Chameleon, Part II

Continuing with this little story, it was another Friday night at Think-A-Holic Lounge and the busiest night for predatory biped lizards in this part of the cosmos, next to Saturday night.

I sat at a table in a dark corner instead of at the bar where I usually sit and that's because of Chameleon, the new barmaid with the veil covering her face. You don't get service from a barmaid when you sit at the bar. You have to look at Angus McCloud's ugly spook face all night long and that gets a little old after a while. But I didn't see Chameleon anywhere and I craned and strained my neck like a goose, looking all around the Lounge for her. Then I heard her voice. But it seemed to be attached to someone else (see pic).

When this Chameleon look-alike approached me I started to peel off Solar Bucks like I was husking corn and handed them to her, even before I ordered a drink. Just the very idea of being waited on by a woman who looked like a nun made me feel guilty. Guilty enough to expunge my guilt with money, just like they teach you from day one on planet Earth.

But this isn't Earth, I said to myself as I gently laid a Solar Sawbuck on her tray, on top of the three Solar Dollars and the one Solar Fin that I'd already laid there. I'd never felt this guilty about anything in my entire life before and all I did was just sit down. After I ordered a double shot of think-a-hol and a schooner of bubbly chaser, I secretly hoped I'd have enough money left over to pay for the drinks when they arrived.

After Chameleon left, I muttered a few choice words to myself about Angus, the big-ass head bartender who'd hired this shapeshifter called Chameleon. I was almost certain, at this point, that she was splitting her tips with him and that the worst of it was yet to come.

To be continued...

Chameleon

I rarely sit at a table at Think-A-Holic Lounge but ever since the Lounge hired a new barmaid last week (see pic), my butt hasn't touched a bar stool there. No one knows anything about her or where she comes from and Angus McCloud, the Lounge's big-ass head bartender (and the ghost of a dead Scottish poet) won't divulge any information about her, except her name. Chameleon. That's what he calls her. And that means Angus is not only the guy who hired her, he's also the one who's dating her.

I've always been a good tipper, even a big tipper, but one look at those alluring, mysterious eyes and folding money starts to slip between my fingers. Especially when those eyes look back, or pretend to look back. The fact that all you can see of Chameleon are her eyes makes our lounge lizard brains work overtime just trying to imagine what the rest of her is like.

I gotta hand it to ol' Angus, he sure knows a money maker when he sees one. I wonder how long we regulars at Think-A-Holic Lounge will last before our tip money is all dried up and we have to go back to work to earn more. It doesn't matter. That's just fine with me.

What else do I have to do with my disposable Solar Dollars, Fins and Sawbucks? Still, one thing bothers me and I'm sure it bothers the other regulars, especially the tried-and-true lounge lizards who make Think-A-Holic Lounge their home away from home. Why is she called Chameleon?

To be continued...

The Worm Has Turned

Think-A-Holic Lounge, as you well know, occupies no space in the physical universe because it has no position in the space-time continuum. None of us regulars at the Lounge has a clue as to what the hell that actually means but it doesn't matter to us because most of us are think-a-holics anyway and think-a-holics never worry about anything.

The Earthling tendency to worry and fret and obsess over anything and everything is a great karmic magnet that causes things and events to transpire on that planet that will actually be worth worrying about. Like all the computer viruses and worms that have recently been unleashed upon that planet because of the self-fulfilling prophecy of worry that Earthlings drag around all day long, day in and day out. Just like a big monkey on their backs that feeds on the banana of their fear, if you will. One of those monkeys is pictured here. He has no name because he's been given every name in the book by Earthlings who fear anything and everything, especially if someone else fears it first. Monkey see, monkey do, it seems, is Earth's biggest cottage industry.

The odd thing about this particular monkey is that he was once a common, everyday computer virus who morphed into an infamous computer worm after he started getting a lot of press. But this particular robotic worm was not created by a basement-dwelling, twenty-something, hermit nerd in America who has debilitating authority issues or by an anti-American Third World terrorist who makes his or her living scamming the elderly in the USA fly-over via email. No, this worm was invented by every fearful Earthling whose own guilt about one thing or another opened the door for a karmic penance they felt they had coming to them.

