Archives for posts with tag: Andy Cohen

“Socialism never took root in America because the poor see themselves not as an exploited proletariat but as temporarily embarrassed millionaires.”
John Steinbeck

Russell Armstrong was the husband/adjunct of Taylor Armstrong…a “Real Housewives of Beverly Hills” character in the Bravo reality television series of the same name.

As most of us read this past week, Russell Armstrong is dead. Hung by the neck, fully clothed, no suicide note at his best friend’s Beverly Hills home.

Did reality TV kill Russell Armstrong?

Discovered by his wife and young daughter. This ordinary looking, middle-aged man could not take it any more.

As the American dream of the middle class crumbles to dust ‘aspirational’ shows like “The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills” developed by producers like Bravo’s Andy Cohen become increasingly popular.

According to friends who knew them, Russell and Taylor Armstrong were living, “Way beyond their means.” He was having, “Trouble at the office.” He was under, “Increasing financial pressure.”

Russell was the sort of guy who, “Had multiple business deals going at all times.”

Meanwhile, Taylor Armstrong says, “It may look like I have it all, but I want more.

In many ways this couple are typical of many families in post recession, double dip America. Struggling to get by whilst keeping up appearances.

Yet, unlike other families, their problems were magnified on reality television.

On TV, stoicism is perceived as pretension. Fighting to survive looks to the snarky viewer, recalibrated by the producer as: pathetic and desperate.

Without the cameras, prying eyes and competitive resentment the Armstrong’s might have sorted out the messes that many Americans share. They might have had the luxury of a private chat with a financial advisor, a couples therapist.

The problem is: Shows like “The Real Housewives” are not about revealing the cracks in the facade or grown up solutions. This show is about ‘glamour’, confrontation and spurious TV paid for parties.

Away from the cameras these women talk about ‘production’, ‘air-time’ and ‘ratings’. They luxuriate in the language of prime time entertainment.

This is Andy Cohen’s dress up show. Divas, Cougars, Vixen. Andy’s fag hags that he abusively tells to ‘shut the fuck up’ when the drama he created drowns out his own ego-maniacal, shrill voice.

Some gay men love an older woman with botox to parade at parties. Like Capote before him Andy Cohen delights in exploiting families (with which he has no first hand experience) he can only guess at the financial woes that make such good TV, the divorces with which he speculates and profits.

Andy is a single, childless, gay man playing gay God in lives for which he has no care but to make money. He was laughing all the way to the bank…now he is maybe crying crocodile tears…all the way to the bank.

The last thing any reality TV show needs is a crushingly real suicide. There is nothing real about reality TV. Death, is seems, in reality TV land needs a one hour, unscripted, series premiere preamble for Taylor’s costars to explain their grief. I am sure that they will repair their relationship with the recently departed and defend their co-star as the abused victim, the tragic ingenue.

Last week Russell hung himself in the spare bedroom of his best friend one month after his wife filed for divorce.

Until CNN asked me to appear on HLN to discuss Russell’s death I knew nothing of Russell or Taylor, I had not seen one episode of any one of the “Housewives of…” franchise. My only link to the show was having met Andy Cohen on two private occasions.

The short, ebullient, producer of many avidly watched shows. Driven around NYC in his black, overly large limousine, surrounded by sycophantic boys. Lauded for his extraordinary ability to make mass market, trash television then audaciously crashing through the third wall to make himself a character worthy of his own show.

Whilst Andy Cohen plays ‘dress up’ with his housewives, bank balances are shattered, children see their dead fathers hanging from the rafters, divorces are finalized.

The relationship between Andy and his housewives needs greater scrutiny.

Since Russel’s death Andy has been uncharacteristically mute.

I wrote to him asking if he had anything to say about Russell’s death.

He asked for my ‘POV’. I replied:

I hoped you might want to say more about this incident.

There has been a great deal of discussion about just how responsible you and Bravo might be for this death.

Obviously Russell is ultimately responsible for his suicide but one might argue that he was brutalized by a wholly fictional narrative creative by yourselves.

Excluded from the show, losing his wife and child in a public way…a mere adjunct, his masculinity compromised…this could have pushed a fragile man to the edge of his being.

Whilst you are an ebullient survivor type of guy…riding your housewives wave…it rather cruelly occurs to me to ask whether your heart really does go out to the child of this dead man? Or…please excuse me…I wonder how you will benefit financially from this death?

