And so, on that night—for the record, it was Monday, July 8, 1968—I interrupted Joey toward the end of his monologue with something I just had to tell him. I’ve never seen a tape of it, and at this point I never want to. But what I told him went approximately like this: “Joey, I’ve been hearing things in the hallways. Things like maybe I was wrong for this job, like maybe I was holding you back, like maybe I should leave the show. And maybe they’re all right. Maybe you could do better without me here. So I tell you what—I’m going to go. . . .” Joey immediately protested, imploring, “Regis, Regis, don’t leave. I want you to stay!” Then he couldn’t resist making a joke: “If you leave, they might find out it was me hurting the show and not you!” But I kept on with the charade and mournfully said, “Anyway, thanks for giving me a chance, and good luck to you.” And with that I shook his hand, turned, and headed offstage. The whole thing ate up about eight minutes, but it felt like forever.
Well, as predicted, the audience was shocked; they groaned, and some even applauded (for what, I’m not sure). But it was too late. I was gone. I had taken one for the team. And I actually did briefly feel sort of choked up in that very strange and surreal moment. The first person I saw as I walked off was the fine singer Vic Damone. He was the opening guest, waiting backstage to go on. Vic, I’m sure, was looking forward to coming out and knocking them dead with his great voice. He thought it was a joke—or hoped as much. He said to me, “You’re coming back, aren’t you?” But I was too embarrassed to stop walking. I said, “No, Vic, I’m not.” And I kept going as Vic went ashen-faced.
All week long Joey repeatedly mentioned my absence in his monologue: “Where is Regis? I wish he’d come back. I went looking for him today at the beach. I hope he’s all right.” That kind of thing—never too serious, and usually tossed off in casual little throwaway asides to the audience. The press, of course, pounced all over the story. Joey stoked the fervor by telling Kay Gardella of the New York Daily News that he’d heard me sobbing in my dressing room after the walk-off. Never mind that I’d left immediately and gone out for drinks with my office mate and closest friend on the show, the writer Trustin Howard, to try to make sense out of what had just happened. But Joey played it for all it was worth. A tearstained Regis leaves! Meanwhile, the public reaction to the walk-off turned out to be a real eye-opener. Viewer mail poured in on my behalf, outraged that the network had somehow forced me out the door. ABC immediately issued a disclaimer, pointing out that its executives had nothing to do with the situation: “We feel that Regis Philbin’s statements were unwarranted and had no basis in fact.” The tone of it wasn’t exactly remorseful, but at least the big bosses made sure to distance themselves from the drama. Anyway, by Friday it was over: Our producer called and said I should come back on Monday night’s show.
I felt like such a jerk. I don’t remember what the ratings were during that crazy week, but I’m sure Johnny rolled over us anyway. I asked the producers if Joey could possibly mention the outpouring of fan mail and maybe express that ABC was pleased to have me back as well. I even reminded them all again just before Monday’s show: Could Joey please just reintroduce me by making it clear that I was returning due to the public outcry on my behalf and that everyone was very happy about it? I’d hoped that, at least, would make me seem less like some sort of unstable, oversensitive idiot who’d just disappeared for a week to go sulk.
So of course I held my breath standing backstage, while Joey introduced me near the end of his monologue. Except he neglected to offer the audience any of the reasons for my return that I’d so desperately requested he give. His only comment on the subject came abruptly, in one quick line: “Well, all’s well that ends well, folks. Here’s Regis!” His whole demeanor about the episode couldn’t have been more dismissive—almost like “Let’s get it over with already and get him back out here.” I was surprised, disappointed, and angry all at once. In fact, I felt even more ridiculous than when I had walked off in the first place. So out I strode and said something like, “Yes, I’m back now. Everything is going to be okay.” And Joey added, “For a nice Catholic kid from Notre Dame, you’re a real troublemaker.” And so the show went on, as though none of it had ever happened.
