Random Retro Razz

Last Wednesday afternoon at precisely five o’clock in the afternoon, Milky Way Time, a demonstrator of sorts (see pic) appeared in the Think-A-Holic Lounge parking lot out of nowhere. Just in time for many Solar System commuters like me to see him as we stopped off on the way home for a shot of the ol’ elixir and a single bubbly chaser.

It was as if the strange-looking protester had been suddenly ejected from a roving wormhole or something. By the way he was under-dressed, some of us regulars — who stared out the front window of the Lounge at him — thought he’d just blown in from 1960's Earth. Probably Woodstock, New York, USA, circa 1969. But, when we saw the sign he was carrying, we knew that it was actually 1980's Earth that he’d blown in from.

Angus McCloud, the big-ass head bartender at Think-A-Holic Lounge and the ghost of a dead poet from Scotland on planet Earth, said he was pretty sure that this particular alien creature was from Earth’s afterlife and that he had once been a close personal friend of Nancy Reagan.

Then Angus went out into the parking lot and kicked the protester’s butt clear to Kingdom Come, claiming that imbibing think-a-hol is a personal lifestyle choice as well as a guaranteed freedom protected by cosmic law.

We all laughed at that and then returned to our bar stools, ready to place our refill orders as soon as Angus had dispatched the annoying protester. After all, no one wants to be reminded of their vices, let alone be admonished by a complete stranger for having them. Especially not in public and not right after a hard day at the office.

Where No Man Has Gone Before

Every classy lounge in the universe has a femme fatale to counterbalance all the male lounge lizards who seek prey on a nightly basis and Think-A-Holic Lounge is no exception to that cosmic rule. It’s almost as if these dedicated and mysterious females are placed there by the very hand of fate to exact justice for all the predictable lounge lizardry that invariably takes place when men imbibe adult beverages without the benefit of think-a-hol. That’s when pick up lines are hurriedly polished and pride and prejudice are thrown out the window. The unknown target for l’amour is zeroed in on and stealthily approached.

Unfortunately, the woman in this picture is one of the two silent partners who own and operate Think-A-Holic Lounge. Her name is Ethera and no one seems to know her last name or where she comes from or if she is single or married or whether or not she is a significant other of the male silent partner that most of us have heard of but have never seen. Last Saturday night, the Lounge’s biggest and busiest night of the week for lounge lizardry, Ethera settled into a booth and gauged the competition. Angus McCloud, the Lounge’s big-ass head bartender and protector of all things female in the universe, personally mixed and served her cocktail.

Ethera looked calm and collected as she was immediately approached by one of the regular lizards, the astral body of a slick, smooth-talking, traditionally-published mainstream fiction author from Earth. But when he tried to sit down opposite her, she spoke something that only those of us with acute hearing could hear, the kind of penetrating and practiced auditory ability that cuts through all the noise and commotion of revelry to the very core and definition of interpersonal dialogue.

“Not in this lifetime,” I heard Ethera tell the lounge lizard. Then she calmly sipped her drink.

He backed away from her like he’d been bitten by a snake. When he finally managed to belly up to the bar again, Angus set him up with a double shot of think-a-hol and a single bubbly chaser.

“On the house, pal” Angus told the lizard. Then the big ol’ ghost of a dead Scottish poet lost his professional demeanor and tried in vain to suppress an I-Told-You-So smirk.

“Better let me have a double think-a-hol, as well,” I said quickly as I laid a Solar Fin on the bar and loosened my tie. Just seeing such a thing had snapped me out of my romantic delirium and peaked my thirst for plenty of antidote.

A Single Bubbly Chaser

This popular beverage (see pic) often follows a shot of think-a-hol for many patrons at Think-A-Holic Lounge.

Without think-a-hol, however, its sparkle leaves me and most regulars at the Lounge feeling rather flat.

The Watch Blob

Angus McCloud, the big-ass ghost bartender at Think-A-Holic Lounge (see left pic), recently hired this creature (see right pic) from another solar system to guard the top of the bar. Angus told everyone that this new employee was hired for their own safety, to keep watch over the money they lay on the bar while they imbibe think-a-hol and bubbly chasers and what have you. But I know better. Angus hired this little green bar-top blob to guard his tips and nothing else. But he’d never admit that.

