by Andy Cohen
In Santa Clara, we parked directly backstage at Levi’s Stadium with all the band equipment, did a shot, and found our driver, who was waiting to take us to the Four Seasons in San Francisco. We decided to go directly out, as it was after eleven. First stop was Powerhouse—gay bars always have strong names—where it was a lot of body heat and a guy in a jockstrap named Walter who was getting us drinks and, he said, “protecting us” while holding a clipboard where he was trying to convince people to sign up for the wet T-shirt contest without much luck. John wondered why they needed a wet T-shirt contest in a bar full of shirtless guys and I had no good answer. The dance floor was smoky, thumping with disco bass. I explained the significance of Diana Ross to John Mayer, which would’ve made a great article in Rolling Stone. Then we headed down the block to the EndUp, which was phenomenal. These two promoters were begging us to go to the VIP area and we just refused repeatedly. John and I danced like crazy, giddy boyfriends. He was the ultimate wingman. Checked in to the Four Seasons after three.
SATURDAY, JUNE 27, 2015—SAN FRANCISCO
Breakfast with my high school pals Kenny and Keith, then John’s engineer Chad arrived and we grabbed John and the three of us went to Santa Clara, where amidst office parks stands the gleaming Levi’s Stadium, built with the promise of hosting Super Bowl 50. John’s EarthRoamer was in the middle of a bunch of cops and quickly became a cop magnet—they just wanted to walk around it and look at the huge tires and discuss. We soon were visited by Phil and Jill Lesh. Wives gravitate to me, so I immediately bonded with Jill. I made us turkey sandwiches in the EarthRoamer and the Dead’s manager, Bernie, came in and said tonight is definitely the night to do psychedelics, which answered my question about what drugs to take. He asked if I wanted to see the set list and I said I didn’t—I wanted to experience the show like you’re supposed to. They opened with “Truckin’” and I instantly time traveled back to a Dead show twenty-five years ago. I’d been worried that it was going to be all old, rich white people (like me?) but it was fairly multigenerational and smelled like Dead concerts did in the day, a mix of body heat and pot—not unlike Powerhouse, come to think of it. Someone handed me a joint and I was dancing again to “Uncle John’s Band.” Around the time Act One was winding up a rainbow appeared out of nowhere and everyone freaked out. It was Jerry! And gay pride!
We had these wooden all-access passes that literally got us anywhere—on the stage, front of house, in everyone’s dressing room. And if I’d been told twenty-five years ago that I’d be backstage at a Dead show at intermission in Mickey Hart’s dressing room meeting him and Bob and the gang—and Nancy Pelosi in a white tunic!—I wouldn’t have believed it. Act Two began with a member of the Dead’s posse giving me some moonrock—it’s the purest form of MDMA; you bite a little off a rock. It was not speedy at all, just pure, which helped me enjoy a bunch of rare songs that I—who thought I knew every Dead song—didn’t know, plus “Dark Star” and “Drums/Space”—which were trippy and long. Natascha Weir appeared—another wife!—and wanted me to be sure to hang out with her and Bob before I left town. I was in the middle of The Real Housewives of the Grateful Dead! Watched “St. Stephen” from the side of the stage with Jill Lesh and her kids but then I wandered back to front of house to see the rest of the show because the view was better and the whole point is to just trip out and dance with strangers. After the show we hung out in the RV for an hour drinking more tequila and Diet 7UP and then headed back to San Francisco, where I crashed quickly at the hotel.
SUNDAY, JUNE 28, 2015—SAN FRANCISCO
Woke up a little speedy and ran into Tyler Cassidy, of all people. He was in the lobby bar drinking Bloody Marys and watching the Pride parade. I joined him and we caught up on fifteen or so years of not being in touch. I went down to the parade and found a spot on top of the Muni station rail where I stood for two hours watching the beautiful humanity. We headed to Santa Clara and John was feeling kind of funny (had he done something the night before I’m sure he would’ve felt fine, like me). I wandered around the stadium before the show, meeting crew people’s families backstage, talking to a group of Santa Clara cops about the people having bad trips last night who’d been pulled into their custody (they said they were ignoring people with pot, they had bigger fish to fry), gossiping with the tech guys from the production truck who offered me set lists and again I refused. All of a sudden the show was going to start and I grabbed John, who felt well enough to go front of house.
