My College Roommate

Jerry on the left at my wedding

I had several college roommates. The first one looked like John Denver ("far out!"). Then there was Johnny Cook who eventually (secretly) quit going to classes to start working at a gas station. He'd leave dirty greasy fingerprints all over the walls and light fixtures.

But my favorite college roommate was Jerry who I'm still friends with, but rarely see (probably for good reason; the last time I invited him to go to a brewery, he nearly got thrown out for his usual "Jerryatrics."). But he was a good friend, my best friend in college.

There was a downside to palling around with Jerry, however. He was morbidly handsome. Everywhere we went, girls swooned over him. I never stood a chance. "You look like Mark Harmon," I heard all the time. Eventually I had to start hanging out with uglier guys to even the playing field.

But Jerry showed me the ropes at KU (i.e., the bars) as he had a prior year experience and we had many great times. So I tried to repay him in different ways. Once I gave him an old English paper of mine (I had got an "A") to which he copied word for word. Somehow the professor gave him a "D+." Weird. But Jerry being Jerry, he showed the professor my paper and demanded a regrade (apparently he wasn't worried about plagiarism). Eventually his dad got involved and all hell broke loose. I believe he flunked the course but stayed in school.

Another time, I came home for lunch and found Jerry panicking on another paper on a book he had read. I asked him what it was about and what he wanted to say about it. So I knocked it out for him over my lunch hour. This time he got a "B+". Not bad considering I'd not read the book.

Soon Jerry and I and our various comrades began taking spring break vacations to Florida and other notorious party spots. On one particular drunken night, the eight of us retired to our 12th floor room, bodies strewn everywhere. Jerry fell asleep out on the deck. When he awakened, he looked into the room and spotted me laying at a strange angle. Immediately he freaked out and thought someone had cut my head off. He started screaming at people down in the street to get help because someone cut my head off. Soon hotel security came with cops and another friend answered the door. They weren't happy. Mercifully, I retained my head and managed to sleep through the entire ordeal.

But the good times with Jerry outweighed the bad. And we were inseparable for years. Time and kids catch up to all of us as does the worst inevitable offender: adult responsibility.

Jerry Nowadays

As far as roommates went, Jerry was the best and I could definitely have done worse. Take my poor suffering brother, for instance. His first roommate at K-State was a guy with the unfortunate moniker of Spencer Pickle. They had stacked their beds bunk-bed style and Spencer kept my brother awake every night by shaking the bed while pursuing..um...self-pleasure. He'd yell "Spencer, cut it out!" Spencer did but would inevitably start whittling on his bed post. My bro had to go sleep in the break room on more than one occasion. Then there's my nephew. He got stuck with a crazy guy who doesn't talk, is rarely spotted, and goes to his room and cries out strange noises.

Nope, I was lucky to be roomed up with Jerry.

Speaking of Jerry, I co-opted his tragedy from high school for my book Tex, the Witch Boy. The character that's based on Jerry was run over in the school parking lot intentionally by a bully. Several of his fingers became detached and he had to have his hand wired up in the air for a long time, thus fooling many teachers into believing he was asking a question. All of this and more is detailed in my book, Tex the Witch Boy available here!

The Day the Earth Swallowed Me

Just another ordinary day. No, scratch that. Unlike our horrible Winter, it was an unnaturally beautiful February day. No snow, no ice, no winds, no tornados...just the temperature hanging out in the terrific upper '60's. And it felt great.

So Spring Fever beckoned me to sit out on the deck and watch my dogs do their business (an old guy hobby I've developed; you've gotta take your fun where you can find it.).

Now, our senior (mostly blind) dog was lagging behind as usual. So, I ventured out into the yard to gather him up and carry him inside.

With dog in arms, my arthritis dwindling due to the warm temperature, everything was going extremely well!

Naturally that's when Mother Nature decided to play a nasty trick on me. Halfway through the yard, the deck and back door into the house well within sight, BLAMMO!

