Famous Twice Removed

Caracalla is waiting for me in Paris, rue du Cherche Midi, on the dusty ground floor of the immortal offices of Editions denoel, my publisher, founded by a man shot on the streets of the city as a collaborator. As a child, Caracalla played on the Champs Elysées with Jean Renoir and Cézanne's son. He drank with Cendrars and Henry Miller and Jean Cocteau. But, noone knows who Miller is anymore, and Cendrars never made it onto the American radar screen. That makes me something like famous twice removed.

It's not easy being famous twice removed. You have to show real talent, get the powers that be to prick up their ears. Then, comes the hard part, which is to fuck up a good thing somehow. Like the publication of my book, Leper Tango, which looks into the peregrinations of a certain Franck Robinson, whoremonger of an ambulance chasing lawyer. Are you available for the PR, says Rubinstein? Well, actually not. I'll be drinking in the Seychelles around that time....

These thoughts get me all the way to the train station, musing on my celebrity twice removed status. My grandmother knew the justice minister, uncle franck had 72 curling trophies, and then there's Kaitlin, now taking care of the queen's jewels. Just who do these ticket sellers think they are, ignoring me? I am a star twice removed. The master of screwing up while on the brink of success. The possibility of happiness triggered the eject button. Sent me back to wherever I came from. I'm wearing my celebrity twice removed bionic space travel suit. sunglasses, ipod, journal, in the international ticket office. I'm doing what other people do these days, which is wait, number in hand, until I too can have my request refused. Two dimensional cows moving like a watercolour sketched by an epileptic, across an outdated Panasonic silver screen - but, what do I care - I'm immune. I've got Charlie Haden playing Now is the Hour on my Ipod, so as long as I don't get happy slapped, everything's cool.

Beside me, four yanks. Two guys, two girls, dressed in pseudo army garb, and speaking in dull, anesthetized tones. Where are we going, says one. Panic rising as their number comes up. "I say we go to Koln, that'll give us an hour. There's a mad looking slav across from me, six tickets for the counter sticking out of his paw, he looks like he'd knife you and drop you into a mass grave for the fun of it. The four yanks are nervous, they're buried in attempts to be anonymous, toques, heavy jackets, it's the I'm a homeless too look. their eyes darting, riddled with angst.

Suddenly, the train drives right into the ticket room, and at precisely twelve minutes to twelve, all hell breaks loose!