How I Got This Way

by Regis Philbin

  So I hedgingly accepted his promise, and before you knew it, the day arrived when we would shoot our big scene with Kramer—immediately after one of our actual Live! broadcasts. I was impressed to see Jerry Seinfeld on the studio floor with us, off to the side, making sure the scene captured exactly what they wanted. But even then, at the very last minute, I appealed to Jerry about bonkos. And Jerry, too, thought bonkos was hilarious.

  For the record, I will now share with you just how hilarious bonkos actually was. Three times they had me blurt it out during the course of our brief scene with Kramer, who was dressed as this suave and distinguished coffee-table-book author. First, before I introduced him: “This guy could be a little bonkos, really.” (Confused silence from the audience on that one.) Second, while he clumsily demonstrated how the book transformed into a little table: “Did I tell you this guy was bonkos?” (Here, Kramer got screams; Regis and his bonkos got nothing.) And third, before the interview ended with Kramer gulping some water that he then deposited in a spit-take all over Kathie Lee: “I’m telling you, this guy’s bonkos! He really is!” (Kramer had now brought down the house, while Regis had instantly wanted to leave the house and never come back.)

  Yes, our studio audience loved the whole thing, and Kramer was, naturally, a hilarious smash with everybody. Me and bonkos, on the other hand—we got nothing, not even one laugh. Only silence. I mean, deafening silence. I’d known it from the beginning. I had died a horrible death on that otherwise great episode. It was so bad, in fact, that I’m certain I’ll go down in the annals of television history as the only guy who never even got so much as a chuckle on the classic Seinfeld series, whose reruns I continue to love, in spite of that nightmare. Still, I will never forget that silence, nor will I ever get over it. It remains embarrassing to this day, okay?

  I guess I’ve never let Jerry forget it either—but more importantly, I’ve also never stopped reminding him that his series will always stand the test of time and never stop being funny. I recall being out one night for dinner several years ago with Joy and some friends when who should suddenly approach the table but none other than the man himself, Jerry Seinfeld, with his then future wife, Jessica Sklar. I not only crowed to him about what wonderful work he’d done with that show, but I also confessed that we were about to rush right home to watch that night’s syndicated repeat. “I’ve gotta get my Seinfeld fix or I can’t sleep,” I told him, which he took in the right way (I’m fairly sure). Fate, however, had conspired against me this time because when we got home and turned on the TV, there it was . . . again: the dreaded bonkos episode. Sleep came a little harder to me on that particular night.

  In the years after the show ended, Jerry moved back to New York and still lives on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, exactly where his series was set (although the show was primarily filmed in Los Angeles). He’s become quite the devoted family man, thrilled to be home with his beautiful wife, Jessica, and three kids, when not out on the road doing his terrific stand-up act. I see him from time to time around the city—in Central Park biking with Jessica, at various functions around town, and sometimes as a guest on our show. Earlier this year, he walked out as a surprise, dressed in black tie no less, to present Kelly and me with an enormous cupcake commemorating the ten years Pippa and I have been working together. Who else but Jerry could pull off black tie first thing in the morning? There was even one night a while back when the Seinfelds invited us out to dinner and he patiently answered my endless stream of silly questions about the series, probably boring poor Jessica to death. But I think he enjoyed all the reminiscing, anyway. He never stopped smiling.

  And that’s the one thing I continue to notice about Jerry Seinfeld in every situation where our paths have crossed: It’s his smile. It’s always there. The man is genuinely happy. You can’t get Jerry down with any bad news. He doesn’t allow it. If he’s not smiling, it’s only because he is too busy laughing. What a wonderful quality—and one that we should all be lucky enough to possess. Frankly, because I happen to envy that specific quality of his, I was all the more shocked and touched one day when I read a terribly generous quote he gave after I announced that I was leaving our morning show: “Every place he goes is much better for having him, and everyone he’s with is much happier when he’s around.”

