I have two versions of Barbara Walters in my mind. You get to decide which one is real and which one is fantasy because God knows I can’t tell anymore.
I have a genuine and warm fondness for her. My favorite quote of hers is when one time I complimented her on her hair, and she said to me, “Female newscasters don’t get older, they get blonder.”
I have spent a lot of time around her. I love to try to make her laugh. She’s a tough cookie because she’s had to be. In fact, in her final couple of years on The View, you may recall, she wouldn’t be on the panel every day, so I would tell the producers that I would only be on the show if it was a “Barbara day.” In fact, I am such a scholar of Barbara’s that even in this entry of this book, I am clearly buttering all of you up—including you, Barbara—before I go in for the kill.
I always assumed that when Diane Sawyer got her big TV interview with Caitlyn Jenner, Barbara Walters was holed up in the dark in her Doris Duke apartment with a feather boa eye mask, eating a gallon of ice cream. That’s because Barbara still has the eye of the tiger when it comes to competitiveness in the news business. She broke all the barriers. It’s ingrained in her. I’ll always love her for that, even though she hates me.
I can hear her now. Whenever I greet her with “Remember me? You’ve loathed me for years as I have loved you every moment!” she replies, in that cool broadcaster tone of hers, “Why do you do this evwy time, Kathy? You have this powtwayal of me as if we don’t get along! I think you’re a-dow-able. I always have. Is this Wandy?”
Oh yes, she flirts with Randy, and she’ll go so far as to take his hand in both of hers, which I assume is some old-school girl’s way of slipping a boy her number. (I make “Wandy” empty his pockets every time, because I’m pretty sure she slipped him a little note with her secured landline phone number on it.) She also brings her voice down to a supple coo when her eye is on my tiger: “Where did you get that wondawful suit, Wandy? You know you have the build fow a suit like that.” I’ve said to her on more than one occasion, “Back off, bitch. He’s not Mort Zuckerman. Don’t make me pop off!” She ignores me and keeps going. That’s our current shtick.
I’ve known Barbara a long time now, and teasing her never gets old. She hates it when I follow her into the bathroom at The View, which is a series of stalls open to everyone. One time, she was leaving early when we still had one more show to tape. She said it was for an Oscar de la Renta fashion show, but I accused her of trying to get away from me. I banged on her stall: “I’m still here! Why are you leaving!” You could see her dress around her ankles.
She yelled back, “It’s Oscuh’s show! I have to go!”
I said, “I don’t believe you! You think this is my first merry-go-round with you, lady? I’m checking online later to see if you were really there!”
She said, “Go ahead! You will see me! In the fwont wow! He’s an owld fwend!”
Based on the fact that one of the high-level producers rushed into the ladies’ room to rescue Barbara, I can almost imagine several staffers were standing in the hall outside sure that they were listening to an old-timey catfight. When I replay this scene in my head, it’s eerily similar to the bathroom scene in Valley of the Dolls. (I admit I do go back and forth on which of us gets to be Neely O’Hara and Helen Lawson. Please submit your answers to www.KathyGriffin.com.)
WILLIAMS, BILLY DEE
Malt Liquor Lovah, Actor, Secret Tailor
Who knew that there is a fabric store in Los Angeles called International Silks & Woolens (and no, I’m not a paid spokesperson) where one can happen upon a coterie of celebrities on any given day?
I was in the store filming a scene for The D-List in early 2010 with Lauren Conrad, and the gag revolved around The Hills star showing me how to build a clothing empire. My director, Blake Webster, had seen someone who clearly brought out his heterosexual geek boy when he squealed in delight, “Holy shit, you’re not going to believe this, but Lando Calrissian is here!”
“Who?”
“Billy Dee Williams!”
“You mean Brian Walker from Mahogany? The man who gave Tracy Chambers, beautifully played by MISS Diana Ross, a run for her money until she realized her money was no good without the true love that only Brian Walker could give her? That Billy Dee Williams?? Oh, and Dynasty???” (Sorry, space nerds, my references are better.)
