Last Week’s News

And the old man said:
“Two-bits for a cup a’ coffee—
One dollar for a shot a’ booze!
At a dime a day it just don’t pay,
So I’m sleepin’ under last week’s news—
Shufflin’ around in my losin’ shoes—
Sufferin’ the critics and the bad reviews—
If I could play, I’d lay some blues on you!
If I could play, I’d lay some blues on you!”

Alone in the city on an empty street,
Lying to my soul about my aching feet,
When out from the shadows I chanced to meet
Myself at sixty years...

A toothless grin and wine-soaked eyes,
A spark of life that sadly tries
To win a word but quickly dies
On someone’s useless ears—
Someone’s worthless fears—
Someone’s ageless tears—
For far too many years it’s been:

“Two-bits for a cup a’ coffee—
One dollar for a shot a’ booze!
At a dime a day it just don’t pay,
So I’m sleepin’ under last week’s news—
Shufflin’ around in my losin’ shoes—
Sufferin’ the critics and the bad reviews—
Shovelin’ the shit and the skidrow stews—
You know, it’s all the same to me—
It’s all a game to me—
It’s all a shame to me—
But it’s all that I can see...

It’s just...
“Two-bits for a cup a’ coffee—
One dollar for a shot a’ booze!
At a dime a day it just don’t pay,
So I’m sleepin’ under last week’s news—
Shufflin’ around in my losin’ shoes—
Sufferin’ the critics and the bad reviews—
If I could play, I’d lay some blues on you!
Yeah, if I could play,
I’d lay some blues on you!”

©1975 Tim McMullen
All Rights Reserved

Photo by Chris McKenzie
©1975 All Rights Reserved

Last Week's News

An anniversary song for those married on April 1st. Okay, it's probably a fairly small demographic, but it includes my wife and I.


April Fool

Although this is a simple song—
A song of love I wrote for you—
I do not fail to comprehend
Complexity in all we do,

For I would be an April Fool
On this our anniversary:
I offer more than flower or jewel
To show how much you are to me.

I’ve loved you more than half my life;
I loved you long before you knew,
And when you promised to be my wife,
I felt no doubt in my own “I do.”

For I would be an April Fool
On this our anniversary:
I offer more than flower or jewel
To show how much you are to me.

Although this is a simple song—
A song of love I wrote for you—
I offer more than flower or jewel:
I said it all when I said, “I do!”

For we would be two April Fools
On this our anniversary:
We offer more than flowers or jewels
We said it all when we said, “I do.”

©1995 Tim McMullen   All Rights Reserved

April Fool

A Yellin/Alger tune that I heard the Jim Kweskin Jug Band do both live and on recordings. I chose this as part of my musical lecture, "Songs of the early 20th Century." Here I offer it as a silly tribute to "President's Day" wherein we eliminate Lincoln altogether and don't even mention Washington in our celebration of two of our greatest presidents.

Washington At Valley Forge (Crazy Words, Crazy Tune)

Written by Steve Gillette and Tim McMullen. Sung by Mackenzie Wasner and Seth Cook with Chad Cromwell on drums, Mark Polack on bass, Chris Leuzinger on acoustic and electric guitars, Dan Dugmore on steel, and Pete Wasner on piano and synth pad.

I Will, I Do

I Will, I Do 7/29/15

Written for Bijou, our Bichon Frise, who was with us for eighteen years.

A Ghost in This House

There’s a ghost in this place
Flashing at the corner of my eye
Everywhere a fleeting trace
I can feel and almost see her if I try

The ache, the lump, the tear all seem so strange
My chest and throat and eye all feel the change
I step out of the shower, and she’s nowhere to be found
The open door can stay that way ‘cause she is not around
Refrigerator pictures or another Christmas card
The vestiges, the fragments of old habits dying hard

There’s a hole in this heart
An emptiness that nothing seems to fill
I guess that has to be the hardest part
To want to see and know I never will

See those white cotton ears
That black button nose
Her pink-tongued smile
I blink, and then away she goes
Bound for something better heaven knows

The tiny bijou blanket and the old blue bijou bowl
The bijou license, bijou address, bijou in my soul
The bijou pillow stitched for her and given by a friend
The old truth never cut so deep: “That all good things must end.”

There’s a ghost in this place
Flashing at the corner of my eye
Everywhere a fleeting trace
I can feel and almost see her if I try

See those white cotton ears
That black button nose
Her pink-tongued smile
I blink and then away she goes
Bound for somewhere better heaven knows

There’s a ghost in this house…

©2007 T McMullen
All Rights Reserved


A Ghost in this House

From the CD, "I Could Write You a Song" by Tim McMullen
Vocal and guitar on intro—Tim McMullen
All other instruments and Recording—Tim Clott

"Just Because of You"

Suddenly, here comes fifty
Years since you were born
Your friends and family gather
To celebrate that happy morn
When you first came among us
This quick conviction grew:
The world is a better place
Just because of you!

