File under: Lapdog, Hand That Feeds You, Etc.

A welter of screen writers blew through my office this week, leaving behind a trail of flattened Red Bull cans and the cloying scent of “Why Me?” This wasn’t surprising: patients often move in herds. One week I may treat a half dozen producers from the Paramount lot and the next a swarm of deposed Bulgarian royalty and their jeweled lapdogs. You never know.

But this week it was writers. William the screenwriter pretty much crawled into my Westside treatment studio today, complaining of depression, shoulder pain, wrist pain and an overpowering sense of doom. He set his leather satchel on a chair and climbed onto the treatment table, folding his slender legs into half-lotus. His clothes were so threadbare and his shoes in such despair that I decided to give him his treatment free of charge. 

From under long, dark, curly, unwashed hair, William sent me a bloodshot, hound dog look. “I’m in an abusive relationship,” he said, sipping his energy drink.

“Oh?” I said, sanitizing my hands and opening a box of needles, then sanitizing my hands again.

“That’s right,“ he said. "But that‘s to be expected! Hollywood has always abused writers and it always will. It denigrates us and leaves us feeling worthless. We’re the lowest caste of society."

“So, what happened?” I asked.

“My agent destroyed my script! It was the beautiful story of a young mute girl in an Irish orphanage at the turn of the century, a girl with psychic abilities.”

“How did your agent destroy your work?” I said.

“She had me change the girl to a boy, switch Ireland to a ghetto in Brazil, and made me change her special talent to soccer. And for what?!”

“I understand your frustration,” I said.

“Do you?” he said.

“This kind of crap happens all the time in this town,” I said. “So now, after all your hard work, after all the concessions you’ve made, you’ve got nothing, not even a promise. You toil all day on your writing project, then you go to your waitering job in the evening, barely scratching out a living,

“Not exactly,” he said, sadly. “We sold the script. The movie’s being made. Big names attached. Would you like to see a picture of my new Lexus?”

"You mean you're crying about abuse even though you've sold the script, and probably sold it for a fortune?" I was getting irritated.

He shifted nervously.  "Well, yeah.  But I mean it's about the principle of the thing.  The way I see it, life is over in the barest blink of an eye, so we might as well be appreciated and compensated fairly for our talents, don't you agree?

"Now that you mention it," I said, "I guess you're right." And in the barest blink of an eye, my rate went back up.

File under: Fanny, Fishy, Kahlua, Calamity

Myron may have recovered his lost diamonds in time for the producers’ pow-wow but that didn’t leave him with a more positive outlook on life. Instead it served as a reminder that God can bestow calamity upon anybody and at any time.

“Why me?” whimpered Myron, curling up on his chrome Baleri Italia chaise and staring out at the afternoon ocean from the deck of his 2.3 million dollar pied a terre. “Why am I so unfortunate? And where is that girl with my drink?!”

His sullen Czechoslovakian maid, Fanny, wobbled out the door, carrying a tall, pink drink on a tiny silver tray. Fanny is a squat, grumpy woman in her sixties with doughy features and a wide, lumpy torso that resembles an engine block. She dresses herself in a black skirt, white blouse and a ruffled white apron with indelible yellow stains.  If you look hard enough, you might find a tiny white kerchief folded into the unruly tumbleweed of her coif.

“Here. Drink,” she wheezed, holding the tray under Myron's chin. “Thees might make you feel better, but probably not. Enjoy it, if you can! Ah, but you probably won’t. But try anyway. Vypit, Myron. That means drink up in my country. Vypit. Life is short. Drink up while you may. Tomorrow, who knows, eh? Tomorrow: boom!”

Myron sipped the drink, a frothy mix of vanilla Haagen-Dazs, Kahlua and Pepto-Bismol. Or as he calls it: dinner.

“Cheers,” I said, sipping an absinthe and lighting a new Camel from an old one.

“The most horrifying part of it all,” said Myron, “is that those diamonds were fake.”

“Agh!” said Fanny, who wasn’t supposed to be part of the conversation and didn’t even know what we were talking about. “Well, it figures, yah!”

