Kathy Griffin's Celebrity Run-Ins by Kathy Griffin
(But first, quick sidebar, I also want to let you know the night before the Mark Twain taping, Eddie and his family were incredibly sweet and welcoming to me. We were both staying in the same upscale hotel in Georgetown. Of course, Eddie had the penthouse. How do I know this? Dave Chappelle made the mistake of pointing out Eddie’s room number to me. In the moments before I put on my fancy cocktail dress for a dinner honoring Eddie, I was hanging out in my room in my pajamas. It was only 5:00 P.M. Why would I be dressed yet? I can’t help it. I love walking the halls of fancy hotels in my not-at-all-fancy penis-repellant pajamas. It always gets a laugh from strangers and, damn it, it was going to get a laugh from Eddie Murphy. I marched up to Eddie’s room and bum-rushed him. He then put his arms around me and said to the amusement of everyone in the room, “Oh, okay, you’re one of those eccentric people.” I spent quite a few hours in their suite with Eddie’s crew, Dave Chappelle and Arsenio Hall, hanging out and laughing our butts off.)
Now, back to D.C. and the Mark Twain night. I had to find some way to not bring the place down or sandbag the amazing Eddie Murphy with his darkest feelings he had shared all those years before. So I admit, I fudged something for the greater good of a loving tribute to an extraordinary comedian. I kept the part about him telling me he had bad days, but changed the ending into a complete fabrication, which is that he leaned in and whispered, “But otherwise, I’m still Eddie fucking Murphy.” I labored for weeks over what to say that would get righteous applause for a hero of mine, stay somewhat true to the nature of our small exchange, and still sound like it came from Eddie. I’m coming clean about it here because I want you all to know that Eddie’s actual candor in an unexpected moment was meaningful to me and reflective of what comedians have been known to go through. He may not have said some of those words I told the Kennedy Center audience, but in that brief moment at the photo shoot, he really was Eddie fucking Murphy to me.
NICHOLSON, JACK
Legend, Joker, Cuckoo
Holy shitballs! I’ll bet you never thought your Kathy Griffin spent an evening seated next to the great Jack Nicholson at an exclusive, small, eight- to ten-person dinner party … twice!
I am as aware as you are that this man has always been shrouded in mystery, riddles, enigma, and public and private scandals, but most importantly is recognized as a cinematic icon and larger-than-life person. I’m going to give you the reason you bought the book. I’m going to describe what it’s like to be in a private living room when he walks in. Because when people speak in clichés about movie stars or the “it” factor, I can tell you I felt it in the air, and it was tangible. Even the hostess herself announced his presence with a not-so-subtle, “The king is here!”
I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Okay, I get it, you’re thinking, No kidding, Kathy, neither would I. Jack Nicholson has that quality that is truly magnetic. It was fascinating to watch him enter the room in a suit and tie with all the quirks, mystery, and Nicholsonisms you could ever hope for. So what do I do? Try to make him laugh, of course. Did I succeed that first time? No.
Here was my attempt:
I had just won my first Emmy, so I brought it with me and tried a bit in which I said to Jack upon first meeting him, “Excuse me, Jack, but I don’t know if you’ve seen a REAL LIVE Emmy in person. My name is Kathy Griffin, I’m thrilled to meet you, but just know that if you want to touch it or take a photo with it, that’s fine. I don’t mean to rub it in, but an Emmy is physically larger than an Academy Award.” He looked at me like I was from Mars, and since he’s from Mars, I was fine with that. Even my friends call me an acquired taste.
He carried himself as if he didn’t realize how imposing he was and yet still came across like a younger, dapper man. He was clearly there to hang with his old pals. The hostess told a story I found unbelievably charming about how she and Jack had gone to a local down-and-dirty, well-known LA burger joint called Tommy’s. Maybe they had the munchies. I don’t know or care. What I wish I had was security footage of the dude working the counter at Tommy’s Burger taking an order from Jack Nicholson.