This latest edition to the Think-A-Holic Lounge staff answers to the name Oozee (pronounced ooo-zee). I snapped this photo of Oozee with my cell phone camera as he stared me down, thinking I was the tip thief instead of the Lounge’s biggest tipper. Then the little phlegm-wad took two solar dollars from my money pile. He said it was a fee for the privilege of taking his picture. I just sat there, nursing my think-a-hol and saying nothing while he continued to single me out as the number-one reason for his employment.

Even at the edge of the space-time continuum life is often unfair.

Thanking My Lucky Stars

Cosmic taverns on this side of the space-time continuum pretty much stick together when it comes to keeping undesirables off their bar stools and especially from behind their bars. And Think-A-Holic Lounge is no exception. The Lounge has participated in the Intergalactic Alert Program ever since Angus McCloud, our big-ass head bartender, has been tending bar there. And that’s been well over four hundred years now.

One Wednesday afternoon, as I sat on a stool enjoying my quiet time at the Lounge, this character (see pic) waltzed into Think-A-Holic Lounge like he owned the place. He bellied right up to the bar and told Angus he was from Earth (yeah, right, and I suppose he walked here) and that he was looking for a bartending job. Angus immediately recognized his face from the list of intergalactic alerts that went out just last week.

According to the alert, this kooky-looking stranger was nothing but a freeloader who had tried to get himself jobs in convenience stores and taverns all over the galaxy. Whenever he succeeded, he’d then graze his way into unemployment by eating and drinking as much of the stock as he could. Invariably, he’d get caught and get fired. I sincerely hoped the old bum wouldn’t try to put the bite on me.

Well, Angus didn’t even let this goober’s butt hit the bar stool. Without even saying a word, the big ol’ Scottish ghost tossed the stranger out on his ear. During the scuffle, I had a change of heart and managed to slip a solar sawbuck into the left pocket of this freeloader’s tattered black cardigan. I also snapped this picture of him with my cell phone camera.

I really felt sorry for the old guy. I figured that, if it weren’t for a wee bit of good luck, that old jasper could very well be me. I thanked my lucky stars that the old bum wasn’t me and, with that thought in mind, I quickly ordered a double shot of think-a-hol. Without the usual bubbly chaser.

Drive-Off

There have been a lot of fights at Think-A-Holic Lounge ever since the quasar TV at the Lounge began broadcasting American Presidential Campaign news from Earth.

Politics, sex and religion are forbidden topics of discussion in public establishments throughout many galaxies because the end result is often trouble in one form or another. And any discussion of politics invariably leads to fighting when adult beverages are involved. Despite that, Think-A-Holic Lounge offers a safe haven for creatures who thrive on heated debates based on these three subjects. The owners and staff at the Lounge know a money-maker when they see it. And nothing draws a crowd like a presidential campaign. And nothing causes more fights, either.

Since Think-A-Holic Lounge specifically forbids fighting within its doors, clever patrons have been taking to the parking lot to settle their arguments. But a rowdy crowd in front of a tavern never looks good and it never encourages potential customers to enter.

And that's why Angus McCloud, the Lounge's big-ass head bartender, hired this "Bouncer Bot" (see pic) to patrol the parking lot at Think-A-Holic Lounge. We call him Drive-Off because he can break up a fight and drive off the troublemakers without even shifting into second gear.

I, myself, was chased more than two blocks by Drive-Off one night after I started a fight with a Republican hardliner who called Hillary Clinton (my choice for President) a FemBot.

Grin and Bare It

One of the perks for regulars at Think-A-Holic Lounge is having your birthday recognized by the management and also by other regulars. Like, back in September, when I walked into the Lounge on my birthday for a shot of the ol' elixir and a single bubbly chaser, it was on the house. That means Angus McCloud, our big-ass head bartender who's also the ghost of a dead Scottish poet, paid for my drinks. But so did some of the other lounge lizards and, before I knew it, I was full of think-a-hol and happy thoughts.

The other night, however, this jasper (see pic) from a galaxy far, far away strolled in and a lot of jaws dropped. We though this rude and crude dude was streaking through the solar system in his birthday suit just for kicks. But Angus set us straight and then set this oddball up with a double shot of think-a-hol and a schooner of brew.

Angus called this nude nerd Birfday Boy and the word was soon out that, if you don't have anything to hide, there's no use trying to cover it up.

