by Ross Mathews
“Good!” Anthony yelled.
When security finally granted us access to the press line, we muscled our way into position. I stepped to the edge of the red carpet, took a quick glance at my microphone with the Tonight Show logo, and looked back up to see someone familiar standing in front of me. It was David Duchovny from The X-Files waiting for me to ask him a question.
I don’t even remember what we talked about, but I do remember turning to the camera with a devilish smile as he walked away and saying, “David Duchovny was my first.”
I could hear Anthony and the crew gasp and burst into laughter. I knew I was on to something and made the decision to just trust myself to say the first thing that came into my mind.
From there, the interviews got even better. I shed all inhibition and fell into a natural rhythm and creative zone, losing track of time while chitchatting with one huge celeb after another. When I saw George Clooney making his way down the press line, I yelled out his name, purposely pronouncing it the Spanish way (“Jorge, Jorge my man!”). I shared an awkward moment with Matt Damon while having him hold up a picture of Carolina, a fellow Tonight Show intern who had a crush on him. I got into a minifight with Casey Affleck when he called me a toad (we buried the hatchet a few minutes later), and left Brad Pitt virtually speechless by shamelessly flirting with him.
It felt amazing, like I was in some kind of autopilot mode. It was like something was in control of me, and I said and did things I would have never normally said or done. I mean, when I see a famous person in my everyday life, I don’t run up to them and make a scene. But when I was on that red carpet that night, nothing was off-limits and my only goal was to create a funny and memorable moment with them. To this day, that’s what always happens when I’m on the job and have a microphone in my hand. I’m still me, but I’m an amped-up, heightened version of myself. Think Beyonce as her alter-ego Sasha Fierce, if you know what I mean.
When the red carpet finally wrapped up, I let out a huge sigh of relief. Pushing up the sleeves of my fleece jacket, I turned to the crew and asked, “How was that?”
Anthony was the first to speak. “Where in the hell did all that come from?”
“Was it okay? Did I talk too much? I know, I can be annoying.”
“No, not annoying. I feel like I just saw a career being made.”
I know what you’re thinking. This sounds too cheesy to be true, like the end of Rudy. But I’m not kidding, this is how it really happened. I’m not trying to toot my own tooter. Anthony really did say that, and the crew really did hug me afterward and told me they were thrilled to have witnessed that moment.
After seeing the footage the next day, the producers immediately asked me to cover the upcoming Vanilla Sky premiere. Next, they sent me to Salt Lake City for a month to cover the Winter Olympics, and then to the Academy Awards, and so on. Now, somehow, it’s over eleven years later and I’m the longest-running correspondent in Tonight Show history.
Some people call what happened to me a lucky break. Kind of, but I don’t really believe in luck. I believe in Oprah, which is why I quote her all the time. I once heard her say (and I’m sort of paraphrasing, here), “There’s no such thing as luck. Luck is when opportunity meets preparation.”
I was prepared for my opportunity, and I made the most of it. I think that’s why my dream of being on TV has, and continues to, come true. Whatever your dream may be, make sure you’re prepared, because you never know when your own George Clooney might come a’knockin’.
Chapter Seven
A Thiessen to Celebrate
The year was 1995. Her name was Tiffani-Amber Thiessen. A star so nice, they named her thrice. And, no matter what else she accomplishes in life, to me, she will always hold the title of the First Celebrity I Ever Met.
I loved her the moment I saw her on Saved by the Bell as the irrepressible Kelly Kapowski, the cheerleader with a heart as big as her bangs. She was the epitome of cutting-edge nineties fashion with her skintight bike shorts, acid-wash denim, and Day-Glo scrunchies. But what I think I loved even more than her totally tubular wardrobe was the fact that while she was obviously the most popular girl at Bayside High, she never let it go to her beautiful head.
You’d think I would have considered her a threat, since we both had eyes for the blond hair and white teeth known as Zack Morris, played with verve and aplomb by Mark-Paul Gosselaar, another actor blessed with not just talent but three names.
Yep, she had the hair, the clothes, and the man. In short, she had every right to be a stuck-up snob, but she somehow managed to remain surprisingly sweet. Now that’s my kind of gal.