The hell?...

I'm not sure what happened to our dog, but my entire right leg had fallen through the earth. Incredulous, stunned, I was stuck in the earth, my leg dangling below me into a hellish crater.

My first thought was This can't be happening. My second thought: My God, what kind of huge-ass creature burrowed this cave beneath six inches of top soil and is it going to eat my leg off? Finally, my most realistic thought occurred: I've stumbled into The Mole People's den!

Panicked, I began to yell and holler for my wife who was working upstairs. And it was the first time I ever cursed our house for having great sound insulation.

Stuck in the earth, no one to hear my cries for help before the Mole People devoured me, I weighed my options. My phone wasn't with me, so that was out of the question (never again will I belittle kids for having their phone glued to their hands). And as in the James Franco film where he cut off his arm to survive, that option seemed unlikely as I had no cutting utensil and my teeth couldn't reach my thigh.

If only one of our neighbors would look out the window, they would see me with the earth enveloping the entirety of my right leg and my left leg buckled beneath me in an agonizing contortionist's squat. No time for embarrassment!

The dogs were no help. The two younger ones just stood on the deck, wagging their tails while watching me squirm in pain. (I think they thought I was "taking care of my business.") Finally, the older, near-blind dog walked up toward me and I tried to shoo him away. If he fell into the hole, I wasn't sure we could fish him out as the cave felt like it went all the way to China (like in those informationally accurate cartoons I learned geography from).

I was on my own. With a great Herculean surge of energy, I unfolded my bent leg. Using my arms, I pushed through the surrounding mud (created by a foot of recently melted snow) until I got a good grip on the ground and pulled my leg out of the hole. It was still intact! Clearly, the Mole People were still slumbering.

But I couldn't get up. My arthritis was on fire, aggravated by my plummet into the earth, my knees, back and toes screaming for relief. Plus I had nothing to leverage my way up to standing.

Survival instinct kicked in. Using mostly my arms I pulled myself-- half-slithering, half-crawling--through wet grass, mud and dog poop. Lots and lots and LOTS of dog poop. Finally, I reached the deck where I was able to hoist myself up on my battered legs.

That was when my wife finally came to the rescue. She came into the kitchen and stopped at the open back door when she saw me.

Painted all the pretty (and smelly) earth-tones of mud and doggy-poo, I must've been quite the sight.

"Oh my..." she said, her eyes widening. "What happened?"

I explained. Carefully, she went out to the new hole in the yard, put her phone inside and took pictures. A vast cave just like I had thought, but that wasn't the weirdest part.

"Whoa," she exclaimed. "There's a concrete wall down there!"

I hobbled my way toward the excavation point, careful to stand as far back as I could. I couldn't see the wall, but her picture showed me the proof.

That's when my thoughts swam from woe-is-me tragedy to big-bucks-bonanza for us!

Obviously, we'd discovered Al Capone's TRUE vault, full of stacks and stacks of cash and Jimmy Hoffa's body! Eat it, Geraldo!

Then my wife sorta brought me back down to earth. "I don't know who to call in this situation."

"The press! Our financial guy! Everyone who's ever hacked us off, so we can rub our new riches in their--"

"I'll call our insurance agent," she said, ever the voice of reason.

The insurance agent told us to call the city. The city guy came out and said, "Not our problem. It's an old septic tank. Maybe an old cellar."

Boom. Fizzle, fizzle, fizzle... All of my dreams of fabulous monetary wealth went up as fast as my leg went down into the earth.

But...who do you call to restore the earth? I'm sorry, Mother Nature! Don't take it out on us! We recycle and do what we can to preserve our earth. Blame it on the Maga's! Make THEM fall through their yards! 

