I have death on my mind because of the loss of my dog, Veronica. I was speaking to the Merchandise Manager for jewelry at QVC and he told me that one of their biggest sellers used to be a medallion that said, "I'm Catholic, call a priest."

So I was thinking that maybe I would add this to my own line of jewelry and include some medallions for people of other faiths like, "I'm Protestant, call a golf pro," "I'm Jewish, call a lawyer," and "I'm Hindu, call an elephant."

Last week my friend Blaine (Trump) brought Cal and Kelly Ripken to see me at the Cutting Room. Luckily they saw a very good show (Thank God! Thank God! Thank God!). Afterward we all met uptown for a quick, late supper.

Cal is absolutely adorable, terrific, charming, funny and handsome – everything you would want a great athlete to be. He is on deck for election into the Baseball Hall of Fame next year and is thrilled as the majority of other people who have received this honor are dead.

At dinner, we all laughed and talked and Cal was so nice to all of the fans who came over to the table, talking to them and signing autographs.

What I want to know is how a 38 year old piece of Eurotrash – all dressed up in 5 inch heels, a hemline above her boobs and ready to samba her way into a Sugar Daddy’s heart – would have a baseball for Cal to sign – and WHERE was she keeping it???

Lysol, please.

I am at QVC this weekend. It is my 16th…can you believe it?  My 16th anniversary of being on the air.

When I started they were selling Teddy Bears and were thrilled when they sold four. Now they sell something like forty thousand an hour of whatever they are offering.

Boy has this place changed in 16 years and - bigger BOY - I’m the schmuck who didn’t buy stock.   

I am trying very hard to keep going and not think too much about Veronica, (my dog who died two days ago) but there is a hole in my apartment and life the size of China and Russia. I keep looking around corners expecting to see her little, barking face looking up at me and it is very hard to realize that it never will again.

What did I learn from her death? Feed your pets whatever they want – life is short and pleasures count. Thank God for all of those ice cream sandwiches that we split, the pigs in a blanket we both craved – not to mention the cantaloupe, prosciutto slices and anything else that could hit a plate. I know I’ll get a lot of flack for this, but tough. She was my dog and the only thing that comforts me now is the good times we had together in the kitchen.

I hope somewhere in doggie heaven God has her eating the most fattening, cheese filled hors d’oeuvres.

   Thank you all for sending your sweet thoughts.

                                         It means a great deal to me. xxx Joan                                                          

They say that one picture is worth a thousand words.  If that is so...

  then this is the one.                                     

Special thanks to Dr. Elsa Schock and an amazing staff at the Animal Medical Center on 62nd  Street.  They are unbelievably kind and giving and loving—from the man who washes the floors to the head of the entire hospital. Everybody there loves animals and cares.

They truly were wonderful.  They let us have long visits with Veronica for the four days she was there, which was so important and so appreciated.  They did all they could--and everything with compassion.    

This is the Jewish New Year. On hearing about my loss, one friend said, and it was very comforting to me, that Veronica was “gathered up.”  Another friend, also noting the Jewish holiday, said, “She just wasn’t written in this year’s Book of Life.” 

 I’m hitting temple next week.

          VERONICA RIVERS

            7-4-93   to  9-26-06

            May she rest in peace.

Here are things that happen in a waiting room at an animal hospital.

Everybody is there because of a sick pet, so you see meowing boxes and bags with holes that are chirping and no one looks happy.

I have just visited Veronica and I don't think she'll make it through the night.

Veronica has a viral infection that many dogs get. It raises their blood count, lowers their blood pressure and makes them vomit up blood.

There is blood in the stool, blood in her vomit, blood all over the place. She is very debilitated and apparently her condition can be life threatening. They brought her in to see me and she could barely lift her head. I’m out of my mind. She’s only 12, which is young for a Yorkie – especially a Jewish one.

Bad news! Bad news!

My dog, Veronica, is very ill and in the Animal Medical Center. Of my three dogs, Veronica is the tiniest. She is a Yorkie who is totally spoiled by my housekeeper, Debbie, and the rest of the group in my house. When I say spoiled, I mean spoiled, this dog will only chase limousines.

