The Andy Cohen Diaries

by Andy Cohen

• Follow through.

  • Don’t swing at bad pitches.

  • Don’t turn my head.

  Oy vey. This thing is gonna be televised on ESPN.

  Coming home from the dog run, I saw two separate girls who were either going out for the night or legit prostitutes. You never see real whores on the street anymore. I also ran into Joe Mantello, then Matt Bomer.

  We taped a show with Taye Diggs and John Legend that was really fun. They were perfect together and Jon and Tommy Alter were in the audience. I am gonna play myself on Jon’s show Alpha House.

  The live show was Steve Guttenberg with Leah Remini, who brought JLo. I went into her dressing room (to clarify—we call it a dressing room but it’s actually a conference room and nobody’s bragging about how gorgeous it is) before the show and was careful to pay more attention to Leah because she was the guest and JLo was the friend. The three of us talked about dating guys who are not conventionally handsome in the face but otherwise sexy. I asked JLo if she would consider walking onto the show to bring the shotski out, unannounced, and she agreed. She is still presenting herself to me as Miss Low-Key Easygoing Non-Demanding Un-Diva; maybe she is just Jenny from the Block! I really liked Leah.

  The whole audience—besides JLo—was the Mets wives I’d met at that game in April. That hot catcher’s wife is pregnant, so that’s good for her. And I asked whose husband was the last to hit a homer and of course David Wright’s wife, who is the Melissa Gorga of the group, raised her hand.

  Hung out late listening to music in my office with the team. Wacha left my office and came back twenty minutes later wearing a Pucci scarf. (Thank you, Ryan.)

  THURSDAY, JULY 10, 2014—NYC–SAG HARBOR

  Woke up with Wacha, who was snuggling up to me, still wearing the Pucci scarf, which in the light of day made him look more like Angela Lansbury than the office mascot—hysterical! Emmy nominations came out today and Bravo got four nominations. Zilch for WWHL. Under what circumstance could we get nominated? None. Before I worked out with the Ninj we had a weigh-in, and lo and behold I am exactly 165. I almost fainted. Hallelujah. I felt like I didn’t need to work out after that, but we boxed. I was on the phone the whole drive to the beach. We have four scenarios for the next season of RHONY and each involves layoffs and rehires. It makes me excited to see the possibility in each one. I pitched Martha Stewart creative for the show we will take out; she was in a car on her way to a tree farm on Long Island to get some maple trees. Maybe some other kind I can’t remember. I’m sure it was something more exotic now that I think about it.

  Met SJ and Matthew for dinner at some new overpriced sushi place, Shuko, that says online is in Water Mill but it’s in Wainscott, so I went to the wrong place and got there in a huff and SJ said, “OK, Evelyn, calm down.” Ha! She was right. Matthew told some horror stories about playing right field in a charity softball game for Puffy, and made me rethink that position. Would second base be a crazy idea? SJ said to protect my face. She looked very Carrie Bradshaw, tan and summery, hair blonde from the sun. She just bought a big red 1976 Ford Country Squire station wagon and gave me a lil ride in it; it’s sweet and sentimental—glass everywhere, crazy roomy with only AM radio. And it smells like 1976 in a bottle.

  FRIDAY, JULY 11, 2014—SAG HARBOR

  My cousin Dave emailed me this morning: “You asked Shaq how big his dick is but you’re terrified of a softball game? I don’t think you get it: you’re supposed to screw up, so if you do it’s kinda expected. If you don’t, that’s fine too. It’s a no-lose situation!” He is so right. Then I got a text from Anthony at WWHL, who reports that Straight Pat is actually gay. WTF! I’m shocked. And embarrassed. Now is he going to have to come out to everyone because I falsely accused him of being straight? I overstep with PAs! Bethenny made me lunch at her house—she has Skinnygirl products for everything, it’s amazing. She wanted to pitch me doing Bethenny Starting Over, but I had my own ideas, and turned the discussion into the (seemingly insane at first but makes sense the longer you talk about it) idea of her coming back to RHONY; and I can’t believe it, but I think it worked. I made a lot of compelling arguments (good money, ensemble show, she knows what she’s getting into, it would certainly be a success ratings-wise vs. this season). She is seriously considering it, and I left feeling upbeat. It would be huge for that show to get her back. Huge!!!

