Six days after I phoned him for assistance, Citizen Jim arrived at my apartment sporting a floppy black beret and dark glasses, with an empty black cigarette holder clenched between his back teeth. He was decked out in plaid knickers, a white button down shirt with lacy cuffs, and a red scarf.

"Where are your shoes?" I asked him.

"Ah, hell! They flew out the window of the 18-wheeler that took me from Gasden to Charleston," he said. "That rat bastard wouldn't let me go back and look for them. Now what the hell did you need that was so important?"

"You're a little late," I said, using my gauze-covered hands to point at the crisscrosses of Band-Aids all over my legs, chest, neck and face.

He shook his head. "I told you this was going to happen one day," he said. "But I guess you're still going into the grocery store and breaking off pieces of fresh ginger and walking around with them stuck up your nose."

"You idiot! These bandages are from trying to get Mister Meme inside the travel carrier to go to the vet!" I yelled.

Once again, the yellow book Chicken Sheets hates: Lipstick Traces: A Secret History of the Twentieth Century Greil Marcus

At that moment, Mister Meme, my cat, came sailing through the air with his claws out, aiming right for Citizen Jim's head. Jim grabbed the yellow book I hate off the coffee table to cover his face; Mister Meme slammed into and slid down the cover of the book with a sad yowl.

"Listen, we got more important things to discuss than your stupid, psycho cat," Citizen Jim said. "You need to call up that damned Citizen Dan right now. I gotta talk to him."

I tapped my foot. "Last week, you said you were sick of seeing him and all sorts of other people in these stories, and now you want me to call him? Ha! What on Earth do you need to talk to him about?"

Citizen Jim grabbed the two ends of his scarf in each hand and held them like suspenders. "You said he's got the same birthday as Kylie Minogue, right?"

"That's what he claims," I said.

"Well, that means they probably got together when they were kids and had joint skating parties at the roller rink," he said.

"I seriously, totally doubt it. She's a few years older than he is, and—"

"SHUT UP! I think it's safe to assume that Kylie Minogue probably knows Nicole Kidman and Naomi Watts, right?" he said. "They probably all went round and round the rink holding hands while 'Strange Magic' and 'Tragedy' blasted over the speakers at the Australian version of Skateland."

"Oh, for God's sake, Jim! That's the dumbest thing you've ever—"

"Listen to me, Missy, or I'm gonna POUND YOU! So, anyway, imagine how they used to all skate around the rink to ELO and the Brothers Gibb. Three girls and one guy, skating frontward, backward, crouched down with one leg held out straight—they were all great friends, I just know it. That's why I need you to call Citizen Dan PRONTO!"

"Have you lost your mind?"

He whipped off his sunglasses and looked at me with his eyes bulging. "That's right, sister! I'm cuckoo for Cannes! And that's where we'll be headed once you get Sparky Jokes-A-Lot on the phone."

"WhatEVER! I'm not calling all the way to Australia in the middle of the day just because you've cooked up some crackpot scheme, whatever the hell it is."

"Then I guess you don't want to spend a few evenings hobnobbing with celebrities and screening forbidden movies and watching Quentin Tarantino make an ass of himself, then, do you?"

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"Well, of course I'd like to see Quentin Tarantino make an ass of himself, but I could just rent Kill Bill to satisfy that urge. And anyway, what does Citizen Dan have to do with it?" I asked.

"Jesus, woman! Do I have to beat some brains into you, or what? You call Citizen Dan and get Kylie Minogue's phone number. Then we'll call her to see how to contact Nicole and Naomi. Then they can save us seats at the screening of Michael Moore's Bush-bashing movie, and we'll take it from there. Do you realize the caliber of women we could pick up in the hotel bars all over Cannes this time of year?"

I shrugged. "Gold-diggers? Prostitutes? Coke heads and speed freaks?"

Citizen Jim doubled up his fist and shook it in my face. "You are NOT FUNNY, Miss Thing!" he shouted. "I'm talking about rich women! Beautiful women! Jiggly, giggly, wiggly women! Actresses, directors—you name it! And once we make the hookup, we'll be in like Flynn with every other movie-making big shot there is. Then we'll just dump the women and head for the Hollywood hills to be big shots, too," he said.

"I think you've finally slipped out of your mind for good," I said.

He held his cigarette holder against my throat like a knife and screamed, "Why don't you ever see the BIG PICTURE? I mean, come on: it ain't what you know, it's who you know. And Citizen Dan knows all those hot Australian babes, and you know Citizen Dan! SO YOU BETTER CALL HIM before I make you wish you were kidnapped and eaten by a dingo!"

I picked up my portable phone and pretended to dial an international operator. "Hello, yes...I need to speak to Citizen Dan of Australia...Yes, exactly, the guy who does that web site..."

Jim rocked back on his feet with a satisfied smile on his face.

"...what?...Oh, that's too bad...No...Well, thanks...Bah!" I said and turned off the phone.

"What the hell was that all about?" Citizen Jim asked, his smile now a scowl.

"Citizen Dan isn't home," I said, and shrugged. "The operator said he stole Portia de Rossi away from Ringo Starr's stepdaughter during a poker game at Olivia Newton-John's house, so they fled the country to escape the press and all the lesbians who want to kill them."

Jim stomped his foot. "DAMN IT! I can't believe this shit! I went out and bought this outfit especially for our trip to the Riviera!" he said.

"I'm sorry, Precious Lamb. Maybe we can plan a little further ahead for the film festival next year," I suggested.

"We? Ha! You can probably forget about being my travel buddy next year," he said. He pointed across the room at Mister Meme, who was slinking toward us with a butcher knife held fast in the curl of his tail. "That cat's gonna kill you before Cannes rolls around again."

Just as Mister Meme sprang at me and the blade sliced my calf, Citizen Jim said, "Come on! Let's go get a steak!"

He dragged me down the stairs as I bled freely from my latest wound.