Happy Holidays from The Past

Red Sky Alert

What Michael Casher Saw

Read the brief 1968 "Back Story" 

The "Transitions" Art Album at Picasa

Dimensions

The Michael Casher Art Experience: Dimensions

Author's Note 11-07-13: This video was uploaded by Michael Casher to Blogger. You can't watch this video at YouTube because it does not exist there. That is another Google redirect which is nothing more than a lie to get you to watch other videos at YouTube instead of the uploaded video on this blog post. This new uploaded format at Blogger was introduced in November 2013 by Google without notice to anyone.

Last Call for Think-A-Hol

Last Call

Closing the Journal: Good-bye and Farewell

The Mind's Eye Strikes Again

Lounge Lizard's Summer Special

The Jonco Bugos Code

11:11

Click on the image for a True 11:11 story.

Click here for some 11:11 comic relief.

Christmas Past

I knew it was too good to be true. We haven't had to endure the disturbing presence of The Author From Another World for almost three years and last night he waltzed into Think-A-Holic Lounge, big as you please and still glowing all over. He bellied up to the bar and ordered a Buxx Brew from Angus. Then he unwrapped the big-ass package he had under his arm and held this thing (see pic) right in front of my face.

"How much will you give me for this?" he asked. When I didn't respond right away because my jaw had dropped onto my chest he said, "Huh? Huh? How much?"

"I'll give ya fi' dollars for it," I said, and slapped a Solar Fin down on the bar. A dozen heads turned our way and Angus McCloud, our big-ass head bartender, cupped a big-ass hand behind his big-ass left ear and leaned in our direction.

"Sold!" said The Author from Another World. And then he chugged the entire bottle of Buxx Brew, the malt beverage that makes all female creatures in the universe look like Ernest Borgnine (we drink it to maintain our dignity tanks when they're dangerously low). He set the empty bottle down so slowly on the paper coaster we all thought he'd keel over dead. But all he did was burp. It was so loud it hurt my ears and they're still ringing today as I write this journal entry.

"Have another?" Angus asked the indie author's shimmering specter.

"Nope," he replied and then he added, "See you in the funny papers." Then he left. Then I quickly hid that hideous painting under my arm. Then I ran.

What if...?

The Little Dragon King

It's obvious that someone is tampering with my barstool journal. I'm not always present at Think-A-Holic Lounge, the now infamous intergalactic watering hole for the publishing underworld, so I can't always control the entries here. That's what I get for leaving my journal on that little shelf under the bubbly chaser taps. It's my own doing. But that was yesterday and today is today. I quickly pulled out a paper solar dollar and ordered a wee dram of think-a-hol, without the usual bubbly chaser. Then I began to think.

Well, we aren't sure if Fred Fortune, that now infamous intergalactic thief and homeless felon, is the person behind these cyber attacks but Angus McCloud, our big-ass head bartender and the 400-year-old ghost of a dead poet from Scotland, told us it's "hands off" where Fred Fortune is concerned. He told us that this was the Lounge's new position on Fred Fortune and on the Grays and on hidden truths or at least the management's official position on the opening of minds that have been previously closed for centuries, if not millennia. When we politely offered our objections, Angus laid down the rules with a grave finality. And he did so without lying to us.

"That's the poop," he said, "straight from the second floor." He pointed up toward the ceiling and we all knew that he meant the upstairs office of Ethera, one of the two silent partners and owners of this outer space gin joint in the middle of nowhere. We got the message. Nobody here wants to get on the wrong side of Ethera. Not if we want to keep hiding out here at Think-A-Holic Lounge.

As for this disturbing and controversial painting (see pic) by Fred Fortune, just see for yourself. That's right, this particular digital artist is an oddball old codger who remains on the lam from the invisible powers-that-be — just like me and you-know-who. This visionary work of art now hangs above the top shelf, where the best think-a-holic beverages are kept and, well, we think we'll get used to it, whether or not we like it. Most of us already know that liking it is not the point.

Final Voice Print

This big slob from the wrong side of the space-time continuum bellied up to the bar at Think-A-Holic Lounge the other night. I could tell he was a salesman right off the bat because he wasn't in any hurry to get served. And he fussed and fidgeted with his collar and tie and then jingled the loose change in his pockets until the bartender came running out of sheer annoyance, if nothing else.

The big goof ordered a brewski and then I made the mistake of looking at him. He thought that was his cue to start busting my chops about his wares, "Death Prints". The very idea turned me off but I was also intrigued by his sales approach. He said he had digitally remastered "death rattles" (also called "final voice prints") of all the famous dead Hollywood movie stars since Valentino and about half of the the famous European writers since Kafka. I wasn't biting.

