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.

Bot And Paid For

I had my first falling out the other night with Angus, the ghost bartender at Think-A-Holic Lounge. He does all the hiring and firing at the Lounge.

Angus replaced the two masked doorpersons (see the Employees-of-the-Month posting) with a bot (see pic) on loan from my book reviewer, who lives on the planet Mercury. Angus said he did this to save money on benefits but I know damn well that Think-A-Holic Lounge, which is owned by a conglomerate from the planet Pluto that manufactures ripoff brands of men's and women's colognes, doesn't even pay minimum wage, let alone offer benefits to their sorry-ass employees.

Anyway, this is what the new "bouncer" looks like. Angus calls him Bot Boy.

I call him a "mistake", but not to his face.

Blog Bird from Outer Space

Since Think-A-Holic Lounge is not located in the normal space-time continuum we get all kinds of people dropping in, especially on the weekends.

Last weekend this androgynous poppin' jay plopped down on the bar stool next to me and ordered a "Dum-Dum", which is a popular drink in the Milky Way Galaxy and a special elixir that effectively offsets the affects of think-a-hol, which is the most popular drink with locals at the Lounge. Then s/he asked me a point-blank question in a highly accusatory tone of voice that turned heads.

"Aren't you that indie author who's all over the Web?"

"I might be," I replied, not wanting to own up to something right away that might not be a good thing for me.

"Hmmpphh!" the half-human and half-bird snorted contemtuously. "Well, i tried to leave comments on some of your blogs and they wouldn't take. What kind of blogs are they anyway? I never heard of blogs that you can't comment on." S/he then lit a cigarette and blew the first puff right in my face. I could hear Angus, our big-ass bartender, stifling a laugh as he witnessed this social event going south.

"That's really none of your business," I explained to the bird thing. "Besides, if you have something you want to get off your chest, why don't you just get your own blog and post it?"

The face on the androgynous birdman-birdwoman thing turned six shades of red, s/he having been bested by my brilliant think-a-hol-fueled logic, and did an about face. One to its advantage, of course.

"My!" it squeaked caustically. "Aren't we touchy and defensive tonight! I was just kidding!"

Angus was unable to stifle a loud guffaw at that point and I disappeared into the men's room to collect myself. When I came back I noticed the bird-not-a-bird creature sitting at a table across from another author and the first thing out of its mouth struck me funny this time around.

"Aren't you that e-book fantasy writer?" the bird with the little beard and the page boy hair-do asked him.

"Not anymore," he lied. "I gave that up when I published my first book of blogs and it hit the New York Times bestseller list like flies take to shit".

It was my turn to laugh this time and I kept laughing on my way out the door and all the way home.

Think-A-Hol

Think-A-Holics, like me, mostly drink think-a-hol at the Lounge but other beverages are also served there. Still, nothing provides inspiration for writing like good ol' think-a-hol, especially when it's served neat and with no chaser.

In small amounts, think-a-hol (see pic) can enlighten even the darkest and unusable mind and in larger quantities it can even produce revelations, but only in minds that are already ripe for them.

There are many types of think-a-hol and not all of them go down easily. Some burn the tongue and then settle like warm heat once downed. Other kinds are smooth and even buttery but, afterward, sour the stomach and burn the heart.

Not all think-a-hol costs the same. Some of the cheapest stuff will bring out the best in a person while, more often than not, the most expensive blends will show the worst and darkest side of those who drink it.

But, once you become a think-a-holic, there's absolutely no turning back.

Won't Get Fooled Again

I was working pretty late the other night. Right up until midnight, in fact, running more ads in online newspapers for Michael Casher, my flesh-and-blood other self, despite the fact that only spammers and scam artists respond to these pathetic book ads.

I was low on think-a-hol at home so I decided to mosey on down to the Lounge and knock a few big ones back and then stroll leisurely home while enjoying the clear, starry night. About a block from the house this odd-looking vehicle pulled up beside me (see pic) and I heard a mechanical voice talking to me from an external speaker.

"Hey, pal," said the alien voice, "need a ride?"

"No thanks," I said almost automatically. "Been there and done that." I was, of course, referring to Michael's childhood alien abductions and the alien pricks in this particular flying saucer damn well knew it.

I thought the bastards would zap me good after that remark or just beam me aboard for the hell of it but the alien craft just zoomed out of sight. When I rounded the corner there it was again, asking another guy the same question.

It was Angus, the big-ass Think-A-Holic Lounge bartender, getting something from his car. I watched in utter fascination as ol' Angus dropped his trousers and mooned everybody in the ship. Then I laughed like hell when the goofy-looking UFO tore out of there like it was under attack or something.

I was so impressed by Angus McCloud's spontaneous, almost lackadaisical spurning of these extraterrestrial mad scientists (that's all they really are) that I gave Angus an extra large tip that night. And, by the way, neither one of us has seen that UFO ever since that strange, starry night.

Thank heavens for that.

Over My Limit

As I've said before, I usually hang out at Think-A-Holic Lounge in the afternoon when most people are off doing other things and rarely do I close the place up at night. But, lately, I've been in a blue funk because of supernaturally orchestrated events that have been keeping our five published science fiction thrillers out of the hands of the reading public. "Me" being Jonco Bugos, the inseparable and overlooked alter ego of a certain independent science fiction author.

