The Andy Cohen Diaries

by Andy Cohen

  Jimmy Kimmel hosted and it was the greatest variety radio show ever. Performances from John Mayer (he killed “Like a Rolling Stone”), Adam Levine (“Purple Rain”), John Fogerty (“Fortunate Son”), Jon Bon Jovi (“Wanted Dead or Alive”—all I need to hear ever), plus Letterman, Fallon, Rosie, Joan Rivers, Whoopi, Sarah Silverman, Chris Christie, Tan Mom, Bryan Cranston, and Louis C.K. spoke.

  I love Sandra’s commentary of award shows on Twitter, and view her as a supreme celebrity snarkologist, so to have her across from me even to look at during the show was heaven on earth.

  As I sat there watching this often inappropriate yet perfect marriage of high and low culture, it dawned on me for sure that WWHL is closer to The Howard Stern Show than it is to any other show, which made me happy. And the Housewives are my own Wack Pack.

  I grabbed a “VIP Gift Bag” at the exit and Eli and I gave Sandra, who somehow missed the gifting area, a ride home; I made her announce each item from the bag and we all divided them up in the backseat. It was, as all gift bags are, sundry pieces of crap, but I would’ve paid good money to hear Sandra announce them (“a power bar, full of toxins!” “Female lubricant”). I gave her the big-ticket item, a Kindle Fire. I wasn’t sure whether I would’ve used it, and she deserved it.

  Eli and I made a pit stop to smoke the pen and walk Wacha and saw a car fully on fire across Eighth Avenue from my apartment. The NYFD got there before it could blow up, but it was engulfed and pretty exciting. Wacha was not too impressed. Then we went to the GQ party at the Top of the Standard. On the way in, someone was screaming at me that he was with Kyle Richards in the bar and the lady with the list said, “We cannot open up the list,” so immediately I am codependent not wanting to leave a Housewife in peril. But I went upstairs anyway, where sure enough ten minutes later Kyle materialized. (Housewives are resilient!) I had a lovely chat with her and Mauricio, who kept mentioning how hot his wife is. Good for them. Also Michael Voltaggio showed up looking as cute as ever. He is very straight but somehow I wind up very handsy with his hair when I see him.

  Eli and I toasted over my first whiskey in a month. For two hours I sipped two of them, and, man, did they taste great. I impressed my own damn self with my pacing and strength in not guzzling. Cardinal legend Jim Edmonds joined us with his fiancée Meghan and that was a fun hang. The crowd was a weird mix of sports and fashion. And Macklemore was at the table next to us. (No sign of Lewis.)

  Although there was no reason to leave, I impressively called it a night around two. (I am glad I was able to impress myself so many times today, because I’m pretty sure I didn’t impress anybody else.) I forgot how fun it is to be with Wacha when I’m a little drunk.

  SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 1, 2014

  There’s a disturbing article in the NY Post about a young Puerto Rican boxer who was killed and his family honored his dying wish by propping up his corpse in a fake boxing ring they’d constructed in the corner of the rec center of his housing complex. There are photos of this embalmed boxer propped up, and of his family posing for pictures with the corpse, which is wearing boxing gear and sunglasses. It’s called “Dearly Begloved.” I ripped it out of the paper.

  I took Wacha on a long walk through the Village. I wore the Ralph Lauren Olympics Opening Ceremony Sweater, which I need to reiterate looks like a bomb exploded somewhere between SantaLand and Washington, DC. People were agape. We stopped by Bruce’s and his doorman, of course, gave me “And your name is???” He looked right through the Christmas Olympics Sweater too. What does he notice?

  On the way home a homeless lady sitting by the subway complimented the sweater. So it turns out the homeless are wild for Ralph’s Olympic gear. I walked two blocks, turned around, and brought her five dollars, the least I could do for the only person to compliment my ugly sweater. Frankly, she seemed more pleased with the sweater than the five bucks. The sweater does fit great.

  Oh, and somehow I wound up with the female lube from that gift bag last night. Usually I give leftover gift bag stuff to my housekeeper, but this would seem weird, right?

