Kathy Griffin's Celebrity Run-Ins Read online

  Be patient, people. As always, I have a plan.

  Since Derek is twenty years younger than I am, it seemed more likely he wouldn’t recognize Jeremy Irons, so he walked up and very innocently said, “I don’t mean to bother you, but would you mind taking a picture of us?”

  Jeremy Irons said, “No problem.” He took a few pictures, then even suggested we get one with the guard, and we all joked about how it had to be okay with him, ha ha ha, and it was all pretty collegial.

  Then I said to Jeremy Irons, as if he were some random stranger, “Well, you might as well get in, too!”

  He smiled and obliged. As he was posing with me for the photos, I was feeling very proud of myself because my scheme had played out in my favor. Jeremy Irons, who went to the Sherborne School in Dorset (yeah, I looked it up), was outsmarted by this sassy firecrotch as they all will be if I stick around long enough.

  I said, “By the way, I obviously know who you are, and I just want to acknowledge that you’ve been so gracious. I’m a comedian in America—”

  And then he interrupted me. “Of course I know who you are. I recognized you immediately.”

  OMG! The star of Reversal of Fortune AND the voice of Scar from The Lion King knows who I am, and he’s just been playing along this whole time! Yeah, I felt pretty famous and realized I truly do have a global reach. This little ploy turned out all right! I asked if we could get a photo together, and we did a funny pose. Naturally, Jeremy—or Jer as I call him now—wanted a funny pose with one of his all-time favorite comedians. I get it. Suddenly we were chatting like two people in the biz, and it was really cool.

  As we parted, I said, “I’m glad I finally came clean about knowing who you are, so thank you very much for indulging me.”

  And he said, “So long, Jackie!”

  A-a-a-and … back to earth I tumbled.

  Screw you, Scar.

  JACKO, WACKO

  Dancer, Singer, Regular Dude

  In 1991, I was cast as a background dancer in Julie Brown’s Madonna spoof for Showtime, Medusa: Dare to Be Truthful. I was the only nondancer amid real ones, some of whom had actually worked for Madonna. To rehearse, they booked us into a dance studio in Hollywood, and because I was simply the worst dancer—I was there to be funny, not wow everyone with my moves—I needed a special dance captain, much to the amusement of my temporary fellow dancers. Two male dancers even jokingly called me “heifer,” after which I’d make fun of them right back, accusing them of being the ones who had gained half a pound over the weekend. We became fast friends.

  One day, we didn’t have parking spaces, because moving into the rehearsal room next door to us was Michael Jackson’s “Black or White” video shoot! Suddenly the place was buzzing, because our choreographer was a talented woman named Smith Wordes, who’d worked with Michael in the past (in “Captain EO” and the “Smooth Criminal” video), and the feeling was there might be a chance to meet the King of Pop. Being an actress, I was just as excited to meet the video’s director, the comedy filmmaker John Landis. And yet that first day, Michael didn’t show up at all. This was a big-budget video, too. I remember walking past Michael Jackson’s set, I looked in and noticed John Landis sitting on a folding chair by himself, reading a newspaper. I guess that’s what you do when Michael is a no-show. That whole day, their choreographer, frequent Michael and Madonna collaborator Vince Paterson, kept coming over to our set and ended up helping us (and especially me) out. Then he said, “Do you want to see the choreography for the music video?” HELL YES. So we all got to go over and watch Vince (filling in for Michael Jackson) and the dancers do the “Black or White” choreography in full, as it was supposed to have been taught to Michael that day. It was one of the most dazzling performances I’ve ever seen, and because our dancers knew their dancers, the whole vibe was collegial and fun and a privilege to witness.

  The next day, Michael showed. I heard they’d lost a million dollars because of his absence. A good portion of that must have been on the catering. I’d never seen anything like it. Our chips and waters had been transformed into a super vegetarian display, and I even became a fan of grilled, skewered tofu from that point on. (We got the okay from their production to eat their food.)

  Then Smith dropped the bomb on us: “Do you want to meet Michael?” HELL YES HELL YES. So a small group of us—Julie Brown, me, and four dancers—went to the catering room. What follows is a series of things that surprised me.