What Dreams Are Made Of

Concluding this little story, Angus McCloud’s limo driver was giving me a tour of what looked like Earth sometime in the distant future. Since I was dreaming, I didn’t know it was a dream. I thought the sun had actually entered into the Red Giant phase, a phenomenon that often occurs whenever Yellow Dwarf stars like our sun expend their fuel. The sun would eventually grow and grow and consume Earth and the entire solar system before it died out. But, what puzzled me more than anything in this dream-turned-nightmare, was that the limo driver suggested that there was something I could do about it.

“Well,” I told the driver, “if you think there’s something I can possibly do about all of this, tell me what it is.”

“I’ll tell you,” he said in an accusatory tone of voice, mixed in with that Middle-Eastern accent that was beginning to get on my nerves. “I’ll tell you what you can do, Mr. Bugos.”

“Spit it out,” I urged him.

“What you can do is...” he began.

And then I woke up.

Red Giant Night

Continuing with this little story, I puzzled over what Angus McCloud's limo driver had just said about having faith in the future. Then I started to get a little peeved because I had been promised a free ride home and what I seemed to be getting instead was a mini-tour of another solar system.

But, before I could muster up the courage to complain, the limo continued to glide through this strange planet's atmosphere, from east to west, as if seeking a safe place to land. This was the scene outside the limo's canopy. But we didn't seem to be landing.

"We are seeing what nighttime on your planet Earth will look like when your sun begins its transition from being a Yellow Dwarf to becoming a Red Giant," the driver told me matter-of-factly.

"And this is as dark as it will get then?" I asked, startled at the thought.

"Yes," he replied, "but only for a very short time. When your sun reaches the Red Giant stage your planet will be consumed."

"Why are you showing me this?" I asked. "Nothing can prevent the sun from becoming a Red Giant when its fuel begins to run out. There's nothing I can do about it."

"Wrong," he said rather cryptically as he stared at me over his shoulder.

..to be continued...

Happy Holidays!

Jonco Bugos is taking a break from blogging until after the new year. He wishes everyone a safe and happy holiday season.

The Dreamer Never Blinks

I had a dream the other night, after imbibing two shots of think-a-hol and a single bubbly chaser at the Lounge. I dreamed I was being given a ride in the limousine owned by Angus McCloud, the big-ass bartender at Think-A-Holic Lounge. The limo driver was supposed to be taking me home but, for some reason, he appeared to be landing at this particular spot, at the far edge of the space-time continuum. When I told him it looked like he had gone through a wormhole and was dropping me off in Ancient Egypt back on Earth, he responded in a Middle Eastern accent.

"It is what it is, Sir Jonco," the driver calmly replied. "Just accept what is and have faith in the future."

...to be continued...

Fan Monster

I was on the verge of crying in my think-a-hol the other night around last call when Angus, the big-ass Think-A-Holic Lounge bartender, picked up on my blue mood and made a friendly remark.

"What are you stewin' over?" he cautiously asked me.

"Oh, nothing," I fibbed.

"C'mon, Jonco, I can tell when you're down," the big ol' Scot responded, "and I can also tell when you're lying. Now give, or I'll twist your ear until you do."

I knew that Angus, the big-ass ghost of a dead Scottish poet, was just being kind and polite so I gave in.

"Well," I acquiesced, "the other day I thought my other ego finally had a fan of his science fiction novels when this guy called Michael about his books and I answered the phone."

"Yeah," Angus urged me, "go on."

"Well," I continued, "he claimed to be a friend of a friend who was the nephew of a cousin I had who died last year. Or something like that."

"And?" the ugly old spook persisted.

"And he wanted me to burn some CD's of our e-books and give them to him so he could copy them and put his name on them," I blurted out, filled with anger and righteous indignation. "He didn't even have a clue that we published paperback novels and haven't done any e-books yet."

"Wow!" said Angus, his face and body language showing shock and utter disbelief.

"Wow, indeed," I said. "And I thought he was interested in buying and reading our books."

Angus said nothing. He simply patted my shoulder and poured me another shot of think-a-hol. And a double this time.

"This one's on the house, pal," he said. And then he disappeared into the kitchen to leave me alone in my misery.

By the way, I never met the insulting, outrageous caller who wanted me to help him steal my literary work and Michael's sci-fi work and make him a famous writer who would then compete with us. But I imagined that he probably looked something like this (see pic).

Flotsam and Jetsam

There are two other alternate personalities of real human beings who have become regulars at Think-A-Holic Lounge this past year (see pic) and they both hail from planet Earth, just as yours truly does.

These two women are both divorcées from the United States, one from California and the other from Georgia. Both are "babes" but we regular Lounge Lizards are very, very careful not to point that out to them. Feminism is alive and well, even at the edge of the space-time continuum.