I wondered whether you felt at all responsible for his suicide?

The pressure put on those women to perform for ‘air time’ can skew (ironically) their reality.

Russell ended up a ‘featured extra’ in his own life. The bad guy who may or may not have injured his wife but certainly not able to imagine a time where he would be able defend himself against the inevitably huge wave of negative press a network like yours can generate.

That was my POV.

Hope you are well Andy.

Andy replied:

“I don’t think you know me or this situation at all so it is quite bold of you to speculate as you do.”

We all, of course, live in a world of speculation.

Perhaps Russell saw himself as a failure who couldn’t even get Reality TV ‘right’. Shamed publicly for his bad choices, his bad temper, his un-American solutions. If Russell and Taylor thought that they would discover untold riches under the bushel of reality TV then they were wrong.

Reality TV takes any problem and blows it up. Producers, directors and performers are all interested in one thing: drama. Usually that drama is manageable: tardiness, a sly look, a bitter word…then the inevitable reconciliation. Tearful, hugs, eyeliner smeared over acid washed cheeks.

Did reality TV kill Russell Armstrong?

We must take it seriously. Our insatiable desire to see women like Taylor Armstrong shop for things she could no longer afford, a marriage that no longer served her purpose. Her leading man tarnished, her husband a mere co-star who had to be recast.

“You’re a good looking woman, you could do so much better.” One might speculate that there is a far more telegenic husband waiting in the wings to whisk Taylor away from the funeral and onto a tropical island where her only stab at grieving might be a black bikini.

Many people, escaping their own misery, live vicariously through the noxious drama of the vacuous, crude and tasteless lives of these desperate housewives that may very well have killed Russell Armstrong.

I, for one, regret his passing. There will be no reconciliation for Russell, no ‘to camera’ explanation.

Like Willy Loman, Russell Armstrong killed himself because he was proud and foolish and could not take it any more.

Nowhere to turn, nowhere to hide.

Finally, Russell and Taylor’s child will not have the luxury of private grief. There will be cameras trained on her young face eager for tears that will make someone, somewhere a great deal of money.

 

Damn..this is the last thing I needed.

Yesterday CNN fetched me over to their Sunset Blvd building to discuss the death of reality adjunct Russell Armstrong whose estranged wife Taylor is part of Andy Cohen‘s Housewives Of…circus/franchise.

Are you aware of how many reality TV stars commit suicide?

The problem with reality TV is that it’s never real, so when something real actually happens the reality TV community…reels.

I was on the show with Omarosa from the The Apprentice.   I really liked her.  She is so beautiful

Her take on Russell was more pragmatic than mine.   He should have gone for the cash.  I felt that Russell probably saw his wife’s involvement in the show as an opportunity for them both to do well.

Taylor threw her husband under a bus.   Claiming all sorts of headline grabbing reasons why her marriage wasn’t working…except the glaringly obvious problem…reality TV.   Essentially thrown out of the show poor Russell, swimming in debt and hideous accusation hung himself.  Fully clothed.

No more red carpet for Russell.

Reality is all at once intrusive and life affirming.  Getting the big bucks for being ones self.   As I have said many times before, I found the entire experience unexpectedly validating.

Would I kill myself naked?  I suspect I might.

Having been in two wildly different types of reality TV shows I felt very relaxed discussing my experience.  Of course, I mentioned the restraining order.  It was the perfect opportunity.

My segment here.

Had coffee at Groundworks with a friend.  The excessively large limo they sent  gliding back up the mountain.

Had dinner with Robby in Santa Monica.  We ate huge raw steaks.

When I got home I walked the little dog.  He was being tentative.  At the edge of my terrace, no more than ten feet from my front door, a huge coyote lunged at The Little Dog puncturing his back.  I lunged at the coyote screaming like a banchee but in my haste falling down a flight of stairs as I fought back.  As it ran into the night, I felt my ankle go.  I felt that huge muscle in my left leg tear.  In extraordinary amounts of pain I sat on the step and sobbed.

Then something weird happened.  I started to shake violently.  Teeth chattering, body convulsing I crawled back up to the house.  I tore off my clothes and dragged myself into bed.  I called Robby who came back almost immediately and very kindly iced my foot and leg.  That boy is a fucking dream.

Finally my body calmed down.  The dog was/is petrified and it will take a few weeks for him to recover.  Damn it, it will take me a few weeks to recover.

