Diary of a Mad Diva (14 page)

JULY 22

Dear Diary:

The shows in Nashville were great. I love that all the shows in town were performed at 3 p.m, this way a couple can get up in the morning, hose down the double-wide, gun down a couple of defenseless animals, burn an abortion clinic, see a terrific show and still get out in time for Lupper.

Now off to New Orleans, another fave of mine. Love, love, love the Big Easy. (I’m talking about the city, not what they call Taylor Swift behind her back.) The people of New Orleans love me as much as I love them. Even during Katrina they came out and supported me. I don’t want to brag, but they gave me a floating ovation.

JULY 23

Dear Diary:

Concert went fine but the VIP meet and greet was a horror show. By the way, the term VIP means different things to different people. To casino owners, VIPs are high rollers—usually Arabian businessmen who gamble away the millions they’ve made screwing small American businesses. To me VIPs are those casino owners who can book me for private parties for those businessmen. One of the VIPs had really bad gas, and every time he began to speak he’d let one go. I don’t know how much falafel he’d eaten, but he nearly blew the flowers off their stems. And because he was a high roller I couldn’t say anything, even something subtle like, “Excuse me, Camel-ass, while we’re together is there any chance you could stuff a burka up your bunghole?” So I just smiled, dabbed my eyes with my scarf and flapped my arms like one of Jerry’s kids who’s been at the telethon too long and is starting to act out.

JULY 25

Dear Diary:

Just got home and I can’t wait to take a bath and hop into bed. There’s nothing better than curling up in your own bed with a dog you love. Now I know what Justin Theroux must see in Jennifer Aniston.

JULY 26

Dear Diary:

I love my dogs. They make me smile and laugh the way pretty-colored candy makes slow children grin and drool. I think the world would be a happier place if everybody had dogs rather than slow children—except for Koreans. If they have a dog it’s usually on a bun, with a house salad and a side of fries. Yesterday at the nail salon my manicurist offered me half of a Bacon, Lassie and Tomato sandwich.

Now let’s talk lesbians. They should not have dogs, and if they do, the only dog a lesbian should have is a Pit Bulldyke. Lesbians are much more comfortable around cats. And it’s not just the meowing they like; they take comfort in the fact that even if their pretty young girlfriend has left them for a middle-aged, mannish crossing guard named Stella, someone in the house is still licking pussy.

JULY 27

Dear Diary:

For purely business purposes, I went to a party tonight with my agent, S.S. (Shifty Steve) Levine. Actually, I went with Steve’s cousin Ruth’s morbidly obese stepson, Geoffrey. I can’t stand people who spell Jeffrey “Geoffrey.” It’s so pretentious, just like people who spell Steven “Stephen.” The biggest offender in the pretentious name game is Pink, whose real name is “Vagina.”

Geoffrey’s having a midlife crisis and wants to give up his semi-lucrative podiatry practice to become a cowboy. Geoffrey, who tips the scales at three hundred pounds and can no longer bend down to touch his patients’ toes, said he’s always admired the Lone Ranger.

This is insane. I don’t know how Geoffrey—or anybody—ever looked up to the Lone Ranger. He was a liar. Just calling himself “lone”? The man had a fantastic love life. Are we all forgetting about his unusual friendship with Tonto? Hello?? Yes, he could have been alone; he had that odor from his discharge coming from his bleeding anal fissures (Silver was a very rough ride, and after three days in the saddle even the best of us gives off a slightly sour grapefruit odor). And true, any man who wears a small black mask
all the time
, even to book signings and PTA functions, is not someone to idolize or hang out with on a regular basis—he’s someone to put on Megan’s List—but he had no right to go whining about how “lone” he was.

I’ll give you lone. My elevator man, Manolo, has the right to call himself lone. Every time I get into that car I hear the same thing. “No one really cares about me, Señora. They get into my elevator on the third or fourth floor and say, ‘How ya’ doin’ today, Manolo?’ and just as I start to really explain why I have that rash on my hand, we hit the lobby and they’re out like a bullet and I’m left talking to an empty car.”
That’s
lone.

JULY 28

Dear Diary:

Geoffrey has called twice to see if I’d like to go out with him again. How do I politely tell him “It’s not you, but the cheesy smell coming from under your folds reminds me of milk and I’m lactose intolerant.” It’s not that he’s fat; a lot of thin people smell, too. Mother Teresa never used deodorant. The only ones who could stand to be around her were lepers, because they had no noses. I wonder if that’s why Taylor Swift can’t keep a boyfriend. Maybe she’s a “naturalist” and believes nature secretes its own washboards. Or maybe she’s so busy touring she doesn’t have time to douche. According to the tabloids (which I need more than water, air, or Botox), Taylor’s been dumped more often than a vegan on a cabbage cleanse. Maybe she should stop composing, drop her pen, pull down her thong and take a sniff. If she doesn’t, she’s going to end up lone.

JULY 29

Dear Diary:

On the plane back to L.A. to see Melissa and Cooper and am watching
Into Thin Air
, the movie about climbing Mount Everest. I never understood why people do that—not climb mountains, that’s the easy part; it’s the schlepping all the way to Nepal I don’t get. It’s eighteen hours. The only mountains I was willing to schlep to were the Catskills, and that was only in their heyday, and only at the Concord Hotel, and only for a weekend (Friday one show, Saturday two), and only for really good money. And I didn’t need a yak and a Sherpa and oxygen tanks to get there. Just a limo, a driver, and a tight forty minutes.

