Man Up! (4 page)

I
’ve had a lifelong love affair with television. In fact, I was practically raised on TV, always making a beeline home from school straight to the living room couch, with just a quick pit stop at the fridge to load up on snacks. Countless hours were spent in motionless, glazed-over, catatonic bliss. Admittedly, there were certain strange side effects from all that time spent in front of the tube. I would make up and sing snappy jingles under my breath for every item on the school lunch menu. For example, to the tune of
The Flintstones
: “Fish sticks! Get your fish sticks! Yummy tummy gonna eat you…I’m gonna eat you…I’m gonna make you miiiine!”

Also unsettling, I began to tell time by my television schedule as opposed to a clock. “Okay,” I’d tell my friends, “I can come hang out at your house from
Who’s The Boss?
until half past
America’s Funniest Home Videos
, but I have to be home by
Rescue 911
.”

My obsession got even worse when I got a TV of my very own, a 10-inch color Panasonic TV I bought at a garage sale in a trailer park not far from my parents’ house. I remember thinking it was odd that it was called a garage sale when none of the trailer homes actually had garages, but no matter. And once I saw that little black-and-tan box shining like a beacon in the midst of old baby clothes and dusty copies of
National Geographic
, I didn’t care anymore about semantics. I was sold!

It was 1989. I paid $11 for her and, if you ask me, she was worth every single penny. We bonded instantly and I named her Jessica—Jessica Spano Mathews.

You get major friend points if you noticed that she was named after the overachieving, curly-haired, caffeine-pill-addicted Jessie Spano from one of the greatest TV shows of all time,
Saved by the Bell
.

No lie: I have seen every episode of
Saved by the Bell
at least four times. I dare you to challenge me to a
SBTB
trivia contest. Go ahead…you’ll lose. What was Screech’s parents’ dog’s name? Elvis. Totally true. He was a hound dog. Look it up, loser. What does the A.C. in A.C. Slater stand for? Albert Clifford. Boom, mothafucka!

Right about now you probably understand why my best friend growing up was a TV. My best friend, Jessica, didn’t have an antenna, so try as she might, her reception wasn’t always as strong as it could have been. So I accessorized her with the cutest little homemade tinfoil hat. Fashion
and
function—she was a looker!

Now, I’m not an old man or anything, but you whippersnappers don’t know what it used to be like back in the day. I mean, before cellular telephones and before Sandy Bullock was an Oscar winner, there was a time when most people didn’t have cable. It was a completely different world! Back then, there were only a few channels, and if you didn’t like what was on TV, you had to—get this—stand up, walk all the way across the room, and physically change the channel on the TV yourself.

Good cardio, yes. But a major pain in the butt.

Just think about that for a minute, you spoiled brats with your remote controls and your five thousand high-definition channels. When I grew up, we lived like pilgrims. And it gets worse! Because I lived in farm country, Jessica picked up only two channels.
Two!

Even worse: of the two channels Jessica picked up, one was Spanish-language and the other played episodes of
Saved by the Bell
only on Saturday mornings. Every other day, they played nothing but random shows in syndication from at least ten years earlier. So instead of keeping up with what my peers were watching, I was limited to viewing re-runs of
Taxi
,
M*A*S*H
,
WKRP in Cincinnati
,
Three’s Company
, and the like. What I thought was cool in 1989 had long since reached its expiration date, so I was always making outdated pop culture references in my fifth-grade classroom like “That is
so
Jack Tripper!” to the blank stares of my classmates.

It was the effect of this kind of humiliation that finally persuaded my parents to allow the miracle of cable into our household.

Amen! I remember the moment we got connected as if it were yesterday. I swear, up until that point, it felt like I had been raised in the woods by unicorns. But now, the Mathews family had finally caught up with the rest of the civilized world, and I had work to do! Hello, the
Fresh Prince of Bel Air
theme song wasn’t gonna memorize itself ! And who was this Urkel character?!? Nerd alert—this guy’s hilarious!

Cable opened up a brand-new world to me that I had never even ventured to imagine. It was everything and more. Even Jessica looked happier, although I could detect a tinge of jealousy on weekday afternoons when I’d sit down to spend an hour with the woman who, until her cruel departure from the airwaves, held the title of My Longest Running Relationship: Oprah.

