File Under: Pride and Prejudice and Zoloft

Now that “Pride and Prejudice and Zombies,” is slated for production, I can’t seem to have a normal conversation with any females in L.A. They’re all speaking Jane Austen English. Just go in any diner and ask the waitress for a cup of coffee.

“Would Monsieur care for a crumpet and a slather of marmalade to accompany his caffeinated beverage?” This from an amazon with an anchor tattoo.

Even my receptionist, Delphinia has been stricken.

“Dearest Charles,” came Delphinia’s voice over the intercom this morning, “your patient has just arrived by carriage and awaits you in the parlor.”

“Who is it?” I said, flicking a half-smoked Camel out the window.

“She is a young lady possessed of such surpassing tenderness of spirit–aided, no doubt, by two weeks in rehab and such prodigiously consumed doses of psychotropics as might paralyze an ox–that there can be but little surprise at her copious accumulation of Facebook Friends. In fact, her dexterous skill in the Tweeting Arts is a phenomenon marveled at far and wide, from the drawing rooms of Encino to the coast of Sussex and beyond.”

“Oh for Chrissake, just send her in.”

A moment later Delphinia appeared in her flounce, waving A-Level Actress through the door. “Dearest Sister in Natural Remedies,” sang Delphinia, her oversized curls bouncing as she curtsied, “Charles awaits your arrival. Do come in!”

And there appeared A-level Actress, disheveled, bleary-eyed and teetering dangerously on a pair of hyper-sexualized, fourteen-inch, neo-gothic Sergio Rossi pumps.

“Glurrbpbh,” she said, dragging her overstuffed, boho-chic handbag on the floor.

“Have a seat,” I said, looking closely at her pupils, which were the size of silver dollars. “What can I help you with today?”

Like a dead planet suddenly plucked from orbit, she dropped onto the sofa in a crumpled heap. I wasn’t sure if it was the leather cushion expelling fumes or if it was she, but as she sank deep into it, there came a loud “Phigghhrt!” from the vicinity of her equator. She didn’t seem to notice.

Just then, Delphinia reappeared. “Did you beckon me, Monsieur?”

“No,” I said, “but you might as well stay. I think I’ll need your help translating.”

Delphinia sat down next to A-List. “How you flatter me, kind sir!” she said. “It would be an honor to assist you in the arduous task of completing the interrogatory process!”

I pressed my palm into my forehead. Was that a migraine coming on?

“What would you like me to ask your patient?” said Delphinia.

“It’s not my questions that need translating,” I said, “it’s her answers.”

“As you wish, your Lordship,” she smiled primly, fanning herself with an old People.

I asked A-List, “Have you had your meds checked recently? I think you may be overdosing.”

“Glurrbpbh,” she said, pawing her bag and pulling out a bottle of pills.

Delphinia leaned forward with a serious look. “She says she needs the Librium to keep her from going insane and that her doctor assures her she’s dosing appropriately.”

“She said all that?” I asked.

“And you’ve got cilantro stuck in your teeth.”

I looked at A-List. “What else are you taking?”

She pawed another bottle of pills from her purse. “Glurrbpbh,” she said, her eyes crossing.

Delphinia said, “She believes the Zoloft keeps her mind lively and focused on positive thoughts, enabling her to engage in stimulating discourse on a plethora of subjects. For that reason, she respectfully declines Monsieur’s suggestion to minimize her dosage.”

“Well then,” I said, “there’s only so much Monsieur can do to help. Bring her into the treatment room. Monsieur will give her an acupuncture treatment that will enhance her mood and make her even more lively than she already is. Although that’s hard to imagine.”

As Delphinia pulled A-List up from the sofa, a compact mirror and a glass vial fell from the starlet’s oversized purse. I scooped the items up, dropping the mirror back in the bag. But I rolled the vial back and forth in my hand a moment, gazing at its white crystals before deciding I would flush it down the commode. After all, Madame may not be inclined to remove the meds from her diet, but perhaps she could go a day without sugar.

File Under: Network Head Bounces Back

The Recently-Booted Network Exec came to my office today. I wouldn't have known who he was except that my assistant, Delphinia is a drama major and she follows Industry gossip with a passion.

She ushered him into my treatment room, glancing sideways at his D&G black wool suit and red tie. “Oh my God, watch out for that guy, Charles!” she whispered. “He's a bully! Details at ten!” Then she went back to slurping her coconut boba.

Network Exec stood stiffly before me, beady-eyed, his sweaty forehead shining. I asked him, “How are you feeling today?”

No part of him seemed to possess a moveable joint except his jaw, which opened just enough for these words to escape: “Since you asked, I have a headache.”

I waved him in. “Please make yourself comfortable. Lie down while I give you a treatment. Headaches are one of my specialties.”

“No thanks,” he said. “Your receptionist is dressed rather too casually, don't you think? If I were the manager, I'd replace her—mid-season if I had to. Just write her out.”

“Thanks for the advice,” I said, “but this is an acupuncture office, not a sit-com. My assistant looks fine to me.”

Delphinia was auditioning for the Tierra del Fuego Dinner Theatre production of “Planet of the Apes” after work, and was wearing an off-the-shoulder bearskin and pearls.

“Humph,” said the man, moving little more than a lip and an eye, “I'd still replace her. In fact, your whole office is sub-par. Those autographed photos covering the wall may be appropriate for Jerry's Deli but for not for a medical establishment. And what's with the Kewpie dolls in the fish tank? If I were the manager here, the first thing I'd do is move your time slot and then I'd--”

“Wait a minute,” I said, “did you come here for the clinic manager position that was on Craigslist?”

