Click on the image above to find out who he is.
Who is the other partner? Click here for that story.
Friday, May 23, 2014
Thursday, April 17, 2014
Think-A-Holic Lounge Thursday Night Special
No, Fred
Fortune is not apologizing for being sick at the end of this video. He's repeating the punchline
that was drowned out by the gong and the audience. You follow?
Sunday, April 06, 2014
Friday, April 04, 2014
Sunday, March 30, 2014
Tuesday, February 04, 2014
Thursday, January 02, 2014
Sunday, December 08, 2013
Saturday, November 02, 2013
Tuesday, October 01, 2013
Dimensions
Author's Note 11-07-13: This video was uploaded by Michael Casher to Blogger. You can't watch this video at YouTube because it does not exist there. That is another Google redirect which is nothing more than a lie to get you to watch other videos at YouTube instead of the uploaded video on this blog post. This new uploaded format at Blogger was introduced in November 2013 by Google without notice to anyone.
Friday, August 23, 2013
Thursday, August 22, 2013
Monday, August 05, 2013
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
Friday, June 21, 2013
Friday, May 10, 2013
Monday, April 29, 2013
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Christmas Past
I knew it was too good to be true. We haven't had to endure the disturbing presence of The Author From Another World for almost three years and last night he waltzed into Think-A-Holic Lounge, big as you please and still glowing all over. He bellied up to the bar and ordered a Buxx Brew from Angus. Then he unwrapped the big-ass package he had under his arm and held this thing (see pic) right in front of my face.
"How much will you give me for this?" he asked. When I didn't respond right away because my jaw had dropped onto my chest he said, "Huh? Huh? How much?"
"I'll give ya fi' dollars for it," I said, and slapped a Solar Fin down on the bar. A dozen heads turned our way and Angus McCloud, our big-ass head bartender, cupped a big-ass hand behind his big-ass left ear and leaned in our direction.
"Sold!" said The Author from Another World. And then he chugged the entire bottle of Buxx Brew, the malt beverage that makes all female creatures in the universe look like Ernest Borgnine (we drink it to maintain our dignity tanks when they're dangerously low). He set the empty bottle down so slowly on the paper coaster we all thought he'd keel over dead. But all he did was burp. It was so loud it hurt my ears and they're still ringing today as I write this journal entry.
"Have another?" Angus asked the indie author's shimmering specter.
"Nope," he replied and then he added, "See you in the funny papers." Then he left. Then I quickly hid that hideous painting under my arm. Then I ran.
Friday, April 12, 2013
What if...?
 |
| The Little Dragon King |
It's obvious that someone is tampering with my barstool journal. I'm not always present at Think-A-Holic Lounge, the now infamous intergalactic watering hole for the publishing underworld, so I can't always control the entries here. That's what I get for leaving my journal on that little shelf under the bubbly chaser taps. It's my own doing. But that was yesterday and today is today. I quickly pulled out a paper solar dollar and ordered a wee dram of think-a-hol, without the usual bubbly chaser. Then I began to think.
Well, we aren't sure if Fred Fortune, that now infamous intergalactic thief and homeless felon, is the person behind these cyber attacks but Angus McCloud, our big-ass head bartender and the 400-year-old ghost of a dead poet from Scotland, told us it's "hands off" where Fred Fortune is concerned. He told us that this was the Lounge's new position on Fred Fortune and on the Grays and on hidden truths or at least the management's official position on the opening of minds that have been previously closed for centuries, if not millennia. When we politely offered our objections, Angus laid down the rules with a grave finality. And he did so without lying to us.
"That's the poop," he said, "straight from the second floor." He pointed up toward the ceiling and we all knew that he meant the upstairs office of Ethera, one of the two silent partners and owners of this outer space gin joint in the middle of nowhere. We got the message. Nobody here wants to get on the wrong side of Ethera. Not if we want to keep hiding out here at Think-A-Holic Lounge.
As for this disturbing and controversial painting (see pic) by Fred Fortune, just see for yourself. That's right, this particular digital artist is an oddball old codger who remains on the lam from the invisible powers-that-be — just like me and you-know-who. This visionary work of art now hangs above the top shelf, where the best think-a-holic beverages are kept and, well, we think we'll get used to it, whether or not we like it. Most of us already know that liking it is not the point.
Sunday, March 24, 2013
Final Voice Print
This big slob from the wrong side of the space-time continuum bellied up to the bar at Think-A-Holic Lounge the other night. I could tell he was a salesman right off the bat because he wasn't in any hurry to get served. And he fussed and fidgeted with his collar and tie and then jingled the loose change in his pockets until the bartender came running out of sheer annoyance, if nothing else.
The big goof ordered a brewski and then I made the mistake of looking at him. He thought that was his cue to start busting my chops about his wares, "Death Prints". The very idea turned me off but I was also intrigued by his sales approach. He said he had digitally remastered "death rattles" (also called "final voice prints") of all the famous dead Hollywood movie stars since Valentino and about half of the the famous European writers since Kafka. I wasn't biting.
I told him I wasn't interested in that kind of creepy crap and to shove off or at least get the hell out of my face. The dark side of life was never my cup of tea and the dark side of death was even worse. That's when he reached into seemingly thin air and pulled down this disturbing piece of digital art. I recognized the artist's name immediately and laughed so hard I spilled the rest of my bubbly chaser on the salesman, just barely sparing the artwork from a foamy death. Too bad.
"Sorry about that, pal," I lied. "Say, whose death rattle is that supposed to be, anyway?"
"Yours," he said in a surprisingly calm voice. Then he quickly packed it in and left like the devil was chasing him.
Angus McCloud, the big-ass head bartender and the ghost of a 400-year-old Scot poet, was trying to suppress a sarcastic snort and I knew it wasn't because I'd spilled a drink on that damn dark-art salesman. He knew and I knew and I think that the salesman knew, too, that the joke was one me. So it was.
Angus McCloud, the big-ass head bartender and the ghost of a 400-year-old Scot poet, was trying to suppress a sarcastic snort and I knew it wasn't because I'd spilled a drink on that damn dark-art salesman. He knew and I knew and I think that the salesman knew, too, that the joke was one me. So it was.
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