Stalking the Wild Think-A-Holic

After finding a sleeping old man in the alley outside of Think-A-Holic Lounge one night a couple months ago (for some background, see the Lost in Translation posting) and then finding a frog in his place a few nights after that (see the Froggy Night posting), I finally came to the conclusion that I'm being followed. Yessir, that's it. I'm being stalked by a shape-shifter or something from another world or maybe another realm.

Further proving this theory, I stumbled onto the old bum again last night (see pic), that same, weird, old codger who sleeps sitting up and with his eyes wide open. Last night, it was exactly the stroke of midnight, Betelgeuse Time, when I happened onto the aging oddball, after stumbling down the front steps. And there he was, loitering on the same bench, but under the bright streetlight this time. I was high on think-a-hol, of course.

When I spotted the crazy old coot, I didn't even hesitate to take a snapshot of him with my trusty cell-phone camera or to approach him this time or to engage him in polite conversation. I figured if he was a real shape-shifter he wouldn't be able to stand the kindness. Also, I thought I'd try speaking to him in Spanish this time, just to throw the old curmudgeon off balance. Just to see if he'd try to run another language game on me.

"Oye," I said to him as he sat there pretending to ignore me, "que pasa?"

"Sorry, buddy," the weird old jasper said in a tired, jaded voice, "I don't speak Italian."

It's Spanish, Pops, I thought to myself, not Italian. Then the old guy's image began to waver and fade. I thought about running but I held my ground, totally transfixed on the otherworldly scene before me. Then high-pitched laughter could be heard coming from his fading form just before he vanished altogether.

Naturally, I went back inside the Lounge for another shot of think-a-hol and a bubby chaser which I nursed quietly in a corner booth until last call.

Brain Bot

The management at Think-A-Holic Lounge recently installed a new game (see pic) in light of the new gaming and gambling craze that has swept through the entire galaxy in the past few years. Angus, the Lounge's big-ass ghost bartender, told me that the game, called Brain Bot, was for amusement purposes only.

I discretely watched from the sidelines one night as Lounge patrons slid coins into the odd-looking contraption and then asked it various questions. Brain Bot seemed to know the answer to everything in the universe and quickly became a local hit with the regular weekend crowd.

Not wanting to be a party pooper, I finally decided to give ol' Brain Bot a try. Just before last call I dropped in a Solar Silver Dollar and asked it the first question that came to mind.

"Will I ever become a rich and famous author," I asked Brain Bot, "who is widely respected for his work?"

A small crowd had gathered around while Brain Bot whizzed and whirred, searching its nano-brain for the precise answer. Even Angus McCloud, the big-ass head bartender, waited in eager anticipation. After a couple of seconds the new, state-of-the-art, hi-end, "for-amusement-only" game bot replied.

"Yo no hablo Español," it replied.

While the laughing crowd dispersed and Angus tried in vain to suppress a chuckle, I quickly ordered a double shot of think-a-hol and a bubby chaser. To go.

Not An Exit

One patron at Think-A-Holic Lounge was recently banned for life by Angus McCloud, the big-ass head bartender. This guy is a human male from the planet Alpha Male One, where all humans are "energy creatures" and where all men over thirty are called "Leader". His real name is unpronounceable and we at the Lounge call him Not An Exit behind his back because he, like all men from Alpha Male One, can walk through walls at will and this guy has never used a door at the Lounge to my knowledge.

Not An Exit was banned for running up a big bar tab and then sneaking out when the bartender's back was turned. Here is a picture I snapped of him with my tried-and-true, handy-dandy cell phone camera as he was skedaddling through the men's room wall. I didn't manage to get the piece of toilet paper attached to his left boot.

How Angus actually plans to keep Not An Exit out of Think-A-Holic Lounge is still a mystery to us all.

The Pixel Pixie

A couple days ago at the Lounge I saw one of the barmaids, who is a quadraped from the planet Pluto, point out an elusive patron from another solar system to Angus, our big-ass head bartender.

