by Andy Cohen
“You gotta rush the stage with me when ‘Allentown’ comes on! That’s when you rush it! C’mon!!” He was begging me. I laughed, although I should mention that if there was a song that would’ve made me rush the stage it actually might’ve been “Allentown,” because whenever the video came on—when I was sixteen—my pants went down and it was bedlam as I watched the bare-assed coal miners showering. It was before you had the capability to pause or rewind or anything, so you just had to do it the minute it came on. (I have spoken to other gay guys of my generation who experienced the same “Allentown” phenomenon. The Internet didn’t exist!) Misplaced erotic memories of the video aside, I refused the opportunity to rush the stage when the first chords of “Allentown” emerged, and he was severely disappointed in me, and then probably more so at security, who kiboshed his rush mid-song.
When a chorus of uniformed officers came onstage during “Goodnight Saigon” I started tearing up, and by “Piano Man” I even began to soften towards my neighbor when I overheard him telling the people behind us (he was talking to everybody) that he was from Seattle and it was his dream to see Joel at Madison Square Garden. By “Scenes from an Italian Restaurant,” he turned around to take in the sight of the entire New York metro area singing in unison about Brenda and Eddie and sighed to himself, “We don’t have this at home.” At that moment I was completely smitten. This man was having his moment and why should I begrudge him that? I was happy to have shared the night with him.
After the show we were searching for SJ’s car and a woman, Patti, came up to me wanting an autograph, which I gave and enjoyed because it was old school. I was so immersed in searching for our car—OK, maybe I was actually freaking out a little bit because the guy was nowhere to be found—that when I noticed she was still standing there, I kind of shunted her away with a “Goodbye, Patti!!” Turns out she was the wife of the NYPD Chief of Patrol, who had parked right in front of MSG (um…), and we were standing in front of their car, blocking it. Good ole Patti was waiting for me to get my ass out the way!
We went to Odeon, which was a refreshing blast from the past. I learned that Diana Ross is not available to come to the Met Ball. Why would she be? She is Diana Ross, after all. I think SJ is going to ask André Leon Talley, who is something of an approximation of Ms. Ross if you really think about it.
SATURDAY, APRIL 19, 2014
Wacha has 21k followers on Instagram. I feel like JonBenét’s parents, pushing him into the spotlight. (Although I won’t wind up being suspected for his murder, of course.)
Ralph Fiennes met me at the dog run and as we caught up, Wacha was having intense playtime with a huge pack of dogs. Out of nowhere, all the owners started gathering their pooches and splitting like a bomb went off. “What’s going on?” I asked one of the owners, who pointed at a man in the corner who concurrently said, “Who does this beagle belong to? He has my dog’s ball.” What I learned is that this man is notoriously obsessive about his dog’s ball to the point that no one wants to deal with him and everyone splits. After two rounds of him telling me to control my dog, I did too. We ran into a couple of the displaced dog owners on the street and Ralph became a cross between Lord Voldemort and Norma Rae: “You must stand up to this bully and reclaim your dog run! He does not have jurisdiction over your dog grabbing a random ball.” He is so right! I can’t wait to do the right thing next time I see this guy.
Jerry Seinfeld’s mom died. The shiva starts Monday. I met her once and she was lovely, so it’s sad. And on another note, I can’t imagine how gorgeous the food will be at the shiva. Is it wrong to speculate?
I went to see Hedwig with the Tinder date. NPH was great but it’s not my show. I didn’t love it fifteen years ago and I didn’t love it tonight. NPH said he’d been dealing with stomach flu and I told him to stick with it because it’s making him really ripped. After the show we went to the Algonquin of all places and I was at least relieved to see that that was one New York institution that hadn’t been converted into a Bank of America. We had a few drinks but I felt like the gulf in our ages was somehow getting more pronounced as the night went on, and we mutually ended the date by midnight. I happily went home, but Bruce was texting me to meet him, Barkin, and Bryan at Marie’s Crisis (“Come for a few songs, I’ll order you something”), which I was refusing to do. Then he sent me exactly the kind of text that will automatically get me to leave my apartment: “Someday we will all be dead and you will be praying for a Saturday night at Marie’s with the gang.” I went and it was, predictably, a lot of fun. Messy, but fun. I wound up at Two Boots breaking my great diet, bingeing on two pieces of pizza. Bryan dragged me out of there at two before I did something I would really regret.
