I ended up turning on Styles in Chicago after a great match, and the heat was nuclear. Fans were genuinely pissed off that I had attacked my new partner, especially after such an excellent performance, thereby spoiling the potential of a Styles-Jericho team and all the classics we could’ve had in the future. But the angriest of them all was the contingent of fans who’d been suckered into happily buying a T-shirt for a team that was together for less than a week.
First of all, to those of you that did buy the Y2AJ shirt, I’m sorry you fell for it . . . but you have to admit that it was something diabolically different that helped get our angle over and added a shitload of intrigue to what we were about to do at WrestleMania, right?
Secondly, if you still have the shirt, stop bitching and put it up for sale on eBay! After all, it’s a limited edition rarity and probably worth a lot more than the twenty-five bucks you paid for it.
See . . . my turning heel could actually make you money!
CHAPTER 13
THE
AMERICA’S
FUNNIEST
HOME VIDEOS
PRINCIPLE
LET IT GO
Don’t be afraid to lose
what was never meant to be . . .
—NELSON, “AFTER THE RAIN”
(Matthew & Gunnar Nelson, Marc Tanner, Rick Wilson)
A toddler swings a plastic baseball bat into his unsuspecting father’s plums.
An overweight auntie breaks a chair when she sits down at the family cookout.
A dog and cat play catch with a bocce ball.
All of these scenarios are hilariously cheesy or cheesily hilarious, depending on what side of the entertainment coin you’re on—and all of them are trademarks of one of the longest-running American television institutions in the world today.
I’m talking about America’s Funniest Home Videos.
Whether you’ve seen original host Bob Saget troll the audience with his brutal puns and nerdy demeanor or his successor Tom Bergeron’s more subdued, smooth charm and dry, subtle humor, we’ve all watched a least one episode.
As a matter of fact, I used to watch AFV all the time. I just never thought I’d almost end up hosting the damn thing.
But that’s what happened when Bergeron announced he was leaving the show after fifteen seasons in 2015 and through a set of strange extenuating circumstances, I was courted by show creator, Vin Di Bona, to be the new face of the franchise. At first I wasn’t sure about it, but I quickly realized that I had what it took to be the new kid on the block (and I ain’t talkin’ about Jordan Knight).
It was a massive opportunity, as being the host of the iconic AFV would give me a chance to sit at the top of the syndicated television totem pole. But I’m getting ahead of myself, so in the words of the mighty Kick Axe (shout out to Kerns and Fitz), let’s go “back to the beginning.”
After so many flirtations with mainstream prime-time gigs, from competing on Dancing with the Stars, to hosting the ABC game show Downfall, the SyFy Channel competition show Robot Combat League, and the Fuse TV singing show Redemption Song, I felt it was only a matter of time before something big came up and helped me break fully into the Hollywood big leagues.
When I was approached by Di Bona’s reps about the possibility of hosting AFV, I was kind of surprised. A few months prior, I had met with an executive at Disney named Dan Cohen whose wife was a big wig at AFV, which I assumed was the connection here. It reminded me that there was never a meeting too small to take in Hollywood, because you never knew who you might meet or how it might pay off.
I had my initial meeting with Vin and a few of his producers at a popular restaurant in West Hollywood. Since I’d been given word by my Disney contact that Vin was looking for a younger, more contemporary host than the previous one, I decided to forgo the typical sports coat/suit uniform of the average Hollywood wannabe and went with a classic Jericho scarf-vest combo that was more David Lee Roth than Gene Rayburn. My plan worked, as Vin and I had a fun, easy-flowing conversation about, the show, ’50s crooners, and ’60s singer-songwriters who played guitar and sang at the same time, Battle of the Network Stars (a ’70s celebrity sports competition show that I loved when I was a kid), and classic cars (I faked my way through a debate as to whether a 1967 SS 427 Camaro was better than a 1970 Z28 quite admirably, if I do say so myself).
