by Andy Cohen
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 18, 2014
Woke up early and raced to the United Jewish Appeal where I was speaking about—what else—being Jewish to three hundred ladies and then signing books. When I got there I kept thinking of something my mom told me when I was impatient at an event a few years back—that this is something people have worked on for months and months so if they are hyper or irritating you have to get over it because to you it’s one morning, but to them it is the culmination of tons of work. Maybe SJP said that, actually. But my mom agreed, and it is a good tool for me. So I was patient and enjoyed talking to the women. All I have to do is start talking about my mother and I get their attention and they love it. Mom is my secret weapon. All of the Jewish women looked like people I know. I could walk into any of their houses, hit the kitchen, go straight for the pantry, and help myself. I was flirting with a too-young intern who was helping me sign books and we took a selfie and the lady in charge yelled at him and I was trying to tell her that it was my fault because I was flirting with him. So many women came up to me and said, “I’m the one in charge of this lunch,” “This is my lunch,” “I’m the chair of this event”—literally seven women at a minimum. (They aren’t all in charge but they all think they are—which is the definition of a Jewish woman, by the way. Everybody wants to be the macher!)
On the way home I did a radio interview with Joan Hamburg—another Jewish lady I love. She was kvelling over the book, and over my mother, which made me so happy. I went home, grabbed the dog (still being sweet), and went to the Clubhouse for an afternoon taping with Brooke Shields and Russell Brand, where I discovered a huge amount of food from Barney Greengrass, who were apparently thrilled that I had mentioned them on Howard Stern the other day. So that’s great! Being famous is good today. Russell Brand was late and Brooke and I caught up. She told me she is in Warhol’s Diaries, which I need to look up. The Muppets were bartending but they have many restrictions, so there was no drinking word and Russell and I did espresso shotskis (he doesn’t drink) and we pretended Brooke’s drink was water but it was really tequila. She drank beer during the show. She can drink! She said during Plead the Fifth that Liam’s dick was as huge as reported (I asked) so I wonder how long it’ll take for that news to get to Liam. Not that he doesn’t already know that his dick is huge, of course. Went home and paid bills and talked to my agent about Wendy Williams; she still doesn’t want to do this show with me producing because I “disrespected” her. Losing a whole show over NeNe saying she would drop her? Maybe I should just call the husband/manager? Grabbed two suits and hit the Clubhouse again, where we taped Kandi and Lisa Wu. Then the live show was with the former OGs of RHOBH, Taylor, Camille, and Adrienne. Someone called in and asked which BH husband was the biggest drama queen and Taylor laughed and said, “Well, I guess mine?!” which is of course not funny but is quite shocking and so, yeah, maybe is funny, but not funny at all.
After the show there was a staff party but I needed to go home and pack because I’m getting picked up at the crack of dawn tomorrow to leave for San Fran. So I left a party in progress—the worst kind to leave—and started rolling off when I realized my keys were in another suit and went to the door of the building where my show is taped, which was locked, the chatty doorman nowhere to be found as I was banging on the door with no coat in the freezing cold. At the end of my glass rope, I kicked the door and shattered the glass. I was shocked! Turned around to Ray, who was sitting in the car watching everything, absolutely beside himself laughing. I had to go upstairs and explain to the entire staff that there is most likely surveillance video of their host having a hissy fit and kicking the door in, which was both hilarious and humiliating.