She is a little bit of a nipper and I was terribly worried that in the hospital, with all of the doctors around her trying to save her life, she, instead of being grateful and looking at them with big, dog eyes, would be nipping. I went to the hospital at six o’clock in the morning, (directly from the airport), to find out that she was in a cage marked “Caution.” She was filled with tubes which were going in and out of every orifice and, even as sick as she is, the poor, little thing has nipped at three or four doctors.

It’s hard to be a vet if you only have three fingers on one hand and no nose because one of your patients didn’t like you.

Why is it that one Jew automatically thinks that another Jew knows Yiddish and breaks out into it the minute they get together?

 One person who is guilty of this is my podiatrist, Dr. Kushner. I’ll be sitting there, perfectly content, having the good doctor whittling away at my feet when suddenly he’ll say to me, “So I turned to my friend and said, “Guisha pressha luchen priam. Right?”

 And, because the man has a knife in one hand and my little toe in the other I’ll say, “Right! Right! No kidding? Wow! Right on! Funny!” One day, when my feet are perfect I’m going to turn around and say, “Doctor Kushner, I don’t know what the f*#k you are talking about. Just work on the bunion if you please and save the Yiddish jokes for Mel Gibson.” 

What can I tell you? My father was a doctor and no doctor has ever come close to measuring up to him. He was a G.P. (now they now call them Internists which gets them more money) and he made house calls – remember those, folks? He was adored by his patients. So all my life I’ve been looking for a family doctor to replace my father. They just ain’t out there!

I went to one doctor who, for nine months, told a patient he had yellow jaundice before he realized that the patient was Chinese.

I went to another doctor who, every time a patient would hand him a urine specimen in a bottle he’d scream, “You drowned my genie!” and then laugh and laugh while the patient slowly bled to death.

And probably the worst things that ever happened to me was when I went to a gay acupuncturist and he used knitting needles on me.

So to say that I’m not crazy about doctors is the understatement of the century.

However, the exception to the rule is my Ear, Nose and Throat doctor, Dr. Gwen Korovin. She has been taking care of show biz Greats and Near Greats for many years in New York. I love it when I come in and the receptionist says, “Doctor is running a little late,” and then she drops her voice, “Tony Bennett has laryngitis.” Or, “Doctor is a bit tired today. Pavarotti insisted that she have midnight supper with him after his opening at the Met.” That kind of stuff.

I went in yesterday because I’ve had a scratchy throat for over a month and I am one of the people who figure, “Okay – that’s it. It’s all over. I’m going to be the funny Julie Andrews.” My voice is my instrument, it is how I make my living and my biggest fear is that some day I won’t be able to say to some darling little tot, “Get the f*#k out of here!” (How do you say f*#k in sign language?)

So I went in today and Dr. Korovin looked down my throat, which is one of the worst experiences ever. If you haven’t been through it, they go up through your nose with a tube – Ah! Ah! Ah! – and then down into your throat so they can see your vocal cords, etc. This horrible thing that they use has a light on it. I’m sitting there gagging, choking and waving my arms wildly and the nurse said, “Just pretend its oral sex.”

All of the celebrities that Dr. Korovin treats have their pictures on the walls of her office and while this torture is going on, there is Barbara Cook grinning, Celine Dion smiling, there is Alan Alda, Ben Vereen and Joel Gray. But the worst is Bjork. She is sitting there grinning at me and all I want to say is, “Stop smiling at me you a*#hole. Anyone who wears a chicken dress has nothing to laugh about.”

I had dinner on Saturday night – Highlight! Highlight! Highlight! – with Mel Brooks, who is a very good friend of a friend of mine. We had dinner in a wonderful restaurant called the Wolseley.

It was Mel, a friend of his from the BBC, this friend of mine, a Jewish girl from Long Island who married well and ended up being a Countess, and me.

As we were sitting there I kept thinking, “Where is my mother to see me having dinner with Mel Brooks?” when in walks the tallest, thinnest white woman I’ve ever seen in my life. She came over and said, “Hello Joan. How are you?” I broke my neck looking up, up, up to her glorious face. It was Nicole Kidman. She was dressed in a black denim jacket and tight, black denim trousers with very white, blonde, curly hair pulled back and big shades. She is sweet, funny, dear and gorgeous, but too thin. She could hide behind Nicole Richie.

