The Andy Cohen Diaries

by Andy Cohen

  MONDAY, DECEMBER 30, 2013—SÃO PAULO–NYC

  Landed at 6 a.m., got a full eight and a half hours on the plane and was ready to go. So happy to see Wacha, who seemed like he had a great time at his dog walker’s in Brooklyn. But I mean, what the hell do I know about it? We had a sweet reunion and cuddled all day together. Literally. I dropped him at the groomer and ran up to ABC Carpet and picked out a rug for my living room in about five minutes because it seemed like Wacha wasn’t digging the wood floors. It was speed-shopping and it worked—I found a great white rug on sale that he will destroy by February but should help him through his hip surgery recovery in January. My tan and beard are on fire and so I am dreading the moment in the next couple days when the tan fades and the beard looks stupid. Went with John Hill to see Sandra Bernhard’s late show at Joe’s Pub. She was fresh and dark and funny. I especially loved her de Blasio stuff, about how NYC can look forward to Slam Poetry sessions on the streets (due to our new poetess first lady), and how maybe dressage down Fifth Avenue wasn’t such a bad thing after all. Now that we voted him in, everybody’s scared he’s too liberal. I am. And Sandra said she hates Halloween so much that she preferred the hurricane (Sandy) to Halloween last year. We went back and said hi after. It’s sad that her “Sandrology” segment didn’t work on WWHL. My goal was for her to be my Andy Rooney.

  TUESDAY, DECEMBER 31, 2013

  I think you’re supposed to spend the last day of the year reflecting or meditating or something, but I basically played with Wacha for most of the day, and man, did I have a great time. We walked, and I marveled at his cuteness. On cue, he started ripping up the new rug. So that plan is working. I celebrated my last day of drinking for a month with a ton of wine and laughs at lunch with all the Perskys at Morandi. As predicted, Dad didn’t care for the Ralph Lauren sweater-coat I got him, so he sent it back to me and I gave it to my East Coast dad, Bill Persky. He loved it. Took a long nap with Wacha. Went to a New Year’s Eve dinner party at Scott Wittman’s with John Hill and it was lovely. It was Hickey and Jeff, SJP and Matthew, Nathan Lane, Victor Garber and Rainer, John Slattery, Brooks Ashmanskas, and a bunch more. Apparently Seacrest was taking credit on ABC for introducing Donnie Wahlberg and Jenny McCarthy. Didn’t I do that? I got a zillion tweets asking. I walked Wacha around 2 a.m. and let a lot of sloppy drunk people pet him. I thought one girl was just going to hurl all over him, but I let her keep drooling on him because her boyfriend was so hot. I have been half wondering all day if I could start not drinking on the 2nd because hanging out drinking a chalky red wine on New Year’s Day seems very appealing. It was a good year. On with 2014 already.

  WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 1, 2014

  First day of not drinking and I chilled out all day inside. Did absolutely nothing. Oh, I did think a lot about wanting a red wine. I didn’t have one. Watched The Wolf of Wall Street. Loved it. And I took an amazing nap with the dog. Loved that too.

  THURSDAY, JANUARY 2, 2014

  Snowmageddon. Took Wacha over to Joe Mantello’s for a visit. He and Hickey and I had lunch at the Village Den, then I spent my afternoon thinking of red wine and watching five Housewives cuts (two RHOBH, one RHOA, two RHONY) on which I have notes due by Monday. I was so happy to finish my homework early, and it was all good TV. I got an endless massage in front of my fire during the monstrous snowstorm. Wacha spent three hours watching the fire as if it were a movie. I’m pretty sure he enjoyed it more than The Wolf of Wall Street.

  FRIDAY, JANUARY 3, 2014

  Woke up to eight inches … of snow today. (That was filthy. And dumb.) My big news is that Wacha loves snow. I took him into the former-den-of-homeless-junkies-but-recently-gentrified-with-free-Wi-Fi Jackson Square Park, where it was all fresh untouched snow. And the park is teeny, so this lady and I closed all three gates and took the leashes off our dogs and let them go wild. It was tremendous watching him, but I ran him around too much and his hips were hurting all day. He was limping around, poor fella. And little does he know he’s having surgery in a week. So he is just perpetually blissfully ignorant. It was intensely cold tonight but I ventured a full two blocks for dinner with Bruce and Bryan at Monument Lane, where we went over the (fantasy) floor plan of my combined apartment that I do not yet own. (On that note, I spoke to Mr. Liebowitz from the building, who is not the easiest person to get ahold of, and he said to follow up with him at the end of the month.) After dinner they came to my house and I couldn’t resist a little red wine. So I slipped. And it wasn’t just a little red wine—it was like bottles and bottles between all of us. My teeth might be red for days. But that was just a slip for one day and let me put my rationalization into print so that I can be clear that there was a great excuse: the fact is that I missed Christmas and New Year’s with Bruce, so he and I deserved and earned one drunk-y night together to celebrate. That excuse is infallible. And I’m done now. No more booze. I swear. Watch me fly.