Of course, LC didn’t know who he was. But he walked over, and honestly, it was like a wondrous vision of old-school dapper: perfectly coiffed, wavy hair, sporting a casual suit, and anchored by a full-on lamé scarf, very sparkly and with fringe, wrapped around his neck. If he’d had a can of Colt 45 in his hand, I might have been forgiven for thinking I’d stepped inside a television set circa 1977. If he’d been wearing a cape, too—and he’s rocked capes before—I might have fainted right then and there. LC probably thought some older gentleman had followed me in the store, but I knew better: this was suave, smooth, sex royalty of the “they don’t make ’em like that anymore” variety.
Then Billy Dee opened his mouth, and that champagne baritone turned a fabric shop into a seduction chamber: “Well, hell-ooooo, young lady. What a treat it is to see such a humorous woman in person. May I have the pleasure of shaking your hand?”
I looked around for the velvet-flocked wallpaper and round bed. Were the lights dimming? Is that Barry White song just in my head? Of course, then Blake had to come up to me and say Billy Dee wouldn’t sign a release to be in the episode. Win some, lose some. I guess I didn’t win this charmer over this time.
Once we all caught our breaths, we were ready to get back to work, and then, wait for it, Helen “Academy Award Winner” Mirren strode in! Yes, I know Helen Mirren. In fact, I met her in a quite fabulous way. She approached me at the primetime Emmy Awards and volunteered that she thought My Life on the D-List was hilarious. How ’bout that?
“Hey, Kathy!”
“Hi, Helen!”
She had on a skirt and blouse and was scanning the aisles like she knew the place. (I’ll bet she sews her own clothes and they’re fabulous.) Helen asked how my mother was.
“I find her so amusing,” she said—and I said, “Great. We’re filming The D-List today.”
“You know, I love that show.”
Okay, then. Maybe Helen will be on it! I asked her to sign a release so we could put her in the episode, and she said, “I’m so sorry, dear. I don’t have any makeup on, or my hair done. But it was great to see you!”
“Hey, guess who’s here, two aisles over? Billy Dee Williams!”
“Noooo! Realllly?”
“Yes! It’s like some crazy celebrity food court!”
After our exchange, I went over to LC.
She said, “I know that old lady.”
I felt like I was staring at a blank page before me. The rest is still unwritten.
XTINA (AGUILERA, CHRISTINA)
Dirrrty Burlesque, Genie Voice Singer
With certain divas, time is also a powerful decongestant.
When I met the enormously talented Christina, who was in her first flush of “Genie in a Bottle” stardom, I was hosting the Billboard Awards at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas, and she was, frankly, young and ridiculous. At a primetime awards show like the Billboards back in the day, there were so many stars, backup dancers, and posses that shuttles were needed to ferry everyone between the MGM Grand and their hotels, so no matter how big you were—and I was the damn host—at some point you were probably on that shuttle and sitting next to a Backstreet Boy or a Lisa Loeb. Well, one time, I was on that bus when Christina boarded. She’d just finished her sound check, and I’ll never forget her charging the entire length of that shuttle down the center aisle like it was an effing Naomi Campbell catwalk. Nobody said a word, so I couldn’t resist an opportunity to try to get the people around me to crack up. So I shouted, “It’s a bus, honey!” She just looked at me with a withering sneer that said, “Ugh, is it talking?” She probably had no idea who I was. That’s fine. I
thought it was funny.
Over ten years later, we had a similarly funny exchange that indicated how much she’d grown. One was at a Grammy nomination announcement event. CBS turns these into full-on televised concerts with a red carpet and everything, so fans can see their favorite singers perform and also find out who got nominated. I was doing the red carpet, and knowing I would run into Christina—who I’d seen off and on over the years—I did my homework and filed away in my brain that her son’s name was Max. When we had our exchange, there was none of that artifice from when she was a teenager. She was a working-stiff pop icon, a star, a diva, but with a much more mellow “been there done that” vibe.
I said, “Hi, Christina. Good to see you.”
“Hi, Kathy. Good to see you, too.”
I said, “I’m really hoping I get nominated for Best Comedy Album. Fingers crossed.”
“Oh, I hope you do! I’m pulling for you.”
“How’s Max?”
“Good.”
Pause.
She said, “You don’t really care about my kid, do you?”
“No,” I said. “I just looked it up before I got here.”