  Really, I still can’t believe he was referring to me. Because that’s exactly how I feel about him—and also about the ongoing effect of that wonderful show he gave us. It’s still running every night. It’s still hot, even in syndicated repeats around the world. And it’s still the best sitcom I’ve ever seen. In fact, the only time I don’t laugh while watching is when one certain episode turns up again and I hear that word—bonkos. I don’t care what anyone says: It’s just not funny. But that is my Seinfeld legacy, and there’s nothing I can do about it now. Still, I was proud to be a part of it. Bonkos and all.

  WHAT I TOOK AWAY FROM IT ALL

  Guess what? Watching bad news at the end of the day will never help you sleep restfully. Not these days.

  It’s better to arrive late at a great party than never to arrive at all. The best parties always last longer and keep getting better anyway. Just show up!

  The funniest things that happen in life are usually to be found in the tiniest aggravations.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  STEVEN SPIELBERG

  One night during my L.A. sidekick years on ABC’s The Joey Bishop Show, Joey sent me into the studio audience to ask young people about their future dreams. As in what did they want to do with their lives? (Sometimes, even on big network shows, you have to fill time any way you can!) So down into the audience I went. Immediately, I zeroed in on one kid, a typical teenager, who caught my eye for some reason. He looked a bit shy, but I put the microphone right in front of him and asked the question anyway: “What do you want to do with your life?” He didn’t answer. I got a little uncomfortable. Did I pick the wrong kid? Maybe he didn’t know. Maybe the mic in front of him on a live TV show was spooking him. Gently, I repeated, “Joey just wants to know what the young people are thinking about doing with their future lives.” He still didn’t speak. I could tell he truly wanted to say something. But the words just wouldn’t spill out. I tried one more time: “You know, something you dreamt about your whole life. . . .” He looked like a good kid and I could tell he was trying hard—but the camera and the studio lights and the attention had frozen him stiff. Finally I said, “Well, keep thinking about your answer and good luck to you. I hope you get whatever it is you want one day.” And then I moved on to another young person.

  Who knows why, but I never forgot that moment.

  I felt for the young guy and wished him well. Most probably, I think he reminded me of myself as a teenager and how difficult it was for me to tell anyone what my own dreams were.

  So flash forward to one night about forty years later: Joy and I were attending a movie premiere courtesy of one irrepressible New York showbiz publicist who was in charge of that event. She is a ball of fire, this woman, and also a good friend, and that night she wanted me to meet the great film director Steven Spielberg after the screening. When I approached Spielberg for our introduction, he was surrounded by five people. I waited for a few moments, then felt foolish and finally decided to quietly take my leave. Steven Spielberg probably had no idea who I was anyway, I figured.

  But as I edged away, I heard him say, “Regis, wait a minute.” He pulled me over toward him and continued, “You know, there’s something I always wanted to tell you. Anytime I see you on TV, it reminds me of a night that has haunted me my whole life. Once when I was about eighteen, I went to see The Joey Bishop Show in Hollywood, and you came out into the audience to ask a tongue-tied young person about future dreams. Well, that was me. I froze. I couldn’t answer you, couldn’t tell you and the whole world that I wanted to be a movie director. I stood there and wouldn’t say it. It was embarrassing and humiliating. Finally you had to m
ove on to someone else, and I sat down stunned and a little angry with myself. And that’s what I invariably find myself remembering every time I see you on TV.”

  Well, as I’ve said, I’ve always kept that same awkward moment wedged somewhere deep in my memory bank. And for this man—who went on to create and direct some of the most important blockbuster films ever made—to remember it too . . . it simply amazed me. He quite obviously had gone on to realize that “embarrassing” dream of his and in the process became revered for his many great visionary achievements. Yet there we were—maybe the only two people alive who vividly recalled that night, and that question, and that moment of sheer panic. Now, at least I know this much: I actually did pick the exact right young person in that studio audience, after all.

  He didn’t tell me his dream then, but he’s shown the world evidence of that dream ever since.

  WHAT I TOOK AWAY FROM IT ALL

  Never underestimate a shy teenager. Particularly if you happen to be one.

