by Andy Cohen
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I HAVE SOCIAL DISEASE.
I HAVE TO GO OUT EVERY NIGHT.
IF I STAY HOME ONE NIGHT
I START SPREADING RUMORS
TO MY DOGS.
—ANDY WARHOL
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Epigraph
Introduction
Fall
September
October
November
Winter
December
January
February
Spring
March
April
May
Summer
June
July
August
Photos
Also by Andy Cohen
About the Author
Copyright
INTRODUCTION
In July of 1989, I was a wide-eyed twenty-one-year-old intern at CBS News in week three of a love affair with New York City that rages on to this day. A pop culture obsessive, I got deeply sucked into the summer media firestorm surrounding the publication of The Andy Warhol Diaries. I couldn’t wait to get my hands on a copy, which reportedly was full of dish about everybody in New York City, and when I did, carried it around everywhere (it was big and heavy) until I’d devoured the whole thing.
I was already a big fan of Warhol’s art, but through the book I was completely drawn into his incredibly glamorous world. I grew up in St. Louis and Warhol took me places I’d only fantasized about: inside the White House, downstairs at Studio 54 with Bianca and Halston, under the tent at Madonna and Sean Penn’s wedding, traveling by helicopter with Diana Ross to see Sinatra in Atlantic City—eleven years of this stuff! I felt like I was reading a history of exactly the things I cared about—music, art, Manhattan, and all things pop.
The Andy Warhol Diaries came out two years after his death and were a record of over a decade of his daily conversations with his secretary Pat Hackett about what he did the night before, who he saw, and what he thought. His narration is sometimes passive, but on the page he comes off droll and funny, and if you read it closely, there are clear hints of exactly who he was, what he valued, and how he lived his life. The Diaries got slammed by some critics as being nothing more than a vapid assortment of name-dropping and celebrity bashing, but to me it read like a pop culture time capsule with an overlay of commentary from a man fascinated by all facets of celebrity.
I’m obviously no Andy Warhol, but I too am intrigued by celebrity and spend most of my nights out in NYC. Twenty-six years after Warhol’s Diaries ended, I’m now a TV producer and host with my own front-row seat to a world not many get to see, in a city that I love. Now I’m going through today’s versions of the doors that I fantasized about opening when I was reading the Diaries all those years ago. The city has changed a lot since the days when he was on the scene; it seems to me less glamorous and debauched, but no less fun. For years I have told my stories to friends, and wished I kept a diary. Time and motivation were always an issue, and I needed a Pat Hackett to help me launch and record my own pop diary. I found her in my friend Liza Persky, a seasoned talk-show producer who is used to culling stories from celebrities on the phone, and a friend who got this project off the ground with me by recording the first season (Fall) of this book.
This book is my own take on Warhol’s fun concept: a year in my life, in my own words. It’s a life in Manhattan, behind the scenes of a late-night talk show, out on the town, with some stops around the world. It’s also a love story about a man and his dog.
I wrote this as I would any diary, so there are a lot of first names. Some you’ll recognize from my first book (if you read it), some won’t need any explanation, a few you might have to figure out on your own. I tried to make that as easy as possible without losing the tone of a real diary. Also I’ve left the identities of a few people opaque because I don’t want to embarrass anyone too much—or be sued or fired.
Going back and reading your own diary can be painful—and in doing so, I feel the need for some disclaimers. Sometimes—like life itself—these chronicles are funny, sometimes dishy, and sometimes even a little sad. And sometimes they are really, really shallow. Because sometimes life is shallow. I understand that and have accepted it. I hope you will too. Oh, and I drop a ton of names. More names than you can imagine. I literally almost called this book Diary of a Name-Dropper. So if you want to play a drinking game while reading this book—and that’s not a great idea and only gonna last for so long—take a swig every time you read a name you recognize.
I’ve often been asked if I would ever turn the cameras on myself and star in my own reality show—this book is about as close as I’ll get.
