Monday, May 13, 2013
The "Eyes" Have It...Celebrating Sixty-Seven Years of Marriage!
Carolyn and Tim had the pleasure of Mel and Jennifer's company all last week (and vice versa). As you know, M & J do everything together, so when their eye doctor told them that they both needed cataract surgery, they scheduled them for the same day. Tim picked them up and brought them to Rowland Heights on Monday, took them to the surgery in Ontario on Tuesday (They were quite a hit in the Kaiser outpatient surgery), and to the post-op check-up on Wednesday. Thursday and Friday they relaxed: Mel worked on the video of their recent trip to China, Tibet and Mongolia on their laptop. Jennifer caught up on e-mails and played games of chance on her iPad.
On Saturday, Mel, Jennifer, Carolyn and Tim went to the Mark Taper Forum to see an excellent version of Joe Turner's Come and Gone directed by Phylicia Rashād.
After the play we had dinner at Babita's in San Gabriel (a great, gourmet "Mexicuisine" restaurant) to celebrate the McMullen's 67th wedding anniversary. We had a delicious dinner, and we all enjoyed the complimentary anniversary flan.
As you can see they both seem completely recovered from the surgery and in high spirits. Today, May 13, is the actual anniversary of their wedding. Married 67 years and still going strong. They are an inspiration to us all. Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad!
Friday, April 19, 2013
Yet Another Story From the Past for the Present
HAPPY HOUR, NO
HOST
A short story by
Tim McMullen
“It's
just a buzz... a kind of gnawing sound, that's all. I can't explain it. I
just feel it... buzzing…here!” He lifted his torso from the couch and
thrust his outstretched fingers against an area on his forehead just above
his nose, disturbing the beads of sweat that had collected there; his
eyes sought Weston's with an angry plea. “You gotta' help me!
It's getting worse!”
It was
a torturously hot day, and, typically, the air conditioner was out. Dr.
Philip Weston had just opened the windows of his fourteenth floor office
when Fanning had entered. The fellow had been in the office nearly five
minutes, and he had been raving continuously since he'd seated himself on
the psychiatrist's couch.
Weston
was experiencing the same reaction he always encountered with a new
patient. He wished that they could all be like the "old timers,” the
long-term patients who had learned not to expect so much. If they could
just accept the process and not be so hung up on "the cure”—but it
was always the same: the same old denial, "I'm not crazy! There's
nothing wrong with my mind!"; and the same old whine, "Help me,
Doctor! You've got to help me!”
Slowly,
he realized that his imagined words had coincided with the words and tone and
supplication of Fanning, his new patient. He opened his eyes just in time
to meet the intense and painful gaze of the man. He looked to be in
his ear l y to middle forties, with close-cropped dark hair; flecks of grey
salted his temples and crown. When he wasn't speaking, Fanning's mouth
drooped open peculiarly, almost as if it were trying to speak against his
will, and his eyelids, though apparently closed, fluttered uncontrollably.
For most of the last five minutes, however, he had been
speaking, albeit in an agitated, stumbling cadence. The words
lurched forth three or four words at a time, and his rambled
narration was anything but lucid.
Thus
far, in fact, Weston had not really decoded any of the man's exposition.
Instead, he simply sat and stared at the man's eyes. The eyes themselves
were very unremarkable; they were a typical light brown, and the shape and
size were also ordinary. But the look.... Deep in those eyes Weston saw
something that both gratified and alarmed him. He had probably read the
phrase a hundred times in stories and novels, and perhaps even in a
case study or two, but he had never actually encountered such
a phenomenon. Now, however, he had no doubt; if there was such
a thing as "tortured eyes,” this fellow definitely had them.
“Well
... " Weston drawled and then paused as he tried to pull his
attention back to his patient's still unidentified problem. After all, the
fellow was paying for the hour. Holding his pencil and pad near his chest,
Weston flapped his arms a couple of times in an effort to get air to his
perspiration-soaked armpits. "It really is a scorcher, isn't it, Mr.
Fanning? Sorry about the air conditioner...Isn't that just the way,
though?"
Fanning
remained motionless on the couch and did not speak.
"Well,"
said Weston, trying another tact, "sometimes it helps to run through
the details a second time. It helps us make certain that the facts are
straight, and it helps you to articulate more clearly what you feel is the
problem.”
"I
told
you the..."
“Yes,
I know, but slowly and calmly now,” interrupted the doctor. “Start at the
beginning and just talk it through again."
"Look,
I'm a neurobiologist! I'm not some loon off the street!" replied
Fanning.
“No-No...not
you, Weston observed silently, but his face was a mask of reassurance.
