Fairy Princess

Wednesday nights are pretty slow at the Lounge and it's a good thing because around ten o'clock the front door opened and this creature walked in (see pic). Well, she didn't actually walk in. She kind of glided in.

Just as three or four regular lounge lizards began moving toward her, mentally polishing their worn-out pickup lines, Angus, the big-ass head bartender, came around the end of the bar in a flash, pushing and shoving the opportunists out of the way.

"Hi, Princess," I heard him say to the beautiful fairy.

"Hi, sweetie," she cooed. "So, this is where you spend most of your time. You naughty boy."

Then they disappeared into the manager's office, leaving the rest of us to our own devices and our own imaginations.

Sufficiently Spooked

...this is a post script to the post Tip Treasure

After seeing McCloud Castle, where our big-ass head bartender, Angus McCloud (see pic), has been living for over four hundred years as the ghost of a dead Scottish poet, I have a renewed respect for the ugly old spook. It will be an unwelcome companion to my envy regarding the fact that Angus is decidedly a lot wealthier than any of his customers at the Lounge had ever imagined.

So, while I can't help being intrigued by the McCloud royal bloodline that placed a wealthy family ghost behind the bar at Think-A-Holic Lounge, I'm rather perturbed by his basement cache of loot, knowing that a lot of it is horded tips that I personally gave him. Sufficiently perturbed. Ticked off enough that I'll never willingly over-tip the ugly old fart ever again.

This was the look Angus gave me when I tipped him the bare minimum after last call the other night. I kept waiting for him to say, "Boo!" but that never happened.

Tip Treasure

Concluding this little story, when Angus McCloud's limo driver told me to wait in the car, that merely fortified my determination to find out more about Angus and his ghostly castle at the edge of the space-time continuum.

Therefore, I did not stay in the car. I followed the driver, being careful not to let him see me. He entered the basement of the castle and, after winding through a convoluted series of dimly-lit passageways and stairwells, he came to this room. There, on the floor, lay either the McCloud family fortune or else a monstrous horde of tips stashed away from four hundred years of Angus tending bar at Think-A-Holic Lounge. My slant on all this treasure leaned toward the tip theory.

I took out my cell phone camera and snapped this picture without flash before the driver filled two small sacks with coins. Then I hustled back to the limo before he caught me in the act.

I vowed to never use this photo as leverage against Angus, our big-ass head bartender at the Lounge, but just having this ammunition made me feel a lot better somehow.

End of Story. For now.

McCloud Castle

Continuing with the previous story, Angus had arranged for his limo to take me home because I was over my limit of think-a-hol.

No sooner did the limo driver tell me that he had to stop at Angus’ home to pick up something than the limo shifted out of hyper-drive and this scene appeared ahead of us.

“What the hell is that?” I asked Angus’ driver.

“That, my good man,” replied the driver, “is McCloud Castle.”

I always knew that Angus, the big-ass head bartender at Think-A-Holic Lounge, was the ghost of a dead Scottish poet named Angus McCloud but I never knew he was any kind of royalty.

“And this is where Angus lives?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“For over four hundred Earth years,” he responded.

“Now I know for sure that I’m over-tipping him,” I muttered to myself.

“What’s that, sir?” asked the driver as he piloted the limo in for a landing.

“I said I just love the triple moons,” I fibbed.

After we landed, I was asked to remain in the limo and I told the driver that was just fine by me. Another big fib on my part.

To be continued...

Thinkers Can't Be Choosers

This past Saturday night I found myself over my limit of think-a-hol once again. It was disconcerting, to say the least, when Angus shut me off before I was ready to go home.

The big old Scot, who is the ghost of a dead Scottish poet and the head bartender at the Lounge, saw that I was beside myself with embarrassment. He tried to make it up to me by offering the services of his limo and driver to take me home. I was so over my limit that I accepted. This also proved his point that I needed to be shut off.

Before the limo got very far, I fell asleep. When I woke up, this is what I saw from the back seat. I heard the driver say in a glib, matter-of-fact tone that he had to pick up something for Angus at his home before he dropped me off at mine. Then I fell asleep again.

To be continued...

A Frog With Attitude

Wednesday afternoon is my favorite time for taking a break from writing and moseying on down to the Lounge for a quick shot and a bubbly chaser. But this past Wednesday I got a shock that I'll never forget.

