TMZ: TRUANT OFFICER TO THE STARS!
"MEGAN" has an awful lot of problems for a person in her early twenties. This stems partly from her sudden rise to stardom as an actress, together with having an entourage that encourages her unhealthy "inclinations". Add to that her disrupted childhood: the father abandoned the family when MEGAN was an infant and the mother died with a needle in her arm. MEGAN has struggled with depression, masochism and addiction since the age of eleven. She’s also marvelously talented, funny and loveable, as deranged people often are.
MEGAN didn’t make it to her appointment today, and I’m worried. I hope her personal assistant simply forgot about our therapy session. I could have Petal call around to see if she’s alright. Or maybe I'll just have her check at TMZ.com to see if she's gotten herself into trouble. Thank God for Harvey Levin and his brave soldiers at TMZ! God bless you, Mr. Levin! You're a good man for a non-Catholic!
POP DIVA'S DESPERATE PLEA FOR
CONTENT!
I’m so behind in my filing! How on earth will I ever catch up? I haven't made notes in my patients' files for a whole week. There’s a stack of folders two feet high on my desk, but I‘m just not in the mood. Maybe I’ll have my receptionist Petal fill them out. She’s taking a creative writing class and this could be her independent study project. She already transcribes all my musings onto this blog.
I was sitting here this morning, wondering what to do about this stack of files, when a familiar looking young lady came for her therapy session. I hadn’t seen her in four months, no doubt because of her worldwide concert tour, and I could tell right away she was depressed. “Come in Tawny,” I said. “Why the long face?”
“I feel sad, Doctor DelVecchio,“ she moped. “Why do I feel so sad all the time?” She slumped in and sat down on the sofa. Reaching in her Fendi squirrel denim handbag, she pulled out four cell phones and put each one on vibrate.
“Tawny,” I said, “why do you think you feel sad all the time?” It seemed to me that a woman who is possibly the most famous pop singer in the entire world didn’t have much to be sad about.
She stared at her shoes a minute, then wiggled them. “Uhm, I guess it’s because I don’t have a strong sense of self-worth or self-identity.” she said.
I said, “Now Tawny, those phrases are just clichés and psychobabble. Tell me why you think you feel sad all the time. In your own words. Here, I’ll start you: My name is Tawny and I feel sad because…”
She stared at her shoes some more. I stared too. She was wearing satiny hot pink mules with a smattering of delicate little beads and they were simply gorgeous, like little petit fors. Very Manolo Blahnik. If only I had Tawny's ankles!! After a moment she frowned. “Uhm,” she said, “well, I guess it’s because I’m plagued by angst and I have a poor sense of personal boundaries. I guess that’s it.”
“Tawny,” I said, “where are you getting all these tired, meaningless catchphrases? Are they lyrics from one of your songs?”
I immediately regretted saying that! What on earth got into me?! Tawny gave me a look that was half shock and half horror. Then she smiled. “You’re right, Doctor DelVecchio, you’re absolutely right. I need better lyrics. My songs are shallow clichés, and somewhere in the back of my head I've known it all along. Thank you for making me aware of it. I feel better already!”
Oh boy, I thought. That was a close one! A doctor’s bond with her patient is a precious thing, like a finely cut crystal jewel, and it can be broken very easily. Handle with care! I patted her knee. “You’re quite welcome, Tawny. I’m glad to help you any way I can. You’re very special, don‘t forget that. Any questions before we finish?”
“Yes,” she said. “Who is Tawny? I’m Rita.”
“Oh,” I said. “I thought you were somebody else.”
She acted like my little mistake didn’t bother her but I’m afraid I heard the shattering of a finely cut crystal jewel. Had I damaged her self-worth, her self-identity and her sense of personal boundaries?
I'll give her 10% off her next session. Who doesn't love a bargain?
TERRIFIED SHRINK
TASERS TINSELTOWN TRAMP!
I was standing on a chair, deep in thought, when I felt her hands on my hips. "Darling," said Mrs. Cheese, "do be careful. It's a long way down to Wilshire Blvd."
"Huh?" I said, startled. I was holding some fabric samples up to the window, deciding between a staid Ralph Lauren twill and a florid jacquard. Window treatments send a very clear message to one's clients about what kind of person one is. Would my rock star clients rebel against a staid herringbone? Would my conservative senator feel threatened by a fleur de lis? I climbed down from the chair and motioned to the sofa. "Please sit, Mrs. Cheese," I said.
