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they get anorexia, so they’ll starve to death and I won’t have to put up with that bullshit again. And every five minutes, in the middle of a conversation, one of them would pipe in with, “Let go and let God.” However, this was never said when I was reaching for the check. I wanted to get in a car and drive right into them yelling, “Sorry! I let go and let God take the wheel.”
    I just want to say here that I’m thrilled with my friends’ sobriety, but I’m sick and tired of hearing the competition of their rock-bottom moments. “I was drunk and raped by a gang of twelve. It was a horrible moment. Four of them were Japanese and poorly endowed.” “That’s nothing; I once ran nude through the White House; even Clinton booed.” “That’s nothing; I was so drunk I believed Richard Simmons was straight.”
    Sometimes I hear about celebrities who’ve gotten sober and I wonder what they say at their meetings. “Hi, my name is Phil Spector and I’m an alcoholic. I’ve kidnapped my wife, shot a woman to death and, even worse, let my hair go to hell, but I didn’t drink today, so I’m a winner and I feel pretty good about myself.” “Thank you for sharing, Phillip.” Clap. Clap. Clap.
    MARCH 17
    Dear Diary:
    My friend Margie has convinced me to go to a silent retreat in the Catskill Mountains for three days. It costs almost $2,200. I said, “Margie, why not just save the money and stay home and shut the fuck up?”
    MARCH 21
    Dear Diary:
    Thank God the retreat is over. I haven’t heard that kind of silence since my wedding night when I asked Edgar, “Was it good for you?”
    MARCH 23
    Dear Diary:
    I love Award Season. I watch all of them: the Oscars, the Grammys, the Golden Globes, etc. But I love two awards shows more than all the others: the Gay Awards Show, which is fabulous, and the statue is an exact copy of the Oscar except it’s on its knees; and the Porn Awards, which is also exactly like the Oscars except the red carpet is shaved.
    MARCH 25
    Dear Diary:
    It’s Passover and I’m at Melissa’s house in L.A. for the holiday. (I’m also here for Fashion Police , Joan & Melissa: Joan Knows Best? and In Bed with Joan .) As much as I love Judaism, I really love tax write-offs. So I invited twenty-six people over, all of whom can help me career-wise. To me, Passover is just Thanksgiving with Jews: lots of food, lots of laughs and lots of people sending food back to the kitchen because it’s too tough and you know your aunt Miriam has sensitive gums.
    Very mixed guest list—Jews, Christians, atheists and homos. Should be fun. They start arriving in fifteen minutes, which gives me just enough time to do a final inspection and make sure the cater waiters have covered up their cold sores and open lesions so they don’t upset my guests and ruin the Four Questions by adding a fifth question: “Why is there pus in my soup?”
    MARCH 26
    Dear Diary:
    Passover dinner couldn’t have gone better. It was the gayest Seder I’ve ever had. Two of the four questions involved Lady Gaga. When the giant lamb bone came out, half of the men at the table squealed with delight, and the other half said, “I think I know him.” There’s always one person at every Seder who’s an uber-Jew and knows absolutely everything about Jewish history and culture and tradition. And we had ours. For the sake of kindness (and because her father’s a lawyer), I’ll call her Nafka. Nafka knew it all: she knew the prayers in English, Hebrew, Yiddish and Farsi; she knew the answers to all four of the questions; she even knew why Moses schlepped the Ten Commandments down the mountain instead of taking the elevator (Big M was mildly claustrophobic and had once gotten stuck for six hours in an elevator with Lot and his wife, who was not only hateful, but lived on a salt-free diet of cabbage and beans).
    MARCH 27
    Dear Diary:
    I haven’t gone to the bathroom in almost twenty-four hours. Matzoh is so binding. Now I know why it took