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!”

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.

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.

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File Under: Forked Tongue Cuts Both Ways

I haven't heard from Myron for two weeks and I'm starting to get worried.  His new "job" requires that he transport objets d'art over the border into the U.S. whereupon they are sold to anonymous buyers.  The funds are then used to finance production of feature films...

In the meantime, my practice is busy as ever.  But I must remember to speak with a lisp whenever the Middle Eastern Prince comes for his therapy!  I'll write a reminder on the back of my hand every Tuesday morning and peek at it during his session..........

..........SPEAK WITH LISP!!!

Middle Eastern Prince came for his first session today. He was distraught because of his pronounced lisp.  Apparently lisping is considered non-dominant behavior in his culture. Even though he is Harvard-educated, he still subscribes to the quaint belief that a man must act like that square-jawed lumberjack in the red flannel shirt and massive biceps, on the BOUNTY paper towel wrapping.  Or that strapping ironworker on the MANHANDLER soup can, or my plumber Barbaroso, all of whom exhibit gay tendencies, if you ask me.

Anyway, as every healthcare provider knows, it's imperative to establish rapport with the patient immediately. This means if your patient leans to the left, you lean to the left; if he uncrosses his legs, scratches his head and fiddles with his Smart Phone, you do the same.  I do a pretty fair job of imitating my patients in their behaviors, although I draw the line at climbing out the window and threatening to jump.  They're on their own there!

Well, the Middle Eastern Prince came to my office today and introduced himself.  "I have a thlight thpeech impediment," he said. "Ith there thomething you can do to help me with thith problem?"

"Yethhir, Your Highneth," I said, establishing rapport through imitation. "There ith nothing to be contherned about. Pleathe thit down."

"My goodneth," he said. "Nobody told me you have a thpeech impediment too!"

"I thertainly do," I said. Well, it was going smoothly until my assistant Delphinia called me on the intercom.

"Charles?" came her voice.

"Yeth?" I said. "What ith it?"

Delphinia, who is a drama major at Santa Monica College and who has improvisation training, automatically started talking with a lisp. "I was thinking of having thushi for a thnack. Or thome thoup. It'th a tough choith. Would you like me to pick you up a thandwich?  A thardine thandwich, perhapth?"

The Middle Eastern Prince grew irate and accused Delphinia of mocking him but I assured him she was imitating me and that I fully understood his pain. He seemed to buy that story, which was a relief, since he could probably have her beheaded!
Anyway, he felt much better after his therapy and bounded out of the office and didn't even use the elevator. He took the stairth!

File Under: Conservative Values Applied Liberally

Mrs. X is the wife of a nationally syndicated Conservative TV host (you can’t avoid him!).  She came to my office this morning with a serious problem: she caught her husband cheating. She had read his text messages and was terribly upset.

Mrs. X needed to talk before her acupuncture treatment.  She sat on my sofa, crossed her lovely, toned legs and wiped away a tear.  She said, “I was so surprised when I found that romantic message on my husband's phone, I nearly fainted!”

"What I’m hearing,” I said, “is that in the process of snooping around on your husband's cell phone, you were shocked to find exactly what you expected.”

Mrs. X said, “This is unforgivable behavior from a man who lectures to the entire nation about Family Values!”

"What I’m hearing," I said, "is that you can’t tolerate him being a complicated and imperfect human being."

Mrs. X stared at her shoes and frowned.  They were gold buckled Gucci pumps from three seasons ago and frankly, I would have frowned too.  She said, “And worst of all, he’s been carrying on with our nanny.  How unimaginative!”

"What I’m hearing," I said, burping up a delicious risotto con fungi porcini from Il Cielo, “is that you had hoped your husband would show more imagination than you do.  By the way, are you still carrying on with your pool boy?”

“What?” she said, hearing me for the first time. “What did you say, Charles?”

“I said, how is it going with you and the pool boy?”

“Oh Jesus!” she said.  “Thanks for reminding me! I’m supposed to meet him at the house at one o’clock.  I’m giving him a brand new BMW and I need to get there early to surprise him. Gotta run! Sorry!”  She stood up and bolted out the door, tossing a wad of cash my way.

“Take your time!“ I called to her, hoping Mrs. X wouldn’t get to the house too terribly early. I'd hate for her to catch the pool boy with the nanny.

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: Arab Princess, Peppy, Pins

I had just stuck a dozen pins in the Arab princess when somebody called out my name. It was the mailman, standing in the waiting room. He had a certified delivery, a scented, orange envelope addressed in large, childlike letters.

“Take this quick,” sneezed the man, waving the envelope at me. “I’ve got chemical sensitivity and this thing is toxic!”

It contained a letter from Miss Feather, my daughter’s kindergarten teacher, scribbled on pink paper.  “Dear Mr. Yarborough,” it said, “I look forward to our parent/teacher conference this Friday. May I suggest you actually show up this time?  Despite your previous behavior and whatever limits of imagination you possess, I believe you are capable of grasping the importance of your participation in the education of your child.” Well, BLA BLA BLA it went, ending in this directive:

“For our meeting, you will need to bring two #2 pencils, sharpened. Pens are not allowed and will be confiscated.  A snack will not be provided, so eat a hearty breakfast.  If you need to make pee-pee during our meeting you will have to hold it, so I suggest you plan your morning accordingly.  Lastly, may I suggest you pack up your peppiest attitude and display it enthusiastically upon arrival? Anything less than a peppy disposition will trigger severe consequences.  Cordially, Miss Feather”

Maybe it was my imagination, but I didn’t see anything cordial in that letter. Still, I knew I’d better show up for our meeting since I had missed a few here and there and our last rendezvous (see July 17) didn’t go so well, due to her being a jerk (If she reads this, there’ll probably be severe consequences).

