Electroshock for Outed Actor

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

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

“What do you want from me?” I asked.

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

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

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

“A buddy?” I said.

“Okay, my mechanic,” said Über-Agent.

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

“Craigslist, okay? You gonna help?”

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

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

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

“That must be annoying,” I said.

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

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

“Oh, me too!” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

“What else?” I said.

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

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

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

“I'll say!” I said.

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

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

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

“Oh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” I said.

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

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

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

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

“No you are!”

“No you are!”

“No you are!”

“No you are!”

“And the beat goes on!”

Malibu Christmas Mitzvah

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello,” I said.

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

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

“Well, you better come look at this!”

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

“Hello,” I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He a thcream!” Delphinia shrieked.

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

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

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

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

“Obnoxious.”

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

“I’ll send you the bill.”

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.

File Under: Tortured by Tinseltown Teacher!

I spent fourteen hours treating desperate patients at my Burbank acupuncture office today. I've got plenty of work, what with post-Toronto-New York-Helsinki-Film-Festival depression being so rampant. It's the West Coast version of Lyme disease, but without the rash.

Tonight, as I walked up the front porch, a tall, hulking figure leaped from the shadows and pushed me backwards off the step, flat into the flowerbed. It was Miss Feather, my daughter Meryl’s kindergarten teacher. A bosomy Mr. Clean in an apron, Miss Feather towered over me, hands on hips, glaring down with disgust, like I was a porcelain convenience in need of a scrub.

“Soooo!” she taunted, pushing her foot into my chest. A smile as thin as razor wire twisted across her doughy face.

“Soooo what?” I said, wondering if I should grab her ankle, throw her off-balance, spring to my feet and give her a roundhouse kick to the cerebellum. But since I hadn’t so much as plugged in my treadmill for five years I gave her a nice, little smile instead.

“Something I can do for you?” I asked.

“Soooo,” she hissed, “what happened to you last Friday? I waited. Where were you, huh? What's your excuse this time?”

“What do you mean, what happened to me?”

A withering sneer from Mrs. Clean. “Don’t get smart with me, little man. You missed our parent-teacher conference last week. That’s eleven times this year you’ve failed to show, eleven unexcused absences. Your daughter’s behavior is getting out of control and it’s time we had a cozy little chat.”

“Oh yeah?” I said. “And what’s she done now?”

“Today at show-and-tell, after the other kids had shown their Arctic fossils and pictures of endangered rain forests, your little Meryl got up and lip-synched Shirley Bassey’s ‘Hey Big Spender.’ She said it was one of her audition pieces for Yale Drama School.”

“You didn’t like her Medea either,” I said. “Maybe the problem is you.”

Miss Feather clicked her tongue. “A five year-old girl should not be wiggling around with a feather boa and sequined headband.”

“Well, not with her father’s boa and sequined headband, anyway.”

She pressed her foot deeper into my chest and pushed me from side to side, like she was rolling a cannoli. “Sooo, a smart aleck, are you?” she said. “Well, tell me this: how am I supposed to explain Meryl’s behavior to the children's parents? Or the administration? It’s time you started thinking about somebody besides yourself.”

“Are you kidding?“ I said. “That’s all I ever do.” And I launched into a heart-rending description of my passion for my work and how the people who come to me are broken, misguided souls to whom I give new hope and direction. By the time I was finished talking, Miss Feather was wiping tears from her eyes.

“That’s the most touching story I’ve ever heard,” she sobbed, shuffling down the walkway toward her black SUV.

I thought so too. It’s a monologue from ‘Goodbye, Mr. Chips,’ and if I ever audition for Yale Drama School, I’m gonna use it.

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: Arc for Art's Sake

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

This, I thought, is not a good thing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“At your reform school?”

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

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

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

“You’d better.”

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

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: 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: Lapdog, Hand That Feeds You, Etc.

A welter of screen writers blew through my office this week, leaving behind a trail of flattened Red Bull cans and the cloying scent of “Why Me?” This wasn’t surprising: patients often move in herds. One week I may treat a half dozen producers from the Paramount lot and the next a swarm of deposed Bulgarian royalty and their jeweled lapdogs. You never know.

But this week it was writers. William the screenwriter pretty much crawled into my Westside treatment studio today, complaining of depression, shoulder pain, wrist pain and an overpowering sense of doom. He set his leather satchel on a chair and climbed onto the treatment table, folding his slender legs into half-lotus. His clothes were so threadbare and his shoes in such despair that I decided to give him his treatment free of charge. 

From under long, dark, curly, unwashed hair, William sent me a bloodshot, hound dog look. “I’m in an abusive relationship,” he said, sipping his energy drink.

“Oh?” I said, sanitizing my hands and opening a box of needles, then sanitizing my hands again.

“That’s right,“ he said. "But that‘s to be expected! Hollywood has always abused writers and it always will. It denigrates us and leaves us feeling worthless. We’re the lowest caste of society."

“So, what happened?” I asked.

“My agent destroyed my script! It was the beautiful story of a young mute girl in an Irish orphanage at the turn of the century, a girl with psychic abilities.”

“How did your agent destroy your work?” I said.

“She had me change the girl to a boy, switch Ireland to a ghetto in Brazil, and made me change her special talent to soccer. And for what?!”

“I understand your frustration,” I said.

“Do you?” he said.

“This kind of crap happens all the time in this town,” I said. “So now, after all your hard work, after all the concessions you’ve made, you’ve got nothing, not even a promise. You toil all day on your writing project, then you go to your waitering job in the evening, barely scratching out a living,

“Not exactly,” he said, sadly. “We sold the script. The movie’s being made. Big names attached. Would you like to see a picture of my new Lexus?”

"You mean you're crying about abuse even though you've sold the script, and probably sold it for a fortune?" I was getting irritated.

He shifted nervously.  "Well, yeah.  But I mean it's about the principle of the thing.  The way I see it, life is over in the barest blink of an eye, so we might as well be appreciated and compensated fairly for our talents, don't you agree?

"Now that you mention it," I said, "I guess you're right." And in the barest blink of an eye, my rate went back up.

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!)
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                                                                                                  Photo: Craig Russell