The World According To Chumley, Part Two.

"People tell me it's a sin,

To know and feel too much within.

I still believe he was my twin,

but I lost the ring.

He was born in spring,

but I was born too late,

Blame it on a simple twist of fate."

--Bob Dylan from “Simple Twist of Fate" from the LP Blood On The Tracks, 1975.

Chumley is such a “Chumley.”

My mother called and commented how “rough” Chumley looked from his pictures. “He just looks like a mangy, alley cat,” she said.

Ouch!

Chumley and I disagree.

As I type this, the more than loyal Chumley is sitting by my feet.

He purrs when he sees me.

He loves to be in arms length and loves a good scratch on the base of his tail or on his scalp. He has been more than therapeutic during my recent personal woes.

He was simply shaved, which adds to his “alley cat” appearance.

Chumley takes me as I am, and vice versa.

To be honest, we all need more “Chumley’s” in this world.

Chum and I have started a journey together. I do not know the circumstances that have brought us together, but I know we travel down a few roads together.

Guinness is on the same path.

Unfortunately or probably (the exact definition of the word probable for this one) Foggy is on the same journey.

It happens.

I love my Chumley because he is so independent; other than Pep, the most independent cat I have owned. I also love his reliability and his versatility. He is reliable as a greeter and a “clingy” cat that wants attention. He is versatile in that he wants his terms when dealing with others, and he wants others to want him.

The dichotomy that exists in Chumley exists in us all. He is a very “Zen” cat. As I compose this, he is sitting with his belly up. He wants a belly rub, yet as I do so, he gives me the “Love bite” (more like a gnaw) as he is over-stimulated. He is confused between what he wants and how much he wants it—and aren’t we all?

He is very human, my cat-friend Chumley. Believe me, I am not imagining human attributes to Chumley, I am merely pointing out the obvious.

Today, I fell asleep on the coach, as this is my SPRING BREAK and I enjoy naps. Chumley and Guinness slept entwined in one another as I dosed to the land of Nod. Foggy came downstairs twice and neither cat seemed to care. They were content with each other.

Maybe that is the key to life: contentment.

Chumley’s bizarre circumstances has led him to my home—an owner who died; a litter mate or partner cat that needed to be put down; a new owner who did not understand his behavior--the dead owner' sister-in-law who clamimed Chumley attacked her cat; his alleged “depression,” which drew sympathy from me; my agreement to foster him; and my eventual adoption of him.

It was an easy choice for me as Chumley gained a place in my heart. Again I note: he is such a Chumley.

In her relentlesss feeling of putting things in a "good light," Mom also said that he (Chumley) sounded like a “hoot”—and for a cat, he is. Chumley would appreciate that comment. He possesses a “spirited” nature. Ma and Dad met Chumley, and like my good friend Milt, felt he was a good mix with the other cats I own--or rather own me.

In typical Chumley fashion, he attacked the window this weekend because I put squirrel corn out and the rodents migrated to the feeder outside the downstairs window. Chumley let out a war-whoop as he sat on the ledge. Eventually he gave way to purring; as Chum is “right with nature.” Let the squirrels eat--as Chumley would say--the fun is watching them.

Thanks Chumley for taking this journey with me; you are a great friend and an awesome traveling companion.

"I'm OK; You're OK; We're All OK!"

“All dressed up,
No place to go.
Hey monkey, when you gonna show your face around me?
I know all the wrongs and rights...
And I just want a little light to fall on me.

Hey monkey, where you been?
This lonely spiral I've been in...
Hey monkey, when can we begin?
Hey monkey, where you been?

We'll I'm all messed up...
That's nothing new.
Hey monkey, when you open up your blue eyes,
I don't know if I'm wide awake or dreaming,
But all I ever need is everything .

Hey monkey, where you been?
This lonely spiral I've been in...
Hey monkey, when can we begin?
Hey monkey, where you been?”

--Adam Duritz of The Counting Crows from “Monkey” from the LP Recovering the Satellites, 1996.