The songs were totally on point—classic after classic, with Trey Anastasio killing it and amazing keyboards too. Highlights were “Alabama Getaway,” “Hell in a Bucket,” “Sugar Magnolia”(!), and “Brokedown Palace.” I spent most of the concert on my own, dancing furiously like I used to. I was transported back to 1987 as I made concert buddies who got me high. It’s like I forgot how to dance that freely and the music taught me again. During the show we met Trixie Garcia, (daughter of…!!) who introduced us to her half-sister Sunshine. Sunshine is the daughter of Mountain Girl and Ken Kesey. She invited me to the Oregon Country Fair, which is apparently the hippie version of Burning Man, if that’s not redundant. It sounded so perfect to me in the moment and of course I told her I would definitely be there. During intermission Bob Weir texted John and said come hang out, so we went to his private sanctuary off his family room, where I left my cocktail at the door (he is sober) and went in. He was like a rock elder statesman shuffling over to give me a little hug. Back in the show, an intrepid concession girl somehow made her way to us during “Space” and we bought Dibs and enjoyed Dibs and “Space.” Somehow it felt like marriage equality, the trend towards legalization of pot, and the Grateful Dead getting back together for a final tour were all mixed into one happy combo platter that filled the stadium with joy.
After the show John decided to stay in his truck, so we hung there and drank on the Astroturf in front and made our way back and forth to the concession stands for some hats and stuff. I heard someone being held in the police area screaming in agony from a bad trip—it was painful.
On the way home Chad’s wife, Maggie, texted that if I celebrated gay pride in any more of a straight way, I’d have to go down on a girl out in front of a stadium full of people.
JULY FOURTH WEEK—SAG HARBOR
Landed, Wacha picked me up at the airport (with Daryn), and I took the car straight to the beach. Work intruded when we got an email saying NeNe was announcing she’s leaving RHOA. We knew she wasn’t coming back, but when you see it on People.com then it becomes really real. I realized I didn’t get asked back for that MLB All-Star Legends and Celebrity Softball thing. What the hell? I emailed with Teresa in prison and she said it was hot in there and I should enjoy the fireworks, and “remember who has stayed loyal all these years, I expect the same in return.” So that felt a little … scary?
I said horrible, dirty things in front of the Consuelos kids at the Persky Fourth of July party. First Kelly asked what Wacha’s green bandanna signified and I said it means he likes getting fisted. Later Mark asked if Wacha only had one ball and I said no, but I slept with someone with a uniball once, and proceeded to tell 80 percent of the story until I realized the boys were listening. Oops. And Wacha ate five deviled eggs off the plate.
Marci Klein had a great barbeque. Really enjoyed talking to Jeff Zucker about the state of the news business and L.A. Reid about the state of Mariah, who he said used to say “turn the giggles up.” I don’t know what that means, but I love it. Babyface was there too, and Chris Rock and Alec Baldwin. Mom Skyped me and begged me to see Kinky Boots. I refuse because it seems like people wailing about acceptance. I’m glad it’s there, but I don’t need to see it. I told her I saw Chris Rock at Marci’s and she said, “Did you tell him he almost ruined your life when you were in high school?” I said that was Eddie Murphy, Mom—the other black comedian. Then we went into the braces issue, which I’ve been avoiding.
“I’m old enough already; if I wait any longer I’ll be dead!!!! If
I don’t do it, I’m setting myself up for all kinds of root canals.” Then I said, since you are the most morose person ever, can I just ask you a horrible question? If you die with braces do you want to be buried with them, or what? She said she hopes she doesn’t because that’d be in the next year. We agreed she would have a long life, then she made her decision: “NO—let ’em take ’em off when they’re fixing me up. Tell them to rip them out! I WON’T FEEL IT!”