Now it was the Arab princess’ turn to call out my name. “Charles,” she cried hoarsely, “come quickly!”

I ran into the treatment room to find a bent pin protruding from her outer ear.  Pulling it out, I asked what had happened, although I knew the answer. She had, despite my warning, decided to talk on her cell phone.

Now here’s the deal with Arab princesses that I've met: they’re used to being surrounded by domestic servants and--until you prove you are otherwise--they will regard you as such. This means that if you tell them not to talk on the cell phone during their acupuncture treatment, they’re going to do it anyway. The other side of the equation is this: once they trust you and understand that they’re getting good value for the money, they are the most faithful and generous patrons you could hope for.

“You pushed that pin in with your cell phone, Princess,” I said.

“I know, I know, I know,” she said, waving away my accusation with the back of her hand. “Take these out. I’m done for today.”

Now it was the Chniese delivery guy’s turn to call out my name. Well, It wasn’t my name he was calling out, exactly. It was, “Shrim fry rye, shrim fry rye! I gottee shrim fry rye!”  My lunch had arrived. I paid him and went back to the princess and finished removing her pins.

“Mmmmm,” she said, seductively batting her large, dark eyes. “Shrimp fried rice sounds delicious.”

“Well then,” I said, with my peppiest disposition, “I think you should have it.”

As she walked out the door I handed her the aromatic package and--as she was used to getting whatever she wanted--she took it without a word of thanks, tossing a wad of bills on my desk.  Well, I thought, we all have our own way of expressing gratitude, some better than others.  And hers is pretty good.

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: Vixen, Vodka, Violence, Etc.

A young vixen from a big-screen, sci-fi three-parter called today for an appointment. After reading this blog she decided I could help with her knee, which had been twisted while skiing.

“I’ll do my best,” I said. “Acupuncture might help.”

“And will you write something wonderful about me afterwards on your blog?” she asked, coyly.

“Perhaps,” I said. “But I don’t use names.”

She said it sounded like fun and could she come right over.  I said yes, which meant that I’d have to forego taking Meryl to “Revenge of Kitty Galore.”

Nanny tells me little Meryl was disappointed that I missed her Show & Tell last week, but Meryl seems fine to me. In fact, when I came home last night the little prodigy recited Katherine Hepburn’s rousing second-act monologue from “Long Day's Journey Into Night,” the one where Mary Tyrone chastises her husband for his thoughtlessness and throws her teacup across the room, only Meryl was holding a glass of milk, so it went flying (another stain on my chinchilla throw!).   Anyway, Nanny thinks I should spend more time with the kid, hence the movie date. What’s more, when I have my meeting next week with Meryl’s teacher, Miss Feather, I need to tell her I’m an attentive parent without it making my eye twitch, which always happens when I exaggerate.

Now I’m going to tell you something I probably shouldn’t which is that I think that I’m an OK dad--despite what anybody thinks--especially considering I didn’t ask for the job and had only seen the kid’s mother in passing (see July 8).  In fact, my caterer Cecile perpetrated a nasty trick if you ask me, leaving the baby in my care after her employee gave birth at my Oscars party. What happened to the kid’s mom, I'd like to know?  Cecile says she probably returned to India but we may never find out. Soon after the baby was left in my care, Cecile sent an Indian nanny for me to interview, and she’s been with us ever since. I’m always mindful that little Meryl's mother might show up and take her back. So why should I get overly attached to someone who could be legally swiped from under my nose?

In the meantime, sci-fi Vixen needed help with her ligaments. “Come right over,” I told her. “I‘ll try to help.” I called Myron and instructed him to take Meryl to the movie.  Myron isn’t busy.  He’s waiting anxiously for his next assignment, which is sure to be a big one, judging by the harrowing test he endured with the fake diamonds (see June 29).  Myron refers to himself as an Investment Specialist to the Film Trade but really, smuggler is more like it.

Vixen said she was nearby and would show up in twenty minutes. Half an hour later, she called to say she was forced to stop at Judith Lieber when a pair of jeweled violet sunglasses in the window practically screamed out, “Take me with you!”

“I simply had to have them!” Vixen gushed. “I’m sure you understand!” She begged me in her well-practiced baby voice to wait another fifteen minutes, which I agreed to do.  Twenty minutes later she called to say she was absolutely famished and had stopped La Scala for a quick vodka penne, where she was deluged with paparazzi.  Could I possibly wait another twenty minutes, “pwitty pwease?”

I was about to suggest we reschedule our appointment when a man’s rough voice came on the line. “Hello?” he said. “Who is this?”

“The acupuncturist,” I said, hoping it wasn't a jealous boyfriend that had grabbed her phone. “We're just making an appointment for--”

“Sir, I’m sorry but she’s in a rehab facility right now and the afternoon therapy group has already started. She’ll have to call you back later.” I could hear Vixen screaming and cursing in the background and then the phone clicked off. I thought to myself, if I hurry home I can get Meryl to the movie in time, but then I remembered that Myron’s got it covered. And anyway: Penne? Vodka? Why not.

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…”