Oh, and one other thing. In my previous book, I wrote about my first visit to New York City in the winter of 1986 with my friend Jackie, and it bears repeating here. We’d been in the city for all of two hours and decided to take an evening stroll. Around every corner, it seemed, was a place I’d seen in a movie. My eyes were wide and lit up as bright as the city before me. Then I saw, coming toward us on Madison Avenue, a thin man dressed all in black topped with a wild white wig. It was Andy Warhol. We screamed. I took seeing Andy that night as a good omen, a sign that I had found home.
FALL 2013
IN WHICH …
• I AM FALSELY ENGAGED,
• BECOME ADDICTED TO MASSAGE,
• OPEN MY LIFE UP TO A DOG,
• AM CAUGHT WITH A FINGER UP MY NOSE,
• AND REALIZE I AM FAT.
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 8, 2013—NEW YORK CITY
So my parents are in town for the weekend—my bright idea because I knew I could get them great U.S. Open tickets and tennis is their thing. And I thought it would be a hoot to take them to their first fashion show. (I always go to DVF because Diane von Fürstenberg is a friend. And a legend. Not in that order. And, yes, I said “a hoot.”) I wound up spending much of the day (and weekend) haggling with my (seventy-six-year-old) mom about what she would wear to an event to which I invited her, thinking it would be fun, but instead awoke some sort of inner fashion angst in my incredible shrinking mother. “But what am I going to WEAR to this DVF FASHION SHOW!??!” Over and over and over again all weekend I heard this refrain.
I explained to her that it simply did not matter what the hell she wore. “Wear black. Wear anything. Not to be mean, Mom, but nobody’s looking at you.”
OK, that did come out mean, and dinner last night at the Palm turned into an official fight, my dad on the sidelines enjoying his Gigi salad. He’d already weighed in multiple times and his opinion was indeed moot at this point.
Today we were brought through the backstage area of the fashion show and suddenly I was being interviewed on a live stream about what an icon DVF is (a big one, I say) and asked about fashion (if you ever want to see me completely bullshit my way through an interview, watch me respond when someone asks about fashion) while my dad ogled Diane Sawyer (I have no clue why she looks how she looks at whatever age she is but everyone should do exactly what she’s doing) and Mom fidgeted with her top. (She did find the perfect DVF top, which unfortunately no one seemed to notice, as I predicted, but she looked really cute.)
I went into the show prepared to respond to these ridiculous rumors that Sean Avery (who is straight) and I are engaged. The truth is that I didn’t mind them at first, because the idea that I
could get a hot former pro hockey player (the bad boy of hockey, to be exact) to switch teams for my forty-five-year-old Jewish ass was ultimately quite flattering to me. But this “story” won’t die and the guy is straight with a girlfriend. It seems to be based on some shirtless pics we’ve tweeted over the years. I guess the media has to assume a gay dude and straight guy can’t frolic together on vacation without having anal sex? And I guess that anyone will print anything based on nothing. I showed up all prepared to go off on the topic, but not one reporter asked me anything about the “engagement,” so the joke was on me.
The show itself was great. I was seated by André Balazs and Sheryl Crow, who is also from Missouri and was lovely. But all I could think as I talked to her was, “Lance Armstrong was in you?” (Thoughts are best sometimes when they remain in your head.) Graydon Carter was two seats away and I told him I like the new VF masthead and he seemed impressed that I noticed, which may be an indication of how stupid he thinks I am. Naomi closed the show and, I mean, what else do you want to happen at a fashion show but see that lady strut? My parents were seated three rows up across from me and they loved it, but couldn’t get over the length. “It was so FAST! I mean all THAT for THAT?”
