The Think-A-Holic Lounge Silent Partner

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Who is the other partner? Click here for that story.

Think-A-Holic Lounge

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Welcome To Our Cosmic Watering Hole

The Mobile Edge

The other night one of the regular lounge lizards at Think-A-Holic Lounge told me he thinks the biggest reason that our little watering hole for publishing outcasts occupies no position in space is because Think-A-Holic Lounge is "mobile". He said Think-A-Holic Lounge has always been mobile and didn't I know that? He also said, in this day and age, "going mobile" is the only way to go if you want to remain competitive. He said it was the best competitive edge any business could have right now.

I wanted to tell him that any competitive edge nowadays has a half life of about fifteen minutes. I wanted to tell him that the real definition of "competitive edging" is to copy something somebody else just did and wait for somebody to copy your copy and then for you to go copy that copy. I wanted to tell him to go eat a cow pie, too, but I'm pretty sure he had no clue what a cow pie was.

So, I bought him a dram of think-a-hol and a Buxx Brew draft instead and went outside to get a breath of fresh air. When I looked up at the sky, this is what I saw (see pic) in place of the usual collection of stars and moons that surround our little cosmic home away from home. Then I went back inside to wet my whistle with a double think-a-hol, skipping the usual bubbly chaser that follows. All of a sudden I had a lot to think about.

Caustic Cosmic Comic

Think-A-Holic Lounge hasn't really recovered yet from the big business slump that began this past Black Friday, Earth Time, and that was supposed to end when the last January White Sale on Earth had ended. Nobody here knows exactly when the last January White Sale ended on Earth but everybody knows that January 2011 is history now and so is February 2011. And the Lounge is still in a slump. But that didn't deter our big-ass head bartender, Angus McCloud. In fact, when the chips are down that's when ol' Angus is at his best.

The other day he hired the astral body of a dead comic from Earth, a loudmouth nicknamed Mouthpiece by the few regulars like me who still haunt this gin joint in the middle of nowhere. This dead comic was never reincarnated anywhere in the universe, was never allowed into any afterlife at all by the cosmic powers-that-be, because of the enormous karmic debt he built up by being one of the nastiest "insult comics" to ever play the Catskills, that notorious graveyard for comic has-beens whose worn-out routines are even too lame for motel cocktail lounges in Reno. Which makes them ideal for Think-A-Holic Lounge. Don't ask me why.

It was almost midnight this past Saturday night, Earth Time, when Mouthpiece took the wireless mike and hopped onto the tiny platform Angus had built as a stage for Pear, the female exotic dancer who also washed out here a long time ago. For somebody who was nothing but a head with hands and feet, Mouthpiece sure was agile. I knew I was in trouble when the little shithead zeroed in on me right after his opening remarks.

"Oh yeah," he began in a loud, irritating voice that was part used-car salesman and part carnival barker, "I knew I wasn't in the Catskills the minute I set foot in the door. You know why? Of course you don't know why. Your heads are all up your butts looking for your futures. And, guess what? You're looking in the right place."

Nobody laughed, but I swore I heard Angus McCloud suppress a chuckle which made him sound like he was clearing his nasal passages.

"Take that one over there," he said, pointing me out to the small, silent crowd of sorry indie authors and author wannabes, POD publishers, freelance ghost writers and whatnot, most of them disenfranchised astral bodies, just like the fat-head comic about to heckle me. "Yeah, that blue-faced, balding guy with the stupid smirk on his face. Hey, buddy, is that really your head or are you blowing up a balloon?"

That smart-alec remark cracked the place up. The Lounge erupted with what sounded like "canned laughter", almost as if the dozen or so patrons were hooked up to an "I Dream of Jeannie" laugh track. I tried to dismount my barstool so I could throttle the little prick on stage but a big arm belonging to Angus McCloud held me back.

"Whoa!" declared Mouthpiece, holding up both of his fat palms in a cheesy, lounge comic plea for restraint. "Somebody get this guy a couple a eBook royalties before he gets outta control." More canned laughter from my former lounge lizard pals whom I'll never forgive in a million years. "Yeah, somebody give the poor boy a freaking' mercy read already before he has a fatal attack of the blues or something. Oops, too late!" The "I Dream of Jeannie" laugh track got louder, turning into a hideous "M*A*S*H" laugh track, as if by magic. "Hey, Blue Boy, is that really your fist or did you chew your nails down that far?" I heard more mindless tittering and even a few loud whistles. "Oops, I think I hit a nerve. Probably the only one he has."

