Man Up!

by Ross Mathews

  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.”

  What happened next happened very quickly. It was like a blur, the details of which I remember as if they happened two seconds ago. I can recall every sound, every smell, every thought I had. Liz Rosenberg guided me into a large tent, a makeshift oasis in the Dodger Stadium parking lot. Inside, there were white flowers everywhere with matching white couches, carpets, and drapes in every corner. I’m actually pausing right now to really ponder…was that what it was really like? But I swear to God, dear reader, it was. Also, the temperature inside the tent was perfect. Not too chilly, not too warm. Just right. Was this heaven? I wasn’t sure, but it certainly had heaven’s color scheme.

  I was snapped back to reality when Liz Rosenberg once again appeared out of nowhere and informed me, “Madonna will be out shortly—make yourself comfortable.”

  That was it? Make yourself comfortable? No Sit there and don’t touch a thing?

  I immediately started exploring. I felt like a kid at the circus as I watched gorgeous, young backup dancers stretching. Muscular roadies in Crew T-shirts hastily came and went like speeding cars whizzing past me. Slick security officers in Italian suits and mirrored sunglasses spoke in hushed tones over walkie-talkies. And then I saw two of the most exciting features of the Madonna Circus—the positively adorable fruits of her limber loins, Lourdes and Rocco. I shamelessly stared at them like exotic zoo animals, wondering what it must be like to be them and, more important, what it must be like to have a mother named Madonna. But like a pair of precocious pandas, they were completely clueless as to how many eyes were on them, and they simply ran around, playing a game of Tag.

  Suddenly the temperature in the room got colder, or warmer—I couldn’t really tell—and everybody turned around simultaneously to watch Madonna emerge from her dressing room and saunter down the stairs like a glamorous silent movie star. “Come on, everybody,” Madonna said in her newly acquired British accent, “it’s time for the prayer circle.”

  Oh my God, I thought. The prayer circle?!? THE Prayer Circle?!?

  I’d seen Truth or Dare—Madonna’s black-and-white concert documentary—about a gazillion times, and I knew what the prayer circle was. Before each concert, Madonna would gather the concert cast and crew—musicians, dancers, and backup singers alike—and lead them in a prayer. Everyone knows about Madonna’s prayer circle, but hardly anyone’s ever been in one. That’s precisely why I didn’t waste any time hopping into that circle, grabbing the hands of the two strangers on either side of me, and bowing my head faster than you can say, “Like a Prayer”!

  We all closed our eyes as Madonna began the prayer: “Let’s have a really good show, everyone. We’ve all worked very hard and the audience deserves our best…”

  That’s the moment I felt someone brush against me. I opened my eyes and saw a blonde woman in white walking behind the circle, making her way toward Madonna. How rude, I thought. What kind of person—other than me, of course—barges into a private, preshow prayer circle? This is sacred, dammit.

  Finally, Madonna noticed the woman, as well, and I focused on the Queen of Pop’s face, bracing for a stormy reaction to this tart’s tacky trespassing. But instead of contempt, Madonna showed compassion. She stopped what she was saying, hugged the woman, invited her into the circle and continued, “Everyone, make room for Britney.”

  Say what?

  Madonna continued. “As you know, she’s had a really hard time of late…”

  Did she just say Britney?

  “…what with the press and the paparazzi and all…”

  Oh my God, it can’t be.

  “…She needs us now.”

  I finally let my eyes drift from Madonna’s face to that of the mystery woman in white and there she was: everyone’s favorite former Mouseketeer turned Pop Princess turned Justin Timberlake-ex, Britney Fuckin’ Spears.

  Britney’s hair had grown out from her unfortunate headline-grabbing tango with an electric razor just enough to hold extensions. She looked surprisingly together and much less catatonic than one would expect. Seeing Britney in the circle, Madonna’s hand generously radiating a maternal love and support right into hers, I could imagine Britney graduating from a 5150 on a psych ward chart to number one on the pop charts again. Just then, Madonna’s reputation as a controlling taskmaster melted away, revealing a genuinely caring mentor and friend.

