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.

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?

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: 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: 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: Infants, Conniving

It occurred to me I should explain how I got tricked into being a father.

You know the saying, “Sometimes bad things happen to good people”? Well, I can pretty much guarantee you, they wrote that for me. How else to explain losing four grand on my 2005 “Best Actress” pick, or the caterer dropping a molten s’more on my chinchilla throw, or the baba ghanoush lady giving birth under my chocolate fountain? All these bad things converged at the worst Oscars party I ever gave. This may have been five years ago but my chinchilla is forever besmirched and I’m still waiting for the baba lady to pick up her kid.

My caterer, a retired French actress named Cecile, begged me to keep the newborn for two days until the baba lady could return for it. The lady had been hiding her pregnancy from her family and now had to arrange for the child’s adoption. Only the lady never returned. After repeated calls to Cecile, in which I threatened to mail the kid back to her--book rate--I got the lowdown. The woman, she said, had given a fake name when Cecile hired her and had now disappeared.

“Not my problem,” I said. “You come get this creature. I’ve changed this kid eleven times. I’m almost all out of dinner napkins.”

“Why, Monsieur,” said Cecile, “How you amuse! Why not simply keep her? Everybody’s adopting nowadays. She must be adorable, n’est-ce pas? Fatherhood will be a marvelous experience for you and Myron. I suggest you get a baby bottle and some formula and then paint your guest room a girly shade of rouge coquette. Perhaps you’ll start thinking of somebody other than yourself?"

I put the kid in the car. Beverly Hills City Hall was nearby, on Rexford, and that’s where I’d redeem it. Then I’d take my finder’s fee and skip over to Cartier for a little reward. But as I barreled down Santa Monica Boulevard, the baby started crying up a storm. I pulled the car over and, when I reached into the laundry basket to reposition the bottle at her lips, she took hold of my finger with her tiny brown hand.

“What!” I said.

She gave me a look that said, “You’re not really going to turn me in, like a poker chip, are you?”

“Don’t try that,” I said. “We haven’t bonded, so it won’t make any difference. You don’t even have a name. City Hall will send you wherever it is they send helpless orphans and…” Oh. Orphans, I thought. Now there’s an ugly word. My only experience of orphans was the musical “Oliver!” and it wasn’t very pretty, mainly due to it being a shabby, Catholic school production in Pittsburgh, financed by bake sales. I played Oliver during my first encounter with angel dust and, the next day, found myself in a state-run facility for the young and the restless.

“Maaaaa,” said the little brown and pink creature, with a hopeful smile. “Meeeehhehhh.”

“Let go of my finger,” I said. “I’ll be needing that hand to drive.” But she fixed her peepers on me and kept with the baby sounds. “Alright, alright,” I said . “I’ll bring you home if you if you can answer three questions correctly. If you miss any, it’s hello City Hall. Understood?”

The baby kicked her blankets aside joyously, bubbles forming between her lips.
“Question number one,” I said. “Who won Best Supporting Actress in 1979 for ‘Deer Hunter’?”

The little radish face looked up at me and squinted. “Meh-Merrrryl,” it said.

“Can I get a last name?” I said, but as you know, there is only one Meryl. Everybody knows that. “Alright,” I said. “Who won Best Actress in 1982 for ’Sophie’s Choice’?”

The creature rolled her head back and forth and, after some incoherent burbling, said, “Merrrryl!”

I felt my Cartier bonanza slipping from my grasp and yet something made me press onward. I asked the only question that would come to my lips, the only one that made any sense.

“Okay then,” I said. “Who is the most versatile film actor in America today, hands-down the best overall--”

“Merrryl, Merrrryl, Merrrrrryl!” she babbled, victoriously, wisely and with unimpeachable good taste, paddling her feet and squeezing my finger as if her future enrollment at Yale Drama School depended on it, which it did.

Well, nobody would have known. Nobody would have called foul, had I reneged on my promise. But a deal was a deal and if I didn’t make good, this kid’s first break would have been a lousy one, a bad thing happening to a potentially good person--who could say? So I pulled a U-turn. “Meryl, huh?” I said, firing up a Camel, then tossing it out the window. “Guess what we’re gonna call you, little lady.”

The sun was beginning to set and a string of traffic lights flickered yellow, daring me to get across town before the shops all closed. I stepped on the gas. “Hold on, kid. We’re gonna need some brushes and rollers and paint pans and a fifth of Wild Turkey and a couple gallons of--Jesus, Meryl, what do they call that color?”

“La rouge coquette.”

“Huh?”

File Under: Hollywood Housewife, Mummification

It's a choice between helping foaming-at-the-mouth Myron tear up my yard in pursuit of lost diamonds or go to my Beverly Hills office on a holiday to work. I'll go to work.

