CRYSTAL, BILLY
Oscar Host, Comedy Legend, Harry
Back in the 1990s when I was relatively unknown, I had a talent manager at a hotshot management house that also handled Billy Crystal. That means this esteemed management company at the time represented the very known (Crystal) and the very unknown (me).
One day I was at their offices and had to use the restroom, and my manager asked, “Do you want to use the Billy bathroom?” I didn’t know what he was talking about, and he said, “We have a bathroom in the office that’s just for Billy Crystal.”
I believe my answer was, “Hell yeah!”
I was led to a private lavatory just off one of the partners’ offices, accessible only with a key. It was relatively small but beautiful and pristine, as if it had just been built yesterday and never entered. Using it, I felt extra clean and special. I don’t remember if I went number one or two … but I can tell you this, I was a hell of a lot funnier after that bathroom visit.
Not that long afterward, I was in Aspen at the U.S. Comedy Arts Festival, because at the time, festivals were easier to book than regular gigs, and at one point, I walked into an elevator, and who should be in this tiny motorized enclosure but the great Billy Crystal and the equally great Bob Costas. (I believe Bob was moderating a panel Billy was on.) Now, Billy, he’s a super talent, a movie star, and a beloved comedian, and he’s succeeded at everything, but let’s just say Billy isn’t the most approachable star in the world. And yet, sometimes even he has to deal with sharing a six-foot-by-six-foot hydraulic-operated moving machine, a.k.a. an elevator. And there he was now, arms folded, looking forward, and before I could even say anything—because I’m usually first—I hear Bob Costas, who I’d never met, say, “Hi, Kathy!” Well, that was super charming and encouraging, because while it’s one thing not to be able to read a room it’s another thing not to be able to read an elevator.
I said hello to Costas, and then I took on the frost coming from the northwest corner. “Billy! I took a shit in your bathroom!” Naturally, I expected the entire elevator to erupt in laughter. Nothing. No reaction. Billy Crystal is seriously acting as if what I’d just said didn’t happen. Bob, meanwhile, burst out laughing—because it’s outrageous, out of context, and the last thing you’d expect to hear, for all you who need explanation (like Billy)—and said, “What are you talking about?”
“Bob, you didn’t know that Billy’s got his own frickin’ private bathroom at our manager’s office? It’s gorgeous!” I turned to Billy. “I was there the other day, Billy…” and just continued as if the When Harry Met Sally star were actively participating in the conversation instead of looking straight ahead and ignoring me. “You know, Billy, I’m not making the big bucks like you, but I had to use the restroom like anybody else, because when you gotta go, you gotta go…”
I was so bad at reading this elevator as well as thinking I was being hilarious, I did everything just short of saying to Billy, “Am I right? Or am I right?” while raising my hand up for a high five that would never be returned by his hand. We’ve got a couple of floors to go, still, and Bob—bless him—is trying to make it work, because facilitating conversation is his skill set, and he’s saying, “Billy, did you know this? Tell me more, Kathy.”
“Well, Bob, you get a key…” And off I went. And it was as if Bob thought this unknown, obnoxious comic was an equal to the funniest person on the planet. Billy, meanwhile, was still in character as the Guy Who Thinks Only Bob Costas Is On the Elevator with Him. When the doors opened, we all exited as if nothing unusual had happened.
Now “Chilly Elevator Billy” was not at all the Billy Crystal I encountered years later when I filmed a cameo for the Jason Segel Muppets movie (a cameo that, regrettably, was left on the cutting room floor, but that’s a story for another time). I got to spend the day with Billy and Ricky Gervais, and there was a lot of downtime because setting up the Muppets takes a while. Billy couldn’t have been nicer: shooting the breeze, talking comedy, and allowing me to take a selfie with him. And wouldn’t you know it, every time that I’ve seen Billy since then, he has been incredibly gracious and friendly. There’s no way he’d have remembered When Billy Met Kathy. For me, it was more like When Kathy Met Bob.
