Even Priority Mail is too luxurious for Possum's budget.
I don't approve of his plans; I've been trying to block him and argue at every turn. I think he'd run into problems out there, and not just because of his, uh, let's call it "imperialist" attitude and lack of funds. I'm betting that agents and producers will tell him to lose a few pounds and get a prosthesis for his missing ear tip. He'll also need expensive voice lessons to lower his range from boy-soprano to baritone — more appropriate for his masculine appearance and girth. (I think that would be a shame; he has a lovely singing voice, but Hollywood doesn't embrace such uniqueness.)
I had to tell him that The Artist was unusual in being a contemporary silent film.
"No, you're wrong, there are lots of silent films! Check IMDb, check Wikipedia, check Google!" said Possum. (Snalbert has been giving him search-engine tips. Snalbert wouldn't mind one bit if Possum went to Hollywood and never came home again.)
"Yes, you're right, but they are all very OLD. Talkies have been fashionable for quite some time," I replied.
Possum has no sense of history, no matter how he tries, and despite being extremely intelligent and decently educated in such subjects as classical music and art history. Any timeline is just a blur to him. It has something to do with being a cat and believing that the world didn't really begin until he was born, at least not in any interesting way. I know there are people with this problem, too, including many politicians.
I keep telling Possum that — once he lowers his vocal range, fixes his ear, and slims down — if he's lucky, he'll get featured in a couple of cat food commercials and maybe get a few walk-ons in sit-coms, and that will be it. He doesn't believe me when I tell him that there will be no Ocean's 14, so he has no hope of costarring in it with his older, craggier lookalike, George Clooney. I keep saying that there is no way that Mr. Clooney will want to star with him in a father-and-son road movie: Possum has been working on a pitch for such a story, where the two take off across America in a bicycle rickshaw instead of on Harleys.
The only way I can distract him from his project is to tell him how terribly I'd miss him, how miserable I'd be, how I get lonesome for his company even when I'm stuck in the line at Trader Joe's for too long. Then he purrs and tells me that he won't go anywhere without me. And would I please find out the dimensions of the largest box that can ship via Parcel Post?