Diary of a Mad Diva
Page 14
Hugh and I aren’t “friends” friends; we don’t hang out, or go Rollerblading or carpool to bukkake parties; we usually just run into each other at movie openings or in restaurants, and he always comes over to me and says, “Joan, you look beautiful tonight—for you.” Then we exchange air kisses and move on. I like Hugh Jackman; he can sing and dance and act, but the main, big reason I like him is because he’s a survivor. In Nazi Germany, Elie Wiesel may have survived three years in Dachau, but in Les Miz, Hugh Jackman survived nine months filming with Anne Hathaway. THAT’S a hero.
Not one honest emotion ever comes out of Miss Anorexia 2013. After winning the Academy Award she looked directly into the camera and had the nerve to say, “I’m so happy tonight, I’m going to celebrate by eating a tomato and a baked potato.” That’s celebrating? It’s like having an innocent man get out of prison after thirty-five years and to celebrate, the first woman he chooses to fuck is me.
I think I’ll call Patti LuPone; maybe she can give me some tips as to what I should buy Hugh for his birthday. Be right back.
Later . . .
I’m back and Patti is brilliant. She said that since Hugh was “of the theater” I should get him something old and theatrical. So I went to Angela Lansbury’s house and gift-wrapped her. Actually, I went to the Drama Book Shop on Fortieth Street and got him a book. Their selection was great and I went back and forth between How to Close a Show by Sarah Brightman, I Won’t Fix My Teeth Even Though I Have the Money by Andrew Lloyd Webber, and Your Arms Are Too Short to Box with Anyone by Kristin Chenoweth. Eventually I decided to buy Hugh a rare collector’s item called Famous Heterosexual Stage Actors. It’s only three pages long but it’s riveting, I tell you.
OCTOBER 13
Dear Diary:
Hugh Jackman called. Said he loved the book, especially the foreword by Cary Grant. I love making people happy. I just hope someday I can make Melissa happy. Of course if I do, I won’t be here to see it . . .
Off to QVC, and another opportunity to sell well-made dry goods and pretty shmatas to women in Iowa who have no idea what dry goods are or what “shmata” means. I love America.
OCTOBER 14
Dear Diary:
What a weird day. My former agent, Sensitive Steve Levine, called and said, “Get up, Fatso. Margaret Cho just got sick and they’re desperate for anybody so I think I can get it for you.” It was a private party on a yacht for some rich Arab and his wives. This billionaire sheik (which I recently learned is pronounced “shake,” so I now assume that Michael J. Fox suffers the “sheiks”) was throwing a seventeenth birthday party for Wife #9, a petite, sloe-eyed girl from Abu Dhabi named Pashmasubraminium.
This club date was the worst experience of my life (if you don’t count childbirth, conception, the closing of B. Altman’s department store and that horrific poetry reading last Thursday). From the minute I got onstage to the minute I left, there was dead silence. They laughed at nothing. It was the worst show I’ve ever done and I’m not sure if it was me or if it was the Arabs, but in hindsight I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t have opened with “Shabbat shalom.” And my jokes about “How many Arabs does it take to change a light bulb” didn’t go over well.* They stared at me the way Mohammad Atta stared at tall buildings. Live and learn. At least the check will clear because it was made out to “Jew Pig,” so I know I won’t have any trouble cashing it.
OCTOBER 15
Dear Diary:
On the plane back to L.A. I hate it when people carry on carry-on bags that are so big that they can’t be carried on by a team of oxen. I’m sitting here in 2A, minding my business, silently passing judgment on the people heading to coach, when some schmuck comes waddling down the aisle dragging a steamer trunk that’s big enough for either circus folk or Carnie Wilson’s lunch. Unless he’s carrying emergency medical supplies or really good jewelry, there’s no excuse for anyone to be that inconsiderate. Not only will there be no room in the overhead for other people’s luggage, there’ll be no room in the overhead for the bratty six-year-old in 4D, which is where I’m going to stuff that motherfucker if he doesn’t stop whining.
OCTOBER 16
Dear Diary:
Took Cooper and his friends out for Mexican food tonight. I ordered a taco and Cooper and his friends ordered burritos, tortillas and quesadillas. Turns out all four dishes are made out of the same exact ingredients—meat, onions and cheese—they’re just cut into different shapes. Mexican food is like bowel movements: each one may look a little different but it’s all the same shit.
