Think-A-Holic Holiday Wishes

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

The Missing Link

Being someone's alter ego as well as their reflection isn't always a walk in the park. I think it would be a lot easier just being the real person, himself, but the bodies of real, actual persons are already occupied and take up a lot of physical space in the universe. Unlike yours truly. Being Jonco Bugos is much more than simply being the polar opposite of Michael Casher. I blog, therefore I am. I am a living being in my own right. And he knows that. But he'll never admit it.

That's why I spend so much time hanging out at Think-A-Holic Lounge. Michael Casher would never enter an establishment like this and the main reason for that is because Think-A-Holic Lounge occupies no space in the physical universe like he does. The Lounge has no position in the space-time continuum like an ordinary tavern. In other words, Michael Casher wouldn't be able to get a foot in the door here because he's simply too much of an ordinary, everyday type being. A commoner, if you will. And I know that just eats him up inside. The stupid novelist.

Think-A-Holic Lounge is a hideout for a all kinds of outcasts in the publishing underworld. This is a place for hacks and Michael knows that. If Michael was a civilian on Earth and I was a cop and I told him that this is a bar for cops he'd understand. But writers don't understand hacks, the author wannabes who never get a break. Hacks like us are simply part of the symbiosis of the universe. Without hacks, the people who can actually write wouldn't stand out among their peers. Not one little bit.

In other words, Mr. Michael Casher, I, Jonco Bugos, your back-ass-wards alter ego, made you what you are.

So, how, then, and certainly why, did I find one of Michael Casher's custom cufflinks (see pic) on the floor under the bar stool next to me just after last call last night? Angus said his lips were sealed and the regular Lounge lizards, my fickle pals in the mysterious publishing underworld, are also silent on the topic of Michael Casher. As far as I'm concerned, that breaks the unwritten clubhouse rules for Think-A-Holic Lounge. And the unspoken code of the hack.

You want your stupid cuff link back, Michael Casher?

Come and get it.

Author Whisperer

It had been a long time since I'd seen that multilingual shape shifter in the alley near Think-A-Holic Lounge. This was the sleeping bum I tried to give a ride home one day (see the Stalking the Wild Think-A-Holic posting, then the Froggy Night posting, then the Lost in Translation posting) before I realized that he probably didn't have a home, before I realized that he was more than likely a figment of my think-a-hol-fueled imagination and way before I finally came to the shocking conclusion that this hobo was, himself, some sort of cosmic warning for me, in regard to one possible future. A future I just might have if no one took me and my novella seriously. The very sight of him made me feel less like an an alter ego and more like the real McCoy, I don't care what anybody says.

I snapped this picture of the mystery man last night with my cell phone camera after I'd stumbled down the front steps of Think-A-Holic Lounge around dusk, full of think-a-hol and bubbly chasers and happy thoughts. It was my own stupid fault and dumb luck that I'd chosen to take the alleyway home instead of the front sidewalk. I figured I'd save half a block that way and be able to catch the last few minutes of the latest news on cable TV about Wall Street, not realizing that this is how low I'd sunk.

When I first spotted him, he just stood there and watched me pass, waiting for me to speak to him so he could reply in another language, making some cryptic remark that would make me doubt my very existence. But I wasn't going to play his game anymore. I just shuffled along through the leaves and the puddles that were scattered about after the last unpredicted shower, making haste for my comfy couch back home. As I passed by him he spoke.

"Good things come to those who wait," whispered the mystical man.

But I didn't answer him. I didn't even turn around. I ran and ran and never looked back. And when I got home I made a cup of tea with honey in it and sipped it while listening to old vinyl recordings of Simon & Garfunkel until it was dark. And then I went to bed and, for the first time in my entire life, I did not dream.

Some Things Defy Logic

I was shocked when I waltzed into Think-A-Holic Lounge the other night and saw Fred Fortune (see pic) playing poker at one of the tables with a bunch of other bloggers. And there was ol' Angus, the Lounge's big-ass head bartender, personally serving them all pitchers of beer like a star-struck lackey.

