The Andy Cohen Diaries (48 page)

THURSDAY, AUGUST 14, 2014—NYC–SAG HARBOR

Weight of the world lifted! This is my summer vacation! Two weeks of absolutely nothing to do and I couldn't be happier to be staying local. Drove to beach. Wacha chased shadows. Heard back from the age-appropriate guy on Tinder, who said, “Hey Andy! Doing well, thanks! How are things?” This conversation is turning serious so fast! I can't believe we are opening up to each other so quickly. Amanda and I hadn't been to Beacon all year and decided to give it a shot—in the midst of an August sunset—only to walk into a ninety-minute wait. So what little celebrity I have is meaningless towards getting a table at the Beacon. We went to the Dockside, which always seems more low key than most places out here. There was a seventy-minute wait but the nice lesbians in front found one for us inside fast, which we jumped all over. So I have juice at the Dockside. Turns out we were surrounded by Daughters of Bilitis inside. A hive of them. My food was good and I got in the Lebanese vibe by ordering all-veggie. Amanda had paella, which was served in a taco bowl. Odd. We skipped dessert and went directly into the center of the Sag Harbor FroYo sensation of the summer: BuddhaBerry. It was bedlam—teeming with my Jewish brothers and sisters on an absolute
tear
to get artificially sugared to oblivion with their favorite flavors/toppings/extras. It took me a couple hours to come down from the whole BuddhaBerry experience. I need to take a Xanax before I go in that joint again.

FRIDAY, AUGUST 15, 2014—SAG HARBOR

I sleepwalked through a Tracy Anderson class, then grabbed the dog and spent the day at Marci's beach club. There was a great lunch whose highlight was a dill-heavy egg salad. Marci is deep into the Gwyneth cookbook. Long talk with Ramona that was meant to be about her future with
RHONY
but devolved into a treatise (hers) on the state of affairs with Mario: not good. I put a pin in it till early next week, although I realize now I will be on Fire Island and even more zoned out. Skyped with my parents. Mom and her two friends Lynn and Barbara took food to Ferguson, Missouri, which is where the rioting and tear gas has been all week over what looks like the callously unjust killing of an unarmed black kid a week away from starting college. They bonded with the ladies of the neighborhood. My mom can be counted on for community building, and I love her for it. Spectacular dinner at Tutto il Giorno with Bruce, Bryan, Billie, Max, and Ava. We saw Grace Hightower and Marshall Rose and Candice Bergen—at different tables. Then got ice cream. I could eat an endless amount of chocolate chip ice cream if given the chance.

SATURDAY, AUGUST 16, 2014—SAG HARBOR

Happy birthday, Madonna! At Tracy Anderson they played a ton of Britney, so I don't know if that was a dis, a tribute, or completely unrelated. Katie Lee Joel was working out in front of me. Now I know how she got her body. Ran a bunch of errands to get ready for Fire Island, which essentially has nothing but a general store and a lot of alcohol. Went to BookHampton to stock up on books but it was on Secret Service lockdown because Hillary was coming in a couple hours. They sweetly ran inside and got me a few beach books and charged them to my account. It felt old school. Got a waffle long-sleeve thing at Double RL and some bones for the WachStar. Went by Jeanne and Fred's and saw their divine new pool. On the way home for my massage I stopped by Sandy's and walked into the remains of what was a major lunch: two #PowerBabs—Walters and Streisand. Gave Barbara Walters a kiss, though not sure her cheek was receiving. She left. Shook Miss Streisand's hand and James Brolin told me he loved my (Gant, bordering on hot pants) bathing suit, and I could tell he meant it. (Mr. Brolin is one stone-cold silver fox.) Wacha was running around and I could tell that Streisand was worried that he was going to eat her little puffball Sammie, but he
mercifully
left it alone. I told Barbra I was obsessed with her Instagram and she said she doesn't get it
at all
, and doesn't see the
need
. I explained the concept of sharing bits of her inspiration with her fans and she said she
still
didn't see the need. I got the sense she approves the photos and someone else does the posting and stuff. We talked about how amazing John Mayer is. She sang in the studio with only him, her son, and Michael Bublé; the other partners on her duets album sang to a track of her. I asked if she sang live with Sinatra when she did
his
duets album and she said hers was to a track. It came up that I was seeing Jimmy later and she said she was desperate to meet him because she was doing his show. That was my big opening, and I took it. “You know we are desperately trying to get you to do
my
show?” I said, too cheerfully. “I know but I'm only doing a couple things and I
hate
doing press,” she said quickly.
It ain't happening.
Not even a sliver of a chance. “I feel like the album
is the thing
. Why do I have to do another thing about the thing??” I got what she was saying. Then she told me a story about doing Mike Wallace when she was nineteen. He asked her questions about herself and then when she answered, he told her she was vain. Honestly I think she would hate my show. It's not her thing. Oh, and neither is Instagram, because we started talking about that again and she still didn't get why she needed to share anything.

