The Andy Cohen Diaries (32 page)

I got a message on Tinder at the end of the day from a handsome guy I've been talking to online saying that he was on my plane today but didn't have the balls to come say hi. I guess this is one of the hazards of being “known” and on a dating app? Intriguing and odd, all at once.

SATURDAY, MAY 3, 2014

I was up at seven to co-host the Revlon run/walk for cancer with Emma Stone. My job was to announce the start of this race of thousands of women (50k? 75k? 20k? Who knows?) in Times Square. They told me to “vamp for a minute and a half and then count down from ten.” I feel like every time someone tells me to vamp I wind up saying the wrong thing, but I made it through. It was inspiring to see all the cancer survivors and the women fighting the disease. Emma Stone was lovely and fresh and sweet. The positive energy kept me going all day.

It was a beautiful day and the West Village was packed with hot straight guys. Met one from Australia who just got in from Delhi and was carrying a bag full of cricket gear. He told me he's trying to make cricket the next big thing in America. I don't have the highest hopes he'll be successful but I wish him luck.

I had a long-overdue catch-up with Jackie. We clicked right back in as though we'd seen each other yesterday. The new development in our thirty-something-year-long friendship is that we now both have dogs, so we can dissect that for hours. We ate outside (with the dog) at Bubby's in the Meatpacking District, which just opened next door to where Florent was. By the way, Florent is still empty, which still seems like karma for that landlord who drove him out.

Wacha has 34k followers on DogStagram. I thought I figured out who the plastic surgery guy was but then looked on Facebook and realized I got him confused with a different plastic surgery guy. Oy.

I stayed home and watched the White House Correspondents' Dinner. I didn't think Obama was that funny and Joel McHale wasn't at his best but he was incredibly brave to stand up and insult Chris Christie like that. While watching McHale do his thing, I had a flashback to the comedienne Pudgy, whom I discovered at age thirteen. She was an insult comic hosting a Showtime special from a male strip club. She would come out and insult the audience for five minutes, introduce a stripper, then come back and do more comedy. I taped this show on my VHS and I would watch the strip routines when I was alone and show my junior high friends the comedy, because I thought she was hilarious. I acted like I only taped it for the comedy and would zip through the strippers, but what did my friends
think
as I was fast-forwarding through these
men
stripping down to banana hammocks? What was I thinking?? I'm pretty sure I showed my parents too. And I'm pretty sure I showed everyone my hand. I am having residual embarrassment. And wondering where that VHS tape is.

SUNDAY, MAY 4, 2014

There was an Urban Bear festival happening on the same block as the dog run, so I saw lots of heavyset hairy men who perhaps subliminally inspired me, because I ate like a pig all day, starting with Bubby's, some midday rosé with Joe, and dinner at the new Il Mulino with Jimmy and Nancy Fallon. I actually ate pasta at that dinner. I couldn't help myself. Maybe I want to look like a bear at the Met Ball tomorrow. Jimmy has reached an entirely new level of fame and popularity because of the white-hotness of
The Tonight Show
. He is like the mayor, supersized, or SJP at the height of
SATC.
And he is super nice to everybody, which is a testament to him.

MONDAY, MAY 5, 2014

Met Ball Day! Dena came over to help me put on my white tie and tails, which I was initially unenthusiastic about and then changed my mind when I put them on. I felt like Thomas the evil gay footman. Actually, I felt like Matthew, or Branson even, because the downstairs folks wouldn't be wearing Ralph Lauren. I picked up SJP, who was wearing an incredible black-and-white Oscar de la Renta creation that was very much an homage to the night's honoree, Charles James, with an intricate lattice stitching on the back topped off by de la Renta's signature sewn in at the bottom, which I believe was her idea. She had an entire team of people, including Leslie Lopez, the man who'd actually built the dress, and Serge Normant, who made her hair into a double-pointed sculpture. I announced to all that I was going to make mad love to her at the end of the night, which was very not true but got a laugh. She was a co-host of the evening with Bradley Cooper and Lizzie Tisch, so we had to get there at the beginning so she could stand in the receiving line and shake every single guest's hand. I was worried I would have trouble sitting with my tails but I was free and easy compared to SJP. Between her hair and her Cadillac-sized bustle, just getting in the car was a challenge. She was sitting hunched over in the middle of the car in a huge pile of bustle. I am pretty sure we were the first ones on the massive red carpet and the hundreds of paps all went crazy for her, as they should.

