The Andy Cohen Diaries

by Andy Cohen

  Because Solly and I have the same birthday, Jeanne and I are always looking for special ways her son and oldest friend can connect and celebrate—even though there are thirty-four years between us, it’s always fun. This year she suggested taking a helicopter to a water park on Long Island or finding a pool to hang out at in Manhattan. I chose option two: the pool. So Daryn booked us a cabana at the Dream Hotel. I realized on my way out that I didn’t have a gift for Solly, but the good Lord intervened when Surfin handed me a package from Cardinal outfielder Jon Jay that included two hats that were too small for me. Perfect. The Monday afternoon pool scene at the Dream in Chelsea was nuts: I saw Spike from Top Chef, a black dude in a mesh thong, two managers from Tao who gave me their cards, a whole lotta titsy ladies, and our waitress—who happens to deliver pot lollipops in my neighborhood. You have to wonder what Solly thought of it all—he’s twelve. We ate like pigs, and Jeanne, Fred, and I drank plenty of rosé. I checked my Twitter at one point and saw that the sweet flood of birthday love had been decidedly interrupted by an uprising of people pissed that I would stoop so low as to produce a show called I Slept with a Celebrity. The idea, which we had collectively yet to even finish developing or pitch to anyone, got leaked, and the press was positioning me as the driving force behind it. And it was backfiring all over my birthday cake. I called my agent to discuss next steps, then made a conscious decision to let it drop and enjoy my birthday. And can we all agree that the song “Happy Birthday” sounds like a funeral march?

  Brought Wacha to dinner at Morandi, where we sat outside with Bruce and Liza for a fun, low-key hang. Bruce saw Chef the other night, and at the theater, the guy next to him pulled out salami and started eating it. Can you imagine? Sarah Paulson walked up with none other than the guy Jason Weinberg and Allison both are trying to set me up with. He is handsome.

  Wacha freaked when I went to the bathroom. I hope I am not turning him into an overly dependent, crazy dog. I think I am. It was a lovely birthday, even with being publicly shamed.

  TUESDAY, JUNE 3, 2014

  Married to Medicine reunion tomorrow and I am having a hard time rallying. Went to the gym, where I think I did eighty squats. I am still 167.5 but something happened to my stomach that is positive—there are some new indentations—so if this is my weight, so be it. Had a pitch meeting with Joan Rivers and Michael Rourke and we all agreed on a concept for what could be a fun show for her called What’s Your Problem, where she basically sits in judgment of people and solves their social problems, kinda like Judge Judy laying down verdicts on Real Housewives–type fights. I think it could sell. On that note, the I Slept with a Celebrity leak continues to be irritating, because I didn’t have a chance to properly position it, and now everyone is just talking about how gross it is and I am. My production company has fifteen shows in development and this is the first one people have heard about and so now people think that my company is just going to do shit. I can’t blame people because this is at the top of the schlock pile, but it’s an unfortunate situation.

  Eric Wattenberg got me a pair of Cardinals cuff links for my birthday, which I love. Agents give good gifts. Considering the amount of Snoopy, Cardinals, and Wacha gear I already have, I am virtually impossible to shop for. Had a bitch of a time getting to 30 Rock; my Uber canceled on me after I gave him a lil attitude for going to the wrong address. I felt like Carrie Bradshaw when Berger broke up with her on the Post-it: it’s just not supposed to happen that way. Then I willingly allowed my cab to get jacked. I had all these bags but let two other people have my cab for some reason, then had intense residual anger towards them and debated giving them the finger when they drove off. I didn’t. I got a gypsy cab for twenty-five bucks and the sky opened up the minute I got out.

  I thought I loved New York in June, how about you?

  I had drinks with Frances Berwick at Morell’s and a girl came up and said she’d been in the audience of the Tonight Show taping and Jimmy mentioned I Slept with a Celebrity. I am going to become infamous for a show I never wind up producing. Mike Darnell called me at 9 p.m. EDT, which is the most classic LA move in the book. I was already deep into my evening and couldn’t handle the conversation at that moment. Wacha was at doggy day care, but his Fitbit for dogs (his Whistle) says he only had ninety-seven minutes of exercise today, which is confounding because he will be under goal for the first time in the three weeks I have been obsessing over it. SMH, man. Maybe it was all that extra energy he had that then made him chew up the sunglasses Sean Avery gave me. I was furious, then he puked up his dinner and I felt bad for him. Roller coaster of emotion going on here, people. Kolten Wong got a grand slam tonight.