SUNDAY, APRIL 20, 2014
Happy Easter! Happy 420! We had a debrief at the dog run about the bully, and we agreed to stand up to him next time. In the meantime Wacha fell in love with a big German shepherd.
It was a lovely drive upstate, where Vanessa Redgrave hosted me (and the WachStar) for Easter lunch—a mainstay holiday that Natasha pulled off flawlessly up there every year. It felt sweet to be there and catch up with everyone, with a sad undercurrent of memory and longing. I visited Tash on the way home. Dinner with Bruce, Bryan, and family at Mr Chow, where everything tastes like fried sugar, and then I got hammered on Twitter all night for my behavior at the Atlanta reunion. Everyone thought that I caused the fight and was wrong to tell Porsha to apologize. How can the producers and I have had the complete opposite reaction from the viewers to what happened?
MONDAY, APRIL 21, 2014
I am back up to 168—thank you, Two Boots pizza and Mr Chow.
The Met Ball is white tie this year, which means tails, and one of the few people who carry them is Ralph Lauren, where I had a fitting for mine. I looked like the caricature that Risko did of me.
I am still being hazed on my Twitter feed from people who hold me accountable for the fight at the reunion, for allowing the props and not foreseeing trouble. Violence is not in my vocabulary, but they don’t believe me.
I had dinner before the show with Sandy and Barry at that steak house in the Time Warner Center. I can’t get used to eating in a mall.
TUESDAY, APRIL 22, 2014
There’s not going to be a doorman strike, so I won’t be volunteering for any more door shifts. I am secretly a little disappointed. I like it when strangers have to band together through tough (but not too extended) times for the greater good. Anyway, I am happy for Surfin.
Wacha walks into that dog run and makes everything great—he’s everybody’s best friend and he loves to play. He’s good energy. (That’s what I think, but maybe when we leave they all talk about him, what do I know?) It turns out that his new German shepherd bestie has brain cancer. I am speechless.
An architect came by for an interview and we talked for an hour about various options for combining the apartments. My problem is that I have no attention span and after forty minutes my mind started to move on to the next thing. Not great. It’s for my benefit, is what I always have to remind myself in situations like these.
I had been looking forward to tonight’s show for some time because we had Jon Jay and Shelby Miller from the Cardinals behind the bar, and an audience full of Cardinals wives. (They’re in town playing the Mets.) Nonetheless it took me a while to conjure up things to say to them. They were so sweet, but the longer you talk to them you realize how young they are. In your mind they are heroic, almost larger than life, because you mainly see them in uniform on the field playing or talking about the game, but when you start scratching the surface, they’re twenty-four. So it became like a Tinder date after the show when they stayed hanging out drinking in the Clubhouse for a few hours. I asked Shelby Miller about the MLB softball thing and he said, “You got this.” I said, “No, you don’t understand, I got nothing.” Given that my fantasy is to be a baseball wife, I had plenty to say to the ladies. One thing I asked the wives is if they get sex when the husbands play well. They sai
d they are men—they want it whether they hit or not. Daniel Descalso was there too, so that was a bonus. And they all played with Wacha (which was very meta) and stayed till after one.
WEDNESDAY, APRIL 23, 2014
Indeed the food at the Seinfelds’ shiva was to die, so to speak. I ate like a pig. No, I ate like a Jew at a shiva. There is a difference. Part of the routine of the shiva, and of mourning, is to eat and have a chat about the person who passed away. And I am typing this trying to justify the two bagels, lox, rugelach, turkey, cheese, crackers, cookies, and more bagels. I had to because I am Jewish.
