A Hollywood Healing!

I may not be a psychotherapist, but I like to cure my patients’ psychoses whenever the opportunity arises. And I don’t do too badly for “winging it!”

This morning, I was stopped at the parking level entrance to my office, honking and flashing my lights at the red BMW in front of me. The driver had waited ‘til he drove all the way up to the ticket dispenser before he rolled down his window and stuck out his hand. Everybody knows you’re supposed to drive up with your hand already out the window, as it’s more efficient. Well, I was honking and flashing my lights and gunning my engine and yelling, “I’m late for my ten o’clock patient, you goon! Get out of my way!”

The driver stuck his head out the window, looked back at me and smiled a boyish smile. “Oh hello, Charles!”he called.

It was my 10 o’clock patient, an award-winning actor. “Hello Timothy,”I said. “How are you today? Think it’ll rain?”

“Golly,”he peeped, with a sideways tilt of his small, round head. “I sure hope not! I get awfully depressed when it rains. Why do you suppose that is?”

“Lot’s of people are like that, Timothy,”I said. “It’s your reaction to a shift in barometric pressure and it affects your brain chemistry. Don't worry about it.”

“Really?”he smiled hopefully.

“Yes,”I said. “Although you do have a tendency toward moodiness, so maybe it’s something we need to look at. It might have to do with the time your uncle fondled you and…”

A battered, old U-Haul exited from the opposite side of the gate, revving its motor loudly. Timothy looked at me, cupping his hand to his ear, as if to say, “Huh?”

I shouted louder this time, “It might have to do with the time your uncle fondled you! How’s the filming going on your new movie?” Four women carrying Clinique shopping bags stopped and gawked. “Move on, ladies!”I added, like the fierce protector that I am. “This is a private conversation!”

“It’s going just great, Charles!” Timothy called, as the U-Haul creaked away. “The director has no idea I’m sleeping with his wife!”

“That’s excellent!”I said proudly. I had realized early on that I could help Timothy by encouraging his self-exploration, and now he was making good progress. Two more ladies passed by with Clinique bags stuffed full of goodies. “And how’s the bed wetting, Timothy?”I said.

One woman mouthed these words to the other: “He wets his bed?!”

“Keep moving, ladies!”I shouted, leaning out the window and waving my hands.

Timothy’s eyes brightened and he craned his neck. “Oh my God, I forgot to tell you, I've almost completely stopped wetting! Those electroshock treatments you sent me for, they seem to be kicking in! I wasn’t so sure at first!”

“Excellent,”I said. Was there a sale at the Clinique counter that I didn’t know about? Three more women passed by with shopping bags ready to burst.

Timothy’s face darkened. “The only problem is, I get ringing in my ears and sometimes I forget where I am. And I’m having trouble remembering my lines.”

I waved reassuringly. “Don’t worry, dear boy. That’ll pass. It affects everybody differently. By the way, who is the President of the United States?”

He paused for a moment. “Gosh, I ... I ... I don’t remember!”

“Well,”I called, “I want you to think about it and tell me, the next time you come for your session. That’s your homework. I believe that just about covers it for today, Timothy!”

He smiled brightly. “Boy, we covered a lot, didn’t we?” he said.

“Yes we did,”I said. “Now pull that ticket from the machine, OK? Do a U-turn and then drive out, and they won’t charge you when you leave. I’ll see you next week at the same time.”

“But I wanted to ask you---”he started.

“That’s all we should work on today, “I said. “I don’t want to overload you.”Besides, there was obviously a sale going on at the Clinique counter and I had 40 minutes to check it out before my next patient showed up. I was almost completely out of T-Zone Shine Control. Who knew when it would go on sale again?

“Huh? Well OK, Charles. I’ll see you next week. Bye bye! And thank you!”Timothy drove off.

“Be good, be well, be safe!”I said. I’ve been trying out different send-offs and I kind of like that one. It seems to cover it all!

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!”

Malibu Christmas Mitzvah

“Malibu Christmas Mitzvah” is an annual concert put on by local businesses to celebrate the holiday season. This year the concert has adopted a “Wizard of Oz” theme, and so the barbershop quartet I perform with will be dressing up like Malibu Munchkins.

Tonight, as I was leaving the office for dress rehearsal, the phone rang.

“It’s an emergency,” said my receptionist, Delphinia. “They need you to go to their house.”