She seemed kind of ticked off that this sometimes invisible creature even exists, let alone gains entrance to our little cyber inner sanctum of intergalactic publishing outcasts. I called Angus over for a bit of chin wagging during which I asked him who this mysterious creature was that had the barmaid all upset.

"Why, it's that little cyberland picture-thief prick," Angus snorted under his breath.

"You mean an intergalactic art thief of some sort?" I asked him.

"Nononononono," Angus replied, wagging his head like an old dog trying to dislodge fleas from his ears. "I mean this little bastard steals images from blog posts and then puts them back whenever he wants to. Just for the hell of it. Imagine."

Imagine, indeed, I thought to myself. The little so-and-so ought to be hung out to dry. That's when I pulled out my trusty cell phone camera and snapped the pixel thief's image. But the little bastard stole the picture before I could post it.

Froggy Night

Last night I pushed away from the bar at Think-A-Holic Lounge a little earlier than usual and I did this deliberately after seeing that snoring old fogy the last time I stumbled down the steps (see the Lost In Translation post). The image of an obviously homeless man sleeping on a wooden bench in the alley with his eyes open still haunted me like a cryptic warning from some possible future. I instinctively checked out the bench this time, hoping that it would be empty. But it wasn't.

The old man was gone and in his place sat a frog (see pic). I didn't recognize this particular frog who looked much younger and bigger than the frog bartender that filled in for Angus last Halloween. I decided to approach the out-of-place amphibian and talk to it.

"Who are you?" I asked it, trying to be cool, calm and collected.

"Yo no hablo Español," the frog replied in a man's voice.

I didn't hang around to respond. I lit out of there like a kid being chased by the bogeyman. I went straight home and went straight to bed. That night I dreamed I was a frog and a beautiful fairy princess kissed me and I turned into an author whose latest novel was number one on the New York Times bestseller list.

And then I woke up.

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.

Glimpse of the Antichrist

Out of the goodness of his heart, Angus McCloud, the big-ass ghost bartender at Think-A-Holic Lounge, allows me to keep one copy of each of Michael Casher's novels behind the bar, in a little cubbyhole that he doesn't have any use for. Just in case a customer at the Lounge recognizes me and wants to buy one of these books. Being the alter ego of Michael Casher (and, therefore, not the Real McCoy, I am repeatedly told) makes me all excited. I don't really give a hoot who's who in all this monkey business as long as I get to participate.

I think Angus started doing this because I was such a good tipper in the beginning and he thought I'd sell a lot of books (for which he'd get a small commission on each sale, of course). But, ever since I found that treasure trove of his at McCloud Castle, I've been tipping him a strict fifteen percent. And no one has ever asked to see one of Michael Casher's books or recognized me as a science fiction author's alter ego since day one. But I am eternally optimistic.

My optimism was about to pay off this past Friday night when this androgynous-looking person (see pic) came into the Lounge and walked right up to me. He or she or it didn't hesitate for a moment to tell me that he/she/it knew I was an author. I was stupefied and in a mild state of shock.

"But I can't seem to find your books anywhere," he/she/it said. Despite hearing this voice there was no immediate gender recognition on my part.

"Is that right?" I replied, trying not to sound like I had a snoot full of think-a-hol.

"Yeah," he/she/it responded, "and I've been to just about every bookstore in the galaxy. Do you happen to have any of your sci-fi thrillers on hand?"

"Sure thing," I said, jerking my chin at Angus, who promptly pulled out a paperback copy of Michael Casher's first novel from the cubbyhole. I gave it to the would-be fan, who was busy pulling an e-book reader out of a messenger bag.

"Say," he/she/it said around a tongue that was wriggling and straining with the effort of trying to decipher the strange-looking low-tech book, "how do you work this thing?"

Angus was unable to stifle a laugh at this point and I felt a sudden urge to evacuate myself. As I headed for the men's room I could hear he/she/it asking Angus if batteries were included and if the book came with a full warranty. I didn't wait to hear his answer.

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.