The Andy Cohen Diaries

by Andy Cohen

  I went to Jersey City with John Hill, who has been the driving force behind me opening my heart up to an animal (and given our past, it’s ironic), and spent two hours with Ron Swanson, who apparently has been going by the name “Norman Reedus” in his foster home. This is very confusing because Reedus is an actor on The Walking Dead, which I also do not watch. (Given how much TV I do watch, how is it possible that he was named after characters in two shows I don’t?)

  The experience was out of body for me—it was too deep almost from the minute I met him. I felt like I was going to poop my pants. Being with Norman/Ron brought up every commitment issue I ever had and I was glad I had my asthma inhaler because I was huffing and puffing on it. I was looking at the animal thinking I was going to spend the rest of my life with it. My first reaction was that it was too much dog, so much bigger than I thought it was going to be, and it was licking my face like crazy (which I didn’t like) and shedding all over (which I definitely didn’t like or expect). The dog has a penis that gets hard and pink randomly (like my own, I guess?) and that was very jarring. After ninety minutes in this room just staring at the dog, my face flushed with emotion, John suggested we take him out for a walk around the neighborhood. I should mention that the dog is crate trained, didn’t bark once, and was designated “the perfect dog” by John and Zarena, who runs See Spot Rescued.

  I told John on the walk that there was no way I could take the dog home. He was just too big and too much, basically. John told me we were not leaving New Jersey without the dog. He said he knew exactly what I was doing (running away from commitment), and that he was forcing me to take it. As my intended played with other dogs (quite well and cutely) at the dog run, it gave me this look that made me feel a little pang of something, I don’t know what. So I took him. I’m fostering him, that’s the deal I made with Zarena. For two weeks. We will see.

  He jumped in my car, went in the backseat, and fell right to sleep. A good sign, I thought. But I also couldn’t get over that I had an actual living, breathing dog in my new car. I got him home and followed him around my apartment for an hour. I picked up his shit on the sidewalk. I did it all. This was a really big day for me. I’ve never picked up dog shit. Speaking of which, I DM’d with some Cardinals about today’s game and I feel like Miranda waiting for a text message from a guy she saw at the gym, waiting for these guys, and I said to Joe Kelly Jr., “You’re killing it.” Because I do think that’s what bros say to each other. (See: Seacrest.)

  By the end of the night, I decided that this dog without a name is the smartest dog in the world. He’s going to make this easy for me. We were sitting down to watch the Cardinals game with the Irish chef and the dog brought me his leash, to tell me he had to pee, and I took him out and he did. It was incredible. I sat there watching packed Busch Stadium cheering for the pitcher Michael Wacha—“WACHA! WACHA! WACHA!” my hometown cheered, and trending on Twitter was “Wacha”—and I realized that my dog had just been named for me by the city of St. Louis. So that’s that. He is Wacha. And it kinda sounds like a dog’s name, although I can imagine a future explaining that he’s not named after Waka Flocka Flame. I can’t imagine not keeping him. (Unclear what will happen with the Irish chef.) Did I mention the pooch looks great on my couch?

  The Cardinals killed the Dodgers 9 to 0 and are heading to the World Series. Oh, and during the whole drama of staring at Wacha in Jersey, I found out that Thomas Roberts accepted the job I turned down, hosting Miss Universe in Russia, which I had boycotted months ago on the grounds that it would be hypocritical for a gay man to pimp a travelogue for a country that discriminates against him. So NBC got another gay guy to host the show, which was pretty smart on their part. He says he’s going to prove to the Russians that there’s hope, but I don’t know how he’s going to do that since they aren’t going to let him say he’s gay on the show. Instead he’s going to be talking about how beautiful Moscow is. There was something irritating about this news but I was too preoccupied with the canine to focus. See—the dog is already teaching me not to sweat the small stuff.