“How did you find out, Myron?” I said.

“They told me when I showed up at the studio. There were execs and a couple of scary looking thug-types and they were all sitting around a big table. When I set the diamonds down, an exec picked one up and examined it. Then he said, ‘This is fake!’ Well, I nearly had a heart attack but then they all started laughing. You see, as it turns out, this job I did was a test. They wanted to see if I could be trusted! They’ve got new equity and new suppliers. There are new avenues for revenue and they want me to get more deeply involved.”

“You mean more dangerously involved,“ I said.

Fanny gurgled. “Don’t like the sound of it, Myron. Not good. Is shady.”

I hated to say it--so I didn’t--but Fanny was right.

File under: Twigs, Trauma, Tranny, Nanny

I’ve been in Atlanta for the past two days, helping a film director in distress. I had treated him successfully a year ago in L.A. for sciatica and now he was experiencing cramps, vomiting, nausea and “the runs.” He was also in the middle of a big-budget shoot. The director refused to take medication, so the studio flew me in and put me up at the Four Seasons overnight (How will the accountants code that?).

At first I thought the director’s ailment might be stress-related. He complained that the star of his film--a gentleman with a well-publicized history of "eccentric behavior" (code for major drug habit)--had just gotten out of rehab. The star was medicated beyond the ability to give the necessary high-powered, comic performance. Worse yet, whenever the director took the star aside to give him notes, the star’s posse came along, vetoing all his suggestions.

Anyway, I figured out that his nausea, vomiting, etc. started when he commenced an affair with a Puerto Rican tranny named Jezebel, whom he was keeping in a hotel room adjacent to his own and who was dressing the director up in diapers and feeding him milk from a bottle. I suspected the director’s ailments were due to lactose intolerance, so I told Jezebel to give him soy milk instead. Problem solved!

When I got home, Nanny was standing inside the door wearing a yellow sari and a frown. “Why gone so long, Master Charles?” she said sternly. “Do you know that you missed your daughter’s Show & Tell yesterday? I went in your place and made up a lie about your absence. I told them you had jury duty. But the teacher, Miss Feather, didn't believe me. I don’t think she likes you very much! She wants to have another meeting with you.”

“I had no choice," I said. "Working is the way I keep this household together (code for lay off). How did Meryl's presentation go?  Has Myron come by? He doesn’t answer my texts. His producers’ meeting is this afternoon.”

“Haven't heard from him,” said Nanny, wringing a hand towel like it was my neck. “And Meryl’s Show & Tell went very well for her, but even better for you.”

“What do you mean by that?” I said.

“She recited a poem in French that I taught her. It was by Verlaine.  I was so proud of her!  While all the other children had brought their parents' Golden Globes and AA medallions, Meryl brought a poem.”

“And so, why did this go better for me?” I asked.

“Well, I’ll translate for you from the French. The poem goes: ‘Here are some fruits, some flowers and some leaves…’ As she mentioned each object she took it out of her Madame Chocolat box. She took out a tangerine, a daisy and then a twig.”

“Yeah, so?” I said.

“The next line was: 'and here is my heart, that beats only for you.' When she said the word, heart, she took from her box a diamond as big as a pine cone and--”

“She’s got the diamonds?!” I said. “But you put them out by the curb!”

“She had found them and was keeping them under her bed.”

“She found them? And nobody looked under her bed for a whole week? Aren't you supposed to search your kid's room regularly for dope?”

“She’s only five years old,” said Nanny. “And she’s your child, not mine.”

I texted Myron: “Found diamonds.”

He texted me: “Thank God!” (code for Thank God!)
**********************************************************************
                                                                                                  Photo: Craig Russell

File under: Chocolate Oreo, Cherry Orchard, etc.

When I got home from the clinic today I noticed my yard had been completely dug up by Myron, in a desperate search for those three lost diamonds (See June 29). Fortunately my yard consists of gravel and cactus and a few belligerent weeds that needed yanking anyway and an iron jockey that came with the place and whose face and hands I painted pink out of racial sensitivity. In other words: no big deal.

