The Andy Cohen Diaries

by Andy Cohen

  Gaga’s people emailed asking for Housewives to be in her new video. We went through each cast and sent back two suggestions from each. She also asked me to play Zeus in the video; I said yes, although for some reason I can’t see it happening, nor do I know what playing Zeus entails. I did a bunch of scheduling with Daryn today and I just don’t know when I’m going to be able to do it, or if I believe Gaga really wants me in the first place.

  Because of the blizzard we taped our show at seven so the crew could get home, which was a godsend. Neither rain nor snow nor dead of night can keep Adam from me, so I got a two-and-a-half-hour massage at nine-thirty with the fire blazing. It was heaven.

  WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 22, 2014

  Wacha got freed by Abe Lincoln Cohen last night. I took the cone off and let him sleep with me through the night for the first time. It was pretty great. He was so quiet and sweet. No snoring. Just shnoogled up against my leg. It was cold as shit today. Worked out and then took Wacha to get his stitches removed. He is doing great. I remain proud of my dog, as if I had something to do with his resilience after surgery. The Today show called at 5 to see if I would co-host the 9 a.m. hour tomorrow with Natalie Morales. I am happy they thought of me, and said yes. I’ve got Matt and Savannah on tomorrow night, so it’ll almost seem like it’s a planned tie-in, when I actually think Roker just has a case of the sharts. I actually may develop the same condition because I’m nervous about interviewing Lauer tomorrow. He’s one of my favorite broadcasters and I guess I always thought he was too big or too cool to do my show; I don’t want to fuck this up.

  On my show we had Melissa Gilbert, Nick Kroll, and a gigolo from Gigolos behind the bar, so that was an insane conversation. Melissa Gilbert was very nice and Spanxed into a Herve Leger dress (which I can spot a mile away because it is an OC Housewife favorite). Apparently that gigolo makes 4k for an overnight. His ass was great but we looked at naked pics of him after the show and I don’t know if he looks like he’s worth 4k. I did a fake shot (iced tea) and weigh 171.

  THURSDAY, JANUARY 23, 2014—NYC–LOS ANGELES

  I let the dog sleep with me again because I’m ditching him today for LA. And it was more like a nap because I was up at six-thirty to do the Today show. I had some early-morning nako-time in front of the mirror and it was horrifying. I’ve been feeling thin but I gotta lose the gut. It was so cold and I was so tired that I drank three teas before the show. Sweet David Lauren was there “unveiling” the new Ralph Lauren U.S. Olympic team sweaters they’re wearing for opening ceremonies, and he gave me one. It looks like a Christmas sweater threw up in Washington, DC. But I Instagrammed it anyway. I was surprised by the lack of pre-show preparation; the producers really do just throw you into the ring and let you go, which is kind of an amazing trust fall. During the host chat we played a clip of this tennis reporter asking the winner of the Australian Open what guy she’d like to date—there’s a controversy about whether the question was sexist. I referred to “the poor lesbian reporter who asked it” and I guess either outed the lady or offended someone or speculated when you’re not allowed to speculate. She was a bull dyke and you wouldn’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure it out. The crew all busted up. The segments were really simple—car-buying tips, animal adoption, some uplifting Olympics piece … And at the end of the show the producer said that they’d put something in the prompter that I needed to read, clarifying that I don’t know whether she’s a lesbian and I was just speculating about something I don’t know. At that point Hoda said, “You’re already apologizing???” I left the studio thinking it was funny and hoping it will go away. Everything becomes a “controversy” these days.

  I went straight to WWHL for the Matt and Savannah pre-tape. It was perfect scheduling because I had to go to LA and they needed to tape early. As nervous as I was, Matt was lovely, really came to play, and I didn’t sweat. The two of them were almost better on my show than they are in the morning.

