The Andy Cohen Diaries (21 page)

The tables around us were packed with the eclectic group of stars who love Howard … Steven Tyler, Dave Grohl, Robert Downey Jr., Barbara Walters (I stayed away), Johnny Knoxville, John Stamos, Larry King, Harvey Weinstein, and on and on. Lena Dunham was at the table next to me with her cute boyfriend, who gave me fruity gum. She said she's about to adopt a dog from the same place as me, but hers is deaf and blind. So I guess she is going to heaven. (I wonder if Wacha's bum hips will get me in?) Ryan Phillippe was at Lena's table and I spent a lot of time just looking at his back (and by back I mean ass). He was puffing on the exact same pot pen thing that Whoopi had given me. I didn't puff mine inside for fear of getting written up somewhere and fired. (I really, really don't want to get fired.)

Jimmy Kimmel hosted and it was the greatest variety radio show ever. Performances from John Mayer (he killed “Like a Rolling Stone”), Adam Levine (“Purple Rain”), John Fogerty (“Fortunate Son”), Jon Bon Jovi (“Wanted Dead or Alive”—all I need to hear ever), plus Letterman, Fallon, Rosie, Joan Rivers, Whoopi, Sarah Silverman, Chris Christie, Tan Mom, Bryan Cranston, and Louis C.K. spoke.

I love Sandra's commentary of award shows on Twitter, and view her as a supreme celebrity snarkologist, so to have her across from me even to look at during the show was heaven on earth.

As I sat there watching this often inappropriate yet perfect marriage of high and low culture, it dawned on me for sure that
WWHL
is closer to
The Howard Stern Show
than it is to any other show, which made me happy. And the Housewives are my own Wack Pack.

I grabbed a “VIP Gift Bag” at the exit and Eli and I gave Sandra, who somehow missed the gifting area, a ride home; I made her announce each item from the bag and we all divided them up in the backseat. It was, as all gift bags are, sundry pieces of crap, but I would've paid good money to hear Sandra announce them (“a power bar, full of toxins!” “Female lubricant”). I gave her the big-ticket item, a Kindle Fire. I wasn't sure whether I would've used it, and she deserved it.

Eli and I made a pit stop to smoke the pen and walk Wacha and saw a car fully on fire across Eighth Avenue from my apartment. The NYFD got there before it could blow up, but it was engulfed and pretty exciting. Wacha was not too impressed. Then we went to the
GQ
party at the Top of the Standard. On the way in, someone was screaming at me that he was with Kyle Richards in the bar and the lady with the list said, “We can
not
open up the list,” so immediately I am codependent not wanting to leave a Housewife in peril. But I went upstairs anyway, where sure enough ten minutes later Kyle materialized. (Housewives are resilient!) I had a lovely chat with her and Mauricio, who kept mentioning how hot his wife is. Good for them. Also Michael Voltaggio showed up looking as cute as ever. He is very straight but somehow I wind up very handsy with his hair when I see him.

Eli and I toasted over my first whiskey in a month. For two hours I sipped two of them, and, man, did they taste great. I impressed my own damn self with my pacing and strength in not guzzling. Cardinal legend Jim Edmonds joined us with his fiancée Meghan and that was a fun hang. The crowd was a weird mix of sports and fashion. And Macklemore was at the table next to us. (No sign of Lewis.)

Although there was no reason to leave, I impressively called it a night around two. (I am glad I was able to impress myself so many times today, because I'm pretty sure I didn't impress anybody else.) I forgot how fun it is to be with Wacha when I'm a little drunk.

SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 1, 2014

There's a disturbing article in the
NY Post
about a young Puerto Rican boxer who was killed and his family honored his dying wish by propping up his corpse in a fake boxing ring they'd constructed in the corner of the rec center of his housing complex. There are photos of this embalmed boxer propped up, and of his family posing for pictures with the corpse, which is wearing boxing gear and sunglasses. It's called “Dearly Begloved.” I ripped it out of the paper.

I took Wacha on a long walk through the Village. I wore the Ralph Lauren Olympics Opening Ceremony Sweater, which I need to reiterate looks like a bomb exploded somewhere between SantaLand and Washington, DC. People were
agape
. We stopped by Bruce's and his doorman
, of course
, gave me “And your name is???” He looked right through the Christmas Olympics Sweater too. What
does
he notice?