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 19, 2014—NYC—SAN FRANCISCO
I was packing this morning and Wacha knew. He knew! Got to the airport early and then my flight for San Francisco was horribly delayed. So I had plenty of time to kill at JFK with my carry-on full of pot candy—my secret medicine to power me through long signings, making them as fun for me as for everyone I get to meet. Em isn’t coming to meet me, but the verdict hasn’t come. I know that will bug her because it turns out she could’ve come, but how could she know? I signed stock at Hudson Booksellers in the airport, which made me feel productive. Then, I don’t know how I did it, but I took a poop in the American Airlines lounge. Highly unusual. Right before we took off I got a PDF of my pic in People mag’s Sexiest Men issue. It looks great—and Wacha is beautiful. He’s in my arms sleeping in the Sexy Guys and Their Dogs section! Surreal! I posted it and spent the rest of my flight online on my phone, getting a distinct attention high from the comments on the picture and a new batch of Instagram DMs. I texted AC that the DMs are gonna keep me from getting into a relationship until it’s too late. Too many possibilities. The flight was endless and made no better by the flight attendant who first got my attention with her incredibly pungent lotion smell, which on the one hand I admire for being very antiseptic but on the other made my eyes water. She got in real close, looked at my Ralph Lauren Olympic zip-up sweatshirt (not the ugly Christmas sweater or the turtleneck Olympic ski sweater referenced in volume 1) and asked in all sincerity if I was travelling with an Olympic team. She thought gray-haired me was on an Olympic team! I got a DM on Twitter from Anthony Recker asking if I knew of a dog walker and letting me know he heard me on Stern and so did all his friends. I told him I was sorry for objectifying his ass and he said maybe it’s an ASSet and I said he should market himself as the JLo of baseball but he didn’t seem to like that idea.
The WWHL staff was texting me pictures of the cone in front of the broken window; they were in hysterics about it. For the whole flight I read the funniest comments from people reading the book about things they relate to (walking into people’s farts, pooping at work). It felt like a victory lap. John Mayer texted asking if I will be his guest on the Late Late Show when he fills in for Grammy Week. I said yes immediately. Five hours into the flight the email came from Gillian that the book entered the New York Times Best Sellers list at number 4 and is number 1 on the ebook bestseller list and number 3 on combined print and ebook. I was elated, and of course commenced to tell everyone I knew via text. I emailed Mom who said, “I AM SO PROUD OF MY BOY,” and then, “Amazing. You could sell a dead horse to a race track!! (I just made that up.) I don’t mean your book is a dead horse but that you have done a fantastic job!!!” I thought that was pretty clever. I do feel a real sense of accomplishment. I landed and called Mom and Dad, who brought me down to earth when I confirmed to her that I am in People’s Sexiest Men issue. “SEXIEST MEN? Just because you are IN the issue, ARE YOU ONE OF THEM? Like, DO YOU HAVE A NUMBER? What NUMBER are you?”
Got to the hotel and Lynn arrived and I debated whether to wear a T-shirt and sport coat or a button down and sport coat for twelve minutes, then did an exhaustive pre-interview with Conan’s producer on the way to meet Bravo people at an ad sales event across the street from the event at the Castro Theatre. Signed books, did a tequila shot, and went over to the theater, which was sold out—1,200 seats or so—saw Uncle Dick on the way in, grabbed him, got Aunt Kay, and went backstage, where I talked to a San Francisco Chronicle reporter who made me very nervous because she wasn’t writing anything down. Rashida arrived and we went over the run of the show quickly and hit the stage to thunderous applause and enthusiasm, at which time I had a flashback to the horrible moment during the last Q and A at the Castro when I was overserved on pot candy. Rashida was perfect and we sipped tequila on ice and I could feel the love from the audience. There were people lined up around the block and around another block, and they were magnificent, all full of energy and love, the coolest group of people I could ever hope to have as “fans.” Here’s what they gave me: a lot of pot (buds, pot Rice Krispies treats, pot caramels), five separate penis pastries from the place next door, poppers, a bag of beautiful Snoopys, snacks from some small town in wine country, bottles of booze, some cards, and more pot. I gave some of the pot to a cute
bear who was loitering but the edibles are being shipped to New York, unwittingly, by the nice people from the Commonwealth Club. I filmed another video telling a woman’s family that she is pregnant. Took a lot of pictures and I pray everybody left as happy as I was. The gay guys touch me the most at these events. In general, judging by what I read online, I feel hated by the gays, so it is nice to connect with some of them personally.
I stood in front of the hotel on Geary in the moist night with a roadie, laughing with Lynn about the hysteria we’d seen. I was flying from all the love and energy from the great San Franciscans, and all the wonderful news of the day. Lynn is worried about me eating the edibles or smoking the dope; she thinks someone might try to kill me, and I said I looked into these people’s eyes and felt their love and am a good judge of character and that she has been working for 20/20 for too long. She’s still skeptical. Went to bed around midnight.
