The Andy Cohen Diaries

by Andy Cohen

  Here’s how it went down: A cool woman leads me through a huge soundstage to my dressing room, says they added this day—at great expense—for me, and hands me the lyrics and tells me to learn them while I get made up. I thought I was just supposed to learn the chorus! “You’re playing Zeus,” she says, “and you’re singing in front of a green screen.” I’ve done no research on Zeus or contemplated what this might entail. “I’ll tell LG you’re here. She wants to come brief you.”

  Wait—LG is here? And is that what we call her? LG? I foolishly assumed that she wouldn’t be at the shoot. I don’t know if I thought she was too busy or what, but it turns out she is directing the video. I text John immediately (who is crazily in town for the weekend) to get his ass over there in a hurry, LG is directing me!

  Gaga comes over and is warm and enthusiastic and blows a ton of smoke up my ass (she says something along the lines of “This is about a celebration of your success and career and women everywhere wanting to be with you, or be slaves to you”) and recites parts of the song (“Touch me, touch me, don’t be sweet / love me, love me, please retweet / let me be the girl under you that makes you cry”) to me—surreal—while giving me attitude cues (“Be sexy, strong, playful, godlike”). She’s wearing a do-rag, Anthrax T-shirt, leather jacket, and jeans. I ask her if she’s directed other videos and she starts rattling off her hits. She says they are mixing in another song from Artpop and needs me to hear it, so she grabs my phone and starts looking for the album, only to find that I don’t own her album. I only downloaded “G.U.Y.” and “Applause” and what are the chances that the artist herself would find out? Awkward. She puts the phone down and says they are only using my head, which will be floating in the sky, so there is no wardrobe. And by “no wardrobe” she means I should just take off my shirt because they need my shoulders bare. OK …

  They bring me to the set just as John is walking in with raised eyebrow—he knew it was gonna be a big deal. Never could an intense six-week workout regimen be more instantly rewarded than the moment I take my shirt off in front of Gaga and a soundstage full of people without embarrassment. Gaga cues up the track and gives me specifics on how to sing the lyrics. I fuck up the lyrics left and right but I am a music video superstar, and she is there by the monitor cheering me on, singing along with herself, whooping it up, and making me feel like a million bucks the whole time. (John’s standing behind her shaking his head.) When I finally get the lyrics in my head and the right attitude, I scream at her that I am about to cum, which I hope she takes as the expression of gratitude it is meant to be. I get the take.

  We shot for about forty-five minutes and it just so happens that singing along to a blasting Lady Gaga song shirtless in front of a massive crew and Lady Gaga cheering you on is really fucking fun!

  Oh, and I couldn’t resist telling her about Mariah’s lighting requirements.

  I was so pumped after the shoot and had time to kill before my plane, so I had to make a plan. It was only 10 a.m., so I met Hickey for breakfast at the Tower and we had a ton of laughs. Heidi Fleiss was at the next table, so that was very LA. I fucked her. Kidding.

  I had a few tokes of the Whoopi vape pen and walked onto the plane feeling so Jah and happy until I heard a familiar very cheery voice around the corner. It was the #BabyJaneFlightAttendant! Three flights with her in three months. On top of that, Mariah’s publicist, Cindi Berger, was sitting behind me and Brandi Glanville catty-corner. She was exhausted from the reunion, natch. (Aren’t we all, Brandi? Aren’t we all.) I had an important epiphany: The reason I am so upset by and nasty to #BabyJaneFlightAttendant is that she lingers two beats longer than is necessary for every interaction. “The jury’s out on these new seats!!!!!” Beat. Beat. Beat. “You want more nuts? No?” Searching. For. More. Interaction. It’s exhausting. #FirstWorldProblems.

  The tribute to Bryan is Monday, and I had vowed to write my speech for him on the plane; Bruce had steered me in the direction of speaking about his love for theater, which was a good idea, but instead of writing I did other homework—watched three episodes of RHOA. So that’s still hanging over me. I landed in NYC and met Bruce and Bryan for a drink.

  Turns out I missed another fun party tonight—this time in LA—Mary McCormack’s birthday. Wrong city two nights in a row.

  SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 9, 2014

  I saw a guy at the gym today wearing tights and his ass was so round and big and perfect that I couldn’t get it out of my head all day. If I had an ass like that I would wear tights too. He wanted nothing to do with me.

  The show was a disaster—tons of technical fuckups. It felt like the first time we’d ever done it. I hope nobody I knew saw it. Actually, I hope no strangers did either.

  MONDAY, FEBRUARY 10, 2014

  I woke up freaking out about speaking tonight at Bryan’s tribute at Lincoln Center. I took Bruce’s advice and wrote something about his love of theater and our late nights at Marie’s Crisis. Hickey was on a plane to New York and we were emailing back and forth—he really helped me shape it, but still, it nagged at me all day.

  We taped tonight’s show with Jenny McCarthy and Brandi Glanville early. The game tested their knowledge of a U.S. citizenship test that Yolanda had taken on RHOBH; it turned out to be kind of hard—neither of them did so well and yours truly wouldn’t have done much better. Jenny, who is simultaneously a few days into starving herself on a juice fast and quitting smoking, essentially lost her grip in the hallway after the show. She was really upset about the game, which she thought was built to make them look stupid, and said she was never doing the show again. We wound up subbing out a game of word association. She was really appreciative. I like her. When she’s not quitting smoking and on a fast, which is clearly a deadly combination.

  So then it was on to Lincoln Center. I recited my speech the entire way up Tenth Avenue until I’d memorized it. I got there just as Mantello, who was directing the night, was speaking to all the actors taking part. The concept was Barkin welcoming everyone in front of a closed curtain, saying that she knew Bryan would prefer to be at home in his living room right now, so we attempted to bring his living room to Lincoln Center, at which point the curtain comes down to reveal a group of us—Alan Cumming, Kristin Chenoweth, Mark and Kelly, Anne Hathaway, Allison Williams, Patty Clarkson, Marisa Tomei, Matt Bomer, SJP, and me—sprawled on couches with cocktails in a re-creation of Bruce and Bryan’s penthouse. I was the only non-actor up there, and I was relieved to be sitting on the couch with SJ, who was nervous herself to be singing (“NYC” from Annie). The unspoken barnacle stuck on our nerves was that the audience was going to be filled with every fancypants power person and movie star from both coasts. The convo on the couch was whether to go up holding my piece of paper as a crutch or not. SJ said to do whatever made me comfortable. I was second up, after Chenoweth, didn’t bring my paper, and immediately saw Hickey in the audience, which put me at ease. It was good, and better even, I got to sit back and enjoy the rest of the show with a cocktail in my hand.

  Before SJ went up to sing she whispered, “Is that Madonna sitting in the third row?” Indeed, directly in front of us, there she was and as I breathed a sigh of relief I hadn’t seen her before I spoke, SJ bravely stepped up and broke my and everybody else’s hearts with her song. By the time Daniel Craig (sans porno mustache, the play closed) brought Bryan to the stage, the whole audience felt like they knew him a little better. A powerhouse crowd milled around the party—Anna Wintour, Reese Witherspoon, Barry, DVF, David Geffen, Brad Grey, Sandy, Lorne Michaels, Gwyneth Paltrow, Liam, Whoopi, and a shitload of other people who I am thrilled also not to have realized were in the audience before I spoke. Jimmy (he starts The Tonight Show next week!) and I laughed over our carb faces. He is so ready to go, and along with all the press he’s been doing he was on the cover of Men’s Health, which is hilarious given that I think of him as a booze-and-chips buddy. Oh, and amidst it all the Countess walked up in a white gown. And Carole was there too, not that I think
of Carole as a Housewife, but she is one. A magical NYC night.

  Bryan had a very happy soiree in the sky (at the Skylark), jam-packed with iconic revelers ready to light it up, surrounded by a 360-degree view of Midtown. I met a sweet guy—an actor—and we exchanged numbers and planned to get drinks. I can’t tell if the guy thinks it’s a friend thing or a date thing. I need to let him know I’m not looking for a new friend. Hickey, Joe, and I tried to make something happen on the dance floor but people were falling all over each other and a few gay guys were closing in on a straight hockey player; we left just as we sensed it was turning the corner into messy—about one forty-five—and went home to walk Wacha. The boys were so happy to see him—and he them—and the group of us had a drunken, laughter-filled walk around the Village in the freezing cold at 2 a.m.

  TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 11, 2014

  I need to marry a fireman. That’s my new plan.

  Tonight was Radzi’s book party at her house. I re-met Kristen, the new New York Housewife, whom I hadn’t seen since the night we were introduced by Brandi a year ago. She’s gonna be great on the show. I tried to prep her husband, Josh, because I think it’s going to be a rough season for him. We show him being tough on his wife.

  After the party Bruce, Liza, Bryan, and I walked to a Mexican restaurant and that’s when I had the moment with a tall fireman in front of that firehouse on Sixth Avenue and Houston. He made a point to tell me he had seen Kelly’s show that morning, and we couldn’t figure out exactly why he wanted me to know that—I thought he was trying to say he knew who I was because Kelly and I are friends, but the discussion as we walked away veered into the idea that he was trying to subliminally come out to me. At dinner, we debated it and decided it absolutely was the former and he was straight. That being said, I think I need to date a fireman. They have to spend a few nights a week at the firehouse, which is perfect for me. I gotta do my show while he’s fighting fires and I think the distance would be good for us, although of course I’d be worried all the time about my man. Maybe I would bake cookies for the guys in the station and tell them about Teresa. I for sure would get involved with the other Firehouse Spouses. I am completely ready to embrace a new community of people.

  WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 12, 2014

  This morning Harry Smith interviewed me for Meet the Press about the state of gay America. I talked about Michael Sam coming out and called Putin a bastard. I hope they use that part. I didn’t tell my mom beforehand; she would have been terrified. Sean is doing Dancing with the Stars. I hooked him up with Ricki Lake to give him advice. I want him to go far.

  I am 168 pounds.

  It was sleepover night! Dave came to the show (Seth Meyers was on) and back at my apartment we did what we spent four years perfecting in college: sipping whiskey, listening to music, talking about the imminent environmental destruction of our planet, and noshing. We lit a fire and cuddled with Wacha as we watched another big snowstorm blanket the city. At 2 a.m. we took Wacha out for a walk (with our cocktails) and it was completely still and quiet. Wacha made the cutest little paw prints in the fresh snow.

  THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 13, 2014—NYC–BRITISH VIRGIN ISLANDS

  Woke up very hungover after only about five hours of sleep—my first bad hangover of the year. Last night’s snowstorm was still raging and meant to go on all day. I taped two shows during the day and was scheduled to fly to the British Virgin Islands at 7 p.m. to spend five days at sea with our regular group (See: Lake Powell), but needless to say, the snow was a factor.

  Turns out there was a window of time between six-thirty and seven-thirty where the ten of us could take off before the icy snow started again—we made it. Careening out of Teterboro in the middle of the storm, we felt like we’d escaped. Went to bed at sea.

  FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 14, 2014–TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 2014—BRITISH VIRGIN ISLANDS–NYC

  Five days of long morning swims in the open blue-green ocean, a rainbow of colors underwater snorkeling, afternoon hikes, tons of laughter, lots of sleep, and probably too much booze and food. I can’t not indulge myself on vacation—what is the freaking point of life? I finished reading Sedition, which I enjoyed. I did no work, but managed to stress myself out about my production company. One night Wendi Murdoch came over for dinner with her party of eleven tech smarties, including Larry Page from Google, the guy who invented kitesurfing, the inventor of the Segway, and the (former?) head of YouTube, who all made us feel kinda dumb. None of them seemed to have much of a clue about pop culture; let me put it this way—they are so busy reinventing the world they didn’t even know who Anderson was. We visited Page’s private island off Virgin Gorda; as private islands go, it was a winner. (And by that I mean I have never been to a private island before.)

  We landed Tuesday midday in another fucking snowstorm. This is torture. But Wacha was very hyper to see me, which made me happy to be home.

  Robin Quivers and Patti LaBelle were on my show, and the fire alarm went off as we were close to air, meaning that Miss Patti and Quivers had to walk down six flights of stairs. The ratings for my show are growing but it remains blissfully very homemade; we made air and it was a good one.