  SATURDAY, JANUARY 4, 2014

  I lied to Amanda—and anyone else who asked—about drinking last night. I am going to pretend it never happened. (A very healthy way to start my massive health kick.) I watched 12 Years a Slave while Wacha slept with his head on my leg. It was hilarious! Just kidding. But it was excellent. It was eighties night for Amanda’s birthday dinner, meaning we ate at Gotham, which is a total throwback. The décor is untouched and the tall food is still tall, and delicious I might add. I was picturing people doing blow at their tables thirty years ago. Speaking of which, Fred said people were vaporizing on his flight to San Fran. So pot may be officially no big deal. I ate pot candy before dinner. So I can’t say I am sober. I’m not drinking, but I’m not sober.

  I FaceTimed w/ my parents and got an EARFUL about how hard American Hustle was to understand for them and their friends, but the big sermon was about my intentions to wear this beard on TV in a couple days. “You look OLD and it’s TWO-TONED! You see that the chin part is GRAY, right?” Mom howled. “Do you SEE that?”

  SUNDAY, JANUARY 5, 2014

  My new fitness regime started today, as did WWHL. I kept my beard and knew that for better or worse I would have instant feedback on Twitter, which turned out to be pretty good. Got an email from Frances during the show saying the beard looked “Clooneyesque.” And is there a better email to get from the head of Bravo while you’re on air? Josh Groban caught me yawning twice during the after show. What am I going to do about this? I have a problem. There were two very energetic ladies in the front row who were screaming at me that they wanted to invite me to their Shabbat dinner on Long Island. I kept saying, “Great!” and when I left they were furious and screaming that I didn’t stay to take a picture with them. I took the freight elevator out and before I turned the corner into the lobby, I listened to them first hammering the doorman for information about which exit I use and then lamenting that I hadn’t paid them enough attention. “You know what—I get it if you have a bad day but he’s an asshole. We were inviting him to Shabbat!” Finally the woman said that she had spent hours making me some collage and when I heard that I felt terrible and walked out like I hadn’t heard a word (“Hey! You’re the girls from the audience!”), took pictures (she asked if she could feel my ass, I didn’t respond, and she grabbed it), took my collage and left. I ain’t going to that Shabbat. The collage is really nice and I’m amazed at the idea of someone sitting down and gluing and cutting and collaging on my behalf. What would it take to get me to collage for someone? I wonder. And for whom would I collage? I got a text from Evelyn after the show: “love josh groban, hate the beard,” which was great because I was wondering how she was feeling about my beard.

  MONDAY, JANUARY 6, 2014

  I am a free man! I woke up today and it was the first day in twenty-four years that I have had no boss. It’s not what I would categorize as complete freedom, because I can still get fired from my jobs, but still, it feels different. Like I am a real mobile unit, truly my own boss. I don’t have to tell anybody where I am, or get pulled into a meeting. Come to think of
it, I might really miss testing the limits of NBCUniversal’s HR department with intensely inappropriate remarks during the middle of development meetings, or killing an hour loitering around other people’s offices looking for stray gossip. But my big plan for my new schedule is to double down on training, to work out as many days as I can at noon with my Ninja at Will’s gym. The Ninj boxes and does crazy core work with me; this along with the not drinking is phase one of transforming my body this year. Because I’m fat.

  The guests tonight were Sophia Bush and Carlton from RHOBH. Before the show this friend of Sophia’s told me my beard looks “religious.” So I said, “Thank you?” and asked her if that was a good thing. She said it looked Jewish and that was a good thing. And I said it was a good thing unless you happen to hate Jewish people. So that was odd. As a reminder, I was sober for that interaction. (It might not have seemed so weird on whiskey.) We taped a Skype piece with my parents RAILING on my beard. They asked my mom for three words to describe it: “OLD, DISHEVELED, and UNATTRACTIVE,” she said. “If it was all ONE COLOR it might look OK, but the GRAY!!!! I don’t like the WHITE with the DARK!” “To me it looks a little dirty,” Dad chimed in. I hopped in the elevator after the show and this lady from the audience raced over to get in and I yelled, “Close it!” instead of “Open it!” so now she thinks I am a dick. I guess it was a Freudian slip, but I swear I did not mean to close the door on her. I swear.