OMO: Oh My Oprah! I love her andIdon’tevencare. I love her thin, I love her big, but I prefer her big because the more Oprah, the better, right? I can’t get enough!

Oprah was like a hot air balloon that would whisk me away. Thanks to her talk show, I got to meet celebrities, travel the world, and see things I never would’ve seen in Mount Vernon. Oprah was the shining jewel in the crown of the golden era of daytime TV. Nobody did it like Lady O, but I consider all the talk show hosts of the 1990s to be huge influences: Sally Jesse Raphael, Montel Williams, Rikki Lake, Geraldo Rivera, Maury Povich, Phil Donahue, Gordon Elliott, Leeza Gibbons, Jerry Springer…hell, even Jenny Jones!

These talk show hosts enthralled me even more than their salacious guests, and I wanted nothing more than to be just like them. I remember running to turn the volume down just before commercial breaks so I could be the one to say, “What will Michelle do when she finds out her incarcerated boyfriend is, in fact, really her brother? And he…is now a she! We’ll be right back!”

My mother, bless her heart, especially got a kick out of this. It was our ritual to watch
Live! with Regis and Kathie Lee
together every morning during our summer vacations. There was something special about watching that daytime dynamic duo. They were better than all the others and second only to Oprah. It may sound odd, but my life’s purpose suddenly became crystal clear one morning while watching Reege ’n’ Kath interviewing the star du jour. Seated on the couch next to my mother, I had an epiphany.
This is it,
I thought to myself.
This is what I’m meant to do with my life. I was put on this planet to make casual conversation with celebrities over a morning cup of coffee while America watches.

But, of course, it was deeper than that. I liked the way the old guy and the wacky red-headed gal made me feel. I liked how happy they made my mom. They were an escape, a glimpse into a world far away from Mount Vernon, an excuse to smile for an hour at a time. I wanted to do that for people, too.

From that moment forward, I had no other choice. My mind was made up. I simply
had
to become a talk show host or my life would be a complete failure. I distinctly remember, whenever an adult would ask me, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I’d always respond, “A television talk show host!”

I was ten and I already
knew
it was my destiny to be on TV. I mean, seriously though, what other career choices did I have? Can you picture me as, like, a cop? With, like, a uniform and a real weapon and everything? I’d be all like, “Stop, bad guy! Wait, get back here! Please?!? Come on, I’m serious. For reals. That’s, like, totally against the law. Don’t even make me use this gun! Pretty please?!?”

It was obvious. I
had
to be on TV.

Of course, there is no clear path to becoming a talk show host. I mean, you never see ads on craigslist that read, “Talk Show Host Wanted: Earn millions while fulfilling your dreams and riding in limousines.”

So at eighteen years old, armed with only the $500 I had earned working the entire summer, I hightailed it to the Hollywood-adjacent University of La Verne. I pulled away from my parents’ house and drove down Interstate 5 with a head full of dreams and a tank full of gas in my blue Ford Tempo.

When I arrived in California, my car nearly scraped the ground under the weight of all my worldly possessions. My favorite items, in no particular order, were my VHS copy of
Steel Magnolias
, the complete boxed set of the
Little House on the Prairie
books, my framed autographed photo of Tiffani-Amber Thiessen, and, last but by no means least, my beloved TV Jessica.

College life agreed with me. To be honest, I spent the majority of my freshman year of college gossiping in the dorms with my newly acquired besties while snacking on Sour Skittles, listening to Christina Aguilera and Britney Spears albums on repeat and making regular late-night runs to In-N-Out for a Double-Double with extra sauce and grilled onions. Life was so good. I couldn’t see my feet, but life was good. I was shopping in the husky department, but life was good.

The
best
part about going to college, you guys? Two words: dining hall. Now, I know what you kids are probably thinking. “Ross, yuck! The food in the dining hall is, like, totally gross, dude!”

But let me explain something to you young’uns. I’m telling you this as a grown-up with life experience. Food is like sex. If you’re getting it on a regular basis
for free
, even if it’s bad, be grateful, ’cuz, trust me, you’re gonna miss it when it’s gone. These valuable life lessons come at no extra charge with the purchase of this book. You’re welcome.