  At midnight, I had what I hoped was a date at Anfora with the actor I’d met at Bryan’s party, but I had initiated getting together so earnestly I was not sure how the invitation was received. But I think it was indeed a date. There was a lot of innocent flirtation and getting-to-know-you, which, frankly, I haven’t allowed myself to engage in in longer than I care to admit. The truth is I just haven’t been able to get it up (figuratively) for anyone in … forever. But I did with him and that took me by surprise. He inadvertently walked me home, where I turned a peck on the lips under my awning into something more substantial of a goodbye. I went upstairs feeling really tingly and sweet. I sent a text affirming (and seeking his affirmation) that that was really nice and fun. Affirmation received.

  WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 19, 2014

  What the hell was going on with the traffic all day? Wacha’s hip appears to be better—he is busting out wanting to play—and he was supposed to have an X-ray on the Upper East Side at the Barbara Walters Animal Medical Center, but I spent twenty minutes going three blocks in an Uber and decided to put it off for a week.

  I texted my date something innocuous and he waited ninety minutes before texting me back something equally innocuous. I responded immediately and got his reply another two hours later, so Bruce has put me on text lockdown. I am not allowed to contact him until Sunday. (I am gonna get that moved to Saturday, though Bruce doesn’t realize it yet.) Whatever winds up happening there, I feel like I broke my date seal, which had been closed up for too long.

  On the way home from an hour of heavy weights/low reps with the Ninj, I stopped at the bodega on Bleecker and Hudson, the one that I stop at every day and they act like they’ve never seen me before. I didn’t have enough cash for my bread, flowers, chicken sausage, and eggs (I don’t know what’s more shocking—that this diet actually has me preparing food in my kitchen, or that those few items amazingly combined to total forty-something dollars), so I removed the chicken sausage but still was a dollar short. I asked if I could bring back the dollar bill tomorrow, and told them that of course I was good for it, I’m there four or five days a week after the gym. It was a little touch-and-go as they hemmed and hawed in front of all the people in line behind me, but they finally said yes. That place is always a little humiliating in some way.

  The show was fun and we all stayed and drank after. I got home at 1 a.m. and Lance Bass texted that he was in a cab heading downtown, so I invited him over for a nightcap. He is sweet as ever—we talked dogs for a long time (he agreed that Wacha is perfect), and I got some good Lou Pearlman stories out of him.

  Maybe because of my text lockdown with the actor, I’ve remembered my future husband on the tenth floor. He disappeared again! I need to tell Surfin to let me know the next time he’s in town. Or at least his full name so I can find him online.

&nbs
p; THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 20, 2014

  Woke up hungover, but it was sunny and warmish for the first time this year so I took Wacha out for a long walk and we sat in the sun on a bench in front of Bonsignour for an hour. Wacha sat proudly (guarding me?) and I felt like I hadn’t a care in the world. Surfin had the day off, so I will have to wait to find out about my backup husband. (The actor left for London today, incidentally.)

  I spent the afternoon at Bravo cleaning out my football field full of shit. Who do I think I am, a future President who will one day have his every doodle and paper housed in a museum somewhere? And now I’m obsessed with recycling everything even though it’s impossible. I just don’t know where this crap (old iPod docking stations, batteries, chargers) goes to die??? What happened to all the beepers we carried in the nineties? Are they on a barge somewhere?

  Met Amanda at The Glass Menagerie and it was an incredible production—intense, powerful, and exhausting. OK, it’s not like I was in it or anything. We went backstage after to congratulate Zach Quinto and he was lovely. (Diane Lane—looking great—was back there to see Cherry Jones.) I really did wait till the last minute to see him; it closes Sunday. I hadn’t seen Amanda since early January, so dinner at Joe Allen (Zach and Joe Machota were at the next table, funny!) was like an intense therapy catch-up session. At one point near the beginning she even said, “Any concerns?” which sounded like something she would say to her patient. It ended up being a good session for both of us. I love giving advice to shrinks.

  FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 21, 2014—NYC–ST. LOUIS

  Wacha was so cute this morning, and there’s no way he did not know I was leaving him again to head to St. Louis to host the Beggin’ Pet Parade at the St. Louis Mardi Gras. (I have to assume Dame Judi Dench turned them down this year, because it’s a very prestigious invite, as one can imagine by the title.) He’s starting to notice the luggage and figure out my packing rhythms.