  WEDNESDAY, JUNE 4, 2014

  Early call for this ferkakte reunion and I woke up to an email from Gayle King saying I Slept with a Celebrity is a bad look for me. Apparently both the Today show and Wendy Williams were going to debate whether a show like this should be made today—but we managed to get the stories killed and by 9 a.m. I had told Eric to pull out of the deal. Basta, rasta.

  For weeks a massive team of workmen has been grooming the triangular patch of grass and trees on the corner of Jane and Eighth Avenue; it was un-fenced this morning and Wacha took a big dump in there. The last remaining workman flipped out. “This is expensive, man! No dogs!” he yelled at me. I told him he just created a dog poop park and that this was its destiny. He didn’t want to hear that.

  The Married to Medicine reunion was actually painless and enjoyable, partly because it was set up like a tea party and there were (real) cakes and pastries littering the table, so I spent all day putting my finger on the top of cupcakes and eating little dabs of frosting, which in retrospect is gross. Plus I can’t imagine how fat I will be tomorrow. Dr. Heavenly kept saying she had a craving for crab legs, which tickled me for some reason.

  Wacha and I had dinner with Mike and Elaine Goldman outside at Morandi, my new favorite summer doggy-dining experience. On the way home ran into Jerry O’Connell, who was looking extra-sinewy in a tee and Dodgers hat and wondering WTF had gotten into me producing a show about sleeping with celebrities. I spilled the tea, then we went deep under my awning for twenty minutes. Got a two-hour massage that was over at 2 a.m. and hobbled into bed. I am enjoying this two-week WWHL-free hiatus, but it’s not resulting in any more sleep for me.

  THURSDAY, JUNE 5, 2014

  They talked about the fucking show I’m not doing on The View today. It. Won’t. Die. I worked out and had a civilized lunch with Bruce at Good. Three months and counting until he moves to LA.

  I had dinner with Sandra Bernhard and Sara Schaefer at Cookshop, where Sandy regaled me with stories of being a manicurist at 350 North Canon in the seventies for the likes of Dyan Cannon, Victoria Principal, and Diandra Douglas. From there it was Anfora for a second Tinder date with the finance guy, who was coming at me from every direction trying to figure out why I don’t have a boyfriend, what I am looking for, and where a boyfriend would fit in my life. So he was keeping my brain churning hard. It was not light convo until he realized—thank God—that the girl sitting across from us had given him many (by his accounts amazing) blowjobs while he was at Columbia and she at Barnard. The relationship had ended poorly, so it was an apparently awkward run-in, which was fun for me. He said all the Barnard girls would go all the way with anybody and that they weren’t the brightest bulbs. My ageist alarm bells were on a low buzz regarding the amount of college stories sprinkled into our conversation, but I like a college story and it was by then clear we weren’t getting married, so what did I care? Then another couple of twenty-eight-year-olds gravitated to us with a round of tequila, and then another, and I was once again America’s Oldest Teenager. We had a better goodbye than last time in front of my building and someone yelled “Get a room!” from a cab. We made plans to have dinner next week but I have a gut feeling we’ll never see each other again.

  FRIDAY, JUNE 6, 2014—NYC–SAG HARBOR

  The NYPD or some jerk (not Chris Christie
) made getting out of the city impossible today—West Twelfth Street closed, roadblocks, workmen, one lane at a time, blah blah blah—so getting to the Midtown Tunnel was treachery. Oh, and besides National Donut Day, it’s First World Problem Day where I am allowed to bitch about traffic to the Hamptons. A fun, light lunch at Amanda’s where we broke shit down. I had two conference calls with architects that got me motivated to get this thing going. Why did I put that off for so long? Dinner with Mark and Kelly and Michael Consuelos—he and I celebrated our birthday together (the culmination of my weeklong birthday festival)—and the Consueloses once again gave me a too-generous gift, ten workout sessions with Kelly’s trainer and something else on the way.

  The twink from the sunglass store left the price tag on my gift to Michael, so that was elegant.

  I got home and was sucked into a YouTube vortex watching about fifteen of Sandra Bernhard’s eighties Letterman appearances. You can’t beat their chemistry. Lightning in a bottle.

