Ken Kuhlken's books

From Road Kill: on the book signing circuit with Ken Kuhlken and Alan Russell

"Between us there was . . . the bond . . .making us tolerant of each other's yarns." Joseph Conrad, HEART OF DARKNESS

I let Alan drive. All the way to King City, he tailgates and gripes. The one-hundred-twenty-third time he says, "If we were on I-5 . . . ," I roar, "Listen, I just drove all the way to (blah blah blah), and you just keep making a big (expletive) deal on account of we won't get dinner until eight o'clock when your dinner time is at six and your wife spoils you to death, and I don't see how she puts up with your . . . (and so on)."

For ten minutes, heavy silence reigned. Alan weaved, chopped off semis, zoomed past two highway patrol cars parked on the shoulder. The officers wore dark glasses and must've been dozing.

At last I muttered, "Sorry."

"No problem," Alan said icily.

Trying to lighten things up, I talked about my friend Steve. Alan had liked Steve, who's a warm, gentle, strange character. He owns a sign business and does pinstriping. His house is full of old gas pumps, neon signs, pinball machines. He made his new grandaughter a rocking cow, all out of wood, with wooden rockers, and pinstriped the whole cow. He drives a Harley Davidson.

A couple months ago, Steve phoned me. "Ken," he says meekly, "I've got to confess something. You know, being a Christian, I'm supposed to set a good example, right? Well, across the street from my shop, there's a guy named Foster, does auto body work. A while back, I got this urge to moon him. So I did. Then he mooned me. And now there's not a day goes by when one of us doesn't moon the other. Well, yesterday, I'd just got back from a job and there he is, standing in the doorway to his shop. I didn't see anybody else around, so I mooned him. And a while later he comes over and he's howling, slapping his leg, you know. He says, 'Way to go, Steve. Didn't you see the old lady I was talking to?' She must've been in the shadows. 'We were checking you out, and she taps me on the shoulder and says, "Oh look, there's a homeless man going to the bathroom."

Steve said he didn't think it was very Christian to be mooning people. But he kept doing it anyway. I suggested he find a mooners anonymous. If there wasn't one closer, I assured him, there'd be a chapter in San Francisco.

Between the story and the traffic thinning so that Alan could floor the accelerator and drive fast enough to terrify me -- anything over 100 mph will do -- we put my tantrum behind us. Terrifying me pleases Alan immensely. So does abusing my Explorer. We were rattling over construction potholes, in the left lane even though the right lane was smoother, when a black Kenworth chopped in front of us. Brakes screamed. Smoke rose from my tires, steam from Alan's forehead. Cussing demoniacally, he tailgated the Kenworth until it finally changed lanes. Then he roared past, flipping the guy off.

In the blur, I noticed the Kenworth driver wore a felt cowboy hat pulled low, a shiny blond beard. He was chomping a cigar butt. I knew he'd reappear, heavily armed, before the trip concluded. Maybe he'd conclude it.

A couple hours put us in the shadow of Oakland Coliseum, where according to a sign, Grateful Dead fans clean litter from the highway. It appeared they'd last swabbed the area in 1964.

Another sign pointed the way to Jack London Square. I convinced Alan we should make a pilgrimage there. It's a tourist village. We only stopped long enough for me to scribble graffiti on a few white walls. I wrote, "Jack London is dead. Buy our books instead. Ken Kuhlken and Allen Russel." Every time, hypersensitive Alan insisted I correct the spelling of his name.

In Alameda, we saw the world's ugliest auto paint job, on a Volkswagen bug. Flat purple.

Laura Russell's folks live in Alameda. Their house is full of books. They're gracious people who either enjoy Alan or pretend to in exchange for access to their grandchildren. They gave us each a room with a sliding glass door that opened onto an atrium. With the curtains open, we could see each other, on account of which I got unjustly branded with a nickname.

I blame myself for telling Alan about Steve's confession. Not to be outdone, no sooner had Mike and Ann gone to bed than Alan knocks on his window. I look over, and cringe. He's mooning me.

While recovering from that ghastly vision, I curled up snuggly, read for a while, inserted my ear plugs so I wouldn't wake up when Alan's snoring shivered the plate glass, and fell asleep. Sometime during the night, Alan had drawn a sketch of a moon -- not the heavenly kind -- and taped it onto his window, facing out.

I woke early, opened the shade and there it was. Behind it, Alan stood cackling. What choice did I have but to moon him?

Immediately, he branded me Mooner.

The whole routine was a set up, I'll bet. He'd have mooned me from there to Seattle if necessary, until one time he got me to drop my guard and moon him back. Alan considers imparting nicknames as one of his vocations. Even over breakfast with Mike and Ann, he called me Mooner. I know it's going to stick. He'll see to it. Fifty years from now, at age 98, I'll have to explain to my great great grandkids why people call me Mooner.

