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

and interview, and Christophe was waiting in the makeup room to do my do for the “after” shots. Everyone at work was ogling the new hair.

My on-camera appearances prior to that point had been rich but limited. When I was eight, I’d done an interview on the local news in St. Louis regarding my love of Pop Rocks. At twelve, I showed up on local TV coverage of election night as Senator Eagleton’s “Littlest Volunteer.” Stoned in college one day, I called in to Donahue and asked President Reagan’s press secretary a question. Probably four years later, from my parents’ den, I phoned Larry King Live and yelled at Marilyn Quayle with great passion as Evelyn and Lou looked on in shock and awe. (Of those early TV “appearances,” yelling at the Second Lady was by far the most satisfying.)

Despite my impressive on-air résumé, this was to be my network debut. I had read—and probably written, for that matter—the questions Paula was about to ask me, and I wanted her to stick to them. No hardballs! I was trying to act as her producer, and my own, all while the segment was live on the air. This is something I’ve grown used to doing now, and probably one of the reasons that transitioning to a host’s chair on live television years later didn’t scare the crap out of me. But this first time? At least one brick was shat.

For me, the haircut was as close to looking like Donny Osmond as I’d ever get, and running my fingers through my cowlick on TV made me feel badass and chic. Like Ponyboy from The Outsiders. It felt natural and fun being on-camera, but it was my home turf—our set, with our crew, and with Paula. It was a great little segment, as I remember it. I had set up an extensive phone tree of friends and family beforehand, and the reviews were through the roof. As Paula and I hustled to Newark Airport immediately after, I felt like my feet weren’t touching the ground. We celebrated with a 10 a.m. hot dog and she generously used her frequent flier miles to upgrade my seat to first class. One of our flight attendants had seen the segment and recognized me by my new swingy style. That’s the funny thing about TV that you often forget when you’re working in it—people everywhere watch. Even the lowest-rated stuff. If you make something and put it on TV, somebody somewhere is almost certainly watching.

When the plane was finally in the air, Paula and I reclined in our luxurious seats and went deep with each other. I felt important: still a producer, but now, in a way, not so far from an anchor. We gossiped about which producers were good and what we should do with the show; I pussyfooted around my opinions of the other on-air people and the whole conversation culminated in my leading a delicious trip down Joan-Diane-and-Katie Lane, which was always my favorite topic to bring up with her.

We got to Harpo Studios, and it was, hold on to your socks … amazing! Vaulted ceilings, wood beams, a café, and the enormous and beautiful palace that was the Oprah studio. As we were walking in, out came Oprah’s personal chef, Rosie Daley. I felt like I was at a character lunch at Oprahland. She was so down-to-earth and welcoming, I wanted to eat her up. Everything was so warm and inviting, it was like floating in the amniotic fluid of Oprah’s womb. But then we were led to Oprah’s study, and it was somehow like being in her womb and suckling sweet cream from her bosom all at once. (Okay, that was gross, but I think you get my spirit.) The study was homey yet stately, professional yet personal: pure Oprah. We were told she was running very late, and we happily changed our return flights, then sat and soaked it all in.

I don’t know what had me the most fired up: my on-air makeover (!), my new look (!!), Paula bumping me up to first class with her (!!!), the flight attendant having seen my makeover on TV and loving it (!!!!), or showing off my new look to Oprah under the roof of Harpo (!!!!!). Not to mention that I was about to get another chance with my Queen.

Oprah entered. Thin, Superstar, Mid-Nineties Oprah. She was very matter-of-fact. All business, this Oprah. She sat down, and as the interview began she fluidly transitioned into TV Oprah. A glowy golden aura radiated from her. Paula asked her how it could be possible that she was “every woman”—as her theme song suggested—while simultaneously being a now svelte multigazillionaire, perhaps growing apart from her viewers. Oprah turned it on, telling us a story about an hour she’d just taped on the topic of anorexia and the women who’d touched her. She cried! She became … “Oprah”! She went from cool to warm to hot damn. THAT’S how she’s every woman, I thought, she sees and FEELS and is just IN IT. She goes there. I went there, too.

The interview over, I was dying to have my own personal “favorite things” moment by snapping a photo with Oprah, my longtime favorite thing, with my most recent favorite thing, my new GQ/NKOTB haircut. I moved toward her, camera in hand, for the pic—and was restrained (gently) by her assistant.

“No photos with Oprah,” she said briskly. Time stopped for me. I felt so uncomfortable, two feet tall and very dumb. I’d forgotten: I wasn’t there for a photo op with Oprah, I wasn’t there as a fan. I was there to produce an interview, which had gone well and which was now over and it was time to take my new hairdo and my unprofessional self back to New York. I couldn’t bear to look, but I’m sure my hair wilted three inches that day.

My Oprah Angel Network Book Club Aha Moment regarding this experience was