  When starting out, it’s probably best to first demonstrate your prospective talent than to try talking about it—especially before that talent has had its chance to develop.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  GEORGE CLOONEY

  Believe it or not, there once was a time in America when many cities and even medium-size towns had their own locally produced hit television shows. It was a new and exciting world in those days, and the TV stations took great pride in creating programs of all sorts—their own local newscasts, of course, but also hour-long variety and talk shows as well as entertaining daily after-school series for the kids. More often than not, those who fronted the kids’ shows became the most popular characters in their regions, but the men and women who hosted those daytime and late-night programs were also well-loved personalities—stars, even—in their areas. I knew what it was like, just from having my own local Saturday-night shows in San Diego and later in St. Louis. But most of that great local action would change forever once the likes of Oprah and Phil Donahue—and yes, even the rest of us who started as “hometown sensations”—became syndicated forces around the country. These prepackaged daily series, complete with built-in national sponsors, made it easier and cheaper for each individual station to simply buy programs and forget about the expense and headaches of producing its own shows.

  Anyway, for the longest time in Cincinnati, one of the hottest personalities on the scene was a guy named Nick Clooney, whose midday show on the CBS affiliate WCPO-TV became a local staple. Sometime in the early seventies, not too long after The Joey Bishop Show had ended, I was invited to pinch-hit for Nick while he took a weeklong vacation. Happily, I jumped at the chance, since I always loved going back to the Midwest—especially to someplace within driving distance of Notre Dame, so I could make a visit to the campus and feel that old glow again. So one Sunday morning, Joy and I boarded a plane at LAX for a flight to Cincinnati and a week of fun doing Clooney’s show, followed by a drive across the Ohio-Indiana state line and up to South Bend.

  Now, if you have seen Joy Philbin over the years on my various TV shows, you must know that she is a meticulous dresser. She cares deeply about the way she looks, whether on camera or off, and especially when traveling. Keep in mind, too, that this was still the era when people actually got dressed up for their plane trips. And I’ll always remember how beautiful she looked that day as we took our first-class seats on that Cincinnati-bound American Airlines jet. She wore a very pretty orange dress with white polka dots. We both felt excited about the week ahead, so we ordered some drinks after takeoff and sat back to enjoy the flight. But somehow, even before she had taken a sip of her Bloody Mary, the drink slipped from her hand and splashed all over that lovely outfit. This was not good. She was furious. Trapped on a plane . . . with no chance to change into something else . . . no, not good at all. She could only just sit there and let that Bloody Mary sink into her beautiful dress and ruin my—excuse me, I mean, our—flight across the country. Not the greatest way to start our weeklong adventure: with the seething furies of an immaculate woman drenched in tomato juice mixed with vodka. It’s the kind of thing you remember for the rest of your life, to tell you the truth. I mean, it still gives me chills.

  Meanwhile, The Nick Clooney Show was a live daily noontime full-scale variety show anchored, as the name suggests, by the dashing Nick Clooney himself. It regularly featured an array of talented, well-known Ohioans, as well as celebrities passing through town, and often welcomed Nick’s own singing sisters. Rosemary Clooney, of course, was already a major music star who’d occasionally return from Hollywood and visit on camera with her brother. But Nick’s other sister, Betty, also had a great voice and would, in fact, be my cohost during my fill-in week. Immediately, I was surprised to see a full band on the set, keeping the atmosphere always lively. The audience was even treated to lunch before each broadcast, and everybody was in a good mood, welcoming me in their gracious midwestern way. This wasn’t the rat race I experienced in Hollywood or later on in New York—it was absolutely smooth, easygoing fun.

  And oh yes, there was somebody else who would regularly hang around on the set, especially during the summertime when school was out. He was a sweet little guy, I was told, that everybody liked as much as his father. His name was George. I never saw him—he was away with his family for the week—but everybody who talked about Nick inevitably also mentioned George and what a nice-looking young boy he was. Yes, it was the same little George who would later, more than once, be named People magazine’s “Sexiest Man Alive.” Let’s face it: Those Clooneys had a great gene pool.

