The Andy Cohen Diaries (41 page)

MONDAY, JUNE 30, 2014—POSITANO/AMALFI

The Amalfi Coast is one steep stairway after the next, but there's a pot of gold at the end of every one. My cab driver today said he's thirty-two years old—“So one quarter of my way through life.” Um. Bruce and I hung out over the windy coast for a few hours, laying out, watching the boat traffic, swimming, and checking into Instagram. His face lights up when his SoulCycle schedule for the week comes in—he loves it!

Wandering around before dinner in Amalfi, I bought a blue straw hat (there is a graveyard somewhere full of the straw hats all of us have bought in Europe and discarded) and for some reason I also bought at least five pounds of hard candy. So that'll be fun to take home. We had dinner on the port and Barry and DVF joined us. We talked about the new Muslim superpower. Fun vacation talk. I got stracciatella and could've had three more servings.

TUESDAY, JULY 1, 2014—POSITANO

Ran into Radzi at the Sirenuse breakfast and we dissected the
RHONY
reunion while we watched boats come in on the pier. One of these things is not like the other. We went over to Barry's boat and then all swam to Rudolf Nureyev's island. What the hell went
on
on that island? is what I couldn't stop wondering. Were there rivers of lube rolling through the hills? Volcanoes of poppers? I have never wanted a time capsule so much as one that would transport me back forty years to see
that
bacchanalia off Positano. We went to a restaurant Barry and DVF said was the best in Italy, Lo Scoglio. It was phenomenal and by the second course I was stuffed. DVF said her new E! show isn't a reality show and I gleefully told her we're all swimming in the same dirty pool. It was a laugh all around. I do think her show will be a hit; she is a big, inspiring
character
—brilliant to listen to and women of all ages go nuts for her. After lunch I napped around and then had tea on my balcony. We had more pasta for dinner and I have officially lost the entirety of whatever momentum I had going for the last six months. My fear is that I am now careening into the second half of the year in a state of fatness. My back hurts. I'm old. I feel as if I'm eating for two, by the way. So it's no wonder.

After dinner I got Anderson to take a picture to send to Cher. It took us several—OK,
many—
tries to get one we liked. Taking that photo was as awkward and gay as the very idea of taking a picture from your vacation to text to Cher because she asked for one.

Watched World Cup at an outdoor café and it went into overtime. The gingy from Belgium not only scored a goal against us but kicked one of our hottest guys in the face. Bruce and I simultaneously marveled aloud at the endurance of the part in one player's hair. This is what he and I think about; great minds … Barkin was in love with the goalie with Tourette's and who wouldn't be? We lost in overtime. So we're completely out.

WEDNESDAY, JULY 2, 2014—POSITANO

I dreamt that I threw a lemon at a computer and Dan Rather appeared and had a stern chat with me about my anger issues.
I
have
anger issues?
I was surprised about this even in my dream but I was enjoying the fatherly chat so much that I didn't fight it with Dan. I quit analyzing the dream when I grabbed my phone and found a couple happy texts from Cher saying “You boys look ADORABLE” with an emoji of a one-eyed ghost (a pirate ghost, perhaps?). In her world, are we “boys”? Also she told us to have a blast, accompanied by an emoji of a smiley face with heart eyes. So all in all, the awkward photo did the trick. Finally had pizza today—after five days in Italy—and it was fantastic. We all did water activities, showered, then Anderson, Ben, and I took a water taxi to Hamilton's birthday dinner at San Pietro. We sent Cher another pic on the way. I decided that sending Cher vacation pictures is never not fun. The dinner was spectacular—on a patch of grass at the bottom of a stone canyon right on the Med with yachts bobbing in the distance. Lee Radziwill looking flawless smoking superthin cigarettes was all the punctuation anyone needed to confirm that this was a special occasion. I sat between Cornelia Guest and Jessica Yellin, former White House correspondent for CNN and ABC News. Guest and I talked about her years with Sylvester Stallone—she was only eighteen and he was the biggest star in the world—and now I need to cross-reference what Warhol said about them. Apparently they went to the White House and Nancy Reagan said she and Cornelia
needed to talk
; presumably Nancy was going to set her straight about dating Sly. (Unclear if that chat ever happened, but Sly and Guest wound up breaking off their engagement.) Yellin and I discussed my favorite topic—the death of network news. Networks are laying off more and more people and paying for stories by licensing footage, and now reenactments are commonplace on the prime-time news magazines (not
60 Minutes
). It's the
Daily Mail
on TV, basically. There were sweet wonderful toasts to the sweet wonderful birthday boy, which made Hamilton very uncomfortable, and five courses of cheese and cheese and more cheese. I am going to have a rough transition back to the Ninj. I was asleep by two.

