A Hollywood Healing!

I may not be a psychotherapist, but I like to cure my patients’ psychoses whenever the opportunity arises. And I don’t do too badly for “winging it!”

This morning, I was stopped at the parking level entrance to my office, honking and flashing my lights at the red BMW in front of me. The driver had waited ‘til he drove all the way up to the ticket dispenser before he rolled down his window and stuck out his hand. Everybody knows you’re supposed to drive up with your hand already out the window, as it’s more efficient. Well, I was honking and flashing my lights and gunning my engine and yelling, “I’m late for my ten o’clock patient, you goon! Get out of my way!”

The driver stuck his head out the window, looked back at me and smiled a boyish smile. “Oh hello, Charles!”he called.

It was my 10 o’clock patient, an award-winning actor. “Hello Timothy,”I said. “How are you today? Think it’ll rain?”

“Golly,”he peeped, with a sideways tilt of his small, round head. “I sure hope not! I get awfully depressed when it rains. Why do you suppose that is?”

“Lot’s of people are like that, Timothy,”I said. “It’s your reaction to a shift in barometric pressure and it affects your brain chemistry. Don't worry about it.”

“Really?”he smiled hopefully.

“Yes,”I said. “Although you do have a tendency toward moodiness, so maybe it’s something we need to look at. It might have to do with the time your uncle fondled you and…”

A battered, old U-Haul exited from the opposite side of the gate, revving its motor loudly. Timothy looked at me, cupping his hand to his ear, as if to say, “Huh?”

I shouted louder this time, “It might have to do with the time your uncle fondled you! How’s the filming going on your new movie?” Four women carrying Clinique shopping bags stopped and gawked. “Move on, ladies!”I added, like the fierce protector that I am. “This is a private conversation!”

“It’s going just great, Charles!” Timothy called, as the U-Haul creaked away. “The director has no idea I’m sleeping with his wife!”

“That’s excellent!”I said proudly. I had realized early on that I could help Timothy by encouraging his self-exploration, and now he was making good progress. Two more ladies passed by with Clinique bags stuffed full of goodies. “And how’s the bed wetting, Timothy?”I said.

One woman mouthed these words to the other: “He wets his bed?!”

“Keep moving, ladies!”I shouted, leaning out the window and waving my hands.

Timothy’s eyes brightened and he craned his neck. “Oh my God, I forgot to tell you, I've almost completely stopped wetting! Those electroshock treatments you sent me for, they seem to be kicking in! I wasn’t so sure at first!”

“Excellent,”I said. Was there a sale at the Clinique counter that I didn’t know about? Three more women passed by with shopping bags ready to burst.

Timothy’s face darkened. “The only problem is, I get ringing in my ears and sometimes I forget where I am. And I’m having trouble remembering my lines.”

I waved reassuringly. “Don’t worry, dear boy. That’ll pass. It affects everybody differently. By the way, who is the President of the United States?”

He paused for a moment. “Gosh, I ... I ... I don’t remember!”

“Well,”I called, “I want you to think about it and tell me, the next time you come for your session. That’s your homework. I believe that just about covers it for today, Timothy!”

He smiled brightly. “Boy, we covered a lot, didn’t we?” he said.

“Yes we did,”I said. “Now pull that ticket from the machine, OK? Do a U-turn and then drive out, and they won’t charge you when you leave. I’ll see you next week at the same time.”

“But I wanted to ask you---”he started.

“That’s all we should work on today, “I said. “I don’t want to overload you.”Besides, there was obviously a sale going on at the Clinique counter and I had 40 minutes to check it out before my next patient showed up. I was almost completely out of T-Zone Shine Control. Who knew when it would go on sale again?

“Huh? Well OK, Charles. I’ll see you next week. Bye bye! And thank you!”Timothy drove off.

“Be good, be well, be safe!”I said. I’ve been trying out different send-offs and I kind of like that one. It seems to cover it all!

Electroshock for Outed Actor

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

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

“What do you want from me?” I asked.

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

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

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

“A buddy?” I said.

“Okay, my mechanic,” said Über-Agent.

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

“Craigslist, okay? You gonna help?”

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

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

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

“That must be annoying,” I said.

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

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

“Oh, me too!” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

“What else?” I said.

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

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

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

“I'll say!” I said.