The idiots who climb Mount Everest say they do it because “it’s there.” Which is exactly what Pam Anderson said about Tommy Lee. And all of these rich, country club pricks who reach the summit carry on like they’re the first person to do it and that they did it alone. Excuse me, don’t the Sherpas do this three times a month, on foot, carrying
your
equipment because you wouldn’t be able to pat yourself on the back if your hands were full? Why don’t the Sherpas get any credit? Behind every good man may be a woman, but behind every good climber is a Sherpa, just as behind every good chorus boy is another chorus boy with a couple of poppers and a eight ball.

JULY 30

Dear Diary:

Melissa and Cooper took me to dinner tonight at a new, hip Chinese restaurant, Madame Mao’s Moo Shu Mansion. The place is uber-Chinese. When I asked for a fork instead of chopsticks they were horrified. You’d have thought I’d asked them for their two smallest children to ship back to New York to work in my jewelry factory.

Melissa said, “Use the chopsticks, the duck tastes better.” I said, “Better than what? When it was alive and quacking?” She said, “Using chopsticks enhances the experience.” By that logic if I go to an Icelandic restaurant should I beat the fish against a rock before I dig in? Or if I go to an Ethiopian restaurant should I scavenge the floor for crumbs and then go to the American restaurant next door and beg for food?

JULY 31

Dear Diary:

I was watching the local news this morning and the cap-toothed, overly-bronzed anchorman said, “Today is July thirty-first, Wednesday, which is Hump Day.” I had no idea what he was talking about. Hump Day? I didn’t know if I was supposed to ride a camel, hunt down and mount a strange man or send a birthday card to a hunchback. Who talks like this? I can’t imagine Brian Williams suggesting that I “get me some loving” during his live broadcast from a bombed-out airfield in Kabul. I’m sick of friendly news anchors with their inside jokes and coy asides. They try to humanize the news. Don’t. Just tell it to me. I don’t need Savannah on the
Today Show
saying, “The forest fire destroyed three hundred homes, and yet little seven-year-old Billy Simpson managed to find time to play with his toys in the smoldering rubble.” That’s
not
the story. Just give me the facts, don’t try to give me the emotional pull or happy ending. In my day, after JFK was shot in Dallas, Walter Cronkite did not turn to the camera and say, “On a happier note, Jackie found a twenty-four-hour dry cleaner who got the stains out and she amortized that expensive pink suit and was able to wear it on the plane home.”

Speaking of what annoys me on TV, at the end of concerts or sporting events, I’m tired of the directors cutting to shots of cheering fans. I don’t need to see the fans. I want to see the big moment, when in victory, Roger Federer gives Rafael Nadal the finger, or when Elton John thinks the curtain’s down and opens the piano and pulls out a gigantic sandwich. I don’t need to see fat-ass Lenny from the Bronx cheering when Alex Rodriguez hits a home run. I want to see A-Rod try to hide the syringe in his pocket while he rounds the bases.

This ain’t the first time I’ve been on top of Teddy Roosevelt’s face.

AUGUST 1

Dear Diary:

Tomorrow starts Grandma Week and I can’t wait. Every year I hit the road with Cooper for ten days, and August is the perfect time because all of the psychiatrists, psychologists and social workers in New York City take the entire month off, leaving their wacked-out, crazy patients to roam the streets freely in hot, humid weather without counseling, supervision or Xanax.

AUGUST 2

Dear Diary:

Cooper and I are headed off to see some of the oldest and most famous historic sights in America: Mount Rushmore, the Grand Canyon, Arches National Park and my kindergarten class.

AUGUST 4

Dear Diary:

We’re at the Grand Canyon. One of the other tourists said he’s “never seen a hole that big.” I’m guessing he’s never seen Michelle Duggar’s uterus.

I may not be writing much this week—Cooper and I are just going to enjoy driving through the heartland of America watching people with no chic toiling away on their farms and growing stuff.

AUGUST 6

Dear Diary:

Today we went to Mount Rushmore and the place was mobbed with tourists. I had a scuffle right away. The tour guide told us it was open seating and suddenly hundreds of Asians with cameras rushed to the front. It was very upsetting to me. I tried to explain to a forest ranger that this is an American monument and I think Americans should sit up front—unless they’re very tall and they want to sit in front of me, in which case, fuck ’em. I finally played the Famous Face card and moved to a front-row seat. Loudly. I pointed out to everybody what the monument is all about (and by “everybody” I mean a guy named Ming Na and his family who I felt were Asians, because of their bound feet and funny clothes with strange fasteners instead of buttons):

1. George Washington was our first president who crossed the Delaware River and was able to do it uninterrupted because it wasn’t a Carnival Cruise.
   
2. Teddy Roosevelt, who charged up San Juan Hill in record time because there was a Jehovah’s Witness running behind him badgering him to buy copies of
   Watchtower
   magazine.
   
3. And Abe Lincoln and Thomas Jefferson, who were probably our two greatest presidents . . . one who freed the slaves and one who fucked them.
   

AUGUST 8

Dear Diary:

We’re in Utah today. I wanted Cooper to see and press the flesh of all the people who buy Marie Osmond’s doll collections. We drove directly to Arches National Park, which turned out to be a huge disappointment. Not one rock collection in the shape of a foot. What are they talking about?

Our tour guide was wearing shorts, boots and turquoise jewelry in the blazing sun, and looked stupid. I hate straight men who wear turquoise jewelry. If I see that I know he’s either an alcoholic Navajo or he’s toe-tapping in the men’s room just off the beaten path.