Mick Farren has personal observations on the horror, the horror.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
I never considered I had much in common with Holly Golightly or even Truman Capote, aside from maybe knowing the words to “Moon River.” I’m now one hell of a long way from Tiffany’s, I’ve never had any inclination to stare at bling in a shop window, no matter how prestigious, and I quit smoking and wearing big sunglasses. I am not – nor ever have been – a euphemistic prostitute (although some might debate that) and I don’t seek a rich husband. Seemingly, though, Ms Golightly and I are both woken earlier than we want to be by demanding and wholly unreasonable ginger felines who want things. I have pointed out to Finn the cat that he is so much better treated than the Golightly furry companion. She didn’t even bother to give her unfortuate pal a name, misplaced him in the rain, and certainly didn’t buy him or her online catnip. To be fair, the online catnip maybe a part of the problem. Since it’s arrive Finn has been behaving with such reckless and energetic dementia that he even triggered a lively discussion on Facebook last night as to whether he required services of an exorcist. This engaged a range of cultural references that spanned H. P. Lovecraft to Fight Club, and, of course, the inevitability of Catapocalypse. Right now Finn sleeps (not in R'lyeh, thank heavens) but he will rise again. And want things.