People are worried about me; which I appreciate—but honestly I am fine.

I guess I was a bit bewildered as I told some folks at work of my personal “situation"—perhaps support—perhaps explanation—perhaps perplextion—yeah, I know; not a word.

As someone said to me recently, “So are you working on no more ‘dark’ Eric?” We laughed a bit and I appreciated the sentiment. Yes, no more “dark” Eric.

On the other side of the aisle, someone allegedly told the students—when this person heard through a rumor mill that I was going through the separation—that no one could blame Pamela and that I was a jerk. I do not mind if someone dislikes me, hates my guts, or whatever—but I would rather have a fight on a one-on-one and one-to-one basis; not through innuendo and shared students. Besides, neither Pam nor me want animosity for each other or for ourselves.

Actually, from this person, I might expected it—and I will say nothing to this person, of course, because the comments came from the kids—and we know how kids can be—so I am not sure it was even said; much less said accurately. And no, the kids did not tell me as much as I overheard a conversation.

Gosh, it all sounds so "high school," but in any work situation, the rumour bandwagon plays loudly and often upon the deaf ears of logic.

So I take the worried looks, the commentaries, the insults (if they truly exist), and the thoughts of concern; and I appreciate them all—as I note quite truly, I am fine. I am OK!

The cats help me out as I honestly believe they may have noticed the change.

Guinness quits wandering around looking for someone else to come home, Chumley would not be bright enough to notice—he wants his food, and Fog…well…"Fog is Fog" and she is growing older. She pretty much hangs out in bed most of the day and enjoys her “mature” years in the lavish-style of the plush cushions of the pillows. She is fine, of course.

I chose the Counting Crows lyrics because if I substitute the word “Monkey” with “Chumley,” it somehow makes more sense to me at this time in my life. Chum takes me as I am and wants little explanation or remorse—he lives in the moment—and honestly I admire his convictions and solitude.

So I am well, Pamela is as well. Guinness is adjusting, Foggy is accepting, Dylan is saddened to a degree but he will soon have a new playmate according to Pam, and Chumley is perhaps the most benign.

“Hey Chumley, where you been?”

Our Place In The World

“Then I crossed the Gates of Oblivion,

In the dark moor my spirit could fly;

I am glad about my decision,

As my word could always testify.

With the Muses I danced in the night,

Beneath the full Moon I felt the Spell.

And its poetry gave me its fine old bite;

And I could never say farewell;

And the music in my heart;

Filled my illusions with the Art;

And the angels showed me

Which is the way of the stars”

--Dark Moor from the LP Dark Moor—2002.

I am not much of a “world traveler;” which does not really bother me—but I would like to go to more “worldly” places.

I have been reading “The Historian” by Elizabeth Kostova, (Keith recommended it) which is the story of a woman whose father has fulfilled this bizarre legacy of hunting down Vlad The Impaler: Dracula.

Of course it is a gothic-style horror novel, in which historical analysis of Vlad is presented while noting that he has survived all of these centuries because he is a member of the “undead;” he is the Lord of the Vampires.

Along the way in the discovery of Dracula’s tomb, Kostova takes the reader through the darkest regions of Budapest, Turkey, Romania, Croatia, the Czech Republic, Russia, Transylvania, and many “darker” regions of Europe and Asia. It is historically presented as a virtual roadmap of these fascinating places that I have never seen and now wish to travel towards. Kostova had toured these places as a younger woman and took relentless notes in her research of the book.

The reader is given a great novelization of vampires and a historic trip with their imaginations—all historically accurate—well except the bit about vampires. The main characters are all historians and great attention is given to librarians and historical research. For me, it is a perfect book.

As many of you know, I started a “Metal Moments” site (go here: http://sweetwoodsmetalmoments.blogspot.com) and I was curious as to how much of a world traveler it would be. In the last 100 hits, here are some interesting persons from unique places that visited the site: Madrid, Spain; Dac Lac Ha Noi, Vietnam; France; Budapest Hungary; the UK; Salvador, Brazil; Vitria, Brazil; Buenos Aires, Argentina; Ottawa, Canada; Sudbury, Canada; Ontario, Canada; among others.

