by Andy Cohen
The show was a roller-coaster ride of Nicki rolling her eyes at photos we’d decided to use of her and of shady turns of phrase I was using in the script (thank you, John Hill) mixed in with her totally dodging questions and also enjoying herself. I asked about Phaedra and she started to say that she had been really mean to Apollo and I thought, Uh-oh, this may be awful when I bring her out to surprise you in three minutes—but we turned it around and it became a good moment. They took pics during the break but she wanted to approve them before Phae posted them. I was supposed to ask about the ass selfie top of act two, but I just had a premonition to wait until the end of the show. She dodged all the Plead the Fifth questions, as well as plenty more. During the second commercial break she said WTF were you thinking bringing Phae out, what if I hated her and said something bad about her? I said it was all cool, that she was already here and that I asked about the “Fix it, Jesus” thing early to get a sense of it. And she told the audience to stop taking pictures of her. She’s obsessed with the pics! During the last act I asked if she would take an ass selfie with me and she said no. I am so glad I waited. She actually left saying she had the best time and was singing “AndyConda” during the after show. Twitter was abuzz with people sending their condolences to me after watching me trying to pull teeth. I binge-ate after—cookies and peanut brittle that Martha Stewart had sent over—and brought Jackie back to my office, where Wacha started barking at her in a rough way. I removed her and then ran him home before I returned to party with the team. I was really upset about Wacha, though. I was upset, period.
THURSDAY, DECEMBER 18, 2014
Decompressed today. Slept on and off until one o’clock and hung out on conference calls about RHONJ, development with Embassy Row, and game show ideas. Spoke to Anderson, who is getting a tetanus shot, so now I feel even more horrible. Sherman pointed out how hungry Wacha is since we halved his food. He’s scavenging aggressively on the street. What’s worse, a fat dog or a violent one? I’m upping his food almost back to normal and I will find a diet food for him when I get back from Indonesia. The guy from the parking garage chased me down the street today with an envelope. I have never tipped them at Christmas before and I don’t plan on doing it this year. I get my car maybe twenty-five times a year—maybe thirty, actually—and I tip them five bucks every time, plus the monthly rent there is more than 60 percent of what Americans pay a month for their homes. Maybe more.
It was Colbert’s final episode, and I was invited to join the sing-along to end the show. Walked into an insane group of sixty to eighty people you can’t believe are together, all famous and interesting. They divided us into groups—I was in Group 8—that would be coming out and singing together. My group was Christiane Amanpour, Patrick Stewart, Jeff Tweedy from Wilco, and David Gregory. I walked in the room and immediately told David Gregory that he got fucked out of his Meet the Press job. He agreed, and was happy for the icebreaker. I wandered into another room and had started talking to Charlie Rose when Katie Couric came in and said, “Let’s all rehearse the song”—which we did, while she took video of us and then kind of interviewed each of us and took some selfies. That rehearsal group was Mark Cuban, Charlie, Keith Olbermann, Ken Burns, Ric Ocasek, Michael Stipe, and a blond ballet dancer whose sexuality Andrew Sullivan and I later spent a fair amount of time trying to ascertain. We went down to the studio where we were told to sit and await instruction. I sat with David Gregory and Maureen Dowd, who made my day when she said she bought my book for a lot of her family and friends for Christmas. I couldn’t wait to tell Mom that a smart person bought my book for other (presumably) smart people. Across the aisle Barry Manilow was sitting with Lesley Stahl and that was two hair systems next to each other. I told James Franco how bummed I was that he had to cancel WWHL and how sorry I was for the week he’d had, being that he was at the center of the Sony hack. He had no clue who I was, but I explained. He was really nice and open. We ran through the routine twice and then they sent us back up to the rooms and I was starting to get kinda bored and anxious about making the Billy Joel concert, which was starting in less than ninety minutes. Talked to the mayor’s wife (it felt endless) about her hot security detail (one of whom I was kinda cruising but who was straight) and her Christmas plans, which she said were as little as possible—she made it a point to tell me what normal people they are. She asked where I live and I said the West Village, and what I should’ve brought up was all the small businesses closing. (And by the way, there is another fucking chocolate shop opening next to Manley’s Wine and Spirits—so there are now three fancy chocolate places over two blocks. Where is the demand for high-end chocolate??)
