Electroshock for Outed Actor

Über-Agent stood at her office window this morning, gazing through wispy clouds, high up in Century City, and asked herself, “How can I torture Chuck today?” Then, crushing a Red Bull between her breasts, she picked up the phone.

“Chuck, my boy,” came her raspy voice, “I’m sending my client to you for emergency acupuncture. The tabloids have gotten wind that he’s been picking guys up from Craigslist, and we simply can’t have this foolishness. It puts his marriage in a bad light and my job in jeopardy.”

“What do you want from me?” I asked.

“Well, I sent him for Heterosexual Recovery Therapy yesterday. He did a session several years ago, but it must have worn off. Anyway, it's electroshock and it left him loopy so I need you to get him back in focus for his media tour.”

“You mean there's a shrink in L.A. who will do that procedure?” I said.

“Who said shrink? It's a buddy of mine with an electro-shock machine and a Playgirl calendar.”

“A buddy?” I said.

“Okay, my mechanic,” said Über-Agent.

“How did your mechanic get a hold of--”

“Craigslist, okay? You gonna help?”

Forty five minutes later, a handsome actor, well-known for his swagger and cheeky bravado, shuffled into my office, pulled by his tiny wife. He looked pale, confused, unsteady.

“Please sit,” I said. “Your agent tells me you’re a little bit out of focus. Is that true?”

The actor looked at his wife, with her sparrow print blouse and primly crossed ankles and long, denim skirt. Then he turned his bloodshot eyes my way and cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said. “Forgetful.”

“That must be annoying,” I said.

“And how! I put two backstage passes for Cher in my jacket pocket yesterday and now I can’t find them.”

“Backstage for Cher?” I said, wondering how he scored those tickets. “I looove Cher!”

“Oh, me too!” he said.

“You’ve got to find those tickets!” I said.

“Or I’ll just die! If I could only remember!” he said.

“If you could turn back time!” I said.

“If I could turn back time! If I could find a way...!” This musical snippet from the immortal Cher repertoire sprang out of us and hung like a storm cloud over his wife, who said:

“Oh dear god,” and stared miserably at a pineapple boba stain Delphinia had left on the carpet and which will be deducted from her paycheck.

“What else?” I said.

“I can't seem to 'get it up' for the life of me,” he said. “It's very frustrating. For my wife.”

“Did you try staring at a picture of Cher?” I said. “That always works for me.”

“Oh boy!” he said. “Wasn't she was fabulous at the 2010 VMAs?”

“I'll say!” I said.

“There she was in that iconic black jacket and the sheer body stocking with glitter scattered just everywhere!” And the wig, oh my god, I thought I'd die when I saw that fabulous—oh-oh!” He patted his groin merrily and winked. “I believe I've just given myself a you-know-what!”

I was pleased that his libido was returning, although his wife didn't seem very encouraged. She frowned at the boba stain and mumbled. “We're ruined.” I wondered if electroshock and an Audubon calendar would cure her mood.

I gave the actor an encouraging smile. “I believe acupuncture can help you.”

“Oh?”

“I've got experience in this area,” I said.

“Great. And I've got you babe!” he said

“People say your hair's too long!” I said.

“Let's start this treatment!” he said.

“Then we'll go find those Cher tickets!” I said.

“A-hem,” said his wife, and stood up. “Does that window open wide enough for me to climb out?”

“No,” I said.

“Well then, do you have a knife or something I can kill myself with?”

Pleased that she was at last joining in the fun, I said, “If you go look in the kitchen you’ll find one, but I think they’re all plastic. But you know, Delphinia hasn’t cleaned the fridge out in six months, so anything you eat in there would probably do the trick.”

As she wandered out the door, her husband turned to me and slapped my knee. “You're such fun!” he said.

“No you are!” I said, already anticipating a successful treatment.

“No you are!”

“No you are!”

“No you are!”

“No you are!”

“And the beat goes on!”

Malibu Christmas Mitzvah

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello,” I said.

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

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

“Well, you better come look at this!”

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

“Hello,” I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He a thcream!” Delphinia shrieked.

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

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

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

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

“Obnoxious.”

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

“I’ll send you the bill.”

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.

Über-Agent Pays in Cupcakes

Commando is a well-known, über-agent with a roster of clients that stretches from here to Betty Ford.

“Everything about me is über, Chuck,” she once bragged, kissing her own bicep.

This seemed an odd remark for a woman with a $20 flat-top from Supercuts, but I soon learned Commando speaks the language of extremes. And so, she’s just as likely to proclaim a client’s snobby, little art house flick, “The Most Ground-Breaking Film of the Past Fifty Years,” as she is likely to proclaim her coke-head tattoo guy, “The Greatest Portrait Artist Since Rembrandt.”

I was emergency-called to Commando’s Century City office today and was greeted by her latest assistant, a terrorized, young woman with frizzy, brown hair and a Band Aid stuck on her forehead. There was no point learning her name, I could see that. As any Industry assistant can tell you, when your boss throws a fit, your job is secure; when your boss throws a Brancusi, your days are numbered.