But when Earthling fear breathed life into this particular worm bot, it soon developed a mind of its own. Now it appears just about anywhere in cyberspace as this harmless-looking imp and it's even infected this portion of non-space with it's clever, ambivalent presence. Every time you click on the creepy little worm he takes you somewhere you've never been before. Quite often, it's somewhere you'd rather not be or else someplace you'd never think of visiting in a million years. Either one, or sometimes both.

Here, at Think-A-Holic Lounge, we've kind of taken a liking to him. We're not sure why. There have been scarier worms floating around the cosmos. We think this particular worm has turned over a new leaf. And I guess that must be the reason we think-a-holics just let him come and go as he pleases.

Beam Bot

Now that the Super Bowl and the U.S. Presidential Election are both done deals, things have quieted down a little at Think-A-Holic Lounge. There aren't nearly as many fights in the parking lot now and only a handful of unruly patrons are being tossed out the front door each weekend by Bouncing Bobbi, the Lounge's new female bouncer. But the Lounge's big-ass head bartender, Angus McCloud, is always on the lookout for new kinds of trouble.

This afternoon Angus introduced me and a couple other think-a-holics to the latest security bot hired by the management of Think-A-Holic Lounge. It was designed to put down violent patrons before they have a chance to inflict any bodily harm on anyone or do any serious damage. Angus calls this machine Beam Bot (see pic) because it can "taser" a troublemaker from fifty feet away with an invisible particle beam that renders temporary unconsciousness. Beam Bot is supposed to "taser the perp" and then catch him or her before they fall to the ground and hurt themselves. Unh, hunh.

When we asked Angus if this Beam Bot thing was legal, he reminded us that Think-A-Holic Lounge occupies no space in the physical universe and, therefore, it has no actual position in the space-time continuum. I guess he was trying to tell us that this is the new frontier and therefore, lawlessness was permitted. Yeah, right. Especially when all you have to do is grease someone's palm. When I asked him if he was expecting trouble or looking for trouble, the big ol' Scottish ghost just shrugged his shoulders.

"I'm just doing my job," he told us with his thumb poised over the "ON" button on Beam Bot's remote.

"What's that big rocket on his back for?" one of the regulars asked.

"Damned if I know," replied Angus. Then he turned on the bot.

I should have expected what happened next. Beam Bot came to life with an ominous, whirring sound, scanned everyone in the parking lot with his particle beam gun, and then returned to me and held his beam snout steadily on me. Sweat trickled down my face and I felt like running. But I knew better.

"Now, about that bar tab of yours, Jonco," said Angus, still aiming the remote at his brand-new bot toy. Everybody howled with laughter as if Angus had delivered the most comical line they'd ever heard. I wasn't laughing.

"Funny," I snorted and went inside to order up a double shot of think-a-hol and a single bubbly chaser from the relief bartender.

I chuckled to myself after I tossed down the think-a-hol because I knew that it was only a joke. Still, looking out for trouble is one thing but looking for trouble is quite another and almost always a self-fulfilling prophecy. But, hell, if I had a nifty toy like Beam Bot to play with, I'd probably be just as eager as Angus was for the next barroom brawl.

Super Bowl Saturday

Broadcasts of the American Super Bowl from planet Earth rarely reach Think-A-Holic Lounge and it's a damn good thing. Biped rhinos from the planet Testos hate any kind of game played with balls and one or two Testosterones always show up at the Lounge the day before the Super Bowl just to taunt us. Around here we call these creatures "Angroids" because they're always angry about some damn thing or other. We call this particular Angroid Gonuts.

Angus McCloud, the big-ass head bartender at Think-A-Holic Lounge tried to get Gonuts into the spirit of the Super Bowl yesterday by tossing him a souvenir football signed by Terry Bradshaw during Earth's "Golden Age of Football". This is what the stupid Angroid did with it. The entire Lounge was absolutely mortified by this incredibly hostile gesture.

