Friday, February 21, 2020

DON'T go in the bathroom!

As we crawled into bed the other night, my wife snuggled in and gave a long, satisfied sigh.

"I love our bed," she said.

"I do, too."

Talk about hot, burning romance for a Valentine's Day.

But it's true. Our bed's a modern marvel. It's a ginormous king-size with an extra comfy (and quiet! You can't hear your mate roll over!) foam mattress. We have a heated blanket on top for those brutal Midwestern nights and--the new sensation that's sweeping the nation--a weighted blanket. Going to bed is like getting dozens of hugs.

"This is my favorite place," my wife said and then sighed again. Of course newlyweds may find their bed their favorite place for other reasons, but we know what true pleasure is: comfort.

"Yeah, it's my favorite place, too," I added But then a sudden thought exploded in my head. "No, wait! It's my second favorite place!"

"What could be better than this?"

"The bathroom! Duh."

My wife gave me a head smack. "You men are so dumb.  Yesterday, on NPR--"

"Oh, well, if NPR says it, it has to be true," I said in the snidest of possible ways.

Head smack! Whap!

Other than the head-smack, my wife chose to ignore my childish retort. "On NPR, it came up that on average women spend five minutes to go to the bathroom. Men spend 20 minutes. 20 minutes! And that's just the average!"

Instead of knocking me down, I felt vindicated in my bathrooming habits. "Aha! See? I'm not a freak! Potty time's my quiet time!"

"Whatever... I don't want you going through hemorrhoid surgery again. The more time you spend on the toilet, the more likely that is to reoccur."

I gave it a sitting-on-the-toilet's worth of pondering. (And if you'd love to relive my hemorrhoid tale of wit and whimsy, check it out here: Assteroid Apocolypse.)  I decided I didn't want to think about that end of things too much.

"I love going to the bathroom. I's kinda like a mini-man-cave. A place we can temporarily call our own, let it all out (so to speak), and just flush our worries away."

"Yeah, they hit on that on NPR, too."

"Well if NPR says it's true, then--" 


"Cut it out!" I scooted a little bit closer to the edge of the bed, fearful of more retaliation. "But you never leave me alone in my mini-man-cave. You''re like a heat-seeking missile."

It's true, too. My wife, among possessing many other impressive talents and feats of will and brainery, knows exactly when I've nestled onto my roost upstairs. And like Lenny and Squiggy, the door suddenly cracks open loudly. "Hello!"

Then she'll discuss things that surely could wait until my pants are pulled up.

Her parting words are always wistful, dry, and haunting: "Light a candle!"

I pondered a little bit further and wondered what a future (God forbid!) job interview might sound like:

"Tell us a little bit about yourself, Mr. West."

"Well...I like to lay in our bed. A lot. It's a very, very, very comfy bed. Oh! And I like to go to the bathroom. A whole bunch. 'Cause it's quiet and relaxing." Eager smile.

Pause. The interviewer fingers his upper lip. Finally, he says, "Mr. West, you're exactly the type of man we're looking for! Welcome aboard!"

While we're on the topic of cutting-edge juvenile humor, have you guys checked out my Zach and Zora detective series? No? Whaddaya waiting for? Perfect reading for those quiet times on the toilet! The books recount the tales of a lunk-headed, but good-hearted male stripper (sorry...a "male entertainment dancer") and his seemingly always pregnant, short-tempered, but sharp private detective sister. That's Bad Day in a Banana Hammock, Murder by Massage, Nightmare of Nannies, and I'm slaving away on a forth one now!

Friday, February 14, 2020

Water! The magical ingredient!

As a child, my grandma used to say, "make out your meal." Mystified, I'd watch as she'd grizzle down on a corn of the cob, puzzling over her cracker barrel Yoda pearls of delirious wisdom, hypnotized by her cheek swimming round and round, masticating the hell outta that bite of corn. Even then, I thought she was some kinda mad genius. Even if I didn't know what she was ever talking about.

But the other night--at two A.M. (the best time for insomniac pondering)--I had a real "Eureka Moment!"

"Aha," I whispered so as not to wake my wife, "the answer was right in front of me all along. My mother was the greatest practitioner of 'making out your meal.'"

For you see, dear reader, my mother truly DID make out our meals. Particularly with that most magical, endless ingredient, water! Yep, water!

Constantly, my brothers and I would catch her sneaking water into condiments such as ketchup, mustard, chocolate syrup, everything. Anything to give that condiment a longer shelf life. It didn't matter that the "ketchup" would trickle off of our over-cooked burger patties, hey, my mom was determined to get her money's worth and then some, taste be hanged.