We all watched the show together and then finally we were backstage waiting to go on and David Gregory was dying to go over to Willie Nelson and take a selfie, but Patrick Stewart beat him to it and by the time David went over there, Willie had walked into the studio. I took a quickie with James Franco after he and Michael Stipe did one, and we did one Group 8 shot on my camera, then each of them wanted one so I did one with each of their phones. Finally we went on and I gave it, served it, and belted it. I was so paranoid about making Amanda and company late for the Billy Joel concert that I ran out just as the show was wrapping up, along with James Franco and Barry Manilow (were they going too?). Raced down Ninth Ave to where Amanda, Jim, Jeanne, and Fred were waiting with Jägermeister shots. Downed them, raced to MSG, went backstage, saw Claire Mercuri who took a pic of me and Alexa Ray Joel and then raced inside for the concert which was perfect. Tommy Lasorda was in the row in front of us and he was dozing on and off. He came back during “Scenes from an Italian Restaurant.” We danced and were happy. I stood between Jeanne and Fred, who are kind of Brenda and Eddie but they never split, so maybe they’re just Jeanne and Fred.
They gave me a ride home, and Jeanne and I got into it about the scene she made with Padma at my Christmas party. She said, “You called me the original Housewife, so I was proving it to you,” and I respected that. They dropped me off and pulled away and then I got a text from Hickey saying, “meet us now at Indochine.” I couldn’t get a cab and hit my knee on a post, so I was irritated. Then Andrew Bowen drunkenly fell out of a cab in front of Lenox Health and so that was my ride to go meet SJP, Matthew, Hickey, and Scott Wittman at Indochine, whose kitchen closes at midnight, which enraged me. WTF—that is supposed to be a late night fashion place, and BTW it was five after twelve. We were all on our soapboxes about various things, actually. Hickey and SJ had seen two shitty plays in a row. Hickey yelled at me for looking at my phone. I wanted to see people’s comments about Colbert. They loved it.
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 19, 2014
Now Anderson says he doesn’t need the tetanus shot. I think he is trying to shut me up because I keep texting him. Met with Eric Hughes and Gordon and chose colors and finishes and backsplashes and faucets and on and on. Made a lot of decisions. It felt great.
The Daily News emailed Bravo PR saying they are running an item tomorrow about how I was basically making an ass of myself backstage at Colbert, taking endless selfies with people, and even James Franco had enough and he rolled his eyes at me on camera. They say you have an hour to respond and then they don’t answer their phones. Bravo emailed them a list of celebrities who were taking selfies, with corresponding Instagram accounts. They don’t care. I guess they just want to write something mean about me. And Nicki Minaj fans are pissed at me for asking her to take a butt selfie and who has the biggest dick in Hollywood. They say that’s racist and sexist. I was talking about a music lyric, but they don’t care. It was an endless stream of insults about how misogynistic I am, and how racist, and how I would’ve never asked Taylor Swift that question. But Taylor doesn’t sing about dicks and asses.
Spoke to Teresa. She changed lawyers; she wanted me to know. She still hasn’t met with the prison consultant. She changed criminal attorneys too, she said—her third so far. Met Diane Ronnau for a quick drink, then went to Harry Smith’s Christmas party, where
he has that same great pianist every year and a massive tree and it feels really cozy. Came downtown, got Hickey, and went to a party at Jason and David’s house. There were a few cute guys who I flirted with. The cutest was very boring. The second cutest was too young. The third wanted to come over and cuddle but it didn’t happen.
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 20, 2014
Dad dozed off a little during our Skype call today. I told them about Tommy Lasorda dozing at the Billy Joel concert. Every time his name comes up (which is twice yearly) Mom says, “You know his son died of AIDS, right?” and I say, “Yes, you remind me every time.” Wacha freaked out at this big, nice dog at the dog park, to the point that I had to take him out and leave. Everybody was saying what a nice dog that is and that I should keep Wacha there, but he was so flipped out, his hair standing straight up on his back. It was upsetting. Incidentally, Hickey says I absolutely have to tip the parking garage people. Went to the Knicks game with John Hill and saw Scott Greenstein, who asked what I was thinking about Radio Andy. I said I had been too busy to think about it but I will now that the book is out. Bruce and Bryan hosted a beautiful candlelit dinner in the private room of Bill’s Food and Drink on Fifty-fourth Street. Talked to Ethan Hawke and had a nice flirt going with a ballet dancer, which ended when I later found out he has a serious boyfriend. Scarlett Johansson was there too.