When I got inside, Nanny called to me from the kitchen. “Master Charles,” she said with her Punjabi accent, “You are just in time for dinner! No smoking in the house! Meryl, my darling, go set a place for your father at the table!”

“Yes, Nanny,” came little Meryl’s squeaky voice, but instead of setting the table she ran into the foyer and wrapped her arms around my thigh. “Dadeeeeee!” she sang. I handed her a small box filled with chocolate-covered Oreos from Madame Chocolat in BH. “Yipeee!“ she said, squeezing the box to her heart. “Guess what, Daddy, I got the monologue all memorized! Do you wanna hear it?”

“Sure,” I said. “But you need to do it with that floppy hat I got you. The one with the faded rose. Otherwise it doesn't make sense.”

“Okay, Daddy,” she chirped. “I’ll go get it!” and she skipped off to her room, ripping into her cookie box.

“Would you care for vindaloo, Master Charles?” called Nanny from the kitchen.

“Yes,” I said, going in.

Nanny wraps herself in an endless collection of silk saris in intoxicating colors. Today’s sari was so purple I could practically taste the grapes. She looked up from the pot of curry rice she was stirring. “You know,“ she said, “Mister Myron spent the whole morning digging up your yard. He was very much agitated and I don’t think he has great fondness for me these days. Not since I put the diamonds out by the curb. How was I to know they belonged to him? I was only emptying out Meryl’s lunch box!”

“Nanny, I’ve told you before it’s not your fault,” I said. “Myron will figure out a way around it. He always does.” Just then a text came across my cell phone. It said: "Chas, if I don’t find those diamonds before the producers’ meeting on Friday, I will proceed to undisclosed location. Fear for life!” Fear might appropriate, considering Hollywood's liberal use of armed gentlemen formerly employed by the Soviet government. Luckily, Myron’s got a tsunami shelter under his home, complete with screening room and popcorn machine, a dozen cases of Pepto-Bismol and enough Valium to last 'til first-responders dig him out from under the mud. If the Russians come a-courtin', that's where he'll be. 

I sat down on the sofa. Little Meryl came twirling into the room wearing a big, straw hat with a pink rose pinned to it. “Listen, Daddy! Listen!” she cried, munching an Oreo. "Are you ready?" She made a wide, heroic stance, just as I taught her, and embarked on a monologue I had chosen from “The Cherry Orchard.” It was a melancholy speech by the sad and delusional Madame Ranevsky, and little Meryl performed it with such a profound understanding of loss and a feel for the futility of self-delusion and the inexorable erosion of the milestones of our lives by the unrelenting march of time, that it nearly tore my heart to shreds. Then she put her hand out for fifty dollars since that’s what I pay for Chekov and Shakespeare, forty for Billy Wilder.

Nanny, who was standing in the doorway, clapped her hands. “Splendid, young lady. Now take off that apron and come eat your dinner. And save those Oreos for dessert. Master Charles, dinner is served. By the way, will you be showing up for Show-and-Tell on Friday? Yes, I hope? I have helped Meryl to prepare something very special.”

I got up and made my way to the dining table. “Sure,” I yawned. “Why not.”

Nanny came close, slowly brushing my chin with the back of her hand, and purred, “I know you think she's too smart for kindergarten but perhaps you could show a little enthusiasm, Master Charles?”

"Whoopde-do." I yawned. "Why not?"

File under: Meryl, Yale Drama, Gingham Loaves

“Mr. Yarborough, have you heard a single word I’ve said?” asked obese Miss Feather. Yesterday was parent-teacher day at my daughter Meryl's private school on the Westside and, since I’d unthinkingly given Nanny the day off, I was forced to attend in her place. Sunlight was angling through the classroom windows, spilling onto orange and green and yellow bulletin boards. And there sat Miss Feather with her dingy, disheveled hair, pasty features and creepily nurturing manner, looking way too much like Kathy Bates in “Misery.” What did she keep in those apron pockets, I wondered. Gummy Bears and a stun gun?

