Most Talkative: Stories From the Front Lines of Pop Culture by Andy Cohen (accelerated reader books TXT) 📕

Willie Geist asked me for my lowlight of Oscar night. The show had been widely panned as a bomb as far as Oscars went, and I could have chosen from a plethora of lowlights. But, without hesitation, I told him it was the public school kids who sang.

“I don’t know why you don’t like public school children,” Willie joked.

I clarified that I in fact loved public school children. I reminded him that I was a graduate of Clayton High, a fine public school. But then I compared the kids to Up with People, the unctuous choral group from the seventies that performed at Super Bowl halftime shows and the like. Everybody at the table was laughing. Cohost Mika Brzezinski gasped, “Did he really say that?” which is exactly what you want to hear on a TV panel show. Joe Scarborough, thinking he had me pegged, told me, “You just don’t want to see uplifting stuff.”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying, either,” I said. “The media twist your words. You are twisting my words. I know how this works.” I was joking around, but was also kind of serious. And, it turns out, prophetic.

Joe started to make the point that I was the man who made The Real Housewives—meaning, who was I to provide meaningful social commentary—but I interrupted him. “If I wasn’t going to go out to some parties I would have slit them [my wrists] right then. I was looking for a knife. I was looking for a knife to stick in my eye. It was terrible.”

The table cracked up! From the first time I ever succeeded in making people laugh as a kid, I loved it, and as long as they’re laughing, I will continue talking. And, of course, the hosts of a talk show weren’t about to stop me. I told the Morning Joe crew that everything had its time and place, and that the end of the Oscars was not the time for nonprofessional singing children. “Those kids ruined everything!” I told them. I further stated that the children lacked appropriate attire for a sacred institution. “They’re wearing T-shirts at the Academy Awards,” I said. “Is this a telethon?”

When my segment was over, everyone smiled and shook my hand, and we parted with promises to see each other again soon. I left the studio feeling good. I hadn’t over-caffeinated, and I’d not only made some astute observations, but was witty and entertaining to boot.

Back at the office, I saw Lauren and reported that I’d been mildly hilarious on Morning Joe. She took my word for it. My mom e-mailed and told me I shouldn’t have called those women whores, but that she thought I was “very funny talking about the kids.” More affirmation. Then, on my way to lunch, I got an e-mail from Bravo’s head of publicity, Cameron Blanchard. I assumed it was just a quick congrats on my appearance earlier. Nope. She was asking if I’d really said unkind things about the kids from the public school.

Apparently, there was already an item on New York magazine’s website reporting on my rant. I replied that I absolutely had said those things, that they were hilarious, and that every sane person agreed with me. She said I was wrong and that we’d discuss it after lunch. I felt like I was being called to the principal’s office. (And that’s one of the weirder things about being a “personality” on the network where you are also an executive. I was about to be lectured for crossing the line by a coworker who is now working on my behalf and on behalf of the company for which we both work.)

By the time I got back to work all hell was breaking loose. Our PR department had to explain to me that these kids, whom I had never seen nor heard of before the Oscars, were in fact beloved all across the country. They were apparently America’s freaking Sweethearts, viral video sensations who’d also been on Oprah and performed at the White House. While I was logged in to YouTube watching an endless loop of Diana Ross’s sing-along, apparently everyone else in the country was watching clips of these kids. And everybody but me, Mr. Pop Culture, knew that their appearance at the end of the Oscars was some big aspirational American Dream moment. And now the New York Post had sent a reporter to their school on Staten Island—and the New York Times was at the airport to greet the kids when they returned from LA—and both wanted responses to my remarks. Of course, the kids hadn’t actually heard what I’d said, but the reporters helpfully filled them in.

I felt terrible for the kids and at the same time angry at the moralistic reporting on what I’d thought was just lighthearted cultural commentary. I wondered why anyone even cared what I thought of the Oscars or those kids anyway. Cameron told me that I could no longer just babble anything that was on my mind and expect it not to have repercussions. (You might think a pitcher of iced tea dumped over me years earlier would’ve taught me this lesson.)

That was the day I realized I was kind of famous … and I wish I could’ve enjoyed that moment instead of having it forever tied to the nauseous feeling in the pit of my stomach, growing larger as it became clear that I would now be world famous for being a child-hater. Some people get to bask in the glow of the spotlight, but others of us have it shine on us while we are stepping in poop.

On my show, I always name a Jackhole of the Day, or Week, someone who’s done something particularly stupid or egregious, and that night I gave myself the distinction. I didn’t even make excuses for myself. I just apologized to the kids and reiterated that I’d gone to public school, too, and that I felt awful about the whole incident. I really