Soda pop was a true luxury in our household. While my playground pals would brag about how they drank endless sodas at home (particularly from the individual bottles one could actually claim ownership to), pop was an extremely rare treat. But, man, when Mom would bring it home (albeit in the big communal jug, never individual bottles), I knew our weekend was gonna be a good one.

Until she learned the trick of adding water to the bottle.

"Mom, this pop tastes funny."

"Huh. Must be flat," she'd say before waltzing off humming like a crazed bird. (I could go on another rant about how she'd never mastered the art of truly tightening the soda-pop bottle-cap, thereby allowing the soda to go flat, but then I don't wanna dilute my tale. {See what I did there?})

Nowadays, when confronted with these traumatic childhood tales, my mom utilizes the best defense only parents have developed: selective memory. "Bah," she recently said, "I never did that."

Naturally, she says the same thing about feeding my brother and I sugar and butter sandwiches. "Mercy, I never gave you boys that." My brother and I vehemently remember things differently.'s a losing battle, one I'm fated to take out on my daughter in my "molden-golden" years.

Speaking of "molden-golden" years, there's a short story in my collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley, that I'm proud of: Halloweenie Roast. It details an embittered elderly woman going all-out commando on three particularly nasty brats. See whose side you end up rooting for! Read in shock as the Halloween night from Hell escalates into a full-on battlefield! Gasp about my brazen plugs! Watch as Oprah plugs my book (nah...never mind that last one)!

Friday, February 7, 2020

Me, my mom and Trump makes three!


I remember the good times, when me, Mom and Trump would skip merrily through the Kansas sunflower fields, when we'd have sleep-overs and do each others' hair, and...and...
I just can't do it. No, our "relationship" is fraught with loopiness, distrust, and other crumbling bedrocks of relationships.

I remember when it all started...(Cue the swirling picture, swelling music, and cut back several years ago).

When I first became aware of my mom's thoughts on Trump, before the ludicrous election, I was taken aback as she'd been a firm Democrat for many years.

"I'm telling you, Stuart," she said in that stubborn tone she used on me as a child, "he's a good man."

"A good man who harrasses and molests women and--"

"That was a long time ago. I'm telling you, he's a changed man. I know what I know." (That last stubborn Missouri statement became her catch-phrase over the next five years).

"Whatever." I threw my hands up. Both of them. Because what else can you do when facing crazy?

"He's a God-fearing man," she said, always getting the last word in. She folded her arms, pinched her lips tight and looked away. End of discussion!

But let's break down that last statement. "God-fearing." First of all, I gotta wonder what kind of Old Testament saying that is. Why is it a good thing to fear your creator? Is that what my mom's religion is based on? Fear? How sad and cruel.

Second, can anyone imagine Trump actually cowering in fear from anyone or anything? I'm trying to imagine him huddled in a corner, his orange cover-up drenched with flop sweat, an orange hand protectively draped over his head. Nah, doesn't work for me.

If anything, as a friend told me, he thinks he's God. Now, that I can get behind. During the time he's been in office, no one's ever told him, "No." You hear that often enough, then you think you can get away with anything. And he has.

Our combustible three-way relationship continued over the last several years, always on very unstable ground. Then, one miraculous day, celestial trumpets blared!

Gloriously, my mom said, "I'm sick of the whole thing! Trump shouldn't have assassinated that guy."

"That guy?" I said. "You mean the Iranian general?"

"Why, yes! I just with they'd hurry up and impeach him!"

She's seen the light! Trump had fallen in her eyes! Truly, it was a post-Christmas miracle!

It lasted on sweet day.

The next day, she said, "I think it's all political. I think someone told Trump to do it. You'll see I'm right, you'll see." She wagged a finger at me. "The Democrats are behind it."

"Mom, for cryin' out loud, you can't really think that Trump would listen to anyone, let alone the Democrats! That's crazy!"

"All right, Stuart." That indignant tone and folded arms came out again. "I know I'm right. We'll see, we'll just see. You'll see I'm right."

Well, no, sadly we never will know the whole truth ever about what really goes on behind politics. Which is a shame since our so-called leaders are supposed to be representing us.

I never consummated my relationship with Trump. Now, I just wish my mom would break up with him.

You want more? You got it! Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley is my horror/humor short story collection, some of the tales written angrily after the last election. Let's not have this happen again or you're gonna get a sequel! It's all on you! You've been duly warned! 

