Cat In A Crimson Haze

Prologue

Lionized Louie

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.

In this instance, a picture is not worth a thousand words; it is not even worth a three-day gig at the bottom of a finch cage.

Suffice it to say that I engineered my own escape from the burlap bag. I was even ready to direct an all-feline uprising to save Miss Temple Barr from a premature toasting, when the clumsy firemen interfered. I no more needed oxygen than a fish needs an air hose, but the redundant firemen had to do something to look good in the media. I am not a victim of anything in that snapshot except an ill-conceived photo opportunity.

At present, however, even a prime-time pussums believes in observing the signs of the times. I can read the hieroglyphics on the wall: this televised muscle-bound feline escapee from Virtual Reality City is indeed a poster boy for the Times They Are A-Changing.

Not only has the MGM Grand Hotel resurrected itself far from the ashes of its former location on the Strip (now Bally's), but it has roared back with 5005 rooms, the most in ail the world. Sharing the MGM's hot new scenery are the new Luxor and Treasure Island hotels. Guess what? Las Vegas--the capital of crass ... the headquarters of chutzpah . . . the nerve center of the salacious--has sold out.

The name of the game in this toddling town nowadays is two words that would stop a stripper cold In mid-grind. It might even chill a bookie's soul right where he carries it, in his back pocket with the rest of the cash.

The catch phrase of the day is Family Values.

Call me cynical, but it is my observation that Family Values never come into play with so much enthusiasm as when the bottom line is at stake. And the bottom line in Vegas these days is no longer the thin, white tan-streak left by a thong bikini.

The bottom line is that gambling has become a national sport. Las Vegas is no longer the champion Sin City that it used to be. Nowadays you have your Atlantic City, you have your state lotteries. You also have your Native American version of surround-the-cavalry and take-your-revenge-in-chips, previously known as Reservation Bingo. All these legalized forms of gambling now affect more states than once spangled on the Confederate flag. My home town, the Mecca of the Mojave, must now hustle more than its bustle to draw the same crowds of yore; it must appeal to a whole new wholesome clientele.

What can I say? Las Vegas--the shining-star of the glitz parade--has gone Brady Bunch. It is enough to make a home-grown dude sniffle into his Snapple juice.

Luckily, I touch almost nothing but water these days, or else I would not believe my eyes.

There is much to decry in this town, and I usually have not wasted my breath doing it. An invasion of decency hardly seems worth the bother. I have my own troubles. One floor above me abides a jet-black babe who goes by the name of "Caviar." Her street name Is Midnight Louise, and only I know what that means.

Luckily, she has not yet figured out my own moniker, or I would be lunch meat. I must confess that I fear this feisty, featherweight lady more than any three-story lion-dude outfitted in skin-tight gold lame.

Yet another floor above this Caviar doll lurks the golden-haired Karma, a creature of reclusive habits who also enjoys baiting Midnight Louie. Was ever a dude so beset?

To add offense to injury, my resident little doll. Miss Temple Barr, has been absent from home of late, tending to public relations business.

Does no one care that this town is going to heaven in a handbasket? Does no one care that Midnight Louie has personal problems of a perplexing nature? Does no one care that the eighties economy of fun, frivolity and foolishness has crashed in the Sober Nineties? That changing times are ringing in hype, tripe and gripe?

The answer, of course, is a resounding nyet.

In the silence of one lone whisker waving, I lay my kisser upon my folded mitts and snooze.