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

the vantage point of 2012, Garanimalsesque. She was Outsized Oprah: together, in-command, super-nice, all-pleasing, touchy-feely—and surrounded by handlers including an assistant publicist (not that naysayer Colleen, to my initial delight).

But I had set up a con job. Oprah, my idol, was the unwitting victim in a scheme that I can only look back on now with horror. I’d casually told Paula and my executive producer that Oprah hadn’t yet totally agreed to be a part of my talk show series, but that when the (agreed-upon) interview #1 had concluded, the control room should simply keep the cameras rolling, Paula should keep Oprah in the chair, and it would actually be fine for her to begin a separate (not-agreed-upon) interview for my (stupid) talk show series. I was vague with Paula. I told her to in turn be very vague with Oprah about our intended use for this separate (not-agreed-upon) interview. Dear reader, I was not living my best life. I recall this now with a mix of total shame and maybe the tiniest speck of admiration for my ballsiness. What the hell was I thinking? What a little liar I was! This weasely shit doesn’t fly, and I can’t imagine doing something like this today with anyone, never mind a star of Oprah’s prominence. It would put the show in jeopardy, it would put the anchor in a bad position, and if things were to go really sour it would be a fire-able offense. It just never should have happened.

As we began (unauthorized) interview #2, Oprah’s assistant publicist (still not Colleen, but also not a total idiot, apparently) was in the Green Room, watching and wondering what this second interview was and why she hadn’t been told a single thing about it. I feigned ignorance. Then, like any professional who is good at her job, she slowly pieced together what was happening and told me that we could not air it under any circumstances.

Like the lying weasel-coward that I was, I hung the blame on Paula, saying they were just “talking.” I explained to her (dishonestly) how important the series was to Paula and that I didn’t actually intend to air it. (I totally intended to air it.) I was still delusionally determined to legitimize my (stupid) series by having Oprah as a part of it. As Team Winfrey left the studio, I made myself scarce, knowing that I’d be hearing from Colleen in Chicago but kinda feeling like I’d somehow won the day. I was under the impression that my con had ultimately worked because we had Oprah on tape. That was all that mattered. The worst was over.

The phone rang at my desk.

“Andrew … it’s Oprah.”

She was calling from her limo. Keep in mind, this was the early nineties, years before everyone had a cell phone. Calling from a car was most impressive. Calling from a car and being Oprah was THE most impressive. And she was calling me! I lost all professionalism, and also full sight of the fact that she probably hadn’t phoned to chat or congratulate me for anything. I began hyperventilating like a crazed fan receiving an out-of-the-blue Oprah call on Oprah. I was a blithering idiot, not believing my luck that Oprah was calling me. I sputtered and screamed. Had I won a trip!?

“Calm down, Andrew,” Oprah said. “Calm down.” And I did. I guess she was used to calming down hysterical people. “I am very upset about what happened,” she said. “I need to talk with Paula.”

Oh. My. Lord. Oprah was “upset.” Because of me. Because I’d lied to Oprah. I felt sick. I was in Big, Big, Big Trouble. Big TrOuble. On the outs with Oprah. Whom I loved. I’d hurt the one I loved. And whom I’d wanted to love me. This did not feel good. And—worst of all—she was about to take out her anger on Paula, my boss in this world of television I’d waited all my life to be a part of. Because I’d blamed all of my misdeeds on her.

I was shaking. Years later, in 2006, I would watch James Frey sweating and squirming under Oprah’s gaze and think: I’ve been there, brother. I’ve so been there.

I called the control room and had them pull Paula from the studio to get on the phone with Oprah. I ran to the other end of the CBS Broadcast Center. The building is an old milk factory the length of an entire city block and I was just able to breathlessly intercept Paula right as she hung up. Paula looked at me and said, “What just happened?” She was confused and not completely pleased, but she wasn’t angry. We were on the same team, and she trusted me. She trusted me!

Somewhere between leaving our studio and getting into her car, the assistant publicist had clued Oprah in on what had gone down. On the phone, she told Paula that she was displeased with how unprofessionally we’d handled this situation after her publicist had made it clear that they could not accommodate our request for two interviews. However, Oprah continued, the second interview had gone so well that she had decided to allow us to use it. Don’t forget: This was Forgiving, Pleasing-Others, Early-Nineties Oprah. Who knows what would have happened in another Oprah era. I breathed a huge, shuddering sigh of relief.

Amazingly, I had not only conned this icon whom I loved with all of my greasy little heart, I had also allowed Paula to be implicated in my sordid scheme by withholding the entire plot from her, which she now made me explain in detail. It had worked—surely the singular reason I wasn’t fired—but it had been shoddily executed and had put Paula in a terrible, terrible spot.

Paula sent Oprah flowers and a heartfelt note. I called Colleen in Chicago and apologized as profusely as was humanly possible. She was rightly furious and never forgave me. We aired the two-part interview as part of the (stupid) series, which made