"Darling," said Mrs. Cheese, "why do you insist upon addressing me so formally?"
"Sorry," I said. "You startled me. So how are you today, Brigitte?" Brigitte is the young wife of Big Cheese, one of Hollywood's biggest directors. In Hollywood, many marriages have been brokered on a predetermined bell curve, from courtship to divorce, by publicists and attorneys. The Cheese union isn't like that: it's the real thing. Which is why I'm confused by Mrs. Cheese's flirtatious behavior. Or am I imagining it?
Mind you, I have nothing against people who prefer their own gender. My hairdresser and nail boy are both light in the loafers and I adore them! The same goes for my patients, against whom I harbor no judgements. Nevertheless, I do offer them the option of electroshock, should they ever wish to be cured.
I don't know why Mrs. Cheese bothers to come to her appointments: she never confesses anything that patients are supposed to confess. There are never any tears or epiphanies. I've tried repeatedly to summon up her untapped Divine Goddess, her Amazon Warrior and her Wise Woman but all I ever get is her Spa Junkie. It appears her anxieties are buried under mountains of distracting and flirtatious behavior. I feel Mrs. Cheese is deeply disturbed. Today I asked her, How is your sleep pattern? and she just flipped her long, black curls aside and cooed, "Oooooh! I could snuggle up and take a nap right now on this comfy sofa. Do you like to snuggle, Carla?" She kicked off one pointed-toe shoe which, by the label inside, was Fendi. I wondered if my foot would fit in it. She must have read my mind because she winked and said, "Wouldn't you love to try it out just once?"
After a half hour of babbling and winking, she got up and sat on my lap, which is a serious no-no. HANDS OFF THE SHRINK! I pulled my taser out of the drawer and gave her a jolt to the left buttock. Unfortunately, since she was sitting on my lap, I received the jolt also, and it was only after we lay on the floor in a coma for fifteen minutes that I was able to raise my head and tell her that her time was up
* NOTE TO SELF: NEXT TIME HYPNOTIZE MRS. CHEESE. TRY ON
HER SHOES.
CATATONIC ON A HOT TIN ROOF!
I got a call from Megan's publicist this morning. It seems Megan fell from her roof and was in a coma for fifteen days. I imagine this sorry event was drug-related rather than a suicide attempt. Typically, suicidal people don't aim toward their Jacuzzis when taking the leap. Fortunately, this idiotic behavior never made it into the tabloids. The misfortunes of Paris and Nicole and Britney and Miss Lohan and Anna Nicole have all been exploited publicly but not everything gets reported, thank goodness. If the hospital staff is trustworthy and there is no police record, there's a good chance the whole thing can be chalked up to "exhaustion" or "a virus she contracted while on location in the Peruvian Rain Forest." Whoever puts the story out there first gets to shape the story.
“We were afraid she wouldn’t make it,” said Melody, her publicist (My attorney says it’s OK to use her real name!). “She was in intensive care at Cedar’s for two weeks and then she just woke up. She’s asking for you, Doctor DelVecchio. She's a little disoriented. Can you come out to the house? Please?”
Melody is not only Megan's publicist but is her only stable influence (aside from me!). Anybody who thinks Hollywood is all about the money should spend five minutes with Melody and see what a warm, big-hearted and maternal person she is. With her wild, gray, un-dyed hair and large breasts, she’s like some ancient stone fertility goddess. Of course I told her I’d drive out to the house after work today.
LATER in the DAY...
I’ve just finished with four patients
including a network news anchor from
the East Coast; a top L.A. casting
agent; an actor whose face seems to
be plastered on the side of every bus in
town; and Ginger, the trust-fund girl who goes to therapy because all her friends do. My receptionist Petal thinks I don’t notice that Ginger gives her all her old (worn once to Parc!) clothes, but of course I do. If Ginger shows up wearing a Dolce & Gabbana jacket with a fur collar on Monday, you can be sure Petal will show up wearing it on Friday.
I’m closing up shop for the day and driving to Malibu to visit Megan. She lives on Malibu Road, in a wood framed house that practically floats on the waves. This is the neighborhood that was ravaged by the 2007 Malibu Canyon fire. Suzanne Somers lost her house in that blaze and her only public comment was that there are greater disasters in the world than this, and that she’d survive. That lady has character! I’d love to have her as my client except she seems so well adjusted. How could I take her money?
(She could pay me in Somersize Holiday Recipes!)
