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What’s your most memorable Halloween experience?

Every Halloween in the Idaho timberline feels like the opening scene of a horror movie — fog rolling through the pines, coyotes on soundtrack duty, and my dog Bentley staring into the dark like he sees something I don't. One year the power died mid-horror-marathon and we just sat in candlelight while the wind did the sound design. Nature understood the assignment. Honestly I celebrate Halloween year-round; October just makes it socially acceptable.

Tell us why you would make it to the end of a horror movie.

Because I'm the guy horror movies warn you about. Fifty-one years of bad decisions survived, line-cook reflexes, and I don't investigate strange noises — I monetize them. I'd turn the creepy basement into a recording booth and sample the ghost. The killer would take one look at the tribal neck tattoos and yellow glasses and decide he's the one who should be running. Final boy energy, but with better bars.

What would you do with the unlucky $13,000?

First: upgrade the bunker studio so the 808s hit hard enough to wake the dead — then charge them admission. Second: take Joann somewhere the fog looks expensive. Third: Bentley gets the good treats, the fancy-bag ones. And I'd press a limited vinyl run of the catalog, because nothing says "unlucky $13,000" like betting it all on independent horrorcore. If the money's cursed, I'm spending it like a man with nothing to lose — because that's exactly what I am.

Who is your real-life hero who you would want to survive a horror movie with?

Joann — my Tiggeress. Twenty years of knowing me and she hasn't run screaming yet, which means she's either fearless or the final boss. She'd keep a level head while I handle the soundtrack and the comic relief. Between her instincts and my refusal to die quietly, the monster wouldn't stand a chance. Plus somebody has to hold the flashlight, and I'm busy holding the camera for the music video.