Most Talkative: Stories From the Front Lines of Pop Culture by Andy Cohen Page A

Madonna impersonator who was just one of the colorful characters in Grac’s life working for Kelly Cutrone.
    “Lady Bunny did two numbers. Anyway, Queerdonna came by the office today and thought tonight was the night. And still wanted to get paid even though she missed it, the fat fuck!” And, without missing a beat, Graciela said: “Hey. Tell your parents you’re an Indian.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “Tell them that you’re convinced you’re, like, an Indian.”
    I can guarantee that at that time we weren’t the only two jackasses who still didn’t know you were supposed to say “Native American.”
    “Okay … What kind?”
    “A Shawnee?”
    A scheme was hatched. An ill-advised, politically incorrect scheme. “I’m gonna tell my mom that you introduced me to some guy at a club who looks just like me, and that he’s an Indian. An actual Indian, a Shawnee.” My mind was spinning. “And that, wow, do we really look alike. That’s all I’ll say, but I’ll mention him in a week or so and keep bringing him in and that’s maybe how I’ll eventually be convinced…”
    “That you’re a Shawnee, too,” said Graciela.
    We put our work aside for much of that day, calling each other back and forth about eighteen times. Who could work? Besides, CBS should have been funding my creativity so I could run wild with an idea like this. Maybe it would translate to some out-of-the-box winner of an idea that would revolutionize morning television! Probably not, but we’d never know if we didn’t follow through. The plan became more elaborate as the day continued, and so did our commitment to it.
    At week’s end, I had the ears of both my parents for our regularly scheduled phone call.
    “Tad Martin calling collect,” the operator said in classic monotone operatorspeak.
    “I do NOT ACCEPT charges,” Evelyn barked. She always felt she needed to act out her rejection of the call, as though the operator were going to call bullshit on our weekly charade and report us. Sometimes I actually took her rejection personally.
    A minute later the phone rang. “Well, hello, Tad!” she chirped.
    “Hey, Tad,” said my dad. He loved it, too.
    Step one of the plan was uneventful. I told them about Grac’s friend the Indian who looked like me. I told them he was Shawnee. They took it as typical commentary from a night out in Mad-hattan and we moved along.
    The next week, I told them I’d run into my Shawnee look-alike again … and that we’d spent hours discussing his heritage and that it was interesting—even inspiring—to me.
    “What’s so inspiring?” my mom asked.
    “Well, his tribe had a lot of land taken away,” I stumbled. “And he just has a lot of passion about his heritage. You should really see him, Mom. I mean, we could be twins.”
    “Well, maybe you’re Indian.” She chuckled. My father was silent. Probably watching TV with the phone eight inches away to reduce the impact of hearing Evelyn in quadraphonic surroundsound from the next room.
    “Well, maybe I am,” I said matter-of-factly. “He’s bringing me some Shawnee books next week.”
    A week later I went for the kill. “These books are fascinating.”
    “What BOOKS, Andy?”
    “These Shawnee books I got from Grac’s friend. I look like these guys. I’m not kidding. The bone structure, the whole thing. REALLY interesting.”
    “Yeah, I bet you look like them,” my mother snickered.
    “No, I mean their hair, their eyes are just like mine.”
    “Uh-huh—and do they look Jewish, the Indians? JEWISH INDIANS?” She was feeling it. Her son was being a boob.
    “I don’t know, Mom.” Time to turn up the volume. “I wonder sometimes…”
    Pause. “You wonder WHAT?”
    “Just, like, who I really am.”
    “Who you really ARE? Who are you? Who do you THINK you are?”
    “Well, you know … these Shawnees had reservations in Southern Illinois. And I just wonder if somehow I could have Shawnee blood or be part Shawnee.”
    “What do you