My hairdresser CoCo adores Suzanne and says he's got a special comb and scissors set aside, in case she should ever walk through his door. "I wanna get my paws on her bangs," he says. Now that I think of it, that sounds kind of creepy.
Speaking of the ocean, maybe I’ll stop at Dan Tana’s for some delicious steamed clams. That way I'll avoid rush hour traffic to Malibu. My husband Ostergarrd won't be happy about my getting home late, but I simply must look in on that poor, disturbed girl. If she gets brain damage while under my care, this could be very embarrassing!
MOVIE MOGULS PLAY MOM!
My receptionist Petal, who posts all these entries, tells me today’s installment is much too long. It can’t be helped! I’ve agreed, however, to leave out the part where my father sat on the front porch every Sunday morning and smoked a Cuban cigar, when I was a child in Pittsburgh’s Squirrel Hill. Apparently it’s irrelevant!!
It’s been three days since I drove out to see Megan and let me tell you, she was a heartbreaking sight. Megan was almost unrecognizable, lying there with her cranium all wound up in gauze and her face swollen, purple and yellow. I’ve asked PETAL to find a picture to accompany today’s entry which will evoke the poor girl’s tragedy, since no words will ever suffice.
This is all the more tragic since Megan had just started filming a movie and now the whole project has been put on hold. Whenever shooting gets held up, a studio loses hundreds of thousands of dollars a day and isn’t usually very happy about it. Of course a bond is ordinarily posted which covers some losses, but it still means people’s lives have been thrown into chaos…bad news for studios, good news for psychotherapists!
Melody greeted me at the door and took me to Megan's room. Since the young lady was sleeping, I left a purple Trader Joe’s hydrangea on the table and wrote her a note telling her to stop her foolish, self-destructive, attention-seeking behavior and to start acting mature. Then I crossed it out and wrote, “Get well soon!”
Melody has laid out her plan for Megan's immediate future and, while it’s drastic, I’ve agreed to participate. It consists of these points:
1: MEGAN must commit to Melody’s plan or else I, as her psychotherapist, will have her committed for psychiatric evaluation. This will effectively end her career if she doesn’t cooperate.
2: MEGAN will admit herself to Promises Malibu or one of the other legitimate drug rehab institutions, staying until they tell her she may leave. The staff at Promises is renowned for handling just about anything you throw their way. The problem with some of the other rehab centers is that patients leave with a whole new circle of friends to party with.
3: MEGAN will stop dating her rock star and will instead be accompanied by an AnonyNurse, 24 hours a day, for the next year. AnonyNurse is an exclusive service that you’ll never hear about since they don’t advertise and they operate just outside the law. AnonyNurses are trained medically and in martial arts and are totally discreet. When seen in public with their star clients, they dress as friends or bodyguards. What really sets them apart, however, is that the client signs an agreement to obey the AnonyNurse and to hold the company free of liability in case the client needs to be restrained or “disciplined.”
4: Once released from rehab, Megan will be treated with acupuncture three times a week at Hamptons Health Circle, an exclusive little acupuncture clinic in Pasadena that I would recommend to all anybody who wants to be pampered and rejuvenated.
Petal is right: I’ve spent too much time on MEGAN. There’s so many other fish to fry!
AGENTS R INSANE!
I’ve heard that if you take a street person off the street and clean them up, they’ll immediately get sick and die. Well the same holds true for talent agents. Judging from the four talent agents who seek my care (three of them are A-level; one is B-level, which is still acceptable), if you were to remove all crises and narrowly-avoided catastrophes from their lives, they’d shrivel up and blow away. That’s why, when any of them sits down and starts a breathless tale of how he missed an important flight and ran onto the runway to chase the plane and was handcuffed by the ATF and strip-searched right down to the heels of his shoes and locked in a glaring white room where a hefty German woman with sausage fingers yanked the fillings right out of his teeth…well, all I can say is, Nobody ever asks who they have to sleep with to get out of this business!
CRISIS CLINIQUE!
I was stopped at the parking level entrance, 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 two o’clock client, 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 Dr. DelVecchio!” he called.
It was my two o’clock client. “Hello Timmy,” 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, Timmy,” 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 raped 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 raped 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 mother hen that I am. “This is a private conversation!”
“It’s going just great, Doctor!” Timmy called, as the U-Haul creaked away.
“The director has no idea I’m sleeping with his wife!”
“That’s excellent!” I said proudly. A psychotherapist’s job is to encourage her client’s self-exploration and Timothy was/is making good progress. Two more ladies passed by with Clinique bags stuffed full of goodies. “And how’s the bed wetting, Timmy?” 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 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 therapy. That’s your homework. I believe that just about covers it for today, Timmy!”
