by George Wayne
GW:
If there is one thing you would change about your physical appearance, what would it be?
AW:
I’d be taller. I think I’d like to be taller.
GW:
Not a longer neck?
AW:
Just more height.
GW:
Do you aspire to do anything more than this job?
AW:
Well, you never know what’s going to happen, but this is such a great job, and I’m having so much fun. I certainly want to be here for the foreseeable future.
CINDY ADAMS
FEBRUARY 2003
Cindy, you know GW adores you. But when are you going to clatter off into the sunset with your pen and stilettos?
If ever there was my “claim to fame”—ridiculous as it may sound—it was on the set of a photo shoot at the behest of New York magazine. It was an all-day shoot at the Plaza Hotel, all devised by a then New York magazine genius of an editor by the name of Maer Roshan. It was his idea to stage this photo shoot between GW and CA and to then—for the record—record the totally unscripted, multi-page badinage between us that ensued after the shoot. That unforgettable magazine article that ran with the banner headline “Gossip Queens” remains to this day one of the most crème-de-la-crème moments of this ink-stained wretch’s blessed existence. I will never forget, ever, that photo shoot with Cindy Adams as we preened and gleamed for the cameras that day at the revered Plaza Hotel.
I reveled in the moment. And could you blame me? This is a woman who, from what I understand, has been a friend and confidante of seemingly every famous man and woman on the planet. Cindy Adams has known them all and can recall a personal anecdote of every famous person, living and dead. So the fact that she was seemingly purring so breathlessly made me happy that Cindy was so comfortable and enjoying the moment. I certainly did. Still love you, Cindy Adams!
GW:
Cindy Adams was born circa what, 1900? She still looks fabulous, even though she is from the brontosaurus era.
CA:
You’re so good at what you do. You’re so good. Does anyone get ticked?
GW:
Once in a while, but my audience knows this is all in jest. Cindy, you’ve gone to the dogs. You’ve written a book about your dog, Jazzy. Or is it really your memoirs?
CA:
There is a little bit of memoir in it, George, but I wasn’t looking to write my memoirs, because I don’t believe in memoirs from people like me. And then I saw Clint Eastwood—
GW:
Do you have to start name-dropping already, Cindy?
CA:
Well, I just don’t think anyone wants to read a book about me. What happened was very simple: Joey was with me for about a thousand years, and when he left I was talking one night with a publisher friend of mine, and he thought that I should have someone in my life, so he gave me a Yorkie. And he sent him in by limo. So the story is about what it is like to be a dog who lives with the gossip columnist.
GW:
How are you managing without Joey—living in this big old apartment by yourself?
CA:
He was all I had, George.
GW:
You probably have more servants than Prince Charles, so I’m sure you are never alone. So Miss Bagel is doing fine.
CA:
You bitch! You can never get classy in your old age, no way, with people like you. I’m okay. I’ve surrounded myself with friends.
GW:
How is it that you and Joey never had any children?
CA:
Joey was fairly senior when we got married and he didn’t want to have any kids. It would be nice. But you know, Jazzy’s getting a boutique in his name at Macy’s. “Jazzy of Park Avenue,” they’re calling it—collars, leashes, bowls, mugs . . . a very New York thing.
GW:
I hope your book will sell much better than your gossip fragrance.
CA:
I know that I smelled almost as bad as some of the stuff I write. Thank you very much, you bastard.
GW:
Tell me about Liza Minnelli’s wedding to David Gest. You were there.
CA:
It was “Eighteenth Century Fox,” I’m telling you. The bridesmaids came out of the crypt. I was the junior member—what can I tell you? Marisa Berenson looked gorgeous. Liz Taylor didn’t seem to know where she was, and she forgot her shoes. They carried her in on this sedan chair and plopped her down, and she had her feet in these furry bunny slippers. And then there was Janet Leigh, who kept asking for Vaseline. If she smiled her lips would crack. The whole thing was so bizarre.
GW:
What about hagarella Imelda?
CA:
Imelda can only come here with permission. The Philippine government is very tough on her because she mislaid something like half a billion dollars. She seems to have forgotten where she put it. Every once in a while she’s allowed to leave. All my great friends are in the can. Manuel Noriega, Imelda . . .
GW:
My favorite Cindy Adams–Imelda story took place in the Waldorf Towers.
CA:
That’s a true story. I was with Imelda, and she turned her living room into a church. She made an altar out of a coffee table. And a priest was ready to do Mass, and all of a sudden she turned to me and said, “I have to hide you. Doris Duke is coming up. She’s going to bring me five million dollars in bail.” I saw her come in with two lawyers, just before they locked me in the toilet.
GW:
And the kicker is that you are now living in Doris Duke’s apartment. How funny. You’re such a strong woman, Cindy. Thank you so much.