“Of course I heard you, Miss Feather,” I said, prying my eyes open. “Meryl is a good kid, that’s what you said. And I’m very proud of her. And you’re an excellent teacher, one of the very best in North America, and we’re extremely privileged to have you in our midst.”

“That’s not what I’m saying at all,” said Miss Feather, shifting from one gingham loaf to the other. “What I’m saying is that your daughter Meryl is exhibiting behavior that is commonly associated with…”

I glanced out the window at a shady tree with fiery red blossoms like lobster claws. In fact, thought I, that might be the name of said tree. The lobster tree. Yes. And beyond that--holding up a garden portico--were four Roman columns, blindingly white in the too-damn-early-in-the-morning sun. What, I pondered thoughtfully, is the difference between Ionic and Corinthian anyway? Would Miss Feather know? And what about cumulo-nimbus?

"…because Meryl has worn her Halloween costume to school every day since October, Mr. Yarborough. Surely you’ve seen her in her purple sari and foil headdress? Does she refer to herself as The Goddess Lakshmi at home? We’re certain this attention-seeking behavior originates from her need to feel…" she yammered.

And what about Myron, I thought. His attention seeking-behavior is completely out of control, too. I might have to “up” his Valium. Yesterday he said he hears clicks on his phone, that it’s bugged, and wherever he goes, he’s followed by a black-windowed Bentley. If he doesn’t show up with those diamonds at next Saturday's’s meeting with the producers, he says, his life will be worthless. I assured him the producers would take an IOU (That’s how Hollywood runs! Movies never show a profit anyway!!) but I don’t think he was listening.

“…and so if you will come to school and watch our Show-and-Tell hour on Thursday,” Miss Feather continued, “it would be very helpful to Meryl psychologically. Will you commit to that?”

How, I wondered, will Show-and-Tell prepare Meryl for Yale Drama School? Answer: it won’t!

“Will you commit to showing up for it?” said Miss Feather, standing up, grasping my hand and stepping on my foot. “Well, will you?”

“Of course I'd be delighted,” I said, pulling away. “And what joy our little chat has brought me.” I slipped a roll of hundreds--seven of them--into her palm. “I'm sure you've noticed Meryl is much too bright for kindergarten, so if you’d see to it that she gets all A’s, I’d be very grateful. We need a full scholarship to Yale Drama and I hear they look at the student’s whole history. I'm hoping her mother will appear somewhere down the line to claim her kid but I ain't counting on it!”

“Mr. Yarborough,” said Miss Feather, coldly, “this is kindergarten. We do not give out letter grades in kindergarten and if we did, we certainly would not accept bribes from parents.”

“That’s not a bribe, that’s a tip. But suit yourself, sister. I‘ll just take it back.” I put out my hand.

“No you won’t,” she said. “I’ll bring this to the principal and we’ll use it for art supplies. The school graciously accepts your donation.”

“Oh yeah?" I said. "Well maybe I don't want the school to ‘accept’ my donation.”

“Well, maybe we’re going to ‘accept’ it anyway,” she said.

“Well maybe I’ll just have to ‘accept’ it right back from you,” I said.

“Well, maybe I’d like to see you try,” she said, stepping forward.

“Well, maybe I’ll just---hey,” I said, pointing out the window, “isn’t that a cumulo-nimbus?”

“What?” she said, turning to look, which she shouldn’t have. I ‘accepted’ the bills and ran.

File Under: "The Hills" Finale, Hollywood Roosevelt

I was just about to order the Beef n’ Cheddar at Arby’s drive-thru last night when my phone rang.

“Charles, it‘s me,” came a voice I instantly recognized. It was my patient, Ray, the socialite wife of a prominent L.A. politician. “Charles, I’m having problems with my son Froggy again. One of his friends just called me from the Roosevelt where Froggy is staying. There’s a party going on over there and it's very noisy. This fellow who called, he says Froggy is unconscious and he may have been drinking. I know it’s more than that! He‘s been taking drugs!”

