Kathy Griffin Excerpt
In May of ’06, I was beckoned back to the small screen. Star Magazine was interviewing Kathy Griffin on her recent weight loss and I was chosen to conduct said interview. Actually, Maxine Page, my Star Magazine superior was chosen, but she pussed out last second when she realized her interview was going to be aired on “My Life On The D-list.” That’s when I got the call. Do I want to interview Kathy Griffin on her national TV show? Does the Pope wear a funny hat? Did I watch the entire second season of Curb Your Enthusiasm at my desk while I was supposed to be writing about Ashlee Simpson’s nose job? You betcha.
This would be my big come-back. Everyone would see it. Everyone I went to high school with- Lissie Rassel, Shannon O’Malley, the kick ball team. They would see me as a poised and highly respected journalist, for only she at the pinnacle of her profession would be awarded such an honor. I would blend the seasoned expertise of Barbara Walters with the earnestness of Oprah Winfrey, and add just a splash of Conan O’Brien. Best of all, I would have all my clothes on. The interview would be insightful, provocative, engaging. Kathy and I would be equals, for surely she would see in me a kindred spirit. A self- actualized humorist who had accentuated the postive, eliminated the negative, and refrained from messing with Mr. In Between.
I began to prepare for my big day. And by ‘prepare’, I mean I took lots
of naps and watched reruns of South Park. A week later the day was upon me. I selected an outfit that said, “I’m a serious journalist, but I’m not making a fuss about it.” Ever the professional, I pulled into the driveway of her Hollywood Hills mansion ten minutes early, leaving just enough time for a pep talk. “I’m highly intelligent and painfully thin,” I assured my reflection in the rearview mirror. I looked down to make sure I had all of my equipment in place: the hairbrush, the lip gloss, the tape recorder… Wait, where was my tape recorder?
It must be in my purse. Thirty second later the contents of my pursewere strewn about the passenger seat and there was no tape recorder among them. Mental DEFCON set in and I blindly screeched off her property and drove as fast as my ’89 Shadow would permit. My brain was racing. Should I go to Radio Shack? Should I go back to my place and pray it’s on my desk? Should I go back to Star and hand in my resignation?
Somehow, the Shadow made the decision for me and steered me home,which fortunately is at the bottom of the Hollywood Hills. Mercy smiled upon me that day as my tape recorder was indeed on my desk.With no time to spare, I beamed myself back up to KG’s. Only three minutes late.
I began the trek up her ninety degree driveway and was greeted at thehalfway point by her “D-List” crew. “We’re just going to have to getyou mic’d and then you can meet Kathy.”
“Great. Excellent, sure,” I panted like an Irish Setter. Some burly cameraman then laced a mini microphone up through my shirt, and we moved as a unit into her cathedral-sized foyer. Idle pleasantries were being tossed about as we made our way up her marble staircase, stopping on a mezzanine. “Hi there,” a voice rang from above and turned to see Kathy descending a second staircase like bizarro Scarlet O’Hara.
“So, let’s have a seat and get started,” Kathy’s icy blonde publicist suggested.
We took a seat and started to make what I thought was small talk. I’d just met her — it’s customary for humans to exchange some niceties before discussing their personal failures or victories. I don’t know, maybe that’s just how I was raised. Three minutes of chatter went by. “Now I understand why Nicole Richie and all those girls are so bitchy — they’re hungry,” Kathy deadpanned.
THE INTERVIEW IS GOING ON RIGHT NOW!!!
It seems things hadn’t gone as well as I’d hoped. I wasn’t even
offered any free coffee. And before I could even say “Nice chattingwith you, Kath,” her publicist had already called Star in a fit of hysteria over what an idiot I was. I slumped back into the Star office and was greeted by angry mob deliberating over whether or not I should be fired.
I hung on by the skin of my teeth for no other reason than the staff’s
amusement. My fuck-ups had become office fodder that kept morale up. I was kind of like the company mascot.
Things went from bad to worse a month later when the show aired.
Between my goofy comments and post-production, I looked like a rabid lesbian with a thirst for fire crotch. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. To add insult to injury, after every sentence I uttered the camera panned to Kathy’s staff, who were rolling their eyes and making faces behind my oblivious back. But at least I had all my clothes on.
I took solace in the fortress that was my desk back at the Star offices. Who watches Bravo anyway?
An Excerpted Chapter from a Forthcoming Book Suzy is working on detailing her Hollywood Hijinx and Exploits