He smiled brightly. “Boy, we covered a lot, didn’t we?” he said.
“Yes, Timmy,” I said. “Now pull that ticket from the machine, sweetheart. 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 forty minutes to check it out before my next client showed up. I was almost completely out of Complexion-Perfection Cocktail. Who knew when it would go on sale again?
“Huh? Well OK, Doctor DelVecchio. 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.
MRS. CHEESE 'GRATES' ON OUR NERVES!
Mrs. Cheese should have stayed at home instead of wasting my time! This was an hour I'll never get back. Halfway through her recovered memory session, Mrs. Cheese remembered that today is Pablito's birthday. That's her cleaning lady's son. In Hollywood you don't forget the birthdays of your domestics or they'll go straight to the tabloids with all the dirt.
"Oh my God!" she shouted suddenly. "Little Pablito is six years old today!" And so she flipped from painful reminiscences of her awful childhood to frantic calls to the caterer, the florist, the Rabbi, and the management company of Number Two Rodeo (a marvelous venue for parties!).
"Oh my god," said Mrs. Cheese, scrolling through the directory on her cell phone. "It was horrible when that nun dragged me around the church by my ear! I was so young and innocent! Nowadays, of course, when a man drags me around the bedroom by my ear I have ten different kinds of orgasm." Her phone rang and she answered it. "What do you mean I can't have Porky Pig?! Listen here, I need Porky Pig tonight and he'd better be making balloon animals when Pablito gets there or you'll never cater in L.A. again! That little boy adores Porky Pig! What? Are you kidding? Trademark infringement? You're joking, right? Oh, for Godsake!" and she hung up.
Mrs. Cheese stuffed her phone in her bra. "Darling, I have to go. Am I still hypnotized? If I am, will you snap your fingers or something? The nuns of Bon Saveur will have to wait 'til next time. You already know how the story ends anyway. I met a famous director, got married, got knocked up, not in that order. I simply must find a Porky Pig for this party tonight! If you know of any, have him call me. I'll pay you a thousand dollars. Bye-bye darling!"
Before I could rise she sailed by me, grazing my cheek with the back of her hand. "Love you, mean it," she winked, and wafted out the door. I thought to myself: "A thousand dollars? That's half a Louis Vuitton Manhattan handbag. How is that supposed to help me?"
AND THEN...
Stanley is making excellent progress. I should add that, since Stanley is schizophrenic, Billy is also making good progress. I've taught Billy how to be confident and independent, which is quite remarkable considering he isn't a real person. Technically speaking, I should teach them how to integrate. But I tend to favor sweet little Billy and have wondered how we could eliminate Stanley altogether. In the meantime, I try to look at it positively. Stanley doesn't have too many personalities, he's just got too few heads.
Stanley is an award winning sitcom writer, which means he's forever in a panic, working against deadlines, trying desperately to be funny (please don't try that with your therapist!). When the stress gets too high, Billy appears and takes over Stanley's body. Since Stanley's show got canceled yesterday, Billy has been in control.
While Stanley is a forty year old man, Billy is a young boy with a high voice and a stutter....and so terribly innocent! "He-he-he-hello, Dr. DelVe-ve-vecchio" said Billy today, handing me a Jolly Rancher.
I told Billy that Stanley had lost his writing gig and that forty year old men don't find work in Hollywood very easily.
"Ga-ga-ga-golly, Doctor," he said, wide-eyed and brushed aside bangs that weren't there. "Is tha-tha-tha-there anything I can do to help?"
"Let me think a minute," I said. "Yes, I believe there is. Stanley's career may be ending but yours is about to begin." I had a job for him.
"Bu-bu-ut who w-w-would want to hire a ba-ba-boy like me?" said Billy, in his high-pitched voice.
"Don't worry, " I said. "Just repeat after me: That's all, folks!"
Billy repeated the phrase: "Thubba-thubba-thubba-that's all, folks!"
"Billy, sweetheart," I said, "have you ever made a giraffe from a balloon? Would you like to learn?"
************
Did Mrs. Cheese say she has ten different kinds of orgasms? I wonder how many kinds I'd have if OSTERGARRD dragged me around the bedroom by my ear. Should I even ask, what with his tennis elbow?
NOTE TO SELF: GET CORTISONE SHOT FOR OSTERGARRD'S ELBOW.
