Hours later, when it was time for the actual performance, the Donald, the Liza, and I were alone in a curtained-off de facto dressing room. This was my chance to see if the Donald had any, what we call, “room awareness.” One of the things I look for as a comic when I’m deciding whom to put in my act is someone who is extremely well known, like the Donald. Check. And someone who lacks a sense of humor about themselves or even has the ability to share a laugh during a fun moment. Check and check.
At one point, I saw Liza sitting in a folding chair and doing her own hair and makeup on a shoddy little table using one of those cheap fold-up drugstore mirrors with a light ring around it.
I said to Trump, “Jesus, the Donald, how cheap can you be not to get a living legend like Liza a fancy Manhattan hair and makeup team? Why is she doing this herself?”
He gave me a vapid stare as if to say, “Hey, it ain’t my problem.”
Oh, for God’s sake, the Donald.
Liza jumped in with, “Oh, honey, it helps me get in the zone. I’m more comfortable doing it myself.”
I had written off the Donald at this point because it was fun just to watch the Liza do her hair and makeup. Clearly, she had been doing it herself for years, and if it helped her get in the zone, then I was just happy to watch. In a small, curtained room of three people, no amazing moment should go unnoticed by any party. Least of all, one who would like to be elected to notice just about everything, everywhere.
Get ready. Here it comes.
Liza finished doing her own hair and makeup in a way that suggested to me that she had been doing this in backstages all around the world. Her final step was the moment I will never forget. She casually reached for a black Sharpie marker, pulled the cap off, and used it to put on her famous mole. WAHHHH? I foolishly thought that witnessing this moment together would in some way bond the Donald and me.
I whispered to him with a glint in my eye, “The Donald, did you see that? The Liza used a Sharpie to put her famous mole on. And we were here to see it! That is a gift from God to witness. Right, buddy?”
Nothing. No reaction. I don’t think he saw it. I don’t think he noticed it.
And that reason alone is why I would never vote for him for president. That’s enough! If you don’t get Liza, you certainly don’t get to be in the Oval Office.
ULLMAN, TRACEY
Comedy Goddess, Dame Somebody, Surprise Roommate
I actually had to Google “British phrases” and “British puns,” so get ready! If you don’t already worship Tracey Ullman … then off with your head!
Let’s review for you kids who only know Tracey from Robin Hood: Men in Tights, shall we?
The Tracey Ullman Show on Fox debuted and exposed to the world a little animated short you may have heard of called The Simpsons.
Tracey Takes On … was on HBO for four seasons, and she had a top-ten hit—“They Don’t Know”—in which Sir Paul McCartney was in the music video.
She had a breakout dramatic role in the Academy Award–nominated film Plenty.
Oh, there are so many credits and accomplishments that if you don’t get it by now, I’m going to get very femi-furious.
Before I get to the main event, I must say for some reason one particular run-in makes me giggle. We ran into each other at the BAFTA Awards in Beverly Hills. The BAFTA Awards are the British version of the Oscars and the Emmys, and they have events all over the world. I innocently asked her if she was living in Los Angeles full-time now or splitting her time between the UK and America. Trying to make small talk but also leading up to a possible lunch. She had a mini-outburst that I must be clear with you was adorable and not hostile, but for some reason it tickles me.
“I have lived in America for decades, but no matter where I go, people ask me if I live here or in England. I live in Los Angeles!”
Fine, I thought, I’ll rent out the damn Hollywood Bowl so we can have lunch at a very Los Angeles location where no one will ever ask you where you live again. PS: Tracey has a new series called Tracey Ullman’s Show, which currently is on in the UK. I don’t know where she tapes it! Probably on Capitol Hill in Washington, D.C.
Back to the main event. I saw her somewhat recently at a sit-down party, and as usual, I was fangirling out a bit. As we were sharing the same table, I couldn’t resist confirming a juicy tidbit I had heard about her from one of her former staff writers.
I blurted out, “Is it true that when Meryl Streep comes to Los Angeles, she stays with you and your family at your home?”