That to me is fairly cool and I always wonder—since they do not comment—what they think of the site.

The internet is making the world a smaller place and perhaps we can learn from one another.

A Piece of America Died

“I remember

When you were down,

And you needed a helping hand;

I came to feed you

But now that I need you;

You won’t give me a second glance.

Now I’m calling on citizens from all over the world

This is Captain America calling…

I bailed you out when you were down on your knees;

So will you catch me now I’m falling?”

--Ray Davies from “Catch Me Now I’m Falling” from the LP Low Budget, 1978

Wow; they did it—they killed CAPTAIN AMERICA!!!!

Well, it’s a comic book; no character ever really dies.

A friend of mine at work and I joked about it. I said “clone” he said “aren’t there usually cyborg’s or something like that?” in a sarcastic manner.

So “Cap is Dead;” well it has happened before. Let me comb through my collection’s past issues to see who has “bit it” before.

From DC:Batman broken back; Robin dies; Green Lantern Hal Jordan; Green Arrow Ollie; Flash Barry Allen; Wonder Woman; Captain Marvel’s Shazam; Superman; Sandman; many “Golden Age” characters—Dr. Midnight, Atom, Johnny Thunder, Black Canary, Blackhawk, Mr. Terrific, Star-Man, and more.

From Marvel:Captain Marvel, Bucky (Cap’s sidekick), The Hulk, Thor, Elektra, some of the X-Men, some Avengers (Swordsman, Hawkeye, Ant-Man, Black Goliath, and some minor characters) cast members like Gwen Stacy, Norman Osbourne, and the like.

Somehow in revivals, the character’s offspring take up their cause, or there is a clone, a mutant, a cyborg, a “go back in time” story, or something equally impossible that happens. It is the joy of marketing and comic book merchandising that really decides who bites and it and why.

One must admit, even in comic book logic, Captain America (a soldier from the 1940s) has to be pretty dang old. I mean I understand that he was frozen in “suspended animation” for twenty years—but even though—he was rediscovered in the mid 1960s, and that would put him at 25-ish; he would now be at a minimum 65 years old—a bit elderly to be slinging shields and beating the crap out of people. I know the soldier formula keeps him younger, but come on now. Then again, Iron Man and the rest of the Avengers would be that old as well.

So is this a ploy to strengthen some interest in Captain America’s sluggish sales? Perhaps, but the less “business” side of me wants to note that Marvel wrote a story in their “Civil War” series that takes issue (pun intended) with America’s involvement overseas, the Patriot Act, and the roll of “Civic” responsibility and government control.

Is the “death” of Captain America a not-so-subtle commentary about this current administration—I cannot tell, I would suggest to read the comics—but one cannot not help and note a few parallels.

In a story that made news on Yahoo, Entertainment media, and other outlets, one would note interest in the comic has certainly peaked.

Like the real world, America is down for a bit—will it correct itself? Oh we all know it will.

Rest In Peace Captain America, you worthy "super" soldier—we know you will rise again as someone takes the Shield and defends America once again. We understand if it is not the Steve Rogers we all know and love, but we thank you for serving us so faithfully all of these years.

She's back...The Return of The Media Whore

“I entertain by picking brains;

Sell my soul by dropping names;

I don't like those, my god, whats that?

Oh its full of nasty habits when the bitch gets back.”

--Sir Elton John from “Bitch is Back” from the LP Caribou, 1975.

Ann Coulter is a freaking nut-job. Seriously.

She is just out calling John Edwards gay, but not only that, flinging a anti-gay epitaph his way (she used the word “faggot”).

Sadly, this media whore gains more attention than any issues; but that’s OK folks, because we all know the Democrats have the media bias. Uh-huh.