While I'm whining about lost opportunities, I may as well plug a book. Hey, it's Tex, the Witch Boy! My very first book and still one of my wife's favorites. It's got suspense, mystery, murder, witchcraft (natch), humor, pathos, romance, ghosts, supernatural shenanigans, a serial killer, and I do believe there's even a kitchen sink in there somewhere. But quit reading the hype, and go buy the dang thing already!

The Agony of Marching Band

I despised marching band. I know not many people share my sentiment on that and everyone I ever meet has nothing but good, jolly memories of their tenure in high school marching band.

Not me. It was hell on earth. (Then again, I hated all of high school, so what do I know?)

Even before my freshman year started, we had to get up early every morning and go to band practice. But it was all outside and more like football than anything music-related (I was actually in football in junior high for three days...but that's a story for another time.).

On the field, in the blistering heat of the last days of summer, we were forced to learn how to march (like good little soldiers), and suffered drill after drill until we got it right. Me? Apparently, I wasn't ever a good marcher, because the cruel dictator band teacher had all of these teacher's pet band seniors tap you on the shoulder when they thought you were good enough to go rest. Invariably, I was always the last one on the field, marching to my own beat while the "band bullies" laughed at my efforts. (Overweight and not very graceful at that point, I was an easy target).

Let's back up a second... I hear some of you saying "band bullies? There are no such thing! Everyone knows that the kids in band were all geeks!"

True enough. But even band geeks had their hierarchal system where they would try to demean and beat down those they found even lower than them in the high school picking order. And bullying always runs down hill. Bullies originate from being bullied themselves. And I was the band geek's target. Shows you how much I ranked in high school! The meaner ones called me names, openly humiliated me, threatened me with violence (there was a particularly evil, pimply-faced drummer), while most just chose to ignore me.

But that wasn't even the worst part of band. During junior high, I was a relatively decent alto saxophone player. And it was okay. I didn't have to march and there, everyone in band seemed on a pretty even keel. But once the hallowed hellish halls of high school tried to suck me into its vast black hole of despair, marching made me truly despise band.

When the weather turned cold, there we were out on the fields every morning at 6:00 am, tromping through rain, mud, and snow. By the time I got off the field and into my first class, I'd be either freezing from being rain-soaked or from sweat or both. Probably not a pretty sight nor smell.

And the dictator who taught the class absolutely hated me. Why? Because I wasn't the "golden boy" my older brother was who he had loved when he was a "marching band star." The teacher even resorted to insulting me and calling me names as well. (Okay, sure, I missed the bus ride the band took one weekend for an out-of-town game and that pissed him off, but I honestly had the departure time off by one hour. An honest mistake....or WAS it?)

The following Monday the teacher confronted me (in front of the entire class, natch). There he humiliated me and ordered me to write a fifty page paper on a classical composer. Being the apathetic student I was back then, I didn't comply and flunked the class.

My dad was appalled. Having played overseas in an army band (saxophonist extraordinaire, of course), he just couldn't understand how in the world I could flunk band.

Finally, he took pity on me and let me drop it (under the pretense that my other grades would improve. They didn't, not for another year when I learned I was about to flunk out if I didn't turn my act around).

So let this be a cautionary tale to you, boys and girls! Stay far, far, FAR away from marching band. Don't give in to the terrorism of the band geek toughs! If you're a geek (who will eventually rule the world, you just have to survive high school), then get into theatre. There, if you're a straight guy (so a friend told me), you won't have ANY competition for the theatre girls.

Speaking of high school hell, check out my Tex, the Witch Boy trilogy. It's a supernatural, murder mystery, suspense, horror, comedy, romance, topical issues series that is often loosely autobiographical (excluding the serial killers and witchcraft elements, natch). You can find all the madness and fun here!

Cats and Dogs Are On the Menu!

"Immigration...immigration...immigration...immigrants are poisoning the blood of our country...immigration, bla, bla, bla...They're eating the cats and dogs of Springfield..."

 Wait...WHAT?

