Cook was laughing as Nancy Pelosi walked me away from the table, like a trainer at a boxing match. Everything was fine. Then sure enough, at the valet, there’s Lana again, and she walks right by me Taylor Swift–style without so much as an acknowledgment that one of the most powerful women in the world played diplomat for our benefit. I guess Lana felt like she got her two cents in at the table and that’s all that mattered. How in the world does Speaker Pelosi deal with those petulant wack jobs in the House? And for those of you who still can’t be talked out of trashing Nancy Pelosi, I encourage you to Google Dennis Hastert. Yeah, that’s what I thought.
PENN, KAL
Kumar, Actor, Canine Hero
One morning, Larry, my big lug of a dog, went missing, and I was in a state of panic. As in I couldn’t stop crying. It really is not in Larry’s nature to vanish. It’s more his nature to lie around and wait for food, not try to find it somewhere. But he is a people dog, and I was sincerely hoping he hadn’t found someone else. Men. You open up your home to them, let them eat your food, clean up their poop, and they take off. I imagined Larry being taken in by a frat house, because he’d be a perfect companion to a bunch of mentally stunted dudes who eat Cheetos off the floor and growl if you drink all their beer.
I put out the word on Twitter that Larry was missing, hoping someone would come forward, and someone did: Kal Penn! Kumar of Harold & Kumar! Obama appointee! (After famously campaigning for him, he took the position of associate director of the White House Office of Public Engagement, then later served on the President’s Committee on the Arts and the Humanities.) I’ve never met Kal Penn, but apparently he was a neighbor. A neighbor my dog Larry must have wanted to meet very badly, as Larry wandered over to Kal’s house for a hug and some White Castle sliders. Kal brought Larry back safe and sound. I was out of town, but my assistant took a picture of Kal with Larry, and after I tweeted it with my public thanks, my awesome followers showered Kal with their social media appreciation, which I thought was great.
Kal later tweeted, “Man, you get a shout out from @kathy griffin & your feed becomes a love fest. Thanks guys! Larry the dog was totally adorable in real life.”
If Kal in any way during his brief caretaking endured a crotch nuzzle from Larry that left a slobber stain, he didn’t say anything. I have nothing but gratitude, but I feel for comedic purposes, I must point something out. My hero, Kal Penn, was in possession of Larry the Dog for several hours, even though Larry had a tag with a phone number on it. I’ve often wondered if Kal did an adorable photo shoot where he acted as if Larry was in fact his dog in order to attract chicks. Maybe he took a photo with Larry, sent it to the Obamas with a note that said, “Dear Barack and Michelle, I don’t miss the White House one bit since I’ve adopted this big fella.” Or maybe he used a photo with Larry for his Tinder profile pic? Come on, wouldn’t you?
PENN, SEAN
Oscar-Winning Actor, “Experiential” Journalist
The sun was cresting over an earthquake-ravaged Haiti as I handed Sean Penn a shovel and said, “That drainage ditch isn’t going to dig itself. Get to work!”
No, wait, that was a dream I had.
In reality, I was at the Women in Entertainment power breakfast hosted by the Hollywood Reporter, and Penn, who was giving a special award to Melinda Gates, showed up looking a little disheveled. I was at my power table near the front and said to anyone around me who’d listen, “Look at him. His hair is ridiculous.” It was 9:00 A.M., and believe me, I’m no fan of getting up before midday, but he really looked like the guy who opens his eyes, throws on the suit from the night before, and doesn’t even bother to check the mirror before going out to give an award to Melinda Gates. Kris Jenner, who was at my table—and by the way, I still maintain she gets my genius attempts at hilarity—dared me to bring Sean Penn to our table. Done and done, lady. This is what I do on a daily basis.
He was nearby, so I marched up to him in the middle of his conversation with Melinda Gates, which sounded very cerebral and save-the-world-y, and said, first to her, “Excuse me, Mrs. Wozniak.” (Crickets from her.) Then I turned to Penn and said, “I don’t mean to interrupt, but what’s with your hair?”
He looked confused and said, “Why?”
“Well, you’re at a big power women’s event, you’re giving an award, your hair looks like crap.”