And she … laughed! The look on her face was priceless. That bus sneer had transformed over the years into a knowing, between-us smirk. And it was really sort of touching. She realized that now that she’s a mom and a household name and a music fixture, she can laugh at the funny redhead because she’s got nothing to lose. I think when you’re young and going places, you must believe you have to keep the act up every second. The real stars know how to turn that diva thing into a talent that excites the atmosphere rather than poisons it or makes it absurd.
My shtick with her now when I see her at a dinner party or nonperformance event is to say, “Here’s the thing. I don’t want you to sing. No one here does. But if you feel like you have to trot out ‘Genie in a Bottle,’ I’ll give you a pity clap,” and she just laughs.
XXX ADULT STAR JEREMY, RON
Human Plow, Dear, Dear Friend
I first met porn legend Ron Jeremy in the ’90s on a public access show called Colin’s Sleazy Friends, which featured a comedian (Colin Malone) interviewing porn stars, with the occasional comedian guest on hand, too. (Margaret Cho and Janeane Garofalo appeared on it.) During my appearance, I tried to change Ron’s mind about his entire industry—which I refuse to believe is an “elective” one for the women involved—and it obviously didn’t work. Ron probably had a shoot later that day, for all I know. I was tough on him. Tougher than any vagina had ever been.
I said things like, “So, how many times have you had to stop filming because one of your female costars, who is probably an incest survivor with a tragic childhood beyond anything you can imagine, you filthy pig, has broken down into tears and couldn’t stop crying? A lot, I’ll bet. I’ll bet that happens a lot, doesn’t it, Ron? But you don’t think about that part. These young women are human beings. You will never convince me that these women have won in life in any way or that they make more than their male counterparts and therefore they are the ones in charge.” Once again, I was behaving perfectly appropriately for a comically driven public-access talk show.
I noticed Ron had to catch his breath in that “we’ve got a live one here” way. But the way he bit back at my criticism told me that Ron is at heart a frustrated comedian, even if he tells the hokiest, Henny Youngman–like one-liners and does his own rim shots. Trust me, Ron has at least twenty of these rim shot jokes he can insert here. Oh God, he probably has twenty more “insert” jokes as well.
The point is he loves the funny, he’s very nice, and because of that, believe it or not, we hit it off. We’ve hung out many times since and have appeared in a Foo Fighters video together, and I’ve always enjoyed his company. And let me just add, while it’s hard to believe any woman ever let him and his penis near her, Ron remains maybe the most recognized celebrity I’ve ever appeared with in public. Everybody knows him.
Except my dad.
One year, I put out the word to friends that I was hosting an orphan Thanksgiving, and Ron said he’d love to come over. He brought one of his lady friends from “work,” who sported emo makeup, a biker jacket, and a vibe that told me voting was a very recently acquired right. He also brought Dennis Hof, the bald bordello mogul from HBO’s Cathouse. (He’s the one who recently had to deal with Lamar Odom in a way Khloé Kardashian never has.) It was a real mix of civilians and celebrities, which I like, even if Ron was pushing it with his plus ones.
At a certain point, the gregarious John Griffin was carving off a piece of turkey when I said, “Dad, this is my friend Ron.”
My father innocently said, “Ron, what line of work are you in?”
Ron said, “I do films.”
Dad replied, “That’s terrific. How long have you been doing films?”
Ron said, “As a matter of fact, I’ve done over two thousand films.”
My dad gave back a “Good for you. That’s quite an impressive body of work in a very competitive industry. Have you ever attended one of those large film festivals such as Cannes or Sundance?”
Ron really knew how to play this game. “Oh yes, Mr. Griffin. I have attended several film festivals.”
And then I pivoted and just turned to another guest, and ’til the day my father died, he thought Ron was my friend in the film industry, which, by the way, is true.
YANKOVIC, “WEIRD AL”
Parodist, Accordionist, Great Perm
I have great respect for guys who not only stay in their lane, but also keep rolling strikes. Weird Al is kinda like that. I’m not limiting him; I’m trying to say he has carved out a very successful niche for himself in the worlds of comedy and music. The look’s mostly the same (save the missing mustache and glasses from the ’80s days), the parodies keep coming, and then he puts out an album in 2014 that becomes the first comedy album to hit #1 on the Billboard charts since the 1960s. Then he wins a Grammy for it. (He has four, and he’s been nominated countless times over the years.) That’s somebody who’s built a brand and maintained it with care. I find it especially funny that he’s outlasted some of the artists he’s parodied. I’m looking at you: Gerardo, Tiffany, and El DeBarge.
