Man Up!: Tales of My Delusional Self-Confidence

by Ross Matthews

  Absolutely everyone who was anyone in my small town made a point to stop by our open house for Christmas Eve. Why? Because my dad knew how to party. He’d put on his one and only red sweater, splash on enough Brut aftershave to drown an elf, and put away about a half a bottle of generic-brand whiskey before Mom had even put out the Lit’l Smokies and nut-covered cheese ball.

  He’d have a nice buzz going on by the time people started showing up, and in an effort to really kick the party up a notch, he would put on his favorite cheesy Christmas music, sung by a Scandinavian artist named Stan Boreson (“Oh, I yust go nuts at Christmas, da best time of da year…”).

  I remember being absolutely mortified when my English teacher (and my mom’s best friend) would, for one night, set aside her painstakingly precise enunciation and begin slurring and swearing like a sloshed sailor. And I remember hiding in shame when my dad’s friends from the school board all knocked back shot after shot of vodka chased with a hot buttered rum and began to arm-wrestle.

  Yes, I was utterly mortified back then. But what I didn’t understand is that Christmas parties are like a weekend in Las Vegas—what happens there stays there. And now, to be completely honest with you, my parents’ holiday parties sound like they would’ve been a total freaking blast. It’s been nearly a decade since my dad died, but I would give absolutely anything to experience the holidays as a grown-up with him. I picture us arm in arm and drunk as skunks as we sing Stan Boreson songs at the top of our lungs. Just thinking about it, I can almost smell his aftershave.

  Perhaps the dream of creating my own holiday traditions is why I’m so adamant about making a big deal of celebrating the holidays. Year after year, I find myself more and more insistent on starting traditions and forcing all those around me to follow through. For example, it is essential that my friends gather at our house before December 1 each year to assist in putting up our Christmas tree. As we hang ornaments, string lights, and get drunk on hot toddies, we will listen to Mariah Carey’s Christmas album on repeat whether they like it or not.

  And I don’t just have one tree. What do you think I am, some kind of beginner? No! I simply must have one tree in the living room and one tree in the back of the house. It’s essential, not because I’m a fancy person who thinks he deserves two trees, but because I have some very, um, special ornaments that can’t be displayed for everyone to see. Let me explain…

  The year was 2002. It was my first Christmas since graduating college and my first Christmas in my very own apartment, a two-bedroom cockroach-infested shithole I shared with my best friend, Taya. Located in one of Los Angeles’s less desirable neighborhoods, our apartment was on Normal Avenue. No joke. Normal Avenue. I can’t make this shit up.

  Taya and I were determined to make our first official grown-up Christmas an event to remember, even if our combined total income that month was less than what most people spend on toothpaste. Sure, we were flat broke, but our holiday spirit could not be broken.

  In order to decorate appropriately, yet within our nonexistent budget, we had to get creative. Instead of buying an expensive Christmas tree, we ventured out onto the rough streets of East Los Angeles, found a green pinelike tree (quite a feat in LA), cut off a branch, brought it home, and stuck it in an old coffee can. Viola! Insta-tree.

  Our real creativity came out when it was time for us to decorate the tree. Fancy store-bought ornaments were a luxury we simply could not afford, but neither one of us was going to let our tree be naked for the duration of the holidays. Not in our household!

  The idea hit us while we were walking to the coffee shop. It was our routine to grab a free newspaper on our route and read it while we sipped our coffee. You know those weird newspapers with “scandalous personal ads” and advertisements for “massage therapists” in the back? The borderline pornographic ones with naked women and men looking all sensual and sexy and ready to do things that are illegal in every state but Nevada? Taya and I loved reading those.

  It was while we were reading the ads and laughing that it hit us both, almost simultaneously: we could use these sexy newspaper massage ads on our tree!

  We grabbed a few more free newspapers and rushed home. Next, we found an old shoebox and cut out small ornament-sized circles and squares that we wrapped tightly in tinfoil. Finally, we cut out our favorite sensual massage ads and taped them to the tinfoil circles and squares, attached them to a string, and hung them on our tree.