“I've
never been to a psychiatrist in my life ... and I never needed to,
either!" Fanning made a move to scratch his head, but his hand halted
in mid-flight; apparently puzzled, he gazed at it for a moment then laid
it back at his side.
“I've tried
five doctors, and they all say the same thing: 'No reason for that
bleeding, Mr. Fanning. You're fine. Nothing wrong with you ... physically!
Nothing a little peace and quiet won't cure." Fanning spoke calmly
and quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, but his eyelids and his
fingers twitched convulsively. "Peace and quiet," he sneered,
raising his voice. "Doctor, I haven't worked in nearly two months. I
haven't seen any friends for weeks. Christ, I haven't done anything for
days but sit and listen to it gnawing away. I CAN'T STAND IT
ANYMORE!" Fanning clenched his graying brown hair in his fists,
threw his head against the twill beige of the couch, and let loose
a sob.
Oh,
fine! A screamer, thought Weston. He turned his back and rolled his eyes.
Recovering himself, he cooed, in his best couch side manner:
"NOW,
now, take it easy. Take it easy, Mr. Fanning. We can't help you unless
you're willing to help yourself. We have got to work as a team." He
reached over and patted the man's shoulder, an expedient to which he
resorted only in extreme cases. He noticed a wad of cotton stuffed in
Fanning's ear. "Now then, let's go back to the first time you
heard this...uh...uh...buzzing."
Fanning
turned back and lay with his eyes closed; his body was more relaxed, and
he spoke now in a hoarse, whispered monotone.
"It's
quieter now ... not so bad... I can think. What ... what did you ask
me?"
"I
asked you when the buzzing began,” replied Weston.
“Oh,
yeah,” Fanning said, but he gazed off distractedly with a puzzled look, as
if he were a student trying to work out a difficult mathematical problem.
His face was uplifted and his eyes were nearly closed so that Weston could
see only the whites peeking from under the still flickering
lashes. “Funny,” Fanning continued, “When you touched my shoulder....
" His voice trailed off, and he looked at Weston.
“Yes?"
said Weston.
"Oh,
yeah. I've been thinking about when it started. I'm not sure. It kind of
crept up on me, you know? One day, about two months ago, I realized there was
this noise. I figured it was the air conditioner or the fluorescent lights
or something. Stevens and I were in the lab. It was real faint,
but piercing ... you know ... like fingernails on a blackboard from a
half-a-block away. It just kept... A-A-A-H-H! A-A-A-A-H-H-H!"
Fanning's
eyes slammed shut as he screamed, and his face went ashen. He squinted so
relentlessly and clutched at his brow so furiously that, for a moment, he
looked as if his entire face was being sucked into his eyes.
Philip
Weston viewed the stricken man with alarm. Fanning had been so calm, so
lucid, that Weston had nearly forgotten the seizures. He reached out,
almost instinctively, for an unprecedented second time. Much to his
surprise, the tortured man's writhing subsided at the touch. Weston felt
an ominous tremor run through his own body, and he was forced to fight
back a wave of nausea as he removed his hand.
Appearing
even more drained and vacant than after the previous seizure, Fanning
whispered rapidly.
“Stevens...Stevens
and I used to talk. It bothered him sometimes. 'You and I both know it's
the only way,' I'd tell him. 'They're doing it! You think they're
worrying?' He'd close his eyes and say, 'Yeah, I know.'“
"Uh,
excuse me, Mr. Fanning. I take it you and Mr. Stevens work together. Just
what sort of work....”
“I'm
sorry, Dr. Weston, that's classified military information. Besides,
Stevens doesn't work anymore, doctor. He's dead.”
“Oh,
I'm... I'm sorry,” said Weston, slightly mortified.
"How
long ago were these conversations to which you were just alluding?”
"Stevens
died nearly ten weeks ago ... Just about the time.... "
Fanning
suddenly beat at his scalp with his clenched fists. “IT KNOWS!” he
shrieked.
The
pad and pencil dropped from Weston's hand, and his mouth gaped open as he
stared at his patient. Fanning jumped up from the couch and stood
babbling, his eyes fluttering spasmodically. The cotton wad had dislodged
from Fanning's le” ear and had fallen to the floor. Blood spilled out of
his ear. It ran down his shirt and onto the carpet. Fanning continued his
crazed, stumbling monologue.
“I
watched him die. 'No host!' he screamed. I saw him...out the window...
screaming....”
Fanning's
eyes darted around the psychiatrist's office. Frantically, they searched
and searched, seeking but not seeing. Then he moved. Weston felt pinned to
his chair. Despite his confusion and alarm, he had been piecing together
small fragments of sense that he had gleaned from the poor creature's
ravings.