He’s also incredibly nice. We were once both Grammy-nominated the same year, and at the ceremony, he told me, “I swear, I want you to win. I’ve already won.” Nobody ever says that. He’s also one of those funny guys who exudes sweetness and isn’t secretly tortured inside, and believe me, he’s been through some heavy stuff. One thing that always stuck with me was something you may not be aware of.
This man has suffered real tragedy. In 2004, his parents were found dead in their home, the victims of accidental carbon monoxide poisoning from their fireplace. Several hours after his wife notified him of his parents’ death, Yankovic went on with his concert in Appleton, Wisconsin, saying that “since my music had helped many of my fans through tough times, maybe it would work for me as well” and that it would “at least … give me a break from sobbing all the time.”
Some of you may know that I, too, took to the stage very soon after my father’s passing for the very same reason. A lot of comics probably look at him with a sense that what he’s doing is in some specialized corner that isn’t really connected to them, but when I think about the time and effort it takes to pick the right songs to parody, then get the permission from the artist—he doesn’t have to under “fair use” laws, but he does, to maintain good relationships in the music world—and then find the right tone in riffing on it, I think he’s got to be one of the smartest entertainers out there. His family Christmas cards are so classically silly and yet somehow heartfelt that they put the easiest smile on my face (i.e., an oversized photo of his dog looking at a tiny snow globe with the Yankovics floating around merrily. C’mon, you fucking cynics, admit it—that’s adorable!).
Maybe I feel a kinship with him because our humor involves what celebrities do—in his case, their art; and in my case, the
ir behavioral patterns. When a Michael Jackson or a Madonna claims they find the parody funny—Lady Gaga called it a “rite of passage” to be spoofed by Weird Al when he did “Perform This Way”—it’s probably as gratifying for him as when the people I make fun of turn out to be good sports about it. To me, comedy needs the Weird Als to help us all remember that everyone needs to lighten up. I use profanity, he uses polka, but we’re in the same racket.
ZELLWEGER, RENÉE
Academy Award Winner, a Friendship Evolution, Bridget Jones
Lay off my pal Renée Zellweger! You heard me. Okay, you may know that in the past, I may have referred to her as a sweaty, puffy coke whore, and after that, she sent me flowers with a card that simply said, “Best Wishes.” But that doesn’t mean we aren’t friends now, you weirdo. Enough time has passed so that she actually laughs at my jokes, we talk on the phone, and she even lets me call her Bridget, even though I think her actual name is still Renée. Don’t you get it yet, people? In my act, I’m a celebrity flip-flopper. One day I’m making fun of the best and brightest, then I change my mind. This happens all the time.
I’ve always been a fan of Renée’s work, and when I saw a paparazzi photo of her sitting in an airport reading a Jimmy Carter book, I thought maybe I could fall in love with her. Another time she was on Oprah, blushing over a story Hugh Grant was telling about her and Jack White, and then a weird feeling in me emerged. Was I developing … protective feelings … for Zellweger?
Then, a few years ago, I was scheduled to participate in a children’s charity event in San Francisco—a great group called the Painted Turtle—and they told me, “You’re sharing a dressing room with Annette Bening, Amber Riley, and Renée Zellweger.”
I gulped back, “Um, what was that last name?”
I had ample time to prepare for our dressing room hello, and yet I was a little intrigued, since this was weeks after a super unflattering photo of Zellweger had gotten out that appeared to show a changed face. As someone who’s a bit of an expert at “changed faces,” I wanted to take a good, hard look at her. Well, the moment arrived, I walked in, looked right at her and thought, She’s gorgeous. In fact, she did not resemble that unflattering photo that had been making the rounds online at all. She didn’t just look beautiful (and you know I wouldn’t say this lightly), she actually looked like she hadn’t had any work done at all. Go figure.
Kathy Griffin's Celebrity Run-Ins Page 22