Unlikely duo, you’re thinking? Apparently, the two have been friends since they costarred in the 1985 movie Plenty. I wanted to find out from Tracey herself if this was true, and she confirmed! God, I love when that happens! I just loved the idea that super prestigious, Oscar-winning Meryl Streep, out of all the big movie people she knows, connected most with the groundbreaking chick comic and that when Meryl goes to LA, it’s not about staying at the Four Seasons, the Five Seasons, or even the Six Seasons. I’m picturing Tracey, who has hilariously depicted everyone from Dame Judi Dench to Dame Maggie Smith, fluffing the pillows of her guesthouse in preparation for the arrival of Dame Meryl Streep. They’re both so rich they have to have their own pads all over the world, but I love imagining these two genius gals sitting around, shooting the shit, probably breaking out hilarious impressions of people they know, and trading stories about being powerful women in a not-so-kind-to-us industry. Wouldn’t you want to be a fly on the wall in that living room when the wine’s flowing and the husbands aren’t around? How cool is that??
Where’s my Streepy?? How can I get Jimmy Carter to be my Meryl Streep? And then years later, some young comedian comes up to me and says, “Is it true that President Jimmy Carter always stayed at your house?”
And I’d say, “You mean Uncle Jimmy?!?”
USHER
R&B (Great!), Bieber Discoverer (Bad!)
I met the R&B superstar when he was a teenager and just coming into his own as a triple threat: singing, acting, and dancing. Remember, this guy could do all the Michael Jackson moves when he was earning his chops, and he later became friends with his idol. I remember watching him rehearse at an awards show and being super dazzled by his professionalism and talent. He also laughed when I once introduced him by saying, “Ladies and gentlemen, USHER … me down the aisle.”
When I see him now, my favorite thing to do is completely assault him for unleashing Justin Bieber on the civilized world. In the way the Kardashians can be blamed on Ryan Seacrest, Bieber is Usher’s doing, because it was Team Usher who saw the YouTube videos and gave that precocious pipsqueak his big break. Bieber is his crime, and I’ll attest to that in a court of law when Usher goes on trial for it. Sure, it may happen in the deep recesses of a Canadian small-claims court, but damn it, I’ll be there.
I just can’t resist this kind of loving confrontation whenever I run into Usher: “You owe the country some sort of apology. It’s not too late. A statement, a press conference, Oprah confession, whatever. Cash will do, too.”
I love also that ever since Bieber has gone off the rails—including some not-so-generous words about his mentor—Usher has done the careful distancing act. That’ll happen when one’s protégé assaults people, commits acts of vandalism, and writes about Beliebers in the guest book at the Anne Frank house. So it’s only natural that I would say to Usher in public, “Hey, how’s your big protégé? Pissed in any buckets lately?”
His response is always a professional “Ha ha ha ha ha,” and then boom, he’s gone. It’s as if he’s always in a state of dancing away from me. And he knows by now, if he spots me coming, my opening line is not going to be, “Hey, so when’s your new album dropping?” It’s going to be, “Sooooo … Bieber!” POOF! Seriously, every time I see him, it’s as if he’s airborne. Or he’s FloJo in the bottom position, and when he sees me, he hears a gun go off, and he’s gone. I’m that member of the press with the microphone who says, “Bieber … nice work … any comment?
” I’m a constant for him that way.
He’ll always be incredibly talented and wonderful and loving and great and an inspiration to all. But nobody is perfect. Ford made the Edsel. Steve Jobs started NeXT. And luckily, Usher can always scream, “Yeah!” (featuring Lil Jon and Ludacris).
VALDERRAMA, WILMER
Actor, Relationship Saint, #1 Lovatic
I’ve run into the handsome actor over the years since he hit it big on That ’70s Show, but in the years since he started dating Debbie Lovato and I’ve been dealing with the Lovatics, we’ve mostly steered clear of each other. But at one event that was being hosted by Emilio Estefan, I couldn’t resist. He didn’t say a word to me, but I routinely teased him. He was gentlemanly about it and chuckled, but it’s not as if he wanted to hang. That was obvious. Finally, I told Emilio that I was going to steal Wilmer’s gift bag just to piss off his girlfriend.
