At Home With...
Andy Cohen reflects on time spent at Tammy Faye's house.
Thursday's edition of the New York Times is my favorite. You have the Thursday Styles Section AND the House and Home Section on the same day, and you don't have to wait until Sunday for good fluff.
Yesterday's House and Home section featured an unlikely AT HOME WITH... Phyllis Schlafly. If there is one person's house I know that I don't want to visit it is the anti-gay mother of a gay, that battle-axe of a lady who fought against lady-rights. But I couldn't resist. I dove into reading what I thought would be a tour of her chintz-filled chalet in Ladue, Missouri. I'm from a neighboring St. Louis suburb, so I was even more titillated.
As it turns out, there wasn't much said about her design or where she finds her inspiration. While I'm sure I missed out on a Talbots-filled closet, the piece left me hungry. The only picture of the interior of her home actually looked rather tasteful to me -- lots of red furniture and wood paneling. Every home has a smell but people who live amongst their smell are immune to what the home smells like. I wonder how Ms. Schlafly's home smells. Like cinnamon sticks, perhaps? Starch? Disinfectant?
I was at Tammy Faye's Palm Springs house a couple times about 10 years ago doing a shoot for CBS. It had its own smell but I can't access it this morning. There were hummels and figurines and Tammy Faye Dance Party Gold Records and potpourri and her teeny dog, Tuppins circled the scene. She made me fudge for my trip back to NYC!
I got to spend 48 hours at Shirley MacLaine's Malibu apartment house shooting a piece, naturally, for 48 Hours. It smelled like the beach and the decor was like a global gift shop, full of artifacts from around the world.
Patti LaBelle basically let us move into her Philly house for 48 Hours and I never wanted to leave. The sprawling suburban tudor smelled like home cookin' and fresh flowers with a dash of Miss Patti thrown in. She has a terrarium-like indoor pool that doesn't seem to get much use and plenty of Patti portraits on the wall.
I can't for the life of me figure out what the hell I was doing at Cindy Adams' Park Avenue apartment but I know I was there. Joey was in the corner. One room was all red. One room's ceiling and walls were completely covered in New York Post front pages with stories broken by the kooky columnist.
I wish I had some kind of tidy end to this blog that connected Phyllis Schlafly to Cindy Adams but the fact is that I am hungover from one too many vodka sodas last night after the theater and I am amazed that I got this far. I am dressed like a Semetic Cowboy and have a day of calls to determine challenges for PROJECT RUNWAY 3, so maybe I should just GET TO WORK!!!
Have a great weekend.