  This was the fucking best moment of my life. This was magical on so many levels. It was simultaneously real and unreal. I was so caught up in the moment that I almost forgot my mission. Sure, Madonna had just touched my heart, but I still hadn’t touched her.

  The prayer circle had barely uttered “Amen” when Liz Rosenberg grabbed me and instructed, “Meet us at the back door in ten seconds.”

  I did as I was told and rushed over immediately. I didn’t even have time to catch my breath before She was in front of me in all her majestic glory. The thing about Madonna up close, dear reader? She’s perfect, just perfect. A “Beautiful Stranger,” if you will. As my cameraman rolled, I told her that Jay Leno had sent me to not just meet her, but cop a feel as well. Without missing a beat, she regally extended her hand, as if to grant me permission to make physical contact. Knowing she was not going to leave her hand out for long, I instinctively made my move. I told her I loved her and touched her, “Like a Virgin,” for the very first time.

  In a heartbeat, she was gone. She may have had only “4 Minutes” to save the world, but she had just changed mine in less than four seconds.

  I know this all sounds too good to be true, like one of those made up Bedtime Stories. But it all happened, I swear to Kabbalah. And you may think I’m crazy for caring so much, but I’m not sorry…

  It’s “Human Nature.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Squash Injustice

  At the risk of sounding too hippy-dippy, I believe we all have the power to change the world. I don’t say this as a spectator, a mere cheerleader shaking his pompoms on the sidelines. No, I say it as a brave soldier on the battlefield in the war against gross injustices.

  Indulge me for a minute, dear reader, while I fill you in on a little backstory. I’ve been blogging for years. I began my online obsession in 2006 while I was covering the Winter Olympic Games in Torino, Italy, for The Tonight Show. I started blogging as a way for my mother to follow my adventures, and once it gained a sizeable following, I just fell in love with it.

  Blogging is a format like no other, a way of connecting with people from all over the world on a daily basis. I lovingly refer to those who frequent HelloRoss.com as “blog buddies” and delight in maintaining a familylike online community of fun folks.

  A signature feature on my website is what I call Talky Blogs. They’re basically video blogs on steroids. They consist of me in front of the camera just chattin’ about life and whatnot. Not long after I created Talky Blogs, they really took off. I’d post one at night, and by the next morning, it would have, like, twenty thousand views. It blew my mind that I had that kind of far-reaching appeal.

  As the years went by, my website continued to grow in popularity. This was the time in my life when I had just finished taping the reality show Celebrity Fit Club, where I transformed my body and lost over forty pounds by starving myself and competing against people like Screech and DaBrat in kayak races. I was trying to maintain my recent weight loss without the scrutiny of being weighed in on national television (talk about pressure). So when I found a meal option that was not only healthy but delicious, I latched onto it like Scooby Doo on a Scooby snack.

  Koo-Koo-Roo is a
fast food restaurant chain that sells amazingly flavorful rotisserie chicken and figure-friendly, heart-healthy side dishes. You may be thinking to yourself, Koo-Koo-What? but everybody in Los Angeles knows Koo-Koo-Roo. It’s a very popular regional chain. Just ignore the fact that the name sounds like a delightfully crazy drag queen. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the stage…Cuckoo Ru!”

  I’d frequent Koo-Koo-Roo about three days a week. I wouldn’t say I was addicted, but I was definitely a recreational user. My dinner ritual was to order the brilliant trifecta of one succulent rotisserie-grilled chicken breast, a side of freshly steamed green beans, and—my favorite—a sizeable scoop of golden butternut squash. I fully understand that butternut squash is not a food that people are generally passionate about, but I don’t even care. I love squash! I have since I was just a toddler. Sure, it has the consistency of baby food and the color of baby poop, but my taste buds just go goo-goo-ga-ga for it.

  I’m a purist when it comes to my squash, and Koo-Koo-Roo did it just right—no salt, no pepper, no butter. Nothin’ but sweet, scrumptious, straightforward squash, au naturel. You can’t improve on perfection, am I right?

  We had a good thing going on, Koo-Koo-Roo and I. Smooth sailin’ all the way, you know what I mean? Little did I know that my restaurant love affair was about to be served up with a side order of major disappointment.