Chorus:
Just because of you the world is brighter
Just because of you our burden’s lighter
Just because of you and everything you do
The world is a better place
Just because of you

But suddenly here comes fifty
And it’s not as you had planned
Filled with fading memories
Like an hourglass and the shifting sand
How often you have asked yourself,
“What am I really meant to do
Since dreams are merely stepping stones
To finding what is true?”

And suddenly here comes fifty
Years you’ve been alive
You’ve loved and lost and lived and learned
And wondered sometimes how you’d survive
But every time you faltered
Somehow you always knew
The world is a better place
Just because of you!

Repeat chorus, 1st verse, and chorus twice.

© 1999   Tim McMullen   All Rights Reserved

Just Because Of You

A love song.

Wouldn’t It Be Something?

Wouldn’t it be something
For you to know just how I feel?
Wouldn’t it be something
If I could make you feel what’s real?
The inner truth…my secret heart
Whether together or apart

Wouldn’t it be something
If you could see just what I see?
Yeah, it be something
But what would that something be?

Love, pure and simple
I said, “Love, strong and true”
Love, everlasting
Love, from me to you

Love, like a fire
Love, love, love ever new
Love, love, love deep and growing
Love from me to you



Wouldn’t it be something
If you could see just what I see?
Yeah, it be something
But what would that something be?

Love, pure and simple
Love, Love, Love, strong and true”
Love, Love, Love, everlasting
Love from me to you

Love, love, love like a fire
Love, love, love ever new
Yeah, Love, love, love 
	deep and growing
Love from me to you

Wouldn’t it be something
For you to know just how I feel

©2003 Tim McMullen
All rights reserved

Wouldn't It Be Something

A song written for Maury Muehleisen, Jim Croce's accompanist and musical partner, who died in the same tragic plane crash that took Croce's life. Maury's album, Gingerbreadd, was a very unique musical statement from a very young musician. My song, "Second-String Songman," refers both to the accompanist's guitar style as well as his status on the bill.


Second String Song Man
(For Maury Muehleisen)

Second string song man
Beautiful back-up band
Playing his heart out
For a part of the game

Singing the harmony
Stringing the melody
Seeing a small piece
Of another man’s fame
Nobody knew his name
Seems like quite a shame

Chorus:
Sang like an angel
Wrote like a demon
Held me against my will
And left me dreamin’

Sang about a song he’d heard 
And never heard again
I know the music’s haunted me
Just like it haunted him
The singing of a friend
Will never end

Chorus

He’d play those haunting melodies
Whispered fingers fly
He sang so high

Chorus, then Repeat First Verse

Second string song man
Beautiful back-up band
Playing his heart out
For a part of the game

©1974   Tim McMullen
All Rights Reserved

Second-String Songman (for Maury Muehleisen)

An homage to the songwriting of Jim Croce and Maury Muehleisen

Favorite Song

You may well become my favorite song,	
With a beautiful form and a beautiful style.	
Your words are enough to make me smile
And enough to make me want to sing along;
I haven’t felt that in a long, long while.	

You may well become my favorite page;
So many-colored pictures scattered there.
Pout and giggle, shout and stare:
Challenging the feeble chains of age
With a gentle beauty I am pleased to share.

Chorus:
So often I have been so close to you—
Supposed to do what I’m expected to—
It’s likely you’ll not know this song’s for you.

You may well become my favorite star,
A little bit of heaven in my night.
If I wish I may, I wish I might
Thank you for just being who you are
And for chasing weary shadows from my sight.

Repeat Chorus, then repeat first line of each verse...
And I haven’t felt that in a long, long while.

© 1973   Tim McMullen  All Rights Reserved

Favorite Song

A short story, the title of which is a double entendre referring both to a gift and a time. The time WAS 1985, in the middle of the Reagan era, but as with many of my pieces from that time, it is perhaps even more relevant now.

CHRISTMAS PRESENT 
by Tim McMullen

It had been a cold Christmas Eve, and the white, crystalline rooftops glistened in the morning sun like snow-capped peaks above suburban, multi-colored mountains. As I walked across the lawn to get the Christmas morning newspaper, the brisk rubbing of my bare hands and the snail-shell crackle of the brittle grass were the only sounds. I winced at the thought of snail shells, glanced across the street at Ron Logan's lawn, and remembered.

"Look, Jimmy," he'd cried. Then, holding the large, brown garden snail at eye level, he'd crushed it loudly between his forefinger and his thumb. "Here, eat it!" he had sneered and flicked it at my face.

That was over twenty years ago, but he hasn't changed much. It is ironic that of all the kids and all the families that have grown up on this block, Ron Logan and I are the only ones who have remained. As kids we never really got along; he was the bully of the block, and I was "the Big Brain"—at least that was the derisive epithet he delighted in hurling after me. Naturally, I took it as a compliment. As adults, we simply don't have many occasions for contact. Once in a while, he and his two boys will be out front washing their Bronco after some off-road excursion, and we'll exchange a word or two; for the most part, though, we have very little to do with each other.

