The Andy Cohen Diaries (22 page)

The dinner turned out to be lovely not only because the food was so freaking good, but the group who paid for our time were great, from Cincinnati and just the type of people you would want to do something awkward like this with. It was all really loving and fun and easy and they were big Bravo watchers. We took every combination of photo available and then I careened it to the airport to get an eight-fifteen flight to LA to reunite the Real Hens of Beverly Hills.

I am rereading
The Andy Warhol Diaries
, so I was sucked into that for the whole flight. On this date in 1982, Andy had dinner with Diana Ross, Iman, Bianca Jagger, Steve Rubell, and Barry. He said he tried to make Barry laugh “because he never does and everybody says it's impossible,” which of course tickled me. I think it's gotten less impossible thirty years later but he's still not handing out laughs to just anybody. After dinner they went to see Calvin Klein's new apartment on Sixty-sixth and Central Park West and Diana Ross took a limo. Just when I started to think I was born in the wrong decade, Andy starts talking about a guy at dinner who he didn't want to get close to because he had “gay cancer.” I was born at exactly the right time and I'm lucky to be alive.

FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 7, 2014—LOS ANGELES

Ugh!
I woke up at six forty-five this morning and opened the shades to discover what looked like the apocalypse, but turned out to be a smoggy morning in LA. The end-of-days visual seemed an apt metaphor for what I was facing: the
RHOBH
reunion. I suspected it was going to be long and brutal and it was. Two of the Housewives refused to sit next to Carlton because they believed that she had put
spells
on them, or that somehow she would
put
a spell on them. So there was last-minute seat juggling. They'd all watched the last five episodes (which haven't aired yet) yesterday, so they were lathered up, especially Lisa, who gets a little ganged up on in the finale. She apparently watched them with Tyler Perry—TV watching à deux I really would have liked to witness.

I went into the day with the hunch that this was going to be the first and last reunion for Joyce and Carlton, and I didn't get the sense they had the same idea. Actually, I am pretty sure Carlton does know and I feel bad for her—we only showed her as a sex-starved Wiccan. In retrospect we could've fleshed out more aspects of her life. Joyce was a river of words and was bugging the shit out of Yolanda; as the two of them were going at it my mind turned the corner into morphing this into some other kind of alternate-universe version of the
Housewives
: “Joyce, you are no longer a Housewife. Please leave the reunion.”

After about seven hours I tried to wrap it up and go into full conflict resolution with Lisa and Brandi, and Lisa and Kyle. (“What one thing do you want Lisa to own right now, Kyle? Can you do that, Lisa?”) I don't know if it worked but I was trying to make it all better as I saw genuine tears in Brandi's and Kyle's eyes and hurt in Lisa's. During a break near the end, Lisa asked me what I thought of the day and I said, “It is clear these girls love you,” but she intimated they were only acting that way because they thought they came off badly in the finale. One of the issues here is that in every city, some of the women are simultaneously living their real lives and playing to the audience's perception of them, and that always winds up biting them in the ass. It's worse in this franchise than anywhere else, maybe because it's an industry town.

We wrapped at about 9 p.m. and I met Hickey and Jeff, who were having dinner with Jeff's family somewhere on Melrose. I had a Maker's-and-ginger, which I drank too fast, but only one. I'm really trying to stick to my protein/veggie plan and I already felt victorious having barely made a dent in the reunion craft service (crafty is my kryptonite), but the booze loosened me up and I grazed on all their desserts, so that was a big cheat. Then I shame-ate a chocolate chip cookie in the hotel room. I'm powerless to a chocolate chip cookie next to my bed. Or anywhere.

I missed a great party in NYC tonight at Jimmy's, celebrating his last night on
Late Night.
I hate missing great parties. Hate.

SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 8, 2014—LOS ANGELES–NYC

Another early morning, this time for the Lady Gaga video shoot. I was told it was a green-screen solo shoot they were tacking onto the schedule because it was my only available day. I'd listened to the song (“G.U.Y.”) a few times on the treadmill last week but otherwise didn't give it a moment's thought even though John Hill kept telling me what a big deal it was. I got there and it turns out he was right.

