Busting My Chops

What makes Think-A-Holic Lounge stand out among other intergalactic watering holes is that it occupies no space in the physical universe. That means it can't be pinpointed by astronomers or cosmic conquerors or celestial powers-that-be or anyone else who exists in the real world. That's the main thing.

The second thing is that Think-A-Holic Lounge is a hideout, a "safe house", if you will, for personalities and mental frames of mind and alter egos who wouldn't have a snowball's chance in hell of being fleshed-out in the real world, no matter how exotic the planet may be. The fact that Think-A-Holic Lounge eventually became a hideout for all the outcasts in the publishing underworld, and especially in the independent publishing world, came as no surprise to anyone. It was an eventuality that happened when its time had finally come.

Like frequenting any tavern or bar or drinking establishment in the real world, and especially on planet Earth, hiding out from the real world can get very lonely at times. That's what bartenders and fellow patrons are for. To use as sounding boards or shoulders to cry on and, hopefully, some chops to bust. It's no fun blabbing your head off if nobody's listening. And there's no better way to let someone know that you're listening to them than by talking back to them.

Pictured here is the latest edition to the Think-A-Holic Lounge staff. Angus McCloud, our bigass head bartender and the ghost of a dead Scottish poet, calls him Jabber. Jabber's job is to get you to talk about your problems by making you answer his continual questions about yourself or to respond to his endless, running commentary about everything in the universe. Jabber never, ever talks about himself and that's what makes him so special.

Last night I was in another one of my blue moods where I think I'll be dead a hundred years or more before anyone ever knows that I was alive. Jabber sensed this right away and asked me a question I just couldn't resist answering.

"Why don't you tell me about your novella?" he said, fully aware of the fact that he was addressing Jonco Bugos, Michael Casher's alter ego, and not the over-exposed, jaded Real McCoy, himself. "Tell me all about it."

Naturally, I had to get set up with another round of think-a-hol and a big bubbly chaser which I naturally paid for myself. The fact that Jabber has no physical mechanism for imbibing makes it all the easier to order more drinks for myself. And, yeah, I may be just a face in Michael Casher's mirror but I know a clever ruse when I see one.

While Jabber gets you to talk about yourself (everyone's favorite topic) he also gets you to spend more money. Who cares? At the far end of the space-time continuum life is no different than the real world in one respect. You get what you pay for.