Busting My Chops

What makes Think-A-Holic Lounge stand out among other intergalactic watering holes is that it occupies no space in the physical universe. That means it can't be pinpointed by astronomers or cosmic conquerors or celestial powers-that-be or anyone else who exists in the real world. That's the main thing.

The second thing is that Think-A-Holic Lounge is a hideout, a "safe house", if you will, for personalities and mental frames of mind and alter egos who wouldn't have a snowball's chance in hell of being fleshed-out in the real world, no matter how exotic the planet may be. The fact that Think-A-Holic Lounge eventually became a hideout for all the outcasts in the publishing underworld, and especially in the independent publishing world, came as no surprise to anyone. It was an eventuality that happened when its time had finally come.

Like frequenting any tavern or bar or drinking establishment in the real world, and especially on planet Earth, hiding out from the real world can get very lonely at times. That's what bartenders and fellow patrons are for. To use as sounding boards or shoulders to cry on and, hopefully, some chops to bust. It's no fun blabbing your head off if nobody's listening. And there's no better way to let someone know that you're listening to them than by talking back to them.

Pictured here is the latest edition to the Think-A-Holic Lounge staff. Angus McCloud, our bigass head bartender and the ghost of a dead Scottish poet, calls him Jabber. Jabber's job is to get you to talk about your problems by making you answer his continual questions about yourself or to respond to his endless, running commentary about everything in the universe. Jabber never, ever talks about himself and that's what makes him so special.

Last night I was in another one of my blue moods where I think I'll be dead a hundred years or more before anyone ever knows that I was alive. Jabber sensed this right away and asked me a question I just couldn't resist answering.

"Why don't you tell me about your novella?" he said, fully aware of the fact that he was addressing Jonco Bugos, Michael Casher's alter ego, and not the over-exposed, jaded Real McCoy, himself. "Tell me all about it."

Naturally, I had to get set up with another round of think-a-hol and a big bubbly chaser which I naturally paid for myself. The fact that Jabber has no physical mechanism for imbibing makes it all the easier to order more drinks for myself. And, yeah, I may be just a face in Michael Casher's mirror but I know a clever ruse when I see one.

While Jabber gets you to talk about yourself (everyone's favorite topic) he also gets you to spend more money. Who cares? At the far end of the space-time continuum life is no different than the real world in one respect. You get what you pay for.

The Bot Is Back

Pictured here is that press-loving prick of a Worm Bot that's infected most of the computers on this side of the space-time continuum. I've only seen this bubble-blowing imp once before (see The Worm Has Turned posting) and seeing him again last night filled me with a kind of ambivalence I'm just not comfortable with. I mean, I can love and hate anything at the same time right along with the best if them but, when it comes to loving something one minute and then hating it a minute later, that makes for a very long day.

This particular worm bot is allowed to frequent Think-A-Holic Lounge because he's supposed to have turned over a new leaf. Or so Angus McCloud, our bigass head bartender, was led to believe. I even bought this gum snapper a shot and a beer before I realized that he was not the Real McCoy but an actor hired by the Management (Angus McCloud) to play the Worm Bot we had all gotten used to. Replacing the real Worm Bot that had apparently spurned us for brighter horizons, piggybacking his way on broadband feeds from Earth. What a stupid, dirty trick. Going Hollywood or going Madison Avenue in this part of the Milky Way Galaxy will only backfire on you and Angus should have known that.

And I should have known this joker was a phony the moment I walked into the Lounge last night. But I've always been a day late and a dollar short. So, I had no clue until I popped one of his biggest bubbles with my pocket knife and wound up someplace I'd never been before and someplace I hope I never have to visit again. Just the very thought of entering such a wormhole gives me the willies. And when I get the willies I lose my ability to do anything except mezz out in front of the tube with a six-pack and a TV tray filled with munchies.

It's enough to make you wish for a real worm bot. Having your browser hijacked is nothing compared to the upside down and inside out world that awaits you if you so much as look in his direction. And, whatever you do, don't burst his bubble.

