HOLLYWOOD: A MISCHEVIOUS CHILD
It is my first day back from vacation and I can see that Hollywood
should not be left alone and unattended. Mischief occurred in my absence! A famous runway model--a client of mine--broke water while lying on a tanning bed in Santa Monica. But did she jump up and run to the hospital as any normal person would? No! Since there were eleven more minutes in her session, she continued lounging on the slippery, wet plastic bed. She lay there until her amniotic fluids leaked into the seams of the contraption and onto the UV bulbs, blowing the fuse and starting an electrical fire.
The firemen arrived and helped to deliver runway model's angelic, kinky-haired, African-looking little boy into the world. Her German husband is still awaiting an explanation.
Then there is starlet KAMMY, whose boyfriend recently dumped her.
In a blatant grab for sympathy, KAMMY paid a make-up artist to glue some horrid latex slash marks on her wrists. She then presented herself at Cedars-Sinai, but not before alerting the “L.A. Times” city desk. Unfortunately The Times was not interested. KAMMY, who cannot abide rejection, drove right home home and slashed her wrists with an actual razor. Sadly, The Times was still not interested. KAMMY is having a difficult time with the media's "lack of sensitivity"!
And how about that impertinent Mrs. Cheese?! She brought me a forty-thousand-dollar blue ostrich Birkin bag with velvety goatskin lining as a welcome-back gift. It’s terribly bon chic bon genre. It would have been unfair to deny Mrs. Cheese the pleasure of giving such a marvelous gift.
I did inform her, however, that this does not entitle her to sit on my lap and make baby talk while curling my bangs around her finger. Only my husband Ostergarrd gets to do that! He’s such a dear. I hope the tulip bulbs survived the voyage from Sweden in his poor little rectum!
A HOLLYWOOD SEANCE
An Emmy-winning client of mine--I’ll call her “Odessa”--begged me to accompany her to a séance last night. She had learned about a Sicilian man, Master Antonio who summons up the past lives of anyone willing to pay an unconscionable fee and sit in a darkened room while he speaks. Odessa said she had heard that celebrities such as George Clooney, Kofi Annan, Brad Pitt, Ben Stiller and Jennifer Anniston attend these affairs regularly, which couldn’t possibly be true. Brad and Jennifer would never appear together publicly. On the other hand, the séance Odessa and I attended was in a very private room at the fabulous Viceroy Santa Monica. The Viceroy is a marvelous example of Hollywood Regency style: a mix of classic shapes infused with stunning color palates and a witty, mischievous bit of kitsch. It’s L.A.’s breezy version of New York’s stunning and eccentric Gramercy Park Hotel.
So there I was with my client and ten other Hollywood notables, seated in a circle, with the curtains drawn. A grumpy old man with a grey beard and wisp of white hair ordered a valet to light a candle on the coffee table and to turn the lights down. We sat silently while the old man squinted and shook and shouted gibberish and then popped his eyes open.
“Who are you?” he said, turning to me.
“Why, I’m Dr. Carla DelVecchio, Hollywood Psychotherapist,” I said, trembling at the old man’s intense glare.
“No you’re not!” he barked.
“Huh?” I said.
“Your name was Yermolai and you were a wealthy merchant! You worked hard, very hard, so that when you incarnated as Carla, you would be able to concentrate on that which is most important in life!”
Shoes, I thought. How marvelous!
Master Antonio then turned to a muscular, young film star seated next to me. “And you, sir, your name was Leonid. In your previous incarnation, you enjoyed playing billiards far too much. Your life lacked momentum. Your challenge in this life is to achieve something worthwhile. Think about it!”
“I’ve got two Oscar nominations and my own clothing line,” said the young man, but Master Antonio merely cursed in Italian and moved on to the next person, a middle aged bleach blond who made millions in a high-profile divorce to a real estate tycoon.
“You, Madame, your name was Charlotta and you were a governess. You were prone to making foolish comments in your previous life and as a consequence no one took you seriously. In this life you have the opportunity to rectify that. But you must make the effort.”
“Oh, thank you, Master Antonio!” she cried, wiping her eyes with a hankie.
Master Antonio now sent his gaze to my client Odessa. “You, my dear, your name was Liubov and you were a member of the aristocracy. You lost your fortune through your own lack of action. I picture you in a cherry orchard and I hear the sound of trees falling.”
