As we taped our first scene for the Young Hollywood episode on trendy Robertson Boulevard, I got younger with every store. We started out at Kitson, and by the time we ended up at Lisa Kline, I was sixteen and a half years old. Of course, it wasn’t just us, but approximately fifty paparazzi photographers. This may have been a little too much for even Team Griffin to handle. I had to roll with an entourage, so of course I brought my twenty-four-year-old assistant and Young Hollywood aficionado Tiffany Rinehart, and beleaguered tour manager and trichotillomania (look it up, freaks) sufferer Tom Vize. They had their marching orders. Tom was in charge of my two eighty-pound, ill-behaved dogs Chance and Pom Pom, and Tiffany was busily Twittering our every move. But I tell ya, it’s hard to focus when everywhere around me were video cameras and flashbulbs going off. I get so angry when I think that someone called the paparazzi photographers and tipped them off. If I ever run into that someone, let’s say a red-haired lady who lives at my house, I’m going to give her what for.
Spending a day like that with Paris, I have to say, was more of an eye-opener than my 2003 upper-lid face work. Those photographers were pushy, noisy, physically aggressive, fighting among each other, shouting, knocking each other over, and generally unapologetic about causing an insanely chaotic scene. But the way she and her security team handled them, and the onlookers and screaming fans and tourists, was impressive. She’d turn to me every so often and say “Hungry tigers!” in her bizarre, yet oddly fascinating baby-voice affect. Really, that voice is younger than a baby’s. It’s fetal. A spot on her mother’s pituitary gland. Plus, she had her tiny dog with her, who was so calm for such a frenzied situation, the dog must have been on some of my mother’s “nervous pills.” I don’t remember the name of the dog, but I just started thinking of her as Little Paula Abdul.
Paris was sporting a bob, which may or may not have been Paris Magic Hair, and a ringed headband, as if she was a hippie from a commune bankrolled by a trust fund. I asked her if she knew what a hippie was, and she just giggled. She also had on high-heel black Ferragamo boots, and a very trendy peasant top and tights—all very fashionable. As for me, my original idea was to get an outfit of Paris’s that she’d recently been photographed in, and wear that. I had a vision of magazines comparing us on a “Who wore it better?” page, and I thought it’d be funny if it was something like, “Paris Hilton 96 percent, Kathy Griffith 4 percent.”
But when I called her office to talk to her stylist, to see if I could wear this ’20s-era tube dress that she wore for her birthday bash in Vegas, it was, “Oh, you’ll never fit into it. She’s much smaller than you.” Ouch.
Well, they wouldn’t send me anything she’d actually worn, but they sent me her own line of clothes, which is ridiculous and must only do well in Asia because it’s all so loud and over-the-top and pink pink pink. True, half of it I couldn’t squeeze into, but I did pick out the most obnoxiously pink, silly outfit, a dress with a full-on ’80s tube top. But because my boobs are real and tend to bounce off my knees, I wore it with an old-lady Maidenform bra—pink, mind you—completely showing. Look, I was going for a joke here, but I’m not that hard up for a laugh that I’m not going to wear a fucking bra.
So we make our way into Kitson past the snapping hordes, and then to Lisa Kline. We hadn’t really planned it, but Paris started faux-shopping for me, and began sifting through Pucci bikinis. She picked out a blue-and-green paisley one for me, and said, “You’d look huge in this.”
This is an actual Paris Hilton dress that she loaned me.
“Go fuck yourself.”
“No, no, I don’t mean you’re huge like that. You know how I used to say, ‘That’s hot’?”
I cautiously said, “Yes?”
“Well, ‘huge’ is the new ‘hot.’ So if I say you’re huge, that’s a good thing!”
“Oh, okay. And just so you know, ‘go fuck yourself’ is still ‘go fuck yourself,’ but I’m sorry I said that.”
Well, she bought the bikini for me, which I thought was nice. Next we were going to go to this trendy hotel called The Avalon and film by the pool, because this is where Young Hollywood grazes. So the show’s producer said to me, “When we shoot this scene with you and Paris hanging by the pool, you’ve got to wear the bikini that she bought you.”