At the dinner table, I was seated between Lorne Michaels, whom I barely know, and Jack, who didn’t know me at all. Though I could easily talk to Lorne because we have comedy in common, I really wanted to just listen to Jack. He talked movies, a little bit of politics, and occasionally he’d just laugh at nothing in particular.
Thinking I’d missed something, I’d turn to Jack and say, “What? What’d I miss?”
He’d just say something like, “You look good, honey.”
At one point, I turned to Lorne and said, “So … is Jack like this all the time? He’s laughed three times in a row now, at nothing.”
Lorne was cutting a piece of meat and, without looking up, just said, “All the time.”
The second dinner with Jack, though, I got to hear him talk about his own movies, everything from The Departed to the famous hot tub scene with Kathy Bates in About Schmidt. It was the stuff that dreams are made of. He even talked about The Shining. It was amazing listening to him talk about working with director Stanley Kubrick. He peppered these stories as usual by Nicholsonisms like looking away, seemingly lost in thought, then laughing. Being in that rarefied, cozy atmosphere, where a silver screen superstar is spinning yarns about his movies, was indescribably cool.
There was enough of a chumminess building up that I got a little bolder, turning to him once and asking, “Are you ever going to settle down?”
He said with a devilish twinkle in his eye, “I think when ole Paris Hilton turns thirty, I’ll be seventy-five, and she and I will be exactly in tune, at exactly the right time for both of us.” (Later, I told Paris Hilton this story. She gave me her signature blank stare.)
By the end of that second dinner, I got the sense that he maybe knew who I was a little bit. I timed my departure to coincide with his, which meant he and I were in the driveway together as his driver was getting his car, and I was … being near Jack Nicholson.
I got up the nerve to say, “You know, Jack, I always love talking to you.”
He said, “Kathy, you’ve never looked better.”
I immediately got all flush. In all seriousness, he could have said any generic form of good night. But what touched me, and I know this sounds silly, was that he KNEW MY NAME!!! Look, for a Forest Park, Illinois, girl who went to all his movies, it doesn’t get much better than that.
NICKS, STEVIE
Velvet Gypsy, Singer, Possible Wiccan?
I’m going to borrow a great expression my assistant, John, has for the icons he loves: “relevant in every decade.” As much as I love the kids who pop up and blow everyone away, it’s the legends who really get to me.
My second concert ever was Fleetwood Mac, back on the Rumours tour. Stevie Nicks has been my silver spring ever since. It was such a thrill to have her on My Life on the D-List in that great moment where Bette Midler calls her to rally Grammy support for me. I believe Cher’s quote was, in full Cher voice, “Stevie’s one of the good ones. She’s always been a great girl.”
At our first in-person meeting, we hit it off and already felt like we knew each other. She was performing at a fancy post-Emmy party, and I wrapped my arms around her and we started chatting. We actually forgot that we were on a red carpet, and while the cameras were going off, we were having a fun and genuine conversation. She’s one of those legends I just want to make laugh! She is a great laugher!
One night at the Fillmore in San Francisco, a legendary rock venue where I filmed my first HBO special, Stevie was doing a solo show, and my boyfriend surprised me with tickets. Stevie and I had talked about chatting backstage after her show, but I didn’t know she was about to blow my freaking mind. There I was in the balcony fangirling out, and Stevie, draped in her full Stevie flowy, witchy, sexy getup, stops the show and says, and I am NOT making this up, people, “My friend, the hilarious Kathy Griffin, who has made me laugh so many times, is here in the audience tonight. So I’m dedi
The last time I saw her, backstage at the Forum in LA, we got right down to business. We just love talking about all the rock-and-roll dudes who lost it all to failed marriages and baby mamas, and how the girls of rock and the girls of comedy are not all that different when it comes to holding on to the hard-earned dough. Is she on board and supportive of me traveling the road with my boyfriend who is also my tour manager? You’re damn right!
