My friend Pickles

My wife, Sandy, just had to have another parrot for her birthday. She missed her Amazon named Albert, whom we retired to an aviary at a old folk's home because he was the meanest, baddest, nastiest bird on the planet.

I would come home tired after a long day's work to the happy screeching of Albert. He seemed so glad to see me, but that was just a ploy to get Mommy to open the cage door. I would go upstairs to undress for a shower. While I was undressing, Albert would slowly, but methodically climb up the stairs. He would be silent in his stealthy approach, always catching me unaware.

He would then run in a crouched position for my bare feet just like a vulture to the kill. I would jump up on the bed yelling for my wife to get her damned bird as he started climbing the bedspread slowly, beak and claws, toward my unprotected feet. It was right out of a Hitchcock movie!

Finally, our son went to give Albert a kiss and ended up with Albert hanging off his lip like a large piercing, with wings flapping and beady eyes alight with the joy of the bloody lip kill. Good-by Albert, have a nice life at the aviary!

You can understand why I was reluctant to spend hundreds of dollars for another killer in bright feathers. That was just a passing thought as we jumped in the truck and headed for a pet store. After all, it was her birthday.

Inside the store, we found a small, green, blue and yellow Meyer's parrot who seemed so very friendly toward my wife, but only casual toward me. What else was new? In any case, how much damage could this little fellow do? It turns out, a lot, but not to me.

We bonded, and to this day we take showers together while talking and seeing who can imitate whistles the best. He tolerates my wife, but no one else will take the chance of a bleeding finger or lip. Our daughter calls poor Pickles an evil bird, but that is just not true. He is the most loving creature I know. Of course, my tune would be different had he bonded to my wife like he was supposed to. I have found it is not the size of a parrot that counts. It's the sharpness of their beak!

I'm just saying,

Mittster

Animal Lovers' Delight

Once in a lifetime, if you are lucky, you may meet someone very special like Sandy Winstead. This lady will be a dear friend to any critter that passes by whether they need a home or not.

She also tirelessly donates her time and energy to the Connections Equine Therapy Program in Cornville, Arizona, helping challenged people of all ages learn more about themselves through the amazing healing love of horses.

I have seen the ecstatic smiles on the faces of clients as they ride for the first time in their lives while Sandy leads their horse around the arena and side walkers make sure they don't fall off.

It's not all fun with the horses and clients either. Sandy volunteers for horse care duty, which includes shoveling horse dukie, feeding, watering, brushing, hoof cleaning, fly spray and masks for all the horses. There is also the chickens who need feeding and the dogs who need their early morning treats.

Sandy is also on the board of directors in the capacity of secretary. She attends all the meetings and is the founder's personal assistant. You would think after many years as an office professional for The Dow Chemical Company in Michigan, she would have had enough dictating and such, but no, she does it out of love for the program, owner, volunteers, clients and all the wonderful animals at Connections, and her love of being a secretary.

I, for one, am amazed at her devotion and selfless dedication to volunteerism. Sure, I am sometimes a Connections Equine Therapy widower and, no doubt, prejudice. But, you have to know, I am also the proudest husband in the world!

Write on,

Mittster

War of the Worlds

It was September 1960 and finally I was a senior at Escondido High School in California. Of course, the status went immediately to my head and it grew to the size of the Goodrich blimp (were the other guys). It probably would have stayed that size were it not for my public speaking class.

The class was informed that the first assignment of the new school year was that we were going to do a live performance of H.G. Wells' War of the Worlds on local radio! The whole class was ecstatic about trying out for parts in the production. Scripts were handed out and we broke up into small groups (which were regulated by social class). My group, having no class whatsoever, huddled with desks drawn in a semicircle to practice the script.

As the students practiced their parts, the teacher would hover around the class switching characters to fit personalities. This went on for a week until all the parts were filled. I ended up with the radio announcer's part knowing my performance would get me noticed in Hollywood.

The day of the performance came and the class loaded into the yellow beast for the ride to the radio station. Students who didn't get parts would be allowed to sit in the station and watch the performance, while the principles huddled in the sound stage around a long table fitted with microphones.

As we sat down, a lump started forming in my throat, and sweat beads formed on my acne-covered forehead. For the first time, I was thinking, Oh, my God, this is real and everybody and their mother is going to be listening to me. Yes, as usual, it was all about me, except this time, me, wanted to be gone from this place, Now!

My performance was ghastly, and Hollywood never called. Worst of all, I didn't learn a thing and everything remained all about me until I finally got my P.h.D from the school of hard knocks later on in life.

Here is the deal, for the first time since that awful experience, I am going to be on a 30-minute radio interview from WTAN in Tampa Bay, Florida. We will be discussing my new murder mystery novel, Evil in the Mirror , and its sequel, Day Stalker. The program will be streamed live on the Web at http://www.tantalk1340.com/Tuesday, August 24, at 9:00 a.m. EST. Scroll down to The Book Club with John Austin which is located on the left side of the screen. You can also hear the program later in the day at the same Web address.

For those of you who missed my horrible performance the first time, this is your chance to hear what may turn out to be another bomb on live radio.

I'm just saying,

Mittster

Pleasures of a Small Town

Oh no, not another small town story! Well, if you don't like small town talk, read someone's blog who lives in the big city. Now there's a new one, bragging about living in the big city on a blog. Not!

As an author, quiet early hours writing my new novel is a must and Camp Verde, Arizona, provides me with just that. I like to start writing around two a.m. and that is when Camp Verde is so quiet that you can hear cactus grow, unlike the big city where bars are closing and all you can hear is screaming and gunfire. No thanks....

Of course, we are blessed with a Bashes', Crusty's Pizza, Wells Fargo Bank, and a hospital only seventeen miles away. What more could you ask for?

Camp Verde is the oldest settlement in the Verde Valley and we have our very own fort to boot (no pun intended). Some family names go back to covered wagons and homesteaders. You can still see real cowboys riding horses and herding cattle. We also have wildlife up the kazoo, including bald eagles, mountain lions, wildcats and elk, just to name a few.

Look, if I don't brag about this small, wonderful community, who will? There is just one thing though. I would love to live in a condo on at least the twentieth floor facing the river in Chicago. I know, it's hypocritical, but this is my blog and I can be hypocritical if I want!

I'm just saying,

Mittster

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