Authors: Ross Mathews
D
eny it if you will, but I know you've all had those fantasy moments in front of the bathroom mirror, accepting your pretend Oscar that's actually a bottle of shampoo. Deep down, we all know that those kind of Hollywood fantasies rarely, if ever, come true. Which is why, when something like that actually
did
happen to me, it felt like a freaky, out-of-body experience. I know it sounds so clichéd, but it really was like watching a play, and the main character was me.
I was sitting across from Joe, the
Tonight Show
head writer. When he first asked me what should have been a simple question, it was as if he was speaking German. It just didn't compute. Confused, I asked, “I'm sorry, can you repeat that?”
He leaned back in his seat, folded his arms across his chest and repeated the question so casually, he might as well have been offering me a breath mint. “What would you think about coming out on stage during tonight's taping, meeting George Clooney, and leaving with him to be our correspondent at the red carpet premiere of
Ocean's Eleven
?”
This time I heard him loud and clear. “Yes, I would very much like to do that.”
You'd think I would've totally lost my shit, but instead I remained calm and had a moment of absolute clarity. The thought simply occurred to me:
Oh, this is how it's all going to happen. This will be my story. Remember this for the book you'll write one day.
I later learned that a professional comic was originally scheduled to cover the premiere but had dropped out at the last minute. In what I consider a stroke of pure genius (if I do say so myself), another writer named Larry Jacobson half-jokingly suggested that they send “the intern with that voice” instead. I don't know if Larry will ever really know the impact his offhand suggestion has had on my life. If you're reading this, Larry: thank you, like a lot.
Of course, I had a ton of questions. “What should I wear?”
“What you're wearing is fine.”
“What do you want me to ask the celebs?”
“Don't prepare anything, just ask the first thing that pops into your head.”
I could certainly do that. “Will this really be on TV?”
“Maybe. We don't know for sure. First, we have to see if what you tape is good or not.”
Um, no pressure.
I was told that I had one hour before heading out to the premiere, which was just enough time to call my mom and deliver the big news. I figured I'd play it cool at first, you know, for dramatic effect. I sounded totally blasé when she picked up. “Hey Mom. How are you? What are you doing?”
“Hi, sweetie! Oh God, well, I had a hell of a day. First, your dad wanted me to make tacos for dinner tonight, but Thrifty Foods was out of the lean ground beef that I like, so I think we're just gonna go to the Mexico Café instead.”
Okay, enough taco talk. I interrupted her and broke my big news. I could almost hear her heart beating through the phone. “Oh, dear God. Just a sec, honey. I'll call you right back.”
My mom's going to kill me for this, but I made a promise to you, dear reader, to be honest and this is just too good not to share. My mother's reaction to any big news, be it good or bad, is always
instant
diarrhea. I wouldn't lie to you, because if I did, I would have just wasted thirty seconds looking up how to spell
diarrhea
.
Minutes later, after doing her business, she called back. “
Oh my God. Oh my God! Honey!
This is
huge
. If you do half as well at this as you did when you starred in
The Hobbit
in the seventh grade, you're going to knock it out of the park, I just know it!”
God bless my mom. I
was
really good in
The Hobbit
.
I spent the next forty-five minutes just thinking by myself as the enormity of the situation began to sink in. I knew I was getting the chance I had always hoped for, but I was also aware that I was exposing myself to possible rejection and ridicule on a national level. I mean, I got it. I knew who I was. That childhood moment with the bully in the spinach field wasn't an isolated incident. As a proud, high-pitched, grown-up oddity, I had faced homophobia on a daily basis, and for a split second, I questioned whether or not this was a risk I was prepared to take.
The Tonight Show
may have been willing to celebrate my eccentricities and give me a chance, but would the show's middle-American audience do the same?
I knew initially, the viewers were probably going to laugh
at
me. Why wouldn't they? Who was this over-the-top cartoon on their TVs? But I also knew that a person couldn't sustain a career by constantly being the butt of the joke. I had so much more to offer than that, and I felt I really had the skills needed to be a bone fide broadcaster. So, if I wanted this to work, I had to find a way to get the audience to laugh
with
me, not
at
me. That is, if I wanted this to be more than just a onetime thing.
What happened next was surreal. Suddenly the very same people whose coffee I had just delivered earlier in the day were prepping me to go on air to meet the sexiest man alive, George Clooney (and that's not just my opinionâ
People
magazine made it official in both 1997
and
2006, thank you very much).
Minutes before the big moment, I was standing backstage in the blue zip-up fleece jacket I had found just days before on the clearance rack at JCPenney, taking in my surroundings. I stared at the doorway where every celebrity I could imagine had walked through to greet Jay Leno on the
Tonight Show
stage and couldn't believe I was just about to walk through it myself. I heard the audience laughing as Jay and George chatted mere feet away from me. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to shake off my nerves and focus, when I suddenly heard Jay Leno saying my name.
“We have this young intern, Ross Mathews, who just loves all things Hollywood.”
Okay, this is bonkers. Jay Leno just said my name on TV.
There was no turning back now.
He continued, “Would you mind, George, if he went with you to your premiere tonight and interviewed the other stars of the film?”
This couldn't possibly get any more bizarre. Jay Leno and George Clooney were having a conversation about me. Whoa.
George replied, “Sure.”
“All right,” Jay continued, “Come on out here, Ross.”
Roberta, the stage manager, shoved me through the doors and onto the
Tonight Show
stage for the very first time. I was so captivated by the lights and cameras and audience, I barely even noticed George (and you
know
your head is spinning when you don't notice George Clooney right in front of you).
I said quietly, almost to myself, “Wow, so this is what it looks like from here.”
Those were my first words on national television.
In a Hollywood minute, I was in an NBC van headed to the famous Village Theater with a production crew consisting of Kevin the cameraman, Kenny the audio engineer, Scott the talent coordinator, Izzy the production assistant, and Anthony the writer (yes, the same Anthony whose brain I had picked just weeks earlier). These people were basically strangers to me then, but they have continued to work with me on all my
Tonight Show
segments and I now consider them family. But back then I was just a kid in a van with a bunch of scary grown-ups.
I attempted small talk. “So, this should be a lot of fun, right?”
Anthony looked up from his notes and tried to calm my nerves. “Relax, Ross, and have a good time. We just thought it might be funny to see what happened if we sent someone from the office out to talk with celebs. Just be you and it'll be fine.”
“Oh, I get it. Like âRoss the Intern meets the stars' kinda thing?”
“âRoss the Intern'⦔ Anthony repeated. “I like that.”
The
Ocean's Eleven
premiere was about as star-studded as you can get, and the scene at the red carpet was insane. Westwood Boulevard was closed down for the event and, by the time we got there, hundreds of fans were lining the sidewalks behind barricades, media outlets from all over the world were crowding the press line, and security was being a real pain in the butt. It was such a tornado of chaos that even though our entire crew had the proper credentials, we were all denied access to the red carpet.
“What the hell?” I asked Anthony. “We can't even get in!”
Laughing, he yelled to Kevin the cameraman, “Start rolling now!”
Then he turned toward me and gave me some directions. “Okay, Ross, just talk to the camera and describe what's going on.”
I looked into the camera lens, took a quick breath, and just pretended like I was talking to my mom. “It's nuts! There's security here and they're not letting me in, but George Clooney is right over there and I promise I'll get to him no matter what.”
“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'.
T
he 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.”