Episode Report Card Gustave: B | Grade It Now! YOU GRADE IT Kiefer kombustion
By Gustave | Season 1 | Episode 12 | Aired on 02.18.2002
The time is 11:20:20 AM. The Palmer motorcade continues to make its way around L.A. Palmer's cell rings. It's Dr. Ferragamo, a Poor Man's Eli Wallach, calling Palmer back. Palmer is all, "I wanted to talk to you about my son." Ferragamo, who has one of those Anton LeVay goatees, is all, "I can't do that -- doctor/patient privilege." Doctor/patient privilege? What a prick! I mean, it would be one thing for a shrink to violate doctor/patient privilege to report a murder to the authorities, but this guy went straight to the press. I'm almost glad he's about to be burned to a crisp in his office in a few minutes. Oops! So Palmer says pretty much what I just said, and Ferragamo is all, "Are you calling me to threaten me, Senator?" Palmer tries to explain that he's only trying to warn him about Kreepy Karl, but Ferragamo keeps cutting him off and putting words in his mouth. "You already covered up one murder," says Ferragamo. "And now you're threatening me to keep me quiet!" Jesus! Give me some gasoline and a book of matches already. I'll torch his office for free. Better yet, let's go find that guy who raped Dr. Melfi on The Sopranos, take him to Ferragamo's parking garage, and give him a jar of Vaseline and a tab of Viagra. Nevertheless, Palmer keeps trying to warn the doctor, even after he hangs up on Palmer and refuses to answer his phone.
Now, I would just like to say that I have been served well by various mental health professionals over the years and have nothing but respect for the industry as a whole. In fact, I'd like to take this opportunity to give a warm shout-out to all the poor souls over the years who had to listen to me rant about some lady at the Korean deli or a Kinko's cashier who gave me attitude, therefore tapping into my worst childhood fears of being unlovable and invisible. If it weren't for these people's love, patience, and ability to control rolling their eyes in my presence, I wouldn't be the semi-functional adult I am now. However, through various social encounters and anecdotes, I have long since realized that there are some fucked-up shrinks out there, and unlike, say, a fucked-up cable installer or a fucked-up pizza delivery guy, a fucked-up shrink can do some serious damage. Let's face it, there are some accredited people out there who use their expert knowledge of the human psyche for non-therapeutic purposes.
Like, there was this one time when I first moved to New York City and I decided that I needed to see someone. I went to this gay referral service where they interview you and try to match you to an appropriate therapist who is either gay or gay-friendly. So I go see the first guy they recommend to me, and I just know immediately that it's not going to work. There's no conversational chemistry whatsoever and it doesn't help that he looks like one of those sincere New Age-y queens who sip Kukicha tea and lecture you about how toxic the bar scene is, yet troll AOL chat rooms at night for straight-acting muscle boys. But it's not like you can just decide not to hire a shrink within five minutes, so I end up staying for the full hour just to be polite. So this guy says, "So tell me why you decided to use [Gay Referral Service]?" So I go, "Well, I wanted to see a gay male therapist and it seemed like the best way to look for one." So Dr. Kukicha smiles tightly and says, "Uh, if you'd like to ask me what my sexual preference is, you may do so now." So I say, "Gee, Dr. Kukicha, what is your sexual preference?" Dr. Kukicha is all, "For your information, not everyone who works with [Gay Referral Service] is gay. We are a network of gays, lesbians, bisexuals, and heterosexuals who are sensitive to gay issues." Like, was it therapeutically necessary to critique my semantics right off the bat? "But to answer your question," he continues. "I am gay." So now I'm struggling not to roll my eyes, and I go, "Well, I wouldn't have a problem having a straight therapist who'd be cool enough to register with [Gay Referral Service]. And I'm sorry for making assumptions. I just figured you were gay…you know, just from meeting you." So Dr. Kukicha gets really twitchy at that last statement because you just know from the rugby shirt he's wearing -- sleeves pushed up to display his manly forearms -- that he prides himself on "passing," and he's all, "And why would you assume that?" "I dunno," I say. "Intuition. The A Chorus Line poster hanging in your waiting room. And the fact that you are wearing ironed jeans." Dr. Kukicha laughs breezily to show me just how not insulted he was by that last remark and says, "And is that what being gay is to you? Showtunes and attention to appearances?" And so it went. I don't even remember how I got out of there. Furthermore, he kept calling my machine for months afterwards trying to get me to make another appointment, after I told him I'd found someone else. I guess there weren't many other takers for the gay attitude-adjustment services of Dr. Kukicha.