The Shapeshifting Blog from Outer Space

Our bigass head bartender, Angus McCloud, is always trying new gimmicks to attract new patrons to Think-A-Holic Lounge. I'm instantly reminded of the Brain Bot incident that had everybody laughing at me. Then there was the Zippy Portraits fiasco, the little arty-fartsy dweeb that Angus pretended not to hire and then fired when that scam backfired on him.

And now, the ugly old ghost of a 400-year-old poet from Scotland came up with another "draw" gimmick that's almost guaranteed to backfire on him. This time it's a laptop computer that's fastened securely to the bar and keeps displaying the same screen images over and over again (see animated pic). So far, nobody can figure out what the deal is. And ol' Angus is not giving out any clues.

As far as I'm concerned, this latest gimmick to attract new patrons has all the earmarks of an indie-author royalties kickback. In fact, under-the-table palm greasing is written all over this so-called "Shapeshifting Blog from Outer Space".

Illegal Tender

Now that Michael Casher's sinister astral self comes and goes as he damn well pleases at Think-A-Holic Lounge, counterfeit money is popping up all over the place this side of the space-time continuum (see pic below).

The Author from Another World — as we Lounge regulars like to call him — opened up a Pandora's Box of trouble during his first visit to this intergalactic watering hole and we're all regretting the day he waltzed his independent author's butt in here and bellied up to the bar.

Just because Think-A-Holic Lounge is a hideout for outcasts in the publishing underworld doesn't mean some smart-guy indie author can just up and print his own money and then spend it here. Who told this joker he could do that? We're not sure just how rich or poor The Author from Another World is but if he has to pay for his think-a-hol with homemade Casher dollars he might as well go ahead and print off some more for the rest of us.

At least the indie snob could have had the decency to buy rounds for the whole house instead of just for me, Jonco Bugos, and Angus McCloud, our starry-eyed bigass bartender. Then we could probably learn to accept his funny money without making a great big fuss about it.

The Author from Another World

Life outside the space-time continuum is actually not all that different from life experienced within its more predictable confines, like planets and solar systems. In regular space, the biggest unwritten rule of thumb is that shit happens and the second biggest unwritten rule of thumb is that when shit happens it happens when you least expect it.

So, just imagine what life is like beyond the space-time continuum, where there are places with no position in space, no coordinates for the eternal forces to pinpoint for karmic retribution, no location on a map for the mortal and immortal powers-that-be to close in on and crush opposition like a bug. Places like Think-A-Holic Lounge, where just about anything goes, except the presence of real flesh-and-blood patrons who need sustainable gravity and controlled heat to stay alive.

But leave it to cosmic nature to invent and unleash upon the unconfined realms of the universe creatures who transcend all the laws of mortal, flesh-and-blood nature. This is an example of what happens when mortal nature and cosmic nature play soccer with a mortal, independent author from planet Earth. Instead of getting rid of a thing, they create, and even empower, another thing. And last night at precisely midnight, Earth Time EST, this thing (see pic) darkened the forbidden doorway of Think-A-Holic Lounge for the very first time.

It's a nightmare come true for all of us at Think-A-Holic Lounge and it looks like we won't be able to hold back The Author from Another World any longer.

Packie

There was a break-in at Think-A-Holic Lounge last Saturday night after closing. Angus McCloud, the Lounge's bigass head bartender, was madder than a hornet because his refusal to keep the security bots on duty round the clock had backfired on him.

Being the ghost of a true penny-pinching Scot, Angus had figured that if he saved the management a little money on security patrols they'd be grateful and give him a big raise. He figured wrong. In fact, they docked his pay for the two cases of brew and the three bottles of think-a-hol the burglars had made off with after they found the cash registers empty and the safe nowhere to be found.

Undaunted by his big slip-up, Angus hired a new security guard (see pic) and claims that he's paying for her out of his own pocket. The new perimeter patrol is not a bot at all but a living female creature from a nearby planet ruled by elephants and hippos, a Nazi-like world where they put all loose humans in zoos. This particular pachyderm goes by the name "Packie".

We hear she works for peanuts.

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.