CYRUS, MILEY
Singer, Human Wrecking Ball
Did you know I could have been on Hannah Montana? One of the executive producers was a guy I knew from Suddenly Susan days, and he came up to me once and said, “We want to write a really juicy episode for you!” It was a giant show at the time, and I was thrilled. Then on national TV when I won my first Emmy, I said, “Suck it, Jesus. This award is my God now,” and all of a sudden it was, “Um, don’t expect the call.” Well, screw you! It was worth it! All I can say is post-Hannah Miley would have gotten that same response when she was going through her “rebellious phase” if she’d had to go back in time and appear on her own show. That is tortured logic, I know, but I don’t care.
Miley officially made it into my act with that stripper-pole-while-partying-in-the-USA performance at the Teen Choice Awards, which I saw up close as a guest and nominee that year. One time, I crashed a pre-performance prayer circle of hers backstage at VH1’s Divas Live.
We have a history. We did a Rock the Vote campaign together in 2012, and my publicist shrewdly engineered the schedule so that Miley and I would cross paths at our shoots. This would be real face-to-face time with someone I’d called every name in the book in my act. Miley had just cut her hair short and dyed it blond, so I decided to break the ice by making a Susan Powter joke, referencing a self-empowerment icon who first became popular when Miley was just born. So naturally I got this response from the ever-energized, raspy-voiced teen star: “Whooz Soozan POW-ter? Whooz ZAT? Hey, it’s ME, MILE-y!” (She always announces herself.) I told her Susan Powter was a lady who’d been wronged by a man and had gotten revenge by getting fit, becoming a motivational speaker, and stopping the insanity.
“She got a haircut like yours,” I said.
“THAT sounds really KEWL!”
She was really sweet and spunky, bragging about the ring Liam had given her the first time around, if you know what I’m saying. I wanted to say, “You’re way too young to get married to that fucking stiff,” but I didn’t. I was on good behavior, keeping the teasing to a modest level. Better still, I can probably say I saved our photo shoot when it became patently clear that Miley’s see-through top was making every picture unusable. That’s right, Kathy Griffin: Miley Cyrus Savior.
At one point, I just had to say out loud, “Um, Miley, honey, no one else is going to tell you this, but none of these pictures are going anywhere because we can all see your nipples. So either put on an effing jog bra or accept that these photos will never get out.”
Miley lifts her top and starts doing a shimmy. “Wouldn’t you be PROWD of THEEZ if you had ’em?” (That’s how you get me to fall in love with you.)
We got the pictures eventually, which was great, and honestly, Miley was super nice the whole time. Then she said the thing that I really thought I was going to avoid. “So, this WHOLE TIME, you’ve just been making JOKES about me?”
Look around. Shrug shoulders. “Yeah.”
“All those things you say about me, you’re just trying to make people LAFF?”
“Yeah.”
“All right, we’re KEWL.”
We’ve been kewl ever since. When I met Hannah and she was still from Montana, frankly, she just wasn’t very interesting to me. I have since come to respect her tremendously. I have seen her sing LIVE several times. She has a great voice in an industry filled with contemporaries that don’t really have the chops. I think she’s a smart, creative nutjob. One time, she squeezed my butt on a red carpet in front of several photographers. That’s what friends do, right? I’m KEWL with that.
DICAPRIO, LEONARDO
Actor, Activist, Man Slut
When you have the opportunity to call Leonardo DiCaprio a man whore, you take it.
Since I now had his attention, I said again, “Jesus, Leo, don’t be such a douche bag.”
He walked away and with an adorable smile said, “I am a douche bag.”
Touché, Leo.
But agreeing with me only makes me stronger.
Lily then foolishly asked me to accompany her to the ladies’ room. In the backstage hallway, we saw Leo with two of his handlers practicing his speech. I very loudly said for his benefit, “I swear to God if I see that fucking asshole Leo DiCaprio I’m going to give him a smack in the face.” He did manage to look up for a second with an expression of, shall we say, irritation mixed with bewilderment. But I wasn’t done yet.