“AAAAHH!
AHH! AHH!” shrieked Fanning. He threw his head back in agony. “It
knows...“ he whimpered, blood gushing now from his nose as well as his
ears. “Stevens ... Stevens must have succeeded, but he never had ti ...
AAAIIIEEE!”
Fanning
dropped to his knees. Only then did he notice the blood pooling on the
carpet. Like a phantasm from some Vietnam vet's nightmare, his
blood-spattered, tear-drenched face grimaced convulsively then suddenly
relaxed.
“Stevens...I understand! No
host ... can't live ... “
Philip
Weston saw the man move, and he understood his intent. Hurling himself
from his chair, he moved to intercept Fanning's flight.
Fanning
screamed. Then, with miraculous agility, he coiled and lunged through the
window, screaming, "Yes! Y-E-E-S-S-S! N-O-O-O-O-!”
Weston
had reached the spot in time to grab at Fanning's leg as he disappeared,
but not in time to save him. His hand had merely grazed the man ' s leg,
but in that instant, he had heard Fanning's triumphant "Yes"
transformed into a “No” of despair. In that same instant, as his
fingertips grazed the dying, flying man, he, too, felt it!
A
million chalkboards and a billion fingernails screaked through what had
been his brain. Weston peered wildly around the room. Chainsaws ripped his
cranium, choking and chomping their way through the bone. He flicked his
tongue over his suddenly moist upper lip and perceived the peculiar, salty
taste of blood that had already begun to trickle from his nose.
“Janet!"
he shrieked into the intercom. “Call the Paramedics!" Instantly, the
heroic examples of his two tragic predecessors, Stevens and Fanning,
entered his mind, and he realized his deadly error. He tried to scream,
"Don't come in…Don't let them come in," but he could not lift
his hand to press the button of the intercom. As he lay, aware that
his consciousness was rapidly waning, he realized that he was
perhaps the only man still alive with the knowledge and power to
destroy the deadly virulence, but even as the thought insinuated
itself upon his mind, he knew it was already too late ... much too late....
©1985 Tim McMullen
All Rights Reserved
Labels:
horror,
politics,
psychiatrist,
psychologist,
satire,
science,
short story
Another Short Story From the Past For the Present
Anteater
A
short story by Tim McMullen
As he reached out, he
envisioned the scattered fragments of appendages; however, when he turned the
sponge over, he saw nothing but a mere black speck on the blue surface. He held
the sponge under the stream of the faucet and watched the remains swirl down
the sink drain.
Tom Jenkins had always felt
uncomfortable when he killed an insect. A sad, queasy feeling tremored from his
stomach to his throat, and he often apologized aloud.
“Sorry, buddy,” he would say,
“but you just wouldn't listen to reason!”
In fact, he often did try to
reason with them; that is, he gave them a chance by trying to herd them out of
the room. Spiders were the easiest: He just picked them up by their web or got
them to crawl on a kleenex, and then he walked them outside. And flies could
usually be coaxed out the door merely by his waving his hands and blocking
their flight.
“No, really! Thomas tries to
rehabilitate them and give them a college education,” his ex-wife would chortle
to friends as she lashed out to swat a fly or squish a spider.
Now he just stood there with
the water streaming down the drain. After turning off the water and wringing
out the sponge, he heard the drone of the clock radio from the bedroom. He used
the radio's “snooze bar” mechanism to indicate the time in ten-minute
increments.
“And now, here's Joanna with
an environmental update….”
“The President,” the radio
bubbled in buoyant feminine tones, “obviously elated over his latest tactical
triumph, said,
'Industry must be given a
chance to fulfill their responsibilities without a bunch of uninfor….’”
“Must be 6:20,” Jenkins
mumbled to himself, and he hurried off to tap the button.
Ten minutes later, standing
in front of the bathroom mirror, he reflexively caught his nose between his
thumb and forefinger and pinched his nostrils closed.
“Damn! The stench of that
dump is getting
worse,” he muttered.
When he and Anita had moved
into this new housing complex, they had been unaware that a dump was situated
nearby, if you could call over four miles away “nearby.” Then, about three
years ago, he and his neighbors had begun to notice a pungent though not
unpleasant odor, a smell resembling strong orange blossoms, wafting
sporadically through the air. Eventually, someone had linked the smell to the
dump, and the mystery had been solved. The smell was no longer orange blossoms,
however. Tom experienced a sudden olfactory deja vu: he remembered a blast of
dank, musty air gasping past him as he opened the ragged, rotted, wooden door
of an old shed on his grandmother's farm. He had never gagged before, and he
staggered; a sour, fetid stench flared his nostrils, and he fled from the shed
and the sight of the dead cat's rotting carcass.