I was happy to help but, in my red satin lederhosen with embroidered bib and candy cane leggings with glittering orange booties, I wasn't dressed for house calls. Delphinia had even found a yellow beanie with a propeller and had epoxied it to my head. Now all I needed was a spray tan.

“Emergency,” she said, handing me the phone. “You’d better take it.” It was the wife of a film distribution CEO.

“Charles,” said the woman, “I’m worried about Harry. He lost a contract with one of the major studios today and he’s so miserable I’m afraid he’s going to hurt himself. We’re having a birthday party tonight at the house for my little girl but now, suddenly, we’re in crisis mode. Can you get over here right away?”

“Delphinia,” I said, “pack up the car. We’re working overtime.”

I figured if I took a slight detour to the CEO’s house in Bel Air, I wouldn’t be too noticeably late for tonight’s rehearsal. But I wasn’t going to change my costume for this patient or tear the beanie from my head, only to re-glue it a half hour later. I’d show up as-is.

We pulled through some tall iron gates and up a curved driveway. A security man in black livery ushered us to the front door and rang the bell. A girl in her early twenties answered.

“Hello,” I said.

She looked me up and down and took a slurp of her mojito. “Mom,” she shouted over her shoulder, “did you order a Teletubby?”

“No, darling,” came a woman’s voice. “I ordered Yogi Bear.”

“Well, you better come look at this!”

A slender, middle-aged woman in a black cashmere sweater appeared at the door. She gave me a confused look.

“Hello,” I said.

“What took so long?” she said. “Come on in. You're not what I ordered. Can you at least do balloon animals?”

“I can do a giraffe and a peacock and Telly Savalas,” I said. “But how is that going to help your husband?”

“Oh my goodness” said the woman, “we assumed you were the entertainment. He was supposed to be here twenty minutes ago and the kids are getting impatient. Won’t you come in? Excuse me but somehow I expected you’d be wearing scrubs. My husband is upstairs, second door on the left.”

Delphinia and I found our way upstairs to a vast bedroom where an unshaven man in striped pajamas was curled up on a chair in a corner. He lifted his head and stared at my beanie with lifeless eyes.

“Howdy,” I said. “I understand somebody’s in a bad mood. I’m here to help you reclaim the joy of living. But first, I’ll run to my car since I forgot my doctor’s bag. My assistant will take your vitals.”

As I stepped out into the hallway, I heard the man say, “What’s he doing in that getup?”

“Who, him?” said Delphinia. “What getup? He always dresses that way!”

“Is that true?” said the CEO. “He tho thilly! Da funny wittle man always dwesses dat way?”

“Yeth,” she said. “Can you be-weeve it?”

“He tho thilly, he makthe me wanna waff and waff!” he said.

“Oh my god! Me waff-ee too!” And they both giggled hysterically.

I stepped back into the room. “What’s so funny in here?” I said. They tossed me a casual glance.

“Excuse me, Boss?” said Delphinia, taking the man’s wrist in her hands. She gazed at her watch to gauge his pulse and said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Boss. Pulse seems OK. Weren’t you going to get your bag from the car?”

“Yes,” I said, and stepped out into the hallway. And as I did, I heard the man say, in a high-pitched voice:

“He going to get hith bag o’ twicks! Yipeee!”

“Hooway!” said Delphinia. I could hear the coins jingling as she jumped up and down. “Da man in the wed shorty pants is gonna make a bawoon aminal!”

“Is he weally? Do you pwomith?” he squealed.

“Oh my God, me waff so hard, me make a pee-pee!”

And they laughed hysterically until the second I poked my head in the door. “I heard that!”

“Heard what?” said the man. “Are you sure you’re alright, Charles? You seem to be hearing voices.”

“Right,” I said. “Hearing voices.” I was getting pretty steamed by this time and I turned and walked out the door.

“He a thcream!” Delphinia shrieked.

“He hearing voy-thes!” said the CEO. “Boo!”

I spun on my heel and poked my head in the door, catching them in mid-LOLcat. “Aha!” I said. “It looks like everybody’s doing just fine here. Sounds like nobody really needs my help after all. They can ask for it all they want, but maybe I don’t feel like giving it, so maybe I’m going to leave. Good-bye!”

I stomped downstairs, angry that I had wasted an hour of my time and was now late for my rehearsal. The CEO’s wife was standing in the foyer, nervously wringing her hands.

