!

Jonco Bugos is taking a break from blogging until after the new year. He wishes everyone a safe and happy holiday season.

The Dreamer Never Blinks

I had a dream the other night, after imbibing two shots of think-a-hol and a single bubbly chaser at the Lounge. I dreamed I was being given a ride in the limousine owned by Angus McCloud, the big-ass bartender at Think-A-Holic Lounge. The limo driver was supposed to be taking me home but, for some reason, he appeared to be landing at this particular spot, at the far edge of the space-time continuum. When I told him it looked like he had gone through a wormhole and was dropping me off in Ancient Egypt back on Earth, he responded in a Middle Eastern accent.

"It is what it is, Sir Jonco," the driver calmly replied. "Just accept what is and have faith in the future."

...to be continued...

Fan Monster

I was on the verge of crying in my think-a-hol the other night around last call when Angus, the big-ass Think-A-Holic Lounge bartender, picked up on my blue mood and made a friendly remark.

"What are you stewin' over?" he cautiously asked me.

"Oh, nothing," I fibbed.

"C'mon, Jonco, I can tell when you're down," the big ol' Scot responded, "and I can also tell when you're lying. Now give, or I'll twist your ear until you do."

I knew that Angus, the big-ass ghost of a dead Scottish poet, was just being kind and polite so I gave in.

"Well," I acquiesced, "the other day I thought my other ego finally had a fan of his science fiction novels when this guy called Michael about his books and I answered the phone."

"Yeah," Angus urged me, "go on."

"Well," I continued, "he claimed to be a friend of a friend who was the nephew of a cousin I had who died last year. Or something like that."

"And?" the ugly old spook persisted.

"And he wanted me to burn some CD's of our e-books and give them to him so he could copy them and put his name on them," I blurted out, filled with anger and righteous indignation. "He didn't even have a clue that we published paperback novels and haven't done any e-books yet."

"Wow!" said Angus, his face and body language showing shock and utter disbelief.

"Wow, indeed," I said. "And I thought he was interested in buying and reading our books."

Angus said nothing. He simply patted my shoulder and poured me another shot of think-a-hol. And a double this time.

"This one's on the house, pal," he said. And then he disappeared into the kitchen to leave me alone in my misery.

By the way, I never met the insulting, outrageous caller who wanted me to help him steal my literary work and Michael's sci-fi work and make him a famous writer who would then compete with us. But I imagined that he probably looked something like this (see pic).

Flotsam and Jetsam

There are two other alternate personalities of real human beings who have become regulars at Think-A-Holic Lounge this past year (see pic) and they both hail from planet Earth, just as yours truly does.

These two women are both divorcées from the United States, one from California and the other from Georgia. Both are "babes" but we regular Lounge Lizards are very, very careful not to point that out to them. Feminism is alive and well, even at the edge of the space-time continuum.

The "babe" on the left calls herself Flotsam and the other one is known as Jetsam. Even though everyone at the Lounge knows that these two "babes" are not gay females (and it wouldn't matter to the hound dogs here whether or not Flotsam and Jetsam were dating one another), they are both treated with respect here because our big-ass head bartender, Angus McCloud, would have no problem knocking heads and kicking ass just to make sure that particular Lounge policy was known by all. Angus is just about the biggest lover and protector of female creatures in this galaxy and that makes him a kind of hero of mine because I'm too stupid, cowardly and clumsy to know how to do that myself.

Anyway, I once asked Flotsam and Jetsam why they call themselves what they do and this is what they told me.

"Well, Jonco," said Flotsam, "I call myself Flotsam because my life turned out pretty much like a shipwreck."

"I see," I replied carefully, not wanting to excite or arouse or antagonize any feelings in this beautiful but formidable creature that would go against me. "And what about you, Jetsam?"

"Oh, hell, Jonco," she responded, "my marriage was a sinking ship and my old man threw me overboard for a bimbo half my age. The name fit me, so I kept it."