…because my weekend was wonderful. I went over to England last weekend (well I didn’t just go over, I flew over) to work on QVC, to have meetings with the BBC for a possible show over there and also to be there for the launch of the repeat season of my show "The Joan Rivers Position" on Channel 5 which was a minor hit when it launched last year. “Minor” means it was funny enough to rerun in the U.K. and to put on the air in Canada and Poland (you know the Poles and their senses of humor), but “minor” also means that my dressing room was a refrigerator with the door cut off.

The airport was a madhouse. The lines went on forever and those poor security people who have to go through everyone’s things are so bogged down. They keep finding itty-bitty stuff in peoples’ suitcases that we’re no longer allowed to take: lip gloss, toothpaste, hairspray and things you never think about like eye drops which are suddenly being confiscated despite people crying, “But I need them, but I need them, but I need them.” Everybody was really upset about the length of the line and the depth of the searches, so I made a speech, “Better they do this on the ground,” I said, “where we’re all safe, than, God forbid, something terrible happens to us in the air. If someone misses a plane because of these long lines, then so be it, it’s in everybody’s best interest.” Surprisingly people booed and shook their fists at me. Could this be because as I said this I was being escorted by a passenger agent and cutting the entire line?

Happy New Year Jews!  It starts at sundown tomorrow!

Happy New Year Christians too! (Attention Christians: hold this till it fits for you on January 1st).

I am beyond wiped, beyond tired, but happy, happy, happy. We taped the Bravo pilot or, as I call it, the “Gay View” (which they are calling "Joan Rivers’ Straight Talk"). I think that it went very, very, very well. At first the audience was horrible. They were cold and hostile and I can’t blame them because they were left outside, in the rain, for over two hours due to trouble with the lighting. I went out early and spoke to them and laughed with them and, finally, they ended up being a sensational audience. Everything went wonderfully and everyone performed exactly as they were supposed to—which is unheard of in a pilot.

Donny Deutsch was my celebrity guest and he was un-fxxxing-believable! He is charming and funny and witty. Donny is a strong and natural television personality. He came on time, asked for nothing and did what we wanted him to do. He even came and went on his own—didn’t even ask for a car! Unheard of in this business. I am eternally grateful.

Jim McGreevey came in to be our Social Commentator/Political Analyst. Everybody now knows who he is, but if you’ve been stuck under a rock for the past few years, he’s the ex-Governor of New Jersey who came out of the closet. He too was great. Plus he got into a huge argument with L.Z. Granderson about freedom of speech that was just terrific—nothing  like a good fight on TV.

The only thing that made me sad is that there were several jokes about the Bobby Brown/Whitney Houston split that I didn’t get a chance to use. I think I’ll tell them to you right now.

1. Bobby Brown’s and Whitney Houston’s divorce, how sad is that? Rumor has it that when she served him with papers, he rolled a joint with them.

2. Poor Bobby, he’s all alone in their house. This morning Whitney packed all her tiny, little, white bags and left.

3. Whitney and Bobby haven’t spoken for weeks, I guess there won’t be anymore “spoonin” in that marriage.

4. Whitney and Bobby have proven that the expression “Black Don’t Crack” doesn’t apply to them.

I took the cast and crew to Sardi’s afterward for a party. The Bravo people seemed very happy, so now it is up to the dreaded Focus Groups. If you are reading this and you are in a Focus Group, for God sakes, vote for us! If we get on the air, we are going to have a ball!

Yesterday I mentioned meeting Rosie and remembering how much I liked her.  Last Wednesday, I called my house (I was at rehearsal for my Bravo pilot—which we’ll get to in a minute). My housekeeper, Debbie, said that Rosie had mentioned me on “The View” and talked about what a good time we had had at Elaine Stritch’s opening. Isn’t it amazing that when you like someone they like you back and, conversely, when you don’t like someone they don’t like you back. Ah, the names that come up…Tommy Lee Jones, Annette Benning, Russell Crowe, Hitler…I could go on and on and on.

