Most Talkative: Stories From the Front Lines of Pop Culture Andy Cohen (nice books to read .TXT) 📖

and I first internally freak out (“OMG IT’S CLIFF!”), then attack them with my recorder. I see myself as a Sam Donaldson type; they probably see me as a John Hinckley Jr. type.

“IS PINE VALLEY AN ACCURATE REFLECTION OF SOCIETY?!” I yell at every familiar face in a high-pitched panic. They are all initially terrified and must take a moment to process what is happening: overly hyper kid with tape recorder and ’fro yelling stupid question. Once they realize I’m probably not going to shoot any of them to impress Jodie Foster, I get quick interviews with “Donna,” “Cliff,” “Ross,” “Travis” (who has dried shaving cream on his ear), and even the man who plays Palmer’s butler, “Jasper.” Their answers are gripping—“Not really.” “No.” “Maybe.”

At 12:30, euphoric after my journalistic ramp-up to the main event, I walk into the building and announce that I’m there as a guest of Ms. Lucci. “Susan Lucci,” I say, triumphantly. “I am Andrew Cohen and I am here to see Susan Lucci.”

The guard nonchalantly mumbles into a microphone, and his voice crackles over a loudspeaker, “Susan Lucci, guest in the lobby.” I am stunned at his informality and offended by his lack of respect when summoning the actress who plays Erica Kane.

I wait in terror, convinced that something, yet again, will go awry: I’ve gotten the day wrong, or Ms. Lucci’s changed her mind. Or it could go exactly as I’d imagined—a minion would appear to spirit me away to Erica Kane’s penthouse lair. After a couple of minutes, the double doors open, and she glides toward me. Susan Lucci. Radiant. Confident. Really, really small. Like, child-sized, even. My moment of disconcertion at how this person who is larger than life to me could be so alarmingly pint-sized is short-lived, as she opens her mouth to speak.

“You must be Andrew,” she coos.

She is wearing a red knit dress, red hoop earrings, black heels, a full-length mink coat, and massive sunglasses. Her hair is teased three stories high: a masterpiece of eighties glamour and engineering.

I finally stammer out something that sounds like “HI!”

“Well, I hope you like Mexican food, Andrew, because I’m taking you to lunch,” she purrs.

In fact, I hate Mexican food. I have a lifelong aversion to beans, and I wanted to see the studio. On the other hand: Susan Lucci and I are going to lunch? On a date? ¡Me gusta!

“Oh my god, I looooove Mexican food!” I scream.

The publicist shows up just as we’re walking out of the building. She’s tall, wearing a butter-leather jacket, with frosted hair pulled back, a smoker’s voice, and an air of cosmopolitan authority. We walk a few blocks to a restaurant called Santa Fe. On the way, some nutbag on the street asks Lucci if she received his card.

“Your card?” she asks. She seems concerned. “Oh nooo, I didn’t! I’ll check with the guard,” she says very sincerely, turning to me with a wink. She and I know she’ll not be checking with the guard. I’m in on the joke with Susan—on the inside of inside. I marvel at her ability to be tolerant and kind with this weirdo, making him feel as if he really matters to her, treating him as nicely as she’s treating me. As we get further down the street, a guy in a truck yells, “Erica Kane! We love you!” She waves. I imagine little cartoon birds fluttering down to pick up the hem of her mink coat so it doesn’t drag on the ground.

At the restaurant, we sit down at the table, and Susan and her publicist start talking quietly about a photo shoot that’s coming up, and Susan says that ABC “has finally gotten it right.” Susan is happy. I can’t believe how super-confidential their convo feels. There is a business behind this soap I’ve spent my life ogling from my seat on a sofa in the middle of the country, and it is fascinating. I zero in on what Susan said about ABC “finally getting it right.” What was wrong before? I wonder. Was Susan unhappy with ABC? Perhaps, as our friendship deepens, she will learn that she can trust me enough to confide in me regarding these matters. Strictly off the record, of course.

By the time they remember I’m there and turn to me, I’m convinced that my hair has expanded at least an inch in diameter since Sixty-seventh Street.

They ask me about my major, my goals. I am absolutely bullish on my future, and tell them awwwwlllll about it, while they sit there, nodding patiently, smiling patiently, and agreeing patiently. I tell them that I’m a sophomore Broadcast Journalism major and I want to be the next Dan Rather. Then, hearing myself say that and realizing that Dan Rather barely ever goes through an interview blathering about his hopes and dreams, I abruptly start reading from a list of questions I’ve prepared about Erica Kane:

“Is Erica modeled after Kate in Taming of the Shrew?”

“How will the pregnancy story line affect her?”

“Who is the love of Erica’s life?”

(These are all perfectly fine questions. What I won’t know until years later when I re-listen to the interview—yes, I recorded every word—is that I interrupt her every answer to tell her what my mother and I think will happen. In fact, I talk about my mother constantly. Thank God, I got over THAT! My mother would hate it.)

The waiter comes. Lucci orders a cheese enchilada and a chicken enchilada. Her publicist orders the same. I order a beef taco, and, feeling very capable and adult, I firmly tell the waiter that I do not want any beans on the plate whatsoever, and the waiter does not question my decision.

Emboldened, I turn to Susan and ask her the worst thing Erica ever did. She says, “Kill Kent.”

“BUT THAT WAS A MISTAKE!” I scream.

She giggles. “This is a man I can talk to!”

Susan Lucci called me a man.

We get into a great conversational rhythm. It’s a real interview. I ask