  We stepped back to admire our handiwork. It was a Christmas Miracle. The Miracle on Normal Avenue, you could say. Not only had we decorated our makeshift tree, we had done the unthinkable—we had created a new kind of holiday decoration. When we couldn’t afford an ornament, we created the Pornament. Talk about a “happy ending.”

  And the real topper? We sacrificed an old People magazine, cut out a picture of Oprah—the Universe’s brightest, most angelic star—and placed her at her rightful spot atop our tree. You may now feel free to applaud.

  So you see, the holiday season, specifically Christmas, has always been a beautiful time for me—a time of family, food, and fun, no matter how much money we had. It’s unlike any other time in the year. So humor me for a while, dear reader, and open your mind to the possibility of celebrating the holiday spirit 365 days a year. If you concentrate closely enough, you might just hear sugar plums dancing. You also might hear Suga’ Plumm dancing—she was one of the exotic dancers on our Pornaments. God bless us, every one.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Like a Prayer

  I must admit something to you, dear reader: I’ve been a bad gay. No, I didn’t eat at Chic-fil-A or go a full month without a pedicure. My God, nothing that serious. But I do have to make a confession. A Confession on a Dance Floor, if you will. What I’m about to tell you is “Borderline” unforgivable, but I must “Express Myself.” Are you sitting down? Okay, here it is: I haven’t always loved Madonna.

  I know, I know, sacrilege! But, when it came to the Material Girl, it took me quite a while to get “Into the Groove.” I mean, sure, I like a good beat and catchy chorus as much as any red-blooded American boy, but as a young child, I just couldn’t get past her tacky over-accessorizing and shamelessly exposed midriff. She was a bad girl and I was a good boy. I’m sorry, Madonna, but back then, I just wasn’t “Crazy for You.”

  In all honesty, I think she scared me. She was always crawling on the floor and rolling around with a seductive smile on her face. She looked like the type of person who had lots of sex with lots of different people. Quite frankly, I found it all a bit too much for my preteen pop culture palate. And Madonna’s worst sin of all? Those god-awful eyebrows. Ugh. Unruly, out of control, and in your face, just like her.

  They say there’s a thin line between love and hate, and I quickly “Vogue”’d right over that line when I suddenly went from being disgusted with Madonna to being delighted by her. The movie was Who’s That Girl? and it had me asking the very same question. Sure, her eyebrows were worse than ever, but for some reason they kind of grew on me.

  If it had been up to me, I wouldn’t have even bothered seeing that movie at all. But fate intervened one night, and I was lured into my neighbor’s basement by all my favorite snacks. I didn’t care what tape my neighbor popped into the VHS player, as long as she popped some Orville Redenbacher’s in the microwave while she was at it. Honestly, putting Madonna in a movie sounded to me like about as good an idea as chocolate-covered raisins (raisins are already nature’s candy, stupid), but, just like Raisinettes, somehow Who’s That Girl? worked.

  Madonna played Nikki Finn, a sassy gum-popping trollop packed into a skintight dress, with white blonde hair and black caterpillar Groucho Marx eyebrows. With just one look, the uptight repulsion I had originally felt for the gap-toothed, crotch-grabbing chameleon was replaced by a downright obsession. I guess you could say I drank the Madonna Kool-Aid, and it was not just satisfyingly sweet, but terrifically tart.

  From that moment forward, I was a full-fledged,
card carrying Madonna minion. Wherever her cone-shaped boobies pointed, I followed. And what a journey we went on! From daring dominatrix, to disco diva, to demure darling, and every look in between, I’ve been a proud barnacle, steadfastly attached to the underside of the SS Madonna as it sailed to “La Isla Bonita” and beyond!

  The planets aligned when I was a sophomore in high school. The year was 1996, the pinnacle of Madonna mania, when she hit us with the triple whammy of giving birth to a baby, an album, and a movie musical spectacular all at once! The child was named Lourdes. The album, Ray of Light. The film, Evita. What a year.

  Ray of Light, with its global message of spirituality mixed with cross-continental beats, spoke to me like an album never had before. And Evita? Dear God, Evita. Broadway legend Andrew Lloyd Webber outdid himself with that one! But unlike the second L in Mr. Webber’s middle name, Madonna’s brilliance in that film could never be silenced. She gave a restrained, honest, and heartbreaking performance, commanding the type of respect from movie critics and audiences alike that had, up until that point, eluded her. And all those accolades were well deserved. I mean, sure, she was playing a blindly ambitious husband-stealing Nazi sympathizer, but her hair finally matched her eyebrows!