Now, more than ever, I knew the TV critics would want the real inside story about this Regis walk-off/walk-on business. Was it my idea? What had I really wanted? Was it a raise? Were my feelings really so hurt by rumors? Did I truly do it as a display of loyalty to the host? Well, I couldn’t give Joey up. I couldn’t spill the beans and say it was all an old show business trick Joey put into motion in order to eclipse Johnny Carson’s Burbank visit. For years, I had to keep mum, be evasive, and usually just admit that yes, I really did take all those rumors to heart, that I had briefly believed the less-than-great ratings were somehow at least partially my fault. Even in my first book, which was published sixteen years ago, I couldn’t quite tell the bald truth behind the walk-off drama, and again I put most all the blame on my own self-pitying. I’ve danced around it during interviews throughout my entire career. But now, of course, Joey and Johnny and so many others from those days are all gone. Nobody remembers. Nobody cares. I don’t hear about it anymore. But it’s one of those things I’ve never forgotten, and I have come to the conclusion that the joke was really on me.
I’ve mentioned that the writer I had drinks with after my walk-off was also my best friend at the show. He went by the name Trustin Howard, but he’d started out years earlier in New Orleans as Slick Slavin, a stand-up comedian with a very good reputation. When applying for his writing job on the Bishop show, however, he changed it for fear that Joey wouldn’t like the idea of another comic performer writing his jokes. Comedy writers are a special breed, all too accustomed to taking the fall if their material doesn’t consistently score for the star. Naturally, some nights go better than others, but after the bad nights on Joey’s show, crisis was bound to follow. Joey was particularly tough on his writers, calling them on the carpet and demanding to know why they thought they’d given him something funny when it had somehow died onstage. Trustin and I shared an office all the way across the floor from Joey’s, but still we could hear through the vents in the ceiling how Joey raged at writers who’d supposedly failed him. We called it “yodeling.” I’d thank God that I wasn’t one of them, while Trustin would slowly turn white as a ghost and quietly say to me, “Reggo, this isn’t good. The man is wild. Why? Why does it have to be like this?” And then he would get his own summons to go face Joey; his shoulders would slump, and he’d get up from his desk and take what we called the “Death March” down that hall. As it happened, all of the writers were eventually fired or quit, but at the end of the show’s run, Trustin was the last original writer left. I was very proud of him. Then again, Joey had never found out about Slick Slavin. If he had, it might’ve spelled Trustin’s doom much sooner.
Finally, one night in November of 1969, the inevitable happened. Joey’s temper had gotten the best of him, and after a furious phone call with the new ABC chief, Elton Rule, it was over. He told Rule that he was done. This time, ironically enough, it was Joey’s turn to walk off. He didn’t have to do it that way, but he did love his dramatic endings. So at the outset of the last show, he announced his departure this way: “I am going to leave you, and if there’s anything I can think of or say, I’ll ask either Johnny or Merv to let me on their show to say it. I can’t think of anything now. I do want to apologize to you people who came here perhaps to be entertained and had no knowledge you were going to hear a sermon or a long speech.” But it wasn’t that long a speech, and he quickly finished by adding, “I am now going home to have dinner with my wife and a few friends. I just want to say one thing before I leave. About a week ago, I asked ABC, ‘Could I have a little time off?’ I think they’re ridiculous.” That got a laugh, followed by long applause, as he turned to shake my hand and left me in charge of hosting the rest of the show. And as he walked off, who do you think wa
s standing backstage waiting to come on shortly afterward? You’ve got it: Vic Damone. Poor Vic. Twice he was on the show, and both times, someone had dramatically walked off before he came out to perform. But somehow we all got through it. I closed the show with the words: “That’s it, ladies and gentlemen. What else is there to say? I’ll never be surprised by anything else as long as I live. Good night to you. And good night, Joey.”
