File Under: Pride and Prejudice and Zoloft

Now that “Pride and Prejudice and Zombies,” is slated for production, I can’t seem to have a normal conversation with any females in L.A. They’re all speaking Jane Austen English. Just go in any diner and ask the waitress for a cup of coffee.

“Would Monsieur care for a crumpet and a slather of marmalade to accompany his caffeinated beverage?” This from an amazon with an anchor tattoo.

Even my receptionist, Delphinia has been stricken.

“Dearest Charles,” came Delphinia’s voice over the intercom this morning, “your patient has just arrived by carriage and awaits you in the parlor.”

“Who is it?” I said, flicking a half-smoked Camel out the window.

“She is a young lady possessed of such surpassing tenderness of spirit–aided, no doubt, by two weeks in rehab and such prodigiously consumed doses of psychotropics as might paralyze an ox–that there can be but little surprise at her copious accumulation of Facebook Friends. In fact, her dexterous skill in the Tweeting Arts is a phenomenon marveled at far and wide, from the drawing rooms of Encino to the coast of Sussex and beyond.”

“Oh for Chrissake, just send her in.”

A moment later Delphinia appeared in her flounce, waving A-Level Actress through the door. “Dearest Sister in Natural Remedies,” sang Delphinia, her oversized curls bouncing as she curtsied, “Charles awaits your arrival. Do come in!”

And there appeared A-level Actress, disheveled, bleary-eyed and teetering dangerously on a pair of hyper-sexualized, fourteen-inch, neo-gothic Sergio Rossi pumps.

“Glurrbpbh,” she said, dragging her overstuffed, boho-chic handbag on the floor.

“Have a seat,” I said, looking closely at her pupils, which were the size of silver dollars. “What can I help you with today?”

Like a dead planet suddenly plucked from orbit, she dropped onto the sofa in a crumpled heap. I wasn’t sure if it was the leather cushion expelling fumes or if it was she, but as she sank deep into it, there came a loud “Phigghhrt!” from the vicinity of her equator. She didn’t seem to notice.

Just then, Delphinia reappeared. “Did you beckon me, Monsieur?”

“No,” I said, “but you might as well stay. I think I’ll need your help translating.”

Delphinia sat down next to A-List. “How you flatter me, kind sir!” she said. “It would be an honor to assist you in the arduous task of completing the interrogatory process!”

I pressed my palm into my forehead. Was that a migraine coming on?

“What would you like me to ask your patient?” said Delphinia.

“It’s not my questions that need translating,” I said, “it’s her answers.”

“As you wish, your Lordship,” she smiled primly, fanning herself with an old People.

I asked A-List, “Have you had your meds checked recently? I think you may be overdosing.”

“Glurrbpbh,” she said, pawing her bag and pulling out a bottle of pills.

Delphinia leaned forward with a serious look. “She says she needs the Librium to keep her from going insane and that her doctor assures her she’s dosing appropriately.”

“She said all that?” I asked.

“And you’ve got cilantro stuck in your teeth.”

I looked at A-List. “What else are you taking?”

She pawed another bottle of pills from her purse. “Glurrbpbh,” she said, her eyes crossing.

Delphinia said, “She believes the Zoloft keeps her mind lively and focused on positive thoughts, enabling her to engage in stimulating discourse on a plethora of subjects. For that reason, she respectfully declines Monsieur’s suggestion to minimize her dosage.”

“Well then,” I said, “there’s only so much Monsieur can do to help. Bring her into the treatment room. Monsieur will give her an acupuncture treatment that will enhance her mood and make her even more lively than she already is. Although that’s hard to imagine.”

As Delphinia pulled A-List up from the sofa, a compact mirror and a glass vial fell from the starlet’s oversized purse. I scooped the items up, dropping the mirror back in the bag. But I rolled the vial back and forth in my hand a moment, gazing at its white crystals before deciding I would flush it down the commode. After all, Madame may not be inclined to remove the meds from her diet, but perhaps she could go a day without sugar.

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: 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.