Ray had talked about her son many times during our sessions. The youngest of her children, Froggy made a lifestyle of drinking and partying with celebrities, always footing the bill for lavish dinners at places like One Pico and La Boheme. He called himself a producer but had only helped produce one forgettable independent flick. His actual passport into the world of celebrities was his credit card--backed by family money--and his enthusiasm for footing the bill.

“Ray,” I said, “if he’s unconscious you need to call 911.”

“No!” she said. “His father will kill him if he finds out. I don’t personally care--I’m so disgusted with his behavior--but it would be an embarrassment to his father and to the family if Froggy ended up in ER.”

I was about to remind her that "ER" had long since been cancelled but then I realized she probably meant the other one. “I don’t know if I can help him. It sounds like an emergency.”

“I don’t care.”

“But what if he's--”

Ray's voice took on a slightly hysterical tone. “That boy can be dead for all I care. You give him an acupuncture treatment! Then you bring him here. Our private doctor will be waiting when you arrive. I gave Froggy’s friends your cell phone number. Hurry! Every second counts!”

I considered driving up to the speaker and quickly ordering a Beef n’Cheddar. It wouldn’t take Arby’s more than a minute or two to toss a delicious, steaming burger in my window as I sped by. The thought of those tender beef strips and pepper bacon on a saucy bun (with Arby's ranch dressing!) made my stomach growl. But then I remembered Ray’s admonition: every second counts. I was fifteen minutes away from The Roosevelt in heavy traffic and I hoped Froggy could hold on until then, although I had no idea how I could help him. I backed out of the drive-thru lane and drove toward the Roosevelt. I had heard that “The Hills” was having their end-of-series party there and I wondered if Froggy was part of the festivities. As I pulled onto La Brea, my cell phone rang.

“Mr. Yarborough?” came a young man‘s breathless voice. “It’s Connor. Froggy’s friend? We’re not in the hotel. We left? It’s crazy at the hotel tonight with 'The Hills' and all. Security is so tight, they might not let you in? We got Froggy into the limo just outside the hotel on the side street. We're in a stretch limo?” Connor was one of those people who turn every statement into a question.

“Ok,” I said.

“Um, but you might wanna take your time?” said Connor

“Why is that?” I said.

“Well,” he hesitated, “we think he’s kinda dead.”

”What do you mean he’s kind of dead?” I asked.

“Uh, he stopped breathing about ten minutes ago. And he was blue but he isn’t anymore. And my girlfriend put a mirror up to his mouth but it didn’t steam up.”

“Call 911,” I said.

“Uhm, we can’t?” said Connor “Froggy’s mother told us not to. We’re supposed to wait for you. We're five cars down from Hollywood Blvd? We'll wait for you.”

Ten minutes later I arrived and tapped on the rear window. It slid open. A cloud of hops and dope wafted out. Inside, in the dim yellow light, were four young people--one man and three women in their early twenties in formal attire.  And stretched out on the rear seat was a pale man with thick brown locks, wearing a tux and looking quite dead.

I got in.  The somber mood of the guests was undermined by Lady Gaga crooning over a fabulous sound system.  I pressed two fingers on Froggy's carotid artery and felt a faint pulse.  Then something unexpected happened:  Froggy opened one eye and sent me a furtive wink.  "Well," I said, playing along with the prank, "it looks Froggy has bit the dust."

The girls started crying miserably.  A curly haired surfer leaned toward me.  "I'm Connor," he said, "and I feel responsible for this.  We were drinking in the hotel and he started gagging.  I should have called 911 but I got scared, what with his dad being so famous and all.  So I called his mother..."

"It's not your fault," I said.  "Let's open that champagne."

"What?" said Connor.  "Why?"

"So we can toast Froggy and a life well-lived," I said, patting Connor on the back.  "Here, if you don't want to do it I'll do it myself."  I popped the cork and poured everybody a drink.  "A toast to Froggy," I said, though I was the only one who lifted his glass.

“To Froggy,” they said, confusedly.