  TUESDAY, JANUARY 7, 2014

  I had a pitch meeting at True. We’re trying to think of some shows to pitch Bravo, for instance a docuseries either with the Williams sisters, LL Cool J, or Dwyane Wade. They’re all long shots but worth pursuing. Asa and GG from Shahs of Sunset were on the show. GG is kind of deaf, so you have to repeat to her what the callers are saying without anyone at home realizing you are repeating what just happened. The unspoken taking care of her is sweet. She revealed she slept with Jax from Vanderpump Rules (I love a crossover!) and I turned very pervy asking questions about Jax in bed. I frankly could’ve gone on and on but forced myself to stop. I ran out right after the show—even before the audience left—so I didn’t wind up offending any strangers at the exit tonight. I was home by 11:50. A first. I watched Nebraska and absolutely loved it. Wacha slept through it. I got booked to co-host The View next Monday. Hope they like dog talk.

  WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 8, 2014

  My first alcohol-free shotski night. I faked it with iced tea with Will Forte and Dan Rather. Dan was lovely—so gentle and complimentary and sweet; I regretted not taking him up on that coffee date last month. I get codependent around him, wanting to take care of him and for everybody to give him a lot of respect. They did. Will Forte was enraptured by him too. I asked him about doing heroin for a story in the sixties, and his description was comical (“It made my head hurt”) and he told a story about his relationship with Cronkite that seemed heavily revised from what I think really happened. I asked him before the show about all the drama going on at 60 Minutes and he said, “I think you’ll agree with me, Andy, that the show was better with five regular correspondents. They were the stars.” And I do agree and I also agree that I love when people use my name in the middle of a sentence. After the show, Ryan always asks all the guests what designers they are wearing so we can put the information on our site. He gave Dan a piece of paper to write down the designers and I guess Dan thought he wanted an autograph and he signed his name and handed it back. Adorable. (And we still don’t know who he wore because we didn’t have the heart to ask again. But the autograph is up on Ryan’s bulletin board.) Earlier in the evening we taped George Stephanopoulos and Ali Wentworth. George was clearly uncomfortable not being in control but had a great time and kept marveling at all our bits. I wanted to tell him to watch his show closer because they like to poach our shit. I really like them both.

  Wacha is getting feisty and hyper and clingy to me. He is slowly destroying the rug in teeny ways before my eyes, and is growly and mean when his three-thirty dog walker comes to get him. So he’s gonna miss her when he’s recovering from this hip surgery soon. Poor Wacha.

  THURSDAY, JANUARY 9, 2014—NYC–LOS ANGELES

  Who greeted me as I walked on board my flight to LA this morning but #BabyJaneFlightAttendant. “Well, there you are again! Can I help you get settled?!” What is it with this woman helping me get settled? And what does she think that entails? I figured out that the more words you give her, the more she comes back with, so I became a robot for five hours. For instance, when she said, “The beef is so good today!!! And I’m not a meat eater! So then, is that what you want, the beef???” I replied, “No.” I drowned my sorrows with four episodes of Vanderpump Rules on the plane in preparation for the reunion. It’s so good it’s criminal. And I don’t condone violence but Jax had that punch coming! I no longer find him attractive after his inability to feel remorse for sleeping with the girlfriend of his best friend of ten years! I stopped into Bravo and then went to the Tower and for ninety minutes sat and contemplated going to the gym, and ultimately decided to take a bath instead. With my phone. (My phone loves a hot bath.) I had dinner at this Moroccan restaurant, Acabar, with Bryan, Bruce, Hamilton, and Kevin Huvane. At the table next to us was the one Moroccan person on the planet who I have had sex with. I guess now I know where to find him. After dinner I had ice-cream sundaes at the Tower with Allison, Ricky, John Mayer, and B. J. Novak, who I had never met but who seemed nice. Man, those sundaes would’ve gone down a whole lot better with some whiskey. I am still sobes, though—or not drinking, as Bruce keeps pointing out. Dave began his month of sobriety today and we’re going to be sober buddies. (Well, not-drinking buddies, I guess.) Dmitri, who remains not the most discreet maître d’ in Hollywood, was trying to bring over a relative of Camilla Parker Bowles to meet John. The truth is that I barely want to meet Camilla Parker Bowles herself, so the idea of meeting her relative was a nonstarter and I surmised couldn’t have been that appealing to John or anybody else. I shut that down.