The Trouble With Crocuses

Just this afternoon some swaggering intergalactic meat merchant from a local star system drank his fill of think-a-hol and then pleaded poverty when presented with his bloated bar tab. Faced with physical violence from the management, he pulled these strange life forms out of his big coat pockets. As expected, Angus McCloud (our bigass head bartender) accepted them as full payment, soft touch that he is.

Then the old ghost bartender quickly planted them outside and these purple and yellow things took a real liking to their new soil immediately. Angus thinks they're cute as hell. But I'm thinking trouble is ahead.

Crocuses, my butt. Next they'll be chortling and making more of themselves. Rumor has it that their favorite food is think-a-holics.

Whatever Happened to SciFiFoFum?

The scuttlebutt around Think-A-Holic Lounge these days is why SciFiFoFum, the video-making alter ego of science fiction author Michael Casher, pulled his own plug at YouTube. Being as nosy as any other alter ego, I asked Angus McCloud, the bigass head bartender at the Lounge, what he thought of the sudden disappearance of yet another side of this controversial, little known author from planet Earth. It was a Wednesday afternoon, my favorite time of day at Think-A-Holic Lounge, and I knew the old ghost of a long-dead Scottish poet liked to wag his chin about authors.

"Beats me, Jonco," Angus replied as he plopped my single shot of think-a-hol and a bubbly chaser draft down in front of me. "I never really knew they guy, y'now. Hell, he never showed his face around here."

"Unh hunh," I grunted back, lifting the shot glass toward my lips. I knew damn well that Michael Casher, being a real flesh-and-blood human being, couldn't even find Think-A-Holic Lounge which occupies no physical space in the universe and therefore has no position in the space-time continuum. Still, I knew that independent authors were an odd lot and had their own way of coming and going. When you least expected to see one, there he or she would be. In your face with another book. And, in this case, another stupid little video.

"I hear people were posting his videos on all kinds of inappropriate websites, just for the hell of it," Angus suggested, moving quickly to the end of the bar to pour another drink for one of the regular Lounge lizards.

"Oh, really?" I said with feigned indifference.

"Yeah, that's what he claims," said Angus, coming back and taking up a sentry position in front of me. He scanned the Lounge like he half expected Michael Casher to pop in out of thin air at any moment. He leaned forward and talked out the corner of his mouth, as people often do in dimly lit taverns all across the galaxy. "But you know what I think?"

"No," I said, tossing down the think-a-hol and feeling the burn. "What?"

"I think the ol' guy was so embarrassed by the videos he made that he just up and left the social scene altogether." Angus straightened up and squinted into the smoky crowd. "Yep, I think SciFiFoFum is hiding and that he may never come out again."

"I'll drink to that," I blurted out, rather curiously, surprising not only Angus but myself with the sudden outburst. "Let me have another shot of the ol' elixir. And make this one a double."

A Think-A-Holic Holiday Greeting

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

Bushwhacked by "Skywatchers"

This past Friday night, I waltzed into Think-A-Holic Lounge like a big-ass bird, fully expecting Angus McCloud (the Lounge's head bartender and the ghost of a dead Scottish poet) to be buying rounds for his regular patrons (like me). I expected this because, being a ghost, this was the eve of his absolute favorite holiday: Halloween. My brain was also in a receptive zone for the typical menu of cheesy Halloween movies that Angus always manages to find on Earth's many satellite channels. But I was in for a big surprise.

A short, independent video was playing over and over on the wide-screen TV, taking up only a square in the center of the big-ass screen. I wanted to ask Angus what the hell was going on but he was too busy buying rounds for anyone and everyone who lauded his video selection. I waited a full fifteen minutes before the ugly old spook got around to serving me a shot of think-a-hol and a bubbly chaser. When I asked him why this video was showing instead of a spooks-and-goblins movie or a movie about lascivious teens getting their just deserts from a mad slasher, the touchy old fart just took my money and replied.

"Well, hell, this is the latest video from that popular indie author from Earth," he said, as if that somehow answered my question. Before I could ask him another question he added, "You know how it is. If you're a science fiction author who makes funny videos instead of working on another novel, then you deserve a little sympathy, if nothing else. Now make nice."