The massage I got later from Adam was fantastic. As good as the medium mushroom-and-onion pizza I had with Hickey at Sam's. (Graham is meeting with the Coke people in September, so we'll see.) Hickey and SJP are coming to Fire Island for the weekend—I'm excited. Went by Nancy and Jimmy's on the way home and gorged on Doritos. He won an Emmy tonight (at the Schmemmys) for hosting
SNL
. They lent me an amazing portable crate for Wacha—it's light as a feather, like a little mini Pack'N Play for the dog. Wacha smelled Gary Fallon all over me when I got home and completely lost his shit.

SUNDAY, AUGUST 17, 2014—SAG HARBOR–THE PINES, FIRE ISLAND

“I may be a bottom but I'm working my way to the top!” I'd only been at Gay Beach Camp (Fire Island Pines) for a half hour before I'd heard my first gay
Housewives
tagline. I like it! Rented the same great house that I did the last couple years—right smack on the ocean, clean, two bedrooms with a pool and Jacuzzi. Fire Island is an untouched jewel that to me feels like Malibu in the seventies meets Studio 54—no cars and little boardwalks connecting groovy wooden and glass treehouses; the energy is sexy and free. There's naked yoga on the beach at any hour of the day, classic disco wafting, a hint of poppers blowing through the air from down yonder, every house door left open, dogs off leash (except mine, are you kidding? He will run the hell away from me), lesbians, gay guys, the people who love them, and in 2014, more kids than you would've ever imagined possible. Oh, and people here are
so nice
. Wacha had a bad first experience with the Gary Fallon Pack'N Play—he was crying like a motherfucker when I left for the store and I didn't latch it right so when I got home it was a bad scene—he was basically trapped in an overturned, undone, pee-stained (his, not Gary's) pup tent. He was upset, poor fella. Ran into Sam Champion and husband; they are staying in a gorgeous house two doors down from me. Met Michael, Wes, and little Beckett on the beach and brought Wacha down to watch the Ascension party, which essentially involves a couple thousand very muscular gay guys dancing to heavy bass on the beach high out of their minds, probably on Molly. They unfortunately look the opposite (run ragged from a weekend of partying) of how they feel (euphoric/perfect). It sure was fun watching and judging, though. (When is watching and judging
not
fun?) Walking to dinner at the Powell-Rourkes', I met a super-handsome Clark Kent-y shirtless guy leaving the party with someone who wanted a selfie and I was happy to oblige, if only to get closer to Mr. Kent. They had just met and were leaving together, i.e.,
true love in the Pines.
After dinner Michael and I went to the Sip n Twirl, and Lina was on the porch spinning deep disco under the stars. This transcontinental, transcendental mocha diva rules that porch, weaving music that from her is magic and electric—the vibe is gay
Alice in Wonderland
. We met Bill and Chris there and they were giving me the 411 on all the mess and drama around the dance floor. They are like the mayors of Fire Island and spin the lore while Lina spins the tunes. There was plenty to keep me entertained. I met a very hot Latino trainer who I quickly figured out is the ex-boyfriend of the doctor in Southampton. So I backed away slowly from that potential disaster and made my way home. And on another note, is there anything better than going to sleep to the sound of the ocean?

MONDAY, AUGUST 18, 2014—THE PINES, FIRE ISLAND

Is there anything better than
waking up
to the sound of the ocean? I'm not sure my stereo will be getting much use, because it can't compete with the lulling, which is like therapy for me. I've been here a day and I feel like I am taking deeper breaths and completely letting go of all the stress of the last year. I will be Jell-O within no time. Gillian came by first thing to go over a huge stack of photos that we had to edit down to put in the middle of this book. I walked her back to the ferry and it was like
Night of the Living Dead
seeing the hordes of hungover Ascension tribes going back to the city. (They call the Monday ferries the “blood buckets”—an apt title.) On that note, after surveying the locals last night, I've surmised that the drugs at the Ascension party were: Molly, meth, and GHB. I am proud to say I have never once done meth (highly addictive and ruins your life) or GHB (if you dose it wrong, you die), and “proud” would not be the correct word, but maybe I can say I am happy to say that I
have
experienced Molly and it is phenomenal, euphoric, wondrous, mystifying, and memorable—an experience I
would
wish for everyone to have once, if it weren't dangerous and illegal and, if you get the wrong stuff, lethal. Mark and Kelly arrived on the one-thirty ferry with a double magnum of Domaines Ott. Never seen a bottle so big! We got back to the house and I made flank steak and tomatoes and mozzarella.
All I ever do is cook!!!
Kidding. We took a long walk on the beach, poked around the deck of Jenna Lyons's (gorgeous) house, which may or may not be for sale, ran into the Sam Champions and had rosé in their luxe (and very warm) pool, Jacuzzi time, and the Consueloses may or may not have had private adult time. (Those two are like bunnies. Or newlyweds. Or newlywed bunnies.) Then we all went to low tea (high tea, low tea, whatever, it's all just an excuse to drink), where we danced to disco on a dance floor that was empty at first and then packed soon enough. Had a long talk with Clark Kent, who, as it happens, is also a super-handsome lawyer. (Things didn't work out so great between him and his new friend from last night at the party.) I got his digits. Mark and Kelly took a 10 p.m. water taxi out of here—he had to go back to the city for a 5 a.m. call on
Alpha House
and she went to the kids in the Hamptons.