I could have just said, “All’s well that ends well,” but that was hardly the case at the time. In fact, Joey Bishop had taken me in during a low ebb in my life and given me a new lease in the business. Not to mention the education that came along with it. There were so many invaluable lessons, not the least being how important the role of straight man—or set-up man—is to comedy . . . and also to just plain good storytelling. I had learned right away that he relied on me to come out and feed him, to keep that opening segment of the show moving briskly, to spark his great spontaneous wit. And it really was pure spontaneity out there most nights. After a while, I knew exactly what he wanted to hear, what he needed, and he grew to expect nothing less from me. Although he was never one to dole out compliments, I’ll never forget something he told me on one of our walks not long before the show came to its end. He said, “I heard from Dean Martin yesterday. Dean said what we do together every night is the best seven minutes on TV.” I’d never told Joey that I was a big fan of Dean’s for fear of the jealousy it would stir. But I was thrilled to hear that. Especially because Dean, of all people, would have understood our dynamic in ways few others could, after his own ten years of playing set-up guy to Jerry Lewis.
But in the end, let’s just say that Joey Bishop was a tough taskmaster. He wanted everything to be perfect, and for those seven minutes together every night, I hope I came close to meeting that expectation. I never forgot for a moment that he was the king of the quick comeback line. Nobody did it better. Both of us did what we had to do, and I was proud to be a part of it.
WHAT I TOOK AWAY FROM IT ALL
Learn what you can from old mistakes, but don’t dwell on them too long or you may miss out on some truly great opportunities.
When pressure gets the best of you, remember to take time out. A brisk walk can clear the mind and leave you ready to laugh again.
Photos
That’s me, of course, flanked by my parents on the hallowed grounds of Notre Dame in 1953. They were happy I graduated . . . and relieved I’d given up the idea of singing.
Notre Dame’s football coaches impressed me so much over the years. The first one I met, Frank Leahy, later appeared as a guest on my first TV show.
I love this picture of Lou Holtz honoring me as his assistant coach for the day at a halftime scrimmage. (Well, why wouldn’t he—we won the game, didn’t we?!)
Michael & Susan Bennett, Lighthouse Imaging
This photo of Joy and me with Ara Parseghian and his wife, Katie, at the 1971 Cotton Bowl in Texas is another favorite. It was a great day for the Irish.
I was a young ensign in the Navy when I met Major Bill Rankin (pictured on the right with me before a quick flight over Southern California). When he and another formidable major, Keigler Flake, ordered me to pursue my dream career in TV, I didn’t dare argue.
My first job as a roving reporter entailed driving around in this 1240 KSON News vehicle rigged with all kinds of crazy equipment.
I later had my own show on KOGO TV in San Diego, where I covered events around town like this one at the Old Globe Theatre, which is still one of the most prestigious theaters in the country.
I had great fun with guests such as Ronald Reagan. (Who knew he’d become president one day?)
William Pritchett Collection
And more fun with the beautiful bombshell Jayne Mansfield. (Well, maybe not as much fun as this picture suggests—I was just adjusting her microphone. I swear! Well, somebody had to do it.)
And who could forget the famed San Diego hypnotist Dr. Michael Dean . . .
William Pritchett Collection
But it was guest Walter Winchell, the celebrated gossip columnist from New York, who really helped launch me into the big time by mentioning me in his column!
In the sixties, I became second banana on the late-night Joey Bishop Show. Jimmy Kimmel, who decades later broadcast his own show up the block from our studio, wasn’t born yet, but he was watching from heaven.
© American Broadcasting Companies, Inc.
There’s Joey and me looking at the bulletin board at the Ranch Market on Vine Street during one of our daily pre-show walks. Steve Allen got lots of great material from the messages posted there and lots of laughs, too.
© American Broadcasting Companies, Inc.
Making your boss look good is a job requirement. Here I am taking that role seriously just before showtime. (If Joey didn’t look good, inevitably it was my fault!)
© American Broadcasting Companies, Inc.
But I was lucky to meet many entertainment greats through Joey. Here we are with comic genius Jack Benny, who I used to listen to on the radio . . .
© American Broadcasting Companies, Inc.
with my idol Bing Crosby and his wife, Katherine, shortly after I sang to Bing (he was just getting over it) . . .
