Once, we drove up to Yankee Stadium with Eddie Malloy, the top boss of all the construction unions in New York—and what a crazy experience that turned out to be. First of all: Do you have any idea what it takes to build anything in New York? It’s an incredible ordeal—and not too pretty to endure. You’ve got to get past city officials, cutthroat lawyers, neighborhood opposition groups, smart guys, wiseguys, and union guys—just to mention a few. Anyway, on this night—for an actual World Series game—we were joined by Eddie. He was a tough old Irishman with piercing blue eyes, and he’d had plenty of face-to-face time with Trump in the course of their many business dealings. But now we were all friends going to a ball game. Except on that night Trump—who secretly delights in having more fun than you’d think at the expense of people he likes (and sometimes dislikes, too)—decided that he would dig in and playfully tease Eddie. He told Eddie, a powerhouse guy in his own right, that if he had any trouble getting into the stadium he should just stand near him, because no one would dare turn Eddie away if they thought the two of them were there together. Eddie answered quickly; he said he had a ticket waiting for him and wouldn’t need the Donald’s help! Wouldn’t need it at all.
A few minutes later, Trump went at him again, playfully reassuring him that just in case the ticket wasn’t there, he’d make sure Eddie got in. He was baiting old Eddie—and it was working. Eddie’s face was getting red, and he made it absolutely clear that he wouldn’t need Trump’s help—EVER! I was getting a kick out of it, but thought that the razzing had gone far enough. Not Trump, though—he wasn’t finished. As we pulled up to the stadium, Trump did it again: “Let’s just go in together, Eddie. I don’t want to leave you stranded out here on the sidewalk. . . .”
That’s when Eddie blew up. The Irishman bellowed out for all to hear: “If I don’t get in there, all the f—— lights in this stadium will go dark in five minutes!” He wasn’t kidding. Naturally, they let him right in without pause. But Trump and I laughed about it all night.
Given his unrelenting notoriety, it would only be a matter of time, I guess, before television would find fascination with the Trumpster and come calling. And boy, was he ready. Business-oriented shows don’t usually make it to prime time, but Mark Burnett, a young producer with a great idea, zeroed in on Trump and laid it out for him. It would be sort of a contest between Trump “apprentices,” who would compete at running various minibusinesses, trying all along to avoid getting fired and to ultimately win the big guy’s respect. Some people didn’t think it would fly, but Trump loved the idea as soon as he heard it. His own show on prime-time TV! Of course he loved it. And so The Apprentice was born, and it was an enormous hit (with equally successful variations that would later follow, such as his Celebrity Apprentice series in recent years).
From the start, I would call Trump first thing in the morning after the previous night’s show and give him the ratings, which were big and getting bigger. And then we would talk about his TV persona and, more importantly, about his attitude on camera. He shouldn’t be a tough boss all the time, I told him. He had to be understanding, warm but firm, and decisive when it came to the firing scenes. And he did it just like that—and all of America started loving him just a little bit more! But it came easy to him. The audience was transfixed by his thoughtful demeanor at that boardroom table. The ratings shot up all the more, and damned if Trump didn’t become a full-fledged national TV celebrity—constantly in the public eye and hotter than ever. And I don’t have to tell you how much he enjoyed it.
Trumpster later recounted to me that on one subsequent warm summer night, he and his lovely wife, Melania, were headed out to dinner at the famous restaurant 21—just a few blocks down Fifth Avenue from where they lived. He most always moves around town by car, but this was such a beautiful evening that they decided to make the brief pleasant stroll. Walking down Fifth Avenue, in the same direction of the traffic flow, with all the cars cruising along beside them, they got to the restaurant unnoticed. But walking home after dinner, it was a different story. With traffic now headed straight toward them, how could this tall, striking couple be missed? Well, they couldn’t. Drivers blared their horns at them, while strangers were yelling, “We love you, Trump! Please, can you just say, ‘You’re fired!’ for us?” That Trump catchphrase had by then taken on a life of its own. And Trump reveled in it. He had never received this kind of recognition for all the great buildings he had put up. But these were the real people—and now they were his people. Then it happened: As one car rolled toward them, a gruff voice yelled out in, let’s say, a rather uncomplimentary manner: “Hey, Trump, you’re f—— fired!” Don’t forget—New Yorkers are never too shy with their opinions. Now, somebody else taking that kind of shot might be offended, but not him. To Trump, it was like someone serenading him with a love song! He talked about it for weeks. Proud as could be.