"Up yours," I said, loud enough for everyone to hear but not so loud it could be considered an outburst. I wanted to stand up but I saw Angus watching me for any signs that I might suddenly lunge toward the stage. It seemed to me that the old bastard was having the time of his life. At my expense, of course. See how big your next tip is, I said to myself.

"Y'know, I just love it when somebody heckles me from a barstool," Mouthpiece said to the crowd. "I'm not kidding. Whenever a lousy drunk gives me advice it always makes me feel bad that I don't have a freakin' pen on me. Yeah. If I could only write down all the great advice I've gotten from bar rats over the years, I'd have enough material to write a book. Of course, I'd have to self-publish the freakin' thing because it would stink to high heaven."

At this point, if I'd have had a gun, I'd have used it, even though a bullet wouldn't have done anything to an astral body. An astral body in control of itself to the point of seeming out of control to everybody else is one of the most dangerous entities in the entire universe. I held my ground and kept my mouth shut, which made Mouthpiece look for a new target. I was so glad it was Angus McCloud.

"Hey, you!" said the talking head into the wireless microphone. "Yeah, you. Jack-o-lantern head." His big fat mouth was so close to the mike his words sounded like wet thumps. "Yeah, you, pal. The big ugly-ass bartender. I mean, you do work this pathetic watering hole, don't you? Or are you just parked here for the night?"

Angus' jaw dropped open as if he were in disbelief. I, on the other hand, was about to have the time of my life. We both waited for the inevitable onslaught of insults.

"Don't act deaf and dumb." Mouthpiece taunted the big-ass, four-hundred-year-old ghost of a dead Scottish poet. "I mean, you don't have to act deaf and dumb for me. It's written all over your face. As a matter of fact, is that really your freakin' face or did you just pull your pants down and stand on your head?" Mouthpiece's comic timing was perfect as he scanned the audience for unwitting co-conspirators.

The "M*A*S*H" laugh track had now become an old laugh track from "The Jeffersons", it was so loud and raucous. As poor old Angus McCloud stiffened and tried to maintain his professional bartender composure, I ordered a double shot of think-a-hol and a schooner of Buxx Brew, the space beer that makes all female creatures in the universe look like Ernest Borgnine (I'd had enough humiliation for one night). I knew it was going to be a great night after all.

BarTube

As I've said before, my favorite time to mosey on down to the Lounge is on a Wednesday afternoon. I'm not much of a lounge lizard and never was. My pickup lines are so rusty they couldn't reel in a green Amazon woman from Saturn and green Amazon women from Saturn are always looking to be reeled in. So, this past Wednesday around three pm EST Earth time, I found myself unceremoniously perched atop my favorite bar stool.

Yessir, I prefer the relative sounds of silence at the Lounge on a sunny Wednesday afternoon instead of the raucous disorder of a Friday or Saturday night. I like a sunny afternoon because I take some secret delight in being in a dimly-lit tavern instead of at the business end of a lawn mower or a rake. Or even, for that matter, at the business end of my outdated word processor. Besides, when you get older it's easier on everyone if you know your limitations and stick to them.

The other thing I like about Think-A-Holic Lounge in the middle of a work week and in the middle of a sunny afternoon is that there are never any sports or soaps or game shows or even beer commercials on the tube at that time of day. Not at Think-A-Holic Lounge. People who like to eat, drink, watch sports (or game shows and soaps) never frequent Think-A-Holic Lounge in the middle of the week. They're too busy working the business end of a lawn mower, rake or snow shovel. Or the business end of just plain business. And women who frequent the Lounge rarely watch TV here. They're too busy defending their honor against us lounge lizards.

Why they angle the TV at the Lounge so it reflects the window light is a mystery I may never fathom. It must have something to do with the fact that I'm definitely doing something illicit. But who cares? I'll just have to squint and eat that bullet. And the cobwebs on the Lounge TV set are as big as spider plants but who cares about that either? Being here instead of there on a gorgeous sunny day is escapism in all its grimy glory.

Any who, some weird podcast from a far away galaxy is usually on TV in the afternoons and this past Wednesday afternoon was to be no exception. In fact, this was the strangest podcast I'd ever seen. Some buffoon who looked like a cross between Charlie McCarthy and Groucho Marx was whining and crying about how he's tired of being bullied by Reptilians and Grays on some planet called Mars. Wherever that is.

No, I didn't really care for this Mars Broadcast. It smacked of old 20th-Century "yellow journalism" which made it seem out of place for a 21st-Century podcast. Nossir, I didn't like it at all. In fact, I told (not asked) our bigass head bartender, Angus McCloud, to change the channel. Angus didn't even blink an eye as he punched in the digits for a sports channel that featured ultimate fighting between males from one species and females from another species. Highly illegal, mind you.