“What do you mean? What should I do?” he asked.
“Well, do you have any hair gel?”
“No,” he said.
“Sean, you look like you lost your two Oscars on skid row. Look at the room. Barbra Streisand is right over there. Captains of industry are here. Get it together, Sean! Your hair needs shape!”
He started putting his fingers through it, as if that was going to help. So I wrapped my arm around him, as you would an old person going down a stairwell, and said, “Let’s go to my table. They’ll want to meet you. Come on, Penn. Excuse us, Melinda.”
The arm around him was important, because he tried to get away, the alarm rising in his voice: “No, no, no!”
But it took only three steps, and then I announced, “Ladies, I give you Sean Penn!”
And my whole table—Rita Wilson, Meghan Trainor, Lena Dunham, Sarah Silverman, and Kris—went, “YAY!”
Why didn’t I make that wager with Kris for a million? She has it. Probably on her.
Anyway, I loved that later Sean Penn then got up and called me out from the podium, telling everyone, “I walk in, and the first face I see is Kathy Griffin telling me my hair looks like shit,” and everybody clapped. It worked! His comment got a laugh, and then he caught El Chapo.
PINK
Singer, Opinionated Acrobat
At the 2000 Billboard Awards, when I was hosting with *NSYNC, Justin Timberlake and I were rehearsing a sketch that needed Britney Spears, and we had her for a very short amount of rehearsal time. We got maybe five minutes with her. The three of us were running over the lines as many times as could fit in, and suddenly up-and-comer Pink walked up. (This was when she only had the one album and the hits “There You Go” and “Most Girls.”) She was in Britney’s genre at the time, and because we were slammed for time, I said, “Hang on a second.” The next day, the producer of the show called and said Pink wanted an apology. I ran over the previous day in my brain and said, “But I didn’t make a Pink joke!” He explained how Pink was really good friends with Britney and Justin, and she was just trying to say hello when I blew her off, and she felt disrespected. I was livid. “I am not apologizing! Are you kidding me? I was rehearsing! I’m not apologizing to a twenty-year-old who’s got her panties in a wad!” He said, “Okay, what’s the compromise? Will you at least talk to the manager?” So I talked to the manager, said I barely remembered what happened because I was rehearsing, which he took as “Good, I can go back to Pink and say you’re sorry.” Fine.
Years later, I’m in the scenic Burbank Airport, about to board a flight to Vegas, by myself, when I see a chick in a baseball cap sitting against the wall. It was Pink, trying to look under the radar. I went up to her and said, “Do you want to sit together? You’re probably better off sitting next to me than some drunk dude on his way to his bachelor’s party,” and she said, “Cool.”
We had a great time on that flight. She had just gotten married to motocross superstar Carey Hart, who was working in Vegas, and she said, “This is what it’s like when you’re in a long-distance marriage. Am I a good wife or what?” I agreed, and then we talked shop, specifically selling merchandise at shows. I had just started doing it myself, and she let on, “Oh, I make more selling merch at my shows than with ticket sales. I make more money selling glow sticks than I do from my ticket sales. After the show, I make the venue settle the merch and make them put the receipt under my hotel room door so I can go over it that night.”
I was like, “Well, hello, Pink!”
She was so mellow and super smart and a good businessperson that those fifty minutes in the air were really fun and eye-openin
g. (You know I love it when the ladies know their biz affairs.) Ever since then, I look forward to running into her at events, and we have a great picture of us hugging after I won my Grammy. I guess when you’re a mellow, super smart businesswoman, you forget about whatever made you angry at the Billboard Awards at the turn of the millennium. Well, I don’t, per se, but I need the material. You understand. Now I know why Pink wants to get the party started.
PITBULL
Chrome Dome Homey
Team Griffin and Team Estefan cannot stop coming up with brilliant ideas.