Angus was off that day to bar hop in another solar system and everybody knew that was the biggest reason for his new limo and driver. Anyway, the creature pictured here was his replacement, sitting behind the bar on a high, round stool. I approached the bar and sat down on one of the many vacant bar stools. Just as I was wondering how in the hell a frog on a stool could possibly get me a shot of think-a-hol and a draft, it spoke.

"What?" it asked me, with a challenging stare. Its voice was human and quite masculine.

"Uh, I'll have a shot of think-a-hol and a draft," I told the frog bartender.

The frog turned around but never left the stool. I watched in utter amazement as its front legs stretched to incredible lengths, pulling glasses and bottles and working spigots that were even out of reach for a human being, unless he or she got off that damn stool. The frog served my drinks on two paper coasters, just like Angus does, and took my money. Then he sat on the stool and stared at me as I drank. He knew I had issues. He knew I had questions. But I held my tongue.

"What?" he asked me once again, in that big challenging, almost hostile voice.

"Uh...nice weather we're having," I replied in a small voice. He said nothing and I finished my drinks in silence.

Couch Hippo Sci-Fi

The other day I was contacted by someone whom I thought to be a fan of my six sci-fi thrillers (all right, I know, I'm Michael Casher's alter-ass ego, but it's the same dumb-ass difference). Boy was I wrong. His message was enough to make me cry in my think-A-hol.

This guy kept using the words sci-fi and movies in the same sentence. Then he wanted to know when I was going to write my next blockbuster movie. Little did he know that I'd never written a single sci-fi screenplay. I've never written any teleplays, either. What I have written is six sci-fi novels. Which he never even mentioned.

I had a dream that night about our American culture in the new millennium. No one read books anymore and everyone got their entertainment from sitting in a chair and staring straight ahead at images on a screen of some kind.

In my dream, everybody looked like this.

Overdone

I think I've been over-tipping Angus, the big-ass head bartender at Think-A-Holic Lounge, for way too many years. It's my considered opinion that any bartender who has a limo dropping him off at work and then picking him up again is either padding his expense account, stealing from the boss, or getting too much in tips.

Since I'm the most frequent regular at the Lounge and a heavy tipper, I attribute Angus' ability to afford a limousine to my over-tipping oversight.

Anyway, this is what our head bartender's new "limo" looks like. I'm told that the pilot is included in the lease agreement.

Through the Looking Glass

I was burning the midnight oil the other night, still trying to whip my latest 8½ x 11 manuscript into a 6 x 9 paperback for POD publishing sometime this month. I was dog tired but kept thinking about how a nice double-shot of think-a-hol would really help me sleep. So, I moseyed into my bedroom to throw on some street clothes and accidentally walked right through the full-length mirror on the closet door. This is what greeted me on the other side.

Before I found myself talking to a big white rabbit sitting behind the wheel of an interplanetary starship and late for a very important date, I high-tailed it back through the mirror.

Then, instead of traipsing off to Think-A-Holic Lounge for last call, I drank a glass of milk like a good boy and went to bed.

Purple People Picker

It was one of those nights that we all have from time to time, full of paranoia and unfounded fears about anything and everything and nothing. Except this night was a turning point for me.

It was a Thursday and I had closed up Think-A-Holic Lounge again, being the last one to roll out the door and down the steps for the umpteenth time. I was in the process of publishing my sixth sci-fi thriller while working on my seventh novel, which is literary fiction for a change. Being full of think-a-hol and happy thoughts, I was walking the fine line between being a mere reflection of Michael Casher and becoming the Real McCoy.

When I reached the sidewalk I thought I heard footsteps behind me, soft flapping sounds like flippers hitting the concrete. I turned around and this is what I saw. I spoke to the purple thing as though I’d been expecting it.

“Go ahead and grab me,” I said. “Take me aboard your evil starship and turn me inside out and upside down and flip and flop me all you want. I don’t care anymore.”

“Hmmmpphh!” said the purple people picker. It lowered its arms. “Well, you’re certainly no fun.”

And then the hideous creature did a one-eighty and clomped down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. As for me, I headed home to build another chapter in book six (book building is formatting a finished manuscript for publishing) and maybe write a few lines in book seven. As far as I was concerned, the purple creature incident never even happened.

Bouncing Bobby

Think-A-Holic Lounge hired a new bouncer the other day to back up Bot Boy (see the Bot and Paid For posting). There have been way too many fights at the Lounge ever since that traditionally-published author started hanging out here. I'll admit that most of these fights were started by me.

