FEBRUARY

ALEC BALDWIN exposed! Celebrity gossip from the Hollywood Psychotherapist Dr. Carla DelVecchio. Alec Baldwin has secrets. What are Alec Baldwin's secrets? Only the Hollywood Psychotherapist knows CELEBRITY GOSSIP and SCANDAL. Will ALEC BALDWIN reveal the truth?

Find out. Visit the CELEBRITY GOSSIP website. www.HollywoodPsychotherapy.com and www.HollywoodPsychotherapist.com

Sarah Jessica Parker celebrity gossip and scandal

HOLLYWOOD GOSSIP! HOLLYWOOD GOSSIP! CELEBRITY GOSSIP! LOS ANGELES THERAPIST! TMZ!

HOLLYWOOD GOSSIP! HOLLYWOOD GOSSIP! CELEBRITY GOSSIP! LOS ANGELES THERAPIST!

HOLLYWOOD GOSSIP! HOLLYWOOD GOSSIP! CELEBRITY GOSSIP! LOS ANGELES THERAPIST! TMZ!

HOLLYWOOD GOSSIP! HOLLYWOOD GOSSIP! CELEBRITY GOSSIP! LOS ANGELES THERAPIST!

HOLLYWOOD GOSSIP! HOLLYWOOD GOSSIP! CELEBRITY GOSSIP! LOS ANGELES THERAPIST! TMZ!

FEBRUARY

SARAH JESSICA OWES ME LUNCH!

I was sitting in church, dreaming about the Grand Marnier souffle at La Cachette, when a woman stuck her elbow in my rib.

“Oh my God!” she panted. “Oh my God!”

“What’s the matter?” I said.

“Dear God, I can’t believe it! It’s a miracle!“

“What happened?” I asked.

“I was just thinking about CARRIE BRADSHAW and now, there she is! Look!”

“What?" I said. "Who?”

“Look!” she cawed. “Three pews ahead of us, in the champagne VERA WANG camisole with the inverted pleats. I’m sure that’s SARAH JESSICA PARKER!”

“Are you sure?" I said. "I thought CARRIE BRADSHAW was Jewish.”

“Oh my God!" said the woman. "I love SEX AND THE CITY! I love the series! I love the movie!”

“That’s nice,” I said. “And did you come here to nurture your eternal soul or to hunt for celebrities?”

“Huh?” she said, batting her eyes.

I patted her hand. “Dear lady, let CARRIE pray in private. I assume you’ve come here to worship THE CREATOR, not SARAH JESSICA. When you get distracted by celebrities, you’re literally sticking a straw in the side of your soul and sucking out all of God’s creamy, rich goodness.”

“Oh?” she said.

“That’s right,“ I informed her. “Isn’t it time you said yes to the sweet, crunchy crust of God’s eternal embrace? When life presents you with a choice, help yourself to a heaping, wholesome spoonful of God’s limitless love, with a sprinkling of sweet, merciful blessings.”

“Who are you?” said the woman, squinting.

“Don’t get distracted by empty calories when God’s gooey goodness is right there, on the menu of life!”

“Stop licking my hand!” shrieked the lady, pushing her way through the pew and toward the door. “Let me out of here! You're giving me the creeps!”

“Very well,” I said. “But when you find your soul yearning for the marshmallowy fullness of God’s love, you'll come back. They all do. And we'll be waiting for you!”

“Ahhh!” she yelled, knocking over the holy water and stomping on an

uber-agent’s BRUNO MAGLIs.

“And remember," I called to her, "remember to tip the maitre d' on your way out!”

*****************************

NOTE TO SELF: DON'T GO TO CHURCH ON AN EMPTY STOMACH.

WHERE'S MY GERANIUIM, ALEC BALDWIN?

It irks me to start my day complaining! But I know that if I don't express my anxiety, it will turn into anger, and I wouldn't want that. Unpleasantness is so unbecoming in a lady!

The disappearance of my potted geranium is very troubling. I don't mean to point fingers, but it was sitting on my desk when Alec Baldwin walked in the door and it disappeared when he walked out. I'm not implying that Alec Baldwin took my potted geranium. After all, I know he earns a lot of money and could acquire just about anything he wants in the entire world. So why pick on my geranium?

It was a gift from my husband Ostergarrd, who will be absolutely furious if he finds out it's missing. When he's unhappy, Ostergarrd scrapes out a cacophonous BARTOK concerto on his great golden harp, hissing furiously through bared bicuspids. It's a horrifying sight and it gives me nightmares!

The geranium incident is unfortunate because Alec was making such fine progress in his therapy, and his career was just starting to recover from "The Alamo: Thirteen Days to Glory." Alec is extraordinarily shy in my presence and it's only by slipping him a mickey each time he comes to therapy, that I'm able to get him to open up. He's generally regarded as the most talented of the Baldwin Boys, although after today, I may have to withdraw my vote. After all, there's no lack of talent among those strapping young Baldwins. Who, after all, can forget William, Stephen, Daniel, Manny, Moe and Jack (have I left anyone out)? As the saying goes, there isn't a wooden nickel in the bunch!

