Writers: The Scourge of Hollywood!

If I told you his name I’d probably wake up to find a horse’s head in my bed. But I think it’s safe to tell you he’s a major Studio Exec in his fifties with a craggy, deeply tanned face and poofy, oddly scissored hair, who hops around with aimless, vaguely malevolent agitation, like an organ grinder’s monkey. Whether or not you recognize his mug, you recognize his movies.


Studio Exec lay down on the treatment table today, huffing and fidgeting. I’ve been helping him with “potency issues,” and I figured, by his flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, we were getting results.

Man, I feel great!” he said, kicking off his mahogany New & Lingwood loafers and sending his gaze my way.

“Excellent,” I said, unwrapping some needles. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“Anybody wants to screw with me, watch out!” he said. “I just came from a meeting with our writers. Those dummies have no idea who they’re dealing with. Ha!” It sounded like Studio Exec’s potency issues were being resolved.

“Ya know, Silverman’s got the right idea,” he continued. “Silverman’s brilliant, everybody knows that. Demanding that the writers deliver on time is a good move. But we’re going one step further. We’re cutting the damn writers out of production after the first step. Brilliant, huh?”

“I didn’t even know Sarah Silverman uses writers,” I said. “I thought she just channels her act.”

Studio Exec gave me a pained look--and not because my needles hurt (I use a very gentle technique.) “Sarah Silverman?” he said. “I’m talking about Greg Silverman!”

I must have given him a blank look because he added: “Greg Silverman! VP at Warner!” As if that meant anything to me. I continued with my treatment and he continued with his rant. As soon as the needles had all found their places he’d calm down. I’d see to it.

“Here’s the deal,” he said, clasping his hands over his flat-as-a-dish belly and gazing at the ceiling. “Silverman is demanding the writers turn in their rewrites on time, or else! That’s just the way it’s going to be, like it or not. New world order. That‘s OK, but we’re going one step further! After first-draft we don’t need the writer anymore. We’re outsourcing to India, see? Schools like Digital Academy and FTII are setting loose a thousand hungry grads every half hour, and boy can those kids crank it out! They write just as good as our own spoiled, pansy-ass writers, only faster. Ask any one of those Indian kids and they’ll recite a dozen pages of “Beverly Hills Cop,” One through Five! And number four ain’t even in the can yet! Ha!”

“So you’re feeling more robust,” I said. “Is it fair to say these acupuncture treatments are helping?”

Studio Exec wasn’t done. “Here’s the deal: the local writer sends us the first draft and then we send him back to his lunch shift at The Ivy. Then we go one-on-one with India. Strictly on the down-low, right? We crank it out. Ya know, my wife has been after me to adopt a set of twins from Somali but now I’m thinking India is the way to go. A set of smart, little twins from India! You see where I’m goin’ with this? What do you think I should name 'em?

But before I could suggest “Eternally” and “Grateful,” he was cranking out a snore and slobbering on my sheet.

Electroshock for Outed Actor

Über-Agent stood at her office window this morning, gazing through wispy clouds, high up in Century City, and asked herself, “How can I torture Chuck today?” Then, crushing a Red Bull between her breasts, she picked up the phone.

“Chuck, my boy,” came her raspy voice, “I’m sending my client to you for emergency acupuncture. The tabloids have gotten wind that he’s been picking guys up from Craigslist, and we simply can’t have this foolishness. It puts his marriage in a bad light and my job in jeopardy.”

“What do you want from me?” I asked.

“Well, I sent him for Heterosexual Recovery Therapy yesterday. He did a session several years ago, but it must have worn off. Anyway, it's electroshock and it left him loopy so I need you to get him back in focus for his media tour.”

“You mean there's a shrink in L.A. who will do that procedure?” I said.

“Who said shrink? It's a buddy of mine with an electro-shock machine and a Playgirl calendar.”

“A buddy?” I said.

“Okay, my mechanic,” said Über-Agent.

“How did your mechanic get a hold of--”

“Craigslist, okay? You gonna help?”

Forty five minutes later, a handsome actor, well-known for his swagger and cheeky bravado, shuffled into my office, pulled by his tiny wife. He looked pale, confused, unsteady.

“Please sit,” I said. “Your agent tells me you’re a little bit out of focus. Is that true?”

The actor looked at his wife, with her sparrow print blouse and primly crossed ankles and long, denim skirt. Then he turned his bloodshot eyes my way and cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said. “Forgetful.”

“That must be annoying,” I said.

“And how! I put two backstage passes for Cher in my jacket pocket yesterday and now I can’t find them.”

“Backstage for Cher?” I said, wondering how he scored those tickets. “I looove Cher!”

“Oh, me too!” he said.

“You’ve got to find those tickets!” I said.

“Or I’ll just die! If I could only remember!” he said.

“If you could turn back time!” I said.

“If I could turn back time! If I could find a way...!” This musical snippet from the immortal Cher repertoire sprang out of us and hung like a storm cloud over his wife, who said:

“Oh dear god,” and stared miserably at a pineapple boba stain Delphinia had left on the carpet and which will be deducted from her paycheck.

“What else?” I said.

“I can't seem to 'get it up' for the life of me,” he said. “It's very frustrating. For my wife.”

“Did you try staring at a picture of Cher?” I said. “That always works for me.”

“Oh boy!” he said. “Wasn't she was fabulous at the 2010 VMAs?”

“I'll say!” I said.

“There she was in that iconic black jacket and the sheer body stocking with glitter scattered just everywhere!” And the wig, oh my god, I thought I'd die when I saw that fabulous—oh-oh!” He patted his groin merrily and winked. “I believe I've just given myself a you-know-what!”

I was pleased that his libido was returning, although his wife didn't seem very encouraged. She frowned at the boba stain and mumbled. “We're ruined.” I wondered if electroshock and an Audubon calendar would cure her mood.

I gave the actor an encouraging smile. “I believe acupuncture can help you.”

“Oh?”

“I've got experience in this area,” I said.

“Great. And I've got you babe!” he said

“People say your hair's too long!” I said.

“Let's start this treatment!” he said.

“Then we'll go find those Cher tickets!” I said.

“A-hem,” said his wife, and stood up. “Does that window open wide enough for me to climb out?”

“No,” I said.

“Well then, do you have a knife or something I can kill myself with?”

Pleased that she was at last joining in the fun, I said, “If you go look in the kitchen you’ll find one, but I think they’re all plastic. But you know, Delphinia hasn’t cleaned the fridge out in six months, so anything you eat in there would probably do the trick.”

As she wandered out the door, her husband turned to me and slapped my knee. “You're such fun!” he said.

“No you are!” I said, already anticipating a successful treatment.

“No you are!”

“No you are!”

“No you are!”

“No you are!”

“And the beat goes on!”