The night of September 10, 2011, I was in a bad mood because I’d just lost (or rather, been ROBBED of) the Emmy for The D-List that year, and yet Emilio Estefan had arranged a limo to whisk me from downtown Los Angeles to a hangar at the Santa Monica airport, where the American Latino Media Arts Awards were holding their show the same night. That’s because Emilio wanted me to be part of a surprise inside a surprise. Gloria had arranged to premiere her new song “Wepa” with a performance the audience didn’t know about, and Emilio wanted me to surprise Gloria by sneaking onstage as a backup dancer. The plan was going well, but I started running into people—hosts Eva Longoria and George Lopez, actor Danny Trejo—who all pretty much said the same thing: “Hey, hi … wait, WAIT? What are you doing here?” My answer was pretty much the same, too: “I’m Hispanic now, since I’ve heard it’ll help my career. I need you people. And you could use some redheads.”
At this point, several high-profile Latinos were in on the Estefan/Griffin prank. At the crucial moment, Team Estefan (minus Gloria) had people huddle around me to shield my presence. Emilio described what would come next. He said, “Once the dancers go on, we’re just going to push you out there and see if Gloria notices.” We found a small space in the wings where my protective little human shield wouldn’t be noticed by Gloria’s entourage, who were also waiting. But then out of nowhere comes Pitbull and his entourage, and we’re now truly a traffic jam of posses. A Team Estefan guy named David, who’s known Pitbull forever, starts yelling at him in Spanish to get out of the way, and then Pitbull starts yelling back in Spanish, and I am officially terrified. I don’t know who are the Jets and who are the Sharks, but I know I’m not Officer Krupke. I’m worried that I’ve started a Cuban turf war, at which point Pitbull turns to me and starts screaming at me in Spanish, as if I were Lucy after some cockamamie scheme gone bad and he was Ricky Ricardo tearing me a new one. I turned to David with a nervous “What’s he saying?” look, and David started translating: “You are the funniest bitch, mama! I love you, mama! You’re so fuckin’ funny, mama, I’d fuck you and listen to your jokes, mama!” Then Pitbull grabbed my shoulders and kissed me and walked away. Once my brain grasped David’s translation of Pitbull’s words, all I could do was snap out of it and yell, “Um … gracias!”
That had to be the most aggressively scary compliment I’ve ever received, and to this day, whenever I see the Estefans, they love to bring up the time Kathy Griffin was frightened by superfan Pitbull, after which they do their impression of the terrified white girl. Ha ha ha ha ha.
A couple of years later, Pitbull performed at the Hollywood Bowl, and we arranged to go backstage and hang out with him in his private suite. I know he’s supposed to be this big, scary Pitbull, or he’s ferociously sexy to the ladies or whatever, but I can tell you he’s also a guy that took time out minutes before his headlining performance at the Hollywood Bowl to host my little group of four. We took pictures and joked around. Real international love stuff. As he exited the room to start his performance, I yelled, “DALE!” And no, I don’t know what it means.
POITIER, SIDNEY
Actor, Sir with Love, Lily of My Field
As you may know, I typically find myself in relationships with much younger men. However, let me be clear: I’d fuck Sidney tomorrow.
I bet you never thought I know Mr. Tibbs, did ya? Well, I do.
When you first lay eyes on Sidney, you just kind of have to take it in that he’s actually in front of you. And then if you’re me, you’ve got to start to work.
I introduced myself to him years ago at a fancy dinner party, and he said, “I love comedy.” I tried to make him laugh, and he laughed. What more do I need to hear? Ever since then, the Academy Award–winning leading man and civil rights icon has been a favorite of mine whenever I see him, and his lovely wife, Joanna, is always my partner in crime. He’s cool, charismatic, regal, and has a giant laugh that fills up a room. Because he’s such a pioneer for black people in the arts, he’s a darling of Oprah’s, and being the classy gentleman who can speak to the struggle comes easy for him, but in everyday life, he loves a joke. If I’ve really gotten to him, he’ll double over, then get up in my face and say, “You, young lady, go too far! Don’t ever stop!”
I’m always cornering him and asking when we’re going to get it on, and Joanna Poitier typically chimes in with, “For God’s sake, Kathy, take him off my hands for one night. That’s one night I won’t have to make him a bland chicken breast for dinner.”
I get to say, “Sidney, let’s cut the shit. Your wife is practically throwing you at me, and the Beverly Hills Hotel is ten minutes away. We can go knock this out.”