  SATURDAY, OCTOBER 19, 2013

  I woke up and Wacha had to pee really bad. He was running around like a maniac, so I took him out for a long walk and saw two long-lens paparazzi guys a block away. When I saw the cameras I thought, “Wow—I’m going to be photographed with this super cute dog,” I was proud of my dog. And then one of the photographers came over to me and said, “My girlfriend is a huge fan, can I have a picture?” Is this how it works with the paparazzi? So I said to him, “Yes, I will, but only if you release good pictures of me,” and he said, “Yes,” so we just looked into space two blocks away where I guess another photog was taking pictures of us, and we’ll see how the pics turn out.

  The whole day was just dog dog dog. I had a rough midafternoon when Bruce met him and had the same first reaction that I did yesterday in Jersey—he’s big and licky and gets boners. My best friend’s reaction was a total setback for me; I got a pit in my stomach again. Then I took him to the dog run with Liza (a dog cheerleader) and he got scared when we were going in and buried his face between my legs and it broke my heart and I was back in again. He was mine. And looking around in the dog run, I’m seeing ugly dogs everywhere that drool, yelp, jump, growl, and are just generally disgusting, so I’m feeling luckier and luckier every minute with this dog. I had dinner with Liza, Bruce, the Perskys, and the Consueloses and then I went home after to have a date night with Wacha and learned that red wine at the end of a date with a dog works the same way as red wine at the end of a date with a guy. I came very close to sleeping with the dog. I was just petting and petting and loving and feeling very connected to him. He is my own Ralph Lauren Snoopy!

  SUNDAY, OCTOBER 20, 2013

  Got coffee with Jake Shears and the dog. I am trying to not only get used to calling him Wacha but also not refer to him as “it,” which Amanda keeps pointing out that I am doing. (It takes my friend the shrink to bring this to my attention, and she’s right as usual.) After two days of being with this animal, what I have come to realize is that this city is a toilet and everything is shit- and piss-stained. I’ve been walking around in Ferragamo shoes like a dandy for twenty-three years and little did I know that I basically have been contracting worms the whole time. Meanwhile, Wacha is very consumed with sniffing asses. Yes, he is very smart.

  I co-hosted an event with Cynthia Nixon for Bill de Blasio tonight at a fancy gay guy’s house on the Upper East Side. De Blasio is super nice and super tall and super liberal. (Maybe too liberal?) I did not ask the future mayor how he plans to clean the toilet that is our city. We are beyond that. I was asked to say a few words and, sandwiched between Nixon and de Blasio, I could only think of how short I looked. Even though my mind was on how nervous I was about leaving the dog, I eeked something out. I went to WWHL and was just thinking of it/him the whole time. I didn’t even drink on the show because I wanted to stay sober for the dog. Jenna Jameson’s plane was delayed. She wasn’t landing at Newark till 10:15 and had checked her luggage and makeup. We booked Bevy Smith to join Jennifer Tilly, and the broadcast became a big “waiting for the porn star to show up on live TV” kind of thing. And this begs the age-old question: Has there ever been a reliable porn star? Jenna arrived right at the end, but waiting for the porn star was maybe more fun than interviewing the porn star.

  MONDAY, OCTOBER 21, 2013

  It turns out maybe there is no such thing as a nice paparazzo. There are photos of me with Wacha all over the Internet and I am aggressively picking my nose. I mean I am digging. The headline on Perez Hilton was “Andy Cohen Embarrasses His Dog As He Digs for Gold on the Streets of NY”! Wacha was embarrassed!? How does Perez know!? How about that I was embarrassed by having to pick up my dog’s shit? AOL, BuzzFeed, and TMZ simply said I was “Digging for Gold!” so that’s a little more respectable. No one was mentioning how cute my new dog is, which killed me.

  I worked out with Will today. I told him he should release a C
D called “Jews Working Out” that is just me sighing, groaning, and grunting, usually in response to what I have to do and not what I’m actually doing. All day everybody was tweeting me the picture of me picking my nose. People want to make damn sure I’ve seen it. I wanted to tweet, “I saw it, motherfuckers.” But I thought better of it.

  We had Amy Sedaris on tonight. She went through Lea Black’s purse. It took at least a minute but it was hilarious. Doing this show has made me think of everything in terms of how long it takes. I walk around all day hearing Deirdre’s calm voice in my ear counting down the time. I’m ordering my tea thinking “Can I get this done in:45?” Amy is so funny—the funniest person I’ve ever met. And yet all I could think about was my dog. I made the Internet the Jackhole for not noticing how cute my dog is.

