My Best Friend

My best friend and wife suffered a heart attack Wednesday night. She gently woke me up around nine p.m. and said softly, “Darling, I think I am having another episode.” We both knew what was happening because this was her third attack in ten years.

While I was dressing, she called 911 and within three minutes a fire truck arrived in front of the house. Three young heroes came inside the house and readied my wife for the trip to the hospital. Their professionalism was profound, but tempered with humor and genuine caring. Thank, God, the station is just down the hill from where we live in Camp Verde, Arizona. As it turns out, all the ambulances were on call and we had to wait for one to arrive from Cottonwood, which is about twenty minutes away.

Each fireman had a distinct role and each performed their assigned tasks superbly. Their extensive training was evident and at no time did my wife or I feel distressed because we had to wait for an ambulance. Everything was under control and my wife’s wish not to be administered nitroglycerin was acknowledged and she was given morphine to ease the pain in her chest and arms.

The ambulance arrived with two paramedics and wifey was put on a gurney, loaded and whisked away. Meanwhile the firemen picked up every little scrap of paper or anything else dropped on the floor before they left with me following at their heels thanking them profusely for all their help.

After putting our dogs in their crates, I locked the house and headed for the hospital. When I arrived, my wife was in a room, comfortable and waiting for the ER doctor. She is OK, but will have to remain in the ICU while they try to figure out why this episode happened again.

In the meanwhile, I am going to submit this blog to the “Bugle”, which is our local newspaper. Our little fire department performs these miracles on a daily basis and they need to be commended for a job well done. We sometimes forget just how important emergency services are in our community, which includes the Marshal’s office. They too are just down the road from our house. My wife and I are grateful for the sense of security we enjoy because of these two departments.

Kudos, ladies and gentlemen, you deserve it!

I’m just saying,

Mitt Winstead

The Techno V-Rod

My friend and riding bud, Hoppy, has done the impossible. After I bought my first V-Rod and showed it to Hoppy, he wanted to know where he could get one. After many years of not riding, Hoppy thought the smaller Harley would be perfect. It is fast, yet lightweight and water cooled to boot. Buddy Stubbs Harley-Davidson in Phoenix just happened to have another used one and we drove down in his truck to check it out. The rest is history; he bought it and has been riding every weekend since.

One fine day a couple of weeks ago, Hoppy told me he wanted to add some new technologies to the bike. I informed him that his V-Rod had all the technology he would ever need. “Wrong,” he said with a smile. “My bike needs GPS and a frame-mounted camera.” “Are you serious?” I asked with a grin. “Yes, indeedy, Mr. speedy,” was his reply.

At first I thought he was just putting me on, but, low and behold, he added the GPS and camera. The bike now looks like a space vehicle ready for launch. The more I thought about it, the better I liked the idea. Now I have a riding partner that can take all the pictures while we are riding and we won’t ever get lost.

Personally, I don’t care for bells and whistles, but having the spaceship riding with me is kinda fun except for one thing. Hoppy always likes to ride last in the group. If I head in the wrong direction and look in the rearview mirror to his flashing lights, it’s too late. We will have to do the U-turn maneuver, which always spells chaos. He should ride in the lead, but no way. Mr. Technology will just have to flash his lights and photograph the rest of the group, including me, trying to make a U-turn without crashing and burning in the middle of the highway. The thought of having that maneuver on video with me in the lead and three or more Stooges following is blackmail looking for a place to happen!

Ride on,

Mittster

Frankly, I Don't Give a Damn!

Frankly, traditional publishers, I don't give a damn! If I die not selling another book, you can rest assured that using a POD (Print On Demand) publisher is light years ahead of trying to get a pompous, élite, self-serving, holier than thou, snobbish, dinosaur ass, traditional publisher to even open your manuscript envelope, let alone read it. I have heard that they have huge trash cans for unopened manuscript envelopes and use them to stay warm in the winter, which is impossible considering they are reptilian.