When I heard on my local AM radio station that she was going to be making an appearance at the Bon Marché department store in downtown Seattle, only sixty miles—a mere hop, skip, and a jump—from my sleepy Norman Rockwellian hometown, you can bet your bottom dollar I was going to be there. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. It was a no-freakin’-brainer!
I was only fifteen and couldn’t drive, so I convinced one of my best girlfriends to join me. Molly was one year my senior and the proud owner of not only a driver’s license and the new Rachel haircut, but a gleaming white Geo Prizm—complete with one of those fancy new CD players—that her parents gave her when she turned sixteen (jealous!).
We sang TLC’s “Waterfalls” at the top of our lungs all the way down to Seattle. Once there, we waited in line for—no joke—three hours, spending every second planning exactly what I should say to Tiffani-Amber Thiessen when I finally reached the front of the line.
“It’s important for me,” I told Molly, slowly drawing out each word to fully illustrate just how much thought I’d put into all of this, “that I let Ms. Thiessen know”—pensive pause, hand on heart—“how her work has touched me. I don’t want her to just”—dramatic sigh—“get that I care, I want her to get”—looking up as if searching the heavens for just the right word—“why she made me care.” Tilt head to one side. “You know what I mean?” Close eyes, smile, and nod.
Eventually, as we slowly edged closer to the autograph table, I stopped talking to Molly altogether. I didn’t want to be rude, but this was no time for idle chitchat. I needed to go inward, disappear into myself in order to fully prepare what I was going to say during my big moment with Tiffani-Amber Thiessen. I rehearsed my speech over and over again in my head until it was simply perfect. I had it down—every word, every nuance, every subtlety. It was, quite frankly, nothing short of a masterpiece. I knew deep down in my heart that even if Tiffani-Amber Thiessen met a thousand people that day, she’d remember me the very best. Perhaps she’d even tell me so, under her breath, of course, in an effort to not offend the less-memorable, so-called biggest fans in line behind me.
I mean, she might be so moved by my heartfelt words and obvious dedication that she’d even ask for my home phone number, which I’d gladly give her, nonchalantly mentioning that my parents pay extra for three-way calling so we could also totally call Zack Morris and just shoot the shit if she ever wanted to, but no biggie.
Sure, she was a big Hollywood star and I was just a fifteen-year-old with stars in my eyes and zits on my chin, but I knew the moment we met the planets would align and we would be inseparable, just like the Siamese twins I’d seen on a recent episode of Rikki Lake.
The three hours spent in line—180 minutes, 10,800 seconds—seemed to go by in an instant, and suddenly I was being rudely yanked from my daydream by a large security guard who barked, “Hey, kid! You in the green jacket! You’re up.”
Huh?!? Wait a minute. I was already at the front of the line?!? But I wasn’t ready!
Oh my God, I thought. How’s my hair? How’s my breath? Why are my palms sweating? I’m next? It couldn’t possibly be my turn already! What was that brilliant-but-genuine thing I planned on saying to her? I forget. I forget!!! I FORGET WHAT I WAS GONNA—
“What’s your name, sweetie?”
I blinked and suddenly there she was, Tiffani-Amber
Thiessen, all three names of her. Not in class next to A. C. Slater or in Mr. Belding’s office or slinging burgers at The Max—she was in front of me and she was asking my name. Holy crapballs.
The weirdest thing about getting up close and personal with famous people is seeing their imperfections. Now, Tiffani-Amber, if I may be so bold as to go Thiessen-less, is a lovely lady and she looked every inch the TV star that day with her impossibly shiny hair and Malibu Barbie tan. But, when I got really close, I saw something that threw me for a major loop: A teeny tiny, itty-bitty glob of mascara in the corner of her left eye.
No biggie, right? It happens to everyone. Stars, they’re just like us? Go figure! Perhaps celebrities weren’t quite as perfect as I’d thought. Now, if I found myself in this situation today, it wouldn’t be a big deal at all. I would probably just whisper, “Hey girl, you gotta little gunk in your eye.”
