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: 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…”