SUNDAY, DECEMBER 21, 2014
So today I walk into the dog run and Bert, who is the Gladys Kravitz of the joint, says, “You will never believe what happened yesterday”—it turns out that big dog wound up attacking another dog minutes after we left. So I guess Wacha smelled it. Hickey and I walked the dog and I told him I may do my own radio station and I want him to do a music show. I’m thinking “John Hickey’s School of Rock,” or something like that.
Breakfast with Bruce and Bryan at Whitehall. Remind me not to go back there for breakfast—it’s all fried eggs on top of beans and toast and bacon and British breakfasts that I don’t want so I felt like an ugly American. Did major gift-giving TCB today—bought sweaters at Grahame Fowler for me, Ralph, and Liam; then Save Khaki stuff for Liza, Bill, and Joanna; then to the East Village for Todd Snyder shoes for Danny and Michael; sweater and shirt at Ralph Lauren for Dad; and some more stuff I can’t remember. Thought about the radio channel all through my massage. Sedaris would be great, I realized. I emailed her from the table. She’s in London.
Bozzi family dinner at the Palm was lovely. Went deep with Lukas about the Housewives, which is what happens every year. Before long Hickey texted to say Lady Bunny is spinning disco at the Monster so he brought SJP and Matthew and they were waiting there for me. It was fun. Bunny played “The Boss” for me even though she said she had just played him. She also played a song that made me go nuts and I asked what it was but then totally forgot the answer. Lady Bunny would be great on the radio too—“Lady Bunny’s Saturday Night Dance Party,” maybe? Got home and took Wacha on a long walk all around the West Village which was blissfully semi-deserted but beautifully lit with Christmas lights all over, like an endless, rolling movie set. Talked on the phone with Dave the whole time. He had some confusing dreams about me. Maybe we were boyfriends in them? We don’t know.
MONDAY, DECEMBER 22, 2014
I emailed Bunny to find out what song that was last night. She said it was “Victim” by Candi Staton, who she said was great and then got really very Christian and that fucked everything up. Went to look at eight apartments with Fredrik and they were all wrong for one reason or another. Watching Fredrik do his facial expressions reacting to apartments—buggy eyes, furrowed brows, pursed lips—is like watching Million Dollar Listing in person. The best was a really small one on Christopher and Bleecker in Amy’s old building—it’s too small and has not-great fixtures and stuff, but a great terrace, which is all I ever really wanted. Fredrik suggested getting a contractor in there to redo the kitchen and floors and then making a new deal on the rent because the building would never want to make those improvements. So we’re exploring that. It’s a very MDL idea. Then I saw a cool place in the sky that had incredible views and made me again think I should just do something like that—a super-high floor in a building I’d never live in regularly but could work with for a year. Also ran by Adidas, Grahame Fowler, and Amanda’s between apartments to do various present swapping. Went home and wrapped and packed and sorted and finally went through mail and went to the bank four times to get wads of cash to tip all my people and reluctantly went by the garage and gave the dude an envelope with a hundred bucks for the five of them to split. Luckily it was the non-greedy, non-angry guy I like who took the envelope. And I upped my tip game with the whole staff of the building. We have a long year of construction coming up! Pot delivery girl came by and Wacha seemed on the verge of flipping out. He doesn’t like shady, illegal activity! It was all I could do to get the hell out of the apartment with tons of gifts to Adri’s, where I met the Perskys and it was all a big Christmas explosion of love. Ordered an Uber and he was there in thirty seconds which freaked us all out. There are more Ubers than cabs in the city at this point. Palm West for Ralph’s birthday dinner with Liam, the boys, Hickey and Jeff, Aefoa and Ciaran. It was lovely. We had toasts for Ralph’s birthday and his Golden Globe nomination and for Danny getting into Yale. Hickey texted afterward saying that that room at the Palm was the last place he saw Natasha alive.