MONDAY, JULY 6, 2015—NYC
I woke up and got reamed out by the woman from the management company of the building about something that went on with the pipes that she says we didn’t have permission for, but my people say we did. They’re putting a work stoppage on the construction while they figure it out, and I didn’t tell them this but there kind of already is a work stoppage in the apartment because I need to close on the other one so we can finalize the new plans and combine them.
TUESDAY, JULY 7, 2015
It was the RHONY reunion today and I took one look at the mass of hair and makeup staff, assistants, and hangers-on in the viewing room and told the director to kill the audio in there. That was a first, and guess what—for the first time there were no press leaks during the filming of the reunion. So it only took nine years to figure out to kill the audio to the blabbys. Ramona texted during the break to call her—I did, and she said her guests in the viewing room noticed that Bethenny was on the screen more than anyone else. (Just because they couldn’t hear didn’t mean they weren’t going to cause trouble.) Ramona drank wine at lunch and fell asleep while Dorinda was talking, on the show. Another reunion first.
Wrapped at nine and went straight to WWHL, where I was on cruise control with Jeff and Jenni from Flipping Out. I couldn’t sleep. I kept hearing the women yakking in my ear and I was stressing about construction. It was horrible.
FRIDAY, JULY 10, 2015—SAG HARBOR
Had a beautiful lunch and then pool time at Marci’s beach club and a Chinese masseur showed up and was incredible—ninety minutes by the ocean. Went home, dumped the dog and met Jimmy and Nancy. Their driver showed up and took us to Wölffer Estate, where we had rosé and I heard all about Jimmy’s accident with his finger. He has a new perspective on everything after being in Bellevue for ten days, which by all accounts sounds miserable. Went to a party for John Eastman’s seventy-sixth birthday. Sir Paul McCartney was there, and so was his vintage Rolls-Royce which has a British-side driver’s seat. And Ron Delsener had a pink T-bird parked in front. Billy Joel and his new wife and Alec and Hilaria Baldwin were there. You could make your own pizza, but all the ingredients were figs and edible flowers and stuff you may not want on a pizza. I asked for mushrooms and the server said they’re out of season. Mushrooms are out of season? I ordered a caramelized onion pizza and when it came out of the oven some man came up, put it on a plate, and took it. So that didn’t work out. Went to Sen and Fallon is so nice to everybody who comes up. We tried to figure out what kind of man I need to be with. I wrote a list of Grateful Dead songs for Jimmy to get into because he doesn’t know their stuff that well.
SATURDAY, JULY 11, 2015—SAG HARBOR
Woke up and someone had thrown a fried egg on my car! A cooked fried egg. Not even eggs à la française! Beasts here in the Hamptons. BEASTS! Nonetheless it was a great beach day with my gay beach friends, George and Justin. Went into the new store that replaced Espresso and they spent a shit-ton of money on it but there’s barely any merchandise. I almost bought dark chocolate ice cream until the lady told me it was vegan. I said, you know who wants vegan dark chocolate ice cream? She said, a vegan? I said no, NO ONE. And that’s true, by the way.
Janey Buffett had a dinner and I sat with her daughter and her daughter’s boyfriend. I had them both whisper in my ear what they thought was the percentage chance they would get married. I said I would not reveal the answer if they were wildly different. They both said 70 percent.
SUNDAY, JULY 12, 2015—SAG HARBOR
Liza called and said I am the least defensive person she knows, which I liked hearing. Had a spur-of-the-moment beach walk with Bethenny and we wound up walking for miles and had to get a ride back at Marci Klein’s. Drove back to the city; Laverne Cox and André Leon Talley were on the show and I was out of it. In the back of the car to the show, I did my usual skimming through pitches for Mazels and Jackholes from the team and nonchalantly picked a Jackhole, a seemingly benign online feud about Kylie Jenner’s cornrows between her and a young actress I’ve never heard of named Amandla Stenberg. I figured it was a way to get Laverne and André to weigh in on what they think of white girls wearing cornrows. They both said they didn’t see anything wrong with it.