No one at the bar would tell me where Mr. Fortune writes his blog but I'll wager that he'll soon be on the lam again when people there find out that he's a spinner of lies more than anything else. Hell, earlier this year Angus McCloud tossed the kooky creep out on his ear because he was wanted by just about everybody in the solar system for lying, cheating, stealing and fraud. And for grazing his way through convenience stores all over the galaxy.

And now the stupid grifter is everybody's little hero simply because he blogs. Go figure.

Angus Strikes Out

The owners of Think-A-Holic Lounge let Angus McCloud, the Lounge’s big-ass head bartender, pretty much run the place. Being the ghost of a dead Scottish poet and over four-hundred years old certainly has its advantages. But one week, about two solar years ago, ol’ Angus really screwed up.

That was the week Angus McCloud hired a female exotic dancer (see pic) from the Orion Belt to dance on Friday and Saturday nights, starting at ten o’clock, Pluto time. She went by the name “Pear” and she was immediately a hit with all the purple creatures on this side of the Milky Way Galaxy. Unfortunately, that’s only about one-percent of all bipeds inhabiting this area of the cosmos. Strike One. So, while Pear was extremely friendly, a terrific dancer and cute — in her own “dragonette” sort of way — Angus was persuaded by the management to let her go.

Later that solar summer we Lounge regulars found out that the real reason Pear was fired had nothing to do with her not being an appealing performer for most of the humanoids at Think-A-Holic Lounge. That actually had nothing to do with it. Everybody liked Pear and at least a dozen of us regular lounge lizards had tried to get a date with her.

No, the real reason Angus had to let her go was because he violated a local star-system zoning ordinance by not auditioning at least three exotic dancers representing other species before hiring Pear. Strike Two. In addition to that, Think-A-Holic Lounge, which has no physical position in the cosmos and therefore occupies no actual space in the space-time continuum, was not zoned for adult entertainment. Strike Three. To make a long story short, Think-A-Holic Lounge was fined five hundred solar dollars by the “Cosmic Vice Squad” (whose palms Angus failed to grease before opening night). Strike Four. And that was the end of that.

Poor ol’ Angus never got over the embarrassment of that fateful week two years ago but that’s the price you pay when those who employ you have no better judgment and trust you implicitly.

The rest of us should be so lucky.

Random Retro Razz

Last Wednesday afternoon at precisely five o’clock in the afternoon, Milky Way Time, a demonstrator of sorts (see pic) appeared in the Think-A-Holic Lounge parking lot out of nowhere. Just in time for many Solar System commuters like me to see him as we stopped off on the way home for a shot of the ol’ elixir and a single bubbly chaser.

It was as if the strange-looking protester had been suddenly ejected from a roving wormhole or something. By the way he was under-dressed, some of us regulars — who stared out the front window of the Lounge at him — thought he’d just blown in from 1960's Earth. Probably Woodstock, New York, USA, circa 1969. But, when we saw the sign he was carrying, we knew that it was actually 1980's Earth that he’d blown in from.

Angus McCloud, the big-ass head bartender at Think-A-Holic Lounge and the ghost of a dead poet from Scotland on planet Earth, said he was pretty sure that this particular alien creature was from Earth’s afterlife and that he had once been a close personal friend of Nancy Reagan.

Then Angus went out into the parking lot and kicked the protester’s butt clear to Kingdom Come, claiming that imbibing think-a-hol is a personal lifestyle choice as well as a guaranteed freedom protected by cosmic law.

We all laughed at that and then returned to our bar stools, ready to place our refill orders as soon as Angus had dispatched the annoying protester. After all, no one wants to be reminded of their vices, let alone be admonished by a complete stranger for having them. Especially not in public and not right after a hard day at the office.

Where No Man Has Gone Before

Every classy lounge in the universe has a femme fatale to counterbalance all the male lounge lizards who seek prey on a nightly basis and Think-A-Holic Lounge is no exception to that cosmic rule. It’s almost as if these dedicated and mysterious females are placed there by the very hand of fate to exact justice for all the predictable lounge lizardry that invariably takes place when men imbibe adult beverages without the benefit of think-a-hol. That’s when pick up lines are hurriedly polished and pride and prejudice are thrown out the window. The unknown target for l’amour is zeroed in on and stealthily approached.