  SATURDAY, JUNE 7, 2014—SAG HARBOR

  There was a rustling on the deck this morning that I assumed to be Consuelos stopping by with coffee. I threw on my summer Gant robe, which is really short, and found two adorable Jehovah’s Witnesses at my doorstep to try to convert me and Wacha. They engaged me on various topics: Is the suffering in the world what was intended by God? What is our purpose here? It was such a pretty morning and I was up for some deep talk with two hot, barely legal believers, so we chatted for twenty minutes. One was Asian and really jacked. I was like a fifties-era cougar when a hot plumber came over. They want to come back next week and talk some more! They left me with some literature. I love suburban livin’. My robe was way too short for a convo about God, by the way.

  Lunch at Calvin’s with Sandy and David Geffen. His house was just completed and is the most talked about out here. It took years and a lot of resources to build and is a minimalistic glass masterpiece that looks to me like the manifestation of the Calvin Klein lifestyle. Not a scrap of paper or knickknack in sight and views of the bay and ocean from both sides. Lunch was as good as the house. On the way home we talked about how expensive it is to go clubbing in Vegas and all agreed we’d split before dropping 30k for a night out with bottle service. Who says rich people don’t know the value of a dollar? David may buy a basketball team. That’s worth more than a night in Vegas, for sure. I got home to an email from Ramona wanting to know the schedule for Friday’s RHONY reunion and a request that the room be 65 degrees. So now we can cross from our lists the question of where to set the thermostat on Friday.

  I was a co-host for HMI’s “School’s Out” benefit. They do great work. It was a cavalcade of Hamptons gays in pastels, white pants, statement shoes, and SOTS (sweaters over the shirts, cashmere). The bartenders were all perfect 10s—straight dudes bused in from the city. I did the Conan thing of “Great to see you!” and it worked flawlessly. But every cute guy already had a boyfriend and I got depressed. I did meet a cute resident at Southampton Hospital. By the end I was scarfing brownies.

  SUNDAY, JUNE 8, 2014—SAG HARBOR–NYC

  One more thing about yesterday’s visit from those darling Jehovah’s Witnesses: like Dan Rather, they used my name very liberally in sentences, which, as I’ve said, I enjoy. “You know, Andy, the world is beautiful but there is a lot of suffering. Do you wonder why, Andy?” I forgot their names, so I couldn’t return the favor. James? Todd? I don’t know but they were go-getters. I look forward to our second date, and am one inch closer to converting. (Look how great it’s worked out for the Jacksons!)

  I went to Tracy Anderson and sweated my ass off working the bands. I met Tracy herself, who really is a sight in person: tits, tan, muscles … what you’d expect but even more blonde.

  Joined Justin Tarquinio, George Kolasa, and co. at Two Mile Hollow Beach to officially kick off the summer. As beautiful as that gay beach is, the scene is kinda sad. There’s nothing going on, certainly no hot guys. Two guys did come up to me, boyfriends, and one was attractive and we allegedly know each other (he got a “Good to see you!”) and as we were talking I noticed that he had a third nipple, a lil mini-nip right under his left nipple. It was a baby nipple with an areola and everything. I was obsessed and staring and gratefully wearing my Oakleys, which completely mask my eyeballs. I wanted to tweak the #babynip but I refrained. I wonder if it’s sensitive. How does that happen?

  Meanwhile Mom had a realization during our Sunday Skype session: “You OBSESS about poop, pee, penises, and boobs. Do you realize how much that comes up in your conversations? Do you think that’s UNUSUAL? What’s wrong with you? Did WE DO THAT to you?”

  MONDAY, JUNE 9, 2014

  I shot a promotional video for a car company with Wacha and he was a total champ. I actually felt bad for him towards the end of the day because I thought they were asking too much of him. Of course none of the culpability could come back to me for prostituting my dog for a car company; I blamed the producer. Smart. I think he’s earned back the cost of his hip surgery by now. There’s a touch feature of the vehicle where you wave your arm like a wand and the motion sensor kicks in. The problem was that every time I waved like a wand, nothing happened. The producer kept screaming at me, “You need to own your wand!” I wanted to snap, “Oh, I own my wand, lady.” But that would be bitchy, obviously.

