Cindy Adams Cohen
Andy Cohen's exhausting, star-studded, bi-coastal weekend.
Knowing what a weird weekend I had, I'm warning y'alls now that today's blog will be like reading an insane Cindy Adams column where names come out of nowhere and it only barely makes sense.
Friday night I walked out of Bravo, fighting what feels at this moment to be a premature Christmas Cult loitering by the Rock Center tree. I was on my way to the Tibor de Nagy Gallery on Fifth Avenue and got diverted by the candy that lured me into the Abercrombie flagship store. How was I the last to know that there are half naked model/sculpture/pod people in the entryway sending out laser rays to get you in the door? I went in and found myself deeply considering A/F hoodies and washboards before coming to consciousness and remembering the sadness that will befall me should I wear A/F as an adult. The naked model/pod people don't seem to be for sale, by the way.
I hit it to the Tibor de Nagy Gallery for the opening of Patricia Broderick's show. She's Matthew Broderick's mother and a very talented artist; if I try to describe the paintings I will potentially make an ass of myself. I am poor at describing art and feel like I am either dumb or marginalizing it or both. But I liked the paintings a lot. I noticed that many of them were on loan from Horton Foote, who has been a big champion of her work for years.
The seas parted when Senator and President Clinton showed up - both of them looking like million dollar bills. Well, I mean, he did for sure.... and I liked it that her hair was not "done". He is a superstar rockstar. They spent about 25 minutes there and deftly wandered around and casually shook hands and mingled. I am completely starstruck by the former Prezzy, as was everyone in the room. I think he is a genius and that his hands are smaller than they should be. And I think I don't care if he did filthy, dirty things with Monica Lewinsky, but I still do occasionally think about the two of them.
From the opening I went to dinner in the Village and to a pumping party at author Carole Radziwill's swank chalet. You may not care that for the last couple weeks I have obsessed - both on and off this space - about the song "Ghostbusters". I had a moment with this song and can't get past the lyrics and that there was a happy time when America was insane with bustin' ghosts. Listen to that song and marvel at how it rips off "I Want a New Drug" - I did a couple weeks ago and so I found it especially odd to wind up gabbing in a corner for the bulk of Friday night with none other than Huey Lewis... we discussed busti'n ghosts and Ray Parker and I don't know what else. Is it me or is that a weirdo coincidence? Like Clinton, that Huey is a classic!
Saturday morning I sleepwalked to the American Airlines terminal at JFK and passed out in the air to LA for four hours, leaving me just enough time to screen an episode from season 2 of "The Real Housewives of Orange County". I am so into this show - it is a doozy. I got to LA and the land of the housewives and found it is shockingly sunny and frozen, all at once! How unlike LA! In the fifteen cumulative minutes I spent in the valet area of the Regent Beverly Wilshire Hotel, I saw 50 Cent, Bruce Willis, Sheryl Crowe, Samuel L Jackson and several guys who I was told represented Team Mariah. The AMA's are in town and apparently so are all the freaky fridays and apparently the Bev Wilsh is ground zero, so please avoid the El Camino/Wilshire area. Also they lit the Rodeo Drive Christmas lights on Saturday night and you know how those lights cock up traffic all season! (Do people look at those lights in LA? -- For that matter, what do people do in LA again?)
I was in town to accept an award on behalf of Bravo at a gala thrown by LA's Gay and Lesbian Community Center. We had a cavalcade of Bravo's best in the house- with Runway alums Nick Verreos, Raymundo, and Robert Best mixing with Top Chef's Ba Da Bing Betty and the entire cast of Work Out. I think Jackie Warner could start a religion at this point, judging by how people react to her. Nick presented the award and I got to use those presidentialesque telemprompters where the prompter is reflected into the glass. I loved that and want to bring one everywhere I go. It is impersonal, yet connects you like a lover to the audience. It was a nice event and we are grateful to be recognized for our commitment to the community.
I turned right around Sunday morning and hopped on a NYC bound plane, where I ran into Robert Harling. Harling wrote "Steel Magnolias" and, among other things, the script for the much delayed movie of "Dallas". I have a feeling that man has some stories to tell that are about crazy Californians and not crazy southerners! I am ready to hear them all. I slept almost the whole way home and started to watch an episode of Top Chef that will premiere in January.
Screening Runway or Chef on a plane is tricky because you're watching an episode that won't air for weeks and you don't know who's around you. I tilt and bend my computer every which way to be sure, but usually when I look around me it is painfully clear that no one could give a poop what I am watching on my computer. I got home, quickly changed and shlepped uptown with Bruce for a dinner hosted by Valentino, who is in town for a couple weeks. Tonight he is lighting the Christmas Tree at Saks. (Valentino is lighting the tree, not Bruce.). He is amazing and one of a kind. There's been a crew following him around for the past few years shooting a documentary, which should be amazing given that his way of life is about beauty, the kind that everyone dreams of.
On my way home from dinner I ran into darling Maya Angelou, who told me that she and Marlo Thomas - oh wait, wait, wait a minute I made this part up because I felt like the blog was getting absurd. I did NOT run into Maya Angelou nor would I have had the energy to deal with she or any other bag of wind that came between my bed and my booty.