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: 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: 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)