After that, Angus made a vow never to toss any biped rhino his coveted baseball signed by Roger Maris in 1961. We all agreed that that would be an even stupider idea than letting a biped rhino bounce his Billy Jean King autographed tennis ball from the infamous Billy Jean King vs. Bobby Riggs match-up in 1973. Angus had actually considered doing this during a rare Wimbledon TV broadcast received accidentally at the Lounge.

To make a long Super Bowl story short, I personally patched up Angus' violated and deflated Terry Bradshaw football, bought him a double shot of think-a-hol, and then six of us regular Lounge Lizards tossed the nasty Angroid Gonuts out on his ear. Banning Testosterones from Think-A-Holic Lounge altogether will no doubt be the next order of business when the dust finally settles.

Bobbi for Bobby

It never fails. A new Earth year begins and the whole galaxy goes gaga. You'd think every biped in the universe had their eyes focused on Times Square the other night, just chomping at the bit for Earth year 2009 A.D. to arrive. Why? Well, hell, so they could toss out the old junk in their lives and bring in the new junk.

It's a known fact in this part of the space-time continuum that Earthlings have influenced a large number of constellations with their insatiable desire to dump the old and herald the new each December 31st. Just like clockwork. Earthlings don't even care if what they're tossing out is any good or not or if what they're welcoming in is worth anything at all. They just want new stuff all the time. Earthlings have even infected the management of Think-A-Holic Lounge with this curious Earth disease that makes humanoids want to shed the past like a molting snake. And this (see pic) is the result.

At precisely the stroke of midnight on New Year's Eve 2008, New York City Time, Angus McCloud (the Lounge's big-ass ghost bartender) downsized Bouncing Bobby, Think-A-Holic Lounge's male bouncer from the planet Samoa Sun (see previous Bouncing Bobby posting). Angus replaced him with a female bouncer from the same planet. He calls her Bouncing Bobbi, as if nothing had changed. Well, almost nothing.

Bouncing Bobbi can toss a drunk just as far as Bouncing Bobby could (she auditioned for us on Black Friday instead of going shopping) and the drunks don't seem to mind being tossed out on their ears nearly as much now. For Angus, it was pure PR and nothing less. As for Bouncing Bobby, the original humanoid Think-A-Holic Lounge bouncer, rumor has it that he's already the dwarf-tossing champ in France and he simply didn't have the time to be in two places at once.

Think-A-Holic Holiday Wishes

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

The Missing Link

Being someone's alter ego as well as their reflection isn't always a walk in the park. I think it would be a lot easier just being the real person, himself, but the bodies of real, actual persons are already occupied and take up a lot of physical space in the universe. Unlike yours truly. Being Jonco Bugos is much more than simply being the polar opposite of Michael Casher. I blog, therefore I am. I am a living being in my own right. And he knows that. But he'll never admit it.

That's why I spend so much time hanging out at Think-A-Holic Lounge. Michael Casher would never enter an establishment like this and the main reason for that is because Think-A-Holic Lounge occupies no space in the physical universe like he does. The Lounge has no position in the space-time continuum like an ordinary tavern. In other words, Michael Casher wouldn't be able to get a foot in the door here because he's simply too much of an ordinary, everyday type being. A commoner, if you will. And I know that just eats him up inside. The stupid novelist.

Think-A-Holic Lounge is a hideout for a all kinds of outcasts in the publishing underworld. This is a place for hacks and Michael knows that. If Michael was a civilian on Earth and I was a cop and I told him that this is a bar for cops he'd understand. But writers don't understand hacks, the author wannabes who never get a break. Hacks like us are simply part of the symbiosis of the universe. Without hacks, the people who can actually write wouldn't stand out among their peers. Not one little bit.

In other words, Mr. Michael Casher, I, Jonco Bugos, your back-ass-wards alter ego, made you what you are.

So, how, then, and certainly why, did I find one of Michael Casher's custom cufflinks (see pic) on the floor under the bar stool next to me just after last call last night? Angus said his lips were sealed and the regular Lounge lizards, my fickle pals in the mysterious publishing underworld, are also silent on the topic of Michael Casher. As far as I'm concerned, that breaks the unwritten clubhouse rules for Think-A-Holic Lounge. And the unspoken code of the hack.