  Michael was in the room by himself. No bodyguards and no entourage. He and Smith hugged, and you could tell their relationship was warm and genuine. But my impressions of the legend himself went as follows: 1) He was not as surgerized-looking as hype and photos had led me to believe. I expected to see a nose halfway toward falling off. Instead, I would say he looked 60 percent himself, 40 percent “assembled.” 2) He exhibited a thoroughly normal sense of humor and conversational ability. I remember that he joked around with Smith and never gave off that weird, timid affectation where he looks like if you said “pee” or “poop” he’d giggle and put his hand to his mouth. He was talking dancer shoptalk and didn’t act shocked or shy. 3) The big one: his voice register was nothing like his high-pitched acceptance speeches and mousey interview moments. It was lower and not airy or wispy. Dare I say normal? If my back had been to him on the street, I wouldn’t have known it was Michael Jackson talking; that’s how different it sounded. Standing in that room, watching and listening to him chitchat and catch up with Smith, completely unfazed by total strangers being close to him, I was quietly flabbergasted. He was in his element: working, talking with colleagues, away from prying cameras. It was revelatory. And yet he’d been a no-show the day prior, costing the production a million dollars because—as newspaper photos revealed—he’d been at the mall with Macaulay Culkin. So … um … not totally normal.

  JACKSON, MICHAEL

  King of Pop, I Was There

  I, Kathy Griffin, was an extra in the Michael Jackson Pepsi commercial in 1984 where his effing hair caught fire!

  I have two points to make.

  Point 1: You know what a Forrest Gump moment is, right? It’s when you happen to witness or be present during an iconic moment in history, good or bad. I’ve had a few of those, and this was one.

  Back then, I did as much work as an extra as I could, because it was the closest I could get to feeling like a part of show business. On a side note, not only was I never destined to be an overnight success, but I spent years as an extra for $35 a day just to have the opportunity to try to get my foot in the door. I did this while I was taking acting classes, improv classes, and keeping my day job at whatever nine-to-five office would have me considering I have absolutely no office skills. Needless to say, I was excited when I got the call in late January for a two-day shoot in downtown Los Angeles at the Shrine Auditorium. Two days at $35 a day was $70!

  Not only was the money fantastic, but, when I learned it was a commercial with the Jackson 5, I was the first in line. I was one of a thousand in a standing-only crowd that day, watching Michael Jackson do take after take of him making his big stairway entrance onto a glitzy rock-and-roll-like set and jamming with his brothers to a reworked version of “Billie Jean,” incorporating “You’re the Pepsi Generation” into the song. It was fascinating to watch Michael Jackson at work. Of course, I grew up with his music, but it was quite an up-close and personal experience to just be in that audience watching how a really big commercial is made with one of the biggest stars in history.

  At one point, I noticed my buddy Jon Lovitz in the crowd—we were both in the Groundlings then—and when I asked why he was there, he introduced me to his pal Miko Brando, son of Marlon and one of Michael Jackson’s bodyguards.

  Point 2: This was all before the Internet, social media, TMZ, cell phones with cameras, all of it. The public wouldn’t know of a news event of this magnitude until much LATER. So when people ask me about what it was like to be there that day, I have to remind them of this. Here’s w
hat happened that day from an extra’s point of view. Keep in mind you can see it online now, because US Weekly got hold of the footage of when a pyrotechnic effect went off too early and posted it in 2009. Anyway, the last thing a production would do following an accident like this would be to announce to hundreds, if not thousands, of extras something like, “There’s been a horrible accident. Everybody go home!” I just remember we were all abruptly excused for the day. By the time I’d driven my parents’ Toyota Corolla back to our Santa Monica apartment, it was all over the news, and I could hardly believe it. Over the years, it’s been very strange to realize that I had been there for a momentous showbiz incident—one many believe led to Michael Jackson’s debilitating addiction struggles and tragic death—and not known what had happened at the time. I still believe he molested all those kids, though.

  JENNER, KENDALL

  Model (By Today’s Standards, Let’s Be Honest)

  First off, I call her Candle, which drives her insane.

