I have encountered many Rock Stars of Kindness in the past few days. I'm sopping up your love with a toast point-- please know that I vibe on every sweet gesture, every well-intentioned message, every whimsical "review." To quote H.H., my little cup overflows with tiddles! To paraphrase C.J., that's a spicy meatball!
(See how I inexpertly muddled highbrow and lowbrow references in a single vomit-inducing paragraph? That's why they pay me in Skittles.)
So: I was in New York. Here's the Tidy Cat Scoop on all that. (Warning: Long and possibly tedious.)
Jonny and I jetted in on Sunday night. (We always fly NWA, mothafuckas!) We checked in at the Warwick Hotel, which sadly is not owned by Warwick Davis or any other wizards of small stature. (However, Paul McCartney once stayed there, and he wrote a song called "Little Willow." Ten points to whomever can follow that train of thought; the conductor is clearly high on cocaine.)
Once we arrived at the hotel, we split a surprise bottle of champagne that had been thoughtfully provided for us by my parents. I cherish such totally rad gestures; you have to understand that this whole thing has been a bit of an ordeal for Mom and Pop Cody. On one hand, they're thrilled to see their daughter in the media. On the other hand, their daughter is a shrill and cheerful slut who a.) relies on mock-heroism and shock tactics to amuse her captives and b.) wears pink fishnet tights on national television. My mother probably doesn't know whether to laugh or hork. I'm humbled by her strength and good humor. Same goes for my dad, who has every right to be appalled and yet repeatedly denies himself that luxury. Dad, get mad already!
Anyway, we finished the Brut and promptly passed out.
The next day was Dave-day. After I woke up, I phoned in a quick pre-interview with a charming Late Show staffer named Matt. Then Jonny and I had breakfast in the Warwick's restaurant, which features stately old murals that have obscenities (deeply) hidden in them. Seriously! Like, they'll be a portrait of explorers bartering with natives, and in the background, there's a guy subtly jerking off. Apparently the artist had a vendetta against the guy who commissioned the murals, so he painted in a bunch of transgressive goofs. This is exactly the type of art I want to enjoy when I'm eating a $20 omelette stuffed with cave-aged Gruyere!
At 3:15, my book's publicist (fiery young Sarah) and my two agents (luscious brunette Sarah and creamy sophisticate Paula) showed up at the hotel. We all squealed and fretted, though I was slowly entering the dead-calm stage of anxiety. A car from Letterman arrived and took us a WHOLE THREE BLOCKS to the Ed Sullivan Theater; apparently I can't walk to such things lest my delicate geisha feet be soiled by the dung of commoners. When we arrived at the back entrance, the paparazzi were lined up for Denzel. I am not Denzel, but I thought maybe Fiery Sarah could be Denzel, so I tossed my coat over her head and marched her in as if she were a reclusive A-lister. A handful of flashbulbs exploded. This seemed hilarious at the time.
We passed the backstage area and were ushered upstairs to a cozy (read: tight) dressing room that was thoughtfully stocked with cookies, fruit and pop. Of course, we immediately needed Grownup Soda to buff our ragged edges, so we dialed downstairs for a bottle of Ketel One. Matt entered with some contracts, which I signed, and he and I briefly reviewed Mr. Letterman's notes. I asked where Denzel was, and they told me he was being penned up in a different room. (I'm sure Denzel's digs featured a three-tier Hypnotiq fountain and dancing girls, but whatever. He's Denzel-fucking-Washington! He deserves a better room than Unknownia McStrippypants.)
The show started. We watched the taping from a TV in the dressing room, which was weird. I've watched the Late Show zillions of times, but never a single floor up from where it was actually happening, you know? The makeup woman popped in and asked me if I wanted an obligatory buff, but I declined. (These fools with their professional training cannot possibly improve on my flawless potato-shaped visage!)
At this point we heard "Denzel to stage door" over the intercom, meaning his interview segment was about to begin. Paula and I decided this was our best chance to catch a verboten glimpse of the D-man. We peered into the stairwell just as Denzel slipped into the elevator, looking impossibly Denzelicious in his sleek dark suit.
I can't explain what happened next. Something came over us.
We shrieked. We screamed like tweens gathered 'round a sexually-charged prank phone call. We ran down the hallway, arms flailing, as the elevator doors slid shut. We had the Denzel feeve and our temperatures were rising fast! Pant, pant.
Okay. So Denzel filmed his segment. They cut to a musical break and then Denzel filmed the second, clip-reliant half of his segment. They cut to another break and it was TMTTSY. (Totally My Time to Shine, Y'all!) The intercom summoned some Diablo Cody person. I hugged Jonny goodbye as he nervously gulped his sixth vodka Sprite. I marched down the hallway to the elevator, but nobody shrieked or ran, because as I noted five paragraphs ago, I am not Denzel.
Downstairs, I was directed backstage, behind a pillar where a mirror had conveniently been placed. I peeked around the pillar and saw Dave at his desk. I was admonished for peeking. I turned to the stage director and said "This is probably the coolest thing I've ever done." He smiled. Then he said, "Go." And I went.
Onstage I felt eerily comfortable. I can offer no explanation for this incongruity. Honestly, I wasn't terror-stricken in the least. Maybe I felt better than I ever have. Looking at the host was lovely, but looking at the cameras and the audience amplified the sensation past buttery bliss to a full-blown attention-whoregasm. More, please! Dave looked exactly the way he looks on TV. They trowel a lot of foundation on the guy, but I'm sure that's necessary under those kliegs. He was very kind to me and thanked me after our interview was over. I gripped his hand like the lifelong fangirl I am-- I have always loved Dave above all hosts. Then I scurried back to the dressing room amid backstage applause. Hugs all around. I finally processed that my task had been completed. Onward!
(If you'd like to see the shameless mugging that is the actual interview, I hear it's on YouTube.)
We went to a nice bar where we drank and smoked and bragged and laughed and pestered the waiter. I just wanted to lean into Jonny and disappear under his skin. But in a good way. It was an exhausted sort of clinginess I remember from my childhood, met now as it was then with gentle reassurance.
A haze follows: McSorley'sCheesburgerTVBedBreakfastMetNobu. Plane ride home. Here now, dirty, my broke-ass weave utterly bedraggled but full of new secrets.
Apres Dave, le deluge: Emails, phone calls, praise from random well-wishers on the street, pick yr ego-inflating poison. It was and is pretty fucking rad.
And that's that!