I didn't need to ask Flotsam and Jetsam about their gas masks. Being a Think-A-Holic Lounge regular, I knew the answer to that particular mystery. Angus, in his infinite hospitality and stupidity, was offering a free buffet that night, in order to help curb drunk driving. The menu consisted of a three-bean salad, fifteen-bean-and-ham soup and bean dip with chips.

And Flotsam and Jetsam had simply come prepared.

Monterey HiJack

I celebrated the first day of September this year by tossing down a few at Think-A-Holic Lounge before moseying on down to the Lebenty Leben for a brick of Monterey Jack cheese. I love eating Monterey Jack with just about anything, especially if there's a dill pickle involved.

My brain was full of think-a-hol and happy thoughts when I suddenly remembered that my supply of Monterey Jack cheese always seems to disappear before I ever get to finish that last little hunk snugly wrapped up in the plastic wrapper. I also realized that this crap had been going on all summer long and that I'd better find out why before other things started disappearing from my fridge as well.

Well, I didn't have to think about it for very long. When I got home from the Lebenty Leben I caught this little yellow goober (see pic) pilfering my last hunk of Monterey Jack cheese while humming the theme song from Star Wars.

He said his name was YipYup and that he was from the planet Urbane, in a neighboring solar system. When I asked him why he'd been stealing my Monterey Jack cheese he glibly replied that he, and all other Urbanians, simply had a right to do so.

That made me think about another bunch of little celestial visitors who often say the same thing about snatching anything they want off planet Earth and that got my dander up. And that's when I tossed this YipYup's alien butt out of the house. He landed hard enough that he'll think twice before grazing around here again.

Thus, I not only defended my home against future grazing aliens, I helped make the world's Monterey Jack cheese supply safe from alien raiders for many generations yet to come.

Zippy Portraits

This summer a street artist from the planet Zapsum One (see pic) had set up shop on the sidewalk in front of Think-A-Holic Lounge. He would paint your portrait in under five minutes for only five solar dollars. A sign on his easel said: Zippy Portraits.

Unfortunately, everybody's portrait came out looking like E.T. The Extraterrestrial. Then it was discovered that this alien con artist had purchased a thousand old publicity photos of E.T. on eBay and was simply painting over them with a thin tempera that quickly wore off.

Angus McCloud, the Lounge's big-ass head bartender, personally gave this grifter the boot one Thursday afternoon after the thirtieth or fortieth complaint from Lounge patrons. However, it was rumored that Angus only tossed the little prick into the street after his own portrait began running and dripping in the rain.

That rumor was started by me, the first victim of Zippy Portraits, way back in June.

Thinking and Driving

Most of the time I walk to Think-A-Holic Lounge and it's not because the Lounge is near my home. Think-A-Holic Lounge is not near anyone's home. In fact, it isn't near anything in the universe because it has no physical position in space. It's just kind of ...out there, if you will.

But the last time I did drive myself to the Lounge was on a spooky October night about a year ago and, after only two shots of think-a-hol and a single bubbly chaser, this is what I saw in my rearview mirror on the way home.

So, now I walk to Think-A-Holic Lounge most of the time, even though the chances of being abducted by unfriendly aliens are a lot higher on the sidewalk than in a vehicle.

Stalking the Wild Think-A-Holic

After finding a sleeping old man in the alley outside of Think-A-Holic Lounge one night a couple months ago (for some background, see the Lost in Translation posting) and then finding a frog in his place a few nights after that (see the Froggy Night posting), I finally came to the conclusion that I'm being followed. Yessir, that's it. I'm being stalked by a shape-shifter or something from another world or maybe another realm.

Further proving this theory, I stumbled onto the old bum again last night (see pic), that same, weird, old codger who sleeps sitting up and with his eyes wide open. Last night, it was exactly the stroke of midnight, Betelgeuse Time, when I happened onto the aging oddball, after stumbling down the front steps. And there he was, loitering on the same bench, but under the bright streetlight this time. I was high on think-a-hol, of course.

