Cat In A Crimson Haze

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I want one thing on the record, straight off.

Millions have seen a television commercial with a giant, metal-gilded, Art Deco lion-dude striding across the sand-choked Las Vegas scenery. When he stretches out, he hunkers down to become a high-tech Sphinx of sorts. In a touch of computer-graphics magic, the new MGM

Grand Hotel and Theme Park fans out from his hindquarters like a green-glass peacock's tail.

Put down this: I am not impressed.

There is only one major pussycat in this town, and the name is Midnight Louie.

Even now I can glimpse the kitchen bulletin board, where my PR-conscious roommate has posted my Iatest newspaper likeness.

This one is nothing to phone home about: I look like something the dog dragged in. Ears flattened and eyes at half-mast, I am being menaced by what looks like a UFO, but is actually a clear plastic breathing apparatus. This photograph commemorates the moment when I was supposedly rescued from the clutches of the cat crucifier of my last adventure. The fireman flourishing the plastic mask is allegedly administering life-saving oxygen to my air-starved puss after I was given a chloroform muffler and tied into a burlap bag.

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