This morning, the malodorous
miasma from the dump was a cross between that decomposing cat and one of those
portable chemical toilets after it's been sitting in the hot sun for several
days. He'd have to call Ted from the Tenant's Association about the outcome of
their last meeting. He almost wished that he had been there. They had really
pressured him to join them in their campaign against the refuse reclamation
operation.
“C'mon, Tom, you're the
perfect person,” Ted Rainer, the association president, had pleaded.
“Yeah, Tom,” added Jill Benton,
peering out through glasses whose lenses grotesquely magnified her mottled
hazel eyes. “You're a lawyer. You can talk to the people from the government
and make 'em understand how bad it is.”
“Yes…yes…well, I'd like to
help,” he had stammered, “but I… I…just don't have the time right now.”
It was true. His caseload was
quite heavy right now, and it would be hard for him to squeeze the extra time,
but that wasn't the real reason. The fact was that he just wasn't a joiner.
Besides, what did he know about it? People took it for granted, “Oh, you're a
lawyer? Well, can you tell me about…my dog, my aunt, my boss, my doctor, my
leg, my food, my car, my landlord, my fishing pole, my dump?” Tom laughed at
his list. He was only a junior public defender. What did he know about dumps or
dog food? Nevertheless, the stench from the refuse disposal site was getting
more odious; there was certainly no doubt about that. Maybe he really should
call Ted and find out how things were going.
The traffic report clicked on
as he cut a swath through the lather on his right cheek. He listened for a
moment to the banter of the deejay and the copter pilot. Reassured that there
were no major pileups on the freeway, he walked briskly to the bedroom.
“…that although the bill had
passed unanimously during last year's reelection campaign, a majority of the
committee's members, after some aggressive lobbying from industry, reversed its
vote and killed the bill. “
“Business as usual, I see,”
Tom Jenkins observed cynically. “Somebody unhappy about something, I'll bet.”
His hands dripping water and his face full of lather, he nudged the snooze
alarm with an elbow and went back to the bathroom.
That sad, queasy sensation
swept over him again as he gazed from the sink to the windowsill. A line of
black writhed back and forth in random movement.
“Jeez! Where the hell did you
come from?” he muttered.
He reached out instinctively
with his hand to sweep the inch-thick line of ants into the sink. Then,
thinking better of it, he grabbed a washcloth from the rack in the shower,
soaked it in the tub faucet, and then went for them.
In a second or two he had
cleared the windowsill. It was easy to spot the doomed vermin as they broke
rank and scampered across the muted pink tile and the dusty rose calico of the
wallpaper. As he rinsed the little, brittle, black bodies into the sink, he
pondered whether it was more merciful to wash them down with hot water or cold
water. If they were still alive, would the hot water scald them? Maybe, with
cold water, they could survive in the pipes? The thought pleased him. He didn't
necessarily want them dead ...he just wanted them out of his house!
“This is ridiculous, fellas!”
he said, wiping the final remnants from the basin. “What the hell has gotten
into them?” he wondered aloud as he rinsed the remaining lather from his face.
He was sitting on the side of
bed putting on his left shoe when the radio sounded again:
“We're in your corner,” sang
the jingle, “We're on your side...”
“Uh-huh,” Tom grunted
sarcastically.
“We know what you need, and
we make it with pride!” the chorus tittered.
“Well, this is what I need!” he said, reaching over and
pushing the bar to silence the ad.
His liberal, socioeconomic
sensibilities had been slightly appalled when these giant corporate
conglomerates had first begun to advertise.
“Another fine product from
your friends at 'Whateveritis'” or “Remember us? We're 'Whoeverweare!’”
“Talk about 'antitrust,'“ he
had quipped to George Sherman while watching an ad on security's little T.V.
during a recess. “How can one company own tractors, chewing gum, textiles,
sanitary napkins, canned fruit, plastic containers ...?”
By this time, however, he was
no longer alarmed at their diversity; nevertheless, the absurd incongruities
were still amusing. Pretty soon the whole country would be run by an oil
company, a soft drink conglomerate, and an insurance company.
With his “Haveaniceday”
coffee mug in his right hand and his suit coat draped over his left, he glanced
at himself in the full length mirror on the back of the closet door. He was
meeting with the department head to talk about a promotion, so he had dressed
carefully. Some of the guys in the department were too casual… some were
downright slovenly. If this promotion didn't come through, he had actually
contemplated going over to the D.A.'s office. At least those fellows took their
appearance seriously. He set the cup on the dresser and slipped on the coat.
