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.

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.”

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.

Follow This Blog at www.TheWrap.com!

You can now follow this blog at The Wrap!
And you can catch up on the latest Industry news while you're there.
Link: http://www.thewrap.com/blog/charles-yarborough

File Under: Does Anybody Sleep in L.A.?

Commando never makes an appointment to see me. Instead, she waits until she’s in a crisis, then sends up a flare. “I’m desperate, Charles!” she panted into the phone today. “Four of my clients are up for Emmys and I haven’t got a damn thing to wear. What’ll I do?”

This seemed an odd question for a successful agent to ask an acupuncturist. After all, she almost single-handedly (by her own grandiose estimate) keeps the primetime sit-com slate populated. “Why don’t you check with one of those assistants flitting around your office?” I said. “You’ve got quite a natty little group of go-to’s.”

“What, and give those twinks the upper hand?” she said. “No way!”

She had a point. Well-trounced minions must not be given a reason to feel needed. It disrupts the sacred hierarchy of abuse. How, after all, can you hurl your attributed-to-Brancusi bronze at the person who dressed and coifed you for the Emmys? Unfortunately for Commando, I didn’t have the time or talent for a fashion makeover so I sent her to Saks on Wilshire. I knew she wouldn’t be going onstage at the Nokia so she wouldn’t want to overdress, and Saks could be relied on to keep her from appearing overly off-the-rack.

On my way home from the office (where, by the way, I treated one of Commando’s clients, an chronically insomniac actress on an Emmy-likely sitcom. Does anybody sleep in L.A?), Commando called. “Charles,” she said, “guess what? Problem solved! I found the perfect get-up for the Emmys.”

“You went to Saks?” I said.

“Nope. I got in the car and started driving toward Saks but when I saw those mannequins in the window in those frilly-dilly outfits, I said to myself that ain’t my style. I’m not frilly-dilly. So I kept driving and ended up at the Army surplus.”

“At the what??” I said.

“Everything I needed, right there,” she said.

“You what?” I said. “How could you possibly--what do you mean--are you out of your--” Then I remembered. She didn’t find success by batting her eyelashes and swaying her hips. She leaves that to her assistants--her twinks. She’s Commando. Pretty is for pansies. And so, on Sunday evening, if the camera should swing across the Nokia and you glimpse a square jawed woman with a flattop, wearing a tux jacket and camouflage trousers, pushing people out of the way, don’t be too quick to judge. She populates your primetime viewing. And what she lacks in frilly-dilly she makes up for in Emmys.
       *********************************************************************
(Meet Commando: July 12, 2010 entry)

Terrified Shrink Tasers Tinseltown Tramp!

Celebrity therapist Dr. DelVecchio called me on the phone today.  Charles,” she said, “can you come give me acupuncture right away at my office? I’m a pathetic wreck!”

“So what?” I thought.  "I treat a dozen shrinks each week and they’re all pathetic wrecks. Isn’t that why they’re shrinks?”  But I also had a couple hours to kill before my next appointment so I said yes, got in my car and drove east to the Brentwood high-rise where she rents a penthouse. Pushing open the heavy, oak door, I found Dr. DelVecchio lying face-up on the floor, cell phone in hand, her tweed skirt up above her knees.

“Thank God you’re here,” she said, waving a bony hand. “Help yourself to the bar. You haven’t stopped smoking, have you?”

I lit two Camels and handed her one. She took a deep, greedy hit and sent up a cloud of ash and anxiety. “Jeez!” she said. “I’ve got to get out of this career.  My patients are all perverts!  Make mine Wild Turkey with a splash, will you, Honey?”  Somehow, over the course of two years, my professional name had morphed from Charles into Honey.

“What happened, Doc?” I said, stepping across the room to a lacquered cabinet full of bottles and tumblers. “What’s the problem?”

“I’ve just had the shock of a lifetime. It’s that woman again!”

That Woman, the wife of a big director (with a 3-D pic currently in theaters), is a notorious, bleach-blond nymphomaniac, an Industry giant’s bored, horny wife in a world full of ambitious, young filmmakers. Last year--by her own report--she bedded half the Official Selection directors at Cannes.

“During her therapy today,” said Dr. DelVecchio, “that woman yakked on and on about her sexual conquests, so I offered to hypnotize her. I’d take her back to her childhood, and we’d examine how she became sexually fixated. Well, she regressed beautifully, back to three years of age.”

“A mere toddler,” I said.