Odessa stood up, holding her hands to her temples. “A cherry orchard?” she said. “Did you say a cherry orchard?”
“Yes, my dear child,” said Master Antonio.
“That’s where I recognize all these names from!” she screeched, bug-eyed. “We’re all characters from a Chekhov play. The Cherry Orchard! It’s a play! You insane, old man! I want my money back!”
Master Antonio was unmoved. “Calm yourself, my dear,” he said, raising his wrinkled hand. “You, like so many others, are a cynic. Your previous life was difficult but that doesn’t mean this life can’t be full of abundance and good fortune.”
“What are you talking about?” said Odessa. “You’re a total fraud!”
“In the very near future you will meet a wealthy man who will be swept away by your talent and charm. He will finance a movie you have been yearning to make. He lives in a house that looks like a castle, overlooking the ocean. He's in publishing. I'm sensing newspapers.”
“Oh really?” said Odessa, skeptically. “And who is this man? How do I find him? I’ve got a great idea for a movie and I’m looking for investors!”
“He will find you,” said Master Antonio. “I see you singing in this movie.”
“I've always wanted to sing! How did you know that?” said Odessa.
“In this movie you will sing,” said Master Antonio.
"Really?" she said.
"Army generals and heads of state, all of them trust my insights and perhaps you should too. This man I speak of, he is standing nearby. Perhaps on the other side of that door.”
“Are you serious?” she said, breathlessly. “Maybe he’s in the dining room or at the bar. Is that possible? Should I go look?”
“If that is what you wish,” said Master Antonio.
“This is what I’ve been hoping for! Where is this man?” Odessa flew out of the room into a shaft of fluorescence, and slammed the door shut.
In the flickering light, Master Antonio shook his head and mumbled, “And this man owns a sled named Rosebud. Well now, my children, where were we…?”
HOLLYWOOD HUMORIST HECKLED!
I’m very concerned about a client of mine, an enormously successful young (Afro-American) comic whom I'll call Jackson. Jackson appears on talk shows and HBO specials quite often, shrieking into his microphone and flashing an irresistible if impersonal smile. Like all healthy adult men, Jackson is virtually incapable of intimacy.
Jackson has the habit of bringing his microphone to therapy and shrieking into it during our sessions. I can’t help but feel he’s using it to keep his distance. I’m not saying I’m not absolutely charmed by the way he winks at me and flashes those dimples. Far from it! I’m just saying that microphones are designed for theatres and stadiums and that I can hear him perfectly well across the coffee table without amplification.
Last week, in the middle of his monologue, I distracted Jackson by suddenly announcing, “Hey! Look out the window! Isn’t that a B-52 bomber?” As Jackson glanced out the window, I grabbed his microphone and tucked it out of sight.
“Hey!” he said, “Where’d my mic go?”
I told him I had no idea, and that the sound of electrical feedback coming from under my skirt was my arthritic groin. But I'm not sure he bought it!
Today I decided the best way to enhance intimacy would be to heckle him mercilessly. And so, when he picked up the mic and announced that he was feeling tired, I shot back, “Not half as tired as your act!” And when he told me he had been unable to sleep, I heckled, “Just try listening to yourself talk! That‘ll do the trick!”
Well, this went on for about half an hour until Jackson finally countered, “Hey, cool it! Why don’t you crawl back under the porch where you came from? I’m working here!”
I stood up and shook my fist. “I hear that when your mother first saw you, she left you on the steps of a police station while she turned herself in!” (I read that in READER'S DIGEST years ago and thought it was hilarious!)
Jackson looked at me, wide eyed. "Oh no you diddint!" he said, moving his head from side to side.
“Oh, yes I certainly did!" I said.
“Well, listen here. When your mama steps on a scale it says, ‘One at a time please!’”
"Is that so?" I said. "Well your mother..."
Pretty soon the timer beeped, signaling the end of our session, but not before we had gotten to know and appreciate each other a little better.
The first step is always the toughest! It's a time for breaking down barriers and establishing trust. I believe Jackson knows he’s found a safe haven at my office, a place where he can grow and explore his feelings in an environment of acceptance and appreciation. I trust he won't feel the need to shriek into his microphone at next week's session, but if he does, he'd better watch out. I’m bringing tomatoes!
