Over My Limit

As I've said before, I usually hang out at Think-A-Holic Lounge in the afternoon when most people are off doing other things and rarely do I close the place up at night. But, lately, I've been in a blue funk because of supernaturally orchestrated events that have been keeping our five published science fiction thrillers out of the hands of the reading public. "Me" being Jonco Bugos, the inseparable and overlooked alter ego of a certain independent science fiction author.

Only Angus McCloud, the 400-year-old ghost of a dead Scottish poet and our big-ass head bartender, is willing to listen patiently to my several conspiracy theories about how otherworldly forces have conspired to keep people from reading Michael Casher's books. I'm convinced that these "psuedo gods" pull this shit because they know damn well that no one can read even one of my novels and remain the same person (sounds arrogant, I know, but it keeps me going when the going gets rough). But I get tired of crying about it to Angus, whose responses are just occasional grunting or head wagging or a slight tipping of the chin. Hell, I know he's not really listening, he's just being polite.

So I've been lapping up the think-a-hol pretty good after midnight these days and even way after last call. I feel like I'm not myself anymore, that I've become someone else, an alien life form in this author's body. I still feel this way and especially after last night at 2:00 am when I stumbled out of the Lounge and down the front steps. It was dark, of course, and there was a clear sky. And when I looked up to view what I thought was a full moon, this is what I saw instead (see pic).

Well, maybe I was just a wee bit over my limit of think-a-hol. But, then again, maybe not.

Devil in a Red Dress

I had just sent a book off to a reviewer on the planet Mercury, where the surface temperature is that of molten lead on the side that always faces the sun. On the side that doesn't face the sun, your saliva would freeze in your mouth so no one goes there either. Apparently, Mercurians live inside their hollow planet, just like the Venusians do.

This reviewer got a free book and the cost of sending it to her via NASA was a thousand times the cost of the book itself. I figured she'd be objective and, being an expert of some kind in my genre, she'd write a decent review.

One afternoon I was telling all this to Angus, our big-ass head bartender at Think-A-Holic Lounge when I heard high-pitched laughter coming from the end of the bar. I was pretty well high on think-a-hol by then and all I could make out was this hideous red face with horns.

I asked Angus who in the hell she was or who in the hell did she think she was. Ol' Angus fought hard not to laugh in my face and he finally spit it out. "I think she's your book reviewer," he said, "and it looks like she came all this way just to see your face."

When I turned to look at her again she was gone. But she left her trident behind and one day she'll return for it and then I'll have the last laugh.

Brush with a Black Hole

I had a cosmic revelation at the Lounge last night right after last call. The think-a-hol was flowing freely because of this yahoo (see pic) from out of town who started buying drinks for everyone as soon as old Angus, our big-ass bartender who is the ghost of a dead Scottish poet (no not a famous one, a self-published one), bellowed for last call.

Anyway, I pulled out my state-of-the-art cell phone and secretly snapped a digital picture of this nonhuman stranger. Not all living creatures have arms and legs and a face. I photographed this annoying asswipe with the big pocketbook right after I heard him tell Angus that he was the entity responsible for turning a lot of people over to the dark side on Earth. Angus thought the stranger meant that he worked for the devil and that made the little shit laugh like hell.

He told Angus that he was an electrical creature that lived inside everyone at one time or another but that he felt most a home with the "Y" generation on planet Earth and he said that's why teens and twentysomethings there are so fascinated by the dark side of everything, why they wear so much black and "why they worship dark, cookie-cutter bad-asses on clones of sci-fi TV shows" (his words). He also said that's why no one could get a clear picture of him, too. He never stayed in one place long enough for much light to bounce off him into a camera lens.

That's when Angus spilled a drink on him and the little bastard left. On his way out I heard him mumble something about being late for a screenwriters' conference in Vegas. This was my first encounter with a living, breathing black hole and I hope I never run into another one.

One Way

Angus and I get a kick out of this one guy (pictured) who strolls into the Lounge every Friday night for a single malt scotch which he later chases with a Canadian brew and a bag of pork rinds (go figure). We call him One Way but only behind his back.

Every road in the universe apparently leads to this prick's doorstep but he'd be the first to deny it, if confronted. Hell, he'd probably be shocked if someone suggested that his whole life was a one-way street headed his way. The last time One Way was in Think-A-Holic Lounge Angus was in the process of telling me how much he was enjoying the hot summer weather when One Way rudely interrupted him. "Not me, man. I like winter. I don't understand how anybody can enjoy this sweltering July shit." Angus said nothing and went about his business.