I thought about Michael Landon in The Little House on the Prairie.  He always carried a gun.  I always wondered why…now I know.

Slept badly, my swollen legs sweating.  Unable to go to the bathroom I pissed in a cup.  A portent.  Prematurely infirmed.

Jason is heading over this way.  I am staying with the Piette’s until I get well.

What was I saying about naked suicide?

Hannah

Lunch with Joan L at The Standard Grill. Last time I was there? This time last year, I ate the rabbit pappardelle and was as sick as a dog. This time I managed to keep the fondue in my belly.

This time last year I was with The Penguin about to celebrate his birthday. We stayed at The Jane Hotel. I don’t know if we had a good time, I can no longer differentiate between what was good and what was bad. All I remember for sure was just how uncomfortable I felt, trying to keep that relationship alive even though I knew he was lying to me.

Loving without trusting is a bitch.

After lunch Joan and I looked at $800 leather bracelets and I bought a globe from Martin Margiela.

I could not find beard wax anywhere in the city. Consequently, I combed conditioner into my beard and it held for the duration of the shoot. What shoot? What are you talking about Duncan Roy?

Yesterday I dipped my toe back into the murky waters of reality TV.

As you may know I have been ‘seeing’ this boy. Did you know that or have I been very discreet?

Yes, you betcha I’ve been discreet.

I met Derek Lloyd Saathoff a few months ago. A cast member on a torrid reality show called the ‘A’ List. I’d never seen it.  The show is, I am told, a sort of gay version of the ‘Houseives Of…’ franchise.

I’m sure Andy Cohen would be pissed if I describe it like that.

Ironically, when they were casting the first series The Penguin suggested jokingly that we would make excellent cast members.

Everyone who has seen the show is appalled that I agreed to be on it. Everyone is always appalled at every decision I make. That’s par for the course. They describe the show as a ‘train wreck’ they tell me that Derek is a ‘bitch’.

I don’t say a word. He’s just a different kind of gay.  All we really have in common is cock.  Anyway, we have an arrangement.  I’m going to be his…Mr Big.

I am not doing this show for me but to support Derek.

As much as they say they hate it…they seem to watch it, watch it enough to know who everyone is and have an opinion about all of them.

I think appearing on the ‘A’ List will be fun.

Last night I pulled on my McQueen pants and my trusty Paul Smith jacket and walked to 24th Street where a small but well-organized crew were waiting for Derek and me to go on a ‘date’.

Actually, the crew wasn’t that small. Lesbians mostly, which was great. The ubiquitous straight boy producer who everyone finds very attractive. If he were gay would they?

I hadn’t seen D since my last trip. He’s been in the gym. No longer super slim (too thin) and boyish he has put on some very well needed weight. His arms are fleshy, firm and muscular. His ass has filled out very sexily. He feels great.

The last time we met, he was a hot mess.

We picked at the weird-looking food and sampled the virgin cocktails. We discussed our ‘relationship’ and his tanning product. We discussed his imminent trip to LA. I gave him a beautiful watch. Fans came up to him and had him hug them for the camera.

“We are great fans of the ‘A’ List.” One very attractive woman said.

She pushed her fat, gay friend at Derek who hugged him willingly, smiling that winning smile for the camera.

It was all very amusing. A video camera validates ones existence. How can that be? I remember that feeling from Sex Rehab. Just how thrilling everything was. Just how much I loved being filmed.

I was probably a little too bumptious for Derek.  Too…rude.  Not deferential enough.  I made some joke about his Mother being in prison which seemed to shock him.

We talked about getting involved with an LA based charity. I suggested The Triangle Center for the elderly in Hollywood. He liked that idea, he said.  Actually, he looked appalled.

We talked about monogamy.  He looked baffled.

After the shoot Derek returned my Cartier watch and I popped it back on my wrist.  I like acting.

I walked home alone after the shoot as I had to fetch the dog. I came crashing down. The intensity, the joy of being ‘on set’ the focus that one requires. I felt nostalgic…but I have no idea for what.

Perfectly adrift I called Stephen and chatted about his testicular lump. He is scared.

Then, quite by chance, we bumped into Aaron who invited me and The Little Dog back to his apartment on Avenue B where he sang songs and serenaded us with his guitar.

I would usually hate to be sung to but I wasn’t embarrassed because Aaron has a gift, he can really sing.

Bed at 2.30 am.

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