Most Talkative: Stories From the Front Lines of Pop Culture (15 page)

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 little impact on our ratings. I figured that I had seen the last of Oprah.

My Oprah Angel Network Book Club Aha Moment regarding this experience was learning always to tell the truth, to be up-front, and not to lie on behalf of, or to, your anchorwoman. If you do it the truthful way, sometimes you will get what you want and other times you will not, but your reputation and your word will always be good.

Oh, but that was only Strike One.

A couple of years later, I somehow booked another interview with Oprah and planned to fly to Chicago for the day with Ms. Zahn to shoot it at Harpo Productions. Was Oprah so highly busy that she’d completely forgotten the bad blood between us? Or was she so highly evolved that she’d absolved me of my sins? Either way, the thrill of having a second chance with Oprah could only be matched by my enthusiasm for another newsworthy event occurring at the same time. Newsworthy to me, anyway. After growing my hair out from a buzz cut to a Jewfro to an early nineties ponytail, I was finally ready to cut it off, and my executive producer had greenlit a “producer makeover segment” featuring me and a colleague, Judy Hole.

I deemed my haircut to be as important, or of more importance, than any live segment I’d ever produced. Thankfully my coworkers also viewed my ponytail with similar gravity. And so it was Beverly Hills hairstylist Christophe, who had just given President Bill Clinton that notorious two-hundred-dollar, runway-closing, air-traffic-jamming scandal of a haircut on the tarmac at LAX, who would be my barber.

Thoughts of the upcoming haircut consumed me in the same way I’d later obsess over preparing for my stint onstage with the B-52s, meaning I completely overhyped this as an epic event to anyone who’d listen. If you think I’m a li’l bit of a windbag now, imagine me talking about my hair 24/7. I don’t know how anyone tolerated me. Around that time I ran into photographer Spencer Tunick at a party. Tunick is now known around the world for taking large-scale nude photographs in public places (say, 5,200 naked people in front of the Sydney Opera House). In those days, he was taking solo nude shots in public places, and he encouraged me to document my lustrous long curls before they were shorn. I agreed—it was important (for the arts) to memorialize my tresses hanging on my naked shoulders somewhere in Manhattan.

Days before the haircut, I met Tunick at 6 a.m. (he always shot in the wee hours to minimize chances of arrest or complaints by passersby) in front of the New York Public Library. I was, as instructed, wearing sweatpants so I wouldn’t have any lines on my waist from underwear. (The
thought
that goes into every work of art is just something, isn’t it?) He had me climb up onto one of the two lions guarding the library; I’m not sure whether it was the lion named Patience or the lion named Fortitude, but it seems pretty obvious that he was trying to draw an artistic parallel between the permanence of the lion’s mane and the impending slaughter of mine. Or he just wanted to take some skin shots of a dumb kid on a statue. He instructed me to quickly strip off my sweats and lean my bare ass against the stone. Sorry, Patience or Fortitude. The photographer then directed me to assume various poses at the base of the lion, while I tried to convey any feeling other than “I’m freezing” with only gooseflesh as a prop and not a fluffer in sight. Then, like most other nude adventures, we were done in about four minutes.

The night before the big makeover, I barely slept. The next morning I went to the studio to get my “before” photo taken (with my clothes on this time), and my physical condition would’ve been diagnosed by any doctor as “barfy.” Throughout this entire tribulating trial, I spent every spare non-hair moment scrambling to set up the final details for Paula Zahn’s interview with Oprah Winfrey in her study at Harpo. I was determined not to screw things up this time. Yet the interview would take place on the same afternoon as my own live reveal, and believe it or not, the haircut loomed larger and more nerve-racking than seeing Oprah again.

I stumbled into the L’Oréal salon for my appointment, and when they offered me coffee or tea, I requested Valium. Christophe studied my face and gave me three options:

1. A Sting crew cut.

2. Short on the sides, curly on top.

3. Straighten it “and see what happens.”

He had mentioned straightening the day before and I’d wigged out, but two friends in the know separately reassured me that this was the way to go. So without listening closely to the “and see what happens,” I chose door number three, and he cut that tail right off. It
felt
good, so I relaxed a bit as he quickly shaped some kind of flip look on my head, and I noticed a hairdo emerging that seemed like it could be a winner. Then came the straightening, which was very painful.

I’d taken Christophe’s advice to “see what happens,” and in the end, the master had developed a look for me that I felt would have been at home on the pages of
GQ
. A look that I could style with or without a pompadour,
my option
. If it’s hard for you to understand my gaiety at the very notion of having a hair option, you are a person who has never had Jewish hair. I freaked out again, this time in a good way. I met six friends at Coffee Shop in Union Square for an unveiling and got rave reviews. I felt so hot that I laughed at my foolish self for every second that I’d wasted worrying.

The next morning, I was picked up at 5:45 for my live reveal 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 not to ask for something personal, like a picture, during a professional situation. It is uncool and amateurish. (That being said,
I’ll
take any picture with anyone at almost any given moment—not just because I know the feeling of wanting one, but also because I’m shocked that anybody wants my picture.) My other Aha Moment is that Jewish boys should NOT straighten their hair, which quickly went from fabulous to bad to worse. Christophe’s “and see what happens” went from a gentle, encouraging suggestion to an ominous curse.
SEE WHAT HAPPENS?!
A haircut, after all, still has to contend with the
hair
, and my temporary Joey McIntyre special was no match for thousands of years of kink. On my own, I had no aptitude with a blow-dryer, and though Lynn bought me some black hair care products, which was a noble last gasp, my hair quickly became a losing proposition. The ease with which it was delivered and demonstrated could never be re-created by me, so I gave up on it and sadly cut off the kicky cowlick. But as my hair was being clipped into a decidedly less glamorous cap, I felt like I was transforming into something better. I instantly regretted all those years of having a ponytail in the first place. Everybody was right: I looked better without it. Good riddance to bad plumage.