Seeing is Believing

As most of you know, Wednesday afternoon is my favorite time at Think-A-Holic Lounge. The place is virtually empty then and the sun's usually shining outside and most of the world's at work. That's mainly why I mosey on down to the Lounge every Wednesday. Because, when most people are out running things or being run by things, I'm hiding out. And enjoying my favorite beverages while watching the ol' Boob Tube. A combination you just can't beat.

Today I asked Angus McCloud — our big-ass head bartender and the 400-year-old ghost of a dead Scottish poet — to turn on the new TV set. The one that shows "hacker videos" instead of the regular lineup of sports and game shows and beer commercials and those hot Mexican soaps that are so addictive.

We were in luck. A commercial for Angus McCloud's own invention — Death-A-Hol — had just begun airing. I asked ol' Angus who did the commercial and how he got it on TV in the first place.

"It don't matter," the ugly old spook chuckled, enjoying his recreational use of bad English, "if it's on TV, it's real, don't you know?" I knew he was hiding something but I didn't feel up to the pursuit.

"Oh, I believe it, all right," I replied with a loud sigh and then I tossed back a whole double shot of the less-popular think-a-hol, the elixir that makes you think and a product that's never been advertised on TV and probably never will be. I knew packaging rules the beverage industry, just like every other industry.

"Death-A-Hol is already a marketing success," Angus cooed, interrupting my thoughts and making me want to bounce the empty shot glass off the back of his homely head. But, I didn't. Instead, I ordered a single shot of Death-A-Hol, which is nothing but think-a-hol under a different label.

As I sipped the greenish liquid, I had to remind myself that it was only the original, amber-colored think-a-hol with blue food coloring added. But, at a premium price, mind you. Besides, I was drinking what I was seeing on TV. So, who cares? Suddenly, and in spite of my own better judgment, I felt less like Michael Casher's alter ego and more like the Real McCoy.

"Barkeep!" I shouted at the back of Angus McCloud's big-ass head. "More Death-A-Hol! And don't stop bringing it."

this story to be continued...

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.

Astral Feedback

Wow, the left TV set seems to be a hot item this week. But, hey, just when I felt like standing up and shouting to the TV screen, "You go, guy!" (or something to that effect) that screaming chipmunk voice kept me from even wanting to show my face around here.

But, you gotta give The Author From Another World some credit. Those Grays don't seem to scare him one damn bit. In fact, I think it might be the other way around.

...insertfeedhere...

Our regular Bar TV sits on a high shelf on the right side of the bar at Think-A-Holic Lounge and always has, as long as I've been imbibing think-a-hol here, with lots of bubbly chasers, of course. Now there's a new TV set on the left side of that high shelf. What do we get on that TV? Podcasts. Or something like podcasts. But more like video hackers having their say.

Don't laugh. This junk's a lot better than the tripe on the regular TV set. Except, of course, when they broadcast another one of those Senator-Tossing tournaments from Saturn or one of those extreme fighting events between male and female homonoids. Then the regular set is my favorite. Oh yeah, we still don't know what planet broadcasts that disturbing, but highly-addictive, stuff but the scuttlebutt around here is that these broadcasts come from Earth. Wow, that doesn't surprise me one bit.

Anyway, I tried not to be disturbed by this so-called "Wanted" broadcast by the Grays. But, when they go after Michael Casher, I can't help but feel a little threatened, too.

Head Game

Even at the edge of the space-time continuum, where places like Think-A-Holic Lounge can exist without taking up any physical space in the universe, people know that nothing sells a product like its packaging. Even Angus McCloud, our big-ass head bartender (and the 400-year-old ghost of a dead poet from Scotland) knows that you can sell gullible people shit by the bucketful if you make it look like gourmet food.

Ol' Angus even went one step further than that this past week when he got the big, bright idea that think-a-hol wasn't selling as well as it should, like the "joy juice" everybody thought it was. Well, hell, I can tell you why it's not selling very well anymore. Think-a-hol was invented to make people think and it's quite obvious that thinking isn't much of a pastime anymore for anyone. Except for me, of course, and a handful of faithful regulars at Think-A-Holic Lounge.

So, Angus came up with a little packaging gimmick this past week and, I've got to give the old spook credit, it seems to be a real winner. One of the local distillers of think-a-hol agreed to re-package his product in a black bottle with a brand-new new label on it (see pic).

It's the exact same think-a-hol elixir that all the distilleries on this side of the cosmos use, with a little something extra inside: blue food coloring, which makes the amber think-a-hol look like ghoulish, green "devil booze". None of us Lounge lizards can stomach the sight of the stuff or its dark-ass packaging but, ever since the repackaging deal, Death-A-Hol has become the number-one-selling elixir at Think-A-Holic Lounge. Go figure.

(I'd tell you why it's so popular and with whom, but I couldn't do that and keep a straight face.)