When I spotted the crazy old coot, I didn't even hesitate to take a snapshot of him with my trusty cell-phone camera or to approach him this time or to engage him in polite conversation. I figured if he was a real shape-shifter he wouldn't be able to stand the kindness. Also, I thought I'd try speaking to him in Spanish this time, just to throw the old curmudgeon off balance. Just to see if he'd try to run another language game on me.

"Oye," I said to him as he sat there pretending to ignore me, "que pasa?"

"Sorry, buddy," the weird old jasper said in a tired, jaded voice, "I don't speak Italian."

It's Spanish, Pops, I thought to myself, not Italian. Then the old guy's image began to waver and fade. I thought about running but I held my ground, totally transfixed on the otherworldly scene before me. Then high-pitched laughter could be heard coming from his fading form just before he vanished altogether.

Naturally, I went back inside the Lounge for another shot of think-a-hol and a bubby chaser which I nursed quietly in a corner booth until last call.

Brain Bot

The management at Think-A-Holic Lounge recently installed a new game (see pic) in light of the new gaming and gambling craze that has swept through the entire galaxy in the past few years. Angus, the Lounge's big-ass ghost bartender, told me that the game, called Brain Bot, was for amusement purposes only.

I discretely watched from the sidelines one night as Lounge patrons slid coins into the odd-looking contraption and then asked it various questions. Brain Bot seemed to know the answer to everything in the universe and quickly became a local hit with the regular weekend crowd.

Not wanting to be a party pooper, I finally decided to give ol' Brain Bot a try. Just before last call I dropped in a Solar Silver Dollar and asked it the first question that came to mind.

"Will I ever become a rich and famous author," I asked Brain Bot, "who is widely respected for his work?"

A small crowd had gathered around while Brain Bot whizzed and whirred, searching its nano-brain for the precise answer. Even Angus McCloud, the big-ass head bartender, waited in eager anticipation. After a couple of seconds the new, state-of-the-art, hi-end, "for-amusement-only" game bot replied.

"Yo no hablo Español," it replied.

While the laughing crowd dispersed and Angus tried in vain to suppress a chuckle, I quickly ordered a double shot of think-a-hol and a bubby chaser. To go.

Not An Exit

One patron at Think-A-Holic Lounge was recently banned for life by Angus McCloud, the big-ass head bartender. This guy is a human male from the planet Alpha Male One, where all humans are "energy creatures" and where all men over thirty are called "Leader". His real name is unpronounceable and we at the Lounge call him Not An Exit behind his back because he, like all men from Alpha Male One, can walk through walls at will and this guy has never used a door at the Lounge to my knowledge.

Not An Exit was banned for running up a big bar tab and then sneaking out when the bartender's back was turned. Here is a picture I snapped of him with my tried-and-true, handy-dandy cell phone camera as he was skedaddling through the men's room wall. I didn't manage to get the piece of toilet paper attached to his left boot.

How Angus actually plans to keep Not An Exit out of Think-A-Holic Lounge is still a mystery to us all.

The Pixel Pixie

A couple days ago at the Lounge I saw one of the barmaids, who is a quadraped from the planet Pluto, point out an elusive patron from another solar system to Angus, our big-ass head bartender.

She seemed kind of ticked off that this sometimes invisible creature even exists, let alone gains entrance to our little cyber inner sanctum of intergalactic publishing outcasts. I called Angus over for a bit of chin wagging during which I asked him who this mysterious creature was that had the barmaid all upset.

"Why, it's that little cyberland picture-thief prick," Angus snorted under his breath.

"You mean an intergalactic art thief of some sort?" I asked him.

"Nononononono," Angus replied, wagging his head like an old dog trying to dislodge fleas from his ears. "I mean this little bastard steals images from blog posts and then puts them back whenever he wants to. Just for the hell of it. Imagine."

Imagine, indeed, I thought to myself. The little so-and-so ought to be hung out to dry. That's when I pulled out my trusty cell phone camera and snapped the pixel thief's image. But the little bastard stole the picture before I could post it.