  Hung out with the doctor. He’s a real person. I invited him to the show next week.

  Met Amanda and Jim at Bell & Anchor, which was very crowded. Here’s what I watched on YouTube when I got home: a Writers Guild interview with Michael Patrick King and Lisa Kudrow about The Comeback, a really long interview with Marla Gibbs about her time on Jeffersons and 227, Isabel Sanford winning her Emmy, Lucy on The Tonight Show and Barbara Walters, and Lucy winning an Emmy. Asleep by midnight. Who says the Hamptons aren’t glamorous?

  SATURDAY, JULY 12, 2014—SAG HARBOR–NYC

  Texted with Jason Motte about tomorrow and he said, “The key to hitting and fielding is to watch the ball. Seems simple. But very helpful.” I hate watching the ball!

  Had a gorgeous lunch at Marci’s in her chic new pool house.

  Drove back to the city early and when I got home read three articles online about how to be a better softball player, then watched clips of last year’s game and what I saw made my face burn red and I completely lost my appetite. It’s a night game with bright lights and you can hear the players talking. I am so glad Eli is going with me; he is calming and positive. He was my behind-the-scenes sidekick for the first few years of WWHL and he’s the perfect accomplice for this affair. Liza came over for some rosé after her dinner and said, “Why don’t you just see if you can have fun?—an elemental suggestion I had never considered. Have fun?

  Lying on my bed scrolling through Instagram, I felt something on my leg. It was my worst nightmare: a water bug. I was alone for once—Wacha was going to town on a Kong in his dog bed—and I didn’t have time to think. I shook my leg, it went flying, and I realized if I didn’t kill it at that moment I would legit have to move into my extra bedroom for the rest of the summer. (I am not kidding.) I grabbed a shoe and killed it. My freaking canine protector was zero help, just wandered in after it was all over and smelled the spot where the beast had lived and died. Thanks for nothing, Wacha. But I took it as a sign—from God or from the ghost of Stan Musial (or Esther Rolle)—that I am stronger than I think. I will have fun at this game tomorrow.

  SUNDAY, JULY 13, 2014—NYC–MINNEAPOLIS

  Surfin took one look at my face as I stumbled out of the building early this morning and knew exactly what day it was: “You ready?” he tentatively queried. I told him I’d barely slept and was terrified. But he was bullish: “You’re gonna go one for three.”

  “I’ll take that!” I said. I was a nervous Nellie, though, and spilled tea all over myself in the car to LaGuardia.

  I sat behind Derek Jeter’s parents on the plane, and across the aisle from—I think—his sister. When I landed, my phone rang and mine was on the other end having just heard startling news.

  “Are you really playing a game?????? An actual game?” Em was as exasperated as I’ve heard her.

  “Why did they ask you? Do they know…” Her voice trailed off before she could state the obvious. I told her they asked because I am a known fan, thank you very much.

  “Well, I’m a fan but I can’t play the game!!” She was starting to sound like another woman we both know who lives in St. Louis. “Oh boy.” She sighed. I told her this was exactly the call I did not need to be getting right now. “I’m just trying to understand. I didn’t know you were actually playing.” Yes, we’ve established that. “Well, at least it’s all celebrities—there aren’t any actual baseball players, right?” There are. Ozzie Smith. Mike Piazza. Dwight Gooden. She stopped me. “Well. It’s just a game.” She said I was going into convulsions over throwing the first pitch a few years ago, so she didn’t know how I was going to get through this. I changed the subje
ct and asked about Aspen, from where she just returned and where our mother is now. She reported that Mom is charging around town with a fanny pack everywhere she goes. “It’s a town. And she’s wearing a fanny pack.” That image took my mind off my troubles.

