Official Book Club Selection (37 page)

Here comes the section my editor is making me write. She keeps asking me to explain my “typical routine regarding diet and exercise,” and “how you got the bbb.” Oh Christ, Pamela. Here it is.

Sometimes I work out with a trainer. I get real mad at him occasionally because it’s real hard. And … [sob] … I hurt afterward. But I do it, because I’m on TV. If I was still a loan officer in a bank I would be a good fifty pounds heavier and a lot happier. Sometimes I forget to work out for a month. Guess what happens then? I GAIN WEIGHT. Sometimes I’m so stressed out and exhausted I just have a bunch of diarrhea. I’m pretty sure “bunch” is the correct term for multiple diarrheas. Anyway, it’s good for at least a jean size. Sometimes I’m out of town and go for very long walks or hikes. Yawn. One thing, though: I find the thinner and hotter I get the bitchier I get. If you see me in an airport and say, “I didn’t know you were so tiny!” I might slap you in the face or kick your husband in the balls. It’s not personal. I’m just really hungry. In fact, I’m hungry most of the time.

Now for my nutritional regimen: Have you heard of sugar-free Red Bull? Sometimes that’s lunch. That’s because I have such a crazy upside-down schedule—early morning radio promotion interviews at 6:12 a.m., two shows at night, and in between whatever is demanding my time—that I can’t really stick to normal meal times. Some days I have three healthy meals, and make sure a big salad is one of them. Good for me! Wheeeee! Other days I think I will die if I don’t have some pizza. I mean I really think I’m going to die. Guess what? At those times I eat pizza. And I haven’t died yet! What’s really helped me is having “sensible” specialty meals delivered every day. I still adore all my favorite junk foods (shout-out to marble two-layer cake with chocolate chip frosting in between and buttercream on the outside), and I’m never going to love steamed broccoli, but I also know that having a Cobb salad in my hotel room before I do a stand-up show—instead of pigging out on bad things because I’m lonely or bored—means I won’t feel like crap onstage later.

All this bikini hoopla doesn’t mean I still don’t struggle with my weight. Body issues don’t just go away. Just the other day a flight attendant had the bikini picture in a tabloid and wanted me to sign it, and there was still that little part of me that wanted to go, “Oh! Well, just so you know … heh heh … this picture was from five pounds ago … heh heh … I didn’t get to work out the week prior to this photo being taken … heh heh … I’ve worked out so much more since then!” I had to stop myself and say, “Kathy, sign the fucking picture.”

My first bikini picture, with my cousins Maureen and Nancy. Why do I look like I just got punched in the face?

God, I could talk about my hot body all day. Couldn’t you, Oprah? Don’t you find it heartwarming that in this roller-coaster D-list life of mine where talking shit about celebrities and making fun of crazy Hollywood has given me an incredible career, it’s a fitting irony that I’m ending this book by offering my gratitude to a celebrity? One who was responsible for getting my picture into so many magazines and TV shows. And by way of a frickin’ two-piece, no less.

So to whoever’s reading this to Paris Hilton, tell her I say thank you.

So what do you think of my life so far? Oh shut up, you’re too skinny.

Well, I’ve read my book, too, and here’s what I think about my spiritual journey: Cake is awesome. I want some right now.

Actually, it’s a little strange to look back so thoroughly on my life and realize I haven’t learned one lesson. Instead, I just go by my own creed, which is essentially: Make mistakes (telling Jesus to suck it), repeat them (FanningGate), don’t learn from them (got two Emmys), and blame others (the Vatican).

More than anything, the guiding force of my life has been my work ethic. Like a lot of things, as you’ve probably gathered, it goes back to my childhood. When I was growing up, my family loved watching 60 Minutes every Sunday, and I remember once there was a story about an old woman who had lost everything. She was so poor, she had to eat dog food. After watching the story Mom turned to me and said, “I hope you’re proud of yourself, for Chrisssake.”

“Whuh?” I said.

“I know you spent three gahddamn dollars at Woolworth’s today on a Barbie outfit. I saw you.”

“Whuh?”

“You keep spending money like it’s goin’ out of style and you’re gonna be eatin’ dog food outside in our Dodge Dart, cause we’re gonna lose this whole gahddamn house. Everybody around here is spending money like it grows on trees!”