That night my mom bartended on the show and the guest was former Real Housewives of New Jersey star Danielle Staub. The energy was off—it was a weird show, punctuated by my mother standing over my guest’s shoulder at the bar, looking like she’d rather be in her hotel bed. We should’ve had Danielle on tape as a one-on-one Barbara Walters–type thing, but she said no and wanted to do it live. So she took the opportunity of not being edited to confront me about why, when she left the show, I released a statement saying I had fired her. The problem is I never released any statement, but I told her I was sorry if I offended her. Sometimes, the only option is to say you’re sorry, even if you have no idea what someone is talking about.
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 9, 2013
Today I had the best date with my dad maybe ever. I took him to the men’s finals of the U.S. Open and it was just perfect. We were in the “President’s Box” and there were actual heads of state everywhere. Former Mayor Dinkins was intermittently dozing off a few rows over, and the queen of Spain was in front of us. Looking around, I was reminded that my dad resembles an ex-President—seriously, there’s an oft-repeated Cohen family fable about my dad getting stopped at two gas stations in the early sixties by people who thought he was JFK—so I felt like we totally blended in. Martha Stewart was right behind us and told me I was lucky to be with my dad. I kind of put my foot in it and said, “It’s too bad he’s not single, Martha.” She glared at me. And then it got really weird because I realized if he was single and she started dating him, she would be my stepmother and that would be not just awkward but probably awful, but then I looked at her and it didn’t seem like she was into him that way, which in turn upset me. Why was Martha rejecting my father who looks like a head of state? It’s easy to get lost in a hypothetical. Anyway, I said, “That would be awkward.…” And that hung there for a second and she just looked at me. It’s fine if maybe she’s not into him. She kind of made a face. She and Ralph Lauren and Anna Wintour were behind us, and Sean Connery and the Matchbox Twenty guy were next to us. Kevin Spacey was in front of us with what looked like a face full of makeup and three male companions who were definitely not raising any questions.
It was a heavy scene and very adult and quiet and during breaks in play they showed über-famous people on the screen and my dad kept saying loudly (for him—he is soft-spoken), “I wonder when they are going to show you. You are as famous as these people.” And I was telling him, “Shhhhh. Don’t say that.” And they didn’t show me and so there was injustice in his mind, and if your dad can’t stand behind you and say you’re more famous than Justin Timberlake, I mean, who is going to do it? So bless him. But I am pretty sure Rob Thomas heard every time he said it and so did President Spacey. Nadal won. He could not be hotter. He is so hot that you forgive him for picking his shorts out of his butt crack after every single shot.
We went straight from the tennis to my show, where both my parents were bartenders, and for the game we had them read dirty phrases in Spanish, to which my mom protested, “But we don’t SPEAK Spanish!!” I told her that was exactly the point.
TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 10, 2013
Parents left today. Had to go to this Us Magazine Stylish New Yorkers party. It’s a racket. They put you on the list and then you go to their party. A guy on the press line asked about my engagement and I told him Sean is straight and to get a grip.
The place was teeming with Housewives—first I walked right into four from The Real Housewives of Miami, who had all been at my show the night before. Those Miami women are not afraid of a jumpsuit or a cameltoe—which I will add to the list of reasons I love them. I feel so codependent in Housewife-heavy public situations, like I need to spend quality time with all of them. I don’t want anyone feeling like I dissed them, because, trust me, I will wind up hearing about it later one way or another.
I found Jenny McCarthy, who was one person at the party whom I actually wanted to talk to. We had an incredibly filthy conversation in which she explained to me how women masturbate (she said to picture them trying to rub a stain out of a garment) and I boldly tried to negotiate a three-way with her and Donnie Wahlberg. They met when they were on my show last October and I encouraged them to date. They’re still together and I feel kind of proud, and that maybe I have the right to a three-way given my role in their situation. Jenny played along with the ménage concept but I’m not sure how Donnie would feel about it. To be honest, I’m not sure how I feel about it. Fine, I admit it, I absolutely would be too freaked out to have an actual three-way with them, so I don’t know why I put in the effort.