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 20, 2014—SAN FRANCISCO—LOS ANGELES
I barely slept and woke up to the news that Mike Nichols passed away. It feels like everybody is dying. Saw online that there’s “news” that I outed Kevin Spacey in the book. I did? I’m staying away from that one if anyone asks. And isn’t that old news—like, hasn’t he been outed twenty times? Went from LAX straight to The Talk at the CBS Radford lot, where Diane Ronnau met me and we walked around. It’s where they shoot all the TV Land shows and Brooklyn Nine-Nine and I guess Community because we bumped into Joel McHale. From there I went to the Beverly Hills Palm, where Pierce Brosnan was eating with the Armani team. It was so good to see Bruce, and the restaurant looks great. Went to the hotel, where I closed my eyes for five minutes, and then headed to Conan, where I bombed. The audience was dead or I was bad or I don’t know what. The second it was over Conan turned to me and said, “That was great!! That was amazing!” but I knew it wasn’t. Wound up having a conversation about John Stamos with Andy Richter and Conan during the break that was way more interesting than my segment.
Went to the Montalbán Theatre to prep for my event with Sarah Silverman and was told I was to go into the basement and call into Wait Wait … Don’t Tell Me!, which I did like a robot, not realizing I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. All I know about the show is that smart people love it. From the basement of the Montalbán I was connected to Chicago, where Paula Poundstone, P.J. O’Rourke, Bill Kurtis, and a theater full of people were itching to attack me about the Housewives. I felt like I was on ’shrooms and everybody was laughing at me on the other end of the line, but I won out over their snotty tone about the Housewives, then got every question right in a quiz about bees, so I turned it around. The Writers’ Bloc thing was hectic. Sarah told some really funny Holocaust jokes, which are her specialty. Some man got up and asked about Blouse, our housekeeper when I was a kid and a minor star of Most Talkative, which really warmed my heart and felt surreal. (By the way, Blouse is in love with Eddie and going to be a bride at seventy-four. I’m definitely going home for that wedding!) Some German guy asked a question and I flirted with him. A lady got up and dropped all these names and said she has had a lot of famous people in her house in Pasadena because it’s huge and she was just rambling on and on and she got booed off the mic! And I was the only one coming to her defense because she was like Play-Doh for Sarah Silverman. The signing was bedlam—one pen, no line, a mess. Sold four hundred books and met some really cool people.
Met Jenn Levy and Comis for a drink after at the Tower Bar and Dimitri came up in his usual happy fluster (I call him Aunt Blabby in the book—will he see it?) saying, “You can’t believe the night, it was amazing, you missed it,” and I said well, the night is still going, I didn’t miss anything and he said, “No, no, you can’t believe what happened here,” and I said well, I am still in the present so let me feel like it’s still happening. They wouldn’t serve me food at the bar—it was 11:10—but Dimitri wound up making it happen. Then I met two girls who said they were in the middle of reading my book and was this maître d’ the one I was talking about, so that’s funny!
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 21, 2014—LOS ANGELES
I got five hours’ sleep and woke up still wired from the pot lolly last night. Is it possible that I am overindulging in pot lollies, or are they helping me get through this insane book tour? Met Dan and Jane for breakfast and talked about maybe doing a Magical Elves/Most Talkative Productions documentary together or an anthology series. A while later I read a tweet from someone saying they were listening to a girl talking loudly about herself and reality stars and it turned out to be me at breakfast! Mean! Went to Kitson for my signing wondering if Paris Hilton would be there (wasn’t she a Kitson girl in the day?) and the Egbers from The People’s Couch were there. So was TMZ, who asked me about Kevin Spacey. I said, “It was a passing comment about something that’s been discussed in the media for fifteen years,” and moved on. Then I signed books and the names were so SoCal: Linzy, Britnee, Pippin, Monsy, Summer. “Linzy” kills me! The German guy from last night showed up and gave me his card but I think it’s Dead in the Water. From there I had a little time to kill so I went to Fred Segal, where they really do such a hard sell on shit that never ever looks good outside the store. This justifies a retelling of the story about the time when, in the mid-nineties, I bought what can only be described today as a ladies’ mid-length faux-mink coat with shoulder pads, from the Mildred Pierce collection. I got it back to NYC and was quickly horrified by what I saw in the light of NYC reality (not a dressing room in West Hollywood with possibility in the air and two queens chirping to buy it from over my shoulder). A week later Jess Cagle told me that he’d found the most cool fur coat at Fred Segal that he had been lamenting not buying and had gone back in to see that it was gone. I said, “You’ll never believe this,” and sold him mine. Today I bought a John Varvatos zip-up sweater that looks like a motorcycle jacket. Then today’s pot lolly started kicking in and I was rendered paranoid when I looked at my schedule, which had an interview that I’d forgotten about. I called Hickey and Anderson for advice about how to handle the Kevin Spacey situation and they both told me that I had done nothing wrong. AC reminded me that I don’t need to talk to TMZ if they are at my OMG! Insider interview; I can walk by and not say anything. A novel thought! Turns out the Insider guy didn’t even ask me about Kevin Spacey.