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

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

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

“Oh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” I said.

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

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

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

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

“No you are!”

“No you are!”

“No you are!”

“No you are!”

“And the beat goes on!”

Panicky Producer Disses Pitches

My receptionist Delphinia is a drama major at Santa Monica College and--if you ask her--the next Sarah Bernhardt. I wouldn’t know. I don’t recall her getting a Tony for her work in the Tierra Del Fuego Dinner Theatre production of “Planet of the Apes,” but who can say? It might have gotten lost in the mail.

She does, however, have a talent for spotting any and every celebrity who walks in the door. The way I see it, my patients are all equal, they’re all “God’s children,” as the saying goes. But Delphinia practically sounds an air raid, as she did today, whenever a high-profile patient books a session.

“Charles, this guy is a huge producer,” said Delphinia, applying a fresh coat of cyan to her lips. “I've been taking a class on pitching TV and movie projects to producers and I can't wait to try out some of my new ideas!”

“You took a class in that?” I said. “You wasted your parents’ money.”

“What?” she said, sipping her pineapple boba.

“Sweetheart, everybody knows if you want to pitch a movie, all you do is this: name two previous movies and connect them with the word, 'meets.'”

“That’s it?” she said.

“Simple as that. It's all anybody ever does, take it from me. Of course, it's best if you can do it over lunch at the Four Seasons, but the important thing is, do it. Then just sit back and wait for the dough to roll in.”

“Really?” she said. Delphinia is a sweet girl but so horribly uninformed that I sometimes worry about her surviving in this jungle.

“Now would you please go get some fresh linens from the closet?” I said. “Let's have this place looking sharp. Producers are very picky." As she stepped into the closet, the door locked shut behind her.

“Hey, what happened?” Delphinia's muffled call.

“I don't know,” I said, jiggling the handle. “I can't seem to get the door to open. I'll go look for the key.” I couldn’t allow Delphinia to harass our new patient and so I wasn’t completely disappointed when the door locked quite accidentally.

Just then our new patient, a tall, thin man in a tweed sport coat, strode into the office. I cupped my hands to the closet door and whispered, “He's here!”

“Get me out!” said Delphinia. “I've got to talk to that guy!”

I waved the man in. “Hello, we've been expecting you. Sit down. What can I help you with?”

“I think I’ve got an anxiety disorder,” he said, rubbing his narrow forehead. “I don’t want to take drugs and I heard acupuncture might help. Only, I’m terrified of needles!”

“Don’t worry,” I said, putting my hand on his shoulder. “Just think of this experience as ‘Monk’ meets ‘Marcus Welby.’”

“Uh, what?” he said, tilting his head. “Do you think you can help me? As I was walking around the lot today I got one of these panic attacks where my pulse races and my head feels like it’s been hit by an atom bomb and--”

“Are these headaches like 'Pearl Harbor' meets 'Armageddon'?” I said. “Or more like 'Hellraiser' meets 'The Head That Wouldn't Die'?”

“Like what?” he said. “I don't get you.”

He seemed confused by my subtle infusion of pitches into the conversation. But since success is ninety per cent persistence and ten per cent inspiration, I marched onward. “What I'm saying,” I explained, “is that you must have been walking around the lot today with your head feeling like 'Saw' meets 'Grindhouse.'”

He gave me an irritated look and said, “Look, I don't know what you're talking about but I'd sure appreciate it if you could relieve my anxiety and these headaches!”

“I'll be happy to,” I said. “But did any of these pitches sound good to you? I mean, you are a producer, after all.”

“I'm a what?” he said. “Where'd you get that idea?”

“Of course you are,” I said. “You were telling me about how you walked around the lot today.”

The man laughed. “The lot? The car lot! I sell new and pre-owned Ferraris.”

“I knew that!” I said, hiding my disappointment.

“But I can tell you this: your pitches sound stale and uninspired. And your references are not quite out of fashion enough to be back in fashion.”

“Thank you,” I said. “It’s always good to get helpful criticism from a professional. What was it you do again? Sell used cars?” I made a mental note to myself: have Delphinia tape up the ‘It’s Nice to be Nice’ poster where patients have to stare at it. “Now,” I said, “if you'll wait here just a moment, my assistant will come help you with your paperwork and we'll start your treatment.”

