Sex, Lies and the Dirty (37 page)

The producers of
Anderson Live
are awesome.

They’re asking me if I’m comfortable, if I’ve got everything I need, if they
can get me coffee or water or a soda. They’re asking me if the temperature in the green room is to my liking.

“Can we get you anything to eat, Mr. Richie? Bagel? Donut?”

“No, I’m good.”

“Candy bar? We got a candy machine down the hall.”

This is my first official warning: when you go onto a nationally televised show and the host hates your guts, pay attention to the producers. If they’re being all extra nice like this, that means you’re about to get motherfucked.

“Smoothie, Mr. Richie? There’s a smoothie place just off the grounds in Central Park.”

“No, I’m fine,” I tell them. “Can you tell me anything about the show? Anything I should be worried about?”

“Oh, it’s just pageant stuff. You should be fine.”

The producers leave me alone with my lawyer, convinced that my guard is completely down now. Moments later, Anderson Cooper walks by the green room and gives me the check. The smirk. He gives me this look like,
oh yeah, just you wait, you little shit. You’re mine.

That’s the second warning.

I ask David some last-minute questions, if I can call Anderson the thing that I’m thinking. Speak my mind. I ask him, “If it comes down to it…if we get into some sort of battle and we’re in a position were he wants to know what
I
think of
him
…I want to know if I can call him a gay communist?”

I want to know because:

a) Anderson is, in fact, a homosexual. Whether or not he wants to formally admit it, he is.
⁷⁷
The fact that he doesn’t admit it indicates a certain level of dishonesty, and I’m of a mind that dishonest people shouldn’t be put into a position to judge.

b) He wants to censor the 1st Amendment. Actually, he supports freedom of speech, just as long as he agrees with what’s being said. He wants to pick and choose who gets to talk and who doesn’t. I’m one of the people that shouldn’t get to talk, according to Anderson.

I run this by David, and with very little deliberation he says, “Go fuck yourself. No, you can’t say that.”

Anderson refuses to meet with me,
refuses to even sit down next to me on the set. The entire time he’s in an elevated position, high above in the stadium of the audience so that I have to look up to him. It’s a little psychological.

It’s him saying:
you’re beneath me, and I’m going to make an example out of you.

It’s yet another red flag in the series of red flags.

Today’s girl in question is named Kelly. She’s from Texas. Does pageants, and Kelly is one of those girls that has to appear perfect because that’s what’s expected of her in the pageant world. The problem is that I kept getting submissions of her being out in the clubs, drunk. Naked pictures of this girl kept rolling in.

Kelly is blaming me for tarnishing her reputation. She says that when you’re a pageant girl, the judges research every single contestant. Facebook, Twitter, news articles,
etc.

“They disregard everything that is positive,” she says.

In other words, these judges go looking for dirt
⁷⁸
. Kelly is alleging that her pageant career was ruined due to my site, and I’m the reason she didn’t win Miss Texas. We don’t talk about how I’m not the one that took her photo or submitted it. In her mind, I’m at fault because my site made her irresponsibility public.

Anderson asks me why I want to be
this
guy. As in: the guy that runs a site that “tears people down,” as he puts it. He asks me how I can look myself in the eye. He asks why I couldn’t have come up with something else.

Of course, the moment I try to answer one question he cuts me off with another. That, or the audience starts applauding one of his little comebacks.

Once again, things aren’t going well for me on TV.

It’s impossible to finish a metaphor with Anderson.

I say I’m not the author of these posts, and that’s absolutely true: I don’t title it or write the body of them, I don’t choose which picture(s)
are attached, and more often than not, I have no idea who the subject is personally. I’m the guy that puts it up for public consumption and gives a little one-or two-line reaction. That’s it.

“I’m just the librarian,” I tell Anderson.

Metaphorically speaking, that means that I have nothing to do with the actual writing of the book. I simply put it on the shelf. If the book offends you, don’t read it.

This is when Anderson tells me that someone in his family is a librarian and they’d be very sorry to hear that I’m comparing myself to them. Once again, the point that I’m trying to make is lost to a storm of applause.

Sometimes our exchanges were cut out in editing:

“I didn’t want you here. We don’t want to give your site more traffic.”

“Anderson, my site gets more traffic than your show. Your show is failing. I’m here for a reason.”

And then later:

“You’re not a good person, Nik.”

“You’re not a good person, either. You judge people more than I do—and you’re judging me right now.”

No applause.

No airtime.

“You’re clearly a smart guy.
You know how to use the Internet. You have creative ideas. Why not create a site that actually does good?” Anderson asks, right before he decides to put words in my mouth. “We know the answer is money. A site for troubled teens is not gonna—“

“—It’s not money,” I cut in. “I’m actually getting involved—“

“—It
is
money,” he cuts back.

I’m thinking,
oh Anderson, if only you knew how long I’ve done this
without
getting paid.

He says, “You keep saying there’s a market for this. A market means money.”

“Okay, well, Anderson, what’s this show? What’s this show for you? It’s for money?”

“Actually, no, it’s not.”

Bullshit.

“It’s not? You mean you’re actually doing something positive by doing the show or you’re doing it for money?”

“Yeah, I’m actually trying to. Yeah.”

Bullshit.

Applause.

Anderson doesn’t want to meet me after the show.

As a joke, I ask for an autographed headshot but the producers say there’s no way in hell that’s happening. He’s not like Dr. Phil. Anderson brings his emotions into the show. He’s actually convinced he’s some kind of messiah, saving the planet by facing all the Nik Richies of the world. The reality of the situation is that Anderson is more like me than he’s willing to admit. He judges. He pokes fun. He’s done his fair share of satire.

The show is called The
RidicuList
, which is kind of a
TMZ
bit where Anderson rips on people in his own snarky little way. So all that talk about doing something good and not tearing people down is a bunch of bullshit. He’s guilty of playing the tabloid game, too.

More than likely he’d say, “But these are celebrities. These are public figures.”

When does someone officially become a public figure: when they start asking for attention or when they actually get it?

Anderson was born into fame and money.

He hasn’t seen what I’ve seen.

77
Anderson would formally come out on July 2nd, 2012, in a letter to Andrew Sullivan of
TheDailyBeast.com
.

78
Whether or not this is a common practice among pageant judges is arguable. It’s entirely possible that part of their job is contestant research. It’s equally possible that this was something that was brought to their attention by a third party or even another contestant. If the common belief is that
The Dirty
publishes nothing true as Kelly and Anderson continue to point out, then I fail to understand why a pageant judge would see otherwise.

Billboards

The site and all the controversy it inspires can be illustrated in billboards.
We see these everyday: for fast-food restaurants, vehicle repair, fashion. Pick any major highway or interstate and more than likely you’re going to be bombarded with some kind of advertising or influence you didn’t ask for. Or perhaps you just didn’t know you were looking for it.

On I-5 you pass by billboards for McDonald’s, the San Diego Zoo, an abortion clinic. Each one serves a specific function for a particular market. Each one has a detractor. An opponent. Something to keep it in check.

McDonald’s: FDA.

San Diego Zoo: PETA.

Abortion clinic: pro-lifers.

At all times there’s a lawsuit pending for the adverse effects of the Big Mac and the unethical treatment of panda bears. A cheeseburger is no longer just a cheeseburger. It’s a murder weapon, some kind of delicious poison that’s being snuck into Happy Meals. It’s on the menu and it’s towering over a hundred feet above ground, luring you off the road into one of their nearest locations.