TUESDAY, AUGUST 19, 2014—THE PINES, FIRE ISLAND

Have I mentioned that Gay Beach Camp is essentially clothing optional? Well, not really, but kind of. No one wears shirts anywhere, and I am the guy who says I'm not gonna be the guy who doesn't wear a shirt anywhere and then I turn into a hippie after day one and I am walking around barefoot in my swimming trunks. I dig it! By the way—for years I also was the guy who disparaged Fire Island because it seemed too much for me: too gay, too much partying, too skeevy. It turns out that my younger self was a know-it-all idiot (See: my hair pre-2000). Now, at the end of an exhausting year, I am so grateful to be able to have such a complete escape from reality without having to go through security at an airport. It is another world.

I finally removed a pair of my stockpile of Beats headphones from its (complicated and intricate) packaging and took a magic-hour beach trek with Wacha with some intense sound pumping through my ears. Sure, they are good headphones, but they were really squeezing my head after about an hour. Glad I have seventeen more pairs. Wacha's long leash has its benefits—I can strategically steer him to go right up to hot guys—and drawbacks—I swear he was going straight for guys' dicks in the nake-o section by Cherry Grove. Saw Clark Kent Lawyer on the walk and we talked in the waves for a good hour. I invited him over for a drink before tea. I took a nake-o Jacuzzi at sunset and there were a bunch of twinks on the beach I didn't notice until I heard them giving me a round of applause. I guess that's better than boos? Clark Kent Lawyer texted that he was too tired to have a drink, so that was a complete buzzkill. It was too good to be true. Ten minutes later he texted that he was making coffee, showering, and coming over. Rally time! He did come over and it was a river of words at home and then tea and then back home again. A fun date! I told Clark Kent Lawyer I was keeping this diary and he wanted to know what I did on September 15—his birthday; I looked and there ain't no record anywhere of September 15. I skipped it! The only day of the entire year. Hmmm. I got an email from Mom when I got home tonight: “Glad you are having fun. Find a husband.”

WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 20, 2014—THE PINES, FIRE ISLAND

I dreamed I shot the pilot with Joan Rivers and she said to never give her any notes, ever. Hmmm. Clark Kent Lawyer went back to the city and it turned into a mellow day. I asked Daryn to find out anything she could about what I did on September 15; it was a Sunday, and she said Andrew Dice Clay and Kathy Wakile were on my show that night. I give up. I read a lot and took Wacha for a very long walk on the beach this afternoon with those headclasps pounding music in my ear. He hates water of any kind, which thrills me not only because I don't have to dry him off but also he doesn't bring wet sand home, and even better, the way he runs away from the water is so cute. He's cute when he's scared. I wandered by a fun group of fashion people, got to chatting, and joined them for some sunset rosé. Two Brazilians were on mushrooms and one had a tattoo that looked like either a state (California? New Hampshire?) or maybe a bust of George Washington. He of the mystery tattoo had a lot of personality and flair, shall we say, and kept declaring, “It's
obvious
, it's waiting for you to figure it out
right in front of your face
!” I tried to guess what the tattoo was for about fifteen minutes as his friends hysterically egged the situation on (
“No one can ever tell what it is and he is trying to make it happen!!”
). There was a very sane and cool Hawaiian guy there who was trying to give me clues but I finally gave up. “It's
Grace Jones
!
Obviously!!”
In no universe did that tattoo look like Grace Jones. Walking around with a tattoo that nobody gets can't be fun, except if you're on drugs and it turns into a parlor game. Mellow night—I actually made myself dinner (barbequed chicken and a salad) and watched a link of the new Kristen Wiig movie
The Skeleton Twins
. I was deep into it when the dog started barking and I heard a pounding at my door that I inferred to mean this tinderbox of an island was finally ablaze and it was time to get my wallet and head for the ocean. Instead it was my neighbor Michael Carl and his housemates, who were in a desperate state.
“Do you have vegetable bouillon cubes?? We only need a few!”
An emergency on Fire Island is unlike those elsewhere. We raided my kitchen and found none. I hate to disappoint.