You want your stupid cuff link back, Michael Casher?

Come and get it.

Author Whisperer

It had been a long time since I'd seen that multilingual shape shifter in the alley near Think-A-Holic Lounge. This was the sleeping bum I tried to give a ride home one day (see the Stalking the Wild Think-A-Holic posting, then the Froggy Night posting, then the Lost in Translation posting) before I realized that he probably didn't have a home, before I realized that he was more than likely a figment of my think-a-hol-fueled imagination and way before I finally came to the shocking conclusion that this hobo was, himself, some sort of cosmic warning for me, in regard to one possible future. A future I just might have if no one took me and my novella seriously. The very sight of him made me feel less like an an alter ego and more like the real McCoy, I don't care what anybody says.

I snapped this picture of the mystery man last night with my cell phone camera after I'd stumbled down the front steps of Think-A-Holic Lounge around dusk, full of think-a-hol and bubbly chasers and happy thoughts. It was my own stupid fault and dumb luck that I'd chosen to take the alleyway home instead of the front sidewalk. I figured I'd save half a block that way and be able to catch the last few minutes of the latest news on cable TV about Wall Street, not realizing that this is how low I'd sunk.

When I first spotted him, he just stood there and watched me pass, waiting for me to speak to him so he could reply in another language, making some cryptic remark that would make me doubt my very existence. But I wasn't going to play his game anymore. I just shuffled along through the leaves and the puddles that were scattered about after the last unpredicted shower, making haste for my comfy couch back home. As I passed by him he spoke.

"Good things come to those who wait," whispered the mystical man.

But I didn't answer him. I didn't even turn around. I ran and ran and never looked back. And when I got home I made a cup of tea with honey in it and sipped it while listening to old vinyl recordings of Simon & Garfunkel until it was dark. And then I went to bed and, for the first time in my entire life, I did not dream.

Some Things Defy Logic

I was shocked when I waltzed into Think-A-Holic Lounge the other night and saw Fred Fortune (see pic) playing poker at one of the tables with a bunch of other bloggers. And there was ol' Angus, the Lounge's big-ass head bartender, personally serving them all pitchers of beer like a star-struck lackey.

No one at the bar would tell me where Mr. Fortune writes his blog but I'll wager that he'll soon be on the lam again when people there find out that he's a spinner of lies more than anything else. Hell, earlier this year Angus McCloud tossed the kooky creep out on his ear because he was wanted by just about everybody in the solar system for lying, cheating, stealing and fraud. And for grazing his way through convenience stores all over the galaxy.

And now the stupid grifter is everybody's little hero simply because he blogs. Go figure.

Angus Strikes Out

The owners of Think-A-Holic Lounge let Angus McCloud, the Lounge’s big-ass head bartender, pretty much run the place. Being the ghost of a dead Scottish poet and over four-hundred years old certainly has its advantages. But one week, about two solar years ago, ol’ Angus really screwed up.

That was the week Angus McCloud hired a female exotic dancer (see pic) from the Orion Belt to dance on Friday and Saturday nights, starting at ten o’clock, Pluto time. She went by the name “Pear” and she was immediately a hit with all the purple creatures on this side of the Milky Way Galaxy. Unfortunately, that’s only about one-percent of all bipeds inhabiting this area of the cosmos. Strike One. So, while Pear was extremely friendly, a terrific dancer and cute — in her own “dragonette” sort of way — Angus was persuaded by the management to let her go.

Later that solar summer we Lounge regulars found out that the real reason Pear was fired had nothing to do with her not being an appealing performer for most of the humanoids at Think-A-Holic Lounge. That actually had nothing to do with it. Everybody liked Pear and at least a dozen of us regular lounge lizards had tried to get a date with her.

No, the real reason Angus had to let her go was because he violated a local star-system zoning ordinance by not auditioning at least three exotic dancers representing other species before hiring Pear. Strike Two. In addition to that, Think-A-Holic Lounge, which has no physical position in the cosmos and therefore occupies no actual space in the space-time continuum, was not zoned for adult entertainment. Strike Three. To make a long story short, Think-A-Holic Lounge was fined five hundred solar dollars by the “Cosmic Vice Squad” (whose palms Angus failed to grease before opening night). Strike Four. And that was the end of that.