“Then,” said Dr. DelVecchio, “she wanted to sit on my lap, so naturally I let her, although she’s six feet tall in those thigh-high Manolo boots that I’d literally kill for. Well, she was all goo-goo and ga-ga and the next thing I knew, her hand was in my blouse. That’s when I realized she wasn’t hypnotized at all!  So I reached into my drawer and pulled out my taser and gave her a jolt to the buttocks.  The only problem was, she was sitting on my lap, so we both got jolted and fell to the floor, unconscious. When I woke up, she was gone and my skirt was up over my head.  I’m hoping the worst didn’t happen. The very thought of lesbianism makes me want to vomit!  What on earth will I tell my husband?  Give me that drink!”

I handed her the drink. She propped herself up on an elbow and slurped. I said, “Doc, isn’t your husband the guy who raises orchids and plays the harp in his velvet pantaloons? I wouldn’t worry too much about your husband.”

She thought about it for a moment, then laughed.  And so did I.  After all, a man who recites the Kama Sutra to his Venus fly trap must have secrets of his own.

File Under: Finke, Fawning, Fanboy, Etc.

We were sitting under an umbrella at The Ivy, having a Cobb salad, when Myron grabbed my arm. “Jesus!” he said, spitting egg in my ear. “You see that blond lady getting out of the red Bentley convertible? That’s Nikki Finke!”

“Uh, who?” I asked.

“What do you mean, who?” he said. “You really don’t know who Nikki Finke is? Dear God, you’re kidding me, right?”

“Could you be more dramatic?” I said.

“She's the quintessential Hollywood Insider and yet she’s a total recluse. I recognize her from a photo I once saw. How can you work in The Industry and not know who Nikki Finke is?”

“I don’t work in The Industry,” I said. “I practice acupuncture. All I care about is helping people live healthy lives and getting my daughter into Yale Drama. Speaking of which, you should have heard little Meryl perform her monologue from ‘Joan of Arc,’ yesterday. When she cried out for God’s mercy, in the bonfire scene, I actually thought I smelled flames licking at her dirndl. Then I realized I had set the Jiffy Pop on broil.”

“My God, look at her,” said Myron. The mysterious blond lady stood at the curb, flirting with the valet. “Here it is 110-degree weather and she’s wearing a black, patent leather trench coat. She looks like a spy. How tall do you think those heels are?”

“Myron,” I said, “if this Finke lady is such a recluse, why would she drive up in a red convertible, wearing a shiny trench coat?”

“With a bikini underneath!” he gasped. “Oh my God, I just got a glimpse! She‘s outrageous!”

A hush fell over the diners as she stepped through the gate into the patio. Nobody looked, of course, it being L.A., but diners leaned in to each other, whispering. Cell phones discreetly took aim. As she passed by our table Myron arose, knocking over a wine glass and brushing his silverware onto the pavement.

Distracted by the clatter, the woman paused a brief second, her chin held high, a fiery red smile on her lips. She glanced our way.

Myron swooned. “You are truly your own woman!”

Sunlight fell across her golden hair, across her satiny brow, across her five o’clock shadow. She sent Myron a wink and, in the deepest of baritones said, “Aren’t you a dear.” And she strode through the door.

Those cell phones all turned toward Myron, not so discreetly this time. He scooped his silverware off the ground, then leaned into me with a confidential wink. “She’s taller than I expected.”

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: 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: 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...

File Under: Film Futures, Gambling, Lexapro, Fluffy

Despite an unhappy childhood and a hangover, Marvin’s in a terrific mood. It seems he spent most of last night at a "hookahs and satin pillows" party at the Viceroy, in the upper-floor suites of his "incognito offshore investors." Of course, tomorrow the cloud of anxiety and uncertainty will return, throwing its shadow over his Lexapro-soaked cerebellum (There will still be the unresolved issue of those lost diamonds). But today he's happy, tousled, bleary-eyed. So, why the uncharacteristic glow?

Because Congress just voted to restrict gambling on box office "futures." This means that, despite the efforts of certain entrepreneurs, there will be no legalized gambling on the success of newly released films. This is good news to those shadowy offshore investors and to “Investment Specialists to the Film Trade” such as Marvin.

And so, Marvin takes a momentary break from his troubles, lounging in sunglasses and fluffy bathrobe on his deck, overlooking houses that overlook the ocean. He smells of turmeric and hashish.

Marvin says, “If film futures were publicly traded, the accounting books would be thrown wide open to every beat reporter in town. And I’d go the way of the dodo bird!” I’m not sure what the dodo bird is or which way it went, and I have to confess I don’t miss it an awful lot…but this sounds like crisis averted.