Stevie will last a lot longer than a lot of others from that era because her audience never vanishes. LGBTs and women of all ages worship her, and she told me that whenever another date gets added—whether to her solo tour or the Fleetwood Mac tour—she loves it. “I’m grateful,” she told me. “Do you know how many of my friends, who, like Fleetwood Mac, played stadiums back in the day, now come up to me and tell me they’re playing two-hundred–seat theaters? It’s not lost on me that we’re still touring as a group and playing the Forum.”
The fact that she and I talk about the road like we’re peers just kills me. She said she’s building a silver bullet trailer on the beach to be a perfect writing space, and when it’s finished, she wants me to come over and write. Can you just picture the two of us sitting side by side in a silver bullet trailer with notepads? I can. Stevie will be writing haunting, beautiful lyrics, and I will be writing my dick jokes and running them by her to see if she laughs.
NIGHT STALKER, THE
Serial Killer, NOT My Boyfriend
1989 is more than just the title of the wildly successful Taylor Swift album. It is also the year I decided to turn to my then boyfriend, Andrew, and say, “You know, as an actress in training, I should get as much life experience as I can, and I just realized I’ve never attended a real live trial.” The local TV news in Los Angeles was obsessed with covering the trial of Richard Ramirez, dubbed the Night Stalker, who had terrorized LA and San Francisco throughout the early 1980s with multiple home-invasion rapes, assaults, and murders. He was captured in 1985, and his trial started in 1988.
We made it downtown to the criminal courts building and managed to snag seats in the third row. Soon after, I heard the distinctive sound of metal rattling. I looked up, and there was Richard Ramirez wearing handcuffs and shackles around his ankles. I don’t know what came over me, but I decided to indulge a crazy notion I had that I could stare him down. That’s right, I gave him the “you’re going down” glare that has terrified … well, probably nobody, ever. There’s nothing to gain from staring down a captured killer who’s undoubtedly so bored by now he’d find a curly-haired girl scowling at him amusing. But I was intent on staring him down, and I did. Ramirez stared right back. He did not smile. He looked straggly. His frame was tall and thin. He did not present himself as someone who was trying to show his innocence. Of course, I had seen him on the news, but up close, he truly stared me down in a way that anyone would label as menacing.
Andrew, under his breath, said, “Is he looking at you?”
“Sssh. It’s starting.”
Having seen plenty of TV shows and movies, I was expecting to see tears, pointing, loud objections, and gavel banging. Instead, it was over an hour of detailed testimony about Ramirez’s sneakers! Granted, it was illuminating to see how a defense lawyer wears down a witness with potentially damning testimony: bog down the person with details and inconsistencies. “Well, what was it, navy or regular blue?” That kind of thing. Then they started down the same road of specificity about a blanket. A blanket?
Recess was called, and I was surprised to see that the attorneys for both sides, as well as the jurors and spectators, were all sharing the same space in the hallway. The lawyers seemed chummy with each other, and the jurors were talking to each other. Nobody was sequestered. This isn’t what I was expecting at all. However, I took it all in as an exercise for my acting training. Remember, that was the real reason I was there.
I went to the bathroom right off the hallway, and after I emerged from the stall, I recognized a woman from the courtroom washing her hands next to me. I casually said, “Now, that last witness, do you think the sneaker they were talking about…” And she just turned and walked out. Rude! I thought we were all chummy at the Night Stalker trial! When I came out of the bathroom, I instantly felt hands on me. Sheriff’s deputies yanked away my purse and searched its contents, while another pair of officers dragged me away as I heard Andrew—himself being held back by a deputy—yell out, “Where are you taking her!?”
I screamed, “I don’t know!” Was I being kicked out? Worse! They ushered me into the judge’s chambers. I was shaking so hard, I could barely concentrate on anything. I thought I was going to jail. I had been in row three among everyday people, and now I was facing superior court judge Michael Tynan for some reason. The attorneys for both sides were also in the room. Was this some horrible mistake? The court stenographer was there, as well, and when she started typing, that’s what made me think, Oh shit. This is official.
One of the attorneys said, “Tell the judge about the incident in the restroom.”
