I won't even get into the we-couldn't-think-of-anything bullshit passing as profundity in the Sopranos finale. I don't want to say David Chase thinks he's too cool for his own audience, but David Chase thinks he's too cool for his own audience. Also too cool for his given Italian last name. But that's not what I'm here for.
Believe it or not, there was one extraordinary development in the very last ever episode of God's supposed gift to TV viewers: the revelation of skunk-haired mobster Paulie Walnuts' aversion to cats.
Well, this slight was not taken lightly by our own beloved kitty, Paulie Walnuts. My enthusiasm for The Sopranos had not yet waned when we decided to foster a litter of kittens three years ago. Thus did the kittens become Furio, Silvio, Tony, Carmela and, of course, Paulie Walnuts.
Of the bunch, Paulie clearly grew into his name the most. (Fur, Sil and Ton moved on to other households and, like Mr. Chase, other names.) Both Paulies can go from furry and cute to unexpectedly vicious in an instant. Both love to wallow in self-pity, but are also scrappy survivors. Both have an infectious charm. And if you know the Sopranos or the Polwicks, you know the name is amenable to nicking. (See prior posts.)
All of which made the utter rejection by his namesake, not just of him, but of his entire species, utterly devastating to Little Paulie. Two legs broken in one year and now this. He's chewing the extension cord right now. It's just that hard on him.
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