  Can you keep a secret, Argentina? I did cry, not just for you, but also for Madonna when she was awarded a coveted Golden Globe for her stellar performance in Evita. Who would’ve thought that the same girl who, merely years before, was wearing those ridiculous golden, cone-shaped brassieres would one day be clutching a Golden Globe to her heaving bosom? It didn’t take an awards show expert like myself to know that somebody on Madonna’s household staff had better make room on her mantel for what would inevitably follow—a prize that would make her Golden Globe seem like it came from the bottom of a Cracker Jack box: an Oscar.

  I awoke bright and early on the morning of that year’s Oscar nominations. After all, people, this was history in the making. Like Cher before her, this year Madonna would undoubtedly join the ranks of one-named pop icons who were recognized by the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. As I prepared my breakfast of strawberry Pop-Tarts slathered in peanut butter (my invention—peanut butter and jealous, much?), I rehearsed my reaction for when I would finally hear her name announced as a Best Actress nominee. My choices ran the gamut, ranging from a smugly satisfied smile to girlishly gleeful giddiness. It never even occurred to me to rehearse a reaction for the worst-case scenario.

  Eventually, after the pesky supporting categories were announced, it was time for the main event: Best Actress. Previous Oscar winner Mira Sorvino and Academy president Arthur Hiller began, announcing the five nominees in the customary alphabetical order, “The nominees for Best Actress are…Brenda Blethyn for Secrets and Lies, Diane Keaton for Marvin’s Room, Frances McDormand for Fargo…”

  Huh? I thought to myself, confused. Doesn’t Madonna come before McDormand? Is it Mc-Dormand or Mac-Dormand?

  They continued. “…Kristin Scott Thomas for The English Patient…”

  What was going on?!? I was beginning to lose my shit. There was only one name left, and unless in my excitement I had completely lost comprehension of the English alphabet, that name was not going to be the one I wanted to hear.

  “…And, finally, Emily Watson for Breaking the Waves.”

  Surprise nominee Emily Watson broke more than just waves that morning; she also broke my spirit and, no doubt, Madonna’s heart. I couldn’t believe it. The unthinkable had happened. Madonna wasn’t nominated. I woke up that day ready to “Celebrate,” but here I was “True Blue.”

  I felt numb, then enraged, then concerned. I couldn’t help but picture Madonna watching these nominations herself, buckling to her knees in heartache. I yearned to rush to her side to comfort her, hold her up and whisper in her ear, “Madonna, you were robbed! You didn’t just play Evita, you were Evita! No one can take that away from you. Ever! Your performance was just too transcendent—it flew right over the Oscar voters’ heads. You were so real, so seamless, they didn’t even know it was acting! That’s why you weren’t nominated—you were too good!”

  Instead, and because I didn’t know Madonna’s home address, I simply stayed home from school that day and polished off the entire box of Pop-Tarts, the rest of the jar of peanut butter, the leftover Salisbury steak from dinner the previous night, a canister of sour cream and onion Pringles, and a six-pack of sugar-free tapioca puddin’ cups. If Madonna wasn’t going to have to worry about fitting into a skintight, unforgiving couture gown for the Oscars, then neither would I. It was an act of solidarity.

  Sometimes heartbreak can weaken a relationship, but it only strengthened ours. One would think that my admiration for her would have diminished throughout the years, but it—like her arms—only grew stronger. As the years ticked by, I’ve loved loving her from afar, never dreaming that one day I might possibly meet her. I mean, how would that even happen? After all, we live in completely different worlds. I’m over here in the real world, full of everyday annoyances like hangnails and flat tires, while she’s off in a faraway soft-focus fantasy world inhabited by young, sinewy Latino backup dancers and delicious raw vegan snacks.