  Speaking of driving, the lanky, somewhat soft-spoken, very homeschooled, up-and-coming model / reality star / whatever and I were leaving an event at the same time, so the valet guys brought our cars one right after the other. Candle’s SUV was in front of my car, and when she backed up slightly to maneuver out, she came perilously close to my front bumper. This is what I call an opportunity, so I yelled out, in front of all the waiting celebrities, “Candle! Candle! Don’t kill me! This isn’t the night!” I grabbed Rosanna Arquette, who was nearby. “Rosanna! You’ve got to be a witness! Candle Jenner is trying to kill me!” I’m pretty sure Candle waved as she drove off, a gesture from a stone-cold assassin that said, “Next time!”

  I know you’re wondering: my Maserati was unharmed. Shaken, but okay.

  JENNER, KRIS

  My Biological Mother

  When it comes to Miss Kathy Griffin’s style of highbrow comedy, the Kardashians get it. Not in the way you’re thinking. I mean, Kris Jenner really gets it.

  I’m the least of the Kardashians’ worries. They’re juggling all sorts of tabloid newsworthy topics ranging from sex tapes to relationship drama and paternity suits to the academic rigors of Ph.D. dissertations. There might have legitimately been a time when the subject of Kathy Griffin warranted an “Oh no, not her.” But now they say hi, and I honestly don’t think I’ve had a Kardashian mad at me in years. This is not something I am proud of. Let’s see if this book can break that streak. At least the main Kardashians haven’t been mad at me in years. I can’t keep up with the younger ones who seem to be multiplying. (I’m looking at you, Saint.)

  Case in point: A few Christmases ago, I found myself at a star-studded party where I was embarrassingly underdressed. As in, I’m in jeans, and it’s supposed to be formal wear. My big idea was to sneak off to a room, call my assistant, and get him to drive over and throw a Carolina Herrera gown through the window. I find a door, open it, and inside is Kris Jenner, the three main Kardashian girls, Candle floating around somewhere, and Francine, who may have been in the room, but at this point, she is, how shall I say, unrecognizable. They really do clump together like the Mafia, or some bygone Irish band of toughs from Gangs of New York. I started right in joking with them, and they let me go on, even though by a certain point I realized they’d kind of encircled me, and the brief thought of a blood sacrifice ritual entered my mind. But really, they were all friendly and just wanted me to entertain them. Nobody was mean. Khloé even came up and squeaked out a “Hi, my favorite!”

  I said, “What’s up, Loch Ness?” It was as if I were the attraction at some weird Hollywood petting zoo.

  Anyway, Kris piped up at one point and said, “You know, I was just in another conversation, and we were trying to figure out how you would classify our family. I noticed you were here, Kathy, so I thought, She’s going to be able to come up with something right away!”

  I pretended to think about it, then said, “I’m going to have to stick with ‘dirty whores.’” They all cheered and laughed.

  As I thought, They get it.

  JONAS, NICK

  Singer, Former Has-Been, Current Hit Maker

  When I first met the Jonas Brothers, it was at the Grammys, where they played with Stevie Wonder, and I thought they were embarrassingly horrible. Stevie Wonder may have wanted to be deaf as well as blind that day. I really couldn’t get over how they’d been shoved down our throats: the stadium tours selling out, dressing alike, talking alike, being anointed somehow “better” than your average boy band. It was manufactured, time-tested showbiz formula, which worked very well for them for quite a while. Also, dating famous young women in a rotating tabloid-friendly fashion also accomplished two goals: staying famous and staying in my act. But then, for various reasons, the Jonas Brothers, as we knew them, faded away.

  During this period, Nick wound up being seated at my table at a charity event, and he was sweet and humble, even calling me “Ms. Griffin” (which I love) and sporting a white-boy ’fro, and for all intents and purposes acting like a nice young man who didn’t care anymore about the spotlight. “Damn right, it’s Ms. Griffin, Jonas!” I reminded him. As you know, the Jonas Brothers decided to part ways and move on to their next musical projects. Nick just couldn’t help himself. He hit the gym, got a haircut, sent one Instagram pic of his abs into the universe—you know you’ve seen it, LGBTs, okay, mostly Gs—and now he’s hot again (and all that a certain person whose name rhymes with “Banderson Booper” can talk about).