“That was quick,” she said. “How is he?”

“Obnoxious.”

“Thank God,” she said. “You're a miracle worker!”

“I’ll send you the bill.”

Panicky Producer Disses Pitches

My receptionist Delphinia is a drama major at Santa Monica College and--if you ask her--the next Sarah Bernhardt. I wouldn’t know. I don’t recall her getting a Tony for her work in the Tierra Del Fuego Dinner Theatre production of “Planet of the Apes,” but who can say? It might have gotten lost in the mail.

She does, however, have a talent for spotting any and every celebrity who walks in the door. The way I see it, my patients are all equal, they’re all “God’s children,” as the saying goes. But Delphinia practically sounds an air raid, as she did today, whenever a high-profile patient books a session.

“Charles, this guy is a huge producer,” said Delphinia, applying a fresh coat of cyan to her lips. “I've been taking a class on pitching TV and movie projects to producers and I can't wait to try out some of my new ideas!”

“You took a class in that?” I said. “You wasted your parents’ money.”

“What?” she said, sipping her pineapple boba.

“Sweetheart, everybody knows if you want to pitch a movie, all you do is this: name two previous movies and connect them with the word, 'meets.'”

“That’s it?” she said.

“Simple as that. It's all anybody ever does, take it from me. Of course, it's best if you can do it over lunch at the Four Seasons, but the important thing is, do it. Then just sit back and wait for the dough to roll in.”

“Really?” she said. Delphinia is a sweet girl but so horribly uninformed that I sometimes worry about her surviving in this jungle.

“Now would you please go get some fresh linens from the closet?” I said. “Let's have this place looking sharp. Producers are very picky." As she stepped into the closet, the door locked shut behind her.

“Hey, what happened?” Delphinia's muffled call.

“I don't know,” I said, jiggling the handle. “I can't seem to get the door to open. I'll go look for the key.” I couldn’t allow Delphinia to harass our new patient and so I wasn’t completely disappointed when the door locked quite accidentally.

Just then our new patient, a tall, thin man in a tweed sport coat, strode into the office. I cupped my hands to the closet door and whispered, “He's here!”

“Get me out!” said Delphinia. “I've got to talk to that guy!”

I waved the man in. “Hello, we've been expecting you. Sit down. What can I help you with?”

“I think I’ve got an anxiety disorder,” he said, rubbing his narrow forehead. “I don’t want to take drugs and I heard acupuncture might help. Only, I’m terrified of needles!”

“Don’t worry,” I said, putting my hand on his shoulder. “Just think of this experience as ‘Monk’ meets ‘Marcus Welby.’”

“Uh, what?” he said, tilting his head. “Do you think you can help me? As I was walking around the lot today I got one of these panic attacks where my pulse races and my head feels like it’s been hit by an atom bomb and--”

“Are these headaches like 'Pearl Harbor' meets 'Armageddon'?” I said. “Or more like 'Hellraiser' meets 'The Head That Wouldn't Die'?”

“Like what?” he said. “I don't get you.”

He seemed confused by my subtle infusion of pitches into the conversation. But since success is ninety per cent persistence and ten per cent inspiration, I marched onward. “What I'm saying,” I explained, “is that you must have been walking around the lot today with your head feeling like 'Saw' meets 'Grindhouse.'”

He gave me an irritated look and said, “Look, I don't know what you're talking about but I'd sure appreciate it if you could relieve my anxiety and these headaches!”

“I'll be happy to,” I said. “But did any of these pitches sound good to you? I mean, you are a producer, after all.”

“I'm a what?” he said. “Where'd you get that idea?”

“Of course you are,” I said. “You were telling me about how you walked around the lot today.”

The man laughed. “The lot? The car lot! I sell new and pre-owned Ferraris.”

“I knew that!” I said, hiding my disappointment.

“But I can tell you this: your pitches sound stale and uninspired. And your references are not quite out of fashion enough to be back in fashion.”

“Thank you,” I said. “It’s always good to get helpful criticism from a professional. What was it you do again? Sell used cars?” I made a mental note to myself: have Delphinia tape up the ‘It’s Nice to be Nice’ poster where patients have to stare at it. “Now,” I said, “if you'll wait here just a moment, my assistant will come help you with your paperwork and we'll start your treatment.”

