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.