College seemed to fly by with more speed than I’d gobble down those In-N-Out Double-Doubles. In a hot second, it was suddenly senior year and I was on the brink of graduating and entering the workforce. Granted, I had learned a lot after four years of college classes, but can I let you in on a little secret? I had no real skills. When it came to the real world, I only knew two things for certain: one, always wear sandals in a public shower; and two, it is indeed possible to memorize every single line in the movie
Pretty Woman
. “You work on commission, right? Big mistake, big, huge…”

This realization hit me one day in my dorm room, knee-deep in empty BBQ Baked Lay bags and waaaay too caught up in the fourth and, sadly, final season of
Felicity
. Grown-up life was quickly approaching and, until I became a famous talk show host, I had no idea how I was going to make a living.

I imagined myself as a college graduate at the unemployment office being asked to list my professional capabilities.

“I can, umm, tell you if a spinach plant is a boy or a girl. And I like to watch movies, and if a movie is really bad I’ll, like, say it and be all, like, ‘That movie wasn’t very good.’ Also, I can name all the members of ’N Sync, the Backstreet Boys, and New Kids on the Block. I can even list all the guys in 98 Degrees, and that’s really impressive because
no one
knows all their names. Most people only know Nick Lachey because he’s dating Jessica Simpson. I love them! Cutest couple of all time! They’re gonna be together forever and ever and ever!”

I was
so
screwed. I mean, even if I did get a job after graduation, what kind of job would help me get any closer to becoming a talk show host? If I was ever going to give it a real shot, I knew this was the time for me to do it. But I also knew that opportunity wasn’t just going to knock on my door. Or was it?

A few days later, my friend Melanie dropped by my dorm room to catch up on what we had each done during our summer breaks. I went first, regaling her with wild stories about my time spent up in Washington State staying at my parents’ house. Pretty riveting stuff. Then it was her turn.

“Oh, I just…” Melanie really took her time, drawing out her story for dramatic effect “…you know, interned at
The Tonight Show with Jay Leno
.”

I almost slapped her in her pretty little face right then and there.

“
You
what?!?
How? Why? What was it like? Did you meet him? Holy crap!”

“Yeah,” she continued, “I met him and he was really nice. My dad knows someone who knew someone who knew someone who got me an interview.”

Trying desperately to play it cool, I asked, “They wouldn’t be hiring new interns, would they?”

Melanie encouraged me, “You should totally do it! I’ll give you the number of the woman who hires interns. Just don’t tell her you got it from me.”

I clutched the contact info Melanie gave me in my pocket for the rest of the day, folding it over and over again as I planned what to say when I finally made the call. It all turned out to be astonishingly easy, though. I just said, “Hello. My name is Ross and I’d like to be an intern.”

They must have been hard up for free labor, because I had an interview the very next day.

OMG, right? This was officially my first big Hollywood meeting, so it was imperative that I looked flawlessly put together. But since I only had ten dollars to my name, it was time for me to get creative.

I had two things to do: First, swing by 7-Eleven to grab a Super Big Gulp Diet Coke. Keeping my energy up was essential. Next, I had to take a trip to the local thrift store. Thrift stores are
amazing
! I love the thrill of the hunt, so imagine my delight when I found a charmingly retro olive green suit in my exact size! Sure the sleeves were too short, there was a hole in the crotch and, judging by the smell, it had belonged to a person who must have hoarded cats. But it also boasted something I couldn’t resist—a $7 price tag. And if you’re doing the math, after the Big Gulp and the suit, I was left with about $1.50—just enough for three hard-shelled tacos at Taco Bell (the normal tacos, not the fancy Supreme ones with a generous squirt of sour cream—I’ll never understand why they’re double the price for just a dollop of Daisy).

I showed up at NBC for my interview the next day having studied for hours and hours the previous night. No, I didn’t research the history of
The Tonight Show
or Jay Leno. Instead, I spent those hours rehearsing how to sit down in my suit while hiding the unfortunate hole in the crotch of my new (well, new to me) discount trousers. My dreams were at stake here, people, and I wasn’t about to let a fashion faux pas be my fatal flaw.