The event at the Palm was really low key. I think the real Beverly Hills housewives are really dosed up on pills. After, we went to Bruce’s and I napped for a while, gave Ava her present, and then went back to the Palm for a lovely dinner in my honor. It was Lynn, Eli and Sari Lehrer, Jake Shears, Rebecca Romijn and Jerry O’Connell, Sandy and Bryan, Henry Winkler and Stacey, Jason and Lauren, Simon Halls, Jess Cagle (we discussed the fur coat story), Ricki Lake, Bruce, and Ralph Fiennes. Jake, Rebecca, and Jerry kept talking Housewives and Ralph would say, “Who are you talking about?” and they would try to explain Teresa or Apollo. Jerry is obsessed with Apollo, by the way. Henry made a touching toast about my evolution and the achievement of writing two best-selling books. We got Sandy telling us Michael Jackson stories, which are my favorite. I realized while I was showing Jason pictures of Wacha that Lauren is pregnant with an actual baby and I felt immediately inferior and idiotic. I was exhausted and when we left at midnight there was a guy from TMZ screaming at me about invading Kevin Spacey’s privacy and could I explain myself and, by the way, I look very guilty not answering and getting in the car, where the light by the seat wouldn’t turn off and the guy kept videoing me sitting there like a fucking idiot trying to turn the light off. I texted Billy Eichner saying I had to go crash, that I couldn’t meet him, and simultaneously got a text from a special friend in LA to whom I thought I responded but instead sent something slightly provocative to Billy so it was like I had sexted him and he loved that. Lots of big laughs, and I did in fact wind up going to bed before one o’clock, completely exhausted.
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 2014—LOS ANGELES—MIAMI
Woke up wired at six-thirty, as is
my new custom. Packed sleepily for Miami. The flight attendant wanted to bond with me for the whole flight about how horrible the plane was, so with every question I asked he was serving me a lot of sass: “Is there Wi-Fi on the plane?” “No, it’s nineteen ninety-FIVE in here if you haven’t checked.” “Do you have chocolate chip?” “Oh, they definitely aren’t serving you two kinds of cookies up here!” We were girlfriends, I guess. And she was serving lots of tea. Landed and got a text from Hickey (I talked him into joining me at the Delano so we could have a vacation happening simultaneous to my book events) and I told him to meet me at the pool in half an hour for a quick pre-massage dip. It was very overcast and muggy but the second I hit that water I felt like I was on vacation. Took a long nap, and Hickey and I hit Casa Tua for a 9:00 p.m. dinner, followed by a stroll on Lincoln Road and a stop into the stripper hut behind Twist. We were perched right by the strippers’ storage closet and we were transfixed, watching as these ’roidy lunkheads showed up for work and dumped off fanny pack after fanny pack and assorted lube- and grease-filled backpacks. There has got to be a lot of theft in a strippers’ locker room, wouldn’t you think? Our experienced analysis showed that the Cubans were the hottest strippers with the best personalities (that counts too). They are all hustling you for a lap dance, and I bought one (twenty bucks) and Hickey made fun of me for waiting for the song to start to ask for one (they go the length of one song). I’m thrifty, and I want the full lap dance! Or so I thought. As hot as the Cubano (Joe—not his real name; he could barely come up with it when I asked) was, it was just a soulless, sad experience and I wound up feeling bad for him and ending it before the song ended. Tell me your hopes and dreams, Joe. Do you support immigration reform? We left and went to Score which was a blast. Asleep by 5:00 am. When in Miami …