So, I’m eating at the Pit Fire, when this Escalade SUV double parks, someone leaps out and a crowd of desperate people gathers. They’re holding cameras with giant lenses, all such regular looking guys, with one tattooed woman, looking bored. Six of them, pacing, waiting for their target (Lindsey Lohan has shopped next door before, and eaten at this place) to, what? Have a meltdown? Flash the cameras? Eat a baby?

If fame is an external construct, than paparazzi are supervectors. They’re filling some kind of niche in the psychic ecosystem, just like I’m filling a niche of moral scold. Fame for creating stuff is one thing; being in the eye of the Chengdu storm with the crowds surrounding Robert Sawyer and Neil Gaiman was proof of that. But fame for being a public disaster is something that I don’t understand. Sean Penn, famous for punching out paps, was smart enough to take his family to some place where paps don’t flock. He removed his family from the vectors. The target here must like the infection, because it’s the only reason to stay here, unless one’s working all the time (and, in that case, why the hell isn’t the target busy working?).

Being a pap must pay well; one just parked a new BMW right outside. They start shooting each other, showing off their gear, showing off their resolution and zoom and full spectrum bullshit. We moved to NoHo to get a bit of the entertainment biz, and that means getting in the middle of the detritus, too.

I finish my sandwich and get back to work