“Yes, of course,” said the lips.

“Sir,” I said, “you're looking for the medical marijuana clinic next door. But you needn't bother because they've just been shut down.”

The stiff, little man who had put on a black wool suit and gone looking for a job in record-setting heat showed a glint of emotion. It was disappointment. “They've been canceled?” he said.

I felt a a pang of empathy. “But if it's a management position you're looking for,” I said, “I happen to know that this building is in need of a manager.”

“Oh?” he said. “And where would I apply?”

“The office is in the basement,” I said. “and I suggest you go there right now, before they close for lunch.” I opened the door for him to leave.

“Excellent,” he said, then paused to scratch his chin. “Now, ehm...er...might I possibly use you as a reference? I don't think I should count on my previous employer.”

“Sure,” I said, “if you promise to get my leaky sink fixed.”

“Yes indeed! Consider it done,” said Network Exec, with great purpose. “I'm a man who makes hard decisions and gets things done. I may be imperfect, but what man isn't? The important thing is, I take responsibility for my actions, right or wrong. And I return a favor with a favor. I will do my best to make sure your sink is fixed. Sooner or later. And that's a promise. More or less.”

And that's all I can ask for. Sort of.
                                                                           * * * * * *
I guess it's time we started worrying about Myron. He was supposed to get back to L.A. three days ago but I haven't gotten a call. He warned me he wouldn't be allowed to use his cell phone while driving his U-Haul full of paintings over the border from Canada.

Myron is bringing the paintings—by major artists--to his boss in L.A. The artworks are to be magically converted into equity for film production. It's a little-publicized aspect of movie making and I don't really know how it works. Nor do I want to. And so I close up my office for the day and call Myron's house. His grumpy Czechoslovakian maid, Fanny answers.

“Ach, no, Charles,” she wheezes. “I hef not heard from Mister Myron and I ehm gettink vorried. Thees whole thing is bad, bad! Looks bad, smells vorse. Who are dese people he vorks for? Hoodlums is who! Bang, bang! Such people I would not vipe my shoe on! Oh my Gott, my rump roast is burning. Goot-bye!”
Just then a message comes in on my i-Phone. Is it Myron?

“YOU MISSED OUR PARENT/TEACHER MEETING,” it screams. “CALL ME IMMEDIATELY OR ELSE!” It's Miss Feather, my daughter's kindergarten teacher. Since I won't be bullied around, I delete it. If I could delete the entire world I would push that button too. My day is over and it's time to go home.

And that's all I can ask for.

File Under: Tortured by Tinseltown Teacher!

I spent fourteen hours treating desperate patients at my Burbank acupuncture office today. I've got plenty of work, what with post-Toronto-New York-Helsinki-Film-Festival depression being so rampant. It's the West Coast version of Lyme disease, but without the rash.

Tonight, as I walked up the front porch, a tall, hulking figure leaped from the shadows and pushed me backwards off the step, flat into the flowerbed. It was Miss Feather, my daughter Meryl’s kindergarten teacher. A bosomy Mr. Clean in an apron, Miss Feather towered over me, hands on hips, glaring down with disgust, like I was a porcelain convenience in need of a scrub.

“Soooo!” she taunted, pushing her foot into my chest. A smile as thin as razor wire twisted across her doughy face.

“Soooo what?” I said, wondering if I should grab her ankle, throw her off-balance, spring to my feet and give her a roundhouse kick to the cerebellum. But since I hadn’t so much as plugged in my treadmill for five years I gave her a nice, little smile instead.

“Something I can do for you?” I asked.

“Soooo,” she hissed, “what happened to you last Friday? I waited. Where were you, huh? What's your excuse this time?”

“What do you mean, what happened to me?”

A withering sneer from Mrs. Clean. “Don’t get smart with me, little man. You missed our parent-teacher conference last week. That’s eleven times this year you’ve failed to show, eleven unexcused absences. Your daughter’s behavior is getting out of control and it’s time we had a cozy little chat.”

“Oh yeah?” I said. “And what’s she done now?”

“Today at show-and-tell, after the other kids had shown their Arctic fossils and pictures of endangered rain forests, your little Meryl got up and lip-synched Shirley Bassey’s ‘Hey Big Spender.’ She said it was one of her audition pieces for Yale Drama School.”

“You didn’t like her Medea either,” I said. “Maybe the problem is you.”

Miss Feather clicked her tongue. “A five year-old girl should not be wiggling around with a feather boa and sequined headband.”

“Well, not with her father’s boa and sequined headband, anyway.”

She pressed her foot deeper into my chest and pushed me from side to side, like she was rolling a cannoli. “Sooo, a smart aleck, are you?” she said. “Well, tell me this: how am I supposed to explain Meryl’s behavior to the children's parents? Or the administration? It’s time you started thinking about somebody besides yourself.”

“Are you kidding?“ I said. “That’s all I ever do.” And I launched into a heart-rending description of my passion for my work and how the people who come to me are broken, misguided souls to whom I give new hope and direction. By the time I was finished talking, Miss Feather was wiping tears from her eyes.

“That’s the most touching story I’ve ever heard,” she sobbed, shuffling down the walkway toward her black SUV.

I thought so too. It’s a monologue from ‘Goodbye, Mr. Chips,’ and if I ever audition for Yale Drama School, I’m gonna use it.