  TUESDAY, OCTOBER 22, 2013

  Today was commitment D-day. I’ve been getting tweets from people saying, “What’s the deal? Post a photo of your dog!” But I realized that the minute I sent out a tweet with the picture, there was no turning back. I sat there looking at Wacha all morning, trying to decide whether to tweet his picture. I knew I wasn’t going to give him back, but this final act would make it so official. I decided I had to take the perfect picture of the dog to Instagram; in front of Bonsignour, I became the Scavullo of dog photographers, working almost an hour on the perfect picture. I got the picture and then freaked out about the tweet—no turning back, connected for life—and I waited till the end of the day. With a pit in my stomach, I did it.

  It turns out I have a very popular dog. I posted his photo on Instagram and got thirty-six thousand responses. And then it really sunk in that he had been in a kill shelter. This dog, my dog, was in line to be killed. That kills me. I love him so much already. The idea that this dog is one day going to die made me teary on the way to the gym yesterday. Now today I’m getting teary thinking of him in a kill shelter. (I also could cry thinking of him in West Virginia, but that’s me being a snob.) And I will never, ever get over how good he looks on my couch. Some celebrity dog trainer emailed Daryn wondering if “Andy wants my services?” He’s coming over for free.

  I was thinking about when am I going to get him groomed and about his new vet, dog walker, and his food and toys and the mechanics of it all, and it reaffirmed that if I had to spend one more day only thinking about nothing but myself, I would have set myself on fire. I am at the tipping point of boring myself by thinking about myself. Thank God this dog is here.

  WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 23, 2013

  I think I had a nice photo session with Wacha and five paparazzi this morning as I was waiting for Joe Mantello in front of Starbucks. They actually asked if they could take pictures with Wacha. I said, “Yes, but only nice photos, guys.” Meanwhile, I’m in glasses and my hair looks crazy, so I know how this is gonna play out. Someone on the street said his paws are really big, and that he’s gonna grow huge, and now I’m terrified. I don’t want him to grow any bigger. By the way, yesterday I get a tweet from @WachaCohen—a stranger has started tweeting as Wacha—and it said, “You forgot to leave the TV on. I wanted to watch your show.” And then this morning I got one that said, “Wake up and get in here and take me out. I have to pee,” which played into me thinking I always need to take him out and was kind of freaky. Who is tweeting as my dog and where is this person hiding?

  I was at 30 Rock all day. When I left my house Wacha gave me a look that was so earnest, and melancholy. A look that actually, it was so emo, could have meant so many things but made me shaky and gloomy all day at 30 Rock. I was off, because of a look from a pooch! I had lunch with my agents at the Palm and then I met with my money guy. (I’m doing just fine, he says.) We are going back and forth haggling w/ Aviva over her opening line on RHONY. She doesn’t want “The only thing fake about me is my prosthetic leg … [beat] and my boobs.” Because she has four kids and thinks it’s trashy. She is OK with “When people tell me I’m fake, I know they’re just pulling my leg,” which seems on the edge to me but I like it. Hilariously, Sonja is fine with saying “Things would go a lot smoother in this town if more women went commando.” Bless her!

  The Cardinals got totally blown out tonight. It was so upsetting. I can’t get over how gross the Red Sox beards are. I taped two shows but I was so distracted by the shittiness of the Cardinals all night, I was not mentally into either one. And two turns of phrase that I had gotten wrong in the first run-through, I got wrong in the show itself, which got me thinking: What’s the point of a run-through if I’m going to get this stuff wrong? Oh, and I think we may need an applause sign at the show. Josh Flagg recommended it, but is that too conventional?

  When I got home Wacha was so playful and I just wanted to lie on my bed with him and watch Primary Colors, which I found on TV. He just kept licking my face. He would lick my face for five hours if I let him. It’s like I’m a salt lick. But as I mentioned, I’m not a fan of the face-licking, and so then I was pushing him away and he was misunderstanding, thinking I was playing with him. Then he was bugging the shit out of me.