This was his blue Brooks Bros.; he had bought it two years ago and had used it
only for special occasions like today. The coat hung well, and it still looked
new.
With eyes closed slightly, he
waggled his head back and forth at the neck, craning it forward and tipping it
back. A little stiff, but not too bad. Stepping closer, he examined his face.
Although he'd been careful, he did find a bit of dried shaving cream just
behind his right ear. As he picked at the crusty, white flecks, he noticed that
the hair around his ears was beginning to edge closer; it had only been two
weeks since his last haircut, but it just might be time for another. Finally
satisfied with his inspection, he picked up his coffee cup, flipped off the
bedroom light, and walked down the narrow hall.
With his finger still on the
hall light switch, he edged sideways into the kitchen; then, he flicked the
hall light, pulled the door shut, and turned.
“H-O-O-O-L-L-Y-Y SHIT!” he
sang out loudly.
The cup fell from his hand
and bounced across the floor; the coffee splashed, but Tom barely noticed it.
The entire kitchen was black. The light from the overhead kitchen lamp was
muted, but the morning sun filtered through the drawn curtains. His first
impulse was to turn and run; instead, he vaulted the window and threw the
curtains open. Pulling away, he clapped his palms together and then examined
them in the roseate light of the window.
Ants. Although legs and heads
had been mashed together on his palms, the remains of the carcasses were
identifiable, and some were still moving. One large black ant flailed his
forelegs frantically in an apparent effort to drag his crushed body out of
danger. His demonstrative antennae fluttered wildly in some secret ant
semaphore. Feeling slightly nauseated, Tom wiped his palms on his suit pants.
Now the walls caught his
attention. The kitchen was a writhing mass of ants. They were everywhere and on
everything. The refrigerator and the stove, once white, were no longer
distinguishable from what had been yellow walls and cabinets: Everything was
black and moving.
Already, he could feel them
on his legs and in his shoes. He kicked at the floor with his foot as if to cut
a path through the ants, but to little effect. He ran to the window and tried
to slam it closed. Instantly, his hands were again covered in the wriggling,
tickling things. He felt them flooding up his sleeves. Thrashing furiously and
beating at his arms, he sprang to the service porch and looked for a way to
fight them off. The porch, if anything, was even deeper in ants. After a moment
of heightened alarm, he grabbed a broom and a giant can of insect spray. Both
objects were covered in ants.
Pulling the lid off the can,
he aimed the nozzle at the windowsill, and holding it only a few inches from
the ants, he sprayed.
At first, the mist blew a
space in the advancing horde, and he actually saw a few of them swim for a
moment and then stop moving. Instantly, however, the empty space was filled
with new recruits. Rather than deterring them, the dead bodies merely served as
steppingstones over the poison-drenched sill, and the monsters swarmed in by
the thousands. Dropping the empty can, Tom Jenkins swatted at his neck and
arms; and then, he brushed at his face with both hands as if washing with ant
lather.
He grabbed at the black,
ant-covered broom; whirling around, he swept at the floor in wild, exaggerated
movements. He found that by brushing back and forth as rapidly as he was able,
he could keep clear about a three-foot circle. If he could hold his own for
just a minute, he reasoned, the ants would get wind of the danger and halt
their advance. Now that he had overcome his initial shock, he entered the
battle in earnest. He got a rhythm going.
One/two/three/four/five/six/strokes
at the floor, then one/two at the cabinets.
One/two/three/four/five/six—one/two—one/two/three/four/five/six—one/two! He
gained confidence every moment; the ants were faltering. He increased his
circle of unoccupied territory to nearly four feet, and one of the cupboard
doors was nearly clear.
Stepping backward to increase
his attack, he inadvertently placed his foot on the dropped coffee mug, and the
jolt sent him sprawling. Instantly, he felt a terrible pain, and he realized
that he had cracked his head against the corner of the stove. He felt the warm
ooze at the side of his head, and he slumped to the floor.
“NO!” he screamed, but when he opened his mouth, he felt the dirty
little things crawling allover his lips and tongue. He spat, “Phah! Phah!” and
sealed his lips tightly. He could feel several of the ants wriggling between
his lips as he crushed them closed.
Only half-conscious, he made
feeble attempts to stop the ants' advance. Like the cup and the appliances, he
was now completely submerged in the crawling sea of ants. As they poured into
his ear canal, they made a sound like horses on sandpaper roller skates. He
opened his eyes for an instant then blinked them closed, but it was too late.
Ants streamed across his eyeballs, and the room grew dark. He tried blinking
rapidly—he rubbed at his eyes with his fists—but the ants were too much.