Commando roared from her inner office, “Get in here, Charles! Stick some pins in me quick, before my damn head explodes!”

Commando had kicked off her boots and lay on her sofa, looking up at me. “Ya know, Chuck, the pressure of this adoption is making me insane. It’s very stressful!”

“I didn’t know you’re adopting,” I said.

“Oh you bet I am, Chuck. And you’re the one who inspired me. There you are, a single parent -- I wouldn’t call your friend Myron a fully committed partner -- who manages to juggle career and fatherhood successfully. And what a great kid you’ve got. What the hell’s her name, anyway?”

Commando was referring to my daughter Meryl, who entered my life during an Oscars party five years ago. My caterer had brought along a woman skilled in the production of unbearably greasy baba-ganoush, which was bad enough, but then the woman ended up giving birth under my chocolate fountain just as Annette Bening was cheated out of Best Actress by Hilary Swank.

The woman begged me to keep the baby till Thursday while she arranged for friends to come get it, as her husband didn’t want any more kids. That was five years ago. My caterer later confessed the woman had rejoined her family in some remote Indian village, which makes me wonder: why baba-ganoush? Isn’t that Greek? In any case, while I’ve accepted the role of father, I know little Meryl’s mother could show up at any moment looking for her kid and wondering why I named her after “The Most Versatile Actress of the Past Fifty Years.” So I try not to get too attached to the little cupcake muncher in the flowered pinafore.

As I swabbed Commando with alcohol she unleashed a deep sigh. “Is it fun being a parent?” she said.

“That depends on whether you enjoy waking up in the middle of the night, unable to sleep because of all the crying. Your own crying.”

“Well, it would be worth it to me,” she said, lacing her fingers together and resting them on her stomach. “It’s for my job. It’s all about the nanny network. You could stick a few more needles in my scalp and I wouldn’t complain.”

“I see,” I said.

The nanny network, in case you didn’t already know, is more powerful than any other professional network in L.A. The idea is this: you enroll your child in the best school and on the best teams and then throw parties for your kid at every opportunity. The really important families will send their nannies along with the kids. During the fun-making, your nanny sits in the kitchen with the other nannies, where they all pump each other for gossip on behalf of their employers. More than a few Hollywood deals have been incubated in the nanny network.

“Parenthood is more trouble than you think,” I said. “I’m here to warn you.”

Commando rolled her head to one side and gazed out the window, up at the sky. Then she turned to me. “So, what if I just borrow your kid once in a while? She could pretend to be my daughter and I’d give parties for her at my place. I’d pay you for the favor. There’s some potential clients whose kids are taking acting classes on the West Side. I’ll enroll her in those classes and then give some parties and invite everybody. She could pull it off, right? You keep telling me what a great actor she is. And who knows, maybe I could sign her with the agency, if she’s any good.”

There was no point pretending. “Yes,” I said “she is a great actress. You should see her Blanche DuBois, her Lady MacBeth, her Joan of Arc. Playing the part of your daughter would be a cinch.”

“You know,” said Commando wrinkling her freckled nose, “my headache is all of a sudden gone! You’re a genius for thinking of this. Bring your kid to my place next Saturday and I’ll enroll her in acting school. I’ve already written you a check for the favor.”

“She’d enjoy that,” I said, pulling out the pins. “I’ll put the money toward her Yale Drama School fund.” Commando handed me a check. It was for twenty five dollars. Okay then … toward cupcakes.

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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.

File Under: Acting Odd in L.A.

Yesterday, during the Emmys, I was sitting with a group of Industry types at a crowded West Hollywood eatery.  My host was a sit-com actress who may never get a statuette unless her show gets better scripts and some serious studio push.  Despite the lack of Emmy glow among my fellow diners--which included several actors and writers, a TV director, celebrity shrink Dr. Carla DelVecchio and two talent reps from rival agencies who are secretly dating--and despite our senses being dulled from too much champagne (we had finished off six bottles of Cristal and hadn't even ordered our food yet), we pricked up our ears when a voice drifted over from across the room.

“The Fox party?” came a young man’s voice. “Cool! Pass around your card.  And there’s lots of single chicks? Cool. Work your charm, dude, work it!”  A man across the room was talking to a friend on his cell phone, a friend who was calling from an Emmy after-party, downtown.

“I'll have you know,” I announced to my fellow diners, “I should be given an Emmy for the performance I gave on the phone this past Friday. If there were a category for best telephone performance, I’d be a shoo-in.”

“What ever do you mean?” asked the sit-com actress, who was wearing a Chicago Bulls baseball cap, hoping not to be noticed.

“Yes, tell us,” said one of the agents, sipping champagne from her boyfriend’s glass while her other hand was busy under the table.

“Well,” I said, “I was supposed to attend a parent-teacher conference with my daughter’s teacher on Friday morning but then I got a call from an oil exec to come give his wife acupuncture at the Beverly Wilshire. She was suffering with a migraine and none of her meds was doing the trick.  So I called my daughter’s teacher and told her I had tonsillitis. I sounded so pathetic and feverish I actually started feeling sorry for myself.  You should have heard me cough and hack.  And she fell for it!”

