STEPHANOPOULOS, GEORGE
ABC (Already Been Chewed) Anchor, Council of Foreign Relations (Including Me)
Don’t you hate it when one of your friends marries the White House communications director and you don’t hear from her as much? Me, too. My old Groundlings pal Ali Wentworth got hitched to George Stephanopoulos in 2001, and I do not get to spend as much time with her as I would like. Whose fault is that? George’s, of course. But I figured out a way to make him pay when I was asked to be a lead guest on Good Morning America to promote my 2015 performance at the iconic Carnegie Hall. Sometimes a good bit is fourteen years in the making.
I’ve been a fan of George’s forever, and I respect him tremendously, but for a while there, I wasn’t entirely sure if Ali was making up their relationship because I never hung out with them together.
I eventually had a super awkward experience with George in 2012 when I had plans to meet my friend Lara Spencer at the bar in New York’s Mandarin Oriental hotel because I was doing a gay club appearance later in the evening (don’t ask!) and she was coming from a taping of Piers Morgan Live, and there was an overlap window for a meet-up. Much to my surprise, the whole cast of GMA showed up to the restaurant. Maybe when Lara was planning a casual get-together with her old pal Kathy, it didn’t occur to either one of us that it may appear as if I were crashing their intimate cast-only soirée to celebrate being number one in the ratings for the first time in years. Sensing her discomfort, yet knowing a comedy moment might be about to happen, I just looked at Lara and said, “Too bad!” I said, “I’ve got two hours, and I’m not leaving.”
Robin Roberts and Sam Champion came up and said nice things to me, but I immediately had the impression that George was not overly comfortable with ending a very long workday, probably expecting a nice quiet recap with his workmates, only to be faced with this ME … and my boyfriend. I thought, He’ll survive! He survived the Clinton administration. He can survive me.
Randy ordered some sliders, truffle cheese fries, and some charred brussels sprouts because we were both starving. When our order came, George started eating all of our food. I said, “You have to stop bogarting the food, because guess who’s paying for it now? YOU, GEORGE.” He laughed at that but quickly went back to looking like he was deep in the middle of planning his next interview with the secretary general of the UN or something. I get that a lot. Some ratings celebration, George! Not as exhilarating as taking the White House? Anyway, Randy and I settled our tab and left the GMA gang alone with their remaining appetizers and high ratings.
Anyway, back to my hilarious appearance ruling the couch on GMA. During the commercial break, I went to work on my friend Ali’s spouse. “This isn’t going to work, everyone, if George doesn’t get me.”
He said, in that even tone of his, “I get you.”
I said, “Okay, but I feel like you’re afraid of me, and I’m trying to be funny, and you’re throwing me off my game, like the night you ate all my food at the Mandarin Oriental,” and he had this “You remember that?” look. I had fun with him, and he took it like a champ, actually, so afterward, I said, “Hey, I e-mailed Ali, and it bounced back. I’m not sure if I have her current e-mail address, so will you put it in my phone?” So he takes my iPhone, and, because he’s a techno-deficient fiftysomething and nervous around Kathy Griffin, he struggled with this simple request. How do I know this? Because later on in the day as I was doing Good Afternoon Manhattan or something, I got an e-mail from George himself. Why? He had clearly accidentally put his own personal e-mail address in my phone, not Ali’s. George has no idea he has unleashed the beast. The following is the actual e-mail correspondence between myself and George Stephanopoulos. Enjoy:
On Nov 11, 2015, at 8:36 AM, Stephanopoulos, George wrote: Kathy says hi!
This is when I realized that George thought he was e-mailing his wife when he was actually e-mailing ME! I’m gonna have some fun here.
On Nov 11, 2015, at 9:16 AM, Kathy Griffin wrote:
Hello George
On Nov 11, 2015, at 9:17 AM, Stephanopoulos, George wrote: Hi. Fun today!
On Nov 12, 2015, at 5:02 PM, Kathy Griffin wrote: Hello George
On Nov 12, 2015, at 5:48 PM, Stephanopoulos, George wrote: Hi
On Nov 20, 2015, at 3:06 PM, Kathy Griffin wrote: George. Yes, I’m fine.
On Nov 20, 2015, at 7:12 PM, Stephanopoulos, George wrote: So relieved!
On Dec 5, 2015, at 1:34 AM, Kathy Griffin wrote: I can’t talk now.