Friday, January 31, 2020

Layering 101

Whoever would've thought the process of layering could be so complex?
I'm not talking about layers in writing or something pretentious like that. I'm not even talking about the multi-faceted layers of lasagna. Or cake. (Although, both sound kinda good right about now.)

The layering I'm referencing is clothing. Here in the awful Midwest, I've learned the fine art of layering during our bitter Winters. Or at least I thought I had until during the holidays when I was properly schooled by my wife and mother-in-law.

"Your under-layers are too loose and make you look frumpy," said my wife.

Put on defensive, I shot back, "Do not!"

My mother-in-law agreed with a nod. "The under-layers need to fit snugly so they don't bulk things up."

Since I'm already somewhat bulky, I took this advice to heart. With an exception. "I dunno...I already feel like a tightly packed sausage in a casing. Making everything even tighter is gonna be suffocating." I looked to my father-in-law for help, but he'd kinda already written us off with an eye-roll.

"That's because you have too many layers," said my wife.

"Well, yeah, I can think of...let's see..." Never a math whiz, I brought out my trusty abacus: my fingers. "I've got... six layers."

"You don't have six layers," my wife scoffed.

"Yes, I do! I have muscle, fat, my skin--"

"Not layers!"

"Sure they are," I insisted. "Then there's my T-shirt--"

"Well, that's one you can get rid of."

"'re the one who told me in the first place I should wear a T-shirt year round!" 

"That's a man thing," said my mother-in-law. "Every guy has to wear their T-shirt."

"Because my wife said I should!" I meant to sound defensive and strong, but with that argument, it admittedly came off about as confident as deciding between Horsey Sauce and Ketchup at Arbees.

"Yes, but you shouldn't sleep in it because it captures body sweat and causes problems with sleep," said my wife.

"That's not the point. The point" I got up for the longest coffee break in history. I knew I was outnumbered. Besides, I couldn't remember what the point of my argument was.

So, yeah, layers. I'm not a fan. But the older I get, the colder I get, and the more layers I add. This Winter, I've added turtlenecks (turtlenecks, for God's sake!) to my wardrobe of necessity. Right above the long underwear, perhaps the sexiest of all undergarments.


I mean, is it any wonder that sex is more popular in the warmer seasons than the dead of Winter? Not only do you have to disrobe about four layers of clothing and jump into bed before you freeze, but by the time you're both flashing your long underwear, any romantic notions kinda have taken a down-shift (if you know what I mean).

This has been a public service announcement.
Speaking of public service, it's my duty as a stolid citizen to present to you the truth behind Corporate America. I'm speaking, of course, of Corporate Wolf, a true, blistering expose of what really goes on inside the cubicles of drones. You're welcome!

Friday, January 24, 2020

My Special Own Bully

Back in the day, there was a kid who chose to bully me for being overweight from seventh grade up through twelfth grade. At that time, I lost about 100 pounds, so he stopped bullying me because clearly, it just wasn't fun any longer. Tough crowd.

Let's call him Jimmy Mohawk.
Man, did Jimmy freak me out. Scary with crazy eyes and a pinched, fox-like face, the guy had several screws loose. I'd always suspected it, but one night he proved my theory particularly well. I was with a friend, walking the mean streets of Mission, Kansas (so, soooo mean) one night, when we ran into my nemesis. Screaming at the top of his lungs with his cohorts, he found a metal pipe and began bashing it into a light-post, threatening to kill me. We just kinda walked away hoping he wouldn't follow through with his death threat.

Turned out the buddy I was with was Jimmy's hesitant locker partner. Jimmy Mohawk played his particularly insane brand of cray on him when he assassinated my pal's lunch sandwich and spread it all over the locker. Fun in junior high!

Oh, I could take Jimmy's constant name-calling and threats. I could even handle his sticking his leg out in classroom aisles, trying to trip me. And since he never succeeded in tripping me (I always high-stepped over the jack-ass' leg), that just pissed him off more. He came after me with a vengeance.

So, desperate, for the first time ever, I went to my big brother for help. He said, "Just go up to him and tell him you're not gonna take it any more."

I thought about it. The next day, in the gym locker room, I took in a deep breath, and did just that. I couldn't believe Jimmy's response. He acted like I was nuts, said he never bullied me, didn't know what I was talking about. But he was clearly shaken.

I went home, had a great weekend. King of the world! Until Monday. When Jimmy came back harder than ever. Absolutely psycho nuts, because no one had ever talked to him like that.