MARTHA STEWART
OCTOBER 1994
The first time I ever set eyes on Martha Stewart was on September 17, 1993, at the JFK International Airport. We were part of a motley crew of pioneers who were invited to visit Moscow for a week and to attend the very grand opening of the first Western-style nightclub Moscow had ever seen. As I said—it was a historic moment! Boris Yeltsin was running the Kremlin and swilling a lot of vodka along the way, as our bemused host would later tell us over one of many, many sumptuous Russian banquets served up to the Manhattan visitors. Amongst the crew that gathered giddily by the Delta/Aeroflot gate to take part in this unforgettable experience were the likes of the gonzo journo from “Page Six,” Richard Johnson, and other pop critics, such as the foodie Gael Greene, the hip hotelier André Balazs, and the fashion maven Fern Mallis. As I arrived at the gate at precisely 6:15 p.m. that night, Martha Stewart, I distinctly remember, was being interviewed right there by the CBS cameras of Connie Chung and her then TV show called Eye to Eye. Suffice it to say, being asked to be part of this New York gaggle gracing Moscow with its presence, and being wined and dined and, yes, sixty-nined—I was, anyway, by the end of this, my first of two unforgettable visits to Moscow—back to Martha . . . I finally interviewed Martha Stewart almost a year later in 1994, when we had lunch at the hallowed restaurant the Four Seasons. I remember showing up for lunch jacketless and being tossed a fusty, old, ill-fitting jacket by owner Julian Niccolini before being allowed to sit with Martha. And when we did sit to speak, all Martha Stewart had for lunch that day was a Four Seasons baked potato!
GW:
Don’t think for one minute that because we’re having lunch at the Four Seasons this interview is going to be all kissy-kissy, Martha.
MS:
Oh gosh, you’re starting already. I don’t frighten that easily. You can’t intimidate me on my turf.
GW:
I’m still a little peeved at you, actually. I saw you being chauffeured off alone one night from this soirée in Central Park. And I shouted, “Martha!” You whipped that WASPy head around, saw this Negro waving to you, and whipped back around.
MS:
I’m not a WASP—I’m a Polish-American. I’m the daughter of Polish immigrants and I’m Catholic. I’m not WASPy. I am tall and blond. I have my beautiful Polis
h heritage to thank for that.
GW:
Are you a real blonde or a bottle blonde?
MS:
I’m a real blonde.
GW:
Who would have thought your magazine, Martha Stewart Living, would evolve into such an overwhelming success! But I have only one problem with it. Do you have to be on the cover of every issue?
MS:
I’m not—on the current issue it’s my roses. I really have a hard time posing, but our readers really like it.
GW:
You mean it flies off the shelf when you’re on the cover?
MS:
Oh gosh yes, but it also flies off the shelf when I’m not on the cover.
GW:
I don’t have a problem with you on the cover, but not on every issue, Ma-a-artha!
MS:
We are establishing a brand, and we want to make sure that it’s very secure before we start tampering with it. So this year there are three issues without me out of eight, so that’s pretty good.
GW:
Do you ever show signs of humility?
MS:
I am not an un-humble person. I still clean up the kitty litter, and the chicken coop. And I still garden and wash the floors if they have to be washed.
GW:
Do you scrub your own bathtub?
MS:
You bet I do. But in my business I try very hard not to create a hierarchy. We have titles, but the hierarchical kind of approach is not really for me. If I have a housekeeper, I want that housekeeper to think that she is the most important director of my television series, and she is.
GW:
You know so much about weddings. How come you don’t have a husband?
MS:
I had a husband. I had a very nice husband. But he became not so nice.
GW:
What happened?
MS:
I can’t figure it out, George. He wanted the divorce, not I.
GW:
Well, he must be getting a lot of palimony. I read once where you only need four hours’ sleep. It certainly doesn’t show. Do you use a lot of Chanel night cream?
MS:
Mario Badescu Revitalin Night Cream, that’s what I use.
GW:
Some people consider you a superwoman.
MS:
How nice—I’d love to be thought of as that.
GW:
And what do you do for kicks? You climb Mount Kilimanjaro!
MS:
That was actually really interesting. That was last October. I don’t want to endanger myself, but I do want adventure.
GW:
I hate how perfect you are. Give me a proclamation about lifestyle in the nineties.
MS:
In the nineties, we are seeing greater attention to detail and quality. We’re not looking for instant gratification anymore, but we are still looking for a lifestyle that has elegance and curiosity.
HELEN GURLEY BROWN
JUNE 2000
HGB was at her desk that Manhattan summer afternoon. A glamorous, perfectly coiffed, wrinkled wraith who nonetheless was still a fabulous sight to behold. And I could never forget—minutes after I took up her offer of the chair across from her desk, she couldn’t stop gushing about how much she enjoyed the exclusive VF photo shoot. And who could blame the woman who defined “cougar” before the term even existed? Helen Gurley Brown’s photo of her being hoisted by the most gorgeous Chippendale’s-like blond studmuffin is an early twenty-first-century photo classic buried somewhere in those VF archives. She was as giddy as a schoolgirl coquettishly kicking up her stilettos. I spent ninety minutes with the magazine industry icon, and it was quite a ride!