His head throbbed
mercilessly, and it felt sticky somewhere. One of the advance guard entered his
left nostril; Jenkins snorted furiously, but more ants followed instantly. He
could feel their progress: waving their little legs and antennae about, they
lurched forward, tentatively, into his nasal passages. Breathing had become
almost impossible. He snuffed, and then gagged as several ants were sucked up
into his sinuses. He opened his mouth to gasp for breath and then involuntarily
swallowed a mouthful of the crawling invaders.
No longer able to move, he
felt them scurrying across his eyeballs, scrambling into his nose and down his
throat, scrabbling deep into his ear. Then, through the sound of their
continuous onslaught and his own stertorous breathing, he heard the click of
the radio.
“Next up...an alarming report
on honey-bees, but first….”
“We're in your corner,” sang
the jingle, “We're on your si....”
©1985 Tim McMullen
All Rights Reserved
Labels:
biotech,
business,
corporations,
corporatocracy,
ecology,
economics,
environment,
horror,
humor,
politics,
satire
Thursday, February 14, 2013
"Such a Simple Thing" Happy Valentine's Day!
I submit this year's Valentine song with a video that is a
bit of a departure. It uses brief snippets of rudimentary green screen/color
keying, but more significantly, it uses text to tell a some of the story of our
April Fools' Day wedding announcement, our wedding day affixed to our Annual
Half-a-Dozen Crazy Cousin's Easter Feaster Weekend Celebration, and our
subsequent "honeymoon" in Hawaii. Most of the images are from an album that no one else has
seen, and I am guessing neither Carolyn nor I have seen for at least twenty
years or so.
As I have explained elsewhere, Carolyn and I met in 1969,
when I was newly married and transferred from Whittier College to Chico State
so that my bride could continue at Chico, and I could complete my B.A. and
teaching credential. The first day I was there, my wife, Jan, was scheduled to
perform music at a concert with Dan, Carolyn’s boyfriend and soon-to-be
husband. Carolyn and I sat on a bed in a dorm room and talked while Jan and Dan
rehearsed. Two years later, Jan and I graduated and returned to Whittier. Three
years after that, following a very amicable divorce, I submitted my resignation
and retired from teaching, packed my car with my instruments and travel
essentials, and set off to try to make a living playing music. While visiting
Santa Rosa to see if my brother Tucker wanted to join me in this venture, I
made a visit to my ex-wife, who was back in Chico, and, while there, became
reacquainted with Carolyn who was also at the end of her marriage. After a few
weeks, I said to Carolyn, "I am returning to Southern California to get a
job. I would love to have you join me." She came for a visit in December
of 1974, staying with me at my cousin’s house in Laguna. Four months later, she
came down for good, and we have been together ever since.
Having both been married before, and having no religious
notion attached to the ceremony, we could find no reason to remarry. From the
day that she moved in, because of our love and personal commitment, we were
more married than most couples, regardless of ceremony. It was nearly eight
years later when Carolyn was taking a paralegal class in probate law (and I was
sitting in) that we realized the ridiculous discrimination and undue burdens
placed on committed couples who were not legally married. This is one of the
reasons that I have been so outspoken for so long about the rights of same-sex
couples to the legal benefits and protections of marriage.
On the spot, we simultaneously arrived at the conclusion
that the most expeditious thing to do would be to get married. We didn’t want
to make a big thing of it, however, since we had already been together eight
years. We had always considered April as our anniversary month, but we never
really had a set date. We naturally realized that April 1st would be the
perfect day for our marriage. We decided to get married by a local justice, but
the Whittier Court only did marriages on Fridays. We had to wait just over a
year for April 1st to land on a Friday. It was quite fortuitous, really, because,
had we missed that day but stuck to our plan, we might have had to wait as much
as six more years for the right day to roll around.
We asked our friend’s Dick and Betty Harris to be witnesses,
and we told no one else. Carolyn created a very clever wedding announcement
that was sent to arrive on April 1st. That announcement is the opening of this
video accompanied by the beginning of my song, “April Fools.” Our cousin,
Beverly McMullen, not really sure what to make of the note, came to the Whittier
Municipal Court and took a few pictures of the event. Those pictures are also
included in the video.
We then traveled to Big Bear, California, to share our
wedding weekend with our cousins, Sam and Becky (McMullen) LaRocca, in their
parent’s cabin. The pictures that Becky took are also included in the video.
Finally, we traveled to Hawaii for our “official” honeymoon, thanks, in part,
to a wedding gift from my parents.
A few of those pictures are here as well.
We hope that you have a Fun and Happy Valentine’s Day!