On the way home a homeless lady sitting by the subway complimented the sweater. So it turns out the homeless are wild for Ralph's Olympic gear. I walked two blocks, turned around, and brought her five dollars, the least I could do for the only person to compliment my ugly sweater. Frankly, she seemed more pleased with the sweater than the five bucks. The sweater does fit great.

Oh, and somehow I wound up with the female lube from that gift bag last night. Usually I give leftover gift bag stuff to my housekeeper, but this would seem weird, right?

Went with Bruce to
Buyer & Cellar
, which was hilarious. Had dinner at Morandi. I had invitations to a bunch of Super Bowl parties all over town, each with a different great musical act (Robin Thicke at ESPN, Nelly at Playboy, etc.)—so we had to make a decision and went with the DirecTV bash, where Jay Z was performing, and rumor had it that Bey was going to as well. Mistake! Ten thousand people in an airport-hangar-y type of tent by the river. I am sure there was a fun roped-off area, but we didn't see it. Convinced it was a shitshow and there was no way Bey was going to show her perfect face, we left after about three minutes and saw Kyle Richards coming in on our way out. We had a nightcap at Waverly. Over the course of the entire evening I had a tequila and a red wine; slow and steady wins the race, is my new philosophy.

SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 2, 2014

Gayle King emailed that it was an incredible party we missed. So, shit. Apparently, McCartney and Leonardo DiCaprio were there and Beyoncé did perform and Jay Z sang all his hits.

I brought the article about the dead boxer to the gym. I feel like I need to discuss it with people because it's so nuts. Will was disturbed, but not disturbed enough for my taste. I gained a pound and I blame Equinox. I have no clue why I still have a membership there since I get trained at Willspace, and in my first visit in more than a year yesterday I drank a fucking sugary protein shake after I worked out, under the false pretense that it was perhaps healthy, but Will broke down the ingredients for me. I hate eating right. I was happily swilling SpaghettiOs over Christmas and now I'm eating only protein, not snacking, and white-knuckling over shakes.

I guess a few months have elapsed since my mom's last breakdown about my going on Bill Maher's show, because we again spent a few minutes Skypeing about this
hypothetical
non-issue. It is amusing to me how upset she gets by just the notion of me having to keep up with Bill Maher. “I really DON'T think you're dumb,” she tried to reassure me. I think I found my April Fools joke.

Tonight I spent twenty minutes searching the couch for my right contact lens, which I was very sanitarily cleaning in my mouth when I somehow dropped it. Wacha was incredibly confused by what I was doing. I gave up and went to the spare pair. Went to Marci Klein's for the Super Bowl, and she served the best brick chicken I have ever eaten. Ever. Mark and Kelly were there as well as Tina Fey, who is exactly the person you would want to watch watching the Super Bowl, which I did as much as I possibly could. She said she'd seen and liked the
Anchorman
episode of
WWHL
, which made me nervous in retrospect. I never imagine anyone specific actually watching the show, which is probably a good thing. I wonder if she noticed how bad I was sweating. Kelly had seen the
NY Post
article about the boxer and also was very freaked out, so that was oddly satisfying.

I went home and watched
Downton Abbey
and
Looking
, which were better than the shitty football game. I went to bed at twelve-thirty, which is maybe the earliest my bed has seen me in years. I'm sure it appreciated that.

MONDAY, FEBRUARY 3, 2014

One of my ten happiest moments of every day occurs the moment Wacha squats down to poo. It's a win for the universe every time Wacha shits. And today it was snowing, so I was glad he took a big quick one so we could get back inside. He still has the cone and it's too much to bear. For me. He walks into walls with it and is constantly misjudging distances. But he's a trouper. It's me who is feeling the brunt of how sad it is.

I found the contact lens between the cushions of the couch. It seems fine and is currently resting comfortably in saline solution.

TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 4, 2014

Bravo is moving (my fourth move since working there) to the fourteenth floor and my new office is way smaller than my current (blessedly big, I would actually say huge) corner suite. Since I'm no longer an exec there, it's pretty cool they're giving me a place to hang my hat when I'm at Rock Center; regardless, I have a ton of stuff to get rid of and that's what I did today. I have so many papers that I would like to consider a part of TV History that I fear may just be trash: casting for every season of
Top Chef, Housewives
, and
Project Runway
, research on shows that worked (
Flipping Out
) and ones that didn't hit (
NYC Prep
)
,
and early development of everything in the past ten years. I threw out a bunch of
Housewives
casting but now I'm regretting it.

It seems like the Gaga video is actually happening on Saturday morning in LA. I think it's just me in front of a green screen in a little room. I gotta download that song.