Here's how it went down: A cool woman leads me through a huge soundstage to my dressing room, says they added this day—at great expense—for me, and hands me the lyrics and tells me to learn them while I get made up. I thought I was just supposed to learn the chorus! “You're playing Zeus,” she says, “and you're singing in front of a green screen.” I've done no research on Zeus or contemplated what this might entail. “I'll tell LG you're here. She wants to come brief you.”

Wait—
LG is here
? And is that what we call her?
LG?
I foolishly assumed that
she
wouldn't be at the shoot. I don't know if I thought she was too busy or what, but it turns out she is directing the video. I text John immediately (who is crazily in town for the weekend) to get his ass over there in a hurry,
LG is directing me
!

Gaga comes over and is warm and enthusiastic and blows a ton of smoke up my ass (she says something along the lines of “This is about a celebration of your success and career and women everywhere wanting to be with you, or be slaves to you”) and recites parts of the song (“Touch me, touch me, don't be sweet / love me, love me, please retweet / let me be the girl under you that makes you cry”) to me—surreal—while giving me attitude cues (“Be sexy, strong, playful, godlike”). She's wearing a do-rag, Anthrax T-shirt, leather jacket, and jeans. I ask her if she's directed other videos and she starts rattling off her hits. She says they are mixing in another song from
Artpop
and needs me to hear it, so she grabs my phone and starts looking for the album, only to find that I don't own her album. I only downloaded “G.U.Y.” and “Applause” and what are the chances that the artist herself would find out? Awkward. She puts the phone down and says they are only using my head, which will be floating in the sky, so there is no wardrobe. And by “no wardrobe” she means I should just take off my shirt because they need my shoulders bare.
OK …

They bring me to the set just as John is walking in with raised eyebrow—he knew it was gonna be a big deal. Never could an intense six-week workout regimen be more instantly rewarded than the moment I take my shirt off in front of Gaga and a soundstage full of people without embarrassment. Gaga cues up the track and gives me specifics on how to sing the lyrics. I fuck up the lyrics left and right but I am a music video superstar, and she is there by the monitor cheering me on, singing along with herself, whooping it up, and making me feel like a million bucks the whole time. (John's standing behind her shaking his head.) When I finally get the lyrics in my head and the right attitude, I scream at her that I am about to cum, which I hope she takes as the expression of gratitude it is meant to be. I get the take.

We shot for about forty-five minutes and it just so happens that singing along to a blasting Lady Gaga song shirtless in front of a massive crew and Lady Gaga cheering you on is
really fucking fun
!

Oh, and I couldn't resist telling her about Mariah's lighting requirements.

I was so pumped after the shoot and had time to kill before my plane, so I had to make a plan. It was only 10 a.m., so I met Hickey for breakfast at the Tower and we had a ton of laughs. Heidi Fleiss was at the next table, so that was very LA. I fucked her. Kidding.

I had a few tokes of the Whoopi vape pen and walked onto the plane feeling so Jah and happy until I heard a familiar
very cheery
voice around the corner. It was the #BabyJaneFlightAttendant! Three flights with her in three months. On top of that, Mariah's publicist, Cindi Berger, was sitting behind me and Brandi Glanville catty-corner. She was exhausted from the reunion, natch. (Aren't we all, Brandi? Aren't we all.) I had an important epiphany: The reason I am so upset by and nasty to #BabyJaneFlightAttendant is that she
lingers
two beats longer than is necessary for every interaction. “The jury's out on these new seats!!!!!” Beat. Beat. Beat. “You want more nuts? No?” Searching. For. More. Interaction. It's exhausting. #FirstWorldProblems.

The tribute to Bryan is Monday, and I had vowed to write my speech for him on the plane; Bruce had steered me in the direction of speaking about his love for theater, which was a good idea, but instead of writing I did other homework—watched three episodes of
RHOA
. So that's still hanging over me. I landed in NYC and met Bruce and Bryan for a drink.

Turns out I missed another fun party tonight—this time
in LA
—Mary McCormack's birthday. Wrong city two nights in a row.

SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 9, 2014

I saw a guy at the gym today wearing tights and his ass was so round and big and perfect that I couldn't get it out of my head all day. If I had an ass like that I would wear tights too. He wanted nothing to do with me.