While holding Wilmer’s gift bag in my hand, Emilio said to me, “Why do you do stuff like that?”
“Why?” I said, “I like to see what happens. I love science!”
So I took Wilmer’s gift bag, removed the chocolates for myself, and put in a cocktail napkin from the event on which I wrote, “Dear Wilmer, now you know what it’s like to have spent the evening with a REAL star. Love, Kathy Griffin.”
I handed it back to him and said, “Look, I’m going to come clean. I stole your gift bag. I’m keeping the chocolates, but give the cocktail napkin note to your girlfriend, Debbie.”
I’m realistic. If I know Wilmer—and his girlfriend—he would have scoured that bag, found my note, and smartly not followed through on my request. I hope he did follow through, though. #Confident
VAN DYKE, DICK
Sitcom Legend, Rubber Band Man
I could really name this book Six Degrees of Suzanne Somers or Lance Bass. I’ve met so many people through them. Somers is how I met the illustrious Dick Van Dyke, everyone’s favorite chimney sweep and ottoman-tripping dad.
Somers had a dinner party and had hired a jazz trio to perform since she knew Dick liked jazz. You could tell he was having the time of his life with that music filling up the room. He seemed incredibly youthful, and we made small talk about comedy and music. I referenced The Dick Van Dyke Show being honored somewhere, and he said very quietly, “Yeah, they always want to go down memory lane.” Hmmm. It struck me that Dick’s one of the legends who doesn’t want to be seen as a walking monument to nostalgia. He certainly doesn’t act like someone who isn’t vital. He’s got the young wife, and he’s cheated death a few times, having been rescued by a pod of porpoises that nudged him to shore after he fell asleep on his surfboard and surviving a car fire in his sporty Jag. That kind of thing sounds like what happens to reckless teens. Dick was in his eighties both times.
He’s a bundle of energy, and that was never more evident than when I hosted a star-filled award show in 2016, where Dick was asked by Bryan Cranston to give him his Best Actor award for Trumbo. (Their mutual appreciation society goes back to when Bryan appeared on Dick’s show Diagnosis: Murder.) I was backstage with Dick, who was getting ready for his appearance, and while we were talking, Thelma Houston had gone onstage to sing “Don’t Leave Me This Way.”
Dick, who couldn’t sit still, said, “I can’t help it. I gotta disco dance!”
And let me tell you, even though he had just turned ninety, he was still made of rubber. Everyone around us—my gay assistant, the hair and makeup people, the producers, the stage manager, oh, and Bette Midler, who was also backstage rehearsing her presentation—were all so charmed by Dick’s force-of-nature vivacity. I would bet every one of us was thinking, I’m going to be like that when I’m ninety.
When Thelma finished her song, there must have been a snafu somewhere, because suddenly, the stage manager turned to me and said, “VAMP!” which means I needed to go out and entertain the crowd until the problem was fixed. In a panic, I said, “Dick!!” (He’s deaf as a post, incidentally.) “DICK!” He looked up, I crooked my finger in the come-here gesture, and—this is why I love the legends—he shuffled right on over and walked out with me. Believe me, I would never even attempt that with Taylor Swift or any of the seconds from 5 Seconds of Summer. They’ll probably just ignore me, or their posses might just glare. But the legends, they know not to keep an audience waiting. Now, Dick did think it was his time to present, but the point is, when I needed him, he didn’t flinch. There was no team to check with, no “I didn’t get my water” or “I have to do my exercises” or “Who’s bothering me?”
I screamed at the producers to cue the Thelma Houston track, and I dragged Dick Van Dyke onstage to dance with me to kill time, which resulted in one of the most adorable moments of the evening. Immediately, a sea of cell phone cameras popped up as this room erupted in applause and appreciation. Everyone was commenting later on how sprightly Dick still looked and how game he was. It was inspiring and touching. Later, he went out to present to Bryan Cranston, and the way he lauded Bryan, you’d have thought Bryan was the legend and Dick was the admiring younger fan.
