Joan Rivers still draws a crowd.
Melissa Rivers and Scott Currie’s book is “Joan Rivers Confidential: The Unseen Scrapbooks, Joke Cards, Personal Files and Photos of a Very Funny Woman Who Kept Everything.” The title’s wider than she was. The book weighs more than she did. Deborah Norville, Blaine Trump and I co-host its party on Tuesday. There’s a load of RSVPs. The late Joan Alexandra Molinsky Rosenberg keeps packing them in — just like always.
An eatery called Maxwell’s Chophouse is even sticking her niftyisms — “How old am I? I ran the hatcheck at the Last Supper” . . . “It zips doesn’t mean it fits” . . . “Exercise? If God wanted me to bend over, he’d have put diamonds on the floor” — onto their mirrors.
Published by Abrams, this 336-pager — with photos of all my darling close friend’s different sculpted faces — is huge. Coffee-table size.
There are her squirreled-away lines like: “New Yorkers are loud, rude and obnoxious. I fit right in.” Alongside our photo together is “New York’s the only place where you can be mugged in five nationalities.” And — in time for today’s headlines: “It’s so crowded that I once examined my breasts for lumps and came across another pair of hands.”
Other than an old nose, Joan threw nothing away. Currie, president of p.r. firm Anchor Communications, spent one year combing through her vaults of files. Crates were locked away. Stored in sealed facilities.
There’s her guest list for Sept. 19, 1994’s Nancy Reagan party. With it, the prepared dinnertime jokes, like: “There’s a pubic hair in my soup and it looks like Uncle Jack’s.”
Melissa — who produced her mom’s E! show “Fashion Police” — unearthed smartass-isms about housekeeping hatred, like: “The only reason I hang anything up is because there’s no room left on the floor.” And, accompanying a photo of Joanie with long brown hair: “Last night my maid got caught trying to sneak back into Mexico.”
Attached were handwritten notes such as “1/27/86, Never used.”
The book has scripts, monologues, private notes and a price tag of $40.