NUT NEEDS PILL!

BIG CHEESE may be one of Hollywood's biggest directors, but that's only because I give him the self-confidence he lacks.

BIG CHEESE swaggered into my office this morning and sat down on the sofa. "Dr. DelVecchio," he said, "My new film opens tomorrow on more screens than I can count, and I've already gotten rave reviews in all the major papers and websites. I couldn't have done it without you! You've kept me sane. Do you realize that?"

Oh, It's nothing," I fibbed.

"You're a great therapist!" he said.

"Anybody could do it." Again I fibbed.

"You always challenge me," he said, leaning forward and making a steeple of his fingers. "You always challenge my assumptions. Sometimes you're downright obnoxious but you always make me think."

"Oh?" I said. What did he mean by that, I wondered?

"And sometimes, Doctor, you such stupid things I can hardly believe you've actually got a diploma and a license to practice."

"Thank you," I said cautiously.

"And sometimes I'm convinced you need therapy more than I do and that you rely on me far too much."

"Oh really?" I said. Did I sense latent hostility?

"In fact," he said, leaning back and crossing his skinny legs, "I know more about your life than you know about mine. This seems odd since you're my therapist!"

"How can you say that?" I countered.

"And so, logically speaking, I should be charging you for these sessions rather than the other way around. You obviously get more out of these sessions than I do, Doctor, Carla!"

"You can't be serious," I said.

"Considering your fairly low level of professional competence," he said with a smug grin, "you're lucky to have me."

I didn't like the way this conversation was headed. It was time to quell BIG CHEESE's narcissistic ramblings with a technique we therapists call mirroring. "Dear boy," I said, "you're projecting your feelings of incompetence onto me. But don't worry, I'm not offended. I hear these comments all the time and I recognize them for what they are."

His eyes bulged in his narrow face. "Are you suggesting I'm incompetent?"

"No," I assured him, "but the star of your picture does. She tells me the only reason she did your film was for the money. She thinks you're a hack who lacks inspiration."

"Wa-what?!" he stammered.

"And your assistant director tells me he did all the creative work because, frankly, you haven't a clue how to coax a good performance from an actor. And your screenwriter resents you for insisting on a co-credit, since your only contribution was to dumb-down the dialogue."

"Oh gosh," said BIG CHEESE, his face ashen. "I had no idea. I, uh... uh..."

Of course it was shocking, but it was best that he know the truth. I owed him that! But I was concerned about his emotional stability and so I opened a lovely Moroccan cloisonne box on the coffee table that I found in a flea market in Toulouse, and let him take out two yellow pills. "These will stabilize you," I said. "I'll have Petal bring you a glass of water. You're not operating any heavy machinery today, are you? No jackhammers or cranes or plows or printing presses?" It never hurts to inject a little humor.

"I...er...uh..." he mumbled..

"No locomotives or fireworks or demolition equipment?" I winked.

"Demolition..." he said, absently.

"Very well, then," I said, standing up. "That's all for today. You've made excellent progress under my care and you should feel proud. I'll see you at your preview, tonight. If RICHARD DEAN ANDERSON should make an appearance, will you get me his autograph? My husband is crazy about 'MacGuyver'!" (I know BIG CHEESE won't do it, but it never hurts to ask!)

BARBARIAN AT THE PARAMOUNT GATE!

MR. KIM, the Korean film producer and wife beater, brought

Mrs. Kim to my office today. I was anxious to find out if Mr. Kim had learned to manage his anger while under my court-ordered care.

“Mr. Kim,” I said, “please wait in the reception area while I have a chat with your wife.”

Mr. Kim’s spine stiffened. He cannot tolerate authoritative women. “Okay, okay!” he barked. “You hurry up! She no like sit ’round, make girlie chit-chat!”

“I must interview her,” I said. “Court orders.”

“Interview is stupid!” he said. “This is not ‘The View!’ Joyce Behar is big cow! Giant, big-mouth cow!”

“Why on earth would you say such a thing?“ I asked. “Is it because Joyce Behar panned your movie? That‘s it, isn’t it! Miss Behar is a lovely woman. Now won't you please leave us alone?” And I closed the door.

Mrs. Kim, in her navy, could-have-been-designed-by-anybody pantsuit, stepped into my room and bowed. I waved her toward the sofa and she sat. “Mrs. Kim,” I said, “let’s get right to business. Has your husband’s violent behavior improved?”

“Oh yeees!” she smiled, her dark eyes sparkling.

“I’m glad to hear that,” I said. “And is he able to control his temper in situations that might ordinarily cause him to lash out?”

Tiny dimples formed around Mrs. Kim’s lips. “Oh, yes, yes!” she trilled.

“I’m glad to hear that,” I said. “And would you say that intimate relations have improved between you and your husband?”

Mrs. Kim’s pale cheeks reddened and she batted her eyes. “Yes, oh yes!” she said.

“Well, that’s a relief,” I said, checking a box on my clipboard. “It seems I’ve done rather splendid work, if I do say so myself. Is there anything you’d like to add, Mrs. Kim?”

“Yes, oh yes!” she said.

“And what might that be?” I asked.