Now to my Bravo pilot. It is going to be, which I think I’ve already told you, a homosexual version of “The View” mixed with a bit of Bill Maher’s “Real Time.” There will be a lot of pop culture (i.e., is Suri really Tom’s and Katie’s kid or just a rented Chinese brat?), a lot of politics and a lot of laughs. I have always felt that gay men are the most fun, the most fearless and the have quickest mouths at a dinner party and that’s what I’d like to bring to this show.

We’ve been working for 4 months to make this hour-long show great and, I think after last Wednesday’s run-through, we are reaching what we want—fast, funny and controversial

I go from meeting to meeting voicing my opinion which I’m sure they don’t want! After rehearsal, my voice was hoarse and I’d eaten enough M & M’s to add another dress size, but the cast is wonderful and the main players behind the scenes are incredible and I think that if everyone has half the talent they claim they have—including me—this can be a successful show.

I have a dear friend, Henry Edwards, who is what they call a Second Night Critic, which means he writes Broadway and Off-Broadway reviews for magazines and small newspapers around the country. Because of this, he is invited to lots of great, great openings – both theatre and cabaret – and, as we are dear, old friends – plus I have some very disturbing Polaroids of him and a chicken – he often wants me to be is guest. So…

Last week Henry took me to the opening of Elaine Stritch at the Café Carlyle.       It is a very posh, WASP room that old people with names like Muffy and Bunny often go to. Stritch is a great Broadway star and is one of those amazing women who has been around forever. She has been in thirty-five million different musicals and each time her performance is a home run. Because of this Broadway performers, instead of going to church or temple, worship on Sundays at Elaine’s feet.

I have never seen such a gathering of celebrities in one small space in my life! Hal Prince – the director of Phantom - with his wife Judy. Harvey Fierstein – writer of La Cage Aux Folles and star of Hairspray. Barbara Walters. Cindy Adams. Liz Smith. Nathan Lane – star of La Cage Aux Folles and The Producers. Arlene Dahl--one of the great stars of MGM--a Femme Fatale and former wife of Fernando Lamas and Lex Barker, just to name a few (and, if you don’t know who they are, Google them and wish you had a time machine to take you back to when they were white hot and on the make).

The table that interested me the most was Barbara Walters’ table with, yes, Rosie O’Donnell and her girlfriend/wife, Kelly. I hadn’t seen Rosie in a good seven years and went right over to the table. It was some reunion! I had forgotten what a warm and all encompassing person she is. And what do two successful comics talk about? Children and grandchildren, boring, huh?

And then Elaine came out. She is 83 years old, folks, 83 and looking fabulous. Still showing her amazing legs that Marlon Brando went nuts for when he was in his 20’s. She sang all of her great Broadway hits and, every time she opened her mouth, we realized that this is what a performer should be. It was a master class in how to sing a song. I haven’t seen anyone understand a lyric that well since Sinatra. Afterwards, we all gathered around and talked to Elaine and to one another. I am still shocked that these big wigs not only acknowledge me, but kiss me hello! I’m still floating on air. What a night! What a night! What a night!

American Airlines either has a junior staff picking their movies or the budget of a dollar. Recently, on a round-trip to California, I saw two of the world’s worst movies. One that was meant for teens and the other for little kids.

Let’s start with Lindsay Lohan, that great star, in her epic Just My Luck. Besides being boring, stupid and cutesy, it was the first time I’d ever seen passengers on an airplane deliberately raise their shades to let more sunlight in during the movie. Unless I can see Lindsay doing what she does best, drinking,  partying, showing up late on the set or crashing cars, I’m just not interested.

Coming home, hard to believe, the movie choice got even worse. I got hit with Hoot, the story of a group of fun-loving owls whose home is saved by three meddling kids when it is threatened by developers.

Half way through this nightmare, it occurred to me that maybe clear cutting old-growth forests isn’t such a terrible idea. I was keeping my fingers crossed that these owls had seen Hitchcock’s The Birds and would go after the snarky little stars’ eyes, but no such luck. Everyone ended up happy in the end except for the 250 passengers on Flight 24 who, frankly, didn’t give a hoot about Hoot.