Recently our local paper has dropped the whore’s column, much to everyone’s happiness who have a brain. They also dropped Molly Ivin’s column as well. Molly was a free-thinking woman who did not lower herself to bash people. She unfortunately passed away. Coulter is a neurotic, crazy, moron who the lap dogs of the Republican party “prostitute” to say their nasty words. She and Sean Haniity combine for the one-two "idiot" punch that lowers itself to be broadcast on such fine networks as FOX. Rommel was the Desert “Fox” wasn’t he? Therefore, Nazi’s run Fox News—well, I am just using their skewed version of logic.

In any event, my hope is to all of you republicans that read this (there are a few left I assume because the party is not bad—just the ding-dongs who run it), that you will please stand up and let Coulter, (After all my pills, wow what a) Rush Limbaugh, Bill (Let me Call You Sometime) O’Reilly, and Hannity know what fools they are.

The Republicans are looking dumber and dumber as they allow the fools to do their speaking.

I mean, honestly, even Dick Cheney seems smarter than these folks—not sure always certain about President Bush on the “smarts” thing; but at least President Bush is not as sinister as Coulter, Hannity and other members of what I like to call the "Hatchet Crew."

That’s the closest I will go to giving this party any sort of compliment. Blame it on the “Media Bias”—that is the Republican Media Bias that no sane person could agree to join.

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Ouch!

“I'm the holes in your arm
When you're feeling the shakes
I'm the lump on your head
When you step on the rake

Yes I'm pain
I'm just pain
Dear old pain
You need your pain”

--Alice Cooper from “Pain” from the lp Flush The Fashion, 1980.

I inherited a fine “condition” from my father’s side of the family (he and Grandpa Cliff) and my mother’s side of the family (Grandpa Lou) called gout.

It is basically crystallized uric acid deposits in one’s joints. The joints harden; cause swelling, redness, and pain—severe pain.

I have had eye surgery, open heart surgery, visits to the dentists, and my arm broken and I can honestly attest to this: Gout is just as painful, if not more so, than the above.

Before the heart surgery and coumadin, I could take medicine that would relieve it in about two days. Now, nah…the blood thinner will not allow me to take them.

My father, when visiting me for surgery, had it. He was miserable—he was in more pain than I was experiencing, trust me.

They once believed that gout was caused by purine-rich food like kidneys, livers, and the like. Uh-huh, like I am going to eat that crap.

My cause is usually “beer.” I had a few beers Monday evening and it flared up on Thursday. Dehydration also seems to do it.

I have discovered some other things that cause gout for me—Smartees (the little candies) and Spree and Sweet-Tarts. There is something in them that triggers it, and for the life of me, I cannot figure it out.

That “Red Hot” flavoring on certain chips seems to trigger it.

Not drinking enough water does it.

So now I take steroids—hey I will be bigger—yeah, baby.

I drank at least a gallon of water yesterday.

It is becoming better but still, hard to move.

When it kicks in, the kids tease me and refer to me as "Long John Silver" or something. One kid said, “Why are you walking funny?” I always want to answer, "To have you notice and ask a silly question." In reality, I know they care.

Yesterday when I went to the doctors, I was passing a woman who had her foot in a cast and was shuffling her feet. I walked by dragging my foot. Her husband gave me a dirty look, like I was mocking her, and I noticed the “How-insensitive-are-you" glare.

“Gout,” I said as I pointed at my foot.

“Broken toe,” said the woman.

“My dad had gout, he said it hurt like hell,” said her husband. “Good Luck with it.” I wished them the same, and then remembered that nearly everyone’s grandfather, father, great uncle; some older person in their family has this damn thing. Seriously, when I am stumbling around, and people ask what is wrong, I explain, and they say “Oh my Grandfather had that. Aren’t you a bit young?”

Ah…I only inherit the best of all worlds.

So now I need to lose weight (overweight is a factor), stay away from beer (which may help the overweight aspect), and not eat Smartees.

Oh, and it does “hurt like Hell.”