Tonight Jonathan Groff was on the show and he is so cute; I tried not to flirt.

WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 5, 2014

Every year the big black-tie amfAR event happens on the day of a major winter storm, and so, like clockwork, this morning ice
and
sleet began falling at once from the sky. Mother Nature is mixing the shit up! Wacha tried to frolic but quickly realized that it sucked, and wanted to go inside. I always wonder whether they'll cancel amfAR and they never do and everyone shows up, including me. I went as Natasha's date for years before she died, and tonight they were honoring Joely and Vanessa and this storm wasn't going to keep me from that. It was a heavy-hitting crowd—it always is at those things—and the person I was most excited to hear speak was Harry Belafonte.

I was supposed to begin the tribute by introing a video and then Jessie Eisenberg was due up, but his flight got canceled and Liam stepped in to do it last-minute as a surprise to Vanessa and Joely, who was trying to guess who the presenter could be. I would only tell her that it was someone she loved and someone I loved, so she was sure it was Hickey. The boys came and it was incredibly touching having them there, grown up. Natasha would've loved it. I think about her—and miss her—every day.

Also at our table was Dr. Mathilde Krim (holla!) and Ethan Hawke and Ryan Shawhughes. Ethan had been paying his respects to Philip Seymour Hoffman earlier in the day (who is all anyone is talking about this week). I'd felt bad about missing
Macbeth
but Ethan was so cool about it; I wish everyone was as cool as he was about missing a show. Some people I'd classify as only casual pals have been really offended that I've not shown up to see them onstage recently, so I worry.

Liam was in great form. He has movies stacked up like planes at JFK waiting to take off—eight of them. Joely and Vanessa, expecting Jessie Eisenberg, seemed touched and emo about him speaking on their and Natasha's behalf.

I had to run out early to do the show and missed Chic and Grace Jones, but on the way out shook hands with Chelsea Clinton, who is very unlike both musical acts. I left thinking there's gonna be a cure for AIDS in the next ten years.

We had the
Top Chef
winner and finalist on, which is always fun. I drank two tequilas and was feeling no pain by the time I got home. After a drunky walk with Wacha (the best kind, if I haven't made that clear), I stepped into my elevator and walked smack into a handsome man with whom I immediately started flirting. It was a light flirt, a smiley “How was your night?” He'd been working late. I told him mine was “great!” He told me he'd actually been on an airplane with me a couple weeks ago and it took me exactly two floors to realize this was the handsome stranger with the wedding ring from the Madonna flight to LA.
OMFG.
The door opened on ten and before I could muster anything he told me that's his floor and hesitantly started stepping out. “Wait—what's your name?” I asked, though I had looked at it on the manifest two weeks before. It's Brendan. Brendan! How'd I forget that? We would've talked longer but in came the sweet Italian man who loves Wacha.

The airplane guy lives on the tenth floor! Who is his husband?

THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 6, 2014—NYC–LOS ANGELES

Before my walk this morning I made Surfin spill the tea on my tenth-floor future lover. He is
not
married, says Surfin, and he is barely in NYC. He mainly lives in LA, and he rents. He's a renter. I am beside myself about the whole thing. I will say, he's not as tall as I remember from the plane. I remember thinking he was huge. I need to see him again when I am sober.

I am back at 169 even though I drunkenly ate a fistful of gummies after the show last night. My Ninj made me do a zillion squats today. All the fuck I do is squats. My ass should be a cantaloupe by now.

A thousand years ago, a woman gave a boatload of money to Hurricane Sandy relief for the (honor?) of having dinner with SJP and me. The date has changed fifteen times in the last year and a half but tonight was it. I picked up SJ and had made a list of eight essential items to discuss with her before we gave ourselves to the johns who awaited us at Blue Hill. The biggest item on the list was getting her counsel about next week's American Songbook Gala at Lincoln Center honoring Bryan, where both of us are appearing. I've been stressed and overwhelmed daily trying to find the right words, or poem to read, to pay tribute to my friend who is not only a Hollywood Superagent but a great communicator and gentleman. I want to say something that'll match and capture his grace. She had some ideas, and something for me too, which was an invitation to her table at the Met Ball—which is an OMG invite. It's better than the Oscars and harder to get into. She has room at her table and was saying, “If you could invite anyone, who would you invite? Someone that would blow you away.” I said Prince Harry. She is going to see what she can do but thinks he is probably booked for the next two years. On her list was Donna Tartt. We were both so blown away by
The Goldfinch
; I'm all for it.