Sigh. It was a long, hard five years of terror. And it was the last time I ever went to my older brother for advice.

Now, through the miracle of technology and writing, let's jump ahead to 2019!

Here's the best part of my tale of teenage woe. Several months ago, a fellow high school graduate (a year below me), asked me to become a part of her Facebook page based on crude humor. Who else was a member of the group?

Why, insane, bullying, prince of prickery, lil' Jimmy Mohawk! I called him out on the site, because, you know, it's the internet and that's how you're expected to behave.

I wrote, "Jimmy Mohawk! My own personal bully of five years! Hah!"

Quickly, he befriended me and claimed he'd never bullied me, never did any of the things I detailed, and here's the funniest part--get ready for it?--he said he ALWAYS stood up for the underdog!


Delusion can be a powerful tool utilized by "tools" to rewrite themselves as the hero of their own tale.

I tried to get him to come onto my blog so I could interview him. Wouldn't that have been something, a first, I think. Of course, he had no interest in doing so. I'm pretty sure he didn't even know what a blog was.

He did, however, keep asking me to call him and talk things out. No interest on my part. Once crazy, always crazy. Alas, our rekindled "friendship" was meant to be a short-lived one.

Speaking of crazy-ass bullies, Jimmy Mohawk is featured in my young adult Tex, the Witch Boy series (under the name "Johnny Malinowski"). Based in part on my experiences of being bullied, the books should be read by any teen (or parent) who's ever been tormented in school. Hey, I have no shame!

Friday, January 17, 2020


Actually I'd like to open up a "Trauma-Laundry-ama" for men who don't understand the rules of laundry.
Ladies (and men who know better), please keep in mind a lot of us lumbering, dumbering males weren't taught anything about appropriate laundry methodology. Our mothers were perfectly content on just washing our gross clothes--different era, different beliefs--and topping it off with a June Cleaver smile (look her up, Millenials).

When my wife moved in with me, I took it upon myself to do a load of her laundry. Trying to do a nice thing. 

I found out it was close to clothing treason.

Her clothes were chameleon like, changing colors. Sweaters and blouses oddly grew smaller.

In my defense, I said, "But, honey, my clothes constantly shrink all the time. It's weird, but it's the circle of life.  Hakuna matata, right?" (Um, my clothes' shrinking might have to do with other things--cough*weight gain*cough--but that's another blog post for another day). Regardless, she didn't buy into my half-arsed non-excuse.

She proceeded to tell me the Proper Laundry Rules. Who woulda' thought it'd be so complex? I mean, I used to throw everything in the machine, wash the bunch, crunch the clothing into drawers, dust my hands, hey, I'm a modern man, taking care of myself.

Or so I thought.

Who knew you were supposed to separate colors? And clothes by texture...and weight? Good Gawd, you need charts and process maps to steer you in the right direction. Plus, it'd take me days, I tell you, DAYS to wash a weeks' load of laundry, if I did everything by the book.

I lived for many years doing things my way (cue Frank Sinatra...again, Millenials, if you're reading, don't sweat it, go to Wikipedia). Okay, admittedly, my clothes aren't in the best shape.

My wife tells me I can't wear certain shirts or sweaters if we're going out.

"Why?" I ask, putting on an upside-down smile.

"Because, the shirt's stained..." She'll poke at a couple of heretofore unnoticed spots.

"But...they're beauty marks!"

Well. Apparently, it's just not my wife who believes in proper laundry etiquette. Even my father-in-law got in on the fracas recently. During I last visit, I put on a sweater and my wife said I looked terrible.

"What? This sweater looks great!" I said.

She said, "It's got pills everywhere."

My entire world went topsy-turvy. I'd never heard of sweaters having pills. I was so confused, I felt like I'd taken too many "funny" pills from the '60's.

My father-in-law piped in. "You don't look terrible..."

"Well, thank y--"

"But your sweater does."

Man, no respect.

Speaking of respect, do you all (Midwest speak) have respect for any or your bosses? Or ever had? Neither have I? 'Cause they're the WORST. They've been so bad, I had to write a satirical, horror, mystery, thriller book about it. Check out Corporate Wolf and live vicariously! Because work sucks and Monday's just around the corner. You're welcome!

Friday, January 10, 2020

Rollin' Down the Supernatural Highway with Author Kevin David Anderson

Yee-haw, y’all! Gather ‘round, pop your boots up, grab that bag of greasy sliders, pop a cold one and join me as I grill (hope I don’t overcook him) comical horror author Kevin David Anderson. Kevin’s got a new book out from Grinning Skull Press entitled Midnight Men: The Supernatural Adventures of Dale and Earl and it’s a rollicking good time. 

