This is Orwell’s roommate Vango. Technically he lives with my awesome El Salvadorian landlord Salomon, but he spends alot of time hanging out on my patio and chilling on the hood of Jacket’s Bonneville.
The minute I saw him I knew there was something special about him, a freshness, something very now and natural, and so not contrived. So the other day I plied him with champagne and started shooting.
And the natural sense of drama with which Vango took on that lens: like it was the enemy, a lover, or a ghost from his past, I could see that if any cat had it, Vango had that intangible quality that makes a regular cat into an ‘It’ cat.
You just can’t look away.
Go ahead try.
Told you.
So if you’re a modeling agency, a major corporation looking to tackle the ‘youth culture’ market, or a super crazy famous fashion designer who’d like to feel the power of Vango contact me and I’ll put you in touch.
A really smart and strange little black cat has been hanging out on my patio, sitting next to me on a patio chair while I write. Whenever I open my screen door (day or night) he’s there within seconds trying to force his way into my house.
One evening I was on the phone in my kitchen and he walked out of the hallway leading to my bedroom and past me into the living room. The little fucker snuck in and had been hanging out inside all day. Didn?t leave a hair and didn?t piss or shit. Good cat.
I was interviewing Headlights that afternoon and I think they must?ve accidentally let him in while they were breaking my toilet that day.
YES HEADLIGHTS. I KNOW WHAT YOU DID.
You think I didn?t hear that toilet running non-stop when you left?
Anyway, this is Orwell:
So I named him Orwell, and then found out from my landlord Salomon that the 4 month old female kitten is his wife?s, and her name is Cecil. (Though Salomon?s from El Salvador and pronounces it Sessil). Cecil is a suck pet name, so I?m going to continue to call him Orwell.
You should call him Orwell too.