That is if we survive this tour.

Alan's out strolling the bayside, staring at birds. I'm going to go remind him that a great author's desire should be to honor people, to paint them larger than life, to immortalize them. Not to slander them with nicknames.

	Midheaven, Lake Tahoe, 1974 From Kirkus Reviews: "Kuhlken has, with Jodi, created a character new to us--the born again adolescent who’s in-the-know--and he provides her with grit and honesty." Finalist for the Ernest Hemingway Award for best first- published novel. Chair of the selection committee, Anne Tyler wrote, "The pace, clarity and assurance of Midheaven made it a pleasure to read." Read a chapter. Read on Kindle. Read on Nook. Read on whatever.
	From Road Kill: on the book signing circuit with Ken Kuhlken and Alan Russell "Between us there was . . . the bond . . .making us tolerant of each other's yarns." Joseph Conrad, HEART OF DARKNESS I let Alan drive. All the way to King City, he tailgates and gripes. The one-hundred-twenty-third time he says, "If we were on I-5 . . . ," I roar, "Listen, I just drove all the way to (blah blah blah), and you just keep making a big (expletive) deal on account of we won't get dinner until eight o'clock when your dinner time is at six and your wife spoils you to death, and I don't see how she puts up with your . . . (and so on)." For ten minutes, heavy silence reigned. Alan weaved, chopped off semis, zoomed past two highway patrol cars parked on the shoulder. The officers wore dark glasses and must've been dozing. At last I muttered, "Sorry." "No problem," Alan said icily. Trying to lighten things up, I talked about my friend Steve. Alan had liked Steve, who's a warm, gentle, strange character. He owns a sign business and does pinstriping. His house is full of old gas pumps, neon signs, pinball machines. He made his new grandaughter a rocking cow, all out of wood, with wooden rockers, and pinstriped the whole cow. He drives a Harley Davidson. A couple months ago, Steve phoned me. "Ken," he says meekly, "I've got to confess something. You know, being a Christian, I'm supposed to set a good example, right? Well, across the street from my shop, there's a guy named Foster, does auto body work. A while back, I got this urge to moon him. So I did. Then he mooned me. And now there's not a day goes by when one of us doesn't moon the other. Well, yesterday, I'd just got back from a job and there he is, standing in the doorway to his shop. I didn't see anybody else around, so I mooned him. And a while later he comes over and he's howling, slapping his leg, you know. He says, 'Way to go, Steve. Didn't you see the old lady I was talking to?' She must've been in the shadows. 'We were checking you out, and she taps me on the shoulder and says, "Oh look, there's a homeless man going to the bathroom." Steve said he didn't think it was very Christian to be mooning people. But he kept doing it anyway. I suggested he find a mooners anonymous. If there wasn't one closer, I assured him, there'd be a chapter in San Francisco. Between the story and the traffic thinning so that Alan could floor the accelerator and drive fast enough to terrify me -- anything over 100 mph will do -- we put my tantrum behind us. Terrifying me pleases Alan immensely. So does abusing my Explorer. We were rattling over construction potholes, in the left lane even though the right lane was smoother, when a black Kenworth chopped in front of us. Brakes screamed. Smoke rose from my tires, steam from Alan's forehead. Cussing demoniacally, he tailgated the Kenworth until it finally changed lanes. Then he roared past, flipping the guy off. In the blur, I noticed the Kenworth driver wore a felt cowboy hat pulled low, a shiny blond beard. He was chomping a cigar butt. I knew he'd reappear, heavily armed, before the trip concluded. Maybe he'd conclude it. A couple hours put us in the shadow of Oakland Coliseum, where according to a sign, Grateful Dead fans clean litter from the highway. It appeared they'd last swabbed the area in 1964. Another sign pointed the way to Jack London Square. I convinced Alan we should make a pilgrimage there. It's a tourist village. We only stopped long enough for me to scribble graffiti on a few white walls. I wrote, "Jack London is dead. Buy our books instead. Ken Kuhlken and Allen Russel." Every time, hypersensitive Alan insisted I correct the spelling of his name. In Alameda, we saw the world's ugliest auto paint job, on a Volkswagen bug. Flat purple. Laura Russell's folks live in Alameda. Their house is full of books. They're gracious people who either enjoy Alan or pretend to in exchange for access to their grandchildren. They gave us each a room with a sliding glass door that opened onto an atrium. With the curtains open, we could see each other, on account of which I got unjustly branded with a nickname. I blame myself for telling Alan about Steve's confession. Not to be outdone, no sooner had Mike and Ann gone to bed than Alan knocks on his window. I