Most Talkative: Stories From the Front Lines of Pop Culture, Andy Cohen [the best books to read txt] 📗

I was stoked to spend time with Tammy Faye and see her spidery eye makeup up close and, better yet, see the habitat in which she lived. But there was another kind of insane aspect to my Palm Springs jaunt; I’d done something I bet not too many people would think of if they came to town to interview the former cohost of The PTL Club: I booked myself into an all-male clothing-optional “resort.” The resort was simultaneously kind of disgusting and kind of awesome. Of course, no one on West Fifty-seventh Street knew where I was staying—the place wasn’t exactly on the “Approved Hotels” list provided by the network’s travel department. But then again, it was certainly not my problem that they hadn’t thought to provide a “Disapproved” list as well. Still, I allowed myself to feel a tiny bit righteous because it was cheaper—in every sense of the word—than anywhere CBS would’ve put me. I was a company man; I was being fiscally responsible! Fine, that wasn’t the only reason. There were waterfalls and grottoes and—well, the whole place looked like a low-rent version of the Playboy mansion. For me, it felt like the perfect opportunity to make up for lost time. My friends had all been to strip bars and every trashy place under the sun, and, by comparison, I was a mere babe in the woods—or desert. I had some serious catching up to do. At that time, though, my sense of adventure was still pretty Midwestern, and I could never have imagined checking in to this place under any usual circumstance—as a vacation destination, or with a friend—but as long as I was in the neighborhood on assignment to produce a story on a figure from the religious right, it seemed like a perfectly genius idea.

My first morning in Palm Springs, I cruised over to Tammy Faye’s house so we could get to know each other and discuss the interview. I love seeing the inside of strangers’ houses. It’s usually the little things that excite me the most, like seeing what magazines they have in the bathroom. Tammy’s home was in a gated community, and she had her very own fake lake in her backyard. As soon as she opened the door, I was greeted by a full frontal assault on my nose. Flowery perfume, scented candles, potpourri in every flavor, gusts of Glade, and I have no clue what else, all combined in a sweet and savory fight to the death. I’m a sensitive Jewish boy with delicate sinuses and contact lenses who is more than mildly obsessed with the smells of people’s homes—every house has a special stink, and this one was un-mildly unique. My eyes started watering instantly, but through my veil of tears I could see that Tammy Faye had many, many, many figurines, miniatures, mirrors, collectibles, photos (of herself), and framed gold records adorning every nook and cranny of the house. There was a copy of Lears magazine in the bathroom, in case you need to know. And to complete the effect, a yippety yappety dog called Tuppins, who flew around our knees in hysterics.

Tammy was dressed exactly as I’d envisioned her: in head-to-toe winter whites. (Jews don’t really do winter whites, and Palm Springs doesn’t really do winter, but stay with me.) Tammy was kind of a miniature of her photographed self but loud and fun and full of life and love. At the same time, she seemed really fragile. She gave me a tour of her home and introduced me to Roe, who, I quickly learned, was half deaf. Tammy prattled on about how most of her furniture had been on TV before, from the set of The PTL Club and Tammy’s House Party. How could that be? Shouldn’t it have been in some government warehouse with other seized loveseats and disgraced ottomans?

The plan was to film Tammy live from her living room, with Harry Smith interviewing her from our New York studio. Tammy was still licking her wounds from that tough interview—also by satellite—that Ted Koppel had done with her a few years earlier, and it was part of my job to reassure her that Harry planned to proceed with a much lighter touch. We fell in love with each other in no time (well, I fell in love with her, and I think she was fond-ish of me), and I was able to reassure her of my intentions, which really were pure—I wanted her to have a fair shot at telling her story. I gave her a hug and told her I’d be back the next day for the site survey with the crew, and then we’d go live in thirty-six hours. Which, by my calculations, would give me a few hours of quality resort time.

Back at the hotel, I was surprised to find a camera crew shooting a naked aerobics video in the common area outside my window. Surprised, but not necessarily delighted. I sat in my room (fully clothed) watching something that I might’ve considered hot at one point, but up close was ultimately pretty gross. I began to wonder if it really even was an aerobics video, given the poor slimnastics skills of the dancing twinks in front of me, or if this was just the poorly written exposition of a scene that was about to turn hard-core at any moment. The boys were unsynchronized and un–my type, so I crossed my fingers, hoping that things were not heading in that direction. That’s when my deep thoughts were interrupted by the dreaded noise:

“BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.”

On a LONG list of pet peeves and “hates,” my beeper was at the top (others included know-it-all cabbies, waiting in line, and carrots). It was one square plastic pain in the ass and essentially my ball-and-chain for most of the nineties, beeping furiously with bad news at every turn. To this day, I’m sure that its