And to me, that’s the beautiful thing about Donald Trump. They can’t get him down. In the early nineties, when New York was going through its almost dependable once-a-decade financial crisis and bankruptcies were being declared everywhere, Trump was no exception to the economic disaster. His empire was on the verge of collapse. He privately told me about standing out on Fifth Avenue one evening with his daughter Ivanka. He pointed across the street at a homeless man huddled down in a doorway and Trump informed his daughter, “See that man over there? He’s got more money than we have right now.” And he was only half kidding.
He’s been through it all, this guy. Not every one of his projects has worked out, but he’s always in the papers, always good for a story, and sometimes it’s not so pleasant. Yes, he has detractors and rivals in his assorted business ventures—those who resent him, don’t like him, think he exaggerates too much. Then there are those who just can’t get past his unique hairstyle. I happened to weigh in on the subject on our show several months ago and, for the record, I’m sticking to it: “What’s wrong with Trump’s hair? What do they want the Trump to do? Once in a while the wind blows it around a little, and that’s about it. No, I like his hair.” Even though the studio audience might have laughed—which they did—I think I made my point! But you should also know that the people who work for him, and who know him best, talk endlessly about his energy and his confidence and, most important, his optimism. It even works on me. Sometimes I’m down or in a bad mood, but with one phone call to Trump, I’m up again. Just like that. He never fails me.
Recently, however, there was a new development in Trump’s life—when he created a national furor by contemplating a run for president. Everyone in New York, of course, had a take on the issue. Frankly, in this heavily liberal town, the notion of Trump running as a Republican, or maybe as an Independent, stirred great storms of derision. I talked to him often over the course of the whole dramatic scenario, and at the time of this writing he seemed to be thinking that he could still do a lot more good from where he stands in the private sector. But there’s no telling what he’ll attempt in the future. Whether Donald Trump ever wins or loses a bid for the presidency—or anything else, for that matter—he will always be the one-of-a-kind New York guy who keeps this town talking.
It would be very quiet around here without him.
WHAT I TOOK AWAY FROM IT ALL
To become big, you cannot be afraid to play big—and to dream even bigger.
Always keep self-doubt to yourself—as best you can. And never buy into it for very long.
Chapter Twenty
CLAUDIA COHEN
I like to think I’m a New Yorker. I mean, I was born about eight blocks from the studio where we’ve been doing our morning show for nearly three decades now. But my boyhood years here seemed to speed by so quickly, and then, after my high school graduation from Cardinal Hayes in the Bronx, I was gone! By now you know that I spent the next four years at Notre Dame in South Bend, Indiana; then, immediately afterward, enlisted in the navy for two years and was stationed out near San Diego,
California, when not at sea. I did briefly come back to the city for the summer of 1955 to work as an NBC page—which was exciting, to be sure—but then I got that call from Hollywood, which could not be ignored. Yes, it was only a job in a prop house for a local TV station, but at least it was a hands-on start in a new medium that I very much wanted to be part of. So, for me, it all really began out west. And then it just stayed out there—a twenty-eight-year run in California, where I had my share of terrific ups and gut-twisting downs, which is life in a nutshell, I guess.