I told him I wasn't interested in that kind of creepy crap and to shove off or at least get the hell out of my face. The dark side of life was never my cup of tea and the dark side of death was even worse. That's when he reached into seemingly thin air and pulled down this disturbing piece of digital art. I recognized the artist's name immediately and laughed so hard I spilled the rest of my bubbly chaser on the salesman, just barely sparing the artwork from a foamy death. Too bad.

"Sorry about that, pal," I lied. "Say, whose death rattle is that supposed to be, anyway?"

"Yours," he said in a surprisingly calm voice. Then he quickly packed it in and left like the devil was chasing him.

Angus McCloud, the big-ass head bartender and the ghost of a 400-year-old Scot poet, was trying to suppress a sarcastic snort and I knew it wasn't because I'd spilled a drink on that damn dark-art salesman. He knew and I knew and I think that the salesman knew, too, that the joke was one me. So it was.

Hit And Run

About seven years ago, Betelgeuse Time, I had a mysterious encounter with a non-human female who'd popped into Think-A-Holic Lounge for a quick think fix. Her name was Made Of Stars and I'll never forget our otherworldly brief encounter. I almost gave up lounge lizardry after that experience but I didn't because I'm one of those sorry saps who still thinks he's going to meet Ms. Right on a barstool somewhere, hopefully at Think-A-Holic Lounge, and on some sunny Wednesday afternoon, no less. Hey, a guy can dream, can't he?

Anyway, I just read her obituary the other day in a local gossip rag and I didn't believe it at first. But Angus McCloud, our big-ass head bartender, said it may or may not be true, given the nature of gossip rags like the Saturn Tattler. Anyway, Made Of Stars had what they call in this part of the space-time continuum a "fatal collision". In her case, she was hit by a runaway Star Eater, the poor thing. Just looking at the newspaper photo of the Star Eater that hit her made me order a double shot of think-a-hol and toss it down right away. I'll always remember the way she glimmered just before she disappeared from the Lounge that day, seven years ago. Man, I wouldn't want to be a star or made of stars for all the solar sawbucks in the world. Here's looking at you, kid...

Boundless

Some people think there's always a story behind something. I used to be like that. A story is nice. I like a story. But a story doesn't necessarily lie behind everything you see. Some things just are. Trust me. 

Making Mischief

I didn't charge you-know-who a dime for putting up this digital painting. But I had to look at myself in the mirror for a long time before I made the decision to post this work of art here. Michael Casher and I looked back and forth at one another through the looking glass for an eternity before we finally nodded our silent agreement to one another. No words were necessary.

Both of us think most people will find this face to be cute as hell and it may even delight them. But, after a wee dram of think-a-hol, they'll probably think what we're thinking and what aware people are thinking all over the world. If you think this face is cute and not hideous, then you're part of the problem and not part of the solution. 

The Invisible Pages

 

Let your fingers do the walking. I did.

Alter Ego Blues

I don't believe in wishes. But I don't disbelieve in them either. That's why I agreed to put up one of you-know-who's latest digital paintings here at Think-A-Holic Lounge. Plus, the old semi-retired video maker and semi-retired blogger and semi-retired science fiction author slid a crisp Solar Sawbuck under my nearly empty schooner of Buxx Brew, the malt beverage that makes all female creatures in the universe look like Ernest Borgnine. We drink it to maintain our dignity when it's clearly at risk and for no other reason.

Then the old codger had the gall to chide me for drinking Buxx Brew on a weekday. He said lounge lizardry was only dangerous on the weekends and that women who pop into a classy place like the Lounge on a Monday night were worth taking seriously. Then he bought me a double shot of think-a-hol and a big-ass bubbly chaser. Then he started talking to the attractive woman on my right, the one I had my eye on.

And that's when I spilled the rest of my Buxx Brew on him and he left in a big huff. Then the babe he left behind said she thought men who spill drinks all over the place are typically too drunk to engage anyone in any kind of meaningful conversation. Then I left in a big huff. But, I was still ten solar dollars richer.

Don't Burn After Reading

Think-A-Holic Art

This past Friday, the Wonderful Wizard of Windows Movie Maker — the me on your side of the looking glass — informed me that he had a new hobby. Painting with a mouse. After I picked myself up off the floor where I'd fallen in a sudden, uncontrollable fit of hysterical laughter, I offered to buy the artist a drink. But he declined.

He cited various reasons for not drinking while I yawned and looked at my wristwatch and then he asked me to post his second painting on my blog. Without even thinking, I said, "No." Then he pulled a fiver out of his micro-thin wallet and I fell for the old greased-palm bit hook, line and sinker. Well, I drank up that fiver in about a half hour but I feel better about myself somehow. For some embarrassingly unexplainable reason that I'd rather not go into. If you get my drift. 