Unfortunately, the woman in this picture is one of the two silent partners who own and operate Think-A-Holic Lounge. Her name is Ethera and no one seems to know her last name or where she comes from or if she is single or married or whether or not she is a significant other of the male silent partner that most of us have heard of but have never seen. Last Saturday night, the Lounge’s biggest and busiest night of the week for lounge lizardry, Ethera settled into a booth and gauged the competition. Angus McCloud, the Lounge’s big-ass head bartender and protector of all things female in the universe, personally mixed and served her cocktail.

Ethera looked calm and collected as she was immediately approached by one of the regular lizards, the astral body of a slick, smooth-talking, traditionally-published mainstream fiction author from Earth. But when he tried to sit down opposite her, she spoke something that only those of us with acute hearing could hear, the kind of penetrating and practiced auditory ability that cuts through all the noise and commotion of revelry to the very core and definition of interpersonal dialogue.

“Not in this lifetime,” I heard Ethera tell the lounge lizard. Then she calmly sipped her drink.

He backed away from her like he’d been bitten by a snake. When he finally managed to belly up to the bar again, Angus set him up with a double shot of think-a-hol and a single bubbly chaser.

“On the house, pal” Angus told the lizard. Then the big ol’ ghost of a dead Scottish poet lost his professional demeanor and tried in vain to suppress an I-Told-You-So smirk.

“Better let me have a double think-a-hol, as well,” I said quickly as I laid a Solar Fin on the bar and loosened my tie. Just seeing such a thing had snapped me out of my romantic delirium and peaked my thirst for plenty of antidote.

A Single Bubbly Chaser

This popular beverage (see pic) often follows a shot of think-a-hol for many patrons at Think-A-Holic Lounge.

Without think-a-hol, however, its sparkle leaves me and most regulars at the Lounge feeling rather flat.

The Watch Blob

Angus McCloud, the big-ass ghost bartender at Think-A-Holic Lounge (see left pic), recently hired this creature (see right pic) from another solar system to guard the top of the bar. Angus told everyone that this new employee was hired for their own safety, to keep watch over the money they lay on the bar while they imbibe think-a-hol and bubbly chasers and what have you. But I know better. Angus hired this little green bar-top blob to guard his tips and nothing else. But he’d never admit that.

This latest edition to the Think-A-Holic Lounge staff answers to the name Oozee (pronounced ooo-zee). I snapped this photo of Oozee with my cell phone camera as he stared me down, thinking I was the tip thief instead of the Lounge’s biggest tipper. Then the little phlegm-wad took two solar dollars from my money pile. He said it was a fee for the privilege of taking his picture. I just sat there, nursing my think-a-hol and saying nothing while he continued to single me out as the number-one reason for his employment.

Even at the edge of the space-time continuum life is often unfair.

Thanking My Lucky Stars

Cosmic taverns on this side of the space-time continuum pretty much stick together when it comes to keeping undesirables off their bar stools and especially from behind their bars. And Think-A-Holic Lounge is no exception. The Lounge has participated in the Intergalactic Alert Program ever since Angus McCloud, our big-ass head bartender, has been tending bar there. And that’s been well over four hundred years now.

One Wednesday afternoon, as I sat on a stool enjoying my quiet time at the Lounge, this character (see pic) waltzed into Think-A-Holic Lounge like he owned the place. He bellied right up to the bar and told Angus he was from Earth (yeah, right, and I suppose he walked here) and that he was looking for a bartending job. Angus immediately recognized his face from the list of intergalactic alerts that went out just last week.

According to the alert, this kooky-looking stranger was nothing but a freeloader who had tried to get himself jobs in convenience stores and taverns all over the galaxy. Whenever he succeeded, he’d then graze his way into unemployment by eating and drinking as much of the stock as he could. Invariably, he’d get caught and get fired. I sincerely hoped the old bum wouldn’t try to put the bite on me.

Well, Angus didn’t even let this goober’s butt hit the bar stool. Without even saying a word, the big ol’ Scottish ghost tossed the stranger out on his ear. During the scuffle, I had a change of heart and managed to slip a solar sawbuck into the left pocket of this freeloader’s tattered black cardigan. I also snapped this picture of him with my cell phone camera.