Poor ol’ Angus never got over the embarrassment of that fateful week two years ago but that’s the price you pay when those who employ you have no better judgment and trust you implicitly.

The rest of us should be so lucky.

Random Retro Razz

Last Wednesday afternoon at precisely five o’clock in the afternoon, Milky Way Time, a demonstrator of sorts (see pic) appeared in the Think-A-Holic Lounge parking lot out of nowhere. Just in time for many Solar System commuters like me to see him as we stopped off on the way home for a shot of the ol’ elixir and a single bubbly chaser.

It was as if the strange-looking protester had been suddenly ejected from a roving wormhole or something. By the way he was under-dressed, some of us regulars — who stared out the front window of the Lounge at him — thought he’d just blown in from 1960's Earth. Probably Woodstock, New York, USA, circa 1969. But, when we saw the sign he was carrying, we knew that it was actually 1980's Earth that he’d blown in from.

Angus McCloud, the big-ass head bartender at Think-A-Holic Lounge and the ghost of a dead poet from Scotland on planet Earth, said he was pretty sure that this particular alien creature was from Earth’s afterlife and that he had once been a close personal friend of Nancy Reagan.

Then Angus went out into the parking lot and kicked the protester’s butt clear to Kingdom Come, claiming that imbibing think-a-hol is a personal lifestyle choice as well as a guaranteed freedom protected by cosmic law.

We all laughed at that and then returned to our bar stools, ready to place our refill orders as soon as Angus had dispatched the annoying protester. After all, no one wants to be reminded of their vices, let alone be admonished by a complete stranger for having them. Especially not in public and not right after a hard day at the office.

Where No Man Has Gone Before

Every classy lounge in the universe has a femme fatale to counterbalance all the male lounge lizards who seek prey on a nightly basis and Think-A-Holic Lounge is no exception to that cosmic rule. It’s almost as if these dedicated and mysterious females are placed there by the very hand of fate to exact justice for all the predictable lounge lizardry that invariably takes place when men imbibe adult beverages without the benefit of think-a-hol. That’s when pick up lines are hurriedly polished and pride and prejudice are thrown out the window. The unknown target for l’amour is zeroed in on and stealthily approached.

Unfortunately, the woman in this picture is one of the two silent partners who own and operate Think-A-Holic Lounge. Her name is Ethera and no one seems to know her last name or where she comes from or if she is single or married or whether or not she is a significant other of the male silent partner that most of us have heard of but have never seen. Last Saturday night, the Lounge’s biggest and busiest night of the week for lounge lizardry, Ethera settled into a booth and gauged the competition. Angus McCloud, the Lounge’s big-ass head bartender and protector of all things female in the universe, personally mixed and served her cocktail.

Ethera looked calm and collected as she was immediately approached by one of the regular lizards, the astral body of a slick, smooth-talking, traditionally-published mainstream fiction author from Earth. But when he tried to sit down opposite her, she spoke something that only those of us with acute hearing could hear, the kind of penetrating and practiced auditory ability that cuts through all the noise and commotion of revelry to the very core and definition of interpersonal dialogue.

“Not in this lifetime,” I heard Ethera tell the lounge lizard. Then she calmly sipped her drink.

He backed away from her like he’d been bitten by a snake. When he finally managed to belly up to the bar again, Angus set him up with a double shot of think-a-hol and a single bubbly chaser.

“On the house, pal” Angus told the lizard. Then the big ol’ ghost of a dead Scottish poet lost his professional demeanor and tried in vain to suppress an I-Told-You-So smirk.

“Better let me have a double think-a-hol, as well,” I said quickly as I laid a Solar Fin on the bar and loosened my tie. Just seeing such a thing had snapped me out of my romantic delirium and peaked my thirst for plenty of antidote.

A Single Bubbly Chaser

This popular beverage (see pic) often follows a shot of think-a-hol for many patrons at Think-A-Holic Lounge.