  It was a beautiful evening, just like any other in Los Angeles. Per usual, I dropped by my local Koo-Koo-Roo for a good ol’ breast, beans, ’n’ butternut buffet. For some reason, though, the staff seemed a little more quiet than usual. Almost sad in a way? Something told me that the secret ingredient tonight would be an herb called OregaNO-You-Didn’t!

  As I approached the cash register, the manager stopped me before I even opened my mouth to place my regular order. I’d always loved this Koo-Koo-Roo manager lady. She was beautiful and looked exactly like Pocahontas from the animated Disney movie. And just like Pocahontas led John Smith through the dangerous wilderness of the new west, this Koo-Koo-Roo manager, whose name I can’t seem to remember for the life of me (sorry, honey!), led me to some of the worst news I had ever received.

  “Ross, I don’t know how to tell you this. We don’t have squash anymore.”

  I blinked, a little confused. “You mean you ran out?”

  She took a deep breath and blew her blunt bangs from her forehead as if she was about to break into her rousing rendition of “Colors of the Wind.” Instead, she took the wind out of my sails and the color out of my face. She frowned and said, “No, Ross. They discontinued it. It’s not coming back.”

  Are…you…kidding me? My beloved butternut squash was no more? How could this be? I couldn’t believe it. I asked her, “No squash?!? What am I supposed to order instead? Rice pilaf ? Spinach? Broccoli?!? What kind of world are we living in?!?”

  “I’m so sorry, Ross. We didn’t even want to tell you,” she explained sheepishly. “Have you tried our creamed corn?”

  Seriously? Creamed corn? I’d always liked my Koo-Koo-Roo Pocahontas, but now she was really getting on my nerves. Replacing my beloved squash with creamed corn was like substituting fine champagne with a tacky strawberry daiquiri wine cooler. Thanks, but no thanks!

  With a frown and much less sparkle than usual, I begrudgingly ordered my chicken breast and green beans, and sadly settled for a side of subpar, carbo-loaded mashed potatoes. Mashed potatoes? Who had I become? I could barely recognize myself anymore.

  As Pocahontas handed me my receipt, she circled a toll-free 1-800 number and gave me a slight glimmer of hope. “If you really want to do something about it, you can call this number to express your concerns to our home office. You’ll probably never hear back, but still, you should let them know.”

  Damn straight I would call! These Koo-Koo-Roo corporates had flown the coop, and I was determined to set them straight when it came to the pecking order of my favorite vegetables. Someone had to squash this kind of squash injustice!

  So I hatched a plan to get my favorite chicken chain to listen. I walked to my car and called the toll-free number right away. I didn’t even open up my dinner first—that was how important this was. The message I left on the Koo-Koo-Roo customer service voice mail was passionate and sincere, a moving plea for justice and the God-given right to indulge in the sweet satisfaction of butternut bliss.

  Next, I turned on the compact camcorder I used to film my Talky Blogs and had with me at all times to document the moment for all my blog buddies to experience with me. Luckily, this is documented on video and is still posted on YouTube to this very day. Look it up. It’s titled “TALKY BLOG: Koo Koo Woo Hoo.” In fact, I just watched it right now and transcribed it word for word.

  The following is my actual desperate call to action:

  Blog buddies, I need your help! Ohhh, I’m heated. I am heated!

  I just went to my beloved Koo-Koo-Roo.…I love Koo-Koo-Roo. I’m koo-koo for it! It’s because they have a squash, a butternut squash…

  But they don’t carry it anymore?!? What?!?

  Now, I wouldn’t dare give out the number [the 1-800 number flashes on the screen] for you to leave a voice mail for the fine people at Koo-Koo-Roo to say, “Please, bring back the squash.”

  I wouldn’t dare ask my loyal, trusted blog buddies to do that for me en masse…to bring back squash to Koo-Koo-Roo.…

  Then I drove home, halfheartedly ate my squashless dinner, and posted my Talky Blog to YouTube. When I awoke the next morning, it was a brave new world.

