CANNES, France — A recent United Nations report predicts that by the year 2050, the world's population will be 9 billion.

Hmmm .... I'm wondering if those UN statisticians underestimated. Doing my own math as I try to maneuver through the crowds overflowing the Croisette, it seems that the 9 billion have already arrived.

Excluding the town's residents, the visiting film industry, attendant press and the 700 police officers hired to work the festival, let's take a look at who's spilling out into the streets:

-- First and foremost, we've got the fans. Desperate to snap even the slightest pixel of a movie star, they shout and wave, their cameras seemingly fused to their hands. The crowd piles up for blocks, rows deep, hanging from makeshift bleachers and barriers, trees and signposts. When it looked like Mr. Depp was about to appear on the red carpet for the premiere of Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides, a chorus of "Johnny, Johnny" rose to deafening levels

-- Adding to the crush are the avid filmgoers who possess passion rather than tickets, hoping for some beneficent stranger to wave them in to an exclusive screening at the last minute. Mostly male, donned in requisite evening wear, they hold up handwritten signs of "S.V.P." (s'il vous plaît = please). One can't help wonder where they go when they don't get in –- do they move on together, like a dispirited bunch of penguins monochroming their way down the street, to restaurants and nightclubs that they know will turn them away? Is "no" all they know?

-- Then there are the vendors, hawkers, beggars and con men, such as the roving cameraman with the dirty-blond, long-haired ponytail. He'll zero in on unsuspecting females and pretending to be enthralled by their beauty, he'll take their pictures –- and faster than you can say "fromage," he'll offer up his photos for a hefty price. Or the ancient woman wearing a scarf on her head, a 21st century Apple Annie working the crowds for hours in the middle of the sidewalk. When I tried to take her picture, she yelled, grabbing at my camera. She did, however, allow me to photograph her from the back. (If she doesn't want the photographic attention, perhaps she might want to rethink her place of work.)

-- Lastly, we get the "look-at-me's": At the top of the heap, as it were, come the hot young women, usually dressed in some kind of tinsel, fur or animal skin, clacking down the Croisette in short skits and impossibly high heels that could double as weaponry. They're often seen leaning on much older escorts for all sorts of support. The men may be Caucasian, but it's anyone's guess, given the orange/dark cocoa hue of their skin. What with their epidermis' oddly reflective properties, these gentlemen come in quite handy if the ladies need a mirror. Of course! Young women always require mirrors. And that must solely be the reason for the mismatch.

Let's not forget the rest of the look-at-me's: the costumed clowns, the mimes and mirrored gents, as well as a very tall, very pale bald fellow tastefully clothed in black from head to foot: bustier, skirt, umbrella and gloves.

There's always been a colorful crowd at Cannes, a mix of eccentrics and celebrity hounds among the rich and richer. In the 1960s, after a particularly aggressive mob scene, Brigette Bardot declared that she'd never return.

But today, there's another cultural phenomenon at work: The myth that if you can get close enough to celebrity, maybe, just maybe, some of that fame will rub off. A juju that is as tangible as, say, the exact address of Hollywood, Calif.

When we don't have jobs, or money for the rent, when our identities are caught up in a social media that doesn't deliver enough of the friends/hits/fame we crave, maybe that proximity to a bona fide star might serve as a kind of literal illumination. A wattage to a brighter life. Especially since self-serve celebrity, as vaguely promised from the mere action of hopping on to Facebook/Twitter/You Tube, isn't paying off quite as we'd hoped.

The common man who gets his Andy Warholian 15 minutes hasn't gone away -– he's just become more determined. And greedy. Why accept a mere 15 minutes when American Idol winners get worldwide recognition and a record contract to boot? When Kate Middleton gets snapped up by a prince? Why walk when you can fly? And if you can't fly ... well, you might just hitch your star to any one of the yachts parked just outside the Palais. How about the one that's playing host to Brangelina? Or the giant one with the Italian jet boat on the top deck? Say, if Johnny's got his pirate schooner nearby, that'll do, too.

Meantime, we can only yell from behind a barrier. Wave our cameras as we look across a very wide street at the haves and have-yachts.

Just like those gauzy superstars floating across the silver screen ... it only appears as if they're close enough to touch.

Until next time, I'll be sitting in the dark as usual ...