  I hung up with Em and here’s how it all played out from there:

  In the lobby of the W in Minneapolis a tall blonde woman introduces herself and says we’ll be playing together. She says she’s done it before and it’s a lot of fun. I ask her if, like me, she is wondering what to even do with a softball. She says she’s OK at softball. I find out an hour later that she is Jennie Finch, who is only the most famous softball player of all time—she won the freaking gold medal at the ’04 Olympics. So I get an early jump on offending people to their faces. Eli arrives from Los Angeles and is shocked at how nervous I am; he can’t believe that after all the live TV we’ve done together, a softball game is what’s brought out my nerves. I try to explain that my exact skill set is hosting live TV, which is why it doesn’t make me nervous. We go to a meet-up with all the other players and I tell Andrew Zimmern and Minnesota Vikings running back (and very hot dude) Adrian Peterson that Jon Hamm talked me into this whole thing and wound up canceling. “Me too! He got me into it too!” a blonde woman next to us says. On the bus to Target Field, the blonde sits next to us and I introduce myself. “I’m January,” she purrs. How had I not recognized Betty Draper?

  We walk into the press room at the stadium and there waiting is a roomful of All-Stars and Hall of Famers. Eli’s face lights up and he becomes Gary from Veep, whispering in my ear names of the people around us: Rollie Fingers, Rickey Henderson, Arizona Cardinals wide receiver Larry Fitzgerald. The two team captains read their rosters and positions; mine is John Smoltz, who says I’m playing for the National League repping the Cardinals, playing outfield. January is playing catcher for the American League—intimidating! I talk to Sway and Fat Joe from MTV, who claim they suck, Charlie McDermott from The Middle on ABC, who is as wide-eyed as I am, and a really nice All-Star, Fred Lynn, who says his wife loves my show.

  Then we’re told to leave our guests behind and we go with our teammates to the locker room to get suited up. My locker is between Ozzie Smith and Andre Dawson, and Piazza is on the other side of Dawson. As I stare at this locker overflowing with gear (it’s all there: pants, shoes, underwear, socks, a bat, glove, hat—the whole thing—and I know what I’ll be wearing for Halloween next year) I realize I am on a team with these guys (locker room inspiration!), I have to not only play for the crowd but I have to play in front of them. More importantly, I have no clue whether I have to strip down and wear the Under Armour underwear they gave me, or if I can keep mine on. Maybe their undies give you extra warmth or something, what the hell do I know? Conscious of being the only gay guy in the locker room, I don’t want to actually make eye contact with anyone below the waist to find out the answer to my question. Finally I sheepishly ask Ozzie if we have to wear the undies or what. He says it’s a personal choice based on comfort. Crisis averted, I decide that nothing comes between me and my Calvins. I keep talking to Charlie in the locker room, mulling over whether to wear long shorts instead of baseball pants (Piazza does, we don’t), whether or not to tuck pants into our high socks (Ozzie says don’t, so we don’t), and what we bring to batting practice (Glove? Yes, to break it in. Bat? They’ll have bats there. Phone? Yes.) and how to wear our hats (low). I love my outfit—I mean uniform—but I wish I could’ve gotten my pants taken in a little in the crotch, especially when I see January in hers. “Did you have a fitting in LA before the game?” I joke but I am not joking. I really think she did. She laments her cameltoe. The grass isn’t always greener.

  Eli says I look like an actual baseball player, which is all I need to hear. We all get on the bus to BP at FanFest, where I am going to have to attempt to hit balls in front of my teammates. I go to the furthest cage with Charlie, Adrian Peterson, and two wounded warriors from Iraq—one with one leg and another with one arm—who pound the ball. I step up and pretend I’m with Mike back in NYC and guess what—I hit every single ball. When it’s done, Fred says I did great and gives me a couple tips, which I promptly forget and then vow not to step back into the cage because I don’t want to ruin my streak. Problem is Eli didn’t see me bat, so I step back in and hit every single ball again.

  We head back to the ballpark and in the bus I ask January Jones if she feels like we already kind of did it and should be allowed to go home. Why do we actually have to play the game? We do and we have ninety minutes to kill. We sit with Andre Dawson at dinner, who seems to not want to have a thing to do with us and the behind-the-scenes-of-RHONY stories I’m laying on Eli. They bring in a group of Make-A-Wish kids and my heart explodes watching the baseball players sign autographs for them. I’m pulled out to go say hi to the owners of the Twins—it’s one big family that owns the team and they’re all in this gorgeous box eating way better food than we are downstairs (“Isn’t that how it should be?” one of the wives crows when I comment on it) and I’m shocked to get my first look at the field and realize there are already thirty-five thousand people watching the Futures Game before ours. I thought it was going to be half empty.