On Dec 5, 2015, at 4:57 AM, Stephanopoulos, George wrote: He’s there?
On Jan 27, 2016, at 12:28 AM, Kathy Griffin wrote: I’m going to Mexico until Sunday night. Cant talk. KG
On Jan 27, 2016, at 11:20 PM, Stephanopoulos, George wrote: You’re going to miss the debate?
On Feb 18, 2016, at 10:27 AM, Kathy Griffin wrote: SUBJECT: My Day …
I’ll probably go for a hike and do some light packing for my next live dates. Why do you need to know? KG
On Feb 19, at 2:43 AM, Stephanopoulos, George wrote: Just makes me smile.
It’s a project that gives my life meaning, to the extent that I put it in my Carnegie Hall show. From the stage, I told of how the great political mind and broadcast journalist George Stephanopoulos doesn’t even know how to use e-mail on a phone, at which point Ali—who was in the audience—stood up and shouted, “He’s my husband, and you’re tearing my marriage apart!!”
Thank you, Ali, for not only helping open up my lines of communication with GMA and with your choice in men, but for also marrying someone who gave me material for my act! That’s a true friend!
STREISAND, BARBRA
Singer, Actor, Director, Fierce
The first time I was ever near her, Brooke Shields and Andre Agassi were celebrating their engagement at David Foster’s house in Malibu. The party was small—maybe forty people—and yet I had no contact with her. I could not act like we were BFFs. It was more like being in her orbit. It was a taste, but it wasn’t enough.
Years later, I had a fun, brief encounter with her, and while I’m not trying to act as if we are besties, I will say even knowing her as little as I do, I felt oddly protective of her on this particular night. She was still beautiful, still endearingly had the Brooklyn “Hello, gorgeous” voice, and she was still Streisand. You get it (and if you don’t … get the hell out of this book!).
I want to describe what happened at the STAPLES Center in downtown Los Angeles when Bette Midler was on her Divine Intervention tour. For shows like that, I don’t want to be in a private celebrity skybox to the side with some angled view far from the action. I want to be in the seats, as close as possible. That night I took my seat, in the thick of the superfans. As I’ve often said in my act, do not ever underestimate the level of partying you will get from middle-aged gay men and Jewish ladies of a certain age. And they were there to par-tay. Take that, millennials! Oh, you’re so badass at Coachella. Please. In other words, it was a perfect storm for what was to follow.
People began to notice me—“I want a pic-shuh! I want a pic-shuh!”—so I obliged with a series of selfies. I looked across the aisle from me, five or so rows up, and there was Billy Crystal. The woman behind me says, “Oh my GAWD, it’s Billy Crystal!! Should we get a pic-shuh?!” I’d just taken a pic-shuh with her myself and was hoping she wouldn’t bother Billy, who clearly didn’t want to be noticed. But she went up anyway, stuck her iPad (not a cell phone or small camera, but a friggin’ iPad) in his face and said, “Say something FUNNY!”
He said, “I don’t know what you want me to say…”
You could feel the air molecules change, and thousands of people shifted their focus to Billy. I felt for him. But then, the room began to hum in a way that I can only describe as a low … gay … rumble. For those of you that watch too much Weather Channel, as I do, it was not dissimilar from how you would hear a midwestern tornado survivor describe the beginning of a massive twister. Something was happening behind me. It wasn’t the show
starting, because the house lights were still on. The rumble then became an oscillating wave of gay gasping as I saw HER walk down the aisle past me with HER husband James Brolin. Billy Crystal who?
What in the world was SHE doing in regular floor seats? Streisand does not move among the people! She wasn’t in full movie-star hair and makeup, and where the hell was her diva lighting? Who’s fallen on the job here? In a word: UNACCEPTABLE. There’s nothing in Brolin’s demeanor to suggest he was even worried about her. Well, he should have been, because people (in this case the people were, how shall I say, Bette Midler’s and Barbra Streisand’s combined fan base) instantly lost all composure. The eye of the storm made land. It was a mêlée. And a gay-lée. Cell phones popping up by the hundreds. People rubbernecking more than any amount of Icy Hot could ever soothe. Bodies leaning forward, then back. Friends confirming that this was in fact a genuine Streisand sighting. The rumble got louder.