OCTOBER 17
Dear Diary:
Valerie Harper was on Dancing with the Stars. Valerie has brain cancer and she goes on Dancing with the Stars? I’m in perfect health and can’t get off the couch. What’s wrong with this picture? I love Rhoda and along with the rest of America I’m so proud of her. I felt terrible when she had to withdraw halfway through her cha-cha because due to health reasons she could only cha. I truly pray she’s still alive when this book comes out so she can sue me for every dime I have.
I’ve known Valerie for years and I truly like her a lot, but right now I’m jealous as hell. When Big Val announced she had terminal cancer she immediately got the covers of People magazine, Us Weekly, Star and the Enquirer. I hate that. I’ve had rickets, scurvy, cradle cap, rosacea and irritable bowel syndrome and I still have to go down on Anna Wintour just to get a below-the-fold blind item on page 178 of European Vogue.
OCTOBER 18
Dear Diary:
Very depressed. Still thinking about Valerie and her magazine covers. I just can’t seem to get any free publicity these days. Michael Vick aced me out of the dog- beating stuff; Lance Armstrong owns the performing-while-under-major-drugs stuff; Helena Bonham Carter absolutely wins the ugly with talent award; and Amanda Bynes has a copyright on the mad-as-a-fucking-hatter matter. I’m pissed. I called my PR girl (and I use the term loosely; she hasn’t seen a tampon in twenty years, not even to wash bottles with), Peggy Katz, and asked, “Why, why, why?” Peggy said, “Face it, thunder-thighs. You’re not a compelling story. We milked the husband’s suicide like an old cow with one teat left. Unless Melissa pushes you off a cliff we haven’t got a compelling story.”
OCTOBER 19
Dear Diary:
Just got finished watching the local news, which covered a freeway closing, an uncontrolled forest fire and the “compelling story” of an old man driving through a farmer’s market killing sixteen innocent Japanese shoppers. At the end, while the reporter was in tears, the anchorman said, “Great job.” I’m sick of anchormen saying “great job” to all the field reporters at the end of every report. A great job in journalism was Edward R. Murrow at the McCarthy hearings, or Walter Cronkite’s coverage the Vietnam War, or Woodward and Bernstein investigating Watergate. Pretty Pei Zei reporting on a broken sprinkler in the Galleria Mall is not a “great job” in journalism. It’s a pretty Asian girl with shiny lip gloss getting a great job in journalism because she’s screwing the assistant station manager who told her he’s lonely because his wife is an invalid.
Also, everything is not “breaking news.” 9/11 was breaking news. The BP oil spill in the gulf was breaking news. Jackie Kennedy not wearing a wash-’n’-wear suit in Dallas was breaking news. A house fire in Malibu is not breaking news (unless a semi-important celebrity perishes in the blaze and can only be identified by dental charts or implant records); it’s a real estate opportunity for Donald Trump.
OCTOBER 20
Dear Diary:
Going to Wisconsin to do a concert for the Annual Friends of Cheese Festival. This is one of my favorite gigs; the pay is great and there is nothing more challenging than trying to make fifteen hundred constipated people laugh without farting.
OCTOBER 21
Dear Diary:
Today is my dear friend Judge Judy’s birthday. I was going to call her and sing “Happy Birthday,” bu
t I was afraid she would say, “Stop it! Was I looking at you? Who told you were allowed to sing? Shut up until I give you permission!” I love Judge Judy, and the way she deals with people. She’s like a three-year-old child because she always tells the truth and she doesn’t edit. If Judy tells you you’re an idiot, you’re an idiot. I think she should be president. I’d vote for her. Over the past twenty years we’ve had Clinton, Bush and Obama: a hack, a quack and a black. I think it’s time for a strong, tough leader. Want to stop all the nonsense in the Middle East? Screw the ambassadors! To hell with the diplomats and envoys! Fuck the Navy SEALs! If you want the fighting to stop, send over Judge Judy when she’s in a bad mood. By the time she’s done, Bibi, Achmed and Mohammeds one through twelve will be closer than Jerry Sandusky and the Boystown Glee Club.
OCTOBER 22
Dear Diary:
Another reason I love Judge Judy? She’s worth $150 million. When I ask her if she wants to go on vacation with me to Tahiti, she never has to say “Let me check my budget” because she owns Tahiti. She says, “Great. My treat; I’ll have them clean it up for us. What color bananas do you like?” The only thing better than having a rich husband with three days to live is having a rich friend with an open wallet.