Shit. Now all my weight issues were suddenly bubbling to the surface again, even though I have to say, 2009 has probably been my thinnest year since high school. But I started thinking crazy shit again, like how I was five pounds lighter only a week ago! Plus, it was me next to 6′1,″ super-skinny, super-perfect model-like Paris Hilton, who is a complete stick. How could it not bring up my issues? And in a bikini on top of that?
“I don’t think I’ve even worn a bikini in about fifteen years,” I told the producer.
It’s true. When I go swimming I’m usually in a turtleneck wetsuit. And if that’s not available, I’ll wear a mens’ suit. As in, a three-piece with tie and vest, and maybe an ascot. And a bowler hat. I’ll wear that to take a shower if I’m having a particularly bad body-image day.
And can we discuss my skin for a second? It’s not as if I have pale, alabaster-like-a-baby’s-ass skin like Anne Hathaway. When I say that my skin is white and pale, that’s an understatement. It’s translucent. You can see right through to my veins and organs. I’m really no different from an anatomy figure in biology class.
Now, Paris, in all of her skinny Paris-ness, wouldn’t even agree to wear a bikini without a sarong for the Avalon pool shoot, so I decided me in the tiniest bikini without any cover-up would be good for a few laughs. I just had to suck it up. Maybe I’d make it onto a worst-dressed bikini list. As you may know, I’m a staple of worst-dressed lists, ever since my days on Suddenly Susan when no designer wanted to touch me or loan me anything for awards show appearances or public events. The first time I was ever tagged by one of the magazines for worst dressed—it might have been me in a Betsey Johnson outfit, because those were big in the ’90s and I liked her designs—my initial reaction was this bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. Then, about ten minutes later, I thought, Wait a minute, this is kind of funny. Such began my many appearances on these lists, usually next to pictures of Margaret Cho in some peacock-feather dress, Paula Abdul in something from her signature QVC line, and Bjork dressed like a swan or goose or some other waterfowl. For the longest time I cut out and laminated these photos and stuck them proudly on my refrigerator.
Paris Hilton getting served, Griffin-bikini-style.
My only real triumph in the fashion area was the year I was asked to be a red carpet correspondent for the VH1/Vogue Fashion Awards, interviewing celebrities for the moments going into and out of commercials. Because Vogue was involved, they wanted to pick my outfit for me. They dressed me in this Ralph Lauren Purple Label girl’s tuxedo with Versace heels. Well, Vogue editor Anna Wintour fired me the night of the show because I was so offensive on the red carpet—basically none of my segments were going to be used—but months later Glamour ran a small item on women who wear suits, and they cited me as someone who did it right! I considered it pretty much a Best Dressed award. So, no thanks, but thanks, Vogue! (I stole the outfit, too. Still wear the shoes!)
The hilarious part is, you know what joke provoked Anna to ax me when she heard it in the production booth? I said I was going to try to be a part of the fashion community by going into the bathroom later and doing blow off the Hilton sisters’ asses. Luckily, since then I’ve learned how to talk about celebrities with restraint and grace.
Now here I was with Paris, about to expose to the world my pale 5′3″ form in a silly-small bikini, and those damn pesky paparazzi (grrr, who called them anyway?) had followed us over here to the hotel from Robertson Boulevard. Then I thought about that old helpful “act as if” rule from the Overeaters Anonymous Big Book, the technique that guided me through more than a few downward spirals after binge-eating. Act as if it’s all going to be fine. When it came time to shoot, I just had to say to mysel
f, “Kathy, act as if you have the fucking hottest body there, and every guy in the crew wants to bang you. You are the hottest”—wait, “hugest,” sorry, Paris—“piece of ass ever!”
That night, it all began happening online. There I was in photos next to Paris Hilton, and the consensus from US Weekly’s website to PerezHilton’s seemed to be that I have a “bangin’ bikini bod.” When they drop the “y,” on “body,” it’s like you have something other than a “body.” That “y” was holding me back, it seems.
I say this with humility, but I am now in the infancy of my new career as a semiprofessional bikini model.