But the fifteen year-old me didn’t know how to handle it. In fact, I had become instantly obsessed with this unexpected eye booger. It was like a big black punctuation mark, the period that was bringing time to a screeching halt.
As silly as it sounds, I couldn’t fathom the idea of my perfect K-Pow—the very first celebrity I had ever come face to face with—having an imperfection. And although this blemish was clearly temporary and merely surface level, it was still the ultimate distraction. I couldn’t let it go. I mean, how could this go unnoticed? Didn’t she have people on the payroll looking out for such disasters? If they weren’t going to tell her, then maybe I should! Or better yet, I could simply take control and make things right, make her perfect again. I was imagining myself gently swabbing Tiff’s eye with a Q-tip like her chubby knight in shining armor, when I heard what sounded like a record skipping. “What’s your name?…Your name…?…Name…?”
I could hear Tiffani-Amber asking the question, and for the love of God I wanted to respond, but I couldn’t think of the answer. I heard Molly’s voice just behind me, answering on my behalf. “Ross. His name is Ross.”
Tiffani-Amber asked, “Ross, would you like an autograph?”
Again, I said nothing. My mind was blank. Molly, still acting as my interpreter, piped up. “Yes, he’d love one.”
Tiffani-Amber pulled a head shot from the stack beside her, signed it and pushed it across the table. “Ross, honey,” she asked, “Do you want to take a picture together?”
Molly shoved me forward and chimed, “Yes!”
Tiffani leaned in close. We were literally just inches apart now. I was being pulled into the orbit of a real star and she smelled like a mixture of honeysuckle and the Hollywood sign. Divine. When the camera clicked, I felt a flash of light burn my eyes, and when my sight returned a few moments later, I somehow found myself back on the Seattle streets with Molly.
“Did it really happen?” I asked Molly while rubbing my eyes. “Or was it all just a dream?!?”
Molly gleefully recounted the horror story of my doomed Thiessen interaction. “My favorite part,” Molly squealed, “was when you forgot your own name!”
She was lying. That couldn’t have happened. “You’re lying, Molly. That couldn’t have happened.”
She was in hysterics now, nearly hyperventilating with laughter. “And then I had to practically prop you up for a picture!”
“You shut your stupid mouth, stupid!!! ”
I went too far. I’d never lashed out like that before. Molly realized that for me to say something that harsh, she had really crossed a line. Regaining her composure, she wrapped a comforting arm around my shoulders. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. It wasn’t really that bad. I mean, it was kinda cute in a way. You were like a clueless puppy or an adorable little toddler who just woke up, all dazed and confused and stuff ? You know?”
I appreciated her attempt at kindness, but she wasn’t helping. This was the absolute worst thing that had ever happened in the history of the world. I couldn’t help but think my life was basically over. I mean, how could it have all gone so terribly wrong?
Tiffani probably thinks I’m a grade-A idiot, I thought to myself. Maybe she’s even thinking about it at this very moment, laughing at my meet-and-greet meltdown. She’s probably telling her hair and makeup people the story right now. I bet her bitchy hairstylist thinks it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “Oh girl,” he’s cackling while smoothing her flyaways, “you’ve gotta tell Mark-Paul about this loser!”
I don’t handle tragedy well. I never have. And I dealt with it that day the way I always do: by loading up on carbs. I zeroed in on a street vendor, dug a whopping $2.50 out of my pocket, and splurged on a big soft pretzel. I ripped into that salty knot of baked dough like a pit bull. I took my frustration out on that defenseless twisted treat, pathetically chewing the pain away. I stood there with bright yellow mustard smeared across my lips, my cheeks bulging like an insane, nut-hoarding squirrel. That’s when Molly perkily chirped, “Well, at least it couldn’t get any worse.”
But then it did.
As we rounded a corner, I nearly walked right into—you guessed it—The Thiessen, who was exiting the shopping center with her entourage. We were once again face-to-face—mine stained with mustard and hers looking as flawless as ever (someone must have pointed out the eye booger because it was now gone).