But anything's better than having your mind assaulted by some lunatic with an axe to grind about some stupid prison planet and alien abductions and the Mallo Cup shortage there, whatever that is. I never caught this pathetic old poop's name but, if he doesn't like it on Mars, why doesn't he get his butt back to Earth? Hell, even a dangerous world run by crooks is better than a boring planet run by lizards.

And any indie author's alter ego could have told you that. Sour grapes or not.

Powerballs

The scuttlebutt around these parts is that shortly after those two Lounge lizards installed the new neon sign there was a brief power outage. Since Think-A-Holic Lounge was the only establishment on this side of the space-time continuum to go dark all of a sudden, we regulars assumed it was a local problem. We were right.

This is a snapshot of the local problem. His real name is unpronounceable but we call him Powerballs because he can never remember to turn the power off before he does any electrical work. Powerballs hails from the planet Zapsum Two in a galaxy far, far away. Thank heavens for that.

A Sign of the Times

About a week ago I left the stultifying confines of my mirror and strolled down Constellation Avenue to Think-A-Holic Lounge for a much-needed shot of think-a-hol and a cold, bubbly chaser. Not so much to get altered as to clear away some nasty cobwebs that had attached themselves to me ever since a certain indie author started making money from his Print-on-Demand science fiction novels.

They weren't jealous or envious cobwebs, the kind that can strangle you in your sleep and make you dream stupid things like not being able to find your way home or being butt naked in a crowded room. No, I have dreams like those all the time. I'm talking nightmare here. The nightmare of disillusionment and disbelief. The kind of reality that creeps up on you and forces you to confront it when you're wide awake.

Just imagine my surprise when I saw the new neon sign hanging just above the entrance to Think-A-Holic Lounge. I knew something awful had happened. I sensed the presence of flesh-and-blood where it didn't belong. I sniffed the air and knew that, from now on, it was a brave new world.

"Where'd the new sign come from?" I asked Angus McCloud, our bigass head bartended and the ghost of a dead Scottish poet. But I already knew the answer to that. I had issues and they ruled for the time being.

"Isn't that something?" Angus cooed, like a star-struck girl. He set me up with the usual while I sat and stewed quietly.

"It's a bit overdone, don't you think?" I pressed on.

"It's gift from ol' Happy Sad," Angus said in a nonchalant manner that made me want to spill something on him. But I tossed back the ol' elixir and sat nursing my draft. The ball was still in his court and he knew it. But Angus refused to play by the rules.

"Izzat right?" I said, waiting for the bomb to land in my lap.

"Yeah," Angus responded, both elbows resting on the polished mahogany bar. "When he got his first royalty payment back on Earth, ol' Hap bought us this new sign. UPS delivered it last Friday and two of the regulars installed it on Saturday. Ain't it a beaut?"

"Lovely," I said, not wanting to act the party pooper. Then I ordered a triple shot of think-a-hol without the usual bubbly chaser. Now I needed to get altered.

Thinking Cap

Not everyone who visits Think-A-Holic Lounge is a think-a-holic. Imbibing think-a-hol is not for everyone and doing so has always been an option here at the Lounge and it always will be. While a regular patron may offer to buy you a round of the ol' elixir, no one will ever ask you to try a dram or a shot of it against your will. Instead, Angus McCloud, the Lounge's big-ass head bartender (and the ghost of a dead Scottish poet) makes available, free of charge, the use of a thinking cap (see pic).

This is The Official Think-A-Holic Lounge Thinking Cap, patented on Pluto and sold exclusively to watering holes throughout the Milky Way Galaxy that cater to people who like to think. It's not made of any special material and you can't take it with you when you leave. But while you wear it, it makes you tackle your biggest problems and deal with your worst fears, which are more often than not figments of your own imagination.

Often times, donning our official think cap will make you confront your worst enemy, as well, who is almost invariably yourself. And, when you least expect it, The Official Think-A-Holic Lounge Thinking Cap will present you with new ideas about life and people and places that you'd never think about in a million years when you boldly go bareheaded about your own business as if it were the only game in town.

One size fits all.

A Message from Angus

"Don't think and drive."

This has been a public service announcement from Think-A-Holic Lounge and your local think-a-hol distributor.

Think-A-Holic Lounge Bartender

Angus McCloud. The 400-year-old ghost of a dead Scottish poet.

"Boo!"