MONDAY, JULY 13, 2015—NYC
All day I have been getting tweets about last night’s Jackhole from black people outraged that I would pick on a sixteen-year-old for starting a dialogue about cultural appropriation and more generally calling out the way I/Bravo represent black women on our air. My natural instinct when I get heat is to immediately try to make it better, but this time I realized I’d blindly stepped in something so much bigger. There’s no quick fix. I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I’d never even heard of cultural appropriation until today, and when I randomly picked the Jackhole last night I had no clue what the big debate was even about.
Had lunch with Bonnie Hammer and asked her what was gonna be my downfall. She didn’t know. I brought it up to Frances again after lunch and it was all a joke. I wasn’t consciously connecting it to what was happening on Twitter, but within a few hours, last night’s Jackhole situation was making me nervous. On another note, a while ago an older gay couple sent me a letter asking me to officiate their wedding. They’ve been together forty years, one of them is wheelchair bound, and they happen to live down the street from me. I said yes, and today was the day. It was in their apartment, with just us and a witness, who told me that Maker’s Mark was like gasoline.
Conference call with EW people afterwards about the cover; it’s gone from a picture of me in the back of a limo multitasking (we rejected that one) to me on a bed with a computer (no, again) to me with models on a bed to—today—me in front of Manhattan at night, which I like.
By the time the show started at eleven, Black Twitter (that’s a real thing; look it up somewhere) was really pissed at me and I was getting a significant number of tweets calling for my head. I emailed my Bravo bosses around 1:00 a.m. saying that by the time they woke up I assumed this would have become a news item somewhere and that I need direction to make it right. I was pained to think I had attacked a sixteen-year-old girl who was intelligently trying to express herself about an issue about which I was unfortunately clueless, when I was really just trying to make a joke about a white girl wearing cornrows. Was feeling reminiscent of what happened to Zendaya, when Giuliana Rancic’s critiques of her dreadlocks on Fashion Police started a race war. Went to bed thinking this was way bigger than me, and was going to be my downfall.
TUESDAY, JULY 14, 2015
Really a horrible day. Woke up to Frances saying yes, this is an issue, which wasn’t exactly what I wanted to hear. Taped our sixth anniversary show at 2:00 p.m. as Black Twitter was leading a groundswell against me. At one point #BoycottBravo was trending. Everyone said I called the young actress a jackhole. I didn’t; I called the feud the jackhole. I sent a tweet this morning clarifying that, and then an apology tweet, which was vetted by no less than fifteen people and was ridiculed in a second (“That took too long,” “That was too fast,” “You’re Giuliana,” “You don’t mean it,” “You’re losing money on us so now you care”). When I wanted to defend myself, I tried to remember what Liza had said recently, that I’m not defensive.
So we taped our sixth anniversary show with John Cena and Method Man and I announced to our staff before the show that with what was going on, it might also be our last show. I was half kidding and half scared out of my wits. I got off the air and BET and Roland Martin and Ebony were tweeting at me. Endless variations on “Have
a seat,” “You stole our culture,” “You got rich off us,” “Check your white privilege,” etc., etc. I called Bevy Smith to get her advice on what to do. She said I had to educate myself on what everyone was so upset about. I told her that until yesterday I had never even heard of cultural appropriation, or thought about the term “white privilege,” for that matter. She said the fact I had never heard of either of those terms is white privilege in itself. She said no apology on Twitter was going to satisfy Black Twitter and that I need to start getting involved in the community and educating myself. We made a date for lunch. She’s a good friend, and smart. I didn’t get into this with Bevy, but took it as an example of the way perceptions have changed regarding race over time, that my two very best black friends had never heard of it either, but they’re older. #BrazilianAndySamberg was all about it, and gave me a further education.
Wacha came home from Brooklyn and wanted nothing to do with my bad day. He was looking at me like, “You don’t know what I’ve been through today, brother!” because he was caught in the rain or something with Sherman. My day was worse, I tried to tell him.
I got a notification saying you have an email on this prison system—I looked and the subject was “it’s Teresa,” as though it could be anyone else. Inside it said, “Thanks for the book; I just got it.” (I’d sent her Most Talkative.) One minute later came an email saying, “I hate the picture of me from the reunion that you put in the book.” I said, “I hope you like book better than the picture.”