A few hours later, I got a call from Dan saying that on behalf of the group and himself, I had passed the audition . . . at least the first round of it. Vin was convinced I had the charm to take over the reins of his twenty-five-year-old franchise and was interested in organizing a follow-up meeting. Even though it was made very clear to me that Vin was also talking to other people about hosting the show, it was nice to know that I was on the short list of Di Bona. (I couldn’t resist!)
Over the next few months, I attended further lunches, sat in on a panel discussion on the future of social media held by Berkeley University (Vin was on their board of directors), had countless AFV-related phone calls, and even invited Vin to SummerSlam to watch my match against Bray Wyatt. After all that, I was really starting to believe that I might be the chosen one.
With each meeting, it became clearer to me that I could do this gig better than anybody else and all of my years of show business training had led me to the brink of landing the job of a lifetime. I felt that nobody else could match my combination of experience, improv ability, on-camera comfort-ability, worldwide fan base, and rugged good looks that were important to distinguish Chris Jericho from both previous AFV hosts and its almost outdated image.
In the meantime, my agent, Barry Bloom, and my lawyers negotiated with ABC and Vin’s lawyers on the finer points of the deal (how much they were willing to pay me per episode). When the dust settled, a deal was agreed upon—but not yet signed— that would see me making close to seven figures for just three weeks of work per season. I couldn’t have been happier and I was ready for my close-up, Mr. Di Bona.
I was starting to settle into the notion that the gig was actually going to be mine, when I began hearing some odd comments from one of the AFV execs. In a way, he kind of let it slip that ABC had already chosen their preferred host, and that host wasn’t me.
Around this time, I started hearing rumors about who that network-approved host might be. There were two names in particular that kept popping up, both of whom were familiar to me because I’d worked with them in the past. The first was Mario Lopez, who had rubbed me the wrong way whenever we met for years, culminating with a war of wills during a punishing round of Twister Hoopla on The Ellen DeGeneres Show (read the whole story in my classic parable, The Best in the World: At What I Have No Idea). The second was Alfonso Ribeiro, with whom I’d clashed on my ill-fated stint on the awful Fox singing show Celebrity Duets ten years prior (drink in that whole story in my award-winning, modern-day morality play, Undisputed). Knowing I was up against those muttonheads made me want to throw up in my mouth a little. If I didn’t get the gig, I didn’t get the gig, but please not to one of those guys!
Then I was summoned to LA to host an actual episode of the show in front of a live audience, and I knew that this was the chance I was waiting for to show what I could really do. This wasn’t me standing in for a scene or two either; this was a fully produced, airable episode that was to take place right after a Tom Bergeron–hosted taping.
But in a “when it rains sharks, it pours” moment, I’d also been cast as Bruce the Ride Attendant in Sharknado 3, the third installment of the immensely popular SyFy Channel C-grade horror series. It was a good role, and I knew there would be huge press behind it due to the buzz the previous two films had garnered. The only drawback was that I was supposed to film my scenes on the same day I was required for rehearsals for the AFV screen test. With shrewd planning by Barry Bloom and some luck in making my flights, I finished my two days on set at Universal Studios in Orlando at 2 p.m. and then headed straight to the airport to catch a 4 p.m. plane to LAX to make my 9 p.m. rehearsal. But
it was worth making Sharknado happen, as it was a tremendous experience and I got to work with some great people, including leading man Ian Ziering, who advised me how to get eaten by a CGI shark (flail as much as possible so the computer programmers had to make the shark’s movements more grandiose), and my childhood crush Kim Richards ( Escape from Witch Mountain like a maafuckaa)!
I landed at LAX at 8:30 p.m. and went straight to the studio. Vin was waiting for me and meticulously led me through the camera blocking for the segments I’d be hosting, and explained what would be expected of me the following evening. He also gave me an acoustic guitar and suggested I sing a song during the tapings, as he wanted me to stand out in any way possible and thought if I came up with a pretty little ditty to sing for the audience, it might be fun. I hadn’t played guitar and sung at the same time since high school, and I wasn’t a James Hetfield–level musician who could do that easily, but in the fine Hollywood tradition of never saying no to anything, I told him it was a great idea and that I was going to change my stage name to Elvis Jericho when I was done.