Just a thought on Grandparents Day (which was last Sunday).

It is probably the most STUPID idea that Hallmark ever came up with since Secretary’s Day. Love should not be reserved for one day only. I will gladly receive flowers, furs, cars, penthouses and major trips from Cooper on any day of the year, that little tyke shouldn’t just shower me with gifts one day a year.

Here are some of the gifts that one gets on Grandparent’s Day that make me really nauseous:

An empty box that says, “100 Kisses in Here.”

A really ugly stick figure with the word “Grandma” underneath it. That’s not what I look like!

A list of the people he loves including: Mommy, Daddy, Elmo and that Other Grandmother - all coming ahead of me. This makes me think about changing the will.

A box of diapers with a note saying, “I don’t need these any more, Granny, but everyone says that you do. Enjoy.”

I am President of the Board of my condominium.  I got this position not because everybody in the building loves me, but because everybody in the building hates me. NOBODY else even wanted the job, so...

   I got home at 11:30 the other night after my dinner at the Isle of Capri restaurant (see entry below) and waiting for me in my apartment was a rough copy of our newly amended policy:  “Rules on How the Doormen Should Act.”  

       It was so out of another century, but important, nonetheless.  If you live in a doorman staffed building, these men should look and act the part.

     So I sat up until one o’clock in the morning resolving such issues as where the doormen could smoke (side of our building), at what temperature they'd be allowed to take their outer jackets off (72 degrees), how they are to address residents and/or visitors ("Hello Mr. or Mrs. _____." Never, "It's about time you got in, you old souse." 

     The last matter requiring my attention was: If both a resident and a visitor enter the building, each carrying a large package, who should the doorman go to first?
   My presidential decision?  "Who's the bigger tipper?" 

My show at the Herbst theatre was great fun. The audience got all the jokes and I got two, count ‘em, two, standing ovations.

My good friend Kathy Griffin, who was also working in San Francisco, surprised me by showing up in a disguise that looked just like her.

Kathy and I went out to dinner afterward at Michael Mina, which is a terrific restaurant in the St. Francis Hotel and they kept the kitchen open for us – Hah - so being the ugly, funny girls in school has finally paid off for us!

The best part of the evening, outside of talking to and really loving Kathy, was that she picked up the check. If only I had known in advance it would have been a caviar and truffles evening for me.  

What do comedians talk about? The same as everybody else:

All the people we hate.

 And...

Doctors we know who can make us look better.

 And...

More about people we hate.

 And...

How to keep a professional eye makeup job intact over a three day tour.

 And...

More people we hate

 And...

The political situation in the world…but just for a second.

And, finally...

More people we hate.

It was a great dinner and, I repeat, I LOVE Kathy. She’s as shallow as I am.

I just got back from San Francisco where I performed at the beautiful, restored Herbst Theatre – more on this later – and had the best time...

                                                except....

 when are airlines going to figure out that if they can get you across the country in five and a half hours, they should be able to get your luggage down the chute in less than four? Two women waiting for their bags at the carousel went through menopause and I kept myself busy by sending out a 47th birthday card to the Olsen Twins.

My assistant, Matt, and I finally arrived at the St. Francis Hotel and were met by a former Nazi (now a concierge) who insisted that the two of us needed three bedrooms – I think she was planning to turn the third one into a gas chamber. She may have heard somewhere that she would get extra points at the next Bund Meeting for wiping out a Jew AND a gay at the same time.

In the “No Good Deed Goes Unpunished Department”, I had agreed, in a very weak moment, to be a celebrity guest at the 15th Anniversary of the National AIDS Memorial Grove in Golden Gate Park. The car that was picking me up was half an hour late and driven by the only two humorless gay people I’d ever met. They had no idea where they were going or how to drive. Between shrieks and gasps, I managed to get to the event just as it was finishing.

The site itself is absolutely beautiful and very moving. They have two circles dedicated to people who have died of AIDS. One has hundreds of names carved in it and the other circle, which really touched me, is empty and dedicated to all of the nameless casualties of this dreaded disease. It is a lovely meditation garden supported by private contributors and a couple of bank heists.