  I ran home, packed, changed, had quality time with Wacha for an hour, and hit the airport. Imagine my surprise when on a packed United flight the chatty flight attendant (blissfully not #BabyJaneFlightAttendant) came over to tell me she loves my show, never talks to people, and that she was more excited about my being on board than Madonna. “Madonna is on this plane?” I could barely get the sentence out of my mouth. She told me that the Material Girl was in seat 1A and I think that I actually pushed this poor woman out of the way as I bolted over like a flash. “I know her! I can say hi!” I protested—or justified—to her, but really to myself. The idea that Madonna was flying commercial, with the people, blew my mind. And there she was, small, in black, with glasses, tiny in her window seat. I asked her what the hell she was doing, and instead of answering she proceeded to make fun of my (yellow flannel) Gant shirt, which I love. “Are you trying to be noticed?” she said. (Hello, pot, this is kettle.…) She asked if I was “in front” and said she would visit me later. I said that actually she wouldn’t come visit and she agreed that she wouldn’t, but asked me to come visit her. I didn’t know if I would be able to muster up another burst of blind courage to make the trip to her seat twice, and I returned to mine grateful for our moment. The plane was a little delayed for mechanical difficulties, so I texted her and said she looked great and tan, and she said tanning is for sinners. When I marveled that she was on a commercial plane, she texted that she does it all the time. She said she is “everyday people.” Uh-huh.

  I went to the bathroom several times during the flight and stayed away from her but did notice a very handsome man seated a few rows ahead of me. Every time I went by, his eyes were on me and we gave each other many half smiles and nods. I pulled the flight attendant aside and asked her if she could find out his name, and while she was at it, if I could see how Madonna was listed on the manifest. Back she came in a jif with the documentation that I am sure is illegal to show passengers and there, in black and white, was “Madonna Louise Ciccone.” I had goose bumps. I mean I know that’s her name but I didn’t expect it all written out like that. The whole thing? I wanted to keep the manifest or take a pic of it but didn’t want to push my luck. The flight attendant asked if I had a crush on the dude in the fifth row and I said I just thought he looked familiar (I am discreet, see) and wanted to remember his name. She read it aloud and I’d never heard it before, and by the time she left I’d completely forgotten it, so there went my chances of finding him on Facebook.

  I did go speak to The Lady again right before we landed, and she was as nice and normal as could be. She said it’s too expensive flying private all the time and that you can feed a lot of people with the amount it costs to fly back and forth from LA. (Madonna feeds people, people!) She said she was going to LA to do something small on the Grammys and I said nothing she does is small and she said she would take that as a compliment. We talked about Lola and her new boyfriend, and about my need for a new sound system in my apartment. I skedaddled back to my seat and on the way back saw a wedding ring on Row 5’s finger. Figures.

  He left the plane before me but gave me a few lingery looks on the way out before completely disappearing into LAX. He was husband material: professional, handsome, big and tall. He looked like a man. I didn’t look for Madonna once we landed—I was grateful for the time we had. I’m a fanboy, but I only act that way 50 percent of the time.

  FRIDAY, JANUARY 24, 2014—LOS ANGELES

  I had a nice email exchange with Matt Lauer about last night. Frankly, I remain amazed that he even knows my name. That show is getting picked up everywhere because he told a hilarious “embarrassing moment” story in which he commented to Vince Gill about some girl’s boobs and she turned out to be Gill’s daughter, and Savannah discussed how awful Kate Gosselin is.

  Shot the Shahs of Sunset reunion today and it was quite engaging and along with the usual histrionics there was a long and interesting conversation about Iran, the Middle East, Islam, and how it all related back to these kids—taking place around a feast of Persian f
ood complete with an Iranian waiter named Farbat who I flirted with the entire day (and he back) until the very end when he told me he is married. This “married” thing is cockblocking me all over the place lately.

  During my break, Diane Ronnau met me for lunch on her break from the CBS Evening News. (I guess she and I are the center of the Venn diagram of CBS News and the Shahs.) I miss working with her—she has the best spirit and the best energy. Very Elaine Benes. Got back to the Sunset Tower just in time for dinner with the Blums and Sandy and Brian. I felt triumphant showing Sandy that I had lost seven pounds based on his unfavorable weight assessment of me last November in the Hamptons. Lily Tomlin came to the table to say hi to Sandy and he introduced us all and asked if she knew me. She said she knew “of me” and an hour later I figured out that she knows “of me” because I am sure Dmitri blabbed to her who was at our table. Aunt Blabby. I hated not drinking at the Tower, which is like being on the inside of a whiskey bottle, but I feel thin!