Just then I put my hand in my pocket and happened to find the key to the linen closet. Stepping into the hall, I unlocked the door.

“Thanks, boss!” said Delphinia, panting and hoofing. “Where is he? Lemme at him!”

“He's waiting for you in my office. Good luck with your pitch; he's pretending to be a car salesman.”

“Oh my god!” she laughed skipping down the hall. “I’ll call you when we’re ready.”

File Under: Network Head Bounces Back

The Recently-Booted Network Exec came to my office today. I wouldn't have known who he was except that my assistant, Delphinia is a drama major and she follows Industry gossip with a passion.

She ushered him into my treatment room, glancing sideways at his D&G black wool suit and red tie. “Oh my God, watch out for that guy, Charles!” she whispered. “He's a bully! Details at ten!” Then she went back to slurping her coconut boba.

Network Exec stood stiffly before me, beady-eyed, his sweaty forehead shining. I asked him, “How are you feeling today?”

No part of him seemed to possess a moveable joint except his jaw, which opened just enough for these words to escape: “Since you asked, I have a headache.”

I waved him in. “Please make yourself comfortable. Lie down while I give you a treatment. Headaches are one of my specialties.”

“No thanks,” he said. “Your receptionist is dressed rather too casually, don't you think? If I were the manager, I'd replace her—mid-season if I had to. Just write her out.”

“Thanks for the advice,” I said, “but this is an acupuncture office, not a sit-com. My assistant looks fine to me.”

Delphinia was auditioning for the Tierra del Fuego Dinner Theatre production of “Planet of the Apes” after work, and was wearing an off-the-shoulder bearskin and pearls.

“Humph,” said the man, moving little more than a lip and an eye, “I'd still replace her. In fact, your whole office is sub-par. Those autographed photos covering the wall may be appropriate for Jerry's Deli but for not for a medical establishment. And what's with the Kewpie dolls in the fish tank? If I were the manager here, the first thing I'd do is move your time slot and then I'd--”

“Wait a minute,” I said, “did you come here for the clinic manager position that was on Craigslist?”

“Yes, of course,” said the lips.

“Sir,” I said, “you're looking for the medical marijuana clinic next door. But you needn't bother because they've just been shut down.”

The stiff, little man who had put on a black wool suit and gone looking for a job in record-setting heat showed a glint of emotion. It was disappointment. “They've been canceled?” he said.

I felt a a pang of empathy. “But if it's a management position you're looking for,” I said, “I happen to know that this building is in need of a manager.”

“Oh?” he said. “And where would I apply?”

“The office is in the basement,” I said. “and I suggest you go there right now, before they close for lunch.” I opened the door for him to leave.

“Excellent,” he said, then paused to scratch his chin. “Now, ehm...er...might I possibly use you as a reference? I don't think I should count on my previous employer.”

“Sure,” I said, “if you promise to get my leaky sink fixed.”

“Yes indeed! Consider it done,” said Network Exec, with great purpose. “I'm a man who makes hard decisions and gets things done. I may be imperfect, but what man isn't? The important thing is, I take responsibility for my actions, right or wrong. And I return a favor with a favor. I will do my best to make sure your sink is fixed. Sooner or later. And that's a promise. More or less.”

And that's all I can ask for. Sort of.
                                                                           * * * * * *
I guess it's time we started worrying about Myron. He was supposed to get back to L.A. three days ago but I haven't gotten a call. He warned me he wouldn't be allowed to use his cell phone while driving his U-Haul full of paintings over the border from Canada.

Myron is bringing the paintings—by major artists--to his boss in L.A. The artworks are to be magically converted into equity for film production. It's a little-publicized aspect of movie making and I don't really know how it works. Nor do I want to. And so I close up my office for the day and call Myron's house. His grumpy Czechoslovakian maid, Fanny answers.

“Ach, no, Charles,” she wheezes. “I hef not heard from Mister Myron and I ehm gettink vorried. Thees whole thing is bad, bad! Looks bad, smells vorse. Who are dese people he vorks for? Hoodlums is who! Bang, bang! Such people I would not vipe my shoe on! Oh my Gott, my rump roast is burning. Goot-bye!”
Just then a message comes in on my i-Phone. Is it Myron?