There was a game but the Cardinals wives came back to the Clubhouse instead for the Cameron Diaz/Leslie Mann taping, so that’s where their priorities are and I kind of can’t blame them, although if my husband was playing I’d like to think I’d be at the game. But that’s me. I asked Cameron the best and worst thing about dating a baseball player (I thought this was an incredibly genius way to talk about A-Rod without talking about A-Rod directly). She said, “The schedule and the schedule.” The Cardinals wives nodded. “Mmm-hmm, sister! Tell it!” (They didn’t say that.) From where I sit, the schedule would suit me, because mine is fucked too. So the time we spend together is great and the rest of it we deal with. That’s how me and my slugger, or m’slugger, look at it.
Had a long chat with Kenya today; this reunion and altercation has turned into a shitstorm for all involved, including myself. Did I send the wrong person home? What is permissible and what is not? Should we have aired what we aired? It’s an inundation on social media, in the press, and at work.
Brought Liza to the opening of Joe’s play Casa Valentina, which was beautiful and funny. Saw Anna Deavere Smith and told her I’d recently learned that Wacha plays with her pooch, Memphis Deavere Smith. (Wacha likes show folk.) Valerie Harper was there looking very well, so that made me happy. Rhoda is alive and well.
THURSDAY, APRIL 24, 2014
The Southern Charm reunion this morning was refreshing because it was a discussion—no fighting—with emotion and fun.
Bruce and I went to the Mets-Cardinals day game and had seats directly behind home plate, which gave us an opportunity to ogle the Mets catcher Anthony Recker, who we thought just had an incredible ass but then we got a look at the equally incredible face. He was a beauty. In the fifth inning the Mets wives found me. They heard that the Cardinals wives had been to my show and wanted to come. I asked them if their men want sex when they hit a home run. Two of them sighed. One said, “My husband never hits home runs—he’s the pitcher.” I turned to David Wright’s wife. “Mine does.” She said what I was thinking with a smile. Then we had them bring over the catcher’s wife, who was pretty but nowhere near as pretty as the guy. (Who would be?) Man, is she lucky. I am going to start living The Secret and though I don’t 100 percent understand what that actually entails, I will will this baseball wife thing to happen.
Wacha has been having issues with his afternoon walk for the past couple months. He intermittently either doesn’t want to go or gets growly and potentially a little threatening (but he hasn’t actually bit) with his walker, and the coterie of walker’s assistants who are trying to figure out why he hates this sweet walker. So today I sent him to doggy day care at Sherman’s house in Brooklyn and he loved it—played with a dog called Whiskey all day (I play with a dog called Whiskey every night but that’s another story)—and he was completely crashed out all night. Amazing.
Dinner with Troy Roberts and Lynn—in town from San Fran crashing a piece for 20/20—and Bruce. We went to Perla, where if you cancel you have to pay fifty bucks a head, and where they have wineglasses with pour lines because maybe they don’t trust their bartenders or they want to completely rape you of having any casual enjoyment over a meal? The topics were the end of the world, climate change, the revolution to come, and home invasions. It was quite uplifting. I have total understanding that I am moving into this duplex and at some point in my lifetime the water will come to the building, there will be no power, and I will be an old man stuck in a once-chic West Village twelfth-floor walk-up duplex. Not hot.
FRIDAY, APRIL 25, 2014—NYC–SAG HARBOR
Drove to Sag Harbor and it took forever. Had dinner at the Palm with Sandy and Bruce. Met a very handsome dude there, a surfer/finance guy. Perfect, but has a boyfriend of three years. Still, I have more of a shot at a surfer/finance guy than at someone in the major leagues.
SATURDAY, APRIL 26, 2014—SAG HARBOR
Lunch at Sandy’s, where Wacha ran like a rocket. Echoing his thoughts about me losing weight in November, today Sandy was schooling me about not letting Wacha get fat. And he’s right. I do not want a fat dog. Speaking of fat, Bruce, Sandy, Joe and I had a glorious dinner at Sam’s, where I killed a medium mushroom and onion.
SUNDAY, APRIL 27, 2014—SAG HARBOR–NYC
There is nothing more boring than hearing someone’s dreams, but last night’s was a doozy—John Mayer and I were houseguests at Barbra Streisand’s and she had a huge mausoleum. John seemed to know his way around and was my guide. It was South Park–ian.