I have been very busy working on my pilot for a TV show I'm  doing for Bravo. (We’re shooting it on Thursday and I’m really excited.) The show is sort of a gay “View” (which is how I pitched it to Bravo), but I can’t call it that anymore because now that Rosie has joined it, “The View” is gay within itself.
    

Our show, called "Straight Talk," will be me and four wonderful, wonderful, wonderful gay men—I went through (I swear) 5,000 to find them—plus former New Jersey Governor Jim McGreevey, who’ll be coming on as our special correspondent for politics and current events. He's adorable, funny, and at a real crossroads in his life.

We all went out to dinner at the Isle of Capri restaurant last night and, while sitting in a little private room, we started to bond.  Thank GOD I like each and every one of these guys., as it could easily have gone the other way. 

I was very worried about the youngest of the group, Preston, because I thought we’d never relate.  He’s 22-years old!  (I was going through menopause when his mother was having labor pains. )  But it turned out he’s funny and wonderful—a fat boy who made himself lose weight, who has a father he hasn’t seen in twenty years, who supported himself through school…all kinds of fabulous stories.  Which, again, is what I always say, “Sit next to anybody and ask about their life. I guarantee you'll never know what stories they will tell you and you'll always be amazed."  Everybody really does have some kind of movie in them--except my cousin Shirley, who is just plain boring.  She is a Jewish woman who, by choice, buys RETAIL.  Enough said?

I had dinner last night with Cindy Adams, the columnist, who I truly adore. She was my first interview after I hit on the Carson show. That’s how far back we go together.  We went to the Brasserie, which is a little restaurant under the Seagram Building. Very nice, very casual.

Cindy is one of those naturally thin women who can eat whatever she likes. (I hate, hate, hate them!) She had three appetizers. Three!  I had one appetizer and a little piece of fish, which I tried not to eat by pretending it was filled with bones.  (And the next day I was still up a pound.)

Cindy ate everything, including a delicious dessert.  And she is still—whatever her age is—a size four! At the end of the meal she stood up looking chicer than anyone in their twenties at that restaurant.  I couldn’t even get out of the booth. I had filled up on water and salad.  Yum-Yum.  Whenever I have these kinds of dinners I always say , “God, don’t let me die tonight. What a lousy, s***y last meal this would be.”

And speaking of last meals, what would yours be?  Mine would be shrimp cocktail, lasagna, steak, creamed spinach, salad with blue cheese dressing, French fried onion rings, garlic bread, and strawberry shortcake for dessert.  Deeelicious!

    Let’s talk about Katie Couric’s first night as the CBS Evening News anchor.  I thought Katie looked wonderful.  (I wish the critics who knocked her for wearing black-and-white would understand that black-and-white is in, in, in, this year, although the jacket she was wearing didn’t fit as well as it should have when she stood up.)  Katie looked extremely pretty, like a bright, sharp newswoman, and the new set behind her was terrific. However, I didn’t think it was "news."  It was like another “60 Minutes.”  It was all packaged pieces and I kept saying, “Yeah, yeah. But what’s happening around the world?”  Well, we now have another “60 Minutes” kind of news program at 6:30…instead of hard news.  Even CNN now has cupcake-type girls giving us death tolls.

    Along with 4 million Americans,  I also watched the season opener of “The View.”  Rosie O’Donnell—God knows why—hates me and I  truly don’t know why. When she came out as a lesbian, I was one of the first to say, “Good for you.” However, I watched her debut on “The View” and it sure turned into “Rosie’s Turn.” Capital “R” Capital “T.”  Poor white bread Elizabeth didn’t know what to do so she told a really stupid story about her little girl tinkling on the floor.  And Rosie kicked it right up to nude bathing with her kid and the child calling her pubic hair "fur."  Even I was shocked. Then I thought, "Maybe the kid was looking at Rosie's back!"  Anyhow, it will be fun to see how “The View” evolves. Joy Behar suddenly looks like a church lady sitting there.