OCTOBER 23
Dear Diary:
Had dinner with two models at Le Cirque, one of the most expensive restaurants in the world. The bill only came to $26 and I had two entrées and pie. Those girls just don’t eat. They smile and, like all anorexics, say, “I’m full from lunch.” They forget to add that lunch was in 1997.
OCTOBER 24
Dear Diary:
I’ve spent the past two days obsessing about how rich Judge Judy is. Not that I’m the kind of petty, small person who’s jealous of her friends. If any one of my friends is younger, taller, prettier, more successful than I, I wish them well. Dead, but well. I think about things like this a lot, when I’m in traffic or at the free clinic, but I don’t worry about them. “Think” and “worry” are not synonyms. For example, if I’m in bed with a man, I don’t worry if he’s having a good time because I know he isn’t. So what’s the point of thinking that this will become a relationship and that maybe he’ll stick around and pay for Cooper’s medical school tuition, not to mention his graduation party and malpractice insurance? It ain’t gonna happen; I’m lousy in bed. My vagina is so stretched out men ask me, “Is it in?” (Two years ago the Flying Wallendas walked across my vulva on a high wire with no help. The one major regret of my life is that if I had been with the Donner Party on that fateful day they could have found shelter in my uterus for the entire winter.)
OCTOBER 25
Dear Diary:
Busy day today. Did promos for all three of my shows: Fashion Police, Joan & Melissa: Joan Knows Best? and In Bed with Joan.
On my way home I saw something I’ve never seen before, and I don’t mean Mama June having a salad. I usually walk down Fifty-Seventh Street to get home, but tonight I cut through Central Park because I wanted to save time and cop some killer weed. As I got to one of the transverses, sitting there on top of a fence post was an odd-looking creature with a huge head and giant eyes. I knew instantly it was either an owl or an Olsen twin. I went with “owl” because he didn’t have a clothing line or an eating disorder.
In my lifetime, I’ve seen everything—vultures, rats, snakes . . . and that’s just at Fox TV. But in all this time I never saw an owl. He just sat there staring, so I tried to get his attention by saying, “Hello, wise old owl,” and by making little clicking sounds with my tongue, like a cicada or one of those African children we see in documentaries who are wildly happy even though they live in a hut and eat dust. The owl looked at me with eyes that contained centuries of knowledge, then spread his wings and soared majestically, smacking pow! right into a tree. He died. Dumb fuck.
OCTOBER 26
Dear Diary:
My friend Sue called me up this morning and asked me what my plans were. I told her I was going to the spa for a day of beauty. She said, “A day?!?! Dream on, Sour-tits, you need a week.” What a cunt. That’s why I like her.
While I was at the spa having my feet scrubbed and my thighs waxed, I was fiddling with my iPad and found this great website called Celebrity Net Worth which tells how much money actors, athletes, moguls and celebrities are worth. I found out that Paris Hilton is worth $100 million!!! At first I was really upset but then I realized that Paris Hilton might have a lot more money than I do, but I earned my money for what comes out of my mouth.
Barbra Streisand is worth $340 million, but I don’t resent Babs because not only has she earned her money with talent and hard work, I know that every morning, right after she makes Jimmy Brolin bring her coffee and kiss her feet, she goes into the bathroom and has to look in the mirror.
OCTOBER 27
Dear Diary:
Went to a big New York City fund-raiser tonight and found myself sitting near former mayor Mike Bloomberg. I love Mike Bloomberg even though he’s boring. (And he is boring. Prisoners at Guantánamo are offered the choice of waterboarding or listening to one of Bloomberg’s State of the City speeches.) If Judge Judy decides not to run for president, then Bloomberg is my man. He’s smart, he’s rich and he’s my height. That’s a win-win-win.
OCTOBER 28
Dear Diary:
Flying back to L.A. today for a big Fashion Police meeting. I’m lobbying for more diversity in the selection of the celebrity photos we use. We like to use the hottest, hippest stars in town, but surely Rihanna can’t be the only celebrity that regularly gets the shit kicked out of her by her man. Time to expand that demo! Get me pictures of other stars that got beaten up by their physically powerful significant others; get me Tina Turner; get me Halle Berry; get me David Gest. And if Tina or Halle or David are too old for our demographic, then maybe the ratings gods will shine upon us and someone will beat the hell out of a sweet, innocent Disney star, preferably one without a tail.