THURSDAY, JULY 3, 2014—POSITANO–OUTSIDE ST. TROPEZ

Woke up to a text from Cher—liberally sprinkled with emojis—saying she wishes she was here but she is doing what she was born to do in this life—“come out in ridiculous costumes, sing, be fabulous and make people happy.” At least she knows her place in the world! She said Bob Mackie's new costumes are great and I will “pass out.” And she said, “P.S. I'm dyslexic, so if you're expecting spelling OR grammar, you've come to the WRONG ICON.” I don't actually come to my icons for spelling
or
grammar, and for the record hers was perfect.

Getting from the Amalfi Coast to Nice turns out to be a pain in the ass. Jason and Lauren Blum and I were in a car, and we gave ourselves several hours of pad in case the traffic was bad, and asked the driver to stop at a restaurant along the way; he said there were absolutely
no restaurants
in all of Italy between Positano and Rome. Cornelia had gotten a list for me, but he said they were too far, and that there were just
none
, so that added a contentious layer of tension to the drive. And thus I had plenty of time to sit and read Twitter, and find a nasty article about me in the
Daily News
saying my office has been downsized and I have nowhere to hang my prized possessions: pictures of myself. I actually got a kick out of that one. And somewhere along the way our driver turned to me and said, “What is ‘schlep'?” I guess I had used the word once or twice or fifteen times.

Jason and Lauren fell asleep in the car and my heart turned heavy as I thought about the journey at hand—returning to the magical place Natasha welcomed us for all those years, where every year summer came alive with her essence—her deep throaty laugh, her cooking, her theatricality, unique turn of a phrase, and devilish sense of humor. We all met there for the first time over a decade ago—she introduced us disparate souls, brought us together by her design in the centuries-old hamlet tucked into a valley in the South of France—and today all our lives are interwoven because of all those summers. “Natasha” is the answer to a question I get all the time—“How do you know X, Y, or Z?” Forty years ago her father, Tony Richardson, was the ringmaster—Jagger partied there, Hockney painted by the pool, and little Natasha and Joely put on plays for the guests after dinner. Today Liam would be welcoming us back for our first visit in three years. It was a reunion of part of the old gang—Danny will be there, Ralph too, and Tom Hollander comes tomorrow.

Hours later, we finally stepped onto that magical
terrazzo
at sunset and it was like time had stopped, but it was all happy. We immediately started in on the “French Water,” and soon we were having a great meal under the string of twinkly lights and then games and more laughs back on the
terrazzo
. Late into the night, the evening turned into a Rolling Stones dance party and I felt at peace. Somehow, she is here and I think she loves that we are too.

FRIDAY, JULY 4, 2014—OUTSIDE ST. TROPEZ

The French are charmless. Completely. Not headline news, and a nasty generalization, but such a stark contrast to the Italians a couple hundred miles away. We took a two-hour hike through some vineyards. Then we had a July Fourth BBQ back at the house, prepared by a French chef who gave us her interpretation of American food, which translated sweetly with burgers and beans. Watched an episode of Tom Hollander's UK show
Rev.
, which was great. Took half an Ambien at 11 p.m. and went to bed with a smile as
le mistral
whipped around outside.

