John Phillips, Mackenzie Phillips

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This has been a most tough one to weigh in on: Mackenzie Phillips' revelation that her father, music legend Papa John Phillips, raped her repeatedly. I've worked with Mackenzie, and we also have professional friends in common, many of whom have been tittering to me such breathless outbursts as, "Well, she's always so high, who the hell knows what's the truth here?"

Even Mackenzie herself fessed to Meredith Vieira she was high on the Today show, whacked out on heroin, as recently as last year.

A couple of years ago, Mackenzie and I performed in an L.A. reading of the ultracampy '60s flick Valley of the Dolls. Donna Mills was seated to my left, rolling her eyes (along with most of the rest of the cast) at Mackenzie, who was on my immediate right. Mackenzie interrupted, misread her lines and upstaged crucial moments for other actors to much hilarious effect. She was clearly performing her own private derailing of the show, including when when she collapsed while running for (ironically) a dropped bottle of fake pills—and the audience was loving it.

The cast was not, and backstage Mackenzie screamed bloody murder and almost came to fisticuffs with an actor who had made a fairly derisive line about her onstage.

I'll never forget her yelling, face blood-red mad, that she was going to "slug" the guy right before she packed up her house and drove across the country to move to Brooklyn with some young stud she'd just met. Neither statement was a joke.

Nor are her accusations, I believe. Who cares if Mackenzie's remembering these horrific events through a dope-infused memory bank? What the hell do you think made her go down that drug-addled path in the first place?

So, cut the scene-stealer some slack: Clearly it's the only way she knows how to communicate, which should come as no small surprise.

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