The Beauty of Nature

After signing up for my first ever radio interview that will be 30 minutes long (which is a lifetime), I hung up the phone, and immediately started the worry process. What if this and what if that started flashing through my pea-picking brain like an old Pong game. Soon I became a nervous wreck with all the worrying.

After a few moments of this torture, I thought to myself, What am I doing? This sucks! I Googled nature and started looking at all the wonderful pictures of earth, alive with color, life and splendor. It didn't take long for my problem to seem minuscule, without merit and unworthy.

Just like the Karen Drucker song says, "My religion is kindness, my church is nature. My God is a feeling that lives deep inside."


My spitits were lifted and worry just a faint memory. Life is so good!


Write on,

Mittster

Ms. Betty Jean Buford

I thought it might be interesting to introduce the grandmother of Otis Buford. Otis is the evil killer in my new murder mystery, Day Stalker. Poor Otis's relationship with his grandmother was, shall we say, incestuous at best, and this chapter deals with Ms. Buford's entrance into the Tucson Police department to find lead Detective Jon Mull who is searching for her murderous grandson.


Desk Sergeant Walt Wigley looked up as his brain tried to perceive what his eyes were seeing. The elderly woman before him was a dead ringer for Mae West, sex symbol of old Hollywood movies. She wore a low-cut, frilly dress right out of Gone with the Wind. The only thing keeping her breasts from becoming a trip hazard was an exposed vintage corset. Her hair was blue-silver with ugly curly bangs that hung down limply just above her drawn-on dark eyebrows. Her painted cow-lipped mouth, when open, revealed ugly stained teeth not unlike her grandson, Otis Buford. Her mouth hung down on both sides of her heavily powdered face in a perpetual frown.

She stood there defiant; fat, stubby legs planted apart holding up a body that had long ago given up its fight against gravity. She smelled like booze and lilac cologne which was strong enough to makes the sergeant’s eyes burn. She was leaning on a wooden cane with a silver fox head for a handgrip. Walt couldn't help but notice she also resembled Colonel Sanders.

“Can I help you, Madam?”
“Not likely. Where is Jon Mull?” she answered in a thick southern accent.
“I’m afraid Detective Mull is not here right now. Can I be of assistance?”
“Are you deaf? I said, ‘not likely.’”
“Madam, I am the duty desk sergeant and you won’t see anybody unless you state your business.”
“I am Ms. Betty Jean Buford and I demand to see your superior this instant. I won’t be treated like a stable boy!”

Much to Walt’s relief, Captain Mason walked up and intervened before the situation could turn really ugly. “Ms. Buford, I am Captain Mason. Please permit me to escort you to my office where we can wait for Detective Mull.”

“Captain, it is a pleasure to meet you. Finding someone of your obvious southern charm is rare, unlike this sergeant before me. Please lead the way.” Mason opened the gate and steadied Ms. Betty Jean Buford by holding her free hand as she waddled toward his office. Sergeant Wigley’s relief suddenly became Captain Mason’s concern. He couldn’t help but notice the way the old crow was eyeing his crouch. Fortunately for Walt, the captain could not see the smile that was spreading over his face as he made a beeline for the men’s bathroom and a good laugh.

Write on,

Mittster

A Blog About Nothing

Remember the Seinfeld TV show where Jerry and George write a pilot for NBC about a show about nothing? Well, even if you don't remember, it has inspired me to write a blog about nothing.

I know, you think that I am just lazy and don't feel like writing today. Wrong! I feel like writing everyday. The reason that I am writing about nothing is simple. My wonderful wife, Sandy, was looking through the newspaper last Sunday and discovered that Jerry Sienfeld would be appearing, in person, at the Dodge Theater in Phoenix, Arizona, this October 9th. She brought me the article and asked, "How would you like to see Jerry Seinfeld on stage?" My reply? "Not only yes, but hell yes. Who do I have to kill for this honor?" "No one silly," she replied, "We will call going to the show a Christmas present to ourselves." Merry Christmas indeed, I thought to myself. Life is good....

Since the Sunday paper ad indicated we could order seats at 10 a.m. and it was 10 a.m., wifey was able to get front center seats, section 5. Holy smokers, we will actually be able to see him! Our next challege is simple; how do we get the whole cast of the Jerry Seinfeld Show to the Dodge Theater this October? It just won't be the same if they are not there.

I'm just saying,

Mittster

Treasure!

About the time I think people have stopped looking for the Lost Dutchman mine in the Superstition Mountains of Arizona, someone seeing piles of gold in their dreams heads to one of the most nasty places God has to offer in the winter, let alone in the summer!

July 12, 2010, three men went missing looking for Jacob Waltz's lost treasure. They were from Utah, which has its own rugged terrain, but they weren't ready for the deadly Arizona heat. There is a good chance they will be never be found.

While working construction in the Valley of the Sun during the early 1970s, I too fell victim to the lure of Jacob's gold mine. The only reason my bones are not still there bleached white by the wicked Arizona sun is that I did my homework before entering the Superstitions. You have to remember that computers and the Web were not invented yet, so I had to research the old- fashionrd way. It's called a library, and I spent many late afternoons learning about the area I was going to explore.

I read about an old woman prospector who tried to blow up Weaver's Needle looking for the Lost Dutchman and ended up in a Phoenix mental hospital for her effort. Unfortunately, I have been unable to find any Web reference to her story and memory fails me as to her name. I also read books by Barry Storm, Robert Allen, Orn Arnold and Barney Barard, to name a few, and without exception, their descriptions of the mountain and the people who have lost their lives there were grim.

If the legends of death won't keep you from entering the mountains, then the terrain itself should. Yes, there are well-worn trails throughout the area, but you can bet once you leave the trails to the good pickings, the terrain becomes your worst nightmare. Sharp rocks, steep cliffs, cactus, critters and searing heat all conspire to bring you down.

I know it's hard to believe that there could also be another danger still present in the Superstitions. That danger is other prospectors who stay in the area full time and are struck with the fever, gold fever, that is. The incidences of murder are real, and I for one would never go back into those mountains because of the prospect of having someone dry-gulch me and dump my body down a mine shaft. I'm not saying that's what happened to the three unlucky guys from Utah, but I wouldn't bet against it either.

I'm just saying,

Mittster

On Any Sunday

Steve McQueen, the name brings back many memories of a real American movie hero. I especially remember a simple movie about riding motorcycles called On Any Sunday. Please bear with the commercials in this clip, it was the only one I could find. I saw this Bruce Brown film at a now extinct drive-in-movie theater many years ago in Tucson, Arizona. Although it wasn't The Great Escape, the movie struck a cord with me as being down home real and seeing McQueen as just another crazy guy riding motorcycles made the movie worth an Academy Award, at least to me.

I can't compare my life with The King of Cool, but we did have one thing in common; the love of getting in the wind on a motorcycle. Of course, I never raced because of a fear of dying on a lonely dirt track in the middle of nowhere, but I did find the courage to ride thousands of fantastic miles throughout America.

I think Steve was the first Hollywood notable to really collect vintage motorcycles as a participant in the sport. I believe he was an early-day Jay Leno of sorts, but no one collects like Leno! McQueen also supported motorcycle racing throughout his career until his untimely death in 1980.

Steve McQueen also raced cars and I will never forget the car chase in the movie, Bullitt, as long as I live. Now that was a car chase. Of course, I never raced cars either. Same fear, but different reason. I didn't want to go to jail for a maniac car race through downtown Tucson!

This Sunday I'm praying that Steve McQueen is riding free on a gloriously warm, sunny day in heaven with a wide smile, which was rarely seen during his life.

Write on,

Mittster