OCTOBER 29
Dear Diary:
Going to a German restaurant tonight with Melissa and my friends Peter and Larry. I go to German restaurants not because I like Wiener schnitzel but because I like to play a game called “Let’s Upset the Goose-Stepping Waiter.” We ask him questions like “Smells delicious; who’s in the oven?” and “Does the chef cook with gas?” and “Is it Zyklon B?” These Nazis have no sense of humor. Only once in all the books I’ve read have I found a joke attributed to Hitler: “How many Jews does it take to change a lightbulb? None. They’re all dead. Ha-ha-ha.”
OCTOBER 30
Dear Diary:
Halloween is coming and it’s my favorite holiday. It’s also Miley Cyrus’s favorite holiday. She just walks around the neighborhood ringing doorbells, posing and saying, “Trick?” Melissa, Cooper and I used to spend all day planning for Halloween, making costumes and buying candy and insulin. But lately costumes have changed so much. When I was a kid we’d dress up as ghosts or princesses or pirates. These are different times and nowadays kids’ costumes are much more sophisticated. Cooper and his friends are going trick-or-treating dressed up as investors who were mildly affected by the Bernie Madoff scandal. They stand on doorsteps and burn black American Express cards.
OCTOBER 31
Dear Diary:
It’s after midnight and I’m beat. Halloween is more exhausting than trying to stay in a conversation with Marlee Matlin. (How many times can you smile and say, “I hear ya’, sister”?) First I went to the Halloween parade in West Hollywood, which is the gayest little town in America. Here Halloween is considered more important than D-Day, Christmas or 9/11. Ten thousand gay men in drag on Santa Monica Boulevard . . . fabulous! I think of it as the Million Mary March. And even better, at least 4,621 of them were dressed as me, and only six as Tina Fey.
Condolences on your brother.
NOVEMBER 1
Dear Diary:
I’
m sick and tired of getting emails from Pet & Pussy, my new pet store. Ever since I went in there myself a few months ago to buy food and treats for (the late) Max and Sam, Pet & Pussy and I have somehow become BFFs. I used to send Pingpong in to get my food and supplies, but when the dogs in the rescue-or-eat section saw her coming they’d begin to howl and yelp. They envisioned their ancestors being twirled on a spit or served up over a delicious, piping-hot plate of Asian noodles. Pet & Pussy emails me constantly. I hear from them more often than I hear from my lawyer, agent, manager and, of course, Melissa. I even hear from them more often than I hear from my plastic surgeon, and I hear from him a lot. (“Joanie, Dr. Frankenstein here. Saw you on The View yesterday and I must say, your left breast? Sag-a-rella! Call me!”)
No one, and I mean no one, appreciates a sale the way I do, but Pet & Pussy is out of control. Unless you’re Pamela Anderson, how many beef bones does one woman need? I may not be a pretty girl but enough is enough!
NOVEMBER 2
Dear Diary:
Went to a charming* hipster coffeehouse last night.
I hate coffeehouses with young, artsy types who wear torn clothes and funky hats and have scruffy beards and cracked feet. (And the men are dirty, too.) Listen up, people, “filthy” is not a style; it’s a health problem. I don’t consider soap or shampoo enemies of the state. If I want to sit next to something that stinks, I’ll do a panel with Leno.
This unwashed, smelly trend started in Hollywood when Brad Pitt chose to leave both Jennifer Aniston and Camay behind. For some unknown reason this rich, handsome movie star decided that grooming and hygiene were beneath him and he wanted none of it.* Smellarella Bradie Baby has been joined in the Pig Parade by fellow slobs Robert Pattinson, Colin Farrell and Johnny Depp. At least Bob, Colie and JD have an excuse: they’re European. Well, at least Pattinson and Farrell are; Johnny Depp thinks he’s French but in truth he’s just a kid from Kentucky who majored in Dumpster Diving. But it’s not just men that are embracing fetid filthiness; there are plenty of young starlets stinking up the joint, too. Ever take a whiff of Courtney Love, or stand downwind from Patti Smith on a steamy summer day? They smell more than Ben Stiller’s movies.