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: 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.
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(Meet Commando: July 12, 2010 entry)

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.”