TUESDAY, DECEMBER 23, 2014—NYC—LOS ANGELES
Very cuddly morning with Wacha that was ramping up to a sad goodbye for me, highlighted by his big sad eyes looking at me as I packed. I can’t imagine having actual humans to take care of and then leave. Talked to Lauren Zalaznick from the airport and was feeling down from my goodbye with Wacha and wondering if this trek to Indonesia was the right thing to be doing—I just had a feeling of displacement. She thought we were still going to the Philippines but I said no, it’s Indonesia now. She said you’ll schlep there and run around on Jet Skis and you’ll be back in a week. She said Barry is gonna have to start taking us to the moon to get us to be excited about something. Then we’ll say, “Oh, I thought we were going to the moon”; “No, it changed to Saturn.” Ha ha—she’s right!
Got on the plane and was seated next to Michael Cunningham. He asked what was up with me and I told him about my book tour and felt like a fraud doing so because he is a “real” author, but I made the story about pot lollipops and then we discussed Adderall, which is too speedy for me. I landed and Ubered to meet Bruce at the Palm and the first thing the driver wanted to do was pick a fight with me about the bad weather I left in New York. I told him it was in the fifties today and he made a big joke about how refreshing that must’ve been. He was confusing me with someone who gives a shit about the weather in LA being perfect. Bruce was in front of the Palm smooching Sherry Lansing and John Goldwyn and I got in on the action. She says she is “a fan.” Of the Housewives? Sherry Lansing? Of WWHL? I don’t know what to believe in this town. While she was talking George Hamilton walked by. It’s a real hard-candy Christmas in LA, I’ll tell ya that. Bruce and I walked to Barneys, which was depressing—the store, not the walk, or, well, maybe both—then back to the Palm for a rosé to celebrate my arrival. Back to his house, where I napped and Ava woke me too enthusiastically to tell me it was dinnertime. We had a mellow dinner and then watched a movie called Northern Soul about these kids hopped up on speed dancing to soul music in England in the sixties. I understood 80 percent of it. Then we started to watch a Laverne and Shirley Christmas show—looking at them young and knowing how they turned out adds a layer of depression to the experience—but the TV went out and then so did we.
WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 24, 2014—LOS ANGELES
Woke up on Christmas Eve in Bruce and Bryan’s guest house again, feeling a little displaced. If I were in New York with the dog, would I feel like I was in the right place? Hard to tell. Went shopping on Third Street where we met up with Barry, then went to Neil Lane Jewelry and Barry got jewelry for DVF, then we went to Fig
& Olive for lunch, where some guy thought I was from the Food Network and wanted to talk to me about his friend Adam who “also” is on the Food Network. Then we went to some shops on Beverly; all but one were closed, which sent me into a rage because isn’t Christmas Eve a huge shopping day? LA just felt dead, and that displaced feeling lingered. Those guys went home and I kept Bruce’s car “Monty,” and went to Maxfield to shop for Bruce, where I found a delicious cashmere kind of wrappy sweater thing with a belt that turned out to be $2,600; then I looked at vintage Rolexes which were all $6,000, and finally I spotted a stick pin that was diamond costume jewelry in the shape of a palm tree for $200. Sold. Then to Neiman Marcus, where I bought some Creed. The lady behind the counter told me to tell my friends that online shopping puts people out of jobs. It was actually bustling in there, and all of Beverly Hills was really packed so that made me happy. Back to the house, where I napped for a couple hours and Ava woke me up for dinner, which was an Italian Christmas Eve specialty: lasagna and filet mignon. And caviar. I ate a ton. Just wolfed it down. Ava went to bed and Jason, Lauren, Bruce, and I became obsessed with setting up a little Christmas village Bruce had bought on Amazon (sorry, Neiman lady) for Ava from Santa. Jason set it up all vertically on the table, which Bruce said was no good. So he set it up more spread out, then Bryan got a sheet and covered the whole thing and spread the town over the whole table. He thought it was depressing and that Ava would know there was no Santa by the looks of the table.