Most Talkative: Stories From the Front Lines of Pop Culture

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.

Although my ’fro had shrunk, my self had grown, just as the Queen of Talk urged us to do through our TV screens every day. But since we’re keeping score: That overreaching photo attempt was only Strike Two with the real-life Oprah.

A few years later, ever-resilient me was back in Chicago working on some story, and I set up a quick “hello” meeting with Oprah’s new publicist, who was gloriously not Colleen, and who thoughtfully arranged for me to sit in on a taping of the Oprah show. I was ecstatic to be in the audience, as a fan. During a commercial break I got up the nerve to say hello. To Oprah. Again, I could not possibly overstate my level of respect, devotion, and esteem for this woman.

“Hi, Oprah, I’m Paula Zahn’s producer!” I chirped.

Steeee-rike Thuh-ree!

Apparently Oprah had seen CBS This Morning just the day before. Now, the good news was that despite our rocky history, Oprah somehow caught a moment of CBS This Morning, which was a miracle in itself given that it was relatively unwatched. But the bad news was that she’d caught a snide comment that Mark McEwen—our weatherman, who never ever made snide comments—had made about her, Oprah, and her weight loss and something to the effect that if he had a chef and a trainer then he’d probably lose all that weight, too. Awesome.

She recounted the entire story to me. Into her microphone. As I sat there amid three hundred Oprah-adoring audience members all wearing red blazers and obvious expressions of sympathy. She proceeded to say how hurtful it was for someone to assume that a trainer and a chef were the only reasons she was able to lose all the weight. As the ladies all scowled at me, I felt like the living, breathing example of her hurt. She was displeased. Because of me. Again!

During the next commercial break, in which I planned to stare at the floor with my head down, I got the urgent beep (it was still beepers then) to call CBS News in New York. It was Bill Owens—the guy who’d kicked me off the Evening News set when I was an intern and was now a colleague—telling me there’d been a huge explosion in Oklahoma City and that I needed to get on the next plane headed there. I tried to beg off, and what I am about to recount to you is something that shames me far more than the time I tricked Oprah at the very beginning of this chapter.

“Bill, I am in the audience at Oprah right now. I can’t possibly leave. Is this story really a big deal? Are you sure I have to go?” I pleaded. “I really think it’s best for the show if I stay. Oprah’s really mad at Mark, CBS, and our show. Can’t we wait to see what develops in Oklahoma, because I don’t even get what the story is…”

I did end up going to Oklahoma City, and it soon became all too clear what that story was. And if I’d ever felt silly and small because of a few dumb things I’d done in front of a TV idol, I felt absolutely humbled, chastened, and reduced by what was unfolding in front of me. For years afterward I watched Oprah with a twinge of guilt.

My Oprah Angel Network Book Club Aha Moment regarding this experience is something I still haven’t really learned, and maybe never will … sometimes it’s not about you. Not one little bit.

SIX MOMENTS I’D LIKE TO FORGET

I’ve had enough embarrassing moments to fill a book, but maybe it does matter that you think I’m cool, so I’m only going to mention six more.

On a remote in New Orleans for CBS, I said some unkind things about one of the anchors in New York City to our weatherman. Little did I know that his mic was on and it was open in the ears of both our anchors. When I got back to Manhattan I had some serious ’splainin’ to do.

I got busted by open mics again years later on the set of Top Chef in Miami when I inadvertently regaled the entire control room with a detailed story of a sexploit between me and a woman. (I’m not saying anything more about that.) I thought I was privately telling Gail Simmons, Padma Lakshmi, and Tom Colicchio as they waited to begin taping, but they were wearing live mics. Will I ever learn?

While I was an intern at the CBS affiliate in St. Louis, Helen Slater came to promote