The Andy Cohen Diaries (28 page)

SATURDAY, MARCH 29–MONDAY, MARCH 31, 2014—SOMEWHERE IN MONTANA

John picked me up at the airport—looking good in a big Montana truck—and immediately explained to me that gophers fuck up everything up here, they dig holes where they shouldn't and get under people's houses, and when they die, they are food for the birds. So it sounded like pretty “Circle of Life,”
hakuna matata
stuff when he explained it, but I still didn't wind up killing any. I did a lot of napping, going deep with the Grateful Dead, taking walks by the Yellowstone River, and listening to John play guitar and sing. We made a few stops at the Albertsons in town—miles wide and deep with goodness—where I met a girl called Cierra (“like the mountains but with a ‘C'”) handing out peanut butter Pop-Tart samples. It turns out she hates Pop-Tarts and gave me many reasons why, which seems exactly contrary to how to sell Pop-Tarts but I didn't care (nor did I buy any). One thing is for sure, John Mayer cooks a mean breakfast and there's something hot about a pop star in sweats with bed head slaving over a hot skillet for his houseguest. Twice we went to Montana's Rib and Chop House, where everything was delicious and the whiskey tasted better than anywhere else. John is on a major cleanse/body-conditioning thing, so he's not drinking and looking hot as hell. He is, however, still having sober fun, which means we closed down a bar full of the entire town, men and women of all generations of mainly coal miners and cowboys, dancing together and each one a live wire who seemed to be simultaneously hugging you and picking a fight. I really had to be on my toes. They all thought I was Carson Daly, maybe because I was with John (who was convinced that they actually thought I was Carson
Kressley
). As I went to bed to the sounds of a rushing river, I realized how completely stressed I've been for the past few weeks. I took a lot of deep breaths. Which wasn't hard because the air is perfect.

TUESDAY, APRIL 1, 2014—NYC

I was so pumped to prank my mom today that Wacha and I got on Skype first thing and she said, “Oh, Wacha, are you sad that the Cardinals traded Michael Wacha?!?!” I was shocked. How could they trade him, and how could my mom have heard this news before I did?

“APRIL FOOLS!” she crowed.

Good one, Mom! Now it was my turn, and she teed it right up. “So who called yesterday? What's the news you couldn't tell me on email?” She was making it so easy.

“Don't be upset, but Bill Maher's people called and I got booked.” She froze at my news. “Don't worry,” I tacked on, “it's about
gay stuff.”

“GAY STUFF??” she howled. “Do you ever WATCH the show? Gay stuff? Well, is it POLITICAL? You're not that politically well read.” She seemed weirdly mollified by the fact that the topic was gay and not political and wanted to know when it aired. She was happy to hear that I thought it would be in the next few weeks, when they're in France. Less misery for her. She told me to study up and I assured her I would.

“He does most of the talking, so just LET HIM TALK.” Now she was starting with the advice. I needed to put an end to it.

“April Fools!”

“You SET ME UP for that! I was thinking all day someone had called you and COME OUT OF THE CLOSET!” Any time I call her with some kind of news she always assumes someone has come out. “That was a good one and I am just GLAD you're not doing it. Please don't tell me it's not true and you ARE doing it. ARE you doing it or NOT?”

Now she thought I was double punking her. Poor thing. I have made her so cynical. I told her it was a straight punk.

“OK, I get it. It's like the Shawnee thing but it lasted a minute, not a year.”

Right! And in her defense she wound up accepting both my claims—that I was an Indian (See:
Most Talkative
) and a Bill Maher guest.

When that was over I sat on a bench in front of Bonsignour with Wacha and this neighborhood jackass that's always there was playing mind games with him to make him bark and drive him nuts, which he did. Rabbi Kleinbaum walked by on the street and I was too irritated to grab her and chat. Came home and found a jury summons in the mail! WTF! What about that celebrity free pass? I called Daryn, who has that lady's email address (because I got her tickets to my show!) and will see what's up.

At the gym I was talking to the trainers about getting ready for the MLB All-Star thing in July and they're going to take me to the batting cages. They asked what position I thought I should play.
Position?
I never gave any thought to being in the outfield in a
position
with a ball coming at me, in front of everyone. Then we pulled up the list of who played last year: Hamm and Chris Rock and Kevin James, along with a slew of former
professional
baseball players.