Froggy Night

Last night I pushed away from the bar at Think-A-Holic Lounge a little earlier than usual and I did this deliberately after seeing that snoring old fogy the last time I stumbled down the steps (see the Lost In Translation post). The image of an obviously homeless man sleeping on a wooden bench in the alley with his eyes open still haunted me like a cryptic warning from some possible future. I instinctively checked out the bench this time, hoping that it would be empty. But it wasn't.

The old man was gone and in his place sat a frog (see pic). I didn't recognize this particular frog who looked much younger and bigger than the frog bartender that filled in for Angus last Halloween. I decided to approach the out-of-place amphibian and talk to it.

"Who are you?" I asked it, trying to be cool, calm and collected.

"Yo no hablo Español," the frog replied in a man's voice.

I didn't hang around to respond. I lit out of there like a kid being chased by the bogeyman. I went straight home and went straight to bed. That night I dreamed I was a frog and a beautiful fairy princess kissed me and I turned into an author whose latest novel was number one on the New York Times bestseller list.

And then I woke up.

Lost in Translation

Last Wednesday around six o'clock I rolled down the steps of Think-A-Holic Lounge a little later than usual from having my afternoon shot of think-a-hol and a bubbly chaser. And that was because I'd had several of them in a row and that kind of dedicated imbibing takes a wee bit of time.

Anyway, across the alley I spotted this sorry-looking jasper (see pic) sitting in front of an old abandoned garage that had been slated for demolition sometime in the last century but which remained standing due to a lack of code enforcement in this part of the galaxy. I felt sorry for the old coot and asked him if he needed a ride somewhere.

"No hablo Español," he replied without even looking my way and despite the fact that I had spoken to him in English, not Spanish.

I thought I'd try asking him the same question again, even though he still refused to look me squarely in the eye.

"Je ne comprends pas le français," the old coot said, still not looking at me. Why he thought I was speaking French was beyond me. I tried to ask him if he needed a ride anywhere one more time. And in English, again, because that's the only language I know.

"Ich verstehe nicht Deutsches," he replied in fluent German.

That did it for me. I had no intentions of asking him any more questions. I was actually more miffed by his refusal to look at me than by his insistence that I was speaking to him in languages other than English. I decided to approach him and see if that would make him look at me. But, when I stood right in front of him, I could see that the crazy old codger was asleep. And with his eyes open.

I left him there as he began to snore. Then I went home and profusely thanked my lucky stars that the old man on the bench was not me.

Glimpse of the Antichrist

Out of the goodness of his heart, Angus McCloud, the big-ass ghost bartender at Think-A-Holic Lounge, allows me to keep one copy of each of Michael Casher's novels behind the bar, in a little cubbyhole that he doesn't have any use for. Just in case a customer at the Lounge recognizes me and wants to buy one of these books. Being the alter ego of Michael Casher (and, therefore, not the Real McCoy, I am repeatedly told) makes me all excited. I don't really give a hoot who's who in all this monkey business as long as I get to participate.

I think Angus started doing this because I was such a good tipper in the beginning and he thought I'd sell a lot of books (for which he'd get a small commission on each sale, of course). But, ever since I found that treasure trove of his at McCloud Castle, I've been tipping him a strict fifteen percent. And no one has ever asked to see one of Michael Casher's books or recognized me as a science fiction author's alter ego since day one. But I am eternally optimistic.

My optimism was about to pay off this past Friday night when this androgynous-looking person (see pic) came into the Lounge and walked right up to me. He or she or it didn't hesitate for a moment to tell me that he/she/it knew I was an author. I was stupefied and in a mild state of shock.

"But I can't seem to find your books anywhere," he/she/it said. Despite hearing this voice there was no immediate gender recognition on my part.

"Is that right?" I replied, trying not to sound like I had a snoot full of think-a-hol.

"Yeah," he/she/it responded, "and I've been to just about every bookstore in the galaxy. Do you happen to have any of your sci-fi thrillers on hand?"