You know those movie scenes in restrooms when the timing of a stall door flying open is everything? Well, I emerged from one of the stalls at just the exact moment the women’s room door was opened and Leo was walking past. I flipped him the bird and screamed, “Leo, you pervert!”
I was saving the best for last. When my moment at the podium came, and all eyes were on me to give the great commercial director Joe Pytka his career achievement award, I couldn’t resist busting Leo’s balls, because he was pretty much directly in front of me. I kept stopping my presentation to yell at him to get off his phone and stop swiping Tinder, lovingly referring to him as a man whore. He finally looked up at me with those baby blues and with both hands gave me the “bring it” signal. I continued to let him have it about his damn phone, reminding him that all the women you always see on his boat will gladly wait for him. He took it well, like a champ. He’s a brilliant actor, which is why he makes a great target. I just wish he’d stop calling me. It’s getting uncomfortable. He’s a little old for me.
DICKINSON, ANGIE
Ring-a-Ding-Ding Ringer, Police Woman
Those of you who are old enough might remember Angie Dickinson’s memorable ad campaign for California avocados. Her fantastic gams took up most of the billboard as she lay on her side in a white one-piece, the caption underneath reading, “Would this body lie to you?” It made absolutely no sense regarding avocados but probably sold a lot of them.
For the longest time, that ad was what sprang to my mind when her name was mentioned—not her movies, or Police Woman, or the heartbreaking struggles she went through raising her autistic daughter … until I met her. Then something else about Angie replaced her visual appeal in my consciousness.
I had booked an appearance on the Bravo series Celebrity Poker Showdown, which was a reality game show hit in the mid-2000s. Playing at my table were Penn Jillette, Jeff Gordon, Ron Livingston, and the still-smokin’ hot Angie Dickinson. What’s funny about me being on competition shows is that I really do try to win. Instead of approaching it like a chance to have fun, I practiced playing poker around the clock in the time leading up to the taping in Las Vegas. It was a dumb waste of time, really, but in those weeks of prep, I talked to male friends who played in regular poker games, and one of them said something interesting: “You need to be afraid of Angie Dickinson at that table.” I was surprised. The sexy movie star? Not card magician Penn Jillette? Or a diehard competitor like stock car racer Jeff Gordon? Or a bro actor like Ron Livingston? He said, “Think about it. All those nights with the Rat Pack. All those times when she was probably the only girl in the suite and how much frickin’ poker those guys played. I’ll bet she’s played countless hours with Frank and Dino. If that’s not a master’s class, I don’t know what is.”
He was right. She was a frightening poker player and kicked ass. I even said to her right before taping, “You’re the one to watch, right? Did you play with those guys in Vegas back in the day?” Angie’s always been a sweetheart to me, but she replied, without any emotion, “Every night.” Chills went down my spine, as if I’d met a mob boss. Angie Dickinson has more poker experience than Phil Hellmuth! No more avocados and gams when I think of Angie. It’s a stone-cold, honey-haired killer staring down some quivering weekend warrior across a table and turning his meager bluff into an excuse to take him for everything he has.
DOG, BEETHOVEN THE
The Shaggy Diva, My Costar
I appeared in a Beethoven movie, and if you think I mean the composer, you really don’t know what kinds of movies get made nowadays.
This was the fifth movie in the eight-film franchise starring the trouble-causing Saint Bernard, and the last one to be any good. How do I know that? Because they put me on the DVD cover even though I had maybe three lines. We didn’t even have Judge Reinhold, who had starred in the third and fourth movies.