Mind you, we didn’t have a dog. But the point is, my parents instilled in me their very own prewar, Depression-era work ethic, and along with that goes the daily fear that I could truly lose everything tomorrow. And by “lose everything,” I mean succumb to the hot-or-not system that governs every aspect of the entertainment business, that turns A-listers into D-listers faster than you can say, “I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here.”

I’m not eating dog food now, and that is why I want to take this opportunity to sincerely express my gratitude to all of you for coming to my stand-up shows, downloading my CDs, watching my little cable show, ordering T-shirts that say “Suck it,” and, of course, buying this book. When I look out into the audience, when I see you at book signings, when I read favorable comments online, get your emails, or notice that more of you are following on Twitter, none of it is lost on me. I see you. I thank you.

Here’s why I’m the luckiest motherfucker on earth. I get to do what I love, and I mean I love all of it. Stand-up. The D-List. Talk shows. Red carpet. The occasional yeast infection. (That’s from performing in polyester blend pants in an outdoor venue in Milwaukee during Summer Gay Pride.) All the people I’ve gotten to meet. I mean, who else gets to do shit like this:

Yeah, that’s me in bed with CNN’s John King. And his Emmy. It gets better. His wife, White House correspondent Dana Bash, took the picture, then told me I’m her Cher. Sure, it’s fun to be in bed with John King, but it’s way better to be somebody’s Cher.

First and foremost, I would like to thank my friend and collaborator Robert Abele, who did the heavy lifting of shaping this book, while I just mostly bitched and moaned; his lovely wife Margy, who guided us along the way, constantly muttering something about “More detail! More detail!;” my editor Pamela Cannon, who gets how awesome I am; Team Griffin, not to be confused with the Griffin clan, so shout-out to Jessica (miss you!), Tiffany (best laugh ever), and Tom (love); the agent who made this happen, Trena Keating; my WME gang, Nancy Josephson and Ari Emanuel; my beloved attorneys Bill Sobel and Alan Isaacman; my stand-up agent Steve Levine; the entire gay community; Nancy Silverton and the delicious pizza she would serve Robert and me at Mozza after writing sessions; and a pretty, pretty lady publicist named Whitney Tancred.

I also want to thank Jeff Zucker, who has done very little for me but thinks he discovered me. Jeff Gaspin, same thing. The Bravo gang: Lauren Zalaznick, Frances Berwick, Cori Abraham, and of course, Andy Cohen. Now can I get a fucking billboard? I love you freaks. Sorry, gotta go. Les Moonves is on the other line.

My doggies, Chance and Pom Pom.

My Emmys, Emmy and Emily. Yes, I named them. Guys name their dicks, for Chrissakes. Get over it.

A New Jersey Housewife said it best. “Let me tell you something about my fa-muh-lee. We are as thick as thieves, and we protect each other to the end.” Or until our annual Christmas fight. Ladies and gentlemen, the Griffins: my brothers John, Gary, and even Kenny; my sister Joyce; a beautiful Irish rose named Maggie, and the man who loved her so.

Random House: State your name and profession.

Kathy Griffin: My name is Kathy Griffin, and I am a teller of dick jokes. And a plumber.

RH: It appears your pen is as profane as your tongue. Where did you learn to swear?

KG: I learned to swear from the masters, the priests and nuns at a little church called St. Bernadine’s. I also learned some good swear words from other parishes, but I would say the Chicago parishes and the adjacent suburban parishes really have it down. In addition to that, I would just say I probably learned swearing from the mean streets of Forest Park, Illinois. The other four-year-olds were pretty rough in my neighborhood. I’m not gonna lie. Chicago dockworkers were afraid of them.

RH: This is your first book. Had you ever considered writing anything before? A novel? Or a scholarly work of history? Or a children’s story?

KG: I had not considered it, because I’d always been told by the nuns at St. Bernadine’s that my cursive was poor. A children’s story is an interesting idea. How’s this for a title: Waterboarding Preteens: The Debate Is Back On. I have a political side as well.

RH: How much did your Irish Catholic heritage play into being a pain in the ass to celebrities?

KG: I feel that while I have never had a drink in my life, I have the audacity of a serious alcoholic. And when I say alcoholic, I am certainly not referring to anyone in my family, who may have ever had a problem with the drink. Because if there’s one thing you should know about my family, and all of my relatives, it’s that none of them have a drinking problem at all, that I have made it all up, because I am, let’s get this right, “dramatic.”