I just love how strolling down memory lane isn’t nearly as exciting to Dick Van Dyke as proclaiming, “I can’t help it. I gotta disco dance!” Well, I’m not going to stop him. Although maybe someone needs to take the car keys away. Just a thought.
VANDERBILT, GLORIA
My Other Mom, Legit Pedigree
Anderson handed his phone to me one New Year’s Eve and said, “It’s my mom. She wants to say hi.” That was a shocker. Suddenly, I was talking to the one and only Gloria Vanderbilt: famous heiress, fashion maven, artist, author, and onetime lover of Marlon Brando and Frank Sinatra. That deep, moneyed voice was like gold in my ear:
“Kathy, it’s Glor-ria. I think you and An-derson are hilarious. I mean, the things you say. They’re just out there. I just a-dore you and would love to meet you one day.”
I said, “Wednesday?” (I don’t dick around.)
That’s what started our friendship, and I have to say, it’s a genuine bond that doesn’t include Anderson, because he is, frankly, traumatized by her. I like to think that Glo and I are the only two women who can get him curled up into a ball and pulling on his hair like he does when he’s anxious. Anytime I bring up his mom around Anderson, he usually responds with a low “Auughh,” muttered like an embarrassed twelve-year-old, followed with an exasperated, “She’s so inappropriate.”
He loves to tell the story about how he had to proofread his mother’s romance memoir and balked at her description of one gentleman suitor as being “the Nijinsky of cunnilingus.” Well, who wouldn’t want their mom saying that?
She’s invited me to countless dinner parties with authors and artists and thrown two in my honor, and they’re glorious affairs, which I leave at the end of the night firmly believing the art of conversation isn’t dead. (Anderson doesn’t go to them, though. “Ugh, my dinner parties with my mother are long over, trust me!” Whatever, gurrl!)
The first time I visited her at her apartment, I said, “So where are the jeans?”
She said, “What are you talking about?”
I said, “I’m sure you have the jeans, at least one in every color.”
She had to think about it and then said, “No, I don’t think I do.”
How about that? She doesn’t live in the past, that Glo. And yet my bucket list includes buying a pair on eBay and sending them to her so she can make a dream box. Let me explain, you pervert. Gloria puts together a plexiglass work of art that can be either a wall-mounted piece or a freestanding structure. She puts together various items that bring together a theme inside these boxes. When she created one for me, she asked me to send her all of my mementos (hand-printed menu, dinner plate, invite, etc.) from my evenings with the royals and Joan Rivers in England.
I knew we were going to be close the first time I went to one of her dinners. I was nervous about not being up enough on literature and art for the other guests, and though I tried to do my homework, I f
elt a little like I was barely keeping my head above water. But then Glo turned to me and said in that erotically husky way of hers, “Kathy, what is going on with the Lo-hans?” Now that’s a host: giving each of her guests a chance to shine with his or her particular specialty. (Even New York Times theater critic Ben Brantley got giddy at the topic, adding, “What do you really think of Dina?”)
She’s the epitome of unforced elegance in her blunt-cut bangs and casual chic. You look at a choker she’ll be wearing and think, I bet Lagerfeld gave her that. She’s always been incredibly gracious whenever she’s given me her time, and she’s given me invaluable advice. Asked the secret of youth, she answered, “Curiosity. If you’re always curious, that’s the fountain of youth. You will never feel old.” Another time, we’d been talking about the benchmarks of her life, from the sculpting and painting to her fashion line to the novels and memoirs and all those men—she had a wild sexual encounter with Brando in a cloakroom and had an affair with Howard Hughes!—and I said something like, “How do you keep going?” She said, “Well, there’s ALWAYS more, and you’re NEVER done.” She said it almost as if I’d asked a silly question. I loved that. And I try to live it.
And by the way, she slept with hot Brando, not fat Brando.
WALTERS, BARBARA
Newswoman, Groundbreaker, Killer Shark
Kathy Griffin's Celebrity Run-Ins Page 21