I smiled as I looked at his place. The house was nearly covered in Christmas lights—red, white, and blue only—which poked up through the swiftly melting frost like a giant, abstract connect-the-dots picture. On one corner of his lawn was a large wooden scene of Santa and his reindeer; on the other, a life-size nativity scene. That’s Ron for you. Nothing halfway about him. Just like his annual Fourth of July extravaganzas: Nobody has a bigger or brighter display than Ron Logan and his boys. Two years ago they nearly burned the roof off the Mejia's patio, but we finally put the fire out with garden hoses.

Suddenly, a bird twittered and then another, and the tree by my chimney came alive with their rustling and chittering. My thoughts snapped back from the recollected scenes, and I paused above the yet un-collected newspaper and listened. Southern California is a mixed metaphor, after all, juxtaposing the frost on its rooftops with the birds in its branches. I had noticed one chirrup pitched higher than the others, and I realized that there must be a fledgling in among the older birds. The image of little John Logan, Ron's six-year old, intruded upon my thoughts.

Johnny is the only one of the Logan lot that I can tolerate, and, in fact, I really like him, even if I do feel a little sorry for him. More than once I've seen the gloating countenance of his older brother, Ron, Jr., suffused with fascination and pleasure at the whimsical torture of some insect or small animal unfortunate enough to have been captured in those merciless, pudgy fingers. It is his father's face as well, the face of the snail crusher. But John is different. His fists clench, and his gentle brow creases in disgust and horror at his brother's callous delights. And the little fellow has paid for such feelings.

"Get over here, you little sissy!" I've heard the father bellow.

"Take it like a man..." or "Boys don't cry!" the pugnacious taunts of his older brother have echoed, emulating the father's sarcastic tone.

Once, about a year ago, as I was carrying the trashcan around the corner of the house, I found little John hunched over on my porch, sobbing. His T-shirt front was nearly saturated, and he caught his breath in lurching hiccoughs as the tears surged down his cheeks and chin. Even the cement porch at his feet showed signs of the torrent.

"What's wrong, Bud," I said, sitting down beside him.

He brushed the butt of his fist back and forth across his eyes and tried to stifle his sobs. As a first grade teacher, I've seen enough unhappy children to know when they're inconsolable. I put my right arm around his heaving shoulders and pushed his wispy, brown hair out of his eyes with my left hand.

"It's alright, little buddy. You just go ahead and cry."

"M-m-y D-d-ad says that only s-siss...” he whimpered, and his shoulders convulsed even harder.

"Well, we both know you're not a sissy, are you?" I said.

"N-n-o!" he answered, as his sobbing began to subside. "But my brother says I am."

"Why don't you tell me what happened," I said.

After successive swipes of his sleeve at his eyes and nose, he began. "R-Ronnie got a p-pellet gun," he said, sniffing hard.

"Well, you're not crying because of that?" I said.

"No...but he...he shot a bird...a little bird..." his voice quivered, and a big tear began to fill the corner of his eye. I watched it swell and swell like the slow drip of a leaky faucet until it finally spilled out and rolled down his cheek. "He killed it!" he said, and the sobs began again.

I held his shoulder tighter.

"J-Jimmy..." he said, after a long snuffling silence, "I-I'm not a sissy..."

"No," I said quickly, "Of course you're not. Why would you even ask?"

"B-Because Ronnie s-says so.... He says it's just a s-stupid b-bird, and only a sissy would cry...."

"Ronnie is wrong!" I said, and all the old anger and resentment swelled. I looked over at the little boy's house, and I could imagine the moronic glee on the bully's face. "It is a sad thing when someone is cruel. When something small and helpless dies, it's right to cry!" I patted him on the head. He smiled a little and sniffed.

"I think so too, Jimmy," he said.

"Good boy, John," I said, and he began to walk slowly toward home.

As I leaned down to pick up the paper, it occurred to me that since that day on my porch, Johnny and I had not really talked as much as we used to. School had probably gotten more demanding for both of us. It certainly had for me. On the other hand, I wouldn't be surprised if his father had told him not to come around.

Peeling the plastic wrapper off the Christmas edition, I unfolded the paper and wondered whether the news on Christmas morn would be good or bad. The birds abruptly ceased their chirruping at the sound of a door opening across the street. I looked up to see Johnny run gleefully out of the house.

"Look, Jimmy," he cried. "Look what Santa Claus brought me! Look!"

He held his present in his hands, but I couldn't see what it was as he dodged through the maze of Santa and his wooden reindeer.

"What you got, Bud?" I yelled to him as he ran.

"Look!" he cried, then he stopped at the edge of my lawn and raised his present in his arms. There was a soft report, a whoosh of air like the sound someone makes when the wind is knocked out of them. "YAH!" he cried, "Got 'im!"

The boy ran to where the small form had tumbled from my roof, and he stood aiming his Christmas present triumphantly at the bloody ball of fluff. I looked back at the house with its nativity scene and its red, white, and blue bulbs. Then, trying vainly to blink back the burning behind my eyes, I turned to gaze once more at the two pathetic victims on my frost-covered lawn.

©1985 Tim McMullen
All Rights Reserved


Tim McMullen

Popular tracks