The show was a disaster—tons of technical fuckups. It felt like the first time we'd ever done it. I hope nobody I knew saw it. Actually, I hope no strangers did either.

MONDAY, FEBRUARY 10, 2014

I woke up freaking out about speaking tonight at Bryan's tribute at Lincoln Center. I took Bruce's advice and wrote something about his love of theater and our late nights at Marie's Crisis. Hickey was on a plane to New York and we were emailing back and forth—he really helped me shape it, but still, it nagged at me all day.

We taped tonight's show with Jenny McCarthy and Brandi Glanville early. The game tested their knowledge of a U.S. citizenship test that Yolanda had taken on
RHOBH
; it turned out to be kind of hard—neither of them did so well and yours truly wouldn't have done much better. Jenny, who is simultaneously a few days into starving herself on a juice fast
and
quitting smoking, essentially lost her grip in the hallway after the show. She was really upset about the game, which she thought was built to make them look stupid, and said she was never doing the show again. We wound up subbing out a game of word association. She was really appreciative. I like her. When she's not quitting smoking and on a fast, which is clearly a deadly combination.

So then it was on to Lincoln Center. I recited my speech the entire way up Tenth Avenue until I'd memorized it. I got there just as Mantello, who was directing the night, was speaking to all the actors taking part. The concept was Barkin welcoming everyone in front of a closed curtain, saying that she knew Bryan would prefer to be at home in his living room right now, so we attempted to bring his living room to Lincoln Center, at which point the curtain comes down to reveal a group of us—Alan Cumming, Kristin Chenoweth, Mark and Kelly, Anne Hathaway, Allison Williams, Patty Clarkson, Marisa Tomei, Matt Bomer, SJP, and me—sprawled on couches with cocktails in a re-creation of Bruce and Bryan's penthouse. I was the only non-actor up there, and I was relieved to be sitting on the couch with SJ, who was nervous herself to be singing (“NYC” from
Annie
). The unspoken barnacle stuck on our nerves was that the audience was going to be filled with every fancypants power person and movie star from both coasts. The convo on the couch was whether to go up holding my piece of paper as a crutch or not. SJ said to do whatever made me comfortable. I was second up, after Chenoweth, didn't bring my paper, and immediately saw Hickey in the audience, which put me at ease. It was good, and better even, I got to sit back and enjoy the rest of the show with a cocktail in my hand.

Before SJ went up to sing she whispered, “Is that Madonna sitting in the third row?” Indeed, directly in front of us, there she was and as I breathed a sigh of relief I hadn't seen her before I spoke, SJ bravely stepped up and broke my and everybody else's hearts with her song. By the time Daniel Craig (sans porno mustache, the play closed) brought Bryan to the stage, the whole audience felt like they knew him a little better. A powerhouse crowd milled around the party—Anna Wintour, Reese Witherspoon, Barry, DVF, David Geffen, Brad Grey, Sandy, Lorne Michaels, Gwyneth Paltrow, Liam, Whoopi, and a shitload of other people who I am thrilled also not to have realized were in the audience before I spoke. Jimmy (he starts
The Tonight Show
next week!) and I laughed over our carb faces. He is so ready to go, and along with all the press he's been doing he was on the cover of
Men's Health,
which is hilarious given that I think of him as a booze-and-chips buddy. Oh, and amidst it all the Countess walked up in a white gown. And Carole was there too, not that I think of Carole as a Housewife, but she is one. A magical NYC night.

Bryan had a very happy soiree in the sky (at the Skylark), jam-packed with iconic revelers ready to light it up, surrounded by a 360-degree view of Midtown. I met a sweet guy—an actor—and we exchanged numbers and planned to get drinks. I can't tell if the guy thinks it's a friend thing or a date thing. I need to let him know I'm not looking for a new friend. Hickey, Joe, and I tried to make something happen on the dance floor but people were falling all over each other and a few gay guys were closing in on a straight hockey player; we left just as we sensed it was turning the corner into messy—about one forty-five—and went home to walk Wacha. The boys were so happy to see him—and he them—and the group of us had a drunken, laughter-filled walk around the Village in the freezing cold at 2 a.m.