Anyway, that doesn’t matter, because from what I saw on the set the days I shot, the loveable and full-figured pooch got more star treatment than Jennifer Lawrence in The Hunger Games. It was hilarious. That particular day in Los Angeles was a scorcher, and the way it worked on set was that Beethoven would shoot for forty-five seconds at most, then the director would yell, “CLEAR! CLEAR THE SET!” and then the Beethoven wranglers ran up to him because he needed to look perfect all the time. If you didn’t know, Saint Bernards are titanic droolers, and frankly, it’s their nature; so one guy was on drool towel duty, because the director would routinely yell out, “I don’t want one frame of film with that drool! NOT ONE FRAME!” Another member of this doggie pit crew was the wet towel guy, for when BTD needed to be cooled down. (“What’s his temperature, damn it?”) Another wrangler was on brush patrol (“Let’s go, people. Those ears don’t brush themselves!”), and four others were needed to walk him into a shady part of the Universal backlot between takes so he could rest up and gather his motivation for the next scene (“Everyone! Please, out of his eye line!”). No disrespect, BTD, but we’re not talking a genius dog here. This wasn’t some specially trained canine who could do tricks. I’ve worked with those. They can bark three times at a signal, tilt their head on cue, play cutesy, whatever. This was a big, dopey dog who drooled like a spigot, took craps the size of Montana, and panted louder than a broken air-conditioning unit in Nakatomi Plaza. That was his “acting.” Then again, Saint Bernards were bred to rescue people in the Alps. Beethoven probably took one look at that blazing Southern California sun and thought, This is BS.
Of course, I wanted to pet him. But honestly, he was treated so royally I thought I’d get thrown down by the wranglers if I went near him. I didn’t know the protocol for actor dogs. But someone said, “Sure, you can pet him.” I did, and I was slathered in saliva, and then it was “CLEAN UP GRIFFIN! CLEAN UP GRIFFIN! How’s Beethoven? How’s his temperature, and more importantly, how’s his mood?”
I can only imagine this is what Francis Coppola had to deal with on Apocalypse Now with Brando. Coppola has to have the same stories.
EFRON, ZAC
Actor, High School Graduate, Twelve-Pack
Sometimes in the excitement of any pre-Hollywood red carpet arrivals process, I need to give myself a project. And by project, I mean any new and exciting way I can think of to turn this event into potential material for my explosive, award-winning, and ever-changing comedy act. (Go to KathyGriffin.com for tickets.)
The quest to get pictures with celebrities—or simply to extend my lingering on the red carpet in the glare of the media—is a never-ending strategy of cajoling, cleverness, and outright
deceit. One night attending the 2011 People’s Choice Awards (as a nominee, I might add!), I made it my mission to get super hot guys to let me touch their hair. Oh, why do I have to be the one that keeps coming up with these genius ideas that make celebrities fall in love with me even more?
I needed a ruse, though, so I came up with a crazy story that a fancy art gallery had asked me to contribute to a very high-profile exhibit. I saw the twenty-three-year-old Zac Efron coming toward me, and he was in a perfectly tailored suit and looked gorgeous. He was even sporting a new haircut, short and buzzed. Someone like that—at the height of fame, wanted by every girl—is a snapshot catch, but I needed to be careful with the approach. So I started with a simple, “Hi, Zac!”
To him, I’m basically an old lady he probably feels he needs to be respectful to, so he said, “Hey.”
I told him, “I’m a nominee tonight. You look great.”
Sticking with the Boy Scout patter, he said, “Oh, hey, you do, too.”
I said, “I’m doing this art project where I’m supposed to get silly pictures of me petting the heads of handsome guys. Can I pet your hair?” Beat.
He said, “Yeah.”
The picture was perfect: Zac even gave it this regal, poised touch by looking upward. I knew that my Twitter feed would go bananas, especially from boys who like boys.
I continued my reign of terror (I mean, hilarious comedy hijinks for no one other than myself) on True Blood star Alexander Skarsgård, too, who is at least ten feet taller than I am. I asked him. He was aloof. Typical fanger. I said, “I just finished Zac.” He didn’t even say yes or no. His hands were in his pockets the whole time. I just reached up and touched it, said, “Thanks, Eric Northman!” and moved along.
Kathy Griffin's Celebrity Run-Ins Page 4