The press reaction, for one thing, has been the kind you can’t buy. The National Enquirer featured me on a page of Hottest Beach Bodies. I did a bikini shoot for TV Guide, as well as one for OK magazine, which wrote, “Kathy Griffin’s got a hot body and she isn’t afraid to show it!” They brought bikinis to my house, because at that point I thought the only bikini that existed in the world was the one Paris Hilton bought me. But when you have a “bangin’ bikini bod”—or “bbb,” as I’ll coin now—they come to you with bikinis, and ones that fit, not ones that let your real boobs accidentally slip out so you can trip on them. Did I mention People magazine had a “Bikini Body Showdown” and polled readers on whether I, Lisa Rinna, or Tara Reid had the hottest bikini bod, and I won? And I don’t take steroids or get drunk and fall down in public. Not that they do, of course.
Look, I’m not out to embarrass Gisele Bundchen or Bar Refaeli, or whatever bikini model Leo is or was banging or will bang in the future, and my goal isn’t to make any of these women lose any sleep over the contracts they’re about to miss out on because of me. But I’m clearly not far away from a Bain de Soleil campaign, some beach towel contracts, and the inevitable pleading from Sports Illustrated for a cover shoot and, if the attorneys can work out the details, a tasteful centerfold. Will anyone really be surprised when Tyra Banks simply cuts to the chase next season and stands in front of my bikini-ed self—well, not that close, because she’ll be too self-conscious to be that close to my “bbb”—and says, “Kathy Griffin, congratulations, you are America’s Next Top Model.” I’m ready to change lives here, people. Oprah, you’re going to be trading in Dr. Oz’s scrubs for me in a bikini every Tuesday.
The reality, of course, is that this whole bikini thing has been hilarious and great and bizarre, and it couldn’t have come at a better time when my tireless efforts to get the word out about My Life on the D-List often meant sitting in a room doing twenty-five interviews in a row with places like Wake Up, Tulsa! People magazine would never give me the time of day—wouldn’t cover me going to Walter Reed Army Medical Center—but now that I have a bangin’ bikini bod, I guess it’s all good. If it gets one more viewer to watch The D-List, call me the worst or the hottest, I don’t care. Although a few extra straight guys turning on my show to jerk off to me would be so great. A pretty lady has dreams.
Here comes the section my editor is making me write. She keeps asking me to explain my “typical routine regarding diet and exercise,” and “how you got the bbb.” Oh Christ, Pamela. Here it is.
KATHY GRIFFIN’S BANGIN’ BIKINI BOD REGIMEN:
Sometimes I work out with a trainer. I get real mad at him occasionally because it’s real hard. And … [sob] … I hurt afterward. But I do it, because I’m on TV. If I was still a loan officer in a bank I would be a good fifty pounds heavier and a lot happier. Sometimes I forget to work out for a month. Guess what happens then? I GAIN WEIGHT. Sometimes I’m so stressed out and exhausted I just have a bunch of diarrhea. I’m pretty sure “bunch” is the correct term for multiple diarrheas. Anyway, it’s good for at least a jean size. Sometimes I’m out of town and go for very long walks or hikes. Yawn. One thing, though: I find the thinner and hotter I get the bitchier I get. If you see me in an airport and say, “I didn’t know you were so tiny!” I might slap you in the face or kick your husband in the balls. It’s not personal. I’m just really hungry. In fact, I’m hungry most of the time.
Now for my nutritional regimen: Have you heard of sugar-free Red Bull? Sometimes that’s lunch. That’s because I have such a crazy upside-down schedule—early morning radio promotion interviews at 6:12 a.m., two shows at night, and in between whatever is demanding my time—that I can’t really stick to normal meal times. Some days I have three healthy meals, and make sure a big salad is one of them. Good for me! Wheeeee! Other days I think I will die if I don’t have some pizza. I mean I really think I’m going to die. Guess what? At those times I eat pizza. And I haven’t died yet! What’s really helped me is having “sensible” specialty meals delivered every day. I still adore all my favorite junk foods (shout-out to marble two-layer cake with chocolate chip frosting in between and buttercream on the outside), and I’m never going to love steamed broccoli, but I also know that having a Cobb salad in my hotel room before I do a stand-up show—instead of pigging out on bad things because I’m lonely or bored—means I won’t feel like crap onstage later.