"Sure thing," I said, jerking my chin at Angus, who promptly pulled out a paperback copy of Michael Casher's first novel from the cubbyhole. I gave it to the would-be fan, who was busy pulling an e-book reader out of a messenger bag.

"Say," he/she/it said around a tongue that was wriggling and straining with the effort of trying to decipher the strange-looking low-tech book, "how do you work this thing?"

Angus was unable to stifle a laugh at this point and I felt a sudden urge to evacuate myself. As I headed for the men's room I could hear he/she/it asking Angus if batteries were included and if the book came with a full warranty. I didn't wait to hear his answer.

Fairy Princess

Wednesday nights are pretty slow at the Lounge and it's a good thing because around ten o'clock the front door opened and this creature walked in (see pic). Well, she didn't actually walk in. She kind of glided in.

Just as three or four regular lounge lizards began moving toward her, mentally polishing their worn-out pickup lines, Angus, the big-ass head bartender, came around the end of the bar in a flash, pushing and shoving the opportunists out of the way.

"Hi, Princess," I heard him say to the beautiful fairy.

"Hi, sweetie," she cooed. "So, this is where you spend most of your time. You naughty boy."

Then they disappeared into the manager's office, leaving the rest of us to our own devices and our own imaginations.

Sufficiently Spooked

...this is a post script to the post Tip Treasure

After seeing McCloud Castle, where our big-ass head bartender, Angus McCloud (see pic), has been living for over four hundred years as the ghost of a dead Scottish poet, I have a renewed respect for the ugly old spook. It will be an unwelcome companion to my envy regarding the fact that Angus is decidedly a lot wealthier than any of his customers at the Lounge had ever imagined.

So, while I can't help being intrigued by the McCloud royal bloodline that placed a wealthy family ghost behind the bar at Think-A-Holic Lounge, I'm rather perturbed by his basement cache of loot, knowing that a lot of it is horded tips that I personally gave him. Sufficiently perturbed. Ticked off enough that I'll never willingly over-tip the ugly old fart ever again.

This was the look Angus gave me when I tipped him the bare minimum after last call the other night. I kept waiting for him to say, "Boo!" but that never happened.

Tip Treasure

Concluding this little story, when Angus McCloud's limo driver told me to wait in the car, that merely fortified my determination to find out more about Angus and his ghostly castle at the edge of the space-time continuum.

Therefore, I did not stay in the car. I followed the driver, being careful not to let him see me. He entered the basement of the castle and, after winding through a convoluted series of dimly-lit passageways and stairwells, he came to this room. There, on the floor, lay either the McCloud family fortune or else a monstrous horde of tips stashed away from four hundred years of Angus tending bar at Think-A-Holic Lounge. My slant on all this treasure leaned toward the tip theory.

I took out my cell phone camera and snapped this picture without flash before the driver filled two small sacks with coins. Then I hustled back to the limo before he caught me in the act.

I vowed to never use this photo as leverage against Angus, our big-ass head bartender at the Lounge, but just having this ammunition made me feel a lot better somehow.

End of Story. For now.

McCloud Castle

Continuing with the previous story, Angus had arranged for his limo to take me home because I was over my limit of think-a-hol.

No sooner did the limo driver tell me that he had to stop at Angus’ home to pick up something than the limo shifted out of hyper-drive and this scene appeared ahead of us.

“What the hell is that?” I asked Angus’ driver.

“That, my good man,” replied the driver, “is McCloud Castle.”

I always knew that Angus, the big-ass head bartender at Think-A-Holic Lounge, was the ghost of a dead Scottish poet named Angus McCloud but I never knew he was any kind of royalty.

“And this is where Angus lives?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“For over four hundred Earth years,” he responded.

“Now I know for sure that I’m over-tipping him,” I muttered to myself.

“What’s that, sir?” asked the driver as he piloted the limo in for a landing.

“I said I just love the triple moons,” I fibbed.

After we landed, I was asked to remain in the limo and I told the driver that was just fine by me. Another big fib on my part.