Check out his super-cool trailer if you don't believe me!

 I knew I had to chat him up on my blog. Let’s see what Kevin’s all about…

SRW: Welcome Kevin. So… let’s get the necessary hyping and explaining outta the way first. What’s Midnight Men all about? And you must describe it like a country ballad. None of that sissy, namby-pamby, fancy-pantsed, modern pop country stuff, either. Nosirree, Bob! I’m talking a manly man’s country and western song, the kind Dale and Earl cruise to.

KDA: Well, I don’t believe in reinventing the wheel so I’ll throw out some of my favorite Waylon Jennings lyrics from the television show that is really just a country version of Masterpiece Theater:

Just the good ol' boys
Never meanin' no harm
Beats all you never saw
Been in trouble with the law
Since the day they was born
Staightenin' the curves
Flattenin' the hills
Someday the mountain might get 'em
But the law never will

Now if Mr. Jennings were to just change a few lyrics, substitute the young, good looking Bo and Luke Duke with two heavyset, not-so-good looking rednecks, trade out the General Lee for a Mac truck, season it with a few monsters, and that right there would be Midnight Men

SRW: Kevin, let’s tackle the burning question I’m certain is on everyone’s mind.  Are you, sir, a redneck?

KDA: Well, in the affirmative column we have my blonde mullet I wore for a brief time in the 80s, my Willie Nelson record collection, and the fact that I did live in Texas for three years. In the not a redneck column I have, never owned a pickup truck, lived in a trailer park, or dated a relative. I don’t care much for Pabst Blue Ribbon, beer nuts or motorsports. So, if I tally that all up and look at the convention chart, I think that puts me in the Not a Redneck category. 
An American Mullet in Paris (Anderson circa 1985)!
SRW: Then, why write about them? After all, haven’t you heard, write what you know?

KDA: Yeah, I’ve heard it. It seems to imply that if you’re not a redneck you couldn’t possibly write about’ em. But yet I also write about werewolves, demons, zombies, necromancers, witches, vampires, serial killers, human traffickers, ghouls, sadists, Satan worshipers, and monster killin’ truck drivers and I’m not at least half of those things either.

SRW: Here in godforsaken Kansas, Dale and Earl wouldn’t even raise an eyebrow. Let’s talk about Dale… He’s a man of mysterious background and since he’s also a man of few words, we don’t learn too much of that background. Do you know his full story? Or are you winging it?

KDA: I have his background story, the details are not etched in stone, but the basics are there. I will put it down on paper if and when there are enough readers asking for it. 

SRW: And what about that shadowy organization he sometimes works for and tries to keep at distance from his pal, Earl? 

KDA: Yeah, those guys. I like the idea of keeping them in the shadows, but what I will say here and now, assuming Earl and Dale’s story continues beyond Midnight Men, is that the organization exists on every continent, they’ve been around since before the Roman Empire, and its membership does not discriminate against the non-human or the dead.  

SRW: On the subject of Earl… He’s huge, he’s good-natured (when he’s not breaking skulls), loyal, and more than a little dense between the ears. You’ve dropped that he was adopted by a Native-American family and they brought him up on the reservation. Is there any chance of getting his “secret origin” story in the future?

KDA: Just like Dale’s background, Earl’s origins have been sketched out in my mind, and should the redneck duos adventures continue, then his story and his adoptive tribe will play a big part.

SRW: Earl appears to get love-struck fairly easily and I’m betting it happens often. Dale, on the other hand, is as celibate as a priest (wait…let’s try that again…)… Dale’s as celibate as a eunuch. Sure, he pines after his ex-wife (even though he has nothing kind to say about her), but surely that’s not the only reason he doesn’t seek companionship. Life on the road’s tough, I suppose, especially with spider-monsters and such coming outta the woodwork, but come on!

KDA: Funny you should ask. I have started a story in which I explore that very aspect of Dale, and what I know so far is that his relationship with his ex is much more complicated then I ever realized. Vile disdain can come from the heart and if felt deep enough can translate into physical passions. Not necessarily positive passions (there may be gunfire) but passions none the less. 

SRW: Okay, was the tv show, Supernatural, an inspiration? I kinda like to think of Dale and Earl as Sam and Dean gone to seed. But don’t go buy a yacht yet, Kevin. I don’t think people would want to turn into a TV show with Dale and Earl as the stars? I just can’t see it on the CW, home of the pretty, pretty poster people.