After depositing her with Ms. Wintour and the receiving line (AW said I looked “very chic,” which I was puffed up about), I joined Bruce and Bryan for cocktails. Only 40 percent of the crowd got the dress code dead-on. I found Nicole Richie, who seemed to be unescorted, so she and I did a couple schmoozelaps, which was fun and allowed me to awkwardly run into several women who have been guests of my show but had been erased from my memory, and to others who hadn't but with whom I still was able to be super awkward, like Leighton Meester. Buoyed by SJP's great energy, our table was really fun. I sat between SJ and André Leon Talley, and across from Bruce and Bryan, who were with Pat McGrath.

Right at the beginning of dinner I met a very handsome designer with whom I had an incredible flirt, the kind that knocks you off your feet a little bit. SJP gave me his full backstory and I was feeling bullish about continuing our conversation at the Boom Boom Room after dinner. Concurrently, a handsome young hedge fund gentleman in white dinner jacket (I still can't figure out if it counts as white tie but am pretty sure it doesn't) whom Jessica had been trying to fix me up with found me at my table and initiated a flirt. So I was feeling optimistic about the after party even before it began. Not to get ahead of myself, because the dinner itself was pop culture theater—Kanye and Beyoncé wandering by, Taylor Swift looking for Lena Dunham. Naomi came over to me three times in the course of the evening screaming, “KEEP PORSHA! DO NOT FIRE HER! I CAN'T STAND KENYA!” Valentino passed by and whispered, “I was turning the channel last night and saw you with the Black Laaaaaaadies!” Frank Ocean performed with an orchestra and was phenomenal; I heard he was supposed to sing five songs but cut a few because he was so nervous. The bathrooms are where the real party is if you are very tolerant of smoke—it's all boldface names huffing cigarettes because of course you can't smoke in the Met and God forbid someone should wait three hours for a cig. On our way out of the museum, we ran into Kylie Minogue, who said, “Boy, were you drunk the last time I was on the show!” I thought
she
was too, but learned it was more of a party for one. Ma-ha!

The Boom Boom Room was initially gorgeous and civilized, then turned into a shitshow after a couple hours, which I guess is how it always goes. I started talking to a woman who asked me if I “ran or walked the other day”—I had no clue who she was or what she was talking about and gave her a super vague answer. She introduced me to her British boyfriend, Andrew, whom I spoke with for several minutes before realizing he was
Spider-Man
and his girlfriend was
Emma Stone
with whom I had fucking co-hosted the run/walk
two days before
. I have certainly ruined any chance of her coming on my show. I don't know why I didn't recognize her. (Whiskey?) Anyway, he was lovely and is looking at an apartment in my old building on Horatio Street tomorrow. Around the time of that faux pas, SJ decided that the shitshow had boiled over and she was done for the night. Bruce and Bryan left with her but I decided to stay for one more drink, quickly gave up and started to leave myself, but ran right into the hedge fund guy, who was well into his double vodka sodas and insisted I stay and drink. We had a bunch of fun and sat on the floor in the corner by the fireplace, where he let me know he would
not
be going home with me at the end of the night. I told him that was my understanding already and that it was OK. We went to the bar to get another whiskey and ran straight into the designer from earlier in the evening, who pulled me aside to let me know that he was engaged and that he had been looking for me to let me know because we had had such a nice flirt but it needed to stop. I told him I was crushed and heartbroken and we hugged four times. In the meantime I decided that was a good sign and told the hedge fund guy it was time to go. He said he would walk me home and as we walked out, Kristen Wiig grabbed me and said to pile into her party bus and go to Rihanna's after party, which was kryptonite to my plans of going to bed. She kept screaming, “It's worth it! It's worth it!”—which was very funny at the time. We all got into the packed elevator and I was jammed into a corner with Hedge Fund Guy, Wiig, and Nicole Richie, and we were stuck for about ten minutes, all of us drunkenly telling each other to get out and work the controls. We weren't moving. It was messy and drunky and we finally all got out and went down through Le Bain and wound up in Alexander Wang's party bus rumbling over cobblestone, Kristen Wiig on a stripper pole screaming, “Is this a dirt road!?” listening to dirty rap while careening through the city.