Who am I kidding? I can't do this.

Tonight was a command performance at a cocktail party for NBCUniversal ad-sales clients with a bunch of talent from different areas of the network, like Savannah Guthrie, Mark Feuerstein, Mika Brzezinski, and Joan Rivers. I chatted with Ronan Farrow. I don't see how he's not Sinatra's son; he's the spitting image.

Met the Perskys and Bruce at RedFarm on the Upper West Side and Bruce pointed out that there was a moment in time that Mia Farrow looked just like Sinatra too, so maybe Ronan just looks like his mom who looked like Sinatra. In any case, he looks nothing like Woody Allen, so that's something.

I had a two-hour massage and at one-fifteen I had to tell him to stop—I had to be up at six-thirty for Miami.

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 2, 2014—NYC–MIAMI

Checking into the Delano in Miami makes me so happy—the smell, the vibe that is unmistakably Miami circa 1992, the Philippe Starck décor that serves drama and fun everywhere you look. I started coming here the minute it opened. Most of the times I stayed here, I was a “have-not”—waking up at 7 a.m. to save pool chairs for Bruce and me because they wouldn't reserve them for us; he and I getting kicked out of the elevator by Mr. Armani's security a month after the Versace/Andrew Cunanan mess. Now I can actually afford to be overcharged for everything from suntan oil and a salad to an ocean room with a balcony, and they'll save me chairs in exactly my favorite spot (halfway towards the bar on the bungalow side)—which is a great thing because I love hanging out at that pool for six-to-eight-hour stretches watching the scene unfold in front of me. It is mostly populated by attractive liars and fakes (and the people who love them, like me) who want to tell you their stories, like “I'm a model!” (um, no you're not) or “I'm a movie producer” (with no actual credits?). There are more fake boobs at that pool than at a
Real Housewives
open call. (Btw, we don't do open calls.)

Sitting there today—in my two designated seats for the week—I became obsessed with a gorgeous couple I have decided cannot be American. He has a great body and a lot of style; she is a beauty and half her (perfect) ass is hanging out of her bikini bottoms. They're all over each other and in their own world. They don't even seem to care about the circus playing out in front of us, which made me feel a little bit like a bottom feeder.

Tonight my friend Alex showed me his new boutique hotel and took me to a strip club. Two strip clubs in a week is pretty much my quota for the year, although I still can't get over that there aren't any like this in Manhattan. I used to blame Giuliani for shutting down all the smut, but I'm soon gonna start blaming de Blasio if he doesn't start returning a lil filth to Manhattan. I have faith.

THURSDAY, APRIL 3, 2014—MIAMI

I reserved a big Aryan ginger dude to train me on the beach every day and so we met this morning at eleven. I didn't reserve a specific type of trainer, of course, but it became a happy ginger coincidence when he appeared.

I spent the rest of the day at the pool and decided the hot couple is definitely Brazilian. They're clearly very in love. I've also got my eyes on a girl who seems to live on a raft. Her spray tan is like a real-life Instagram filter. She looks like Sutra. With enormous boobs. Some dude with her had Björn Borg undies sticking out of his shorts. So now I know who (besides John McEnroe) wears Björn Borg underwear: Euros who frequent the Delano.

I had a Tinder date tonight—my first—with an Italian lawyer from New York who was in town on business. As I was waiting for him by the bar in the back of the hotel, I ran into Carson Kressley. It was great to see Car-Car, but as soon as the Italian arrived we ducked into a corner. The date was not successful—not a ton of chemistry. One plus was that he had no idea who I am, so it was all fresh and new, which I liked. He seemed confused when people kept coming up for photos.

We booked JLo for the show, which is good timing because I'm in Miami obsessed with “I Luh Ya Papi.” I predict a conference call to discuss her wants and needs imminently. Daryn heard from the jury-duty lady and she said there's nothing she can do to help, she's federal court and this is another branch. Oh, and she wants to redeem the tickets I promised her when she supposedly let me go for four years. So this is payback for reveling in a celebrity loophole. I guess I deserve it.

FRIDAY, APRIL 4, 2014—MIAMI

Super hot today. Working out with the Ginger on the beach today, I was sweating my ass off and two paparazzi were in the bushes shooting the whole thing, which was awkward. Who would want those pictures?