look over, and cringe. He's mooning me. While recovering from that ghastly vision, I curled up snuggly, read for a while, inserted my ear plugs so I wouldn't wake up when Alan's snoring shivered the plate glass, and fell asleep. Sometime during the night, Alan had drawn a sketch of a moon -- not the heavenly kind -- and taped it onto his window, facing out. I woke early, opened the shade and there it was. Behind it, Alan stood cackling. What choice did I have but to moon him? Immediately, he branded me Mooner. The whole routine was a set up, I'll bet. He'd have mooned me from there to Seattle if necessary, until one time he got me to drop my guard and moon him back. Alan considers imparting nicknames as one of his vocations. Even over breakfast with Mike and Ann, he called me Mooner. I know it's going to stick. He'll see to it. Fifty years from now, at age 98, I'll have to explain to my great great grandkids why people call me Mooner. That is if we survive this tour. Alan's out strolling the bayside, staring at birds. I'm going to go remind him that a great author's desire should be to honor people, to paint them larger than life, to immortalize them. Not to slander them with nicknames. He'll say, "Good point, Mooner." I know he will. Read on Kindle. Read on Nook. Read on whatever.
	THE OFFICIAL NO CATS, NO CHOCOLATE PRESS RELEASE Alan Russell is calling it the "Ken Is Not Dead Tour."  Ken Kuhlken is calling it the "Alan May be a Maniac but He's Not Homicidal Tour."   Ken and Alan are back.  Many of you (all right, one or two of you) might remember Ken and Alan's hilarious ROAD KILL that detailed their adventures while on their "international" mystery book-signing tour. NO CATS, NO CHOCOLATE continues the adventure in a limited edition book, with a print run of only one thousand numbered copies. Ken and Alan agree on only one thing: "It's a damn good investment."   "If you want to make your heirs rich," says Ken, "buy the book. In a hundred years one of these copies of NO CATS, NO CHOCOLATE will be worth about as much as a Gutenberg Bible. And if you don't care about your heirs, quit being cheap and buy the book anyway."   The reaction to this book from other writers is unanimous. Here's what they're saying:   Reserve a Special Place in your House for this One! "Some books have a revered spot on your bookshelves. I have another spot in mind for this book, the same place where I put all books written by Kuhlken and Russell. It's going right next to the spare roll on the shelf behind the toilet." - Michael Connelly, bestselling author of THE NARROWS   Looking for a Great Book? "If you're like me, you are always looking for a great book. Well, I am afraid you'll have to keep looking. Mind you, NO CATS, NO CHOCOLATE is not a bad book; it is a truly awful book." - John Lescroart, bestselling author of THE SECOND CHAIR In a League of their Own! "In my life I have met and associated with many people that don't fit in with mainstream society. I have written about bikers, and outlaws, and drug addled psychopaths. Let me tell you, those desperados are nothing compared to Kuhlken and Russell. When it comes to creepiness, these two are in a league of their own. Avoid mind pollution! Don't read their words." - Barbara Seranella, bestselling author of UNWILLING ACCOMPLICE   There is Nothing like Kuhlken and Russell in the Zodiac! "There are few people like Russell and Kuhlken in this world, and that is a very good thing. I have seen some bad auras in my time, but never such dark clouds as hover over them. The only other auras I have seen similar to theirs belong to Charlie Manson, John Wayne Gacy, and most of the members of Congress." - Martha Lawrence, bestselling author of ASHES OF ARIES   The Scientific Community Is in Agreement! "There are few subjects upon which the scientific community is in agreement, and the science fiction community is just as fractious. However, when it comes to Russell and Kuhlken we all concur: We hope they fall into a wormhole, end up on the other side of a distant galaxy, and are never heard from again!" - David Brin, bestselling author of THE POSTMAN   On My Top Ten List! "My biggest regret in retiring from the FBI is that I can't put these two jokers behind bars. Kuhlken and Russell's NO CATS, NO CHOCOLATE, is the latest of many frauds they've perpetuated on an unsuspecting American public. I wouldn't be surprised if one day a lynch mob stormed one of their signings, and neither would I be surprised if law enforcement turned a blind eye to the people's justice."  - Gene Riehl, bestselling author of QUANTICO RULES Read the trade paperback, or read on Kindle, or read on Nook, or read on whatever.
	Writing and the Spirit: Author Ken Kuhlken has long puzzled over the mystery we call inspiration. Here he offers insights about attitudes, habits and practices through which artists find themselves inspired. Writing and the Spirit is a guide to living as an artist. Read the trade paperback; on Kindle; on Nook, or on whatever.