“Now listen,” I said, “I’ve been instructed by Froggy's’s mother to give him an acupuncture treatment even if he’s dead.  And that’s what I’m going to do.”

“Really?” they said, wide-eyed.

“I’m just not sure what kind of treatment I should give him at this stage,” I said. "Maybe a treatment for energy? Froggy could certainly use more of that! Pull off his shoes, somebody. I rolled up Froggy’s trousers and poked needles in his pallid shins, then stuck some in his feet.

“How about for alcohol addiction?” said one of the girls. “He drank way too much, Poor Froggie!"

“Sure,” I said. “That’s an easy one,” and I stuck some needles in his ears. Reaching into the pocket of Froggy's tux, I said, "Is anybody hungry?  I am!  I’ve got Froggy’s credit card right here! Last chance for a Froggy treat!”

“I'm not sure that would be such a good idea," said Connor.

"Well I am," I said.  “Arby’s has a Beef & Cheddar sandwich that’s absolutely to-die.  Does anybody here like pepper bacon? They'll put extra on the burger if you ask!  Driver! To Arby’s!” So I got to put my order in at Arby’s drive-thru after all and I ordered burgers all around, though nobody ate but me.

As we drove out into the night, I turned up the Black Eyed Peas' "Boom Boom Pow," and whispered into Connor's ear. Then Connor whispered into the girls' ears.  Pretty soon we were all winking at each other. And as the limo slowed down for hordes of tourists at the corner of Highland and Sunset, the door swung open and Froggy's pals rolled him into the gutter.

Okay, so this was pretty rude, I have to agree. But so was Froggie's prank. And so were the things he shouted at us while running after the limo in his bare feet.

"Hello, Ray?" I said, when his mother answered the phone. "It's Charles. Yes, yes. Froggy is perfectly fine.  In fact, he's out having a bit of a jog. How did I get him to do that? Well, when I tell you, you're going to have a good laugh. At least I hope you will." (She did.)

File Under: Talent Agent, Suicidal, Annoying

If you’re a paranoid, suicidal talent agent, you probably shouldn’t rent an office in Century City. Those Century Park East high-risers offer a view that’s terrifying even for a stable person such as myself. Nevertheless, that’s where talent agents abide, gazing contemptuously at the glittering CAA bunker, many stories below, and wondering whether anybody but their bull terriers would care if they climbed out on the ledge and jumped. Commando is one of those agents.

Commando is a fortyish talent agent who will permit me tell you about our sessions as long as I give her an alias. The moniker “Commando” seems to fit. Ordinarily I don’t do off-site treatments but Commando won’t leave her office in the hands of her assistant Cindy. She says, “Those other agents will swoop in and poach my clients, and Cindy is the stupidest girl I've ever had. What do I mean by stupid? Well, yesterday I told her to buy me a stack of notepads and she brought me yellow ones. Where in that request do you hear yellow?!”

Sweet, young, button-eyed Cindy spent the rest of the day filling out the notepads. “Why am I so damned annoying?” she wrote with those slender, little hands, thousands of times. At the end of the day she fed them through the shredder. Today she is busy taping all the pieces together again…that is, when she isn’t busy calling Commando’s clients, her dry cleaner, her trainer, her life coach or taking her anxiety-ridden terrier to the pet psychic.

Yes, Commando runs a tight ship. Wearing a hemp explorer’s vest and glaring out from under thick, discordant eyebrows, she barks orders at everyone she deems her equal or less. A gray buzzcut and western-style Anto shirt with sleeves rolled up over leathery forearms, give the impression of a cattle rustler gone straight.

“Get in here, Chuck! Step lightly! Who have ya been treating lately? Anybody I should know about?” Aside from depression, Commando suffers from a compulsion to pry my patients’ identities from my lips. “Cindy!” she hollers. “Bring that treatment table in here and set it up, on the double! Chop chop, girl!”

Commando lifted one eyebrow and marched around me as we waited for Cindy to set up the table. “So, whom did you treat this week?” she said. “Was it Angelina? Well was it? I hear she's a real doll.”