  As it was, we had a terrific week of shows, and every night, Joy and I ventured out on the town: One night we went across the river to Kentucky to see Woody Herman’s big band in concert; the next night we had dinner at the city’s top French restaurant, Maisonette; the following evening we headed to the new Riverfront Stadium to watch the Cincinnati Reds in action with their superstars Pete Rose, Johnny Bench, Tony Perez, and the rest of that legendary Big Red Machine team; and on still another night we enjoyed the famous city zoo where the Cincinnati Opera gave one of its special summer performances, a favorite seasonal event in that town. And yes, that weekend we did return to Notre Dame, where my old classmate Jim Gibbons, who by then was the school’s vice president of protocol, showed us around—and of course I simply inhaled it, loving every moment. The campus was even more beautiful than I remembered, and through the years it has just continued to expand and improve in every way, a place everyone really ought to see and experience before they leave this earth. Or have I mentioned that already?

  Then it was back to Hollywood, where over the years Rosemary Clooney had become a regular repeat guest on my morning show and also a dear friend. I liked to remind her that the first time I saw her perform was, in fact, back at Notre Dame where she sang one Saturday night with the old Vaughn Monroe band. In those days, there were no girls on campus—but suddenly here was this gorgeous twentysomething blonde in a yellow dress walking so sprightly into the old fieldhouse to give us that big swinging show. We saw a lot of her from the seventies onward—both in interview situations and off camera as well. She spoke of her ups and downs, of her deep depression after divorcing Jose Ferrer, of how her old friend and White Christmas costar Bing Crosby swooped in and took her on tour with him, giving her a huge boost and fresh outlook on life again. In later years, every time she appeared here in New York, Joy and I would be there on opening night and then always visit with her backstage afterward. She was one of our truly great singers, a wonderful woman whom we miss terribly.

  What we didn’t know until much later was this: When her handsome young nephew George had first decided to leave Ohio and try his fortunes in Hollywood, he moved into his aunt Rosie’s house in Toluca Lake, helping her out as an assistant and chauffeur while looking around for acting jobs. Obviously, he found his acting jobs. Did he ever! There was, all of a sudden, now another Clooney in
town. He picked up early work on some sitcoms and then became that heartthrob doctor on the NBC smash medical drama ER. But next he did something that doesn’t happen very often. He walked away from a hit TV show to take a whack at the movies. Most often, a change like that doesn’t work out so well for television actors, but it didn’t stop George. There was lots of speculation—much of it rather doubtful—about whether he could pull it off. Hollywood, of course, is rampant with that sort of jealousy and envy. But George proved them all wrong, and then some. He even got better looking while growing into a finer actor with each new film he made. And soon enough he was right up there, a bona fide major star with a suave persona as close to Cary Grant as his generation will likely ever produce.

  But now, cut to one special summer, just a few years ago:

  Joy and I and our friends Barry and Susan Glazer were invited to spend a week in an Italian villa formerly owned by the late designer Gianni Versace, located on Lake Como, outside of Milan. Our pal Ed Walson, a cable TV big shot, had won this exclusive stay at the villa at a charity auction in New York. And I’ll tell you, this was quite the grand home, complete with statues and paintings and exotic chandeliers. You get the idea. While there, I received a phone call from Stan Rosenfeld, a longtime friend and a publicity agent for some of the biggest big stars, including George Clooney. We’d heard that Clooney owned one of the great villas that ringed the lake, and that’s what Stan was calling about. “George would like you and your gang to come to his villa for dinner and wine some night while you’re here,” Stan informed me. “He even lives fairly close to where you are, and believe me, you’ll have a good time.”

  A private dinner at George Clooney’s Lake Como villa? How do you turn that down? And why would you? Absolutely, we all looked forward to this night—with Joy and Susan seeming maybe even a little too excited about it, if you know what I mean. He’s George Clooney, after all, isn’t he? George met us at the door. He couldn’t have been more charming, showing us around the house and telling us how it came to be that he found and then bought this gorgeous place. It was, he said, practically fate: He’d been on one of his many motorcycle trips through Italy when one day his bike broke down right smack in front of that house. He knocked on the door to ask if he could use the phone to call for help. The family welcomed him in and gave him a tour. He fell in love with it immediately—on the spot. And bought it. Just like that. Ever since, his summers there in Lake Como have become what he loves most about his life. He showed us the improvements he had made, the plans for future adjustments—he was a man who enjoyed every aspect of his house, especially on those perfect Italian summer nights.