Meanwhile, my beloved fifty-five-year-old gay men and same-aged Jewish gals were standing on their chairs to take pic-shuhs, and some just ran in front of her to do it. Then the woman who had moved from me to Billy Crystal pivoted with her iPad in hand and started yelling, “BAWBRA! BAWBRA! SING AH SOWNGGG!”
Even my boyfriend turned to me and said, “Should I go help her?”
And I said, “No, that might make it worse. You could get gay trampled.”
The lights finally went down, and there were so many cell phones going that I heard Streisand say, “Look at all those rectangles.” Classic. I get it; these fans have wanted to be up close and personal with La Streisand, but I have to admit, I was a little nervous for her. I’m just gonna say it: Jim Brolin needs to be on security duty a lot more. If they start showing up at Palm Springs street fairs together, you’ll know I’m right.
STYLES, HARRY
Boy Oh Boy Band Member
When the Eagles brought their final LA shows to the Forum, I didn’t know the seating gods would be smiling on me. I was seated next to Harry Styles of One Direction and up-and-coming model / reality star / professional Twitter scroller Candle Jenner. I think that’s her name. Naturally, I stood up with open arms and said, “HARRY? Is that you?” Keep in mind I’ve never met Harry Styles. “CANDLE?” I shouted. She picked her head up from her phone long enough to sigh with the disdain of someone who was being forced to watch a bunch of old dudes sing songs from the last century. The one-fifth (Zayn, please come back to me) of One Direction, meanwhile, was wearing his beloved YSL double-breasted military-looking peacoat, and a headband, and if I could have given him a fife and a musket to complete the picture, I would have. And yet he also looked like he’d just stepped out of a One Direction concert. Did I mention that he seemed not just like a Civil War reenactment character but—and of course, I’m only alleging this here—he seemed like a very, very wasted Harry Styles? I was also well aware of how many times he was getting up and leaving, which seemed odd considering he was in the company of a Jenner/Kardashian. Each time he left, he wouldn’t take his coat. Eventually, Candle, who must have been sick of being left behind, vacated as well. Then Harry came back, handed his coat to Fergie of the Black Eyed Peas, who was in the row ahead of us, and took off. A little later, Fergie turned to me and said, “I have to go home and take care of the kid, so will you watch Harry’s coat?” I said, “Yes. You are a very good judge of character, Fergie.” I heard her gorgeous and shallow husband Josh Duhamel laugh, so he knew what might happen. I then proceeded to “borrow” Harry’s coat by wearing it, taking selfies in it, and posting the pictures on social media. I knew it would send ripples of fear/jealousy/giggles/bewilderment through the Directioner world, and sure enough, my Twitter feed blew up. I was ready to walk off with the coat when I heard one of Harry’s friends shouting, “Miss Griffin!” while snapping his fingers and continuing, “Harry needs his coat back.” I couldn’t convince him that I had gotten the coat at a sale that day at Neiman Marcus, so I had to return it. Thank God there’s no such thing as Directioner jail. If there was, I would be in it because of what happened moments later. After the show, I took my backstage pass and was directed, no pun, into a room to wait for the band. I was ushered into a small room. My fellow backstage autograph-seeking fans included Jerry Bruckheimer, Patriots owner Robert Kraft, Cindy Crawford, Rande Gerber, Kris Jenner, and my old pals Rita Wilson and Tom Hanks. I instinctively walked up to Tom first. I know I can count on him to share an experience like this with. You will see why in a moment. Okay, I don’t remember what the hell I was talking about with Tom Hanks in that moment because in the next moment an allegedly very, very wasted Harry Styles walked into the room and made a beeline for Tom Hanks. I don’t think Harry saw me at first, which can be essential for gathering celebrity material. It was as if I had taken my invisible pill and I was allowed to just observe and mentally log everything that these two titans of the arts would be talking about. Harry had a great opener:
Harry: Re-membah when you wuz savin’ Private Ryan and had to bring ’im back to ’is mum? Re-membah?
Tom Hanks politely replies with caution: Yes.
Harry: Re-membah when you wuz in Cappin Phillips? And the other guy sez, “Oim’ the capn’ now”? ’Membah?
Tom, trying to figure this young man out: Yes, yes, I do remember.
Harry: Was that scaaarrry?
Even I wasn’t expecting that question. I turned to Tom: Yeah, Tom, was that scary?