“You know I can’t divulge,” I said. “It‘s private. Let’s see how you’re doing today. Stick out your tongue.“

She stuck out her tongue. It was pitted, crimson, greasy, and so wide I could iron a shirt on it. “Excellent,” I said and she snapped it back in.

“Was it Clooney?” Commando continued. “He’s got that spinal condition, doesn‘t he? Love to get him over here for a chat. It was Clooney, wasn’t it! Blink twice if he‘s got a hairy back!”

“I can’t divulge. Sorry.”

“Did you just blink? You did, didn’t you, Chuck! You blinked! Well, the next time you get Clooney on your treatment table, give him my card and tell him to call me. His rep doesn’t need to know.”

“I didn’t blink.”

“I think you did,” she said, shoving her chin in my face.

“Didn’t.”

“Oh yes you did!”

“Listen,“ I said. “The school shrink just called to say my kid is emotionally disturbed. My partner is howling at the moon over some lost diamonds, and I’m craving a cigarette so badly I might just have to smoke your vest. I’m giving you ’til the count of ten to put a lid on it and lie down, or I leave. One, two, three…“

Commando reeled in her chin, stared at me a long moment, then stepped over to the table and lay down. “Sorry,” she said. “I go overboard sometimes.”

“Four, five, six, seven,” I said.
　
“Really, I am,” she said, frowning. “That part about your kid made me sad.” She began texting on her cell phone. “I have trouble turning my mind off, see? I‘d like to be a better person, I mean it sincerely. I'd like to be a nicer--you know these treatments really help me and--”

“Eight, nine,” I said.

“All right. Okay. I‘m quiet now.”

“Very good,” I said and waited for the fidgeting to stop. “So, what can I do for you today?”

She sighed. “Do you really want to know?“

“Yes,” I said, regretting it instantly.

“Well, for starters, you could blink once for Hilary, twice for Scarlett…”

File Under: Infants, Conniving

It occurred to me I should explain how I got tricked into being a father.

You know the saying, “Sometimes bad things happen to good people”? Well, I can pretty much guarantee you, they wrote that for me. How else to explain losing four grand on my 2005 “Best Actress” pick, or the caterer dropping a molten s’more on my chinchilla throw, or the baba ghanoush lady giving birth under my chocolate fountain? All these bad things converged at the worst Oscars party I ever gave. This may have been five years ago but my chinchilla is forever besmirched and I’m still waiting for the baba lady to pick up her kid.

My caterer, a retired French actress named Cecile, begged me to keep the newborn for two days until the baba lady could return for it. The lady had been hiding her pregnancy from her family and now had to arrange for the child’s adoption. Only the lady never returned. After repeated calls to Cecile, in which I threatened to mail the kid back to her--book rate--I got the lowdown. The woman, she said, had given a fake name when Cecile hired her and had now disappeared.

“Not my problem,” I said. “You come get this creature. I’ve changed this kid eleven times. I’m almost all out of dinner napkins.”

“Why, Monsieur,” said Cecile, “How you amuse! Why not simply keep her? Everybody’s adopting nowadays. She must be adorable, n’est-ce pas? Fatherhood will be a marvelous experience for you and Myron. I suggest you get a baby bottle and some formula and then paint your guest room a girly shade of rouge coquette. Perhaps you’ll start thinking of somebody other than yourself?"

I put the kid in the car. Beverly Hills City Hall was nearby, on Rexford, and that’s where I’d redeem it. Then I’d take my finder’s fee and skip over to Cartier for a little reward. But as I barreled down Santa Monica Boulevard, the baby started crying up a storm. I pulled the car over and, when I reached into the laundry basket to reposition the bottle at her lips, she took hold of my finger with her tiny brown hand.

“What!” I said.

She gave me a look that said, “You’re not really going to turn me in, like a poker chip, are you?”