The new bouncer's name is Bobby and he claims to be from the planet Samoa-sun. I like him and have bought him flaming shots of think-a-hol on several occasions after his shift was over. We regulars affectionately call him Bouncing Bobby.

Bouncing Bobby can throw a full-size drunk out the door and toss him or her further than any dwarf tosser in France. And, here at Think-A-Holic Lounge, drunk tossing is perfectly legal.

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.

Agented Submission

The other night I found a wallet laying on the floor in the men's room at the Lounge. I hesitated to pick it up, for obvious reasons, but I finally submitted and turned it into Angus, our big-ass head bartender. He looked inside for some ID and all he saw in there, besides a lot of folding money, was this wallet-sized picture.

"Oh, yeah," said Angus. "I know this guy." He showed me this picture.

"Wow," I said, "not only does this guy carry around a lot of cash, he's also pretty scary-looking."

"I heard that," Angus replied, turning the picture over to see if there was a phone number or an address on the back.

"What's he do for a living?" I asked.

"Oh, he's a literary agent from Big Apple City," Angus responded.

"I see," I replied. "Better let me have a double think-a-hol." But first I headed back to the men's room to wash my hands again.

Flaming Thoughts

Angus, the big-ass head bartender at the Lounge, is also the ghost of a dead Scottish poet, as I've said before. And he just got back from his one-week Halloween vacation last night and read me his latest poem.

It's about the Loch Ness Monster and it's not for publication and I listened carefully as he recited it, even though it wasn't very good, in my opinion. Then I told him about my latest book and then we bought each other flaming shots of think-a-hol.

They looked like this.

Harry the Temp

Thursday night my real ego and me (the black sheep alter ego) finished writing novel #6 and I celebrated alone by having a double shot of think-a-hol at the Lounge. None of the regulars were there and Angus was off until after Halloween, his favorite holiday.

A new face was behind the bar (see pic), hired by a temp agency for a one week stint at Think-A-Holic Lounge, with the possibility of going perm. His name tag said, "I'm Harry. How may I help you?"

"I just finished another novel," I told Harry, "and I'd like to celebrate with a double-shot of the 'ol elixir."

"You mean think-a-hol?" he asked, looking dazed and confused.

"You got it Jack," I said. "Now off with ye, me lad, and be lively." Ever since I saw the second bar scene in It's A Wonderful Life I've wanted to say that to a bartender.

"The name's Harry," Harry said, pointing to his name tag and trying to smile but not doing a very good job of it. "That's a double, is it?"

"Better make that a triple," I told him. I knew it was going to be a long night. And one hell of a long week.

A Message from Angus

"Don't think and drive."

This has been a public service announcement from Think-A-Holic Lounge and your local think-a-hol distributor.

She Rode a Comet

I ran into this interesting woman at the Lounge the other night just before last call. I tried to snap her picture with my cell phone camera but every time I pointed it at her she gave me a backhand and I fell off the stool. After three or four attempts, I finally gave up, even though our antics were wildly entertaining to the regulars who were still lurking there.

She wouldn't even tell me her name and all I can really remember about her is that she had auburn hair, a pale complexion accentuated by the right amount of freckles in just the right places, and that she spoke with what they used to call "an Anglicized accent", which made her sound like part of the Knickerbocker upper crust from 1930's Manhattan. I fell in love immediately.

When she was ready to leave, I asked her if I could walk her out and she said that would be fine.

"Where's your car?" I asked her once we were out in the parking lot. It was one of those starry nights that I like so much.

"Huh?" she replied, looking well over her limit of think-a-hol.

"What are you driving?" I asked, rephrasing the question.

"A comet," she said.

"Wow," I cooed, "I haven't seen a Mercury Comet in years. Is it fully restored?"

"Huh?" she said.

"Where's your Comet?" I asked, cutting to the chase.

"Up there," she said, pointing to a part of the sky just above the roof. And, much to my disbelief, there it was. A big, bright geostationary comet waiting for her above the Lounge.

Well...I'm not sure how she got aboard that comet and I probably should have waited around and found out for myself. But, like a scared rabbit, I went back inside and ordered another shot of think-a-hol, instead. And then another.

I hope I get to see her again one day soon. But opportunities like that usually come around only once. And I'm still kicking myself for not hitching a ride on her comet.