Such a Simple Thing
Such a simple thing
As your hand in mine
Becomes the perfect
Valentine
Or this wedding ring
As our lives entwine
Another perfect
Valentine
And this song I sing
Seeks in every line
Another perfect
Valentine
A token of our love
A pledge forever more
With thanks for what we’ve had
And joy for what’s in store
Such a simple thing
Warm, sweet eyes that shine
Another perfect
Valentine
For the love we bring
Is the love we find
Another perfect
Valentine
A token of our love
A pledge forever more
With thanks for what we’ve had
And joy for what’s in store
If fate were such that at its end,
They offered one more chance,
My one request, Dear Carolyn,
Again to join you in that dance
Such a simple thing
As your hand in mine
Becomes the perfect
Valentine
For you soothe life’s sting
With a love so fine
My thanks to you
Dear Valentine
And this song I sing
Seeks in every line
Another perfect
Valentine
©2013 Tim McMullen
All Rights Reserved
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
A Short Story from the Past for the Present
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
Labels:
Christmas,
fiction,
gifts,
guns,
presents,
short story,
Tim McMullen,
toys
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Clean House in the Senate: Fix the Filibuster!
Here is the latest letter that I e-mailed to my Senators:
"The Greatest Threat to Democracy is Hypocrisy!
Seek
Truth! Speak Truth!" Tim McMullen
The tyranny of the majority is a real threat, especially in
this age when infotainment and partisan polemical "gotcha' gossip"
has replaced news reporting; when public service and "equal time" has
been eliminated from the "public airwaves"; when out of context
snippets and sound bites get deliberately distorted to become never-ending
falsehoods used to smear opponents. Clearly, the framers of the constitution
were very wise to create checks and balances to protect the helpless minority
from the ruthless majority.
In politics, however, an even greater threat has emerged,
the tyranny of the minority. In California, since Prop. 13, where a simple
majority vote imposed a supermajority threshold to pass budgets and raise
taxes, gridlock and petty political pandering has created crisis after crisis
in this once great and solvent state.
More importantly, in the Senate of the United States of
America, since the election of President Barack Obama, the Republican minority
has converted the quaint and sparingly used "filibuster" coupled with
the practice of "secret holds" to absolutely subvert the process of
governing.
As both a constituent and supporter, I am urging you, as
vehemently as I can, to help get Congress working again for the American
people. Reduce the hypocritical tyranny of the minority by bringing common
sense to the filibuster.
I know that some are calling for the complete elimination of
the filibuster, but I do not. I value the moral imperative romanticized in
"Mr. Smith Goes to Washington" or actualized in Senator Bernie
Sander's gallant filibuster against the ill-advised and unproductive "tax
deal" extracted from the President by Republican extortion.
Therefore, I call on you to vote to alter the implementation
of the filibuster when the new Congress convenes in January. Eliminate the
ability of the minority to prevent necessary legislation and nominations from
even being discussed in the Senate.
Governance and legislation should be the result of
principled debate and compromise not petty, partisan, procedural ploys.
We need to restore the concept of the "loyal
opposition" by reducing the ability of a politically motivated few to
thwart the needs of the many. Fix the filibuster NOW! Then, work to eliminate
the abuse of the secret hold.
As always, thank you for supporting people over profits,
integrity over iniquity, honesty over hypocrisy.
Respectfully,
Tim McMullen
P.S.: I did not send along the picture of "Bijou, the Dog of Democracy," but perhaps I should have.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Note to the President: Resurrect Reagan's Response
"The Greatest Threat to Democracy is Hypocrisy! Seek
Truth! Speak Truth!" Tim McMullen
Political hostage-taking and economic terrorism by the
Republican minority who seek to ravage social programs while increasing
corporate and military giveaways under an "austerity" regime have
been wrong for twelve years as they have devastated our economy. Addressing the
bank-created foreclosure fiasco, health costs, unemployment, crumbling
infrastructure, alternative energy, education, worker's protections can, on the
other hand, spur the economy and reduce unemployment.
There are many areas in which compromise can produce
positive results, and if the Republicans come to the table willing to work for
the common good, then immediate progress can be made. If, on the other hand,
they continue to kowtow to the Tea Party obsessions with decimating the public
sector and destroying government while transferring all economic wealth and
political power to the corporatocracy and decimating the rights and fortunes of
the working class, they should be opposed and thwarted absolutely.
We have seen where four years of capitulating to their
obstinance got us. Now we need to put forth solid, reasonable proposals,
including cuts and increased revenue, that will get us moving after eight years
of foolish, ideological economic failure followed by four years of
politically-imposed and politically-motivated stagnation. Cutting or
privatizing programs like Social Security, Medicare, and Medicaid, programs
that have worked for many decades, could not be more ill-advised.