  We shot the whole thing in my neighborhood—on the far end of my block toward the river. So it was exactly in front of the building in which I lived from ’91 to ’96, and who comes out all these years later but my downstairs neighbor Dottie, the old lady with the dogs whom Grac and I dubbed the Gladys Kravitz of the meatpacking district—a real rabble-rouser and busybody before the area was cool. I haven’t seen her in so many years, and had assumed she had passed away, but there she was: thin, old, with one of those old dogs still kicking with her. I was so happy to see her that I went right up to her and explained that I used to be her neighbor and fondly remember her and her husband, who worked for the MTA. She wasn’t as happy to see me; in fact I think my energy, camera crew, and made-up face completely freaked her out. Her husband has passed away and she seemed frail. I’m a sentimental guy and this was not the reunion I hoped for. Later in the shooting, however, I ran into Eric Stonestreet and he seems like a really nice guy. I think he’s from Missouri too.

  We had a party for entertainment publicists on the roof of the Dream Hotel, celebrating WWHL’s fifth anniversary, which means that I schmoozed PR girls all night. We are targeting Katy Perry for the summer.

  TUESDAY, JUNE 10, 2014—NYC–BOSTON

  Every time I go from Manhattan to either Boston or DC, I endlessly ruminate about whether to take the train or the shuttle. I compare the timing, which often winds up being even either way, and usually make a bad decision. Today was one of those days, as Dave and I bet on the shuttle to get to Boston to shoot our College Roommate Quickfire on Top Chef and were delayed three hours at the airport because of weather that we’d be sailing through on the train. Joy.

  We landed in time for a late dinner at Sportello, which we initially thought was too bright but won us over with its food and lesbian waitstaff. Some guy from our freshman-year dorm floor was at the bar and Dave remembered him and then reminded me I used to borrow his CD player and Genesis CDs. (I had an Early Genesis Moment freshman year of college, about which I feel no shame.) Our driver seemed to be in Boston for the first time in his life, so Dave and I knew more than he about getting around and we made him drive all around town on a quest to find the perfect bar. Boston remains charming, beautiful, and a perfect mini Americanization of London. Driving through the South End took me back to being head over heels in love for the first time as a college senior with a twenty-six-year-old who at the time seemed like an intellectual, but I now realize was perhaps a windbag. He was a sun-kissed blond trust-fund guy who lived in a loft, spoke several languages, and took me to nice dinners. I was young and in love, and it was all so foreign it felt like I lived in Paris.

  Dave and I we
nt to Toro for a drink, then got lost looking for a bear bar and wound up at Paradise in Cambridge, which had strippers and featured TV screens showing men doing things to each other that had never crossed Dave’s mind, which I should point out he handled with great aplomb. At around midnight our trusty driver took a wrong turn and we were on a Boston University “campus” drive-by. The campus is as unimpressive now as it was when we were there all those years ago. But one of the reasons I went to BU was because Boston was its campus.

  WEDNESDAY, JUNE 11, 2014—BOSTON–NYC

  On the front page of the Boston Globe is a story with the headline “Local Names Hard to Find in Clinton’s Pages,” about the dearth of Bostonians mentioned in Hillary Clinton’s new book. The Globe feels that Boston’s political relevancy is stronger than the number of mentions it got from Hillary, so it’s a whole deal with a chart of how many mentions locals got (John Kerry led with twenty-one). Some would say this town has a massive insecurity complex, some maybe that it has a major chip on its shoulder, but I am a lover, not a fighter, so I like to think of it as Massachusetts’s pride. Still—this is front-page news?

  Top Chef was a blast. We judged a Ramen Noodle Quickfire, a classic dorm meal that Dave and I know all too well. After ten seasons as an EP on that show, it was wild to be in front of the camera, delivering and judging a challenge with Padma. And I saw Dave nervous for I think the first time in our thirty-year friendship—when we were running through the directions we had to give the chefs, his mouth was tensed in a whole new way. I was supportive, but put this moment in my back pocket to take out and rib him about later. Tasting the food was the best and giving the results was the worst. Dave thinks that I sexually harass Padma, and he may be right. Before announcing the winner of the Quickfire, I told the chefs that she and I had made sweet love while they were cooking. She is saucy. And knows about sauces. Ma-ha. We do have a very unique relationship; she has a fantastic sense of humor.