I’m not sure why or how it happened, dear reader, but my circuits became overloaded, my wires crossed and, for some reason, my mouth started spewing both words and chunks of chewed pretzel at her. I was standing less than two feet away, yelling, “TIFFANI-AMBER THIESSEN! IT’S ME, ROSS! REMEMBER? I JUST MET YOU A LITTLE WHILE AGO! ROSS?!? REMEMBER ME?!?”
What happened next reminds me of footage of the attempted assassination of Ronald Reagan (YouTube it). Tiffani-Amber’s handlers immediately kicked into Code Red, forcefully ushering her away from the high-pitched nutcase (yours truly) and into a car that then sped away, leaving only myself and a dumbstruck Molly. She stared at me with her mouth agape and an expression of shock, disbelief, and pity on her face.
After what seemed like an unbearably long and awkward silence, Molly once again put a reassuring arm around my shoulder, took a deep breath, and quietly said, “Well, you were right.”
I looked at her like a sad little cartoon character with question marks in my eyes. “Of all the people she met today,” Molly continued, “Tiffani-Amber Thiessen will totally remember you the very best.”
Chapter Eight
You Better Work
(And a Lifelong Secret Revealed)
I entered the work force when I was thirteen years old. I was inspired by my brother Eric who, after only six months of employment at the Royal Fork Buffet, had worked his way up from lowly dishwasher to assistant to the assistant head cook—a meteoric rise I had only witnessed, up until that point, in the Melanie Griffith–Harrison Ford classic, Working Girl.
The Royal Fork (which my dad lovingly referred to as “the Royal Fuck”) afforded my brother a lavish lifestyle of which I couldn’t have been more jealous. His new paycheck was elevating everything about him. Suddenly he had gorgeous orange highlights in his hair, he started wearing No Fear T-shirts like those fancy kids who lived in two-story houses, he smelled better (Drakkar Noir will always be his signature scent) and, most important, he no longer had to choke down store-brand cheese doodle snacks from the day-old bin at the grocery store like everyone else in our family. No ma’am, he indulged his maturing palate with real-deal, highfalutin name-brand Cheetos along with his school lunches. He was becoming so sophisticated, in fact, that he opted for the delicate puffed variety as opposed to the simple crunchy version the rest of us Mathews—and other “salt of the earth” types—shamelessly scarfed down on a regular basis.
A-hole. It wasn’t fair. I wanted a better life (and better snacks), too. And thus began my impressively varied string of childhood jobs. Seriously, as a kid, I had just about every job you can imagine short of making knockoff Gucci wallets in a run-down factory.
After dabbling briefly in the
cutthroat spinach business in a nearby field (as discussed ad nauseam in chapter 1), I then signed on to spend my summer vacation working the conveyor belt at a local tulip and daffodil farm, separating the flower bulbs from dirt clods for eight hours a day. I was literally doing the dirty work.
There wasn’t a ton of socializing going on, mostly because we were all rendered temporarily deaf due to the loud roar of the equipment, but also because 90 percent of my fellow coworkers didn’t speak English. (Education tip from Uncle Ross: take Spanish or Japanese—a language you can actually use—maybe even French, if you plan on being a chef or a sexy maid. I took Latin, which, with apologies to my high school Latin teacher, turned out to be as useless as a thesaurus on the set of Jersey Shore.)
I spent most of my workday nodding my head in agreement to whatever my coworkers were saying (those exotic rolled Rs can be surprisingly persuasive) and pretending I was anywhere other than where I was. This sure as hell was no Royal Fork Buffet. This was a royal forking pain in my ass.
That’s the thing about truly shitty jobs—they teach you precisely what you never, ever want to do again. Sorting filthy flower bulbs proved to be mind-numbingly boring manual labor that left my hands super-rough and über-dry if I didn’t wear the company-issued, industry-standard yellow rubber gloves (so not my color!). This was a no-win situation, however, because my hands got all pruney and sweaty and gross if I wore the gloves for too long. So I kept alternating every fifteen minutes or so: gloves on, gloves off, gloves on, gloves off. That maddening on/off routine was torture to maintain, and occasionally I would be distracted by my actual job duties, making the tragic mistake of accidentally leaving the gloves on for too long. This resulted in both my wrinkled hands and my soggy gloves smelling exactly like boiled hot dogs. No joke: exactly.