My buddy from the Cardinals, reliever Jason Motte, was in Jupiter for extended spring training and saw on Twitter that I am in Miami. He drove down for lunch, which turned into “Fifty Questions with a Baseball Player While I Slurp Whispering Angel!” “Who is the biggest dick on the team?” (“They don't allow dicks on the team.”) “Do you get nervous?” (“Not much.”) “Are you competitive with other people on your own team who play your position?” (“Not really.”) “What's your least favorite city to play in?” (“Philadelphia is tough.”) “What kinds of hotels do you stay in? Where do you sit on the plane? What is the food/drink situation on the plane? What time do you get to the games? When do you eat? What do you eat? What do you like to do in bed?” I asked all but the last one, and more. He is a really nice guy and answered them all. I told him I was starting to feel creepy for naming the dog after Michael Wacha because I don't want the dude to think I'm a stalker or obsessed with him or something. I think he's a great pitcher but it was a spontaneous decision. He said I shouldn't worry about it. And he was as amused by the pool situation as me, so it was good to have someone to discuss it with. He is heavily involved in charities for kids with cancer. Hearing him describe the kids made me very emo and motivated to get involved with one, maybe with Wacha. I asked him about the MLB thing, but he is exactly the wrong person to ask because he can't relate to my Little League impotence.

After he left, I at last got to talking to the hot couple. Turns out he's British (in finance) and she's American (a dancer). They'd been judging the same people as me, so we mind-melded and judged together for about ninety minutes. There was a massive bachelor party going on around us, with groups of guys drinking hundreds of Corona Lights while standing around rafts talking to each other. What the Brit realized is that none of them ever left the pool, which meant they were all just pissing on each other underwater all day. Wonderful. I grilled the hot couple about every detail of their relationship. They were quite forthcoming—they live together and are probably going to get engaged; sounds like they have a healthy sex life, and he manscapes.

Sent a polite follow-up text to the Tinder guy (I like to keep everything nice) and he responded, “If you didn't have the famous side I would've fallen for you but the attention you were getting killed my ego.” So I was rejected by someone for my “fame” before I had a chance to reject him because we didn't have chemistry. Joke's on me!

Met Ryan who I kind of know from NYC and his friends at the Palace, which after all these years is still serving sunset sidewalk drag performances. It was so fun, but the margaritas are not what I remembered. Went to Score with my friend Jorge and cruised Latinos.

SATURDAY, APRIL 5, 2014—MIAMI

I worked out in the sweltering beach heat with the Ginger while photographers started slowly assembling like ants taking pictures they won't be able to sell. I spent fifteen minutes by the pool trying to decide if it was depressing that I was here alone, but I decided that I love spending time alone and that I'm never alone even when I go away alone. I know a lot of people here and when I don't I meet new ones.

I think I have a sixth sense for people around me who are on meth. First it was my driver in LA a couple months ago, then today I realized that my waiter at the pool had to be high. It was a day of endless Whispering Angels with the hot couple, so I had plenty of time to observe him. He was alternately highly functioning and horrendous at his job. Two people separately came up to me in the pool and said I know their sisters-in-law, and I didn't know either sister-in-law. Near the end of the day, the methy waiter overheard me complaining to the hot couple about how atrocious the service was, which made me feel like a jerk and I wound up giving him a huge tip that will ultimately fuel his meth habit, thereby continuing to make him a poor waiter.

I met Ryan and his New York posse at the Palace at the end of the day and you cannot beat their sidewalk drag show. I video'd a lot of it. When am I ever going to watch that?

SUNDAY, APRIL 6, 2014—MIAMI–NYC

Tanorexic that I am, I spent an early-morning couple hours getting the last minutes of sun by the pool before heading back to NYC and a gorgeous 55-degree spring day. Sat next to a guy on the flight home who made fun of me for being pleased about the spring that awaited me. People who live in nice weather year-round are prone to being barbarians towards people who have seasons. Let me enjoy my spring! I took Wacha to the private dog run in the West Village and he ran like a motherfucker for an hour. When your dog goes to the bathroom in the run, the rule is to get the hose and spray down their waste. It's phenomenally clean in there. I am fully on board with the rules. He was exhausted at the end, which as usual made me happy.