  I ran into Nick again after that, and I had to let him know. I yelled, “I know your game!” He flexed a bicep, smirked, and went along his merry way.

  Just a word of advice, Nicholas, Aunt Kathy wants you to know that if you gain ten pounds or turn even the least bit doughy with your now-famous upper-body physique, the Gs are going to dump your ass and remove you from their cell phone screen savers.

  I say this out of love.

  KEATON, MICHAEL

  Birdman, Batman

  Something happened with Michael Keaton that’s never happened to me before with a celebrity run-in. I saw him in 2016 at a black-tie soirée, and since I’ve always loved him—how funny he is, how great an actor he is, how he’s weathered the ups and downs and always come back stronger—I wanted that interaction to happen. Especially since I loved Spotlight, which would go on to win the Oscar for Best Picture weeks later.

  I went up to him and, in my ready-made fast-talking mode, said, “Hi, my name is Kathy Griffin, I really want to meet you, I just think you’re so amazing, I’m going to bug you for a picture, and just, your work, your movies, they’re so great…”

  And as I was rapid-rambling, he interrupted me with that patented shy mutter of his by saying, with his head slightly down, “Uh, I’ve actually met you, but you probably don’t remember.”

  Pause. Oh, wow. Oh my God. For a brief moment, I was Speechless. (Had to get the name of a Keaton movie in there.)

  Here’s the funny thing: of course I remembered meeting him, but it was barely a “meeting”—and it was ages ago! It was during the Suddenly Susan era, twenty years ago at a party, and Keaton was talking to Brooke Shields and I was standing nearby, smiling, nodding, probably thinking, Holy shit, that’s Michael Keaton. And now, here I was, acting like I’d never met him, because I assumed he wouldn’t have remembered meeting ME! He isn’t allowed to be the misremembered one!

  “Yes! Of course I remember! I assumed you wouldn’t remember!”

  He said, “Oh, well, I just thought…”

  So yes, we had a brief, “no, I’m less memorable” exchange, which was absurd. Believe me, that has never happened before. It made me wish there was a camera there to capture it. In a way, there was, but I was so taken aback my cell phone wasn’t ready. By the time it was, Keaton and I had moved on to a serious conversation about Spotlight and pedophile priests and Catholicism. So serious, in fact, that his brow was in full furrow, and then I said something like, “Time for a selfie!” and he had to go, “Whoa! Whoa! T
ransition!”

  Then I decided he needed photos with different people, so I started pushing him toward the likes of Jane Fonda, Alice Cooper, and even Sammy Hagar. He played along—“Oh my, Sammy Hagar!”—and all the while I just couldn’t get over how an Academy Award nominee thought I wouldn’t recall meeting him. Believe me, in those situations, it’s always me going, “Um, we’ve met several times, I made you laugh, sat next to you on an eighteen-hour flight, hosted your charity event, made out with you several times, and saved your dog from drowning. Fine, you don’t remember me?” But Michael Keaton did.

  KENDRICK, ANNA

  Twilight-er, Pitch Perfect-er, Could Be Nice-er

  I’m sure this was an isolated incident. Or at least I’d like to think it was. I was at the Toronto Film Festival in 2011, hosting an amfAR event, and I attended one of the parties as the date of a movie publicist friend. I saw Katie Couric, who let me hijack her phone so I could scroll through pictures, and that was fun. Jessica Chastain was a not-yet-famous up-and-comer then, and she ran up to me and said, “Aaah! I want to meet you. You’re so amazing!” That was cool. Then my friend wanted to say hello to Anna Kendrick, who was at a booth nearby.

  I walked up and said, “Hi. It’s nice to meet you.” Then I think I complimented her on Up in the Air and her Oscar nomination for it. Really simple chitchatting, maybe thirty seconds. Then there was a pause, and since I’m not afraid of pauses in conversation, I just kept talking.

  Then she looked at me and very unabashedly said, “Um, I have to ask you to go. My cousin’s here visiting, and we need to catch up.”