“YOU MISSED OUR PARENT/TEACHER MEETING,” it screams. “CALL ME IMMEDIATELY OR ELSE!” It's Miss Feather, my daughter's kindergarten teacher. Since I won't be bullied around, I delete it. If I could delete the entire world I would push that button too. My day is over and it's time to go home.

And that's all I can ask for.

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.

Follow This Blog at www.TheWrap.com!

You can now follow this blog at The Wrap!
And you can catch up on the latest Industry news while you're there.
Link: http://www.thewrap.com/blog/charles-yarborough

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: 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: Chocolate Oreo, Cherry Orchard, etc.

When I got home from the clinic today I noticed my yard had been completely dug up by Myron, in a desperate search for those three lost diamonds (See June 29). Fortunately my yard consists of gravel and cactus and a few belligerent weeds that needed yanking anyway and an iron jockey that came with the place and whose face and hands I painted pink out of racial sensitivity. In other words: no big deal.

When I got inside, Nanny called to me from the kitchen. “Master Charles,” she said with her Punjabi accent, “You are just in time for dinner! No smoking in the house! Meryl, my darling, go set a place for your father at the table!”

“Yes, Nanny,” came little Meryl’s squeaky voice, but instead of setting the table she ran into the foyer and wrapped her arms around my thigh. “Dadeeeeee!” she sang. I handed her a small box filled with chocolate-covered Oreos from Madame Chocolat in BH. “Yipeee!“ she said, squeezing the box to her heart. “Guess what, Daddy, I got the monologue all memorized! Do you wanna hear it?”

“Sure,” I said. “But you need to do it with that floppy hat I got you. The one with the faded rose. Otherwise it doesn't make sense.”

“Okay, Daddy,” she chirped. “I’ll go get it!” and she skipped off to her room, ripping into her cookie box.

“Would you care for vindaloo, Master Charles?” called Nanny from the kitchen.

“Yes,” I said, going in.

Nanny wraps herself in an endless collection of silk saris in intoxicating colors. Today’s sari was so purple I could practically taste the grapes. She looked up from the pot of curry rice she was stirring. “You know,“ she said, “Mister Myron spent the whole morning digging up your yard. He was very much agitated and I don’t think he has great fondness for me these days. Not since I put the diamonds out by the curb. How was I to know they belonged to him? I was only emptying out Meryl’s lunch box!”

“Nanny, I’ve told you before it’s not your fault,” I said. “Myron will figure out a way around it. He always does.” Just then a text came across my cell phone. It said: "Chas, if I don’t find those diamonds before the producers’ meeting on Friday, I will proceed to undisclosed location. Fear for life!” Fear might appropriate, considering Hollywood's liberal use of armed gentlemen formerly employed by the Soviet government. Luckily, Myron’s got a tsunami shelter under his home, complete with screening room and popcorn machine, a dozen cases of Pepto-Bismol and enough Valium to last 'til first-responders dig him out from under the mud. If the Russians come a-courtin', that's where he'll be. 

I sat down on the sofa. Little Meryl came twirling into the room wearing a big, straw hat with a pink rose pinned to it. “Listen, Daddy! Listen!” she cried, munching an Oreo. "Are you ready?" She made a wide, heroic stance, just as I taught her, and embarked on a monologue I had chosen from “The Cherry Orchard.” It was a melancholy speech by the sad and delusional Madame Ranevsky, and little Meryl performed it with such a profound understanding of loss and a feel for the futility of self-delusion and the inexorable erosion of the milestones of our lives by the unrelenting march of time, that it nearly tore my heart to shreds. Then she put her hand out for fifty dollars since that’s what I pay for Chekov and Shakespeare, forty for Billy Wilder.

Nanny, who was standing in the doorway, clapped her hands. “Splendid, young lady. Now take off that apron and come eat your dinner. And save those Oreos for dessert. Master Charles, dinner is served. By the way, will you be showing up for Show-and-Tell on Friday? Yes, I hope? I have helped Meryl to prepare something very special.”

I got up and made my way to the dining table. “Sure,” I yawned. “Why not.”

Nanny came close, slowly brushing my chin with the back of her hand, and purred, “I know you think she's too smart for kindergarten but perhaps you could show a little enthusiasm, Master Charles?”

"Whoopde-do." I yawned. "Why not?"

File Under: 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?”