RH: When you were a child, you performed for your family. What advice do you have out there for parents enduring their obnoxious brat’s self-indulgent showboating?

KG: I am a firm proponent of monitored tasing. I believe it can be done in a controlled, humane way. I am also in favor of having your child on a bridle-style leash in the mall, or just in their room. But if they do insist on doing shows, you should hold them up to a Broadway standard. And if they don’t give a good performance, you should be able to pummel them with fruit, and talk to them about how perhaps they could learn a little something from the vaudeville days, when there were no child labor laws. Look, I don’t care for children. I don’t think they’re special, except yours. I don’t think they’re attractive, except yours. And I don’t think any of them are gifted, except yours.

RH: You seem fairly obsessed with Oprah. Is this something you’ll ever outgrow?

KG: I will never outgrow my obsession with Oprah. Just as she will never outgrow her cardigan sweaters. Oops, she already has. Now look, that sounds like a dig, but it’s not. It’s called a struggle, and I’m on it with her. I support her. (Not as much as she needs those underwire bras to support her, because she’s got some serious ropes and pulleys going on there.) The point is, I worship her, and fear her at the same time. And believe me, that’s how she wants it. Don’t be fooled.

RH: Did I miss something? Where’s Celine Dion in this book?

KG: I didn’t write about Celine Dion, only because of my fear of her husband Rene Angelil. I have an unfounded but constant fear that he could be in the French-Canadian diva-by-association Mafia. Or have French-Canadian diva-by-association Mafia ties, and by ties I don’t mean les cravats. And I fear that I may be abducted, whisked away, and held prisoner at a charming little brasserie in Montreal, forced to eat multiple croque monsieur sandwiches until I confess to knowing the lyrics to every single one of her songs.

RH: You mention a lot about wanting to be Rhoda. Did you ever get to meet Valerie Harper?

KG: As a matter of fact, I have met the great Valerie Harper a couple of times. The first time was on a television panel, with myself, Valerie, Cindy Williams, and Diahann Carroll—Dominique Deveraux from Dynasty—who loves to tell anyone in that stuffy, almost British-but-mandatory-if-you’re-in-an-eighties-prime-time-soap accent, “I. Was. The first. Black. BITCH. In prime time.” Anyway, during the panel, one of the questions from the moderator was about reality television. Valerie went on to give a diatribe about how it was really the dawn of a horrible age in television, and that, in the time of Shakespeare, people needed scripted works to entertain them and help raise them to a higher level of intellect. She went on and on, made a very good argument against reality television, and then I rose my hand up and said, “Have you guys seen Survivor? It’s fucking awesome. They don’t even eat for like, thirty days, except sometimes they just eat dirt. And sometimes they have to fuzz out their genitals.”

RH: You spent many years in the showbiz wilderness. What’s in your “survival backpack” for that kind of journey?

KG: Blame. I feel it’s essential to blame others for your failures. It’s comforting. Also, as you’ll remember from my binge-eating chapter, combining salty foods with sweet foods in an irrational manner, i.e., potato chips and Rolos, which are a chocolate-covered caramel candy, is something that I find helps me get through difficult post-audition moments. Also, it’s important to stay hydrated. But not too hydrated, or else you’ll have to wear a catheter. Which I did one time, but for a different reason, as you might also recall from the book. But let me just say this: I am more pro-catheter than the medical industry gives me credit for. So that would be blame, Rolos, potato chips, and a catheter.

RH: Of all the possible stories you could have told about Andy Dick, you chose a balmy spring night at the University of North Florida. Why that one?

KG: I feel that that story has all the great elements of a typical experience with Andy Dick. I cannot tell you how many holiday parties I’ve had, and especially my yearly Kwanzaa festival, where my comedy world friends sit around and have bizarrely similar stories about Andy Dick. The locations change, but the story’s always the same. There’s drugs involved, and some vomiting, a lot of confusion and anger, and maybe his fly going down, and Andy taking his penis out. And when the inappropriate behavior reaches its peak, then it’s a lot of us looking around the room saying, “That happened to me, too.” Mine just happened in Jacksonville.

RH: What do you think gays should take away from reading this book?