  Let’s be honest, the chance of our very different worlds ever colliding seemed unlikely, to say the least. It seems strange for me, the dreamer of all dreamers, to have been so uncharacteristically pessimistic about the possibility of meeting the one and only Madonna Louise Ciccone in the flesh. After all, I had somehow beaten the odds and managed to meet nearly all my other female idols, including goddesses like Tiffani-Amber Thiessen, Liza Minnelli, Michelle Kwan, Oprah, Rue McClanahan, and not one but two of Madonna’s besties, Gwyneth Paltrow and Rosie O’Donnell. But for some reason, and this is not to in any way diminish the star wattage of the lovely ladies above, meeting Madonna seemed an impossible feat. I mean, if I allowed myself to dream of meeting Madonna, why not hope to meet fellow superstars on the same otherworldly level—stars such as Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, or Jared from Subway? Things like that just don’t happen.

  Oh ye of little faith. Despite everything you’ve just read, I think you know how this story ends. Yep, that’s right, it ends with me not just meeting, but actually touching the most famous blonde on Planet Earth since Marilyn Monroe. Are you sitting? Because this one’s a doozy…

  Here’s how it happened. When my Tonight Show writer, Anthony, and I found out that Madonna was performing at Dodger Stadium, just a stone’s throw from the NBC Studios in Burbank, we suddenly had a crazy, harebrained idea. We rushed to our producers, hoping they’d love it as much as we did. Keep in mind, this was in October 2008, and I had already been a Tonight Show correspondent for nearly six years. By then I had done everything from skydiving and competing in a demolition derby to interviewing Sydney Poitier and Sarah Ferguson, the Duchess of York. We were always looking for a fresh, new idea. This one was not only fresh and new, but relatively simple: I, an out-of-control Madonna fan, would do whatever it took to sneak backstage and meet the star herself.

  Just as we had hoped, the producers loved it, but added one more challenging twist. Meeting her wasn’t enough—I had to also make physical contact with Madonna. My mission, should I choose to accept it, was to touch one of the most untouchable people in show business. Of course, all of this was to be filmed and aired on national television. No pressure, right?

  WARNING: Baby’s got a Secret. I am now going to lift the curtain and expose a rarely admitted show business practice. I feel like one of those jerks who ruins the magic trick for everyone, but I truly believe that it’s important to share the truth with you all. If Operation Touch Madonna failed, not only would it turn out to be a major bummer, but it would also be a total waste of time and money. If I didn’t succeed, we couldn’t even air it.

  The problem? It’s never a good idea to surprise someone who employs more people on her security team than the population of many small countries. It would not only end in disappointment, but with one’s face—I’m go
ing to guess mine—smooshed against the cold, dirty concrete floor of Dodger Stadium. I mean, I wanted this to happen, but I also wanted to “Live to Tell.”

  So we had our people contact Madonna’s people and run the idea by her. And to both her credit and my amazement, she agreed. Sure, I was thrilled to know that I wouldn’t be tackled by one of her enormous bodyguards as I approached the pop star backstage, but I was even more thrilled to finally be meeting her. Somehow, though, I still couldn’t believe it. I hadn’t been this thrown for a loop since that horrifying Oscar travesty so many years earlier.

  I didn’t tell a single soul about the plan, so as not to jinx it. No one knew: not my mother, my roommate, or even my Starbucks barista—people who were usually kept abreast and in the mix when it came to my comings and goings.

  Even on the day of the concert, I didn’t believe it would really happen. Even after I buckled my seatbelt in the NBC van, and then pulled into the stadium parking lot and was escorted through the VIP security check-in backstage, I still somehow couldn’t accept the reality of what was going on. I think I had residual emotional pain from Madonna’s Oscar snub. I mean, I had believed wholeheartedly in that certainty, too, but it didn’t happen. I just couldn’t go through that again.

  Looking around Dodger Stadium, it dawned on me that I had been to a few games there many years ago. I guess you could say “This Used to Be My Playground.” But I was on Madonna’s turf now and nervous that my dream might be shattered even before it began.

  However, I knew without a doubt that I had penetrated the inner circle when I saw Madonna’s longtime infamous publicist, Liz Rosenberg, approaching me. Everyone knows that it was easier to get a seat on a Titanic lifeboat than it is to get within one hundred yards of Madonna, but when Liz said, “Ross, it’s so nice to meet you,” it was suddenly clear that this was, in fact, real. I knew then and there that this was going to be a day I would always “Cherish.”