  I am really crashing, all the energy from the speculation over the last twenty-four hours and especially at batting practice has evaporated and I feel finished, but suddenly they’re telling me to go to the field. I do and immediately get another rush of adrenaline. I see the other team throwing balls and realize that I have yet to actually catch a softball in my glove. I grab Charlie for a game of catch. One hundred feet away, Panic at the Disco is doing a quick concert with pyrotechnics and I am sweating like a whore in church. Thankfully I’m sitting next to Charlie on the bench and we watch and learn as the other players are introduced—hat off, shake teammates’ hands, get your place in line, wave to the crowd—until it’s our turn. Fist-pumping and high-fiving my team on the way out makes me feel like a dude.

  Game on and we get a couple runs right off the bat. I head to right field and, luckily, Charlie is in center. So we’re outfield buddies too. I am teleported back to Little League, standing in the outfield praying the ball won’t come to me. One does—well, more to Charlie, I barely even run for it and he doesn’t get the play and I apologize if it was actually my play to get. He says it was his to get. When it’s my turn to bat, I am halfway to the plate and realize I don’t have my gloves on (so much gear!) and scramble to put them on. My at-bat music is the theme from Real Housewives of Orange County—sure to intimidate all in the field. January tries to trash-talk me (did Betty Draper just call me a “pussy”!?) and I take my first swing in a game since losing the game for us at the end of my humiliating six-year run in Little League thirty-five years ago.

  It’s a hit! A line drive actually! I am beaming! I am leading off first base and get called back by the announcer. The lady NBA star playing first has some fun with me. I have some fun back. (It’s all fun, right?) Charlie bats after me and pops up. I think someone catches the ball, but screws up the throw to first and Charlie is still running, so I run too. Then they’re all telling me to go back to the last base because he’s out, but I think that’s the third out so I’m kind of like a frozen idiot and get tagged out. And yet again I wasn’t paying attention! Nelly ribs me but I am so grateful to have gotten a hit I am just excited. And at my next at bat I get another hit! I’m two for two! This time I don’t screw up on the bases. Ozzie Smith gets me home. I am so elated about my two hits I feel like I could conquer the world. Even better, I’m subbed out of the outfield for the rest of the game. We kill the American League 15–4. Lots of high fives and fist pumps as fireworks blast over Target Field.

  In the locker room people are taking showers, but I just put my clothes on and go home dirty. We shower at the hotel and head to the Nelly/MLB party at Epic, which is the whitest club on earth, literally Nelly and six hundred white people. They put us in an area with Matt Carpenter from the Cardinals, whose wife
I met at WWHL. I ask who his best friend on the team is and he says Wainwright. I love that. My best friend on my team is Charlie, but I don’t tell him. As we’re leaving the Nelly show (early), there are eight cops out front and I ask them, “Officer, can you tell me where the strip club is?” They direct us to one a few blocks away on Washington, and as we’re walking there we run into a guy with dreads who questions our choice of venue. He tells us we need to go to Rick’s Cabaret downtown and so we get in a cab. We get to Rick’s and almost immediately, as happens, a random stripper comes and sits down with us. She starts telling us about the night before, when a pro hockey player came into the champagne room and whipped out his dick and got kicked out. This after he asked for the menu for sexual favors—how much for hand job, blowjob, etc. She said that’s off the menu. (They do serve food, by the way, and I am so hungry I almost order some, but who gets food at a strip club?) We ask her who the most crazy athletes are and she immediately says hockey players, because they’re Russian and Canadian and drink insane amounts. A group of hockey players spent 40k on booze the night before. Later, she’s going to a party at our hotel with some minor leaguers who played in the earlier game tonight and as she tells us I wonder how I can get into that party. She tells me she is from the South and travels to cities for big sporting events like the All-Star Game and NBA playoffs. She asks me to buy her a martini and I do. She tells me how much she loves Vicki Gunvalson as I stare at her face wondering if she is Right or Ratchet. I think she may be Ratchet.

  On the way home we get a cabby who is unmarried (at sixty-five) and tells incredibly misogynistic jokes about women, kind of exactly what you’d expect from the guy that trolls outside the strip club at 2 a.m. But shocking, still. When I get home I realize I’ve been looking at my watch all night, which is on East Coast time so actually I should still be out. I don’t care, though, because I feel like a hero. I went two for two.