  SATURDAY, JANUARY 25, 2014—LOS ANGELES–NYC

  I screened two episodes of RHONY on the plane and they were hilarious in that absurd RHONY way, so I had very few notes. It was hard not eating the nuts on the plane. (Or the cookie in the hotel room both nights. Well, I confess I picked at the edges of the cookie but didn’t eat it all.) I went straight to Michael Rourke’s birthday dinner so I didn’t flip Wacha out by coming home and leaving right away. I felt like a dry drunk at dinner, aggressively boring and tired. So I was scintillating company.

  SUNDAY, JANUARY 26, 2014

  I weigh 170.5. How the hell I was able to lose half a pound over the last forty-eight hours of no exercise is beyond me. And how am I going to keep weight off when I start drinking again? I heard from Dave, who is in Vermont and going mental he can’t have a post-ski whiskey. I’m actually in a zone and enjoying not drinking, I decided today.

  I shot intros for two Bravo countdown shows, then did m’show and raced out of there to watch Downton Abbey.

  My gift to myself (as I am my own lover and long-term companion, I like to treat myself special every so often) last night was sleeping with Wacha. At one point both our heads were on my pillow facing each other. Disturbingly, I may be isolating myself from human contact by getting satisfaction from this dog. I ate all protein and quinoa today. There is some potential that I will go mental one way or another before this month is over.

  MONDAY, JANUARY 27, 2014

  I was at the courthouse at the crack of dawn this morning because I’d deferred jury duty three times and had no choice. I brought my boarding pass for my flight tomorrow and discovered that I was scheduled to a two-week federal case. I had no clue what I was dealing with. I was at the front of the room negotiating for dates to come back in late April when the woman looked at me and said she just realized who I was. “I am gonna mark you as time served, Mr. Cohen; we will see you in four years.” I almost came in my pants. This is exactly the kind of illegal, totally unfair celebrity perk I have been waiting for all my life. I gave her tickets to my show and skipped out of the courthouse.

  To make the day even better, I weighed myself and had lost a half pound, which is a good thing since I essentially starved myself yesterday. Also, I spoke to Mr. Liebowitz at the building management company, who reported that I can see the upstairs apartment in late February. And I walked the dog while wearing the Ralph Lauren Olympic Christmas Sweater—it’s so insane it’s starting to grow on me.

  We did a live show and taped one so I can be in Miami tomorrow night.

  Wacha shit in the extra bedroom. He knew he fucked up. It’s really hard to stay mad at a dog. Especially this dog, with those eyes.

  TUESDAY, JANUARY 28, 2014—NYC–MIAMI

  How on God’s green earth is it possible that I had the same driver to LaGuardia that I had a few months ago and we had the same interaction about how to get there in which I told him to cross town on Twelfth Street and go up Third Avenue, he pretended to not speak English so good, and we wound up going up Sixth Avenue and crossing on Thirty-sixth Street, which was exactly the way I did not want to go. Sometimes I feel like I’m talking to myself because ain’t nobody listening.

  Meanwhile it is cold as balls.

  The flight attendant went on and on about my rings and asked what my wife does. I should’ve made up a story. “My wife is a realtor! But she has amazing taste in jewelry. I just do what she says.…” Why didn’t I say that? Instead I told her I don’t have a wife, which made me feel lonely. Maybe I want a wife?

  I landed and got a brilliant forty-five minutes of sun and a salad (no rosé, ugh) at the pool of the Delano before heading to NATPE at the Fontainebleau. I did a session with a reporter from TV Guide that I thought went pretty well. I managed to successfully avoid saying anything stupid about the Duck Dynasty scandal or the upcoming Olympics. (I don’t want to piss off my employer, thank you—although I would’ve liked to say that, as a gay man, I would rather go to hell than to Sochi.)

  I presented Lauren with a Brandon Tartikoff Legacy Award tonight in front of a heady crowd. The other honorees included James L. Brooks, an idol of mine and anyone who loves TV. There was a dinner after and LZ let me off the hook after cocktails and told me to go back to the Delano if I felt like it, which was much appreciated given that I felt like a white-knuckling dry drunk. I was tired and boring, and I probably would’ve been more upbeat with a whiskey. Sad but true.