Tom, clearly trying to save Harry Styles from himself (in a way Candle Jenner never could): Harry, have you met my friend, the comedian Kathy Griffin? (Tom really hit the word comedian hard.)
Harry, eyeing me: Yeah … am I gonna be in one of your skits?
Ooh, he knows I’m a comedian now and apparently thinks I do “skits” reminiscent of the old Benny Hill Show. Maybe I should get a topless girl on a bicycle?
At this point, I had to shout out to Kris Jenner a few feet away and say, “Kris, tell young Harry here what a delight it is to be in my act!” Kris Jenner responded with a quick, “Oh, it’ll be great. You can take our spot for a while.” I turned back to Harry and simply said, “Congratulations, Harry, you’ve just walked into my act.” Harry was unfazed and returned his attention to the great Tom Hanks again … with the questions. It was like he was doing a memory brain teaser.
Harry: Re-membah when you wuz Forrest Gump? ’Membah? ’Membah?
Tom, still indulging: I was, yes.
Harry: You wuz always runnin’? ’Membah?
Yes, he was asking Tom Hanks if Tom remembers playing the role of Forrest Gump, for which he won the Academy Award. I can’t point out here enough how Harry Styles seemed to think it was his mission to make sure Tom Hanks did not forget the names of any of his films or the fact that he had starred in these films.
Harry: That was a good film.
Tom: I do remember.
Without explanation, Harry Styles turned and pivoted away. Tom Hanks had been pretty much frozen in the same spot during this magical and epic exchange. Tom’s answer was perfect and delivered very dryly:
Tom: Sometimes, I just want to drive them to rehab myself.
SWIFT, TAYLOR
Singer, Songwriter, Cult Leader
She hates me. Pretty sure there’s some bad blood.
We were at the same high-profile event in which the celebrities in the audience are actually called out by name. So when the host announced me, I had a funny little idea. You know me and my funny little ideas, the ones I implement before I’ve completely thought them out in my head. I stood up, looked right at Taylor, and gave her the two-finger “I’m watching you” gesture, while mouthing the words “I’m coming for you!” She looked bewildered and not happy. (What was I expecting? A blown kiss? Smiling, clapping, jumping up and down? Thank God, my idol Kathy Griffin noticed me! THINK, Kathy, THINK!) Well, a few minutes later, she and her infamous girl “squad”—Lorde, Cara Delevingne, and the band Haim (although in my twisted moments of selective memory loss I can’t help thinking of them as
the band Corey Haim; I can’t explain why that just pops into my head)—walked past my seat on the way to the restroom. I stood up and started to say to her, “Swifty … I’m just effing with you!” They blew past me, and when I looked back at them, they’d gathered in a cluster—a very menacing cluster—and as if on cue, I realized I needed to use the bathroom, too. This lipstick isn’t going to reapply itself. Now there was no way I could go to the ladies’ room at that moment. She and her gang could have jumped my middle-aged ass without a second’s thought. Touché, Taylor. Ever since, I’ve decided to save the “I’m watching you” gesture until after I see the celebrity go and come back from the toilet. That’s just smart strategic battle planning.
T, MR.
No Fool to Be Pitied, Surprise KG Tour Manager
When I was on Suddenly Susan, my profile was large enough that I began to book stand-up gigs at larger spaces than comedy clubs. I toured by myself then, which was not a completely thought-through decision, because unlike hitting clubs, where there are other comics on a bill to hang with, a solo tour where you’re performing in music venues or theaters means you’re just by yourself all the time. It was dumb that I didn’t bring someone along to help me and keep me company. But it was certainly cool that I was selling too many tickets to do clubs.
Well, during this initial burst of larger-venue shows, I found myself in Chicago staying at the Ritz-Carlton, which is A-list all the way. It was getting close to showtime, so I went down to the hotel entrance to look for the venue’s car at the appointed time, and it wasn’t there! Minutes later, still not there. I’m starting to worry and getting ready to go in and look for a phone, when I see Mr. T walk out of the hotel. He’s hard to miss, just ask Colonel Hannibal Smith or Lieutenant Templeton Peck. He’s in the full Mr. T regalia, too: the Mohawk, the chains, the tank top, and if I remember correctly, balloon pants. He’s got a small posse with him, and while I’m standing there staring at him, he looks at me and says, “Hey, funny lady.”
Kathy Griffin's Celebrity Run-Ins Page 19