A couple of minutes later I ordered some onion rings to go with my cheap draft beer and before Angus could depart for the kitchen One Way remarked, "Y'know, I don't understand how anyone can eat those onion rings and wash them down with that domestic stuff." I usually don't rock the boat and just let One Way have his say and tonight was to be no exception. But then he said, "Me, I'm a single-malt man. And a big fan of Canadian beer. Hell, that's all I drink. That's all I ever want to drink."

I turned to him and said, "Y'know, I don't understand how anyone can drink that overrated sour booze and drag on that over-priced brew like it was mother's milk but then I don't have to understand something to accept it. Or to just leave it alone. Here, let me buy you another round."

One Way looked at me like he'd been slapped in the face. Then he gulped down the rest of his imported beer, stuffed the half-eaten bag of pork rinds into his blazer and left in a big huff.

When Angus returned with my onion rings he asked me what happened to One Way and I replied, "I don't know. I guess he had too much reality for one evening."

Happy Sad

One of the regulars at Think-A-Holic Lounge is another side of independent author Michael Casher, one that is rarely seen in public. His appearances here at the Lounge are rare, but always welcomed. We call him Happy Sad because he's either one or the other. Despite the fact that he writes terrific science fiction novels that combine hard sci-fi, action/adventure, mainstream and romance for a new sci-fi experience that almost defies labeling, he's not very widely read. Yeah, go figure.

When Happy Sad finished his first novel four years ago he was elated and bought rounds for everyone that night. After each successive novel we all noticed that he was less happy and more sad. One night last week Angus and I bought him enough rounds until he came clean with the reason for his long face.

"What's to be happy about?", he confided, "I'm a self-published author who sells his books on the Internet.”

Angus asked the poor guy what was wrong with that and Happy Sad replied, "The problem with being a P.O.D. "indie" author selling my books on the Web is that I'm just a needle in the cyberspace haystack, along with every Tom, Dick and Harriet and any eleven-year-old kid with a story to tell and enough keyboard skills to publish it. We're a penny a dozen."

I argued that his books were, by far, better than most traditionally published sci-fi thrillers.

"Yeah," said Happy Sad, "but that don't mean shit in cyberspace."

All Angus and I could do was let him cry in his beer, nurse his think-a-hol and then sleep it off in the back room. What else could we do? The poor sap was right.

The Dark Side of Thinking

One of the reasons Think-A-Holic Lounge has so few customers in the afternoon isn't because most people are at work during those hours. That might be a good reason anywhere else but the Lounge is not located in real time or real space.

No, the real reason this cosmic watering hole has only a handful of regulars in the afternoon is because of an anomaly that often occurs there and always without warning. It's a powerful vortex that tries to split struggling authors into two people, one of them a failure who gives up writing altogether because of abysmal book sales and the other a wide-eyed fool who continues to court and even suck up to the publishing gnomes of Bad Apple City who have been known to chew up new authors and spit them out without even tasting them.

I got caught in the vortex, myself, last night just before last call (see pic). As you can see, I was way over my limit of think-a-hol and deluded into believing that I was Michael Casher — the real McCoy — and not merely Jonco Bugos, his reflection and alter ego. Anyway, I got caught in this powerful vortex last night and, even though it nearly split me in two, it couldn't even begin to wipe the shit-eating grin off my face. Over the years I gradually became immune to its effects and, in fact, each time it tries to split me in two, it only squeezes another book out of me.

The Glass is Always Greener...

Our dedicated doorpersons tried to refuse this odd-looking creature entrance to Think-A-Holic Lounge this past Saturday night (see pic). This green-faced person wouldn't tell us who he or she was and couldn't produce any ID and he/she certainly didn't look like any think-a-holic I'd ever seen before. A loud argument ensued at the door and that brought Angus, our big-ass ghost bartender out front, ready to kick butt and knock heads, if necessary.

He immediately recognized the green face and aplogized profusely to the miffed patron who then declared out loud that it had no genders or gender bias and was, in fact, a trans-species of some sort. I was just heading out of the Lounge, myself, at that moment, to go home and blog a little before bed. That's when I heard Angus tell Heckle & Jeckle (the names he recently gave our unnamed doorpersons) that they should "damn well remember" the face of the person they just tried to refuse entrance to because it's the face everyone sees in their mirror whenever they're envious of someone else's achievements.