I really felt sorry for the old guy. I figured that, if it weren’t for a wee bit of good luck, that old jasper could very well be me. I thanked my lucky stars that the old bum wasn’t me and, with that thought in mind, I quickly ordered a double shot of think-a-hol. Without the usual bubbly chaser.

Drive-Off

There have been a lot of fights at Think-A-Holic Lounge ever since the quasar TV at the Lounge began broadcasting American Presidential Campaign news from Earth.

Politics, sex and religion are forbidden topics of discussion in public establishments throughout many galaxies because the end result is often trouble in one form or another. And any discussion of politics invariably leads to fighting when adult beverages are involved. Despite that, Think-A-Holic Lounge offers a safe haven for creatures who thrive on heated debates based on these three subjects. The owners and staff at the Lounge know a money-maker when they see it. And nothing draws a crowd like a presidential campaign. And nothing causes more fights, either.

Since Think-A-Holic Lounge specifically forbids fighting within its doors, clever patrons have been taking to the parking lot to settle their arguments. But a rowdy crowd in front of a tavern never looks good and it never encourages potential customers to enter.

And that's why Angus McCloud, the Lounge's big-ass head bartender, hired this "Bouncer Bot" (see pic) to patrol the parking lot at Think-A-Holic Lounge. We call him Drive-Off because he can break up a fight and drive off the troublemakers without even shifting into second gear.

I, myself, was chased more than two blocks by Drive-Off one night after I started a fight with a Republican hardliner who called Hillary Clinton (my choice for President) a FemBot.

Grin and Bare It

One of the perks for regulars at Think-A-Holic Lounge is having your birthday recognized by the management and also by other regulars. Like, back in September, when I walked into the Lounge on my birthday for a shot of the ol' elixir and a single bubbly chaser, it was on the house. That means Angus McCloud, our big-ass head bartender who's also the ghost of a dead Scottish poet, paid for my drinks. But so did some of the other lounge lizards and, before I knew it, I was full of think-a-hol and happy thoughts.

The other night, however, this jasper (see pic) from a galaxy far, far away strolled in and a lot of jaws dropped. We though this rude and crude dude was streaking through the solar system in his birthday suit just for kicks. But Angus set us straight and then set this oddball up with a double shot of think-a-hol and a schooner of brew.

Angus called this nude nerd Birfday Boy and the word was soon out that, if you don't have anything to hide, there's no use trying to cover it up.

What Dreams Are Made Of

Concluding this little story, Angus McCloud’s limo driver was giving me a tour of what looked like Earth sometime in the distant future. Since I was dreaming, I didn’t know it was a dream. I thought the sun had actually entered into the Red Giant phase, a phenomenon that often occurs whenever Yellow Dwarf stars like our sun expend their fuel. The sun would eventually grow and grow and consume Earth and the entire solar system before it died out. But, what puzzled me more than anything in this dream-turned-nightmare, was that the limo driver suggested that there was something I could do about it.

“Well,” I told the driver, “if you think there’s something I can possibly do about all of this, tell me what it is.”

“I’ll tell you,” he said in an accusatory tone of voice, mixed in with that Middle-Eastern accent that was beginning to get on my nerves. “I’ll tell you what you can do, Mr. Bugos.”

“Spit it out,” I urged him.

“What you can do is...” he began.

And then I woke up.

Red Giant Night

Continuing with this little story, I puzzled over what Angus McCloud's limo driver had just said about having faith in the future. Then I started to get a little peeved because I had been promised a free ride home and what I seemed to be getting instead was a mini-tour of another solar system.

But, before I could muster up the courage to complain, the limo continued to glide through this strange planet's atmosphere, from east to west, as if seeking a safe place to land. This was the scene outside the limo's canopy. But we didn't seem to be landing.

"We are seeing what nighttime on your planet Earth will look like when your sun begins its transition from being a Yellow Dwarf to becoming a Red Giant," the driver told me matter-of-factly.

"And this is as dark as it will get then?" I asked, startled at the thought.

"Yes," he replied, "but only for a very short time. When your sun reaches the Red Giant stage your planet will be consumed."

"Why are you showing me this?" I asked. "Nothing can prevent the sun from becoming a Red Giant when its fuel begins to run out. There's nothing I can do about it."

"Wrong," he said rather cryptically as he stared at me over his shoulder.

..to be continued...