I am writing this from the eye doctor’s office after a nightmare 24 hours!  I went on the “Today” show yesterday to talk about being a grandparent, along with Frank McCourt and some poor young lady from AARP who didn’t know why she was there and never got a chance to explain. While we were talking, something blew into my right eye and I couldn’t see for the rest of the day.  But I had a Joan Rivers Beauty show scheduled that night so I headed down to QVC and at 1 a.m. went on the air. It was probably the first ever sell of cosmetics by a blind person. It’s very hard to say to someone, “Your skin looks really beautiful” when you’re wearing black glasses. All I needed was Max beside me, gnawing on my white cane.

Because the eye doctor said he could see me in the morning, I came all the way back to New York in the middle of the night. I am now sitting here waiting for Dr. Belgorod who does not take Blue Cross, Blue Shield or any insurance known to mankind, so it’s going to cost me a bloody fortune. And, naturally, because I am here, my eye feels perfectly fine.  I’m looking at all the poor people around me with sad eyes and bad eyes and dogs—and I’m thinking, “Why am I here when the same amount of money as this visit is costing could get me one nice pair of Manolo Blahniks or seventy two pairs of Nine Wests?"

   Last night’s show in Spokane was a huge success. You give me an Indian Casino and I’ll give you a great act every time. You get to meet the elders and they always give you a gorgeous blanket. I got a Pendleton blanket that’s 100 percent virgin wool.

Right now I’m sitting in the United Red Carpet Club in the Chicago airport.  It’s filled with single men who obviously were not invited by their ex-wives for Labor Day weekend. They’re all pretending they’re going somewhere. Very sad.

My assistant and I snuck in food. On planes these days you never know.  You hear announcements like, “No food beyond this point. No liquids beyond this point." It’s like going to a concentration camp. People are sobbing as they walk toward their flights.

But it’s not so tragic being a comedienne and traveling all over the world…especially when you can sit in first class and eat a really good Wolfgang Puck sandwich.  Wolfgang, an old friend of mine, makes these sandwiches that are so fresh.  I figured out that the only way this could happen is if his entire family is up and working weekends, because these sandwiches are really fresh. I hope the 22 kids that he had in Austria are given some freedom over the holiday weekend.

    I’m on the way home where tonight I’m going to pick up my dogs… and a barking car will head for... Connecticut!

Yesterday we arrived in Spokane, Washington. The number one thing to know about Spokane is it is a GORGEOUS CITY. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

The next thing to know about Spokane is that it’s pronounced Spokannnnn…not Spokane.  

(This could mean that Kate Moss was actually arrested for Co-cann not Cocaine.)

We’re in a wonderful old hotel called the Davenport. For some reason the widow Davenport had a bronze statue made of her late husband sitting in the lobby and it’s very weird.

There is also—and we’re not sure if it is here or not—a Starbucks in the lobby of the hotel Davenport.  It says Starbucks, the coffee tastes like Starbucks but the treats are too delicious to be Starbucks.  Either Starbucks is trading up or it’s just Spokane.

I’m on my way tonight to entertain tonight at a casino in the middle of nowhere. 

There are a lot of fir trees and right now I see a lot of people and I’m very excited because… well, because this is America and tonight I’m bringing laughs to people who usually just get out...under fir trees.

I hope everybody had a better Labor Day weekend than I did. It was tragic.  Okay, I did have a great time on Friday at QVC selling my wonderful 9-piece lip and nail kit, which I adore.

I was supposed to go home afterward and have dinner with friends—Cindy Adams as a matter of fact. But because I had to be in Spokane, Washington the following night—and that stupid hurricane Ernesto was coming (another illegal alien ruining my life)—they told me I had to leave immediately. 

So I flew out from Pennsylvania and spent the night at the Hilton Minneapolis in the Presidential Suite, which I found very interesting.  I’d always thought the president would like his own bedroom, but I guess not.  They figured out in Minneapolis that if the president came to visit he would really like an L shaped room with a Murphy bed.  At first I thought, “I don’t think so,” especially Clinton who would have liked a door somewhere to shut. . But then I realized how clever it was.  If the president is in bed and some terrorist comes to kill him, he could just snap that Murphy bed right up. He’d safe, safe, safe.