On the way out, I saw Melissa and Joe from RHONJ and Jacqueline. And I felt bad for not spending more time with them.
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 11, 2013
This was the day of the ExtravaGaganza, starring Lady Gaga on Watch What Happens Live. I wasn’t nervous at all. So far I have been more buzzed than anything when one of my LadyIdols comes on. For Cher I was excited but with Oprah I was nervous, actually shaking for an hour before the show, but the minute she came dancing into the Clubhouse (to “Blurred Lines”) and our audience gave her our first ever standing O (not meant to be a pun but go ahead and take it as one), I got right in the zone.
With Gaga, I couldn’t wait to see what she was going to wear, and to hear what she had to say for herself. Her publicist told us that I was not allowed to ask about Madonna or Perez Hilton. I pushed back on the Madonna thing because anyone who watches my show knows how much I love Madonna and would expect her name to come up. They said no.
She arrived in costume, wearing eighteen pounds of hair on her head and the seashell boob covers, which I love. She couldn’t have been nicer backstage and I was struck by her widdle-baby voice. Has she always had that?
When she entered the Clubhouse, with three or four incredibly big and incredibly hot (and incredibly straight) bodyguards, the seashells were covered by a jacket. Now she asks her team if she can take the jacket off so she’s just wearing the seashell bikini-toppy thing, and her team says no. She begs in her baby voice and they say no again. Dave Stanley—our handsome audio guy—comes up and puts the mic on her jacket and she gets him to put it on the strap of the seashell thing, which is covered by her jacket. I say, “I don’t think we can hear your mic well if it’s covered by that jacket,” and she says, “Oh no, I guess I have to take my jacket off!” and that was that. This is a smart lady I am dealing with.
I was pussyfooting around during “Plead the Fifth” and allowed her to answer a question without naming names, and during a commercial break Gaga said to me, “Don’t beat around the bush. You can ask whatever you want and name names.” So I asked myself that age-old question: Do I go for it and piss off the publicist? After the years I spent behind the scenes negotiating with publicists about what
topics are off-limits, it is surreal for me to find myself doing it as a host, engaging in this face-to-face trust-dance in which future bookings are at stake. Gaga was already so great, talking about things I’d not heard her discuss (like stripping, doing molly), so I didn’t need more. I didn’t do it. I focused on getting a great interview without pissing her people off. (Her people, I should add, include her publicist who also reps Rihanna.) By the way, Ralph Fiennes was in the audience with a friend who was wearing flip-flops and Gaga chose flip-flops as her Jackhole. So that was awkward.
After the show she went back into her dressing room and billows of smoke started emerging from under the door. When she came out she theatrically announced, “Oh my God. What’s the smell?” I said, “I have a feeling you’re not the first person to smoke here,” and she responded, “But am I the first person to pee in the garbage can?” I surmised that she was. “I just couldn’t hold it in and I couldn’t go through all those people to go to the bathrooms.” The baby voice! Very sweet, though. We kissed and said goodbye. The second she walked out, I ran over to the PAs and said, “You need to put Lady Gaga’s pee in a container so we can put it in the Clubhouse. It’s the ultimate pop culture artifact.”
Later that night I went to Benjamin’s bar opening, Atlas Social Club, in Hell’s Kitchen. It’s great. Kelly and Barkin had just left when I arrived, and Anderson and I got there at the same time. (And I was thinking, there’s no way Sanjay Gupta peed in Anderson’s trash can after his show.) A reporter from the Wall Street Journal was desperately trying to get me to spill anything about Anderson and Ben’s personal life. “This bar, I am told, looks just like their home. So it is really personal for both of them, right?” I almost felt bad for him. What did he want me to say? “Yes, it looks just like their bedroom and I will now tell you all about what goes on there.…” I didn’t fall into the trap, partly because I used to be a journalist and did the same thing—hell, I basically still do the same thing on my show. But I didn’t give him anything he could use.