How do you follow a line like that except with complete, dumbfounded silence? So, I nursed my think-a-hol, sipped my brewski and wished I was home watching "Halloween H2O" instead. No, not for the stupid story. For another peek at Jamie Lee Curtis, what else?

"Skywatchers", I thought to myself as I knocked back the rest of my think-a-hol and slugged down my draft, "what a ruse."

TC

Author's Note 12-6-11: This video was extended and music was added to it on 12-6-11. Hope you like the new "silent" version.

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.

Man in Black

Here's a little story I never told anyone before, not even Angus McCloud, the big-ass head bartender at Think-A-Holic Lounge, who is just about the best friend any science fiction author's alter ego could ever have. Bartenders are experts at listening to other people's problems and bullshit stories but I'd never, in a million years, lay this one on ol' Angus. Still, I need to get it off my chest before I head out to the Lounge tonight for a shot or two of think-a-hol and a refreshing bubbly chaser.

Anyway, about two years ago, on a Friday night around 8pm, Eastern Standard Time, Earth Time, I attempted to head out my back door to the Lounge when I was confronted by this... this... man in black... or whatever the hell it was. His formidable figure shadowed over me against the backdrop of the breeze way wall. The bright kitchen ceiling light only made him look more terrible to me. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. Unbeknownst to him, I secretly snapped his picture with my handy-dandy cell phone camera.

I thought he was one of those government assassins who off people who'd seen UFOs and blabbed about them, like I did more than once or twice on this blog. My god, I thought, a real Man in Black has come to eradicate me once and for all. But all he did was grunt a couple of words that sounded incredibly like "Mallo Cup".

Running to the candy dish I keep on the kitchen counter I returned with a Mallo Cup. Hell, I buy them by the ten-pack. But how did he know that? When I handed it to him he dropped it ceremoniously into the tiny pocket of his shabby black cardigan, tipped his hat and left.

I never saw this guy again but some weird old codger who looks a lot like him was tossed out of Think-A-Holic Lounge one night not long after this. But I put that out of my mind as I headed out to the Lounge, not wanting to be deterred. But, before I shut the door behind me, I ran back inside and grabbed two more Mallo Cups from the candy dish and slipped them into my coat pocket. You never know.

Chameleon, Part III

Concluding this little story, it was yet another Friday night at Think-A-Holic Lounge and I was eager as a beaver for another look at the Lounge's newest barmaid, Chameleon. By now, everyone knew she was a shape shifter hired by Angus, the big-ass head bartender at the Lounge, to extract money from us like a bubble gum machine containing a single, solitary, cherished prize amid all that common, everyday bubble gum. A prize nobody would ever win but one that would keep us all busy trying.

I arrived early and slid into a corner booth instead of mounting a stool at the bar like I'd been doing before the arrival of Chameleon, the shape-shifting barmaid, two weeks ago. I recalled how she first appeared as a shy, veiled and demure Persian beauty and then as a nun whose angelic face drove you to a premature guilt, a guilt that was only alleviated by emptying your pockets onto her serving tray. As I sat there recounting the Solar folding money in my wallet that I had earmarked for tonight and the pocketful of Solar coins that were good anywhere in the Milky Way Galaxy, I entertained thoughts of what she might appear to be tonight. But before I could tally all my beverage, snack and tip money, she arrived (see pic).

Even though she didn't resemble either of her two former selves, I knew it was her. Her voice was the same and those eyes, those eyes said she was yours. All you had to do was show her how much you appreciated her. I knew that both Chameleon and Angus had gone too far this time. This is a lounge, not a strip bar. Still, her brazen new look told us lounge lizards that she knew what we really wanted. Some of us regulars had taken part-time jobs on top of our full-time jobs just to have enough tip money these days. One traditionally-published author I knew had even resorted to mowing lawns on the weekends just to finance his Friday nights at Think-A-Holic Lounge. When Chameleon finally arrived at my table and asked me what I'd have, her words flowed like buttermilk. I had to wet my lips before I could reply.

"A triple shot of think-a-hol and a schooner of brew," I said, stripping Solar Fins off my big roll like a banana peel, "and keep them coming."

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...