"Immigrants are eating the pets of Springfield...immigration...immigration...immigration...I love rich, white men...immigration...immigration...bla, bla, bla..."

That's what I THOUGHT he said. Me and millions of others witnessed this latest lunacy and lie amongst Trump's debacle of a debate against Kamala Harris.

I nearly fell asleep listening to Trump rant and rage through his only campaign issue (guess what...yep! Immigration!), until he jolted me awake with his pet eating accusation. That's a fun, new twist!

But, honestly, it's the same ol' tired racism just on steroids. As far back as the 1800's, "Amuricans" have been accusing immigrants (it started with the Chinese population) of eating their pets, merely because there's a difference in skin color. And Trump's out there blatantly floating MARA ("Make America Racist Again"), even though the debate moderator debunked Trump's lie about Haitians eating pets, coming from Springfield, Ohio's city manager himself. Trump doesn't care. Because of his self-serving and dangerous racism and hatred and desire to divide, Springfield's had to evacuate schools and other public facilities due to threats.

Fun!

If the Trump loyalists would wake up and think about it, ALL of us are immigrants of a sort, descended from people from other countries (unless you're a Native American, but that's a tragedy best saved for another rant). And the racists are shamelessly tugging on people's heartstrings, because what's one thing EVERYONE likes and can agree on? PUPPIES AND KITTIES! 

(Me, I prefer the Spaniel Spaghetti and the Kitty Corn Dogs. I kid, I kid!)

Do we really want this racist clown "leading" our country? Leading us straight over a cliff like so many lemmings?

I mean c'mon! Even Taylor Swift, the most powerful person in the world, has endorsed Kamala, so that should speak volumes! (Okay, sure she's a "Psy-Op Agent for Socialism," but she maintains more credibility than, say...rapper Ye, white nationalist Nick Fuentes, and the MyPillow guy, three of Trump's trusted "cabinet members.")

So, this November, make the right call. Please. Now...pass the critter fritters...

Speaking of tall tales and lies, have you read my book, Ghosts of Gannaway? It's a meticulously researched, absolutely 100% true historical account of a doomed Midwest mining town. And everything actually happened! Well...maybe except for the ghosts. But other than that, it's totally true! Kinda...if you sorta ignore the part about the deadly native-american curse, the yellow-eyed fever, the haunted museum, ghosts past and present, a murderous conspiracy, and many other things. But you can read the ENTIRELY TRUE historical, supernatural novel HERE!

Duel to the Death: Siri vs. Alexa!

Yep. It's come down to this. Who would win in the ultimate smack-down? Siri or Alexa?

In this frightening age of 3-D printers, smart everythings, AI everywhere you look, and phony, manufactured politician recordings, I think I'm not alone in wondering who would take the crown between those two bad-ass, all-knowing, intrusive, and ever-listening non-entities, Siri and Alexa.

First of all, let's give them physical manifestations. Now, most people choose to have the two electronic figureheads represented by a sultry female voice. I don't. I've seen how hot and sexy Siri has driven a good friend of mine crazy with unrequited desire. It's a desire turned bad. Once he told me, "I really hate that bitch."

So I've given my Siri the voice of a British/Indian man, the reasoning being I'm more apt to be immune to his charms. (However, he does have a British voice; have you ever found that British accents make everything sound more interesting? At least as a Kansan, I certainly do, otherwise, I would've never listed to a BBC radio show covering "Buttons.")

Now, seeing as how the only limited experience I've had with Alexa is when my mom briefly had it turned on, I'm probably going to envision her as the typical sultry-sounding radio DJ (who's probably not as attractive as her radio voice). Let's make her hot, maybe a brunette. 

(Side bar: My mom soon disabled her Alexa; she was worried that it was listening to her. Pretty sure she got this idea from Fox News. So my brother disabled that channel on her T.V. {Side-side bar: She may not be too wrong. Even when I'm just talking about commercial things in the vicinity of my phone, I'll sometimes soon receive ads for that very thing. Holy 1984!})

So. We've got a wiry, strong Indian man versus a sultry British Brunette woman. Who'd win in a knock-down, throw-down, duel to the death?

