I LOVE CHICAGO. WE DRIVE INTO TOWN BEFORE DAWN AND I NAP FOR A WHILE, BUT IT’S A LOVELY, WARM SUNNY DAY AND TOO FINE TO WASTE INDOORS. I WANDER DOWN MICHIGAN AVENUE, DOING SOME EARLY CHRISTMAS SHOPPING. I can’t think what to buy Nicole Kidman. Or for that matter Halle Berry. And what do I get Cameron Diaz? Panties again? I always get Hugh Grant panties, he’s easy to please, and I’m getting Russell Crowe a tool kit with his name on it. Mel Gibson, well, a copy of The Life of Brian, natch. Can you believe he’s made the same story and missed all the jokes? And whatever will I get Kate Hudson? Will she want me to make her cookies like last year? It’s so difficult with these big stars. [Dream on.—Ed.]
It is wonderful to be here. Chicago girls are so beautiful. I have to catch my breath sometimes. I like the way they look you boldly in the eye. I do hope we do the Spamalot tryouts here. I know it gets cold but this is a fine city to spend a few months, and I have lots of relatives here. Lily loves it and can’t wait to come. I can’t wait to see her. She flies in tomorrow: one can at a pinch live without a wife, but to live without a daughter as well, that’s too much.
We arrived at five in the morning after a sell-out show in Minneapolis. That’s right, folks, a full house at last. It was a screaming, packed-out auditorium at the recently refurbished Pantages Theater. Our street teams seem to be working. During the show a lovely blonde came up, waving a pair of red panties provocatively, which she dropped in the encore bucket to cheers and applause from the audience. Peter grabbed them. (Say no more.) Later I asked her if she had come prepared, with her panties already in her pocket, and she obligingly bent over to show me that she hadn’t. NVP! [No visible panty line.—Ed.] Another girl offered me ten bucks if I will let her touch my butt. Now there’s a dilemma for a gentleman. Am I the sort of man who will let strange women touch his ass for cash? All her friends say please, oh please, she has an important wager. Finally, I decide to let her so that she can win her bet, but decline to take any money for it: that way I feel like a slut, but at least I avoid behaving like a whore. Miss Manners would be proud of me. In Madison a girl climbed into the encore bucket! Now there’s a commitment. We gave her back. I don’t think charities accept young women. Except perhaps for the Clinton Library….
I awake this morning to see the sun rising magnificently out of the lake. A wind is picking up, and there are big waves. I’m in a hurry to get ready for breakfast TV. The toilet overflows. It’s a sitcom moment. I’m standing in puddles of water around my ankles trying to stop a Niagara. I use my rudimentary plumbing skills, acquired from years of living in Provence, to prevent its flooding the bedroom and drowning the hotel from inside. Then I have to dash.
Scott Sampson is downstairs to take me and Scott Keeton, my ever reliable guitar tech, to WGN for Good Morning Chicago, where I sing “Always Look on the Bright Side” and “The Lumberjack Song.” People crowd into the studio and join in the singing and whistling, and they all have a great time. Then we hustle across town to catch the end of Mancow’s radio show.
Mancow is very sweet and genuinely apologetic about Tony Clifton attacking me last time I was on. I reassure him I really don’t mind. In fact I’m quite proud of how I dealt with Bob Zamuda, when he accused me of “profiting from dead guys.” I said that was rich coming from a man who pretended to be an Andy Kaufman character, when he has been dead for years. The studio erupted with laughter and applause.
“Touché,” said Mancow.
On Chicago Tonight the interviewer asked me about Michael Jackson. I said, “It’s funny, his career was going so bad; last year he couldn’t get arrested….”23
We dash over to CNN at the Herald Tribune building for a nationwide TV interview which Jam are particularly keen I do. Tiarra has set this up for 8:40 Central time. We are there early. Except, oops, we are an hour too late. We have missed the slot.
The doorman says, “They’ve all gone. They were waiting for you, but you never showed.”
Scott Sampson is furious and calls Steve Traxler of Jam. Neither of them can believe it. I have grown accustomed to it so it’s no real surprise, it’s about the eighth time this has happened, and I’m getting a bad reputation for no-shows, which I hate. Just then Tiarra calls. I tell her as calmly as I can that we missed the interview, because she got the time wrong.
“That’s not possible,” she says. “I can’t have done that.”
That’s what makes me snap. An apology, some kind of “I’ll look into it,” or “I’m so sorry,” might have made a difference, but total denial …fuck off.
“Tiarra,” I said, “you’re fired.” It felt good. I don’t want to unload on her now that she is history, but I have never in my life…etc., etc.
So au revoir, Tiarra. I have never fired anybody before. It feels surprisingly good. I feel like Donald Trump. I’m in touch with my inner monster.