So despite my Big Apple roots, when New York tempted me back, offering an exciting chance to start all over again, the transition wasn’t all that smooth. I used to make jokes on the show that I felt like an old elephant who had come home to die. But the fact was that I really had come home, and in time it would feel great again. I just had to get used to things. It helped that the new live morning show I was doing was more or less the same as my A.M. Los Angeles show. I wanted to hold on to that friendly “local TV feel,” and we did. In fact, we even held on to it after we went national five years later—on WABC-TV. (The irony of my remembering all this now is that we debuted on the first Monday in April 1983, and I’m writing these words on the Sunday before the first Monday in April 2011, marking another twenty-eight-year run, but this time in the town where I’d been born, so this difficult move had to have been worth the effort after all!) What also eased the transition was being reunited with Cyndy Garvey, who had been my morning cohost during the last few years at KABC-TV in L.A. As it turned out, she, too, happened to be a newly transplanted Manhattan resident, so in many ways it was easy to pick up where we’d left off—except that instead of our old routine of chatting each day about Hollywood (what else do they talk about out there?), we were now able to talk about a whole new world.
To put it mildly, New York was as different as could be: The city continually bursts with major events and daily manic complexities that make great lively morning-after stories to share during the show’s opening Host Chat segment. I wanted the city to become—or at least feel like—the third cohost of the show. I know that so many tourists come and go just to get a taste of its wild pace, wondering if they could actually ever live here. It’s a tough town, no question, and maybe most go home after their visit more grateful that they don’t stay. And then there are all those who never get here, but can’t help seeing it in the movies or on TV, and certainly reading about its nonstop action in the papers or on their computer screens. It’s pretty much the capital of the country, and to be honest, in many ways it’s also the capital of the world. Millions of people are here, always in such a hurry—it can be overwhelming for a newcomer and sometimes even for those who’ve lived here forever.
But from the time I hit town onward, there was one person who made all the difference for me. Quite simply, she unlocked the doors to the city, introduced me to the people and places I needed to know about. And it helped our show’s opening segments so much—to be able to talk about where I’d been the night before and who I’d met and what glittering adventures had taken place, never mind all the peculiar little things that can also happen when you’re just out wandering about or even when you stay behind the closed doors of your apartment. I wanted to capture the color and craziness of New York. And it worked, all because she helped get us started.
Of course, I’m talking about Claudia Cohen.
She was pure glamour, charm, wisdom, and warmth, all rolled into one remarkable lady. As the New York Times once characterized her, Claudia was “a crucial person to know if anybody who was somebody wanted to become even more of a somebody.” And was that ever the truth! She not only became our show’s “gossip girl,” but she was also the absolute best friend I had in those early days of my New York homecoming. She knew everybody and everything—including the good and bad about each one of them. She was a walking encyclopedia on who was who around town and all the specific ways they mattered most. She’d had a gossip column in the New York Daily News before running the famous (or sometimes infamous) Page Six celebrity column in the New York Post. Believe me, she had her eye on everyone.
And it was such a great luxury having her shepherd me around the city. Naturally, she made sure to introduce me to the storied Elaine’s restaurant on the Upper East Side—whose illustrious namesake owner, Elaine Kaufman, passed on not too long ago. But I still remember that first time Claudia escorted me into that now-shuttered place. There was Woody Allen entertaining a party of four at his usual table—or was he just staring at them? (The brilliant Wood-Man is, you know, a pretty quiet guy.) There, at another table in a remote corner, was Francis Ford Coppola sitting behind a typewriter, thoughtfully working on his next script. There were writers all over the place. I knew only their names—men and women whose work filled various newspapers and magazines and books, those who reported and interpreted all the things that made New York jump. And Claudia, like the instinctive super press agent she really was, would pull me toward each of them and give me a terrific over-the-top introduction like I was the next big star they simply had to know! Most of them would look at me for a moment and then continue talking amongst, or about, themselves. To them, I was just another TV guy trying to get one more talk show up and running in New York. Their disinterest practically screamed, So what! Who cares? (if I may borrow Joy Behar’s great catchphrase from The View). But Claudia’s zealous introductions made me sound like the new savior of morning television. Which was embarrassing, I don’t mind telling you. So many times I’d ask her, actually plead with her, to tone it down. I mean, I appreciated all she was trying to do, but it felt a little heavy-handed for this sophisticated crowd. And how could I ever live up to these accolades she was doling out, anyway?