I was so scared, I swear I had no idea what he was talking about. Incident? Restroom? “I … went … to the restroom…” I was too afraid to talk. Was I going to prison based on what I’d say? Then the woman I had talked to was brought in, and a brief sense of relief washed over me. “Hey, you’re the lady from the bathroom!” I yelled.
Again, the attorney: “What did you say to her?”
“Oh! I was asking about the sneaker, because I…,” and then I just described the bathroom scene, which to my mind was going to end this, because the lady would help clear it all up!
No one said a word for a while, and then Judge Tynan said, “We’re going to return you to your seat, but you’re not allowed to leave.”
Back in the courtroom, I noticed that all the spectators were gone, and the jury had been excused. It was me, Andrew, the woman from the bathroom, both teams of attorneys, and Richard Ramirez, the Night Stalker. I could tell Ramirez’s attorney was loving this.
When the judge called back the jury and audience members (the term they actually use for spectators), I thought my nightmare was over. Then Judge Tynan said, “Ms. Griffin, approach the bench.” Oh shit. I got up, walked through the creaky little swinging gate, and heard the judge say, “Stop.” I was now standing right NEXT to Richard Ramirez, who was staring up at me during the following exchange.
“What’s your name?” Judge Tynan asked.
“Kathy Griffin,” I said, barely audibly. Again, softly, I muttered, “2637 Centinela, Santa Monica, CA…” and as soon as the words came out of my mouth, I realized Ramirez was looking right at me, and I was saying my home address out loud to the fucking Night Stalker. This was so much worse than being afraid of going to jail.
“What is your relationship with Mr. Ramirez?”
“None,” I said. Oh my God.
“Have you ever corresponded with Mr. Ramirez?”
“No,” I answered. Holy shitballs. They think I’m one of those psycho chicks that pursues serial killers.
“Do you have feelings for Mr. Ramirez?”
“None, Your Honor.” I see where this is going, and it is not good for me.
“What do you do for a living?”
And then I said, “I’m a loan officer in a bank.” Let me explain.
That last answer was a lie. Yes, I had just stated out loud my home address in the presence of a psychopathic killer—which, incidentally, my late brother Gary, who was a trial attorney, told me later I didn’t have to do—but I was certainly not going to admit in a court of law that I was an out-of-work, wannabe actress, because that would sound really stupid. Telling an unrepentant, still-not-convicted criminal where I live? That I would do. But saying, “Well, I’m taking commercials classes in Van Nuys—fingers crossed for that, Your Honor, or a juicy nonpaying role in a stude
This is it. I’m going to jail—tell my mom and dad I love them.
Yes, readers, it was a member of the jury I’d started talking to at the restroom sink. And before you ask yourself, “Did she know she was on the jury?”—yes, I did. But, and this is one of the reasons I regret not going to college, I truly didn’t think it was inappropriate to ask a juror any question as long as the question wasn’t “Do you think that the defendant is innocent or guilty?” Learn from me, law students. Even worse, the trial had already had its issues with jury tampering, as the judge reminded everyone that day, adding, as he put it, “We cannot afford to lose another juror.” In other words, naïve Kathy Griffin and her little sneaker small talk could have inadvertently led to a mistrial for one of the worst serial killers in recent memory. (During the trial, a juror was actually murdered, which eventually wasn’t attributed to Ramirez, but it understandably had put that entire jury on edge for the whole trial.)
That judge really humiliated me. I just stood there and took it. It was crushing, and I was dutifully chastened.
“Why are you here?” the judge eventually asked me.
“I … uh … wanted to see … a real live … trial … in a real courthouse and everything…”
“WELL, YOU CERTAINLY PICKED A GOOD ONE! Take your seat.”
That was my first and last time attending a trial. But somewhere buried deep in the court transcripts for the People v. Richard Raymond Ramirez is “Kathy Griffin” who lives at “2637 Centinela…”
O’DONNELL, ROSIE
Comedian, Talk Show Host, Pal, Connector