  THURSDAY, OCTOBER 24, 2013

  I took Wacha to get cleaned and I love him very clean. I wish I could groom him twice a week, actually. But, like most fine clothes, you are not supposed to overdo it at the dry cleaner. Apparently his skin will get dry. After I took him out to pee this morning, he took a little nap with me in my bed. I fell asleep for twenty minutes. I dreamt I was lying in the middle of Time Square hugging Wacha as hard as I could in my arms. I was so happy.

  Today I read an interview with Thomas Roberts about hosting the Miss Universe pageant, which I passed on. The Trump people are saying I was never actually offered it, so that’s what he repeated in the interview and now it’s like I am a Real Housewife of Orange County who is claiming to the other wives that I was offered a role on Malibu Country (see season 7). I don’t want to get involved, but I decided I needed to email Roberts or he is going to keep telling people that I’m Gretchen. So I emailed him and said, “Listen, I don’t want to get into a public thing with you but I just want you to have the facts and contrary to what anyone is telling you I was offered that job. Thanks.” I think that tactic could’ve worked for Gretchen and Heather, too.

  Now Sonja doesn’t like the “commando” line about women in NYC. She says it’s bad for her brand. She wants to change it to “Sometimes I just have to go commando.” Seems like the same thing. But I want her to add the word “Sonja” to it because I think it’s funny when she refers to herself in the third person (i.e., “Sometimes Sonja has to go commando”). I have been asking the Real Housewives of Atlanta producer to have NeNe add the word “Bloop” to the end of her intro, which is, “Success is in my DNA; when one door closes, another one opens.” To me the line is funnier if she says “Bloop” after it. I may be the only one who likes it. Nonetheless I am trying to get NeNe to do it. She is in Mexico and I can’t get an answer. I spent twenty minutes on the phone with Heather Dubrow trying to get her to agree to the deal we’re offering her. Hopefully that will happen. I love her on the show and wouldn’t want to lose her.

  Tonight I had four loud, straight guys over to watch the game: Fred Walsh, Dave Ansel, Sean Avery, and Jason Blum—with Chinese food and beers. Wacha was totally well behaved and all I wanted was for everyone to notice the amazing brilliant things my dog was doing. Turns out that people don’t really want to endlessly talk about your dog. Everybody liked the dog, but after a point, there was general indifference. This was tough for me to adjust to. Maybe if they were gay they would’ve mustered a little more enthusiasm. (Straight men are prone to indifference.) I could be happy just talking about the dog and the game. In fact I could be happy listening to someone do play-by-play on the dog. It was interesting being with this group of my straight friends, a group of people who never hang out together, and watching them essentially—in dog terms—sniffing each other’s asses for three hours. I’ve seen this dance before. I think gay guys have fewer walls, they just go in. For the record, we all
ate multitudes of Chinese food in front of and around the dog and he didn’t beg once. And the Cardinals won, with the dog’s namesake pitching.

  FRIDAY, OCTOBER 25, 2013

  So it’s official today. Zarena came over and I signed the adoption papers. I’m really excited. He’s really sweet of course and I just can’t believe it’s been seven days. I have grown a lot in a week. The interesting thing is my sex drive has been nowhere. It’s like I’m satisfying myself with the dog. I’m not fucking the dog, of course, but I think I’m being fulfilled in other ways. Between the dog and the World Series, my libido is at an all-time low. The Cardinals are going to win the Series and I feel like I’m in a really good place.

  Ramona changed her opening line from “Get out the Pinot, here I come,” to “It’s Turtle Time.” I actually texted her, “I can’t believe one tag line could make me so happy.” She texted back that it was Mario’s idea.

  This afternoon I did Regis’s new sports show, Crowd Goes Wild, which Michael produces as well as mine, and I think everyone should be impressed that I could be on a sports show talking about baseball and making sense for seven minutes. I played “Plead the Fifth” with Regis. I was terrified he wouldn’t understand the rules, so I explained them during the commercial break, and then someone came over to me and said, “Did you explain the rules to Regis?” When I told them I already did, they were like, “He understood it?” So that made me even more nervous, but it went well.