Part 2 of the reunion aired and I said my piece on WWHL.
MONDAY, APRIL 28, 2014
I closed on the apartment, and you want the closing to feel really great and ceremonial but it’s a bunch of strangers sitting in a room signing a ton of papers that make zero sense even though the lawyer is next to you explaining each one. There was a lovely lady, very heavy, from the bank who turned out to be pregnant and I was so happy I didn’t ask her when she was due before I knew for sure, because that scenario has never played out well for me. I got an email from someone with Clay Aiken telling me they wanted me to speak for thirty minutes at his benefit tomorrow and I said there’s been a horrible misunderstanding, I can’t go. So they weren’t happy with me. What would I say for thirty minutes about anything other than Wacha?
Spent the afternoon at Bravo, where, among other things, we tried to figure out which Atlanta Housewives to bring back from Atlanta Housewives and what to pay them. I am so far not thrilled with the new casting, so we rejected the latest bunch and are going to dig deeper.
Ran downtown to pick up Sarah Jessica for the New York Pops tribute to Marc Shaiman and Scott Wittman. As we were pulling up to Carnegie Hall, I noticed everyone was wearing black tie and I froze. SJP said she thought that I knew but that I looked great (in my light denim suit and plaid shirt). I had to tell every single person we talked to before the show that I didn’t know it was black tie. How boring. But I was surprisingly (given how high my threshold can be) mortified.
The show itself was wonderful and among other things reinforced how truly talented Marc and Scott are—it was Martin Short, Patti LuPone, Matt Morrison, Jane Krakowski, and more singing songs from Smash, When Harry Met Sally, Catch Me If You Can, and Sleepless in Seattle. I was completely done in when the original cast of Hairspray got together at the end and sang “You Can’t Stop the Beat” (they couldn’t!), because it brought me back to that great time in the not-too-distant past (okay, a full twelve years ago) when I was young and madly in love and everything felt possible. Almost every night at 10:35 p.m., I would sneak in the back of the theater (with the other “Hairspray Husbands,” as we called ourselves then) to watch that amazing cast try to stop the beat (they couldn’t then either) and then I’d go backstage to get John, and he and I would go out and frolic until all hours of the night. It was complete waterworks for me watching this crew doing the same choreography—they were the happiest tears, though.
We went to the dinner at the Mandarin Oriental, me in my light denim tux in a sea of black, and sat with Marc, Andrea Martin, Martin Short, and Nathan Lane. Listening to those classics try to one-up each other further filled my heart. Everybody wound up in the thirty-fifth-floor bar and I quizzed Martin Short on every aspect of his career—well, mainly SCTV and SNL. Queen Latifah showed up randomly late in the evening wearing a tan Adidas sweat suit, and that’s pretty much really what I want Queen L
atifah to show up wearing whenever and wherever I run into her in the future. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Miss Dana Owens, wearing Adidas, to the stage of the Mandarin Oriental.…
TUESDAY, APRIL 29, 2014
Man, was I hungover this morning. I sweated a pound of whiskey out at the gym and almost puked twice in the process.
I interviewed another architect at the apartment, which is quickly becoming my least favorite activity. I’m having dinner with Bill and Joanna tomorrow and I told them I would go uptown because it’s supposed to rain but they want to try this Thai place on Spring Street. I hope I’m like that when I’m eighty-two. I hope I make it to eighty-two.
We taped Julie Andrews and Idina Menzel today. Ms. Andrews was lovely. As perfect as you would want her to be. She drank tea. I kept the tea bag and put it on the shelf next to Lohan’s cigarette butt.
Before the show I stopped by a sixtieth birthday dinner for Jerry Seinfeld, who doesn’t look at all sixty. Typically, Jewish men don’t age well, but he’s breaking that mold, which I am hoping is a good sign for me (I’m getting a lot of signs about how to be older from Jewish men today). Hugh Jackman was there with a beard. I wonder if he has a mean bone in his body. I gorged—cheese, pasta, meat. I will pay for it tomorrow.