He’ll turn to my boyfriend, Randy, and say, “How do you DEAL with her! NOTHING STOPS HER!”
Then Joanna says, “Well, I’m not going to stop her, because I’ll get to go home early and read a book for once. Maybe Randy can join me.”
Joanna and I then began planning the swap, and I’ve watched Sidney put his arm around Randy and say, “What will it take to get you and me to just go get a drink somewhere alone?” It’s been years of these exchanges.
Even at Jackie Collins’s memorial, which she had let friends know she wanted to be lively and not dour, he was bantering with me. I hadn’t been there for very long before Sidney came up and said, “I have been looking at you for five minutes and you’ve been ignoring me!”
I said, “Fine, Sidney! It’s all about you! First of all, who dressed you? Corduroy? Seriously?”
He roared with laughter and said, “Here’s what I need from you—stop being so beautiful!”
I said, “Can’t do it!”
I noticed Jodie Foster nearby. I don’t know Jodie Foster. Has that ever stopped me? “FOSTER!” I yelled. Jodie walked over, and I decided to introduce them. “Foster, Sidney Poitier’s here, did you ever meet him?”
She very humbly said, “No, actually, I haven’t.”
“Watch how a pro does it. Sidney! This is Jodie Foster! She’s an actress!”
Sidney said, “How do you do? What a pleasure.”
I turned to Jodie. “Come on, Foster, work it a little bit. He kind of knows who you are, but maybe not quite. Sidney! She’s got two Academy Awards. Foster, don’t screw this up. What did you win for? Tell him!”
Jodie Foster appeared somewhat shy. She may or may not have wanted to be put on the spot at this very moment. Too bad, Foster, I can’t help being a Goodwill Ambassador when I feel the calling.
“Uh, The Silence of the Lambs?” she quietly responded.
“Not to me!” I yelled. “I know that! Tell Sidney!”
She repeated it. I said, “Louder!” She said it louder, and I said, “What else?”
She said, “The Accused, sir. I won for The Accused.”
“How about that, Sidney! But guess what she doesn’t have? The Medal of Freedom.”
He shook his head and said, “Oh no, you’re not going to bring that up again…”
And I said to Jodie, “Foster, here’s the thing about Sidney. He’s great, but he’s got to bring up that frickin’ Medal of Freedom every two seconds.”
Jodie looked shell-shocked at the exchange, but Sidney smiled and said, “That’s the young lady I wanted to see tonight!”
The fact that a genuine history-making, massively gifted superstar like Sidney Poitier gets me is such a source of joy and contentment, it’s hard to describe. If Oprah knew, she’d curl u
p in a ball in Gayle’s lap and cry.
POVICH, MAURY
Secret Baller, the One That Got Away
This is a tale of two cities. One part your humble authoress (me) kissing my own ass for a piece of comedic genius that I feel I provided the world that did not get the credit it so deserved. The other part is the story of a man you thought you knew for delivering the line “You are NOT the father” in a gray cashmere V-neck sweater.
Maury Povich is the shit. (Judge Judy … you are also the shit, just give me a minute here.) Maury’s talk show—really a live relationship melodrama—has been a hit forever, he owns a production empire, and probably runs half of Montana, where he lives with his wife, the legendary television journalist Connie Chung. Here’s the moment I want you to look up online and hopefully get a good chuckle.
Sometimes I just can’t stop myself. I got the idea in my head that the greatest way to spend an evening would be to show up to a taping of Maury and sit in the front row in a disguise. No one was filming me, this was not part of any of my television shows—I just do this stuff for the love of the game.
I had someone from my team reach out to Team Maury and let them know they were in for quite a treat. They thought the idea was funny. I told them I would not disrupt the taping of the show in any way but that I had one request. I wanted a sit-down with Maury himself.
The plan was in place. I showed up at Maury’s favorite restaurant a couple of hours before showtime. He has his own table at a quiet restaurant. The maître d’ greeted me with, “Maury’s table is right this way.” He was sitting there by himself, and that alone was a relief. I really cherished getting to meet my idols one-on-one without a team surrounding them and prohibiting a real live conversation.
Kathy Griffin's Celebrity Run-Ins Page 14