I'm Hosting as Fast as I Can!: Zen and the Art of Staying Sane in Hollywood by Tom Bergeron

From the Publisher

He's one of the most ubiquitous men on television. Certainly the most calm, cool, and collected—the king of "off the cuff." And no one throws to a commercial better. Yes, Tom Bergeron is a Hollywood staple, and the role for which he is best known is . . . well . . . himself. But while he's a comforting presence to millions of people, cultivating this seemingly unshakeable positive outlook and cool persona took as much motivation, inspiration, perseverance, and experience as it would take one to prepare a classic part for the stage. I'm Hosting as Fast as I Can! is the trying, often laugh-out-loud journey it took to get to himself.

Tom got into the world of entertainment by way of local radio at age seventeen, hosting what his first boss told him was and should be a "no-personality station." He said, "Tommy, just play the records and read the commercials." But the sit-down-and-shut-up attitude belied Tom's natural inclination to inject personality and a little pluck into his broadcasts. So, Tom sought other performance opportunities on radio, in improvisational theater, and even as a mime (yes, a mime), which would help him hone the expressiveness that seems to come so naturally to his presentation. His determination would result in a high-profile hosting gig on the iconic game show Hollywood Squares and guest-hosting appearances on ABC's Good Morning America and CBS's Early Show. But as is sometimes the case with enthusiastic dynamos like Tom, he had an explosive temper that he admits had the potential to derail his dreams of being not only a successful broadcaster but also a successful husband, father, andfriend. How to cope? "I meditated my temper into submission," says Tom with his trademark sense of humor. In I'm Hosting as Fast as I Can!, Tom elaborates on the process by which he is able to sit calmly and patiently, without being distracted, at any time, no matter how hectic, as well as respond quickly (and hilariously) when Marie Osmond faints at his feet on live TV. Haven't seen it? Check it out on YouTube. The man is always in control.

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Table of Contents

Read an Excerpt

I'm Hosting as Fast as I Can!
Zen and the Art of Staying Sane in Hollywood

Chapter One

Can You Hear Me Now?

It was a Saturday night in 1972. I was a seventeen-year-old high school senior, sitting alone in a dimly lit radio studio in my hometown of Haverhill, Massachusetts. I was barely aware of the music I'd put on the turntable. Other things competed for my attention, most prominently my nerves.

My heart hammered against my ribs. My throat tightened. I stared at the toggle switch, which controlled the microphone and the dial directly under it, which controlled its volume. I reached out to touch the switch . . . and then pulled back. Oh, shit, what am I doing here? Why did I think I could do this? I knew that the moment I flicked that switch and turned that dial, there'd be no turning back. My voice would be out there, "on the air," for the very first time.

Who would be listening? My family? Certainly. My friends? Sure. But who else? This was a 1,000-watt radio station. It was 6:10 on a Saturday night. Who knew how many others could be out there? Hell, there could be dozens! I tried to swallow but couldn't. My peripheral vision collapsed, and all I could see were the toggle switch and the dial, the toggle switch and the dial, the toggle switch and the dial . . .

The song was ending; the music was fading. Only seconds left. Oh, shit, I have to pee. Or faint. Or both. First I'll faint and then I'll piss myself. Gotta prioritize.

No, I had to do it. I could do it. I adjusted my headphones, flicked the switch to the right, and cupped my hand over the dial. The last notes of America's "A Horse with No Name" gave wayto the crackle of the needle bouncing against the album's center. It was now or never. I turned the dial clockwise, took a deep breath, and, for the first time on the radio, said my name. I had officially begun my career as a broadcaster.

And I sucked.

Truly, I did. I'm not exaggerating. My proud grandfather recorded the entire six-hour show, and I eventually listened to about twenty minutes, just enough to consider entering the witness-protection program. I don't remember where those tapes disappeared to or what exactly I said in those first moments as a broadcaster. I do remember that my tone was akin to a dental patient trying to chat casually while watching the approaching Novocain shot; or like Barney Fife pretending to be James Bond. I wasn't fooling anyone—with the possible exception of my grandfather. He thought I did great. At least that's what he told me. Maybe he was just being supportive. A white lie or two for his only grandson. Of course, he'd lived through the Great Depression and World War II. He'd witnessed real disasters. Grading on that scale, I could've strangled kittens all night and still not been all that bad.

The Monday after my virgin broadcast, walking the corridors of Haverhill High between classes, I was quickly made aware of some other members of my radio audience.

"Hey, Bergeron," the ringleader of a small group of assho— . . .

I mean, students—yelled, "heard you on the radio. You sucked."

See? It wasn't just me saying it.

But it wasn't all bad. It was mostly pretty damn good. Not my performance; you couldn't have saved that with an exorcism. I mean my situation. After all, I was a high school student actually being paid to host a radio show at a professional (well, more about that later) broadcast facility! Who cared if I sucked on my first attempt? Next Saturday night, I reasoned, when I flicked that switch and turned that dial, I'd suck a little less. And I'd be even less sucky the Saturday after that; assuming of course that the station manager was willing to keep paying a buck seventy-five an hour for only marginal leaps in quality.

Getting my foot and quavering voice in the door of the radio station, WHAV, was the culmination of a deliberate campaign hatched the moment I discovered that one of the high school's English teachers, Edwin Johnson, worked there part-time as a newscaster. I signed up for his public-speaking course and set out to impress the hell out of him. When, months later, he asked his brownnosing A student about his career goals, my answer exploded like a sneeze.

"Radio! I want to be on the radio!"

Upon hearing that, he generously offered to introduce me to WHAV's owner/station manager/sales manager/program director and hallway monitor, an eccentric and curmudgeonly chap named Ed Cetlin. I accepted the offer with similar sneezelike velocity. Within weeks, a meeting was scheduled. I was ecstatic. I was going to have a job interview at a radio station! My promising career as a supermarket-shelf stocker, begun in my freshman year, was about to be tossed aside like so much bad lettuce.

When I met Ed Cetlin, he asked me, "Why do you want to work in radio?" in a tone that suggested I'd aspired to developing carcinogens. He chewed on the ends of his glasses and squinted as he talked. I almost suggested he wear the glasses rather than gnaw on them, if only to help with the squinting, but thought better of it. Instead, I blathered on about my love for radio, how I'd always dreamed of being a broadcaster, and how hard I'd work if given the chance.

He shook his head in dismay. "You'll never make a living in radio. It's not a career. I'll prove it to you. I'll give you a job."

And, at a dollar seventy-five an hour, he set out to prove his point. But first, he said, I had to get my third-class operator's license. I'd need to learn how to take meter readings and monitor the transmitting equipment, a common requirement at low-power radio stations in the 1970s. To get that license, I'd take a test at the FCC office in the Customs House in Boston. No big deal. Until I took it, that is, and flunked.