The Secret Room Part 3

concluding this little story... Let me begin by saying that I'd originally planned to finish this little serial-post deal last month, the story about the new Secret Room that Think-A-Holic Lounge added on behind my back last summer. But I was way too busy having a life of my own.

Excuse me all to hell and back, but two pigs playing tic-tac-toe with one another on their own, high-end. state-of-the-art personal computers with big-ass plasma screens and built in quadrastereo didn't make me want to lay a bet on the outcome. Not at first. But later I just had to.

It just so happened that the pinkest pig won seven out of the ten games I was forced to watch. I was forced to watch and participate in illegal sports betting by Angus McCloud, the Lounge's big-ass head bartender (and the ghost of a 400-year-old Scottish poet) because he ran out of money so we went halfers and then we split our winnings. 

The fact that the pinkest pig won the tournament meant nothing scientifically because Angus told me that the paler pig won seven out of ten games of tic-tac-toe last week on Saturn. But that meant absolutely nothing to me, either, because they toss their senators around on Saturn every weekend on The Saturn Outernet and then nuns from Uranus bowl for dollars, unless the Outernet managed to hijack a Mexican soap from Earth.

It's all illegal and all crooked. Nothing but a bunch of attention-getters grabbing glory for a group of greased palms. The nuns, by the way, have to wait their turn as the third most popular sports show on The Saturn Outernet, after Pig Tic-Tac-Toe and Saturn Senator Tossing. Don't ask me why. I'd rather see a happy nun bowl for fun and glory anyday.

The pigs are from Earth and they play mostly for food and then for attention. But the most popular pig sport in this part of the space-time continuum is Pig Soccer, also from Earth. Another pig sport that's only popular because it's illegal and only illegal because of illegal sports betting.  Angus and I were up seven Solar Quid by the time the pigs keeled over from exhaustion. Afterward, Angus had to throw the other betters out on their ears for trying to welch on their bets.

Seven Solar Quid notes don't divide evenly so Angus took four and I got three. Then I really had to pee like a Russian bull so that's what I did. Well, that's the end of this sad but exciting story and if I ever see another peephole in a door anywhere I'll just pretend that I have to go to the bathroom so bad that I can't take the time to check it out. Then I'll just run in the opposite direction and never look back. Three Solar Quid might buy a lot of think-a-hol and big-ass bubbly chasers but I'll be hearing pigs squealing and stomping and grunting in my sleep for years. You know, it serves me right.

Old Book, New Video

I'm up late tonight and I'm out of Monterey Jack cheese so I moseyed on down to the Lebenty Leben. I've got plenty of ham and Swiss cheese and rye bread, and even a new jar of baby dill pickles, but I'm plum out of Monterey Jack and that won't do. I got the last brick at the ol' Lebenty and I'm glad because Pepper Jack just won't do when you've got Monterey on the brain.

Before I go any further with this post I'll spill the beans right now about The Secret Room Part 3. It is forthcoming. I just don't know when. Why is it late? Because I'm busy.

After I grabbed the last brick of my favorite cheese I popped into Think-A-Holic Lounge for a wee dram and a bubbly chaser and to watch the new promotional video for my first novella, Blind Fool Running. I finished writing my second novella, The Truth Is a Lone Assassin, on Januray 1, 2013, Earth Time. The new video for my second novella is done but it won't be released until the paperback and the Kindle Edition are both published.

So, why am I showing a new video for an old book, one I published at the end of 2009? Hollywood taught me that shit. I'm trying to get everybody in this part of the space-time continuum all excited about my second novella by making them all excited about my first novella. You know the drill. And, yep, the video's good, but the book is even better. 

Tonight's Band from Earth's Past

That Earth band doing their first time-travel tour finally showed up for their Friday night gig here at Think-A-Holic Lounge. It only took them 46 years to get here at the speed of music but we always say it's "better late than never". That's our motto.

Pluto Poop Protester Pulls Prank...

...And Lands Big-Ass Role in New SciFiFoFum Video! Click Pic For Story!

Plutonian Poop Protester

German News Uplink

The book,  If You Survive by George Wilson, is a MUST READ for All Americans and for everybody who thinks Germany should ever have a military role in the world again, anywhere. This true account of the horrors of war ought to be required reading in every American high school history class. If you were ever cat-fascinated by Germans in uniform, like a lot of sick, twisted freaks, read this book about the real Nazi plague and how an awful lot good people died eradicating it. Let's not subject the world to any more Germans in uniform.