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Finding Dr. Fishman

Finding Dr. Fishman

 

Dear Diary,

If you thought finding Osama bin Laden in Pakistan was a tough task, try finding the right shrink in Hollywood. In order to find Dr. Fishman, I needed eight references, twelve suggestions and Navy Seal Teams Six thru’ Twelve.

 

My search for the right therapist was broader than Jay Leno’s comedy – Did I want a male or female, young or old, Freudian or Gestalt, couch or chair, etc.?  Should I get a psychiatrist, psychologist, social worker, or just a lazy busybody who likes to listen, jot things down and nod? HOW do I find the right shrink? Do I ask my friends, which begs the question, why take recommendations from crazy people? What about self-help books; do I need help from someone who needs all that self-help? (And is it really “self-help” if an author is helping you?)

 

Anyway, I settled on Dr. Fishman because he is what they call, a “Therapist to the Stars.” In a town filled with sober coaches, life coaches, spiritual guides and “healers,” Dr. Fishman is the go-to shrink in the business of show. Which means his business is booming; it’s easier to get a table for two at Spago than an appointment at four with Dr. F.  The man is busy, busy, busy because the people in this town are fucked, fucked, fucked up. (I’ll bet in Detroit the shrinks aren’t so busy – sure the people there have problems … but they don’t have agents, managers and publicists to make things worse. They have the Pistons, Lions, Greek restaurants and Motown to make things better.)

 

So why am I going to Dr. Fishman– apparently he hasn’t helped any of us. I’ve never met one person in show biz whose shrink said, “You don’t need to see me anymore.” So basically, I’m paying for things to not get fixed? Yes, I’m paying for things not to get fixed. But the process of not getting things fixed is what matters. Because it’s a process. And its tax deductible.

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