Welcome To Our Cosmic Watering Hole

The Illuminati Lives!

Today was a rare day at Think-A-Holic Lounge. Hardly anybody showed up and we can't figure out why. Black Friday is over and done with, so people aren't shopping their heads off down on Earth, and the rest of the universe must be at home with the wife and kiddies or at home with the hubby and kiddlies or at home watching TV. What else do people do?

Anyway, Angus McCloud, our big-ass head bartender and the 400-year-old ghost of a dead Scottish poet, found another rare video by SciFiFoFum so he and a handful of us regular lounge lizards watched it, over and over. We had to watch it over and over because we have no idea what it's really about. You know Earthlings. They'll do anything for the camera.

And, hey, before you get all bent out of shape about the title "The Illuminati Lives" because you're so damn sure that the word Illuminati is plural and should therefore require a verb that shows plurality, meaning "The Illuminati Live", let me enlighten you about another kind of plurality. In this case, the Illuminati is a group of people, not a bunch of Illuminatums. There are no such things as Illuminatums, to my knowledge.

But there is an Illuminati and it's not a word that any bestselling author invented. The Illuminati was here long before The New York Times Bestseller List and shlocky bestselling authors who are obsessed with antiquity and have a bug up their butts about the Roman Catholic Church.

So, pull your heads out of your butts or have a wee dram of think-a-hol, on me. Either one produces the same effect. Thinking. You can't beat it with a stick.

Because of the low volume in this "security video", headphones are recommended.

The Final Solution

Billy Blob

Friday nights at Think-A-Holic Lounge are just as notorious as Friday nights at most singles bars everywhere for expecting the unexpected. Back on Earth, people who've worked hard all week long like to let their hair down after the sun goes down and everybody expects that.

People want to act up or hook up or blow off some steam or just have fun after a week of hard work. Think-A-Holic Lounge is no exception. In fact, having no actual position in space makes this particular cosmic watering hole all the more interesting, if not downright dangerous at times. This past Friday night, Betelgeuse Time, one of those rare "Blob People" dropped in for a wee dram and a bubbly chaser. And, no doubt, to have a lot of fun at someone else's expense, naturally.

"What's your name?" it said to me as soon as it plopped down from out of nowhere right beside my half-full schooner of Buxx Brew, the solar suds that makes all females in the universe look like Ernest Borgnine. We drink it for our own good when the best time for "lounge lizardry" is not quite upon us.

Anyway, the blob thing's voice sounded more male than female and I reacted rather poorly to this sudden "blobby intrusion". But it wasn't because a blob person plopped down beside me. That happens all the time in cosmic watering holes, especially a hangout for publishing outcasts. POD authors like me are notorious for attracting more trouble than dollars. It's a known fact, even on Earth.

And I wasn't put off by the fact that a blob guy had plopped down beside me instead of a blob gal because they have no interest in the gender game the way we play it. Thank heavens for that. Their "unions" are more mental, if not spiritual, and that's truly remarkable in a species that still has to crawl on its belly. In fact, true blobs don't reproduce at all. They're all immortal and live forever. No, the reason I reacted poorly had to do with a rather unpleasant experience about two-and-half solar years ago.

"Before I answer that," I said, recovering from the unsettling notion that a security blob from the past had sought me out for more scrutiny, "are you in any way related to a blob named Oozee?"

"Nope," said the blob thing.

"You don't work for Angus, then?" I was determined to get to the bottom of this blasted blob business, once and for all.

"What's an Angus?" asked the blob guy.

"Never mind," I said, convinced that this new blob was not hired to see if I was stealing our big-ass bartender's precious tips. "I'm called Jonco Bugos." I wanted to shake hands but true blobs don't have any hands.

"Never heard of you," he said, probably meaning well, but the dig was in and it smarted a little. I let it slide.

"What's your name, pal?" I asked, feeling the think-a-hol I'd been knocking back starting to seethe up on me.

"Billy Blob," he said. "I'm looking for this blob gal they call Blobbie Betts. She's my steady gal blob but she thinks she can drop in any old place at any old time and I told her that's not what commitment is all about."

"Haven't seen her," I lied, when in fact I just saw Blobbie Betts bop out the back door a solar hour ago with this big dumb blob from out of town. "What you need, buddy, is a couple shots of think-a-hol and a big-ass schooner of Buxx Brew. Trust me, things'll look much better in the morning."

That seemed to perk Billy Blob right up and he even sprung for a big basket of scorching hot Buffalo Wings, which are about the only thing in the entire universe that's exactly the same in taverns all across the cosmos, no matter where or when you happen to drop in.