Just then I put my hand in my pocket and happened to find the key to the linen closet. Stepping into the hall, I unlocked the door.

“Thanks, boss!” said Delphinia, panting and hoofing. “Where is he? Lemme at him!”

“He's waiting for you in my office. Good luck with your pitch; he's pretending to be a car salesman.”

“Oh my god!” she laughed skipping down the hall. “I’ll call you when we’re ready.”

A Halloween Birth in Hollywood

When you’ve got a kid as uniquely talented in the Dramatic Arts as my little Meryl, you’d rather poke your eye out than disappoint her in any way. That’s why I felt so guilty Sunday night when I was forced to cancel Halloween. I had promised to take Meryl Trick-or-Treating in our neighborhood (she had worked very hard on her Joan of Arc costume), but as I was closing up the clinic for the day, a high-profile director who would sue me if I told you his name called me in a panic.

“Charles,” he said, “my wife is in labor! She’s in terrible pain. Can you get over here right away and give her some acupuncture anesthesia? We’ve got a suite at the Beverly Wilshire.”

“Take her to a hospital,” I said.

“We’re doing it right here,” he said. “She insists on natural childbirth. We’ve got a midwife and a women’s chanting circle and some stoned-looking monks and you-name-it. It’s a damned circus but it’s what she wants. My poor Jewish mother is fit to be tied.”

I jumped in the car and was about to call little Meryl to cancel our outing when my phone rang. It was Commando, the über-agent, calling.

“Chuck,” she said, “what’s your kid up to tonight? Are you taking her out? Let me do it for you. I’ve been trying to corner some elusive talent on the West Side and I’m thinking maybe your daughter could be my conduit.”

“What are you talking about?” I said.

“Look, here’s the plan: the kid rings the bell at some carefully chosen homes, then she does her little Trick-or-Treat thing and if Downey or Ansari answers the door, I step out from behind a bush and flash ’em a big smile. Next thing you know, they’re my clients. Kaboom! And the kid gets her Goobers.”

It sounded like a mutually beneficial arrangement to me, although I'm not sure I'd accept Halloween candy from Robert Downey. And so, as I pulled up to the hotel I gave the valet my keys, and the über-agent my blessing. In the elevator it occurred to me that the Universe takes care of you if you take care of It. Then it occurred to me that that didn’t make any sense.

“Thank God you’re here!” said the director, pulling me into the plush Governor Suite.

Seated around the room were a half dozen monks in saffron robes blowing rhythmically into curving, six-foot horns, filling the room with a deep, sonorous hum. The director whisked me into the adjoining room where a pale, athletic woman with flowing hair lay in bed, sweating and cursing while a group of frowsy, bra-less matrons in madras skirts chanted and clapped their finger cymbals. In the corner, a seventyish lady wearing a black, size-six cocktail dress and small, tight frown was watching “QVC.”

“Hurry Charles, please!” said the director. “My wife’s been screaming like this for the past hour.”

“How do you do,” I said, extending my hand to the sweaty, wild-eyed woman.

“Stop this pain!” she hollered, tearing a button off my shirt.

“Certainly,” I said. But as I was about to stick a needle in her outer ear, the baby poked its head from between her pale thighs. The chanting grew manic as one of the frowsy women--the midwife--stepped forward to assist with the delivery. Suddenly the lady in the black dress jumped up, shoving an elbow into the midwife’s rib.

“Outta my way, you beatnik” she croaked. “That’s my grandchild in there. Go back to your voo-doo! Okay sweetheart, push! You hear me? Push, push!”

The director’s wife pushed and howled and pushed some more and when the birth was complete, the lady in the black dress held the baby up like she had just won it bowling. Everybody in the suite crowded around the bed and clapped.

“It’s a boy,” said the little lady. “Thank God. My prayers have been answered. Now everybody take your incense and go home, and don’t steal the ash trays!”

On my way home I realized it wasn’t quite six o’clock. If I hurried, I could still take Meryl out for Trick-or-Treats. As stop signs flew by and yellow lights blurred in my rear view mirror, I thought about the doting director and his wild-eyed wife. I thought about how a good Jewish boy and a nutty New Age girl had found a cultural common ground in the love they shared and how--together--they had brought new life into the world. And it occurred to me the Universe really does take care of you if you take care of…hey, how long has that cop car been on my tail?

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.