I have lost count of the horror stories concerning newbie writers being treated like subhumans at the hands of traditional publishers. Worse yet, if you were one of the very fortunate writers able to get signed by one of these publishing houses, your status went from subhuman to slave. Forget keeping the content of your novel. It will be tweaked into oblivion. Not to worry though; the odds of getting published are worse than winning the lottery!

Did I send my manuscript to some traditional publishers? Yes. But, after wasting about fifty bucks on postage, I decided it would be cheaper in the long run to hire a POD publisher. After much research and a little luck, I found the perfect publisher, Wheatmark, Inc.

Here is the gist of an e-mail I received today from Wheatmark:

“We received your Proof Approval Form and have released your files to the printer. You will receive your Author Sample Copies in about a week from today.”

In other words, my sequel murder mystery, Day Stalker, has gone to press!

That’s what I’m talking about…. While some newbie authors are waiting for word on manuscripts that will never come, I just had my second novel published. I am already working on the third novel, The Phoenix Code, anticipating finishing the trilogy next May.

What are you waiting for? Get your book started; a great adventure waits!

Write on,

Mittster

Critique This!

I must admit that having my work critiqued by strangers pisses me off most of the time. “What do you mean my book’s timeline is not clear? It’s clear to me, butt breath!” Oh, crap, there I go again taking critiques personally.

My first critique ever was from a schoolmarm that lives in California. She said my writing was at the ninth grade level, but that it would target a great range of readers around the world. Another good thing about writing at that level is that it keeps the PhD’s critiquing. After all, if it were not for writers like me, they would be mummified in their library chairs, with a glass of expensive scotch wasted, cigar cold and lifeless and an old phonograph needle skipping like a rock on a pond, repeating the same scratchy opera musical phrase over and over.

Don’t get me wrong, a person with PhD worked hard to reach that level. I just wish they would have some appreciation for those of us who have PhD’s in the school of hard knocks. We worked hard too, but with no recognition.

Does it piss off the PhDers’ to know that I don’t like Dr. Phil? Probably not, but that’s no sweat off my gonies!

Mittster

Identical Twinship

What does it really mean to be an identical twin? For me, it means sharing my life with my very best male friend right down to the molecular level. When we talk on the phone, it is like listening to my voice in an echo chamber. When we were younger it used to bother me, but now I find it amusing. Sometimes when I listen to myself talk, I think it is my brother’s voice I hear. Our mother always had to ask which son it was when we would call her. That had to be frustrating for a mother, among many other things.

My brother and I were not very close growing up. With us, being twins gave sibling rivalry a new meaning. We used to fight like cats and dogs. Unlike pictures of male and female twins who reveled in dressing alike, we were determined not to look alike in any manner, shape or form. Our attitude caused great discourse with our mother who would be ecstatic seeing her boys dressed alike to the Ts. As for us, we would just glare at each other with mayhem in mind. Mom finally gave up on the fashion statements about the time we graduated into junior high school. This was a good thing because we started looking at girls while we were experiencing interesting sensations behind our zippers.

We soon discovered that we had different tastes in the opposite sex. This enabled us to drift apart socially and thus spare us intense rivalry while in high school. As we traveled separate paths in young adulthood, we remained close in a surprising way. Call it psychic, sixth sense, or whatever, we still communicated via the hidden language of identical twins. When we were little, we had our own language that confounded doctors. We also had simultaneous dreams and would awake comparing notes. We were connected mentally no matter the physical distance between us, and this remains true even today.

My bro and I are approaching old age like a runaway freight train and life is catching up to us fast. Brother has been diagnosed with stage four prostate cancer and is fighting for his life. We were not prepared for the time when life would be short, and the prospect that our final days would be over sooner than later. I guess we thought we would live forever and would not have to deal with one of us passing. The thought scares me no end because I don’t want my brother to suffer the pain and agony of passing from this disease. Thank God for medical technology that will prolong his life and that when his time comes, he won’t suffer like our loved ones who passed before new technologies could help them.

One the other hand, I am comforted with the knowledge that we cannot really be separated. He is part of my heart and mind – our atoms will be forever connected speaking the special language of twins. I will follow my twin wherever he goes and we will be united forever in Devine Love and Peace.

Write on,

Mittster