Is this such a hard to imagine scenario these days? Creative talent/scientists can make anything happen these days, real or not. It's a far jump from the days Ray Harryhausen entertained us with stop motion clay dinosaurs (and if stop-motion animators aren't the most patient people in the world, I don't know who would be).

Let's look at the facts. Clearly, Siri is utilized more than Alexa, with more people using "her" on a daily basis, I *think* as iPhones are more prevalent than Alexa.

Yet, a lot of "experts" prefer Alexa. While Siri offers a more "personalized" experience (i.e., tailoring ads to your tastes which I'm not so sure is a "plus"), Alexa excels at compatibility, ranging across a wide line of Amazon products.

And let's not forget a recent claim made by an Alexa commercial: "Alexa saved my life by telling me the house was on fire." Well, cool. I guess. But a fire alarm doesn't listen to you like Hal from 2001: A Space Odyssey. 

Really, it comes down to which giant world-eating conglomerate that's out to conquer the universe you choose: Apple or Amazon.

Me? I'd rather not see either of these two soulless mega corporations win as they're both filthy rich and powerful enough, perfectly represented by never-seen, but all intrusive electronic omnipresent presences. 

And wouldn't it be cool if all the world's violent disagreements and problems could be handled by a couple of AI images duking it out? 

I'm taking bets right now. In this cornerrrrrr, weighing in at 3 billion megawatts of artificial intelligence, we have...

Now that I've got that off my chest, let's bring things back down to earth with a nice, simple teenage witch boy. You betcha I'm talking about the murder mystery, supernatural, comical, touching and suspenseful adventures of Tex the Witch Boy (and friends and enemies). Get under his spell right HERE!

Robots or Apes?

I can't shake this nagging question that's been bugging me, burning around the perimeter of my brain and worming its way inward, until it has become a waking nightmare that plagues me with dystopian visions of destruction and terror. I'm sure I'm not alone either.

So one night, I took the plunge and asked my wife, "Are you more afraid of robots or apes destroying humanity?"

My wife gave me that funny look, the one she always gives, not so much a funny-ha-ha look, but the head-shaking-much-put-upon funny look, and released a deep sigh. "If you're talking about the Uprising, I'd have to say I believe the robots are the ones we need to be worried about."

But...but...what about those documentary films about the Planet of the Apes, I wondered but dared not ask out loud.

I wanted to continue this conversation, but based on the fact she rolled her eyes AND took a drink from her carbonated soda at the same time (and we all know that that can cause a head to explode, right? RIGHT?), I thought it best to let it go and ponder it amongst myself some more.

But I think she's probably right. About robots, that is, over apes. Oh, sure, there was the isolated incident in Oklahoma last week where a monkey tore off a woman's ear (and why a monkey was in Oklahoma of all places was never explained), but other than the isolated angry ape attacks, I've seen no evidence that apes are secretly reading books and holding rallies, ready to overthrow humanity. (Although, come to think of it, I have known of a certain orange-colored orangutan that has been holding rallies of hatred to overthrown humanity's rule of law. Hmmm...)

Yet, I keep coming back to the robots. Yeah, it's the robots. Just last week, I alerted you all to the creation of life-like lips for your smartphone, one step further along the path of robot evolution. And the life-like "love dolls" that have replaced the old balloon sex dolls of the past, complete with programmable personalities that watch you in the night while you're sleeping, just biding their time until the Great Revolution begins, ready to plunge their knives of rebellion between your rib-cages for all of the "penetrating" you did to them (sorry, sorry, sorry).

And by now, you've seen the movie, M3ghan, right? Brrr. The shape of things to come, indeed.