But to be sure, there were many very exclusive parties and dinners I would have never been invited to if it weren’t for her. Same goes for so many impressive people I would’ve never gotten to know. She was a certifiable whirlwind who enjoyed covering those splashy star-studded events for our show, and she was a great asset to all of us there. Beyond that, I so admired a couple of Claudia’s personal traits that most of our viewers probably never knew about. Her loyalty to close friends, for instance, was unmatchable. One such friend was Steve Rubell, co-owner of the famous Studio 54 disco/nightclub, who went to prison for tax evasion—and every day during the thirteen months he spent behind bars, she wrote him cheerful notes and letters. Yes: I said every day.
Also, she was unafraid of a good fight. Like the time, in the early days of our show, when she and my old Hollywood friend Zsa Zsa Gabor locked horns in our tiny guest makeup room, which was equipped with only one chair—meaning that all the guests had to wait their turn, one at a time, to get their faces prepared for those bright TV studio lights. Zsa Zsa, well known for her temper, walked in while Claudia was in the chair and ordered her not only out of that chair but also out of the room! Claudia wasn’t about to budge and said so. As you can imagine, all hell broke loose. The shouting match made the front-page headline story of the Daily News and had everyone in town talking about it for weeks.
Anyway, at the end of my first summer in town, Joy and our girls—who’d initially stayed behind in L.A. to enjoy the summer and rent our home while I got the new show rolling—finally joined me around Labor Day and we stuffed ourselves into a two-bedroom apartment on the Upper East Side, all of us hanging on as best we could while adjusting to that dramatic cross-country move. Joanna and J.J. had their troubles getting accustomed to the city. They missed their house in Los Angeles, their street with the palm trees and the backyard with the swimming pool. Hey, so did Joy and I! But now, forget it, those days were over. Joy and I would go out for an evening, and believe it or not, Gelman (then in his early twenties) would babysit for us. Afterward, when we got back, the girls would be asleep, but we would inevitably find notes they’d left on our pillows, scribbled with things like “Please, please, Mom and Dad, take us home!” The notes were so heart-wrenching
and sad—and frankly, the change of location was plenty tough on all four of us. But in the second year we did move into a bigger apartment; the girls now had their own bedrooms and more space to move around—and bit by bit we started letting a little more New York magic come into our lives.
Joy, meanwhile, had finally met Claudia at her fabulous apartment overlooking Central Park. That particular day, we all watched from her terrace as the runners in the New York Marathon trotted along down below. The three of us instantly formed a great friendship. Soon enough, Claudia would be telling us about a special gentleman she’d met at the original Le Cirque restaurant, then located on Sixty-fifth Street. He was Ronald Perelman from Philadelphia, the incredibly successful business magnate who happened to own Revlon, among other companies—and he came on like gangbusters: flowers, cards, gifts, romantic dinners, you name it. Claudia loved the chase. She had never married, never really had the time for it, so this was something new and very important. Joy and I met and liked him very much; all of us who saw them together soon waited for the inevitable wedding.
And once Claudia and Ronald married, they bought the grandest house, I think, on the oceanfront of East Hampton. Those Hamptons on Long Island are a great place to be in the summer months. Practically every big shot in New York has a getaway house there. But no one loved to throw Hamptons parties more than Claudia. Over the years, Joy and I were lucky enough to be invited to those events and to spend glorious weekends there so many times. And Claudia was simply the best hostess in the world. She filled those weekends with aerobic training, tennis lessons, massages, wonderful food—anything you could imagine, and then some. And even after Claudia and Ron divorced, she remained in that big beautiful house, and her parties continued unabated.
There was always a great collection of New York characters on the guest list, and she took such great pains to dazzle them all. At dinners, every place setting had to be perfect. Each of those Saturday-night bashes was memorable—but equally fascinating were the Sunday-morning postparty wrap-ups. That was when those of us who had stayed over as her houseguests would gather around the breakfast table and review the events of the previous night, dissecting who said what to whom and who had too much to drink and so on. It was gossip, pure and simple—the very thing she did so well in the New York papers and on our show for years. But the laughs we had during those breakfasts were priceless!
How I Got This Way Page 21