“Don’t try that,” I said. “We haven’t bonded, so it won’t make any difference. You don’t even have a name. City Hall will send you wherever it is they send helpless orphans and…” Oh. Orphans, I thought. Now there’s an ugly word. My only experience of orphans was the musical “Oliver!” and it wasn’t very pretty, mainly due to it being a shabby, Catholic school production in Pittsburgh, financed by bake sales. I played Oliver during my first encounter with angel dust and, the next day, found myself in a state-run facility for the young and the restless.

“Maaaaa,” said the little brown and pink creature, with a hopeful smile. “Meeeehhehhh.”

“Let go of my finger,” I said. “I’ll be needing that hand to drive.” But she fixed her peepers on me and kept with the baby sounds. “Alright, alright,” I said . “I’ll bring you home if you if you can answer three questions correctly. If you miss any, it’s hello City Hall. Understood?”

The baby kicked her blankets aside joyously, bubbles forming between her lips.
“Question number one,” I said. “Who won Best Supporting Actress in 1979 for ‘Deer Hunter’?”

The little radish face looked up at me and squinted. “Meh-Merrrryl,” it said.

“Can I get a last name?” I said, but as you know, there is only one Meryl. Everybody knows that. “Alright,” I said. “Who won Best Actress in 1982 for ’Sophie’s Choice’?”

The creature rolled her head back and forth and, after some incoherent burbling, said, “Merrrryl!”

I felt my Cartier bonanza slipping from my grasp and yet something made me press onward. I asked the only question that would come to my lips, the only one that made any sense.

“Okay then,” I said. “Who is the most versatile film actor in America today, hands-down the best overall--”

“Merrryl, Merrrryl, Merrrrrryl!” she babbled, victoriously, wisely and with unimpeachable good taste, paddling her feet and squeezing my finger as if her future enrollment at Yale Drama School depended on it, which it did.

Well, nobody would have known. Nobody would have called foul, had I reneged on my promise. But a deal was a deal and if I didn’t make good, this kid’s first break would have been a lousy one, a bad thing happening to a potentially good person--who could say? So I pulled a U-turn. “Meryl, huh?” I said, firing up a Camel, then tossing it out the window. “Guess what we’re gonna call you, little lady.”

The sun was beginning to set and a string of traffic lights flickered yellow, daring me to get across town before the shops all closed. I stepped on the gas. “Hold on, kid. We’re gonna need some brushes and rollers and paint pans and a fifth of Wild Turkey and a couple gallons of--Jesus, Meryl, what do they call that color?”

“La rouge coquette.”

“Huh?”

File Under: Hollywood Housewife, Mummification

It's a choice between helping foaming-at-the-mouth Myron tear up my yard in pursuit of lost diamonds or go to my Beverly Hills office on a holiday to work. I'll go to work.

Today I have Susan on the books. Susan is the wife of one of the biggest film director/producers in the biz. She could Richard Simmons her way down to a size six if she put a little effort into it but that’ll never happen because Susan would rather take her husband’s money and buy cosmetic surgeries. In several weeks, Susan will be attending the backgammon Nations Cup in Cannes, and she wants to look her best when the cameras swing her way. No problem there, but if you ask me, she’s having her procedures done too close together.

Two weeks ago, Susan showed up for acupuncture with her nose and forehead covered in bandages. “Wait ’til you see my new nose, Charles!” she said. “It’s Grecian!” Then, five days later, Susan’s assistant pushed her into my office in a wheel chair. Not only her nose and cheeks but her eyes were bandaged over. “Wait ’til you see my new eyes!” she sang. “They’re Indonesian!”

For her appointment today, I expect Susan to be rolled in on a stretcher by a nurse, entombed in a full body cast, like an Egyptian mummy. The nurse will tell me Susan just had her hips, thighs, tummy, upper arms and breast done, and that the surgeon decided to reshape her cheeks and ears while he was at it. I’ll be forced to make queries like, “Tap once if your claustrophobia is getting better, twice if it‘s staying the same.”

Faced with the challenge of sticking an acupuncture needle through the plaster body cast, my mind will wander over to a nail gun the contractor left in the hallway...