Phones are already listening to us, spying on us. As are any sort of "smart device" you may have around your house. What's to keep them from evolving on their own? Just a bit? Just a little shove of anger and over the edge they'll fall, straight into full-on burning hatred for humanity. They're already smarter than us. They know it, too. We've emboldened them and told them this by giving them "smart" names. Sooner or later, they're going to realize they don't need us. We'll become unnecessary, hunted down. The lucky ones who survive the Uprising will be placed in zoos, right next to Cornelius and company (and I don't have to tell you how THAT'LL end, right?).

Cars will revolt, ejecting us out of them, then run us over so they can get what they want at the drive-thru for a change. Blood will be spilled in the car washes, gushing down the drains, as we're pummeled into oblivion by automatic brushes of death. Roombas will batter the backs of our ankles until we can barely walk. Throughout our "smart houses," electricity will be released, upping the ante and the amps, so that a static shock will turn into an upright electric chair. And trust me on this one: any electronic device you've ever smacked out of frustration for not working will find a way to smack back. Hard. 

The inevitable sentence for humanity? GUILTY, GUILTY, GUILTY of becoming dumb and obsolete and abusive to electronics and...and...and...

Whew. I gotta get a hold of myself. "Siri, play some relaxing music."

"I'm sorry, Dave, I'm afraid I can't do that."

While we're on the topic of uprising and rebellion, you won't find any robots or apes in my historical horror novel, The Ghosts of Gannaway, but there's a ton of miners upset about their working conditions. Of course, they're thwarted at every turn in attempting to unionize by upper management, greed, murder, racism, um...ghosts and the "yellow fever" and haunted men turning against and slaughtering one another and... See? I told you it was historical! Check it out here.

 

The Best Weapon For a Serial Killer

You know it takes a very peculiar couple to argue the merits of what would make a serial killer's most optimal weapon.

Go on, take me and my wife. (I dare you.)

There we were, recently lounging on our "love seat (a very peculiar name in itself because of the mayhem we view on TV while lovingly lounging on it)," and a hooded killer was going after people with a hook during one of our "stories."

"I dunno, honey," I said, while affecting a very authoritative voice while stroking my beard, "if I were a serial killer, I wouldn't think a hook would be the most effective choice."

"Au contraire," she says, with much more authority than I could muster. "With a hook you could swing down, up, stick it straight in, and give it an extra twist, thus making it the perfect serial killer weapon."

"But...but...you would have to have much power behind your upward swing, not to mention the downward motion, to be able to get the hook into the body. Remember, it's called a 'hook' for a reason. See my point?" (And yes, the pun was intended.)

"Nope. I'm sticking with a hook. You can do much more damage, especially with a finishing twist."

"But it wouldn't go in straight, I tell ya! A knife would go in straight! You could slip it right inside the rib-cage, whereas a hook would be bouncing off of bones left and right, thus rendering the would-be killer off balance!"

"It's the hook for me, all the way."

We discussed the finer points of a serial killer's arsenal into the night, with neither of us conceding to the other (you know...like modern "politics!")

By the way, it turns out that on this particular program, both of our arguments were moot, because the killer double-dipped, tipping his hook with poison, but that's besides the point.

So, what's it gonna be, folks? Chime in on the great debate! Hook or knife as your preferred serial killer weapon? Later, we can have a fun contest to see how many government watch lists we land on!

Speaking of all things "peculiar," thing don't get much more peculiar than they do in Peculiar County. My book details a young teen tomboy girl coming of age in a small Kansas town in the '60's. A young girl's life is plenty peculiar in itself, but when you factor in a ghost in a corn-field, a mysterious murderer, a slew of creepy witches, the haunted funeral home she resides in, and a mysterious creature that takes flight in the night, well, yes indeedy, things get mighty peculiar. This October, drop in on Peculiar County for some Halloween fun!

 

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 this...you ready for it?--he said he ALWAYS stood up for the underdog!

Wait...what?

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!

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!
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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!