“Oh, yes, yes!” she sang.

“Excuse me?” I said.

“Oh yeees. Yes!” said Mrs. Kim.

“Pardon my asking, but do you speak English, Mrs. Kim?”

“Oh, yes. Oh, yes, yeees!” she declared, brightly.

“I see,” I said. “Hmmm... And do you sometimes wish you could humiliate and degrade Mr. Kim the same way he humiliates and degrades you?”

“Yes, oh yes!” she smiled, tilting her head.

“Well then, at midnight tonight, will you drug him and leave him at the Paramount gate, wearing nothing but his socks and a lampshade?”

“Oh, yes, yes!” she said.

“Very well,” I said, slipping a handful of sedatives into her pocket. "You've been delightful. That concludes our interview.” I ushered her to the door and into the lobby, where her husband waited.

Mr. Kim, in his crisp blue suit, stood up and said, “How did it go?”

“Very well,” I smiled.

“Oh?“ he said. “But how you can communicate?”

"What ever do you mean?" I said.

"She no speak English!" he said.

“Don't underestimate me, Mr. Kim” I said. “I'm a registered psychotherapist. Good bye. I‘ll see you next week.” As they turned to go, I touched Mrs. Kim’s sleeve. “Good bye, my dear. And remember... midnight… the Paramount gate.”

“Oh yes, yes!” she trilled as Mr. Kim pulled her out the door.

***************************************

NOTE TO SELF: EVERY KOREAN MAN'S NAME IS MR. KIM. EVEN MR. KIM'S ALIAS IS MR. KIM!

DEAREST PETAL!

My receptionist PETAL was sitting at her desk, inspecting her tongue in a hand mirror. "I hope I'm not sick, Dr. Carla," she said, as I walked into the room. "My tongue is completely blue!"

"Let me see your tongue," I said. It was completely blue. "Have you eaten something with food dye in it, Petal?" Petal fills her desk drawers with boxes of Skittles and chewing gum and licorice.

"Uhm, I don't know," she said. "I just had some M&Ms. Could that be it? They have blue ones, you know. I hate those blue M&Ms! They're so unnatural!"

"Yes, they are, aren't they," I said. "They're not like the others, which are harvested in the Amazon rain forest."

"They are?" she asked, wide-eyed.

Petal is such a dear!

HOLLYWOOD BIGWIG GETS THE BOOT!

BIG CHEESE may be one of the most powerful director-producers in Hollywood but he can't seem to control his wife!

"I'm sending Brigitte to you for therapy," said BIG CHEESE, slouching on my sofa. "Brigitte's shoe habit is out of control. Last month, she spent twenty seven thousand dollars on shoes! It's unbelievable! Here she is, propping up the entire designer footwear industry while I'm walking around in the same topsiders I've worn since 2006."

"You are?" I said.

"It's shameful," whined BIG CHEESE.

"I would agree," I said.

"And she only got two pairs of shoes for all that money."

"Really?" I said. "They must be fabulous. Who is the designer?"

"How should I know?" he said.

"Well, what do the shoes look like?" I asked.

"What does it matter, Dr. Carla?" he said.

"I need details in order to paint a psychological portrait," I explained.

"Well let's see," said BIG CHEESE, scratching his stubbly chin, "one of them was a pair of shiny, black, high-heels that went all the way up to her shin."

"With contoured stilettos?" I asked.

"Well, uh, yeah. I guess so," he said.

"And with toes so sharp they could skewer a tomato!"

"Yes, that's it!" he said. "Can you help me, then, Dr. Carla?"

I recognized those shoes. I'd noticed his notorious nymphomaniac of a

wife wearing them as she left Grappa Restaurant a few weeks ago, at the SUNDANCE FILM FESTIVAL. They were sheer MANOLO ! Anyone with eyes could see that. I instantly knew that somehow, some day, those MANOLO BLAHNIKS would come into my life and that I would touch them, feel them, smell them and caress their seductive curves. But would they fit? There was only one way to find out.

"I'll look forward to seeing your wife next week," I said.

"Then you can do something about the shoes?" said BIG CHEESE.

"Can I ever!," I said. "But I may have to hypnotize her. Please make sure she wears those overpriced black boots to therapy."

"Well, I would tell her to wear them," said BIG CHEESE, "except that I made her give them to Goodwill."

"You what?!"

"I made her give them away," he said, smugly. "I dropped them off at Goodwill on my way over here just now."

"You did?! Which Goodwill?" I said, my heart pounding.

"The one in Studio City," he said.

"That's all for today," I said, grabbing my purse and running out the door.

"But we're only half way through my session!" he said, glancing at his diamond studded Patek Philippe wristwatch, retail value twelve thousand dollars. "I wanted to talk about my anxiety disorder."

"Anxiety?" I called from the hallway. "That Goodwill closes in twenty minutes! I'll show you anxiety!" I ran past the elevator to the stairway and, just like the acrobats in Cirque Du Soleil, slid all the way down the banister to the lobby, except that I tore a hole in my black wool Lagerfeld skirt and got rope-burn in a place that good Catholics try not to think about.

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