Just then I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“Sir, excuse me.”  The young man from across the room was standing over me, glaring through horn rims.  “Sir, I could not help but overhear your comments.  I’d just like you to know that I am a teacher and that your behavior is disgraceful and irresponsible.”

“Huh?” I said.

“Teachers work unbelievably hard for very little money just so the offspring of lazy bums like you can get a jumpstart on life. You should be ashamed of yourself.”  He was trembling with anger and I could see the muscle in his cheek moving back and forth.

“Well, I, uh…gosh, now I feel kind of bad,” I said, hoping he wasn't armed.

The man squinted at me for a long moment, then flashed a broad smile. “Not really,” he said. “I’m an actor. Fooled you, didn’t I!”

“Huh?” I said. “But why…huh?”

He looked across the table at the two canoodling agents. The under-table hanky-panky suddenly ceased as the young man handed the woman his business card.  “I recognize you,” he said to her.  “You’ve got some big clients and I’m gonna be one of ’em one day!  My name's Herbie and I'm a Tisch grad--NYU--and I've done two seasons of Shakespeare in the Park!  So here's your chance to snap me up!"  He winked at her and made a ktch-ktch sound from the side of his mouth. We all stared.

“Well, is anybody going to ask me to sit down?” he said, waving his arms like a marionette.

“Not me,” said Dr. DelVecchio. The young man looked around to see if anyone else would.  Nobody did.

I felt a pain in the pit of my stomach, a mixture of hunger and guilt.  "Now I feel bad for missing the conference with that teacher.  Bummer."

“Don’t worry,” said Dr. DelVecchio.  “You have a nanny, don't you? What do you think nannies are for?”

The agent glared at the young man.  "I wouldn't give you a job if it was the last thing I did, not after that stunt you just pulled." 

"Alright then," said the young man, and pulled a pen from his shirt pocket.  "May I take your order?"

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)

File Under: Arc for Art's Sake

It was six p.m. and I needed a sugar fix so I jumped in my car and headed toward Vanilla Bakery on Wilshire.  Making my way through traffic, I got a creepy feeling and it grew creepier and creepier, like disembodied fingers massaging my neck.  And as I pulled up to Vanilla I realized the reason: I was being followed.  A black Escalade with tinted windows and blinding hi-beams had been close on my tail for the past six blocks and as I backed into a parking spot by the curb, it sidled up next to my car.

This, I thought, is not a good thing.

Then I remembered Myron’s suspicion that his new bosses were following him around in black BMWs. I had assumed this was the paranoid delusion of a man who had missed his matutinal meds, but it turned out he was right. After all, Myron is now in the business of escorting valuable goods into the U.S. for the purpose of underwriting film projects. Why shouldn’t the bosses put a tail on him and his friends? I called Myron on his cell phone but it went to voice mail so I called the house. His grouchy Czechoslovakian maid, Fanny answered.

“No, Meester Charles,” she wheezed, “Meester Myron is not here. He vas called avay dis afternoon. He is having a meeting with der hoodlums he now vorks for.  I hef not met these people but the whole ting smells bad, very bad. Like donkey goulash.  Very bad smell, yah! Smell is bad, taste is worse. If offered, do not eat!”

“I’ll remember that, the next time I’m at Spago,” I said.  If Myron’s goons were following me around, it probably wasn’t to get my autograph.  But since I had nothing to hide, there was nothing to worry about.  I opened my door and as I did the front passenger window of the SUV slid down.

“Mister Yarborough,” came a woman’s stern voice.  It was Miss Feather, my daughter’s kindergarten teacher. “Mister Yarborough, come here,” she commanded.  I went up to the window, half relieved and half anxious.  I had blown off our parent/teacher meeting again last week after promising to change my ways and become an “involved” parent.  And now, since I had ignored her numerous calls, she had gotten in her car and followed me. With gray hair pulled together and choked into a bun atop her head, Miss Feather sat primly in her seat, shooting disdain over the rim of her glasses. “Come closer,” she said. “We need to talk!” I came closer and, no sooner had I set my hands on the door when she swatted my knuckles with two great cracks of a wooden ruler.

“That’s for your unexcused absence on Friday,” she said.

“But Miss Feather, I had to go to a very important--”

“No excuses!” she said. “I expect to see you in my classroom at 5 p.m. sharp, next Friday for our parent/teacher meeting. Understood? Are you aware that your daughter showed up at school dressed as Joan of Arc this week and started a bonfire in the trash can?”

“She did?" I said.  "What’s wrong with that?  We all started fires as kids.”

“At your reform school?”

How did she know about that, I wondered.  “Look, it’s just a little trash can fire,” I said.

Miss Feather’s face grew red. “She was standing in it at the time.”

Damn, I thought.  What a towering talent!  Meryl is only five years old and she’s already got Method Acting down cold.  Yale Drama School will be lucky to have her.  “Okay,” I said, pulling back from Miss Feather and heading toward Vanilla.  “I’ll see you on Friday.”

“You’d better.”

Brilliant, I thought, brilliant.  Meryl gets a bourbon cupcake and fifty bucks for this one.