You know last week’s New York Comedy Festival kicked off at the Beacon. You don’t know what went on backstage. Me, I know because I was smashed against a stage-right wall. In the wings. In a jammed crammed windowless airless space smaller than a kindergarten kid’s bedroom.
In it perspiring, chatting, drinking, posing, rehearsing, greeting pals were stars whose walk-in closets were larger. Over there, Springsteen with his posse. Over here Bob Woodruff, whose Stand Up for Heroes event opens the week. Someone whispered, “Diane Sawyer, Christiane Amanpour in black leather and Kathy Griffin arrived,” as Secret Service orangutans muscled bodies aside to clear a path for Bill Clinton.
Among NYC monuments like Lincoln Center, Empire State, UN, Statue of Liberty, Bronx Zoo, Natural History Museum, Diamond Center, Radio City, St. Pat’s, a petite size 8 on Bergdorf black suede spikes braided up to her pituitary gland — Caroline Hirsch. Responsible for it all. “Thirty years ago I opened Carolines Comedy Club. On spit. I had nothing. No money. Tonight we’ll make $3 million,” she said. “Who knew all this would happen?”
Across a TV camera that nearly cracked my scalp, her life partner and producer, Andrew Fox, barked: “I need Ricky Gervais miked.”
Downstairs trudged Ricky, sipping a glass of beer. (“Dressing room’s five flights up.”) He and Jane, his live-in, wore His ’n’ Hers blue jeans and black jackets. About the Oscars: “I wouldn’t do that job. Isn’t my gig. But I’d do the Golden Globes again. That was fun. Only I wouldn’t change my style. I’d do same kind of thing I did before. Not that they asked me — they haven’t.”
Seth Meyers with Alexi Ashe. A beauty. “My first shot doing this. On ‘SNL,’ we work 80 hours a week.” So where’s time for Alexi? “I’m a Sunday boyfriend.”
A voice said: “Rogers Waters is here.” I said, “Who?” Caroline Hirsch said:
“He’s Pink Floyd.” Said another voice: “Cindy’s big with Pink Floyd, right?”
Jon Stewart heckled with: “Pal, I’ll tell the jokes!”
Bill Clinton. Pleasant, patient, unruffled, posed with Caroline Hirsch, Bob Woodruff, stood for photos, honored the backstage vets with “Thank you, gentlemen, for your services.” So how long did it take to write his latest book?
“Four months. But not on my computer. Longhand. Writing that way takes longer, so you have to think more slowly, which helps the thought process. An assistant then types the page, which I rewrite and refine.
“But the book’s 30 years in preparing. I have notes going back that far. I keep piling them up. I kept them thinking someday I’d maybe write this. See, I’ve always followed world economy. I check data monthly. I knew these notes would be valuable some day as a history,” he said as we scrunched into an inch of corner.
“I’ve studied the last 500 year years economically. I know that to get over our economic problem will take 3 to 5 years.”
In barreled Jim Gaffigan. Andrew Fox introduced him to Ricky, whom he’d never met. Wearing sneakers, Gaffigan said: “They have laces. Laces are fascists.” Ricky broke up. Me, I didn’t understand what the hell was funny.
At the end Caroline Hirsch said: “Tomorrow we start planning for next year.”
EVELYN Lauder had looks, elegance, fame, wealth, position, husband and family. Everything but longevity. We just lost Mrs. Leonard Lauder. I remember her testing mother-in-law Estée Lauder’s new fragrance in a taxi. I saw her sip her own bottle of ginger ale at a forum. She helped spruce mama Barbara Bush’s makeup. She partook of a March of Dimes cookout at the Plaza. She sent Estée products for a birthday present. She wore pearls and diamonds to Prince Charles’ Foundation Dinner at Buckingham. She wore Scaasi, Prada, Missoni. She’d mix Baccarat with Pottery Barn. Maybe a year ago I asked how long she and Leonard were married. They couldn’t agree.
Evelyn Lauder was a queen.
JAKE Shimabukuro, “the most widely heard ukulele player alive today,” plays his widely heard ukulele tomorrow at the Highline Ballroom . . . Social type Cornelia Guest, once furred up to her eyeballs, is now shedding it for her Wednesday birthday party. Her invite asks friends to also donate theirs to PETA in lieu of a gift.
RACHAEL Ray, never at openings, came for hot ticket Hugh Jackman’s “Back on Broadway” because: “We met, and I begged him to do my TV show. He did. He’s so nice, so I wanted to come. My husband doesn’t do shows. I brought a friend.” Wendi Deng Murdoch came with both daughters. A nice gent from Hugh’s apartment building who sees him in the gym says: “He’s so sweet. No airs.” Everyone turned out but the missus, Deborra-Lee Furness, who’s stuck in Australia doing a charity event. Hugh Jackman is simply marvelous.
THIS “unemployed Fabulous 50” (maybe a smidge older) Miss Winiker, a professional previously working with the NBA, writes: “To reposition in today’s marketplace, I met with an unemployment counselor. We discussed strategies. After examining my credentials, the counselor’s total suggestion? “Botox your résumé!”
Only in New York, kids, only in New York.