Mooned

I waltzed into Think-A-Holic Lounge this afternoon like I owned the place, which was pretty easy because there was only one other customer at the bar, an indie author like me who cries in his beer every Wednesday afternoon. We never bothered to ask him why he cries in his beer. We know. Abysmal book sales, eBook lending to the point of piracy, copyright infringement, no fans, no followers and the list goes on and on. So, Angus and I indulge the poor bastard. It's the least we can do.

As I already told you before, Wednesday afternoon is my favorite time to be in the Lounge, mostly because I almost have the place to myself and, secondly, because I feel like a schoolboy playing hookey instead of sitting behind a desk somewhere taking a lot of guff from customers and co-workers or toting barges and lifting bails and all that workday rot. Plus, it gives me a quiet, semi-private place to cry in my beer.

I was just about to ask Angus McCloud — our bigass head bartender — when that Fred & Red comedy team from Mars would be doing their first gig here when Angus spilled the beans himself. He said Fred Fortune found out that Angus was the one who reported Fred to the Pluto police a couple space years back and Fred got mad and nixed their contract on the Lounge deal.

"So?" I didn't really give a hoot. I was in a funk about my eBook and that it only sold one copy so far. Besides, I think Fred & Red are funny but I can't stand looking at that goofy top hat and those outdated Jack E. Leonard glasses. I hear the nose is real and that's the only reason I never poked fun at the little homeless grifter.

"Well, there's more to it than that," Angus said out of the corner of his mouth. "The little prick mooned us. Mooned us all real good."

"Whattaya mean he mooned us?" I asked, not really interested.

"You'll see," he sighed. "Wait until after dark and then you'll see." Then the homely old spook lumbered over to the other indie author and poured him another cheap draft. Cheap is all we can afford these days.

I stumbled down the front steps around eight-thirty, full of happy thoughts again and when I looked up at the starless sky this is what I saw (see pic). I don't even want to know how he did it. All I know is that Fred Fortune will be two dirty words around Think-A-Holic Lounge from now on.

Rover

Things have been relatively quiet around here this summer. Because of all the security bots coming and going, there hasn't been a brawl at Think-A-Holic Lounge the entire summer. I hate to say it, but I'm a little bored and I could tell that Angus McCloud, our big-ass head bartender, was just as bored, if not more.

I heard the scuttlebutt around here that Angus recently booked the comedy team Fred & Red from the planet Mars but, like most of the regular lounge lizards, I thought it was just cosmic legend. No one in their right mind would book a comedy team where one of the comics is the astral body of a dead insult comic who used to play the Catskills and the other half is a hobo from L.A. who spent the last couple years on Earth living in a rusty 1965 Rambler Ambassador.

Then reality hit me. Stranger things have happened. Who'd have ever thought that there'd be such a thing as "Reality TV" back on Earth, where bored couch potatoes watch other bored couch potatoes cook and clean and swap moms and remodel their suburban houses and bitch and fight with each other between commercials for consumer products for couch potatoes who watch "Reality TV"?

Who'd have guessed that parents would video their own kids falling off swings sets and cracking their skulls on diving boards and then sell those videos to TV moguls who'd air that shit as some kind of entertainment? Who'd have ever thought that videos of American dads taking footballs and baseballs and baseball bats in the balls would be entertainment for a jaded world gone mad with boredom from having way too much of everything for way too long?

But that happened. It all happened. And it's still happening. So, why should I be surprised when Angus McCloud, our overachieving head bartender who is also bored out of his spooky skull, went to the back room at Bots R U and purchased a roving worm hole (see starry pic, above right) on the celestial black market? Stranger things have happened. Like watching jailbird Martha Stewart emerge from prison as the new daytime heroine of American television.

This illegal black hole (see pic) is supposed to be some kind of a two-way corridor between this dimension and another dimension that allows the teaming up of a dead insult comic with a very alive social misfit and homeless shoplifter. No one at the Lounge has the courage to try the new wormhole. Angus nicknamed the thing "Rover" because it used to be a roving wormhole that the celestial entities who run planet Earth tamed for their own whimsical amusement.

I don't know about you but I think somebody should put a muzzle on "Rover" before somebody gets bitten.

Faces In The Crowd

Yesterday STEWED (the Space Tavern Employees Watchdog Entity Directive) allowed us to replace that old Comedy/Drama logo mask (see right pic) with a new one (see left pic). The other day, Michael Casher turned us down on our offer to make him our official mascot. He said just because he's trapped in the P.O.D. matrix was no reason to represent another bunch of P.O.D. outcasts.

But the pepper-tongued old recluse did agree, however, to let us use his trademark masks logo if we altered it beforehand to fit our "sorry-ass loser decor" (his words), here at Think-A-Holic Lounge. Then the P.O.D. S.O.B stole my design and made it his official logo. What are you gonna do?

If you're an alter ego of somebody with a big-ass ego, then you do what he says and learn to like it. The old POD poop said now that he's got his branding iron out he's not stopping until the smoke clears. So, as of yesterday, Michael Casher's brand is all over us. It still smarts a little but we'll get used to it.