  My blog buddies hadn’t just united, overnight they had become a superpower of consumerism, a juggernaut of justice, a fierce force of feedback. By noon, my videotaped rant had thousands upon thousands of views on YouTube, and I had hundreds of comments from blog buddies who had called Koo-Koo-Roo to leave a message and join my very own Squash Squadron.

  I nervously dialed Koo-Koo-Roo’s customer service number again for myself. It was busy. I tried again. Again, it was busy. The third time I got through and couldn’t believe what I heard on their prerecorded outgoing message. A woman’s voice said, “Hello, and thank you for calling Koo-Koo-Roo. For store locations, press 1. For store hours, press 2. And to leave a message regarding Ross Mathews and our butternut squash, press 3.”

  Oh, holy crap, I thought to myself. What have I done?

  My anxiety rose throughout the day as I read messages from blog buddies all over the world who had rallied on my behalf. People from Canada, Australia, Germany, and beyond—​places millions of miles from a Koo-Koo-Roo—had reached past borders and across oceans to stand with me and make our voices heard.

  I was freaking out now. I was certain this wasn’t going to end well. It was hard not to think about the worst-case scenario. In a way, this had happened before when I tried to rally my troops of dedicated blog buddies to make me the spokesperson for Ross Dress For Less. I had assumed that the head honchos would be thrilled with the genius idea. I was wrong.

  Rather than pat me on the back, the delightfully discounted department store slapped me with a cease-and-​desist order from their lawyers. I still stand by that idea, by the way, and would totally forgive Ross Dress for Less if they changed their minds and reached out to me today. I mean, come on—I love fashion and a bargain! Plus, my name is Ross! Anyway, back to Koo-Koo-Roo…

  Later that night, I got a message in my e-mail inbox from someone named Kathy with an e-mail address that ended in @kookooroo.com. She wrote that she worked for the company and wanted to speak with me as soon as possible.

  Oh shit. I’d really done it now. Not only did I lose my scrumptious squash forever, but now I’d probably be outright banished for eternity from the kingdom of Koo-Koo-Roo. I’d gotten my feathers ruffled, taken a risk, and tried to fight against the status quo, all to have it explode in my face like squash cooked too long in the microwave.

  Nervously, I dialed the number Kathy included in her e-mail. I was prepared for the worst, ready to have my dream of the perfect
chicken restaurant cruelly plucked from me. Suddenly, she picked up. Again, this is dictated verbatim from the YouTube video (seriously, look it up).

  KATHY: Ross, it is so good to finally talk to you in person…We’re gonna bring it back!

  ROSS: YAY!!!!!!!!!!! WOO HOO!!!!!!!!!! So butternut squash is coming back to Koo-Koo-Roo?

  KATHY: It is! But we want to thank you. We seriously want to name it the Butternut Ross Squash or something fun because it truly has become an inspiration. You’re part of our Koo-Koo-Roo family.

  ROSS: Wait. Are you kidding?!? Can you really call it Ross Squash?!?

  KATHY: (pausing, thinking) Ross Squash?

  ROSS: (nodding feverishly) Ross Squash!

  Yep. That’s really how it happened. And what followed was beyond my wildest fantasies. As the days went on, it all got even more exciting. Not only did Koo-Koo-Roo plan on bringing squash back with a new (and vastly improved) name, but they wanted to relaunch the veggie with a brand-​new spokesperson: me!

  I couldn’t believe it! Some people wait a lifetime to become a spokesperson for a local chicken chain, but I was one of the lucky ones! Suddenly, my people were meeting with Koo-Koo-Roo’s people about what kind of deal they could strike. I called my manager.

  “Listen, don’t charge them a dime. I don’t want their money—this was never about a paycheck. Just make them promise to keep the Ross Squash on the menu forever and I’ll do whatever they want.”

  “Are you sure, Ross?”

  I was absolutely sure. “Yes, I’m absolutely sure.”

  It felt good to do the right thing.

  After all, I was the leader of group of heroes. Koo-Koo-Roo was playing chicken with us, but my flock of kindhearted, squash-loving good Samaritans and I had clucked loudly enough to have created a better future for our children—a future filled with yummy, fiber-full, golden goodness. That was payment enough.