  Oh, and today I wore what I thought was the perfect Todd Snyder suit—olive and cottony and kinda summery but all-weather—but I forgot that when I tried it on initially Todd himself offhandedly shared that they use some strain of stainless steel, or metal, in the fabric. I didn’t think twice about it but after walking through two airports and the perimeter of the Fontainebleau I realized that the metal was chafing the back of my legs and my ass. By the time cocktails began at the last event, I was trying to pull the suit away from my backside, making it seem that I was picking it out of my ass, which is disgusting. Some guy who runs production at Macy’s came up to me and said that he wasn’t even gonna ask me what I was doing with my pants, which seems rather forward from a stranger but indeed I explained the whole story to him.

  I had a Gay Sophie’s Choice moment at the end of the night choosing between two Miami locals who’ve regularly provided me sweet South Florida hospitality: one a gingy, the other a black man. I am confident that I made the right choice. Once you go black …

  WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 29, 2014—MIAMI–NYC

  I was so proud of myself yesterday for just packing a backpack to go to Miami for the night and then I was chafing and hobbling my way to the last gate in the American terminal in this fucking suit. What kind of metal is in this fabric? I couldn’t wait to take it off! My suit hurts!

  Sonja wants to change her intro line about going commando because she’s a businesswoman and she doesn’t want to lose deals, but the shows are locked and loaded, so we can’t.

  Sarah Silverman was hilarious tonight. She doesn’t drink either, so we just had sober fun. I did a shot of iced tea in the shotski. And Cher called in. Two more days of sobriety.

  THURSDAY, JANUARY 30, 2014

  We heard from Todd’s people, who said it’s impossible I got chafed from the suit because it’s only 6 percent stainless steel. I want to bring him the pants so he can see that that 6 percent was basically up my ass.

  Today we had three-city Housewives drama. Spent a fair amount of time on the phone with Lisa Vanderpump, who is not thrilled with something coming up on RHOBH, then I was trying to get Phaedra to come on WWHL—she doesn’t want to at this moment because of the charges against Apollo—and all day I was feeling bad for Ramona, who has filed for divorce. Had lunch with the World of Wonder guys and came up with two ideas—one is a documentary on the Supremes, which I’ve been wanting to do forever, and the other is a live-action scripted show about celebrity dogs, like a fake reality show. I am Kate Gosselin and Wacha is Mady, that’s what’s happening apparently.

 
I lost another pound, so I’m 169. It’s falling off now.

  The Full House guys reunited on the show and they’d been doing press all day, so John Stamos was a lil drunk and repeating himself but so sweet. What he was repeating were all compliments about me and the show, so I wanted him to just keep going. And he called me handsome, so what do I care about repetition.

  I had an endless late-night massage. Fell asleep a few times on the table. Didn’t actually get to bed until almost three.

  FRIDAY, JANUARY 31, 2014

  The day was good but the night was epic, and not because I was able to break my drinking hymen. (That’s a thing.)

  Whoopi Goldberg had given me this portable pot pen/vape thing that I took on a test run right before going to Howard Stern’s sixtieth birthday party, which was a live radio show from the Hammerstein Ballroom and as close to Oprah’s Legends Ball as I’m ever going to get. The pen worked, and I was totally overwhelmed by the event—it was exactly what I love. Really random stars everywhere. I brought Eli; he is a huge Howard fan. I was gleeful to find Sandra Bernhard and Sarah seated at my table. Also Dr. Drew and his wife were there. We were directly below the box where they put the Wack Pack, so it was High Pitch Eric and Mariann from Brooklyn and the rest. A fight broke out between them at one point. And Mariann from Brooklyn passed me her number—she wants to bartend.

  The tables around us were packed with the eclectic group of stars who love Howard … Steven Tyler, Dave Grohl, Robert Downey Jr., Barbara Walters (I stayed away), Johnny Knoxville, John Stamos, Larry King, Harvey Weinstein, and on and on. Lena Dunham was at the table next to me with her cute boyfriend, who gave me fruity gum. She said she’s about to adopt a dog from the same place as me, but hers is deaf and blind. So I guess she is going to heaven. (I wonder if Wacha’s bum hips will get me in?) Ryan Phillippe was at Lena’s table and I spent a lot of time just looking at his back (and by back I mean ass). He was puffing on the exact same pot pen thing that Whoopi had given me. I didn’t puff mine inside for fear of getting written up somewhere and fired. (I really, really don’t want to get fired.)