© American Broadcasting Companies, Inc.
and with the one and only Don Rickles. Notice how Joey Bishop backed away, leaving me to die out there?
© American Broadcasting Companies, Inc.
Here I am with Don several years ago backstage before a show. You should see him with his pants off and his bathrobe on. He’s beautiful . . . in his own way.
You may not remember this, but Mary Hart was one of my cohosts for a nanosecond in 1980 before she hit it big on ET. (Also shown here is Rick Ludwin, my producer in Chicago during the summer of ’74 and now EVP of Late Night and Primetime Series for NBC.)
That’s my first cohost on A.M. Los Angeles, Sarah Purcell. If you’re wondering, we’re both doing our best John Travolta impersonations.
KABC-TV
My A.M. Los Angeles boss, John Severino, was responsible for some of the biggest changes in my career. That’s Sev in the center . . . and yes, I’m dressed like Henry Winkler as the Fonz on Happy Days this time.
KABC-TV
When Sarah left, Cindy Garvey came on the show. Nothing but beautiful blondes for me!
KABC-TV
Chapter Eleven
DEAN MARTIN
You probably have no idea how much I depend on Dean Martin. There’s never been a morning for as long as I can remember—at least over the last fifteen or more years—when Dean hasn’t sung to me both before and after every single one of our Live! broadcasts. Of course, I’ve talked about him every chance I’ve had during our Host Chats, but what you probably don’t know is that I’ve kept his music playing almost constantly whenever working upstairs in my office above our studio. In fact, people have called my office a shrine to both Dean and Notre Dame, and I guess that’s pretty much the truth. Mixed with my Fighting Irish mementos, Dean is spread all over the place. People keep sending me these treasures that can’t help but delight me: great photos of him, stacks of his tapes and CDs, a half-dozen bobble-head statuettes, an automated singing doll, and even a life-size cutout of him laughing and looking terrific in a tux with his tie tugged loose. I happen to get a wonderful feeling hearing his smooth, playful voice. Like nobody else, he was the personification of relaxed, carefree ease; you couldn’t rattle old Dean. Nothing shook him. He just had that special aura. So whether at work or at home, I keep Dean and his music near me at all times.
But now let me tell you about the first time I was ever near Dean himself, up close and personal. Somewhere during my high school years, I’d read in the papers about a new radio singer who sounded very much like Bing Crosby. Well, that’s all I had to hear. I tuned in that night, and sure enough, it was absolutely t
rue: This new voice had that same remarkably mellow and romantic Crosby sound. He’d been working at the many nightclubs in and around New York City back then, but hadn’t yet broken through. At least, not as a solo act. But then, all of a sudden, he found himself on the same bill one night with a comic named Jerry Lewis, and somehow they began kidding around together onstage. Next thing you knew, they became not just the team of Martin and Lewis but in fact the hottest act in all of show business. They were all you heard about—everywhere! The power of their popularity (especially once they started making movies together) has probably never been matched.
Anyway, in those days, after high school prom dances, it seemed that kids always wound up at one of the many nightclubs in the city. And as it happened, after my Cardinal Hayes High School prom in June of 1949, five friends and I took our dates to the famous Copacabana to see Martin and Lewis, who that same year were just hitting it big on radio together. It was already an exciting night—all of us dressed up and feeling kind of sophisticated—not to mention that this would be my first time going to a nightclub. I remember how Jerry Lewis came out shrieking and breaking dishes he grabbed from busboys. People were howling at his crazy antics, and then Dean entered singing, so cool and in control, the total opposite of Jerry’s chaos. He was tall, handsome, and, for the one who was supposedly the straight man of the team, he was just as funny as Jerry. This guy is dynamite, I thought. He can do it all! It was a revelation to me. Later in the show, he crooned a special love song full of deep feeling and aimed it directly at a beautiful blonde sitting ringside. Sometime that same summer, I read that he and that blonde, Jeanne Bieggers, had gotten married. You’d hear him talk about her for years to come—“my Jeannie,” he always called her.
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