The "babe" on the left calls herself Flotsam and the other one is known as Jetsam. Even though everyone at the Lounge knows that these two "babes" are not gay females (and it wouldn't matter to the hound dogs here whether or not Flotsam and Jetsam were dating one another), they are both treated with respect here because our big-ass head bartender, Angus McCloud, would have no problem knocking heads and kicking ass just to make sure that particular Lounge policy was known by all. Angus is just about the biggest lover and protector of female creatures in this galaxy and that makes him a kind of hero of mine because I'm too stupid, cowardly and clumsy to know how to do that myself.

Anyway, I once asked Flotsam and Jetsam why they call themselves what they do and this is what they told me.

"Well, Jonco," said Flotsam, "I call myself Flotsam because my life turned out pretty much like a shipwreck."

"I see," I replied carefully, not wanting to excite or arouse or antagonize any feelings in this beautiful but formidable creature that would go against me. "And what about you, Jetsam?"

"Oh, hell, Jonco," she responded, "my marriage was a sinking ship and my old man threw me overboard for a bimbo half my age. The name fit me, so I kept it."

I didn't need to ask Flotsam and Jetsam about their gas masks. Being a Think-A-Holic Lounge regular, I knew the answer to that particular mystery. Angus, in his infinite hospitality and stupidity, was offering a free buffet that night, in order to help curb drunk driving. The menu consisted of a three-bean salad, fifteen-bean-and-ham soup and bean dip with chips.

And Flotsam and Jetsam had simply come prepared.

Monterey HiJack

I celebrated the first day of September this year by tossing down a few at Think-A-Holic Lounge before moseying on down to the Lebenty Leben for a brick of Monterey Jack cheese. I love eating Monterey Jack with just about anything, especially if there's a dill pickle involved.

My brain was full of think-a-hol and happy thoughts when I suddenly remembered that my supply of Monterey Jack cheese always seems to disappear before I ever get to finish that last little hunk snugly wrapped up in the plastic wrapper. I also realized that this crap had been going on all summer long and that I'd better find out why before other things started disappearing from my fridge as well.

Well, I didn't have to think about it for very long. When I got home from the Lebenty Leben I caught this little yellow goober (see pic) pilfering my last hunk of Monterey Jack cheese while humming the theme song from Star Wars.

He said his name was YipYup and that he was from the planet Urbane, in a neighboring solar system. When I asked him why he'd been stealing my Monterey Jack cheese he glibly replied that he, and all other Urbanians, simply had a right to do so.

That made me think about another bunch of little celestial visitors who often say the same thing about snatching anything they want off planet Earth and that got my dander up. And that's when I tossed this YipYup's alien butt out of the house. He landed hard enough that he'll think twice before grazing around here again.

Thus, I not only defended my home against future grazing aliens, I helped make the world's Monterey Jack cheese supply safe from alien raiders for many generations yet to come.

Zippy Portraits

This summer a street artist from the planet Zapsum One (see pic) had set up shop on the sidewalk in front of Think-A-Holic Lounge. He would paint your portrait in under five minutes for only five solar dollars. A sign on his easel said: Zippy Portraits.

Unfortunately, everybody's portrait came out looking like E.T. The Extraterrestrial. Then it was discovered that this alien con artist had purchased a thousand old publicity photos of E.T. on eBay and was simply painting over them with a thin tempera that quickly wore off.

Angus McCloud, the Lounge's big-ass head bartender, personally gave this grifter the boot one Thursday afternoon after the thirtieth or fortieth complaint from Lounge patrons. However, it was rumored that Angus only tossed the little prick into the street after his own portrait began running and dripping in the rain.

That rumor was started by me, the first victim of Zippy Portraits, way back in June.

Thinking and Driving

Most of the time I walk to Think-A-Holic Lounge and it's not because the Lounge is near my home. Think-A-Holic Lounge is not near anyone's home. In fact, it isn't near anything in the universe because it has no physical position in space. It's just kind of ...out there, if you will.

But the last time I did drive myself to the Lounge was on a spooky October night about a year ago and, after only two shots of think-a-hol and a single bubbly chaser, this is what I saw in my rearview mirror on the way home.

So, now I walk to Think-A-Holic Lounge most of the time, even though the chances of being abducted by unfriendly aliens are a lot higher on the sidewalk than in a vehicle.

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.