SATURDAY, JULY 5, 2014—OUTSIDE ST. TROPEZ

For sure
le mistral
was fucking with all of us last night, because everyone had crazy dreams. Mine involved Bruce, Howard Stern, and SJ. It was the perfect day. Jason and I spent a fair amount of time trying to pose for an Instagram picture re-creating Hockney's
Portrait of an Artist (Pool with Two Figures)
, which he'd painted here at this pool in 1971. A tree has grown in the background, blocking the view of the valley, but we did pretty well. Jason has a connection to Hockney and is going to mail the side-by-sides to him; I am sure David Hockney, at this moment in his life and career, is anxious to see what we came up with. Also we had a plank contest (I folded after a minute, Ralph won) and a long lunch, so long that the sun moved and drove us from the table to the terrace; anyway it was full of laughs and felt like the old days. If I had a therapist, I might ask why I am forever trying to reclaim the “old days.” I happen to like the current days a lot.

SUNDAY, JULY 6, 2014—NICE–NYC

Jason, Lauren, and Tom woke up to send me off. I felt a little melancholy, walking away wondering if I'll ever return to this special spot again, and feeling incredibly fat. Six months of hard work down the drain for one carb-filled week in Europe. Even my humorless French flight attendant knew I shouldn't eat anything on the endless flight home. Every time I asked a specific question about the food, he would hand me the menu from the seat pocket in front of me. (“What kind of soup is it again?” “
It's yellow
,” he said, and handed me the menu.) He wound up knocking my entire tray of food off my table, and a pat of butter flew onto my foot. Watching him disdainfully wipe the butter off my foot was neither amusing nor satisfying.

Got home and had a hilarious night with Bruce at some outdoor gay place in Midtown. Freshly back from Italy, we ended the night cramming New York pizza into our mouths. Welcome home.

MONDAY, JULY 7, 2014

Woke up at the crack of dawn. Wacha was still in doggy day care.

Grac is in Kauai for three weeks and she described it as Vietnam meets Topanga Canyon meets Montauk, which I think is brilliant. Went up to 30 Rock to pitch NBC syndication the show Michael and I want to produce for Joan Rivers. There's a big Jeff Koons flower sculpture in front of the building called
Split Rocker
. I didn't love it; it's two doggy heads split in half. I tried to take a great Instagram of it but realized I couldn't because the piece itself isn't great. (Am I Jerry Saltz all of a sudden?) Ran into Seth Meyers in the lobby and he said, “You gotta come on my show soon,” and then it was a little awkward, because when you run into a talk-show host and they say that you should come on, you don't know if they mean it. It's never not weird, even when I'm the host in the encounter doling out the meaningless pleasantries. And then there was Joan, fresh from walking off her CNN interview (she's selling a book) and all dolled up in black and white—she's always dolled up. She'd gotten a private tour of the Koons retrospective at the Whitney. She told me that when she wants to see an exhibit she calls in advance and says, “I'm stopping by and maybe someone could show me around
if you could
…” And they do. So she said the story of the sculpture is that Koons was so upset he was losing custody of his kid, he split his toy in half. Doesn't make me like the sculpture any more. She also said there are ninety thousand flowers in it. Now you have my attention.

After the pitch, I went down to
WWHL
for an interview with Willie Geist for our fifth anniversary, which we are celebrating next week. Of course when I got home I realized a bunch of stuff I should've said. Wacha was really hyper returning from Brooklyn. And sheddy.

The live show was Heather Dubrow and Caroline from
Ladies of London
. For the anniversary next week, we're doing the Andy Awards, celebrating achievements in I don't know what, and the award is a Ken doll (literally), dipped in gold glitter and holding a
WWHL
note card. It looks nothing like me. Why should it? It's a Ken doll. Meanwhile we have a new straight PA, a big tall guy, who left
Letterman
to work at
WWHL
. I nicknamed him “Straight Pat.” I hope he doesn't mind.

At the end of the night, I got an offer to be the lead guest on Seth Meyers tomorrow night, so I guess he meant what he said in the lobby. Now I gotta think of something to talk about.

TUESDAY, JULY 8, 2014

Found out Jon Hamm is not doing the MLB Celeb All-Star thing this weekend, so now I don't even have a
fake
friend to do this with. At the dog run a guy explained how to tell if your dog is overheated and I still don't totally get it. They sweat through their tongues? Had a horrible workout with the Ninj today, possibly the worst ever.
I
was overheated. Also overweight, overtired, and overindulged after all that time away. I didn't dare go on the scale. Even my egg rolls stunk. I
excel
at egg rolls! Here I go again.