I remember reading when Sting (and I ain’t talking about the guy in the makeup) was first learning to play and sing at the same time, he wrote songs with space in between the chords so he could concentrate solely on his vocals (e.g., “Walking on the Moon”). In that spirit, I worked up a tune using hanging power chords and a staccato rhythm change that enabled me to play while I sang my brilliant lyrics, which went something like this:
Now it is time for America’s Funniest Videos,
Fun for your friends, and your parents and your kiddios,
So watch with me now and in laughter we will join,
As we watch little kids hit their dads in the groin . . .
Not exactly Dylan’s “Tangled Up in Blue,” but it fit the vibe of the show and worked perfectly for what I was trying to accomplish. Vin got a laugh out of it as well and made no bones about the fact that I was his front runner for the job.
“I want you to get this gig,” he said to me in a matter-of-fact tone. His words gave me confidence, but in the back of my mind a worm of doubt was burrowing, because I wondered, What does he mean by “want”? If he’s the boss and he wants me to get the gig, why doesn’t he just give it to me? At that point, it was clear that he wasn’t the only one making the final decisions and I still had some convincing to do for the hold-outs in the Lopez Ribeiro camps.
Then he asked if I minded covering the Fozzy “F” tattoo on my left hand, because he didn’t want “to give anybody an excuse not to hire you as the host.” Apparently, there were some evil overlords who were looking for any reason not to choose me . . . but it was now my mission to erase their inhibitions.
The next night, I paced the floor of my dressing room before the big show, wearing a John Varvatos suit (no tie; too stuffy for the image I wanted to portray) and practicing my song. A parade of well-wishers came in to give me last-minute thumbs-ups and words of encouragement, including Tom Bergeron himself who I knew from my time on Dancing with the Stars.
“Just be yourself and have fun!” he advised.
That’s exactly what I did.
After Tom’s taping was finished, I stood in the wings as the announcer explained to the audience that there was one more episode to be filmed that day, featuring a guest host . . . Chris Jericho!
My appearance had been kept under wraps the whole night, so it was a surprise to the crowd when my name was announced. Thankfully, there was a coterie of Jerichoholics in attendance who gave me a great reception that quickly spread around the studio when people figured out I was “somebody” and they didn’t want to be left out of the fun.
Throughout the next hour, I ran that damn show like I was Johnny Carson in 1975: I kept people entertained, made them laugh when it was required, and quieted them down when it was time to watch the videos.
My Elvis Jericho pretty little ditty (and I ain’t talkin’ about the Red Hot Chili Peppers) went over big, especially when I used my Fozzy front man skills to lead the crowd in a clapping sing-along. Vin had encouraged me to break the invisible wall between the host and the audience, so I prowled the stage telling jokes, giving fans high fives, and even sitting on a hefty African American lady who was screaming and clapping for me like I was Hercules from The Nutty Professor.
“You’re my favorite host, Jericho! I hope you get the job!” she repeated excitedly while her husband took pictures of us on his iPhone. I was a hit with those two and most of the rest of the audience as well, and I felt like I’d nailed it. I’ve always been overcritical of everything I do (I still don’t care for my 1999 Raw debut promo with The Rock), but at that time, on that night, I knew I’d killed it and wouldn’t have changed a thing.
My prospective boss apparently felt the same way, as he grabbed me in a bear hug when I walked off stage with the cheers of the crowd still ringing in the studio.
“Excellent, Chris! You made me proud!”
I hugged him back and thanked him for the opportunity, then walked back to my dressing room to process what had just happened. Barry joined me a few minutes later, and we jumped up and down in celebration like a couple of Star Wars nerds who had just found an advance copy of Episode VIII.
It was one of the best nights of my professional career . . . for about another seven minutes.
Barry and I were in the midst of our Dagobah dance when one of the AFV higher-ups (not Vin) barged in, babbling so rapidly and incoherently that I can only assume he was coked up.