Only Angus McCloud, the 400-year-old ghost of a dead Scottish poet and our big-ass head bartender, is willing to listen patiently to my several conspiracy theories about how otherworldly forces have conspired to keep people from reading Michael Casher's books. I'm convinced that these "psuedo gods" pull this shit because they know damn well that no one can read even one of my novels and remain the same person (sounds arrogant, I know, but it keeps me going when the going gets rough). But I get tired of crying about it to Angus, whose responses are just occasional grunting or head wagging or a slight tipping of the chin. Hell, I know he's not really listening, he's just being polite.

So I've been lapping up the think-a-hol pretty good after midnight these days and even way after last call. I feel like I'm not myself anymore, that I've become someone else, an alien life form in this author's body. I still feel this way and especially after last night at 2:00 am when I stumbled out of the Lounge and down the front steps. It was dark, of course, and there was a clear sky. And when I looked up to view what I thought was a full moon, this is what I saw instead (see pic).

Well, maybe I was just a wee bit over my limit of think-a-hol. But, then again, maybe not.

Devil in a Red Dress

I had just sent a book off to a reviewer on the planet Mercury, where the surface temperature is that of molten lead on the side that always faces the sun. On the side that doesn't face the sun, your saliva would freeze in your mouth so no one goes there either. Apparently, Mercurians live inside their hollow planet, just like the Venusians do.

This reviewer got a free book and the cost of sending it to her via NASA was a thousand times the cost of the book itself. I figured she'd be objective and, being an expert of some kind in my genre, she'd write a decent review.

One afternoon I was telling all this to Angus, our big-ass head bartender at Think-A-Holic Lounge when I heard high-pitched laughter coming from the end of the bar. I was pretty well high on think-a-hol by then and all I could make out was this hideous red face with horns.

I asked Angus who in the hell she was or who in the hell did she think she was. Ol' Angus fought hard not to laugh in my face and he finally spit it out. "I think she's your book reviewer," he said, "and it looks like she came all this way just to see your face."

When I turned to look at her again she was gone. But she left her trident behind and one day she'll return for it and then I'll have the last laugh.

Brush with a Black Hole

I had a cosmic revelation at the Lounge last night right after last call. The think-a-hol was flowing freely because of this yahoo (see pic) from out of town who started buying drinks for everyone as soon as old Angus, our big-ass bartender who is the ghost of a dead Scottish poet (no not a famous one, a self-published one), bellowed for last call.

Anyway, I pulled out my state-of-the-art cell phone and secretly snapped a digital picture of this nonhuman stranger. Not all living creatures have arms and legs and a face. I photographed this annoying asswipe with the big pocketbook right after I heard him tell Angus that he was the entity responsible for turning a lot of people over to the dark side on Earth. Angus thought the stranger meant that he worked for the devil and that made the little shit laugh like hell.

He told Angus that he was an electrical creature that lived inside everyone at one time or another but that he felt most a home with the "Y" generation on planet Earth and he said that's why teens and twentysomethings there are so fascinated by the dark side of everything, why they wear so much black and "why they worship dark, cookie-cutter bad-asses on clones of sci-fi TV shows" (his words). He also said that's why no one could get a clear picture of him, too. He never stayed in one place long enough for much light to bounce off him into a camera lens.

That's when Angus spilled a drink on him and the little bastard left. On his way out I heard him mumble something about being late for a screenwriters' conference in Vegas. This was my first encounter with a living, breathing black hole and I hope I never run into another one.

One Way

Angus and I get a kick out of this one guy (pictured) who strolls into the Lounge every Friday night for a single malt scotch which he later chases with a Canadian brew and a bag of pork rinds (go figure). We call him One Way but only behind his back.

Every road in the universe apparently leads to this prick's doorstep but he'd be the first to deny it, if confronted. Hell, he'd probably be shocked if someone suggested that his whole life was a one-way street headed his way. The last time One Way was in Think-A-Holic Lounge Angus was in the process of telling me how much he was enjoying the hot summer weather when One Way rudely interrupted him. "Not me, man. I like winter. I don't understand how anybody can enjoy this sweltering July shit." Angus said nothing and went about his business.

A couple of minutes later I ordered some onion rings to go with my cheap draft beer and before Angus could depart for the kitchen One Way remarked, "Y'know, I don't understand how anyone can eat those onion rings and wash them down with that domestic stuff." I usually don't rock the boat and just let One Way have his say and tonight was to be no exception. But then he said, "Me, I'm a single-malt man. And a big fan of Canadian beer. Hell, that's all I drink. That's all I ever want to drink."

I turned to him and said, "Y'know, I don't understand how anyone can drink that overrated sour booze and drag on that over-priced brew like it was mother's milk but then I don't have to understand something to accept it. Or to just leave it alone. Here, let me buy you another round."

One Way looked at me like he'd been slapped in the face. Then he gulped down the rest of his imported beer, stuffed the half-eaten bag of pork rinds into his blazer and left in a big huff.

When Angus returned with my onion rings he asked me what happened to One Way and I replied, "I don't know. I guess he had too much reality for one evening."

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.