The Think-A-Holic Lounge Silent Partner

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The Indie Shapeshifter

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Same Old Story

Lost in Translation

Hacker From Hell

This past Wednesday I waltzed into Think-A-Holic Lounge and bellied up to the bar like I owned the place. Our big-ass head bartender, Angus McCloud, always gets a kick out of the way I let on like I'm this big-time author from Earth and he usually sets me right up with a shot of think-a-hol and a cold, bubbly chaser. Today was no exception.

As soon as my butt hit my favorite barstool the left TV — the one that shows hacker videos instead of Mexican soaps and illegal sports — began airing this disturbing video. After it aired I asked ol' Angus to set me up with a double shot of Death-A-Hol instead and no bubbly chaser. Then I asked him to turn off the left TV and turn on the regular one.

After seeing an independent author reaching out to the entire universe from Hell, I preferred to watch Saturnites toss their senators around or watch nuns on Uranus bowl for dollars. Watching illegal sports is always a lot less disturbing than seeing your own fate played out before you in living color.

Transmission 6002020206

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Little Green Man from Mars by Michael Casher

Little Green Man from Mars — the book video

25 Words or Less: 6002020206 

This week, nobody was watching the regular TV set at the Lounge. As a matter of fact, it was turned completely off because everybody was hovering around this new TV set, the one that shows hacker videos from outer space (as if the Lounge isn't already in outer space). Oh, well.

This video was the scariest one of all. Maybe it's because there are so many P.O.D. authors among our regular patrons. That means the astral bodies or the dreaming selves or the disenfranchised spirits of those authors. For us — the real outcasts in the publishing underworld — this video was even scarier than the movie The Exorcist. Why? Because when the devil does D.C. in real life, sooner or later he leaves.

POD Bot

As you all know, Angus McCloud, the big-ass head bartender at Think-A-Holic lounge is a real bot fan. Not only does he shop at Bots R U more than anywhere else, he tries out just about every new bot that comes along in a futile quest for the most perfect security bot. It never works. All bots have their fatal flaws, just like human beings.

Most security bots are programmed to profile potential troublemakers (in other words, to make unfounded assumptions) and who writes these programs? but the biggest, basement-dwelling, socially-challenged techno geeks in the entire universe. Robot programmers are not only a dime a dozen in the second decade of the 21st Century, they're still a bunch of anti-social antagonists who just love to sic bots on people. While the average bot's biggest fatal flaw is that they tend to stare at people before they attack, my biggest fatal flaw is that I tend to stare back at them and that's like waving a big-ass red flag in front of a charging bull.

So, imagine my surprise when I found out that the newest bot installed by Angus McCloud, our big-ass bot-addicted head bartender, was not a security bot at all. This new bot (see pic) is a "talent scout bot", Angus informed me through a smirk I distrusted immediately. He said this particular bot was on loan from a major book publisher in Bad Apple City, back on Earth. Then he leaned forward on his elbows and whispered the rest of the story to me as I held a double shot of think-a-hol between the thumb and forefinger of both hands in my effort not to spill it before I got to enjoy it's powerful, illuminating effect.

"The scuttlebutt is," Angus whispered out of the corner of his mouth like a wizened felon on death row, "this bot, here, is looking for major indie talent in the science fiction genre. He's scouting for a relatively unknown, independent author who's written high-quality, hard sci-fi that's been ignored because his POD books aren't gathering dust on bookstore shelves, like old New York Times Bestsellers, and whose eBooks are not taking off because they're being lent to death. Say, you wouldn't happen to know any indie author who fits that bill, now, would you, lad?"

I felt like tossing the double shot of thinker's booze right into the ugly old spook's face but I kept my cool. I tossed back the ol' elixir like it was truth serum for the soul, ignoring the bubbly chaser sitting next to it. Then I answered the 400-year-old ghost of a dead Scottish poet whose own biggest fatal flaw is his uncanny ability to irritate his customers almost to the point of murder.

"No, I can't think of a single indie author, at the moment, who'd fill those shoes," I conveniently lied, feeling the think-a-hol souring in my stomach at the very sound of non-truth. "But, if that damn bot starts looking for an overlooked indie author of literary fiction, you'll let me know, won't you?"

"Sure," Angus lied back, without even breaking into a sweat. "Sure thing, Jonco."

"By the way," I asked, after slugging down the cold chaser to extinguish the fires of untruth in my lyin'-ass stomach, "does this new bot have a name?"

"Yeah," Angus replied over his right shoulder, as he readjusted the scan speed on the new bot. "I call him POD Bot."

"POD Bot?" I snickered, unable to help it. "Why in the hell do you call him POD Bot?"

"Because his circuit board was Printed On Demand," Angus replied solemnly. The ugly old prick didn't even turn around to see me storm out of the Lounge in a big huff. It'd be a cold day in hell, I lied to myself, before I'd ever set foot in Think-A-Holic Lounge again. Nursing a profound sense of ennui, I went home, put on a Jethro Tull vinyl album, and swore myself to sleep.