“You did a good job, Chris, but ABC has already made their decision and the guy they chose just blew them away from the start so it’s too bad but they thought he was just so great, and it’s pretty much a done deal but thanks for coming out and . . .”
The person continuing speed-rambling as I mouthed to Barry, “What the hell are they talking about?”
The Yeyo Kid finished the tirade and bounced out the door, but at that point my buzz had been killed, brought back to life by Melisandre, and then killed again. I should’ve felt triumphant, but after that asshole’s rambling, I just wanted to go to bed.
The next day, I shrugged off the previous night’s bad vibes and went to a recording studio to track voice-overs for my episode. They took a little more time than I would’ve liked, as Vin was watching over my shoulder having me repeat the lines until he got the exact take he was looking for, right down to each syllable. He reminded me a lot of Vince because he knew precisely what he wanted, and he wasn’t going to be satisfied until he got it. I eventually gave him what he was looking for and the first of what hopefully would be many episodes of AFV hosted by Chris Jericho was complete.
When I left the studio, I didn’t know if I had gotten the gig, but I knew I had done all I could and there was nothing left to do but wait . . . .and wait . . . and wait. Over the next two months, the only word I received was that I was indeed a finalist for the job—along with Ribeiro Lopez.
Finally, eight weeks later, the phone rang and I saw the name VIN DI BONA on my screen. I ran up the stairs into my office and answered nervously.
“Hey, Vin, how are you?”
“I’m good, Chris.”
Fuck. I knew by his tone that I hadn’t gotten the gig.
“I just wanted to call you myself to tell you . . . that we’ve decided to go with somebody else as the new host of AFV.”
Ugh. I knew it. I felt like I’d been kicked in the ballbag by Braun Strowman.
Now, I don’t take no for an answer in most cases, but I also know when the time comes to accept defeat and step back. I knew the AFV train had left the station, and there was nothing I could do to change Vin’s decision. I could beg him for a second chance or demand to know the reason why I didn’t get chosen, but I knew it was better to just take it like a man and get off the phone. Besides, it was pointless to ask him what I could’ve done differently or who got the job instead of me, because it really didn’t matter.
However, before I could hang up with my dignity intact
, Vin continued with a few more details.
“We’ve decided to go with somebody with a little more comedic experience, someone who can handle the voice-overs (Angry Author’s note: Fuck those fuckin’ voice-overs) a little differently than you did. You really did a great job and I think there are going to be some opportunities for us to work together again in the future. I’ll be in touch in about a month.”
“Okay, Vin, thanks again for the opportunity and hopefully we can talk soon.”
I hung up the phone and saw that the time of the call was 1 minute and 48 seconds. Fourteen months of schmoozing, phone calls, meetings, and auditions had been boiled down to a 108-second rejection notice. I was pissed off because I truly felt that AFV had been MY gig to lose . . . and I’d lost it.
I went downstairs and poured myself a Yeah Boy and didn’t stop at one. I was filled with a dozen different emotions, including self-doubt, loss, and frustration. That phone call had shaken me more than anything else in my forty-three years of existence.
My professional depression (cool song title) deepened a few weeks later, when I was at a Rush concert in Houston and got the news that Alfonso Ribeiro had officially gotten the job. I read his statement online (while Geddy Lee laid down the bass line in “Roll the Bones”) where he promised to bring new energy to the show and to even perform the Carlton dance from time to time. Seriously? That’s the last thing I needed to hear. I hated that fuckin’ thing when he did it twenty years ago on The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, and it hadn’t gotten any better since.
After the Ribeiro announcement, I was barraged by a mix of emotions, including jealousy, anger, and revenge (thoughts of calling Speewee to plant a bag of cocaine in Alfonso’s car ran briefly through my mind). But once the news came out, it felt better to have closure, and at least I could take solace in the fact that I had beaten Mario Lopez. (Technically, I suppose he could’ve been the first runner-up, but in my mind I had blown him away and it’s my book, so deal with it.)
No is a Four-Letter Word Page 13