I had to laugh my ass off out in the parking lot at that remark because I knew damn well that our doorpersons and everyone else, for that matter, would purge that tidy bit of advice from their brains as soon as possible. If they even heard it at all.

Employees-of-the-Month

Think-A-Holic Lounge doesn't discriminate between thinkers and non-thinkers at the door or when hiring staff. Everyone is welcome at this watering hole.

Our doormen (pictured) are often referred to as doorpersons because no one really knows their genders or species or whether they're thinkers or not. They may even be think-a-holics, who knows? Anyway, our "bouncers", as they're often called, are virtually inseparable and have worked together in many countries and on several planets and we're proud to have them as employees at the Lounge.

Unfortunately, the thing about these two jokers is that no one knows when they'll beam up and leave us working the door by ourselves. Angus, our ghost bartender, can hardly tie his own shoelaces, let alone distinguish between thinkers and think-a-holics, or even tell if our patrons have half a brain when they ask for service.

And, as for me, I'm usually too busy scribbling notes for my next book on a cocktail napkin or reaching for a bar towel.

Bad Apple

I really enjoy being in Think-A-Holic Lounge on a sunny afternoon when hardly anyone's there and sunlight filters through the two front windows. I feel like less of a think-a-holic and more like a regular guy when I quietly knock down a few in the afternoon and then walk leisurely home.

This afternoon, however, there was this annoying hotshot in there (see pic) and I could tell right away he was from Big Apple City and that he was in publishing. I couldn't help overhearing his boisterous bragging as he talked the leg off Angus, the ghost bartender, and one of the barmaids who had nothing better to do than sit there and listen since she had no customers to wait on. The goofy smart aleck, who looked like Darth Vader turned inside out, kept pressing her knee and she let him do it because he had a reputation as this great big tipper in The Bad Apple.

I gladly listened to his lame lies and sorry come-ons as I nursed a watered-down drink, until I heard something that made me want to invite him outside and, of course, I'm not the type to start a fight. Especially not in a bar because there are way too many guys willing to do that at the drop of a hat.

Anyway, this publishing guy (and I'd bet a fin that he was an editor for a big publishing house) said, "Writers are like sheep. You simply lead them to the trough and then to the slaughterhouse. Zip zip. Hell, publishing is easier than shooting fish in a barrel."

I left the Lounge shortly thereafter in a big huff but not before the barmaid spilled a drink on that hideous creature and Angus stole ten Solar Dollars off him. I'll have to remember to give both of them great big tips next time.

Pink Elephants

Drunks used to brag about seeing pink elephants (see pic) all the time but think-a-holics prefer to hook up with really attractive and interesting people after last call at The Lounge. People whose thinking caps seem to be either the best or the biggest at that time. Sometimes they're simply the first ones a think-a-holic has encountered.

More often than not, these seemingly elusive and captivating denizens of the thinking underworld turn out to look like this one (see other pic) in the morning. And that's enough to make anyone wish for pink elephants.

Starlight Becomes Her

People will tell you all kinds of things under the influence of heavy thinking and most of what they say is true. Think-a-hol is an even better uninhibitor than alcohol and it has better and longer lasting side effects than booze. But the two a.m. babbling of the star monster I ran into the other night (as we both sat nursing drinks that the ice had long since melted in) was just a lot of tongue wagging, in my opinion.

She said she wasn't from any star, she said she was made of stars and when you looked at her in the dim light, stars were all you could really see. When I asked her what she did for a living, she said she spent most of her time staying just out of reach. I asked her what she meant by that but she kept moving to the next stool each time I asked her a question.

Rather than shout my questions at her, I decided to just let her go for the time being and finally she just disappeared altogether, although I didn't hear the Lounge door open and close. I finally asked Angus, the ghost bartender, what the deal was with her and he said in a low voice, "One day last year a POD author actually reached out and touched her. And she hasn't been the same since."

Mirror Mirror

I was excited the other night about going to Think-A-Holic Lounge because I heard that a sensational new comic was making his debut appearance there that night. This guy was actually a real loser who pretended to be this great impressionist but his cool one-liners always saved him from being run out of town on a rail, so to speak.

Anyway, I hesitated to turn on the ceiling light in my tiny bedroom because it always makes me feel like I'm in an interrogation room somewhere in the Middle East and I'd rather not feel that way. So, I touched my boudoir lamp on the night stand just once and stood in front of the mirror. What I saw is pictured here. I knew instinctively who the jaybird was.

"Jonco?" I said a little too timidly. I knew damn well that I would not see Michael Casher in the mirror but his alter ego instead. I also knew that I was somehow that alternate personality. I just have a hard time accepting this behind-the-scenes role in his life, that's all.