  FRIDAY, JANUARY 10, 2014—LOS ANGELES

  Wall-to-wall tears and wild absurdity all day long at the Vanderpump Rules reunion. This group of servers (they are servers!) is a crazy combination of ego, emotion, beauty, ugly, stupidity, humor, and fearlessness that makes for perfect reality TV. Jax continues to have no remorse about sleeping with his best friend’s girlfriend, which baffles me. During lunch Lisa and I walked up to the construction site of her new gay bar, Pump. She knows what she’s doing. We started filming the reunion at ten and ended around five-thirty, so it was a ton of drama and talk, and by the time I got back to the Tower to change for the night I was totally spent.

  I ran into Seth Meyers in the lobby and the convo was about whether he should have a band for his new show or a DJ or what. He says he hasn’t decided and he better get cracking because he’s got like five weeks. Walking away, I felt better about all the decisions I haven’t made.

  I had to hustle it to the opening of the “DVF: Journey of a Dress” exhibit at LACMA—I was co-hosting the live stream with Coco Rocha. DVF took me through the exhibit as they were about to open the doors and it blew me away—wrap dresses on mannequins everywhere, DVF colors and patterns on the floors and ceilings, and a Studio 54 Room and a room of all art of DVF. Insane. The live stream was not my favorite thing in the world to do. They were bringing people over to me who I hadn’t a clue about and I was interviewing them trying to act like I did; it was awks, as Ja’mie would say. Robin Wright came with her daughter and introduced her by name, which I forgot by the time Coco threw the live stream back to me (a total of seven seconds), and I said, “I’m here with Robin Wright and her daughter.” So I am sure they both hate me. I also interviewed Seth and Allison and Rachel Zoe. Every single woman there was wearing DVF, so it was an army of wrap dresses. And Kathy Hilton brought Paris over and she did her demure paparazzi stance even in person, in a DVF long dress, and I loved it. And speaking of paparazzi, I tried to give serious beard-face in the photo line but I am sure I will wind
up looking constipated. Everyone was there—fifteen hundred people to be exact—Uma, Demi, Gwyneth, lots of one-named women.

  We had dinner with a big group at Tortilla Republic (next to Sur) and then all wound up at Revolver. Anderson and I were last to leave. He and I were waiting for his car at the restaurant valet when these drunk girls came up asking to take a picture with us. One of them kept yelling at us, “I don’t know who you are! Who are you? Tell me!” It went on and on until she was begging us to tell her who we are, which is essentially the number-one-with-a-bullet irritating thing to say to someone. Who cares then? If you don’t know who we are, and we don’t know who you are, then let’s all call it a draw and move on. Anyway, we took a pic with the friends of the girl who didn’t know us and then the drunk girl herself loudly demanded a photo. “Why do you want a picture if you don’t know who we are?” I asked, using reason on someone who had none. She got indignant and the friend said, “Are you really not gonna take a picture with her?” at which point I was ready to just do it, but now the vexing one was all over Anderson, yelling in his face. So he told her to leave. And she did. Joy! (Anyone who is excited to take a picture with me because they like something about me is exempt from this rant.)

  SATURDAY, JANUARY 11, 2014—LOS ANGELES–NYC

  Where has the Chili’s gone at the American terminal in LAX? It’s all “fancy” food now! They used to have a great chicken sandwich at that Chili’s. Damn, if it’s not stuff closing in the West Village it’s the gentrification of LAX. I can’t blame Bloomberg for the Chili’s closing, though. By the way, that paper store on Eighth and Horatio is closing next week. I actually don’t know how it’s stayed open so long. They may still have “Typewriter” in the name of the store. Anyway, it’s a final sale and the other day I bought some cheap wrapping paper that I’ll never use and got really emo with the storekeeper; I acted like we had a deep neighborly relationship, but in actuality I had potentially never met him. Still, I don’t like seeing local stores closing. And so now the Chili’s is gone, which is my way of saying I flew back at the crack of dawn this morning. I could’ve stayed in LA to hang out and go to parties but I wanted to see Wacha. And on that note, I was supposed to have dinner with Mark and Kelly but wound up staying home with the doggy, who has five weeks of recovery looming after surgery Monday. We watched the Downton Abbey premiere finally and I just want to know if the dude who plays Molesley has nekkid pics of Julian Fellowes, because nobody cares about Molesley, and there was a whole lot of him. So that was a little exhausting. I’d rather watch Mrs. Patmore wrestle with that electric mixer for an hour than endure another minute with Poor Mr. Molesley. Oh, and somebody tweeted me that all the restaurants at LAX are now from California-based companies, so I get it and that’s cool. Plus you can’t really compare Chili’s to a mom-and-pop store anyway. I just miss that pre-flight chicken sandwich is all.