Without think-a-hol, however, its sparkle leaves me and most regulars at the Lounge feeling rather flat.

The Watch Blob

Angus McCloud, the big-ass ghost bartender at Think-A-Holic Lounge (see left pic), recently hired this creature (see right pic) from another solar system to guard the top of the bar. Angus told everyone that this new employee was hired for their own safety, to keep watch over the money they lay on the bar while they imbibe think-a-hol and bubbly chasers and what have you. But I know better. Angus hired this little green bar-top blob to guard his tips and nothing else. But he’d never admit that.

This latest edition to the Think-A-Holic Lounge staff answers to the name Oozee (pronounced ooo-zee). I snapped this photo of Oozee with my cell phone camera as he stared me down, thinking I was the tip thief instead of the Lounge’s biggest tipper. Then the little phlegm-wad took two solar dollars from my money pile. He said it was a fee for the privilege of taking his picture. I just sat there, nursing my think-a-hol and saying nothing while he continued to single me out as the number-one reason for his employment.

Even at the edge of the space-time continuum life is often unfair.

Thanking My Lucky Stars

Cosmic taverns on this side of the space-time continuum pretty much stick together when it comes to keeping undesirables off their bar stools and especially from behind their bars. And Think-A-Holic Lounge is no exception. The Lounge has participated in the Intergalactic Alert Program ever since Angus McCloud, our big-ass head bartender, has been tending bar there. And that’s been well over four hundred years now.

One Wednesday afternoon, as I sat on a stool enjoying my quiet time at the Lounge, this character (see pic) waltzed into Think-A-Holic Lounge like he owned the place. He bellied right up to the bar and told Angus he was from Earth (yeah, right, and I suppose he walked here) and that he was looking for a bartending job. Angus immediately recognized his face from the list of intergalactic alerts that went out just last week.

According to the alert, this kooky-looking stranger was nothing but a freeloader who had tried to get himself jobs in convenience stores and taverns all over the galaxy. Whenever he succeeded, he’d then graze his way into unemployment by eating and drinking as much of the stock as he could. Invariably, he’d get caught and get fired. I sincerely hoped the old bum wouldn’t try to put the bite on me.

Well, Angus didn’t even let this goober’s butt hit the bar stool. Without even saying a word, the big ol’ Scottish ghost tossed the stranger out on his ear. During the scuffle, I had a change of heart and managed to slip a solar sawbuck into the left pocket of this freeloader’s tattered black cardigan. I also snapped this picture of him with my cell phone camera.

I really felt sorry for the old guy. I figured that, if it weren’t for a wee bit of good luck, that old jasper could very well be me. I thanked my lucky stars that the old bum wasn’t me and, with that thought in mind, I quickly ordered a double shot of think-a-hol. Without the usual bubbly chaser.

Drive-Off

There have been a lot of fights at Think-A-Holic Lounge ever since the quasar TV at the Lounge began broadcasting American Presidential Campaign news from Earth.

Politics, sex and religion are forbidden topics of discussion in public establishments throughout many galaxies because the end result is often trouble in one form or another. And any discussion of politics invariably leads to fighting when adult beverages are involved. Despite that, Think-A-Holic Lounge offers a safe haven for creatures who thrive on heated debates based on these three subjects. The owners and staff at the Lounge know a money-maker when they see it. And nothing draws a crowd like a presidential campaign. And nothing causes more fights, either.

Since Think-A-Holic Lounge specifically forbids fighting within its doors, clever patrons have been taking to the parking lot to settle their arguments. But a rowdy crowd in front of a tavern never looks good and it never encourages potential customers to enter.

And that's why Angus McCloud, the Lounge's big-ass head bartender, hired this "Bouncer Bot" (see pic) to patrol the parking lot at Think-A-Holic Lounge. We call him Drive-Off because he can break up a fight and drive off the troublemakers without even shifting into second gear.

I, myself, was chased more than two blocks by Drive-Off one night after I started a fight with a Republican hardliner who called Hillary Clinton (my choice for President) a FemBot.