Face Job

Nobody at Think-A-Holic Lounge is famous for anything. No, I lied. Fred Fortune is famous all right. Famous for lying and stealing but then he's not a regular at the Lounge. He only shows up here whenever one of those free-agent wormholes touches down on Mars with the intake hole, so to speak, and then attaches the blow hole, so to speak, to our parking lot. Certainly not something anyone around here would wish on anybody else.

Anyway, as close to being famous as anyone ever came who had any legitimate business with Think-A-Holic Lounge are our former bodiless "doorpersons", who were never formally named by anyone and who never even named themselves (see the Employees-of-the-Month posting). We think they were pretty smart because being named — even if you pick you own name — severely limits your performance in life, no matter where you come from or where you're headed. It's a cosmic fact.

And, to prove my point, our former "door faces" are now the official faces for Science Fiction for Thinkers, the most famous of all the overlooked author websites on Earth. As a matter of fact, Science Fiction for Thinkers.com is so unpopular that we at Think-A-Holic Lounge would like to make the indie author who owns and runs it our Lounge mascot. If we can ever get rid of that blue-and-pink puss logo I sorta got got stuck with when I first started this damn barstool journal. On this side of the space-time continuum, there's no labor union more powerful than the Space Tavern Employees Watchdog Entity Directive (or STEWED, for short).

Hell, I'll betcha ten-to-one that Jimmy Hoffa's cosmic essence is their freakin' fearless leader.

New Think-A-Holic Lounge Dartboard

Angus McCloud, Think-A-Holic Lounge's bigass head bartender, recently replaced the Lounge's old dartboard with this free-floating new one. So far, no one has gotten a bulls-eye and, for some unknown reason, I'm unable to keep my darts out of the black area.

Go figure.

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".

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.

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."

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.

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.

Lost in Translation

Last Wednesday around six o'clock I rolled down the steps of Think-A-Holic Lounge a little later than usual from having my afternoon shot of think-a-hol and a bubbly chaser. And that was because I'd had several of them in a row and that kind of dedicated imbibing takes a wee bit of time.

Anyway, across the alley I spotted this sorry-looking jasper (see pic) sitting in front of an old abandoned garage that had been slated for demolition sometime in the last century but which remained standing due to a lack of code enforcement in this part of the galaxy. I felt sorry for the old coot and asked him if he needed a ride somewhere.

"No hablo Español," he replied without even looking my way and despite the fact that I had spoken to him in English, not Spanish.

I thought I'd try asking him the same question again, even though he still refused to look me squarely in the eye.

"Je ne comprends pas le français," the old coot said, still not looking at me. Why he thought I was speaking French was beyond me. I tried to ask him if he needed a ride anywhere one more time. And in English, again, because that's the only language I know.

"Ich verstehe nicht Deutsches," he replied in fluent German.

That did it for me. I had no intentions of asking him any more questions. I was actually more miffed by his refusal to look at me than by his insistence that I was speaking to him in languages other than English. I decided to approach him and see if that would make him look at me. But, when I stood right in front of him, I could see that the crazy old codger was asleep. And with his eyes open.

I left him there as he began to snore. Then I went home and profusely thanked my lucky stars that the old man on the bench was not me.

Star Maker

The Lounge closed early for the Thanksgiving holiday, shutting its doors at midnight last night. Even though Think-A-Holic Lounge has no actual position in the physical universe and cannot be pin-pointed in the space-time continuum, it respects all known holidays in this solar system.

A large crowd had gathered around this particular customer (see pic) who had just blown in from the planet Saturn, which everyone knows is still the jewel of the solar system as well as a hotbed of publishing gossip and where most shakers still do their shaking. He was buying drinks for just about everyone and I mentioned to Angus, our big-ass bartender, that this was the real reason for this goofball's popularity.

"Wrong," Angus replied, looking a little starry-eyed himself.

"Oh?" I said, arching my eyebrows in the process. This was the big Scot's cue to embellish his theory out loud.

"Yessir, lad," Angus said, "when this jasper blew in from Saturn the scuttlebutt around here was that he was a writer who'd recently been published by a traditional publishing house on Earth."

"I see," I told him, totally unimpressed. I knew that only meant that this joker from Saturn either had an inside connection to the Great Publishing Wizards in Big Apple City or else he had penned his book after doing considerable market research and had written only what the market would bear, not what he had a mind to write.

"And that makes him just about as close to being a big star around here as you can get ," Angus added. "Hell, all the rest of us are either unpublished or self-published. POD people, you know, most of us." His starry-eyed gaze dimmed slightly as he remembered the real reason he was here at the Lounge. "Pour you another one?"

"No thanks," I said, tossing a couple singles on the bar. "I think I've had enough think-a-hol for one night."

Then I went outside where the air was decidedly cleaner and my mind clearer and began the long trek back home.

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.

"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.