GW:
Your book’s title threw GW. He kept thinking, When was this old broad not wild?
HGB:
The truth is I’ve just been writing for six years. And I said to my husband, “This is just a collection of snippets, thoughts, philosophies, anguishes, happinesses—just snippets from my life.” And he said, “You’re crazy. You can’t call that book Snippets From My Life—nobody will go near it. Here’s a title for you: I’m Wild Again.” And I thought it was something legitimate. It means I’m writing again. And it means every time I write I say something outrageous, and now is no exception.
GW:
First and foremost, what are Helen Gurley Brown’s thoughts on vaginal plastic surgery?
HGB:
On what?
GW:
Vaginal cosmetic surgery. Is it a trend for the twenty-first century?
HGB:
I am not knowledgeable—not whatsoever. I have heard of a vagina being made smaller, tighter. That has been around for quite a while.
GW:
What about enhancing the labia? The vaginal lips?
HGB:
I’m not knowledgeable about it. But it seems like absolute insanity to me, to do these extra little things. I don’t think you can make an orgasm any better. An orgasm is an orgasm. You do it, you climax—wonderful, terrific!
GW:
But a lot of women don’t have orgasms.
HGB:
Well, if this particular kind of procedure is supposed to help them, I suppose I could be informed about it. But I’m pretty passionate about the idea that your brain gives you orgasms, along with your cooperating body.
GW:
Is David Brown, your husband, on Viagra?
HGB:
That’s very personal! I would go so far as to say that David is doing fine without Viagra.
GW:
Are you upset? Is that too personal?
HGB:
Whatever I have said, I have said.
GW:
You had sex with Jack Dempsey. Was he the best—
HGB:
No, he was fine. I wouldn’t like to get into the specifics.
GW:
C’mon, girl!
HGB:
That would be denigrating to my husband, who is pretty good. I don’t want to be out there saying such.
GW:
Your Cosmopolitan took off from the first hour.
HGB:
Yes, it was an instant success.
GW:
And you’ve said that Rex Harrison is the rudest celebrity you’ve ever met in your life.
HGB:
I guess so—he was really quite abusive. I don’t remember bad celebrities, because I tend to respect them and not take advantage of them. Sharon Stone may have given me a bit of a problem. We did a cover shoot, which was a really big deal because we rarely did celebrities at Cosmo. We did the Cindy Crawfords and Rene Russos of the world, the gorgeous professional models of the time. So to do a movie star was a big deal. We did Sharon and we gave her photo approval, which we rarely did. When she saw the pictures, she didn’t like any of them. It wasn’t an attack on me personally, but it was time and money. And we had to start over because she didn’t think the picture was okay.
GW:
Was it hard for you to give it all up? Did they have to push you out the door?
HGB:
They did not have to push me out the door. And I wouldn’t even say it was tough to give up the actual job. It’s a big challenge to put out a successful magazine every twenty-eight working days. And after having done it for thirty-two years and at seventy-five years old, I wasn’t devastated, but I still miss the power. You are very influential as a magazine editor. Everybody courts you and adores you and makes a big fuss over you—and all the free stuff, all the baskets of cosmetics and the closets of clothes. I miss the power and the perks. But people still come up to me on the street and tell me “You’ve changed my life.” This new assignment as editor in chief of International Editions means I have gone to twenty-four different countries to start new Cosmos. I just got back from Spain, where they have started a twenty-four-hour Cosmo TV station. And next I’m going to Athens to launch Cosmo to Greece. So I’m busy.
FABIO
NOVEMBER 1992
It all began with Fabio in November of 1992, when my favorite “Vanities” [in Vanity Fair] editor of them all, Matthew Tyrnauer, called to tell me the news that Graydon Carter had green-lit the GW Q&A column and that my first celebrity interview would be with the kitschy romance cover hunk by the name of Fabio. At the time, his publicist hacks were dubbing him “America’s Romance Ambassador,” and the reason for this auspicious debut was the fact that he was releasing his first pinup or “sensuous” calendar. Needless to say, GW and Fabio hit it off from the get-go, and despite his mangled Milanese version of English, the interview went very well.
GW:
Why are you so different from any other brawny, blond, blue-eyed hunk?
F:
Maybe it’s because I’m humble. I don’t come across as cocky, or full of myself, I guess.
GW:
How much time do you spend in front of the mirror each morning?
F:
Not very much. I go in, take a shower, brush my teeth, blow-dry my hair, and then I’m out.