"Um hmm," the image said back.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, being careful not to antagonize him.

"Oh, just making sure you're out the door by ten so you're not late for your act," Jonco scoffed.

"Oh," I replied, "I almost forgot who I was for a moment."

"Well, get you ass in gear, then," Jonco ordered and then he fled deeper into the mirror where I couldn't see him or hear him or wring his neck.

Last Call for Think-A-Hol

The other night I was in the Lounge around last call when I spotted this smug little prick (see picture) talking to the Think-A-Holic Lounge bartender, who is the ghost of a big-ass Scot named Angus. I recognized the little guy who was busting the bartender’s chops because he was bragging about something I’d suspected all along. The little turd was telling Angus that he was the alien presence on Earth responsible for making sure that I had no readers.

He clowned around a lot while he yakked it up — buttering up ol’ Angus by telling him that he was the most frightening ghost he had ever seen and that he had a flair for making Manhattans that tasted more sophisticated than the Stork Club’s (as if the little goober had ever been in that elitist New York watering hole) and typical new customer crap — but I got the gist of what he was saying.

He said he put suggestions into people’s heads just when they were about to click on the ADD TO CART button at Lulu.com, usually making them think the phone was ringing or that they had to pee right now or else they’d have an accident. The little green bugger even went so far as to convince prospective buyers that the end of the world was happening at that very moment and that they should hide under their desks immediately. Then, while they were answering a phone that wasn’t ringing or trying to pee when they didn’t really have to or hiding under their computer desks like terrified snails, they would lose their Internet connections and then either get mad at me or forget about me altogether.

I was getting really peeved, sitting there nursing my draft and listening to all this crap, and I finally asked Angus to throw the little prick out. But all Angus did was smile like the big goof he really is and say, "Last Call! Last call for think-a-hol!"

Think-A-Holic Lounge Bartender

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

"Boo!"

Alien Road Kill (Well, Almost)

The other day I was celebrating Spring by driving out into the countryside, past some of the roadhouse dives that I used to frequent (the ones that are still standing) when I noticed that I was being followed by a strange object that looked a lot like a flying saucer. So, I pulled over and got out and the thing behind me also pulled over and, to my surprise, it was a spaceship of sorts.

A funny-looking creature crawled out and I thought he was going to pull out a ray gun and let me have it. Instead, he said the strangest thing, something you’d never expect to hear from a Little Green Man from Mars or any extraterrestrial.

He said, "Hey, pal, is there any place around here where I could get a thick ham steak and some okry on the side and maybe a big slab of pecan pie?"

I said, "Well, hell, this isn’t Georgia. You’re about five states shy of that kind of stuff."

He looked ticked-off for a second and I thought for sure that he was going to zap me with some awful kind of beam that would make me glow all over and then disappear. But all he said was, "All right, then. Do you know where I could get a shot-and-a-beer and some really scorching Buffalo Wings?"

I wanted to laugh my ass off but I kept thinking about ray guns and hideous alien torture devices and junk like that so I simply answered him. "Sure thing, buddy," I said. "Just follow me."

Still On the Lam from the Illuminati

I haven't been in a bar or a tavern since 1991 when I first suspected that Illuminati agents were gunning for me in those kinds of places. They knew I wanted to write books that exposed a lot of the crap they were pulling behind closed doors.

This is a picture of one Illuminati operative who was recently working undercover as a bouncer at a roadhouse in Potter County, PA, where I stupidly stopped for a beer and a burger last summer. When I recognized him I quickly snapped his picture with a cell phone camera and then I turned and ran like hell, falling down in the gravel parking lot and skinning my knee and everything.

I thought I heard him laugh when I tore out of there in my Ford Ranger, which I just sold last week for more money to buy burgers with. Without the beer, of course.

"Mugged Blogger Returns from Bog"

I'm back after being abducted by aliens disguised as computer salesmen and major booksellers, who tried to take all my money but only found one Canadian dime, two shiny new pennies and a half-sucked sour ball in crumbling cellophane in my pockets. Which they took.

Then they hit me upside the head and dumped me in a foggy ditch where I woke up this morning, still the alter ego of a science fiction author but not knowing quite what to do with the five novels in my backpack that they completely overlooked.

I might sell them for food but then I just might use them to whomp the next computer salesman or bookseller who tries to puts his or her hands in my pockets again. And that was a lemon sour ball, too. My favorite.