Today I have Susan on the books. Susan is the wife of one of the biggest film director/producers in the biz. She could Richard Simmons her way down to a size six if she put a little effort into it but that’ll never happen because Susan would rather take her husband’s money and buy cosmetic surgeries. In several weeks, Susan will be attending the backgammon Nations Cup in Cannes, and she wants to look her best when the cameras swing her way. No problem there, but if you ask me, she’s having her procedures done too close together.

Two weeks ago, Susan showed up for acupuncture with her nose and forehead covered in bandages. “Wait ’til you see my new nose, Charles!” she said. “It’s Grecian!” Then, five days later, Susan’s assistant pushed her into my office in a wheel chair. Not only her nose and cheeks but her eyes were bandaged over. “Wait ’til you see my new eyes!” she sang. “They’re Indonesian!”

For her appointment today, I expect Susan to be rolled in on a stretcher by a nurse, entombed in a full body cast, like an Egyptian mummy. The nurse will tell me Susan just had her hips, thighs, tummy, upper arms and breast done, and that the surgeon decided to reshape her cheeks and ears while he was at it. I’ll be forced to make queries like, “Tap once if your claustrophobia is getting better, twice if it‘s staying the same.”

Faced with the challenge of sticking an acupuncture needle through the plaster body cast, my mind will wander over to a nail gun the contractor left in the hallway...

File Under: Bendable Buddies, Blanche Du Bois

I was hoping to start this blog with an uplifting portrayal of my life and work, one that would inspire you--the reader--to go out and make the world a better place. But it ain't turning out that way! Especially not after Myron smuggled three uncut diamonds the size of pinecones across the Canadian border in my daughter’s lunch box. Now that those rocks have disappeared, he’s having a nervous fit. “Fifteen million dollars worth of diamonds, fifteen million,” Myron chants, pacing the floor on shaky legs, tearing his hair out. “I’m dead, I’m dead! When they find out I’ve lost them, I’m dead!”

Myron insists on calling himself an Investment Specialist to the Film Trade which, when you think of it, really does sound more appealing than Smuggler. Myron will also inform you--within two minutes of making your acquaintance--that he suffers from bunions, vertigo, anxiety, paranoia and obsessive compulsion, all of which is true. Most people bring their various medications in a bag when they visit their doctor; Myron uses a burro and a cart. In fact, were you to take all the pills in his medicine cabinet and string them end-to-end, they’d reach all the way to Betty Ford and back. And so, if it seems like Myron is a stubborn, strangely determined little weed sprouting from the crevice between symptoms and remedies, it’s only because he is.

As an Investment Specialist to the Film Trade, Myron connects major film projects to equity investors. The current economy has caused studios, in large part, to shy away from risky new endeavors in favor of remakes and rehashes. If a film project has no hope of reaching its apotheosis as a Bendable Buddy at MacDonald‘s, it’s considered an unacceptable risk. This is good news to Myron, who funnels funds to projects. Sometimes this requires transferring assets in unconventional ways such as the secreting of diamonds in my daughter’s lunch box as we drive over the border from Canada to the U.S. I didn’t even know Myron had taken possession of any diamonds, so when he insisted that driving across the border would be picturesque and quicker than dealing with airport customs, I agreed to rent a car.

And now the diamonds are missing. Apparently Nanny found them in little Merle’s lunch box when we got home, and set the dirty things out by the curb, where they disappeared.

As I sit here typing, poor Myron paces the floor, shaking pills out of a bottle into his sweaty palm. “What will I do?” he cries. “I’m meeting with those producers in two weeks. The sellers are waiting, the buyers are waiting! What’ll I do What‘ll I do?”

“It‘ll work out for the best,” I tell him, opening the drapes to the vista of the vast ocean. A sparrow dives into the window, bouncing off the glass with a thud. "You'll do fine, Myron. I have complete confidence in you.”

Merle, my five year-old foundling, is tugging at my pants leg. “Daddy,” she squeaks, “I memorized the whole monologue! Can I have my fifty dollars?” I named Merle after the most versatile actress in the Industry and I’m making her rehearse her audition monologues for Yale Drama School starting right now.

Little Merle clears her throat, tilts her head and clasps her hands to her tiny breast. Her big, dark eyes get even darker as she gazes nostalgically into the second balcony. “We danced the Varsouviana,” she moons, “but then, suddenly, in the middle of the dance the boy I had married broke away from me and ran out of the casino…”*

I smell Oscar!

* Blanche Du Bois, Streetcar Named Desire by Tennessee Williams

File Under: Film Futures, Gambling, Lexapro, Fluffy

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

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

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

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