All this bikini hoopla doesn’t mean I still don’t struggle with my weight. Body issues don’t just go away. Just the other day a flight attendant had the bikini picture in a tabloid and wanted me to sign it, and there was still that little part of me that wanted to go, “Oh! Well, just so you know … heh heh … this picture was from five pounds ago … heh heh … I didn’t get to work out the week prior to this photo being taken … heh heh … I’ve worked out so much more since then!” I had to stop myself and say, “Kathy, sign the fucking picture.”
My first bikini picture, with my cousins Maureen and Nancy. Why do I look like I just got punched in the face?
God, I could talk about my hot body all day. Couldn’t you, Oprah? Don’t you find it heartwarming that in this roller-coaster D-list life of mine where talking shit about celebrities and making fun of crazy Hollywood has given me an incredible career, it’s a fitting irony that I’m ending this book by offering my gratitude to a celebrity? One who was responsible for getting my picture into so many magazines and TV shows. And by way of a frickin’ two-piece, no less.
So to whoever’s reading this to Paris Hilton, tell her I say thank you.
EPILOGUE
So what do you think of my life so far? Oh shut up, you’re too skinny.
Well, I’ve read my book, too, and here’s what I think about my spiritual journey: Cake is awesome. I want some right now.
Actually, it’s a little strange to look back so thoroughly on my life and realize I haven’t learned one lesson. Instead, I just go by my own creed, which is essentially: Make mistakes (telling Jesus to suck it), repeat them (FanningGate), don’t learn from them (got two Emmys), and blame others (the Vatican).
More than anything, the guiding force of my life has been my work ethic. Like a lot of things, as you’ve probably gathered, it goes back to my childhood. When I was growing up, my family loved watching 60 Minutes every Sunday, and I remember once there was a story about an old woman who had lost everything. She was so poor, she had to eat dog food. After watching the story Mom turned to me and said, “I hope you’re proud of yourself, for Chrisssake.”
“Whuh?” I said.
“I know you spent three gahddamn dollars at Woolworth’s today on a Barbie outfit. I saw you.”
“Whuh?”
“You keep spending money like it’s goin’ out of style and you’re gonna be eatin’ dog food outside in our Dodge Dart, cause we’re gonna lose this whole gahddamn house. Everybody around here is spending money like it grows on trees!”
Mind you, we didn’t have a dog. But the point is, my parents instilled in me their very own prewar, Depression-era work ethic, and along with that goes the daily fear that I could truly lose everything tomorrow. And by “lose everything,” I mean succumb to the hot-or-not system that governs every aspect of the entertainment business, that turns A-listers into D-listers faster than you can say, “I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here.”
I’m not eating dog f
ood now, and that is why I want to take this opportunity to sincerely express my gratitude to all of you for coming to my stand-up shows, downloading my CDs, watching my little cable show, ordering T-shirts that say “Suck it,” and, of course, buying this book. When I look out into the audience, when I see you at book signings, when I read favorable comments online, get your emails, or notice that more of you are following on Twitter, none of it is lost on me. I see you. I thank you.
Here’s why I’m the luckiest motherfucker on earth. I get to do what I love, and I mean I love all of it. Stand-up. The D-List. Talk shows. Red carpet. The occasional yeast infection. (That’s from performing in polyester blend pants in an outdoor venue in Milwaukee during Summer Gay Pride.) All the people I’ve gotten to meet. I mean, who else gets to do shit like this:
Yeah, that’s me in bed with CNN’s John King. And his Emmy. It gets better. His wife, White House correspondent Dana Bash, took the picture, then told me I’m her Cher. Sure, it’s fun to be in bed with John King, but it’s way better to be somebody’s Cher.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost, I would like to thank my friend and collaborator Robert Abele, who did the heavy lifting of shaping this book, while I just mostly bitched and moaned; his lovely wife Margy, who guided us along the way, constantly muttering something about “More detail! More detail!;” my editor Pamela Cannon, who gets how awesome I am; Team Griffin, not to be confused with the Griffin clan, so shout-out to Jessica (miss you!), Tiffany (best laugh ever), and Tom (love); the agent who made this happen, Trena Keating; my WME gang, Nancy Josephson and Ari Emanuel; my beloved attorneys Bill Sobel and Alan Isaacman; my stand-up agent Steve Levine; the entire gay community; Nancy Silverton and the delicious pizza she would serve Robert and me at Mozza after writing sessions; and a pretty, pretty lady publicist named Whitney Tancred.
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