Absolutely; I made it myself.

My name is Lewis. I am currently under fire in the media and have been placed under house arrest because of my catlike stealth that has caused terror in my quaint Fairfield, CT neighborhood. There are allegations against me for ambushing several neighbors along with the local Avon lady, who currently has a lawsuit pending. I have since been placed under a restraining order and have been forced to spend my days gazing out my window. I’m the first cat in the state to be hit with a restraining order. How is it fair that I am under house arrest? It was all in self defense!

“He would sidle against you and purr,” explained Janet Kettman, a neighbor. “You bend down to pet him and he’d attack you.”

As a result of these alleged assaults, Lewis ended up in court facing a charge of second-degree reckless endangerment. That, and a death sentence.

Fortunately, Judge Patrick Carroll, who apparently knows a thing or two about cats and traveling salespeople, let Lewis off with a couple of years of probation. The press report I read didn’t say whether this was because the judge was familiar with the natural behavior of cats or the predatory nature of salespeople.

“I just couldn’t think of titles for most of the songs, so I thought I’d use funny stuff,” Hardy explained.

The “funny” titles have generated a lot of press. For example, who could resist commenting on a work called, “You Fuck like My Dad?”

Not me, for one. I clearly remember similarly provocative works, such as Luis Buñuel’s paean to necrophilia. I think Buñuel, who lamented at the end of his life that is was increasingly difficult to shock and offend people, would have liked Hardy.

Imagine that.

I’m glad that I wasn’t born in 1942, even though it probably would have been a good career move.

I’m a little taken back by the report; for decades I assumed alcohol was counteracting coffee. I suppose it’s one of those sturgeon and egg situations.

I stood before them, and told them of my life. The sorrows, and the losses—in short, the human condition.

I could see them all, so young, hair shiny with their lives before them. They were looking at me as a loser, and had no pity. So determined were they to make it big, to be winners. Even the clerk in the Social Security office looked at me with wonder, and asked, “Have you always earned so little?”

I had never thought of it that way. To her, too, I was a loser, with bad luck written all over my tax records. What happened to the beautiful losers of my youth, who let the world destroy them, but stayed true to their dreams? Scoffed at materialism, conventions? A small, beleaguered band who kept their integrity against the world, and devoted their lives to art, sex, and revolution? Youth once believed in them, the madmen who burned themselves out with drugs and drink, disappeared into the desert, or battered society with their shaggy heads. There was one period even in which everybody was rushing off in search of the underground man. But now that winners are in fashion, disappearing are the last of the Bohemians, left over from the old days of the village. And I am from another era, like the grizzled poet who slept in village doorways, and showed up at the poetry society with his life work in a shopping bag ...