To be continued...

Thinkers Can't Be Choosers

This past Saturday night I found myself over my limit of think-a-hol once again. It was disconcerting, to say the least, when Angus shut me off before I was ready to go home.

The big old Scot, who is the ghost of a dead Scottish poet and the head bartender at the Lounge, saw that I was beside myself with embarrassment. He tried to make it up to me by offering the services of his limo and driver to take me home. I was so over my limit that I accepted. This also proved his point that I needed to be shut off.

Before the limo got very far, I fell asleep. When I woke up, this is what I saw from the back seat. I heard the driver say in a glib, matter-of-fact tone that he had to pick up something for Angus at his home before he dropped me off at mine. Then I fell asleep again.

To be continued...

A Frog With Attitude

Wednesday afternoon is my favorite time for taking a break from writing and moseying on down to the Lounge for a quick shot and a bubbly chaser. But this past Wednesday I got a shock that I'll never forget.

Angus was off that day to bar hop in another solar system and everybody knew that was the biggest reason for his new limo and driver. Anyway, the creature pictured here was his replacement, sitting behind the bar on a high, round stool. I approached the bar and sat down on one of the many vacant bar stools. Just as I was wondering how in the hell a frog on a stool could possibly get me a shot of think-a-hol and a draft, it spoke.

"What?" it asked me, with a challenging stare. Its voice was human and quite masculine.

"Uh, I'll have a shot of think-a-hol and a draft," I told the frog bartender.

The frog turned around but never left the stool. I watched in utter amazement as its front legs stretched to incredible lengths, pulling glasses and bottles and working spigots that were even out of reach for a human being, unless he or she got off that damn stool. The frog served my drinks on two paper coasters, just like Angus does, and took my money. Then he sat on the stool and stared at me as I drank. He knew I had issues. He knew I had questions. But I held my tongue.

"What?" he asked me once again, in that big challenging, almost hostile voice.

"Uh...nice weather we're having," I replied in a small voice. He said nothing and I finished my drinks in silence.

Couch Hippo Sci-Fi

The other day I was contacted by someone whom I thought to be a fan of my six sci-fi thrillers (all right, I know, I'm Michael Casher's alter-ass ego, but it's the same dumb-ass difference). Boy was I wrong. His message was enough to make me cry in my think-A-hol.

This guy kept using the words sci-fi and movies in the same sentence. Then he wanted to know when I was going to write my next blockbuster movie. Little did he know that I'd never written a single sci-fi screenplay. I've never written any teleplays, either. What I have written is six sci-fi novels. Which he never even mentioned.

I had a dream that night about our American culture in the new millennium. No one read books anymore and everyone got their entertainment from sitting in a chair and staring straight ahead at images on a screen of some kind.

In my dream, everybody looked like this.

Overdone

I think I've been over-tipping Angus, the big-ass head bartender at Think-A-Holic Lounge, for way too many years. It's my considered opinion that any bartender who has a limo dropping him off at work and then picking him up again is either padding his expense account, stealing from the boss, or getting too much in tips.

Since I'm the most frequent regular at the Lounge and a heavy tipper, I attribute Angus' ability to afford a limousine to my over-tipping oversight.

Anyway, this is what our head bartender's new "limo" looks like. I'm told that the pilot is included in the lease agreement.

Through the Looking Glass

I was burning the midnight oil the other night, still trying to whip my latest 8½ x 11 manuscript into a 6 x 9 paperback for POD publishing sometime this month. I was dog tired but kept thinking about how a nice double-shot of think-a-hol would really help me sleep. So, I moseyed into my bedroom to throw on some street clothes and accidentally walked right through the full-length mirror on the closet door. This is what greeted me on the other side.

Before I found myself talking to a big white rabbit sitting behind the wheel of an interplanetary starship and late for a very important date, I high-tailed it back through the mirror.

Then, instead of traipsing off to Think-A-Holic Lounge for last call, I drank a glass of milk like a good boy and went to bed.