KDA: I see and understand the comparison, and I do like their black 67’ Impala (damn that’s a fine automobile) but they didn’t inspire Earl and Dale. The idea of truckers fighting darkness came from one of my favorite John Carpenter movies, Big Trouble in Little China. Jack Burton (Kurt Russell) is the original inspiration for it all, and although my two characters might hardly be recognizable in the comparison with Jack, if you look closely, squint your eyes a bit, you can see the similarities. As far as Earl and Dale on TV, I think they might fit on networks like USA, FX, TBS, TNT, and of course PBS. 

SRW: Horror and humor, two of my favorite things. I, too, dabble in this tricky genre. Let’s chat about that for a bit… We know humor’s highly subjective, yeah? For instance, my wife finds me painfully unfunny.  Others do. I think it’s particularly tough to write humor. You miss the cadence, the awkward pauses, the double-takes, etc. Now, when you stir horror into the mix, it becomes doubly hard. Yet I keep doing it. Don’t ask me why. Does it come naturally to you (I would hope the answer is “YES,” for there can only be one)?

KDA: I believe the answer is yes. But that’s not to imply that it is always easy. Sometimes the humor comes so fast I can’t write fast enough. Other times it's like trying to teach a chicken to whistle. Not much being accomplished. So, I think the key is to make yourself available to write when the writing is good, and when it’s not good, don’t force it. Go for a walk, shoot some hoops, kick the aforementioned chicken, whatever it takes to fill the creative well back up. 

SRW: I’ve noticed a particular aversion to humorous horror from the hard-core horror crowd. Whenever you mention humor or comedy (even dark as night), you can see their beady lil’ hardcore eyes glaze over and the derisive sneers form. Methinks they’ve had bad experience with the sub-genre and I can’t blame them there. It’s a tricky fence to straddle. I always put the characters, plot and horror first, with humor added as dashes of fun. I can’t help myself. But it’s easy to tip the other direction into spoofery (like “Scary Movie” and alla that junk) and nobody likes that. I mean, really, if it’s obvious you’re not taking your story or characters seriously, than why should the reader care? Thoughts?

KDA: Nope. It’s a really good question though. I can tell you gave it some thought.  

SRW: (Man...what a cop-out!) Finally on the last topic of humor in horror. When in doubt, scatological it out. Agree or disagree? (Earl does a lotta belching and projectile vomiting…what a guy).

KDA: Well I won’t say it's my go-to, but watching a character slip in someone else’s vomit is never not funny. 

SRW: I think you straddled the fence nicely, Kevin. Congrats on the most frowned upon sub-section of horror you’re likely to find.

KDA: Thank you. I endeavor to straddle. 

SRW: Um…does your wife find you funny? Or is it just me and my wife?

KDA: I don’t know what the marriage laws are where you are, but here in California my wife is legally obligated to find me funny. I’m legally obligated to compliment her shoes, even if she isn’t wearing any. It doesn’t make sense but it works for us. 

SRW: Do you intend on continuing Dale and Earl’s adventures? I want a novel detailing background, you hear me?

KDA: It's up to the readers. Midnight Men came about because of the calls, emails, and comments I was getting to continue the story that began with Earl and Dale’s adventure described in the short story Green Eyes and Chili Dogs. I’ll wait to see how Midnight Men is received before I consider continuing their story. 

SRW: What’s up next on your keyboard, Kevin?

KDA: Before the end of the year I will release my second joke book for kids, Jurassic Jokes: A Joke Book 65 Million Years in the Making under my pseudonym, Giggles A. Lott & Nee Slapper. And currently, I’m working on a follow up to my most successful novel, Night of the Living Trekkies. No zombies in this one, but it will see a few returning characters and will mashup Star Trek fandom with a popular international franchise in the thriller genre.

SRW: Tell the fine folks where they can stalk you on social media and give links so I don’t have to.

KDA: That would be my pleasure. Let the stalking begin!

Facebook – Kevin David Anderson

Instagram – Kevin David Anderson

Goodreads – Kevin David Anderson

Letterbox – Kevin David Anderson

News Blog – Kevin David Anderson

SRW: Alrighty! Thanks heaps, Kevin, for being a good sport and hanging out. Y’all need to hop on over to Amazon and pick up a copy of MidnightMen: The Supernatural Adventures of Dale and Earl stat! It’s recommended. Me? I’ve gotta get back on the road, roll down the window, let the wind blow back…blow on my scalp, put the pedal to the metal and let this trucker roar, ten-four!