  Went with Bruce to Buyer & Cellar, which was hilarious. Had dinner at Morandi. I had invitations to a bunch of Super Bowl parties all over town, each with a different great musical act (Robin Thicke at ESPN, Nelly at Playboy, etc.)—so we had to make a decision and went with the DirecTV bash, where Jay Z was performing, and rumor had it that Bey was going to as well. Mistake! Ten thousand people in an airport-hangar-y type of tent by the river. I am sure there was a fun roped-off area, but we didn’t see it. Convinced it was a shitshow and there was no way Bey was going to show her perfect face, we left after about three minutes and saw Kyle Richards coming in on our way out. We had a nightcap at Waverly. Over the course of the entire evening I had a tequila and a red wine; slow and steady wins the race, is my new philosophy.

  SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 2, 2014

  Gayle King emailed that it was an incredible party we missed. So, shit. Apparently, McCartney and Leonardo DiCaprio were there and Beyoncé did perform and Jay Z sang all his hits.

  I brought the article about the dead boxer to the gym. I feel like I need to discuss it with people because it’s so nuts. Will was disturbed, but not disturbed enough for my taste. I gained a pound and I blame Equinox. I have no clue why I still have a membership there since I get trained at Willspace, and in my first visit in more than a year yesterday I drank a fucking sugary protein shake after I worked out, under the false pretense that it was perhaps healthy, but Will broke down the ingredients for me. I hate eating right. I was happily swilling SpaghettiOs over Christmas and now I’m eating only protein, not snacking, and white-knuckling over shakes.

  I guess a few months have elapsed since my mom’s last breakdown about my going on Bill Maher’s show, because we again spent a few minutes Skypeing about this hypothetical non-issue. It is amusing to me how upset she gets by just the notion of me having to keep up with Bill Maher. “I really DON’T think you’re dumb,” she tried to reassure me. I think I found my April Fools joke.

  Tonight I spent twenty minutes searching the couch for my right contact lens, which I was very sanitarily cleaning in my mouth when I somehow dropped it. Wacha was incredibly confused by what I was doing. I gave up and went to the spare pair. Went to Marci Klein’s for the Super Bowl, and she served the best brick chicken I have ever eaten. Ever. Mark and Kelly were there as well as Tina Fey, who is exactly the person you would want to watch watching the Super Bowl, which I did as much as I possibly could. She said she’d seen and liked the Anchorman episode of WWHL, which made me nervous in retrospect. I never imagine anyone specific actually watching the show, which is probably a good thing. I wonder if she noticed how bad I was sweating. Kelly had seen the NY Post article about the boxer and also was very freaked out, so that was oddly satisfying.

  I went home and watched Downton Abbey and Looking, which were better than the shitty football game. I went to bed at twelve-thirty, which is maybe the earliest my bed has seen me in years. I’m sure it appreciated that.

  MONDAY, FEBRUARY 3, 2014

  One of my ten happiest moments of every day occurs the moment Wacha squats down to poo. It’s a win for the universe every time Wacha shits. And today it was snowing, so I was glad he took a big quick one so we could get back inside. He still has the cone and it’s too much to bear. For me. He walks into walls with it and is constantly misjudging distances. But he’s a trouper. It’s me who is feeling the brunt of how sad it is.

  I found the contact lens between the cushions of the couch. It seems fine and is currently resting comfortably in saline solution.

  TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 4, 2014

  Bravo is moving (my fourth move since working there) to the fourteenth floor and my new office is way smaller than my current (blessedly big, I would actually say huge) corner suite. Since I’m no longer an exec there, it’s pretty cool they’re giving me a place to hang my hat when I’m at Rock Center; regardless, I have a ton of stuff to get rid of and that’s what I did today
. I have so many papers that I would like to consider a part of TV History that I fear may just be trash: casting for every season of Top Chef, Housewives, and Project Runway, research on shows that worked (Flipping Out) and ones that didn’t hit (NYC Prep), and early development of everything in the past ten years. I threw out a bunch of Housewives casting but now I’m regretting it.

  It seems like the Gaga video is actually happening on Saturday morning in LA. I think it’s just me in front of a green screen in a little room. I gotta download that song.

  Tonight Jonathan Groff was on the show and he is so cute; I tried not to flirt.

  WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 5, 2014

  Every year the big black-tie amfAR event happens on the day of a major winter storm, and so, like clockwork, this morning ice and sleet began falling at once from the sky. Mother Nature is mixing the shit up! Wacha tried to frolic but quickly realized that it sucked, and wanted to go inside. I always wonder whether they’ll cancel amfAR and they never do and everyone shows up, including me. I went as Natasha’s date for years before she died, and tonight they were honoring Joely and Vanessa and this storm wasn’t going to keep me from that. It was a heavy-hitting crowd—it always is at those things—and the person I was most excited to hear speak was Harry Belafonte.

  I was supposed to begin the tribute by introing a video and then Jessie Eisenberg was due up, but his flight got canceled and Liam stepped in to do it last-minute as a surprise to Vanessa and Joely, who was trying to guess who the presenter could be. I would only tell her that it was someone she loved and someone I loved, so she was sure it was Hickey. The boys came and it was incredibly touching having them there, grown up. Natasha would’ve loved it. I think about her—and miss her—every day.

  Also at our table was Dr. Mathilde Krim (holla!) and Ethan Hawke and Ryan Shawhughes. Ethan had been paying his respects to Philip Seymour Hoffman earlier in the day (who is all anyone is talking about this week). I’d felt bad about missing Macbeth but Ethan was so cool about it; I wish everyone was as cool as he was about missing a show. Some people I’d classify as only casual pals have been really offended that I’ve not shown up to see them onstage recently, so I worry.

  Liam was in great form. He has movies stacked up like planes at JFK waiting to take off—eight of them. Joely and Vanessa, expecting Jessie Eisenberg, seemed touched and emo about him speaking on their and Natasha’s behalf.

  I had to run out early to do the show and missed Chic and Grace Jones, but on the way out shook hands with Chelsea Clinton, who is very unlike both musical acts. I left thinking there’s gonna be a cure for AIDS in the next ten years.

  We had the Top Chef winner and finalist on, which is always fun. I drank two tequilas and was feeling no pain by the time I got home. After a drunky walk with Wacha (the best kind, if I haven’t made that clear), I stepped into my elevator and walked smack into a handsome man with whom I immediately started flirting. It was a light flirt, a smiley “How was your night?” He’d been working late. I told him mine was “great!” He told me he’d actually been on an airplane with me a couple weeks ago and it took me exactly two floors to realize this was the handsome stranger with the wedding ring from the Madonna flight to LA. OMFG. The door opened on ten and before I could muster anything he told me that’s his floor and hesitantly started stepping out. “Wait—what’s your name?” I asked, though I had looked at it on the manifest two weeks before. It’s Brendan. Brendan! How’d I forget that? We would’ve talked longer but in came the sweet Italian man who loves Wacha.

  The airplane guy lives on the tenth floor! Who is his husband?

  THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 6, 2014—NYC–LOS ANGELES

  Before my walk this morning I made Surfin spill the tea on my tenth-floor future lover. He is not married, says Surfin, and he is barely in NYC. He mainly lives in LA, and he rents. He’s a renter. I am beside myself about the whole thing. I will say, he’s not as tall as I remember from the plane. I remember thinking he was huge. I need to see him again when I am sober.

  I am back at 169 even though I drunkenly ate a fistful of gummies after the show last night. My Ninj made me do a zillion squats today. All the fuck I do is squats. My ass should be a cantaloupe by now.

  A thousand years ago, a woman gave a boatload of money to Hurricane Sandy relief for the (honor?) of having dinner with SJP and me. The date has changed fifteen times in the last year and a half but tonight was it. I picked up SJ and had made a list of eight essential items to discuss with her before we gave ourselves to the johns who awaited us at Blue Hill. The biggest item on the list was getting her counsel about next week’s American Songbook Gala at Lincoln Center honoring Bryan, where both of us are appearing. I’ve been stressed and overwhelmed daily trying to find the right words, or poem to read, to pay tribute to my friend who is not only a Hollywood Superagent but a great communicator and gentleman. I want to say something that’ll match and capture his grace. She had some ideas, and something for me too, which was an invitation to her table at the Met Ball—which is an OMG invite. It’s better than the Oscars and harder to get into. She has room at her table and was saying, “If you could invite anyone, who would you invite? Someone that would blow you away.” I said Prince Harry. She is going to see what she can do but thinks he is probably booked for the next two years. On her list was Donna Tartt. We were both so blown away by The Goldfinch; I’m all for it.