That's right, the little POD Napoleon put his altered brand on all his blogs, not just this one. Most of us don't give a damn anyway. As long as we get to stay mobile and exclusive, we don't care whose label we're under. If we inadvertently made a pact with the Devil none of us will ever be the wiser for it.

Besides, life is too short (and, in some cases, too long) to be worrying about whether or not someone has branded you for your own good or just tattooed something on your ass for the hell of it. If the "shoe" fits, just wear it. That's our motto. Besides, Angus McCloud might be the big-ass head bartender around here but this is still my barstool journal.

Man in the Moon

One night last August, I stumbled down the steps of Think-A-Holic Lounge after closing time and when I looked up at the night sky with my new binoculars I saw what appeared to be a hideous face inside the Earth instead of the usual collection of celestial bodies that hover above the Lounge. I thought I was going crazy or maybe I'd finally got the DTs from reality withdrawal or caught something contagious and terminal. Thank heavens for that little lounge lizard shit who reminded me that the Lounge is "mobile" and has been for a long time and that I could very well see anything up in the night sky around here.

So, I asked myself last night what the hell was up now because when I rolled down the front steps of Think-A-Holic Lounge and looked up at the sky this is what I saw (see pic). I knew it wasn't the DTs from reality withdrawal because I've never been that much in touch with reality in the first place. And, in the second place, I'd had my usual shot of think-a-hol and a bubbly chaser and nothing more and nothing less, so my "vision" certainly wan't impaired by any kind of inspiration.

I didn't tell anyone about seeing my own image in the moon last night — especially not Angus McCloud, our know-it-all big-ass head bartender — because I know damn well what I'd have heard. They would have said that having my very own website finally went to my head or something like that. And ol' Angus would have probably punned that I was simply a "lunatic" after all. Har de har har. So damn funny. I'm so glad I never even gave him the chance to unleash that lame puppy.

The truth of the matter is probably a lot less psychological or symbolic. I probably just need new contact lenses or something. Or maybe I should stop eating those sausage sandwiches I crave every summer. Or maybe I should "up" my regular infusion of the ol' elixir to a double shot of think-a-hol and maybe a schooner of Buxx Brew. Or... maybe I'm in deep doo-doo and don't even know it.

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.

The Mobile Edge

The other night one of the regular lounge lizards at Think-A-Holic Lounge told me he thinks the biggest reason that our little watering hole for publishing outcasts occupies no position in space is because Think-A-Holic Lounge is "mobile". He said Think-A-Holic Lounge has always been mobile and didn't I know that? He also said, in this day and age, "going mobile" is the only way to go if you want to remain competitive. He said it was the best competitive edge any business could have right now.

I wanted to tell him that any competitive edge nowadays has a half life of about fifteen minutes. I wanted to tell him that the real definition of "competitive edging" is to copy something somebody else just did and wait for somebody to copy your copy and then for you to go copy that copy. I wanted to tell him to go eat a cow pie, too, but I'm pretty sure he had no clue what a cow pie was.

So, I bought him a dram of think-a-hol and a Buxx Brew draft instead and went outside to get a breath of fresh air. When I looked up at the sky, this is what I saw (see pic) in place of the usual collection of stars and moons that surround our little cosmic home away from home. Then I went back inside to wet my whistle with a double think-a-hol, skipping the usual bubbly chaser that follows. All of a sudden I had a lot to think about.

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.

The Biggest and Most Secret Spy Bot

At Think-A-Holic Lounge, we certainly have our troubles with bots and the worst kind of trouble any bot can give anybody is to spy on them for some higher-up. It's usually the owner of a business but more often than you'd think it's a government agency doing the spying these days, its crooked employees thinking they're legally empowered to spy on their fellow citizens. Wrong.

Snooping on taxpayers, on behalf of their country, is the fastest growing enterprise on Earth. While customers usually know they're being spied upon and don't really give a hoot, citizens are the last to know they're being spied upon by their own government and the first to object when they do find out about it. And that's because all government espionage against the citizenry is illegal. Always was and always will be.

But, even though spying is routine here at Think-A-Holic Lounge, it's even more routine on planet Earth. Earthlings still aren't used to being spied upon whenever they pump gasoline or enter a fitting room or cash a check or order take-out from a drive though window. But it happens every day. So, they're sure as hell not going to want to hear that they're actually being spied upon by the biggest spy bot in their solar system and, quite possibly the entire constellation. Why do you think the same side of the moon always faces you?

But it's not your government spying on you from the moon, or any government on Earth, for that matter. Yep, that's right, the moon is not made of green cheese and it's not hollow and it's not an alien spaceship. It's a spy bot for Big Jack & Co. Say "cheese" if you want to. Or, better yet, just watch your step.