Rihanna's party was packed but no comparison to the ride over, and they were only serving cognac (whaaaa?), so I didn't last long. Hedge Fund Guy walked me home and we said goodbye in front of the building.

TUESDAY, MAY 6, 2014

So, so,
so
hungover. And so glad I sent Wacha to Brooklyn yesterday, because I could barely handle myself, let alone him, this morning. I did make it to the gym at noon and sweated out a gallon of whiskey and shockingly weighed in at 166, even with the carbo load Sunday night. Had lunch with Martha Stewart at Morandi, which I had kind of been dreading, but we wound up getting inspired and coming up with a potentially great format for a show, a different version of a business reality show with Martha. I told her I thought Bethenny would make a genius yang to her yin; I pitched her how that could work and she surprisingly went for the idea. We need someone else too—P. Diddy? Wendi Murdoch? Now I have to sell Bethenny on the idea, but I think she'll dig it. I walked over to Three Lives Bookstore, where I bought SJP the new Michael Cunningham and Diane Keaton books to thank her for the night, and myself the Roz Chast as a pick-me-up. Before the show, I hosted a party for Todd Snyder celebrating his CFDA nomination at his store. I not only love his clothes, but he's a great guy. We talked about the stainless steel issue I had in Miami and he was surprised. I should send him those pants. I was quite foggy and didn't stay that long.

WEDNESDAY, MAY 7, 2014

First thing this morning I was in the elevator with a man who seemed to be staring at me and I realized it was probably the airplane guy. “Are you the guy from the plane to LA?” I stammered, in front of a stranger looking on. “No, I am from Italy!” he chirped. Then I was stuck in front of the elevator explaining myself, the plane, the handsome stranger, and Madonna to both the Italian and the stranger, who were acting like they deserved an explanation.

On my cell at the dog run, I had the most unbelievable conversation I've had with a Housewife's husband in my seven years as an EP on the show. For twenty-five minutes he made insane, unrealistic demands and I said no. As I threw a ball to Wacha, I said no to renegotiating his wife's deal while the series was airing and no to giving his wife a bonus for her (very low) Q score and finally no to calling him in a week and letting him know what I'm going to do to make his wife feel more loved. Went to the gym; I am 165.

I shot an episode of Larry King's web show, because I figured it would be fun to be interviewed by a legend. We shot it at the Paramount Hotel and it was hot as Hades in there, which meant I was sweating on his show. Lovely. I showed him how to use Tinder and swiped on some Italian guy just to show Larry how it worked.

From Larry I went to host the Clio Awards for fashion and retail advertising at the Pierre, where SJP was being honored. I was tired but pleased to spend the evening across a table from her. I realized when I was onstage that I had only really read half the script in advance of the awards, so I saw an hour's worth as it was coming up on the teleprompter, and the second part was totally new as the words were appearing in front of me. I'm pretty proficient at prompter-reading, and so with the exception of an ad-libbed JonBenét joke, I think I did OK.

Raced from there to the show where we had Connie Chung and Maury Povich as guests. I'd been excited for them to be there but my expectations were low, which typically means the show winds up being excellent, and this one was. They were on fire and our elements were hilarious. Wacha came on at the end and snatched what I thought were Connie's reading glasses. I was furiously chasing him around as we were wrapping it up, when I discovered they were Maury's glasses and for some reason it seemed like less of a crime, so I gave up. He wound up pretty much destroying them. I gotta remember to tell the kids we need to buy Maury a new pair. I think Connie was pretty lit up by the end of the night. She looked vintage Connie Chung, by the way.

Eli came to the show tonight. He's now at Lifetime, but to celebrate old times at Bravo we did our classic post-show Cubbyhole/Corner Bistro late-night twofer, culminating in a juicy cheeseburger and fries at 2 a.m. Goodbye 165.

THURSDAY, MAY 8, 2014

I saw a man on Gansevoort Street walking—actually propping up—his seventeen-year-old (I asked) skin-and-bones dog. I got teary at the sight, and was so obsessed with the dog that I was kind of dragging Wacha, until a woman said, “Excuse me, your dog is trying to go to the bathroom.” I looked up and it was Brooke Shields, on poop patrol for Wacha. Thanks, Brooke!