  The dinner turned out to be lovely not only because the food was so freaking good, but the group who paid for our time were great, from Cincinnati and just the type of people you would want to do something awkward like this with. It was all really loving and fun and easy and they were big Bravo watchers. We took every combination of photo available and then I careened it to the airport to get an eight-fifteen flight to LA to reunite the Real Hens of Beverly Hills.

  I am rereading The Andy Warhol Diaries, so I was sucked into that for the whole flight. On this date in 1982, Andy had dinner with Diana Ross, Iman, Bianca Jagger, Steve Rubell, and Barry. He said he tried to make Barry laugh “because he never does and everybody says it’s impossible,” which of course tickled me. I think it’s gotten less impossible thirty years later but he’s still not handing out laughs to just anybody. After dinner they went to see Calvin Klein’s new apartment on Sixty-sixth and Central Park West and Diana Ross took a limo. Just when I started to think I was born in the wrong decade, Andy starts talking about a guy at dinner who he didn’t want to get close to because he had “gay cancer.” I was born at exactly the right time and I’m lucky to be alive.

  FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 7, 2014—LOS ANGELES

  Ugh! I woke up at six forty-five this morning and opened the shades to discover what looked like the apocalypse, but turned out to be a smoggy morning in LA. The end-of-days visual seemed an apt metaphor for what I was facing: the RHOBH reunion. I suspected it was going to be long and brutal and it was. Two of the Housewives refused to sit next to Carlton because they believed that she had put spells on them, or that somehow she would put a spell on them. So there was last-minute seat juggling. They’d all watched the last five episodes (which haven’t aired yet) yesterday, so they were lathered up, especially Lisa, who gets a little ganged up on in the finale. She apparently watched them with Tyler Perry—TV watching à deux I really would have liked to witness.

  I went into the day with the hunch that this was going to be the first and last reunion for Joyce and Carlton, and I didn’t get the sense they had the same idea. Actually, I am pretty sure Carlton does know and I feel bad for her—we only showed her as a sex-starved Wiccan. In retrospect we could’ve fleshed out more aspects of her life. Joyce was a river of words and was bugging the shit out of Yolanda; as the two of them were going at it my mind turned the corner into morphing this into some other kind of alternate-universe version of the Housewives: “Joyce, you are no longer a Housewife. Please leave the reunion.”

  After about seven hours I tried to wrap it up and go into full conflict resolution with Lisa and Brandi, and
Lisa and Kyle. (“What one thing do you want Lisa to own right now, Kyle? Can you do that, Lisa?”) I don’t know if it worked but I was trying to make it all better as I saw genuine tears in Brandi’s and Kyle’s eyes and hurt in Lisa’s. During a break near the end, Lisa asked me what I thought of the day and I said, “It is clear these girls love you,” but she intimated they were only acting that way because they thought they came off badly in the finale. One of the issues here is that in every city, some of the women are simultaneously living their real lives and playing to the audience’s perception of them, and that always winds up biting them in the ass. It’s worse in this franchise than anywhere else, maybe because it’s an industry town.

  We wrapped at about 9 p.m. and I met Hickey and Jeff, who were having dinner with Jeff’s family somewhere on Melrose. I had a Maker’s-and-ginger, which I drank too fast, but only one. I’m really trying to stick to my protein/veggie plan and I already felt victorious having barely made a dent in the reunion craft service (crafty is my kryptonite), but the booze loosened me up and I grazed on all their desserts, so that was a big cheat. Then I shame-ate a chocolate chip cookie in the hotel room. I’m powerless to a chocolate chip cookie next to my bed. Or anywhere.

  I missed a great party in NYC tonight at Jimmy’s, celebrating his last night on Late Night. I hate missing great parties. Hate.

  SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 8, 2014—LOS ANGELES–NYC

  Another early morning, this time for the Lady Gaga video shoot. I was told it was a green-screen solo shoot they were tacking onto the schedule because it was my only available day. I’d listened to the song (“G.U.Y.”) a few times on the treadmill last week but otherwise didn’t give it a moment’s thought even though John Hill kept telling me what a big deal it was. I got there and it turns out he was right.