The American people said it across this country in the
recent election. Join us, Mr. President. When they come with their threats to
drive us off the cliff if we don't give them everything on their wish list,
answer them with the immortal words of their idol, Ronald Reagan. "Just
say, 'NO!'"
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Look, Ma! No politics————Townes Van Zandt: Close Encounters of the Musical Kind
Two of my favorite Townes Van Zandt songs are "Second
Lover's Song" and "Don't You Take it Too Bad" because they defy
the chorus/verse form and create an organic meander to a gentle profundity.
I first stumbled upon Townes's music in 1969 while going to
college in Chico, CA, when I found his first album in a supermarket cut-out bin
for 10¢. I bought it because it was produced by Jack Clement. In both his
playing and his writing, I instantly recognized in Townes a kindred spirit.
Six or seven years later Townes was booked into the Roxy in
LA (odd venue for a folk singer). The opening act was Dianne Davidson (the
first to cover "Delta Dawn") and Tracy Nelson (whose powerful
"Down So Low" is another big favorite of mine).
Their first set was great, but about halfway through Nelson
and Davidson's act, Howard and Roz Larman (I had played on their Folkscene
radio show and performed for their big Folk fair fundraiser for KPFK a few
months earlier) asked me and my wife if we wanted to meet Townes. I jumped at
the chance. He was very gracious and fun to talk to. He invited me to come back
after his set before the second show of the night and the next night as well.
As much as I admire Tracy Nelson and love her work, I do not regret having
missed two nights of her sets in order to have spent those hours talking about
music and songs with one of my
musical idols.
I was fortunate enough to see Townes play a few times many
years later at McCabes, several times sharing the bill with Guy Clark. I spoke
to Townes fleetingly a couple of times out in the lobby, but I never mentioned
those two nights and how much they meant to me. I wish I had.
Though I wrote two songs about the tragic death of Phil Ochs
("Heroes are Hard to Find" and "Come This Far") and one
about Maury Muehleisen (Jim Croce's musical partner who was killed in the same
plane crash—my song is titled "Second String Songman"), I still have
not written one for Townes despite my being a huge fan.
How huge? It's not just that I own more Townes Van Zandt
recordings in my 10,000 LP and CD collection than any other artist, or that I
have several copies of his songbook and all of his available videos (plus all
of my Beta and VHS recordings of his TV performances). It's not that for the
last thirty years, the only two posters that have hung in my office are two,
huge, framed Milton Glaser posters, "From Poppy with Love" and
"The Poppy Foundation: Townes Van Zandt and The Mandrake Memorial."
(Needless to say, my wife, Carolyn, is a very understanding woman). It's not
that my wife's aunt (only a few years older than us), when she heard that
Townes Van Zandt was one of my favorite songwriters, said, "Really, he's a
songwriter; why, I went to junior high school with him in Boulder,
Colorado." Nope, it's more than that.
In 1974, I quit my tenured teaching job to pursue
songwriting and performing. To make ends meet, I worked in a record store in
Whittier, CA. One day, while working at the store, I got a call from John Lomax
III, Towne's manager, who wanted to talk with me personally. I was not the
owner or the manager of the store; I just sold records. However, I had just ordered
six copies of Towne's songbook (for me, my brothers, and a couple of friends).
Lomax informed me that our little store, Lovell's Records, in Whittier, sold
more Townes Van Zandt records than any store west of the Mississippi. This, of
course, was because I played his albums all the time when I worked and talked
him up to anyone who asked who that was on the player. Being a college town,
many kids and locals were intrigued by his music.
During that phone call, Lomax asked if I wanted to be the
West Coast distributor for Townes's songbook. Since I was again starting to
substitute teach (long story about love and serendipity), I didn't think that I
would have the time—besides, in all honesty, Lomax seemed like kind of a sleazy
character—still, in hindsight, I do wish that I had pursued that opportunity if
only for the chance that it might have brought more personal contact with
Townes.
Who knows, I may still write that song for Townes someday.
Monday, October 8, 2012
"I'm the Bain of My Existence"
I agree with Mitt Romney:
There are a lot of reasons not to elect him!
Labels:
Bain Capital,
elections,
government,
guitar,
lying,
Mitt Romney,
Paul Ryan,
politics,
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Tim McMullen,
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My Latest Birthday Song for Carolyn
Another love song with pictures from our many travels.
Labels:
acoustic,
birthday,
finger picking,
guitar,
love,
Love song,
photos,
Tim McMullen,
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