And why not? We all looked around and couldn’t believe that we were there—on this gorgeous starry night in the spectacular home of one of Hollywood’s top leading men, living it up right on the banks of gleaming Lake Como. George had invited some of his friends there for what became a big lavish dinner, and we all began drinking wine and eating all that great Italian food. And then more wine. And then even more wine. It was an exuberant kind of night, and we began swapping stories.
I told him about that terrific week years ago in Cincinnati when I filled in for his dad. He talked about coming to Hollywood and how he finally broke into the business, first on TV, then the movies. And of how he had first lived with his aunt Rosie and how she once banished him from her house for a little bad behavior and how they of course made up later. One story led to another, each one funnier than the last. I told him all the backstage Joey Bishop stories and started recalling all the crazy guests I’d encountered over the years. And the laughs became howls. George himself was a scream. He could tell a great story and he had plenty of them to tell. We laughed through the night and finally somehow got ourselves home to our own villa on the lake.
The next morning I woke up with a serious hangover and was feeling the fog. I had to ask Joy if we’d truly just had one of the best nights of our lives or were we just imagining we did? You know, the old morning-after game of second-guessing everything that happened the night before, especially following wonderful parties like that one. George had been such a gracious host, but then you start wondering: Did we stay too long? Did we bore him with those silly stories? Did we completely empty out his wine cellar? Did we leave him any wine at all? Sometimes you’re never sure. I must tell you that I wondered about it for a long time.
And then two summers later, at a New York movie screening, I took a seat next to a woman I had never met but whose name—Amy Sacco—was familiar from getting frequent mentions in the Post’s Page Six column. Her popular nightclub, Bungalow 8, was a site where all sorts of celebrity goings-on made for a steady flow of boldfaced gossip items. We shared some small talk, and it turned out that she’d just returned from Italy, where she had spent time at Lake Como. I told her about our unforgettable trip there, and to my amazement, she said she’d just heard all about it—directly from George Clooney. She, too, had visited that beautiful house of his. In fact, she reported, George had said that ours had been “the most fun night he’d ever had there.”
I didn’t let on that I had often worried about what George had thought about that night and whether he’d had as wonderful a time as we all did. But I couldn’t help asking her, “Did he really say that?” And she replied, “That’s exactly what he said.”
I can’t tell you how relieved I was. Just one more doubt erased from the corners of my mind, thank God. By the way, she also reported that George still seemed to have had plenty of wine left over to keep his future guests happy. Never mind his success in the movies—that kid from Cincinnati really knows how to throw a party.
WHAT I TOOK AWAY FROM IT ALL
Almost without exception, midwestern people are a uniquely open and friendly breed apart. (Don’t ask me why, but they just are.)
Sometimes, when you hear that old phrase “it’s all in the genes,” it really is all in the genes.
Chapter Twenty-six
JACK NICHOLSON
Everybody loves Jack Nicholson. In fact, most guys want to be Jack Nicholson. He’s as good an actor as there is anywhere currently breathing, of course. He can play any kind of role—charming guy, crazy guy, serious guy, bad guy, funny guy. You name it—Jack’s done it. And done it so well. Then there’s his personal life—which has always fascinated everyone in and out of Hollywood. But did you ever wonder why you’ve never seen Jack in anything but a movie? Well, the reason is simple: He doesn’t give interviews on camera. He would rather die than do a talk show. That’s the way it is. And everybody knows it and accepts it. The man is a great actor, a true legendary star, and we love him up there on the screen, showing us how life ought to be lived. So I always let it go at that.
But it seemed like our paths were bound to cross eventually—and then they did. It was after the New York preview of his film Something’s Gotta Give, in which we see Jack as the roaming bachelor who’s caught up with a much younger girl before he begins falling in love with her mother, played by Diane Keaton. It was a fun comedy and Jack played this rogue guy to the hilt. Anyway, the New York press and TV people were invited on a Sunday night to preview the film and then attend a small dinner afterward on the Upper West Side. So once the final credits rolled, we were led down Columbus Avenue to a new apartment house under construction, and then upstairs into a near-completed loft. Frankly, going someplace different for one of these postpremiere dinner schmoozathons was far better than going to what the bigger budget movies usually seem to demand. Tables and chairs were set up around the multilevel rooms—right next to ladders, sawhorses, and all the construction stuff that was still in place. I took my daughter Joanna to the film and we were joined by my producer Michael Gelman and his lovely wife, Laurie. Like always, we began exchanging opinions about the film—until somebody said, “There’s Jack Nicholson.” I looked over, and sure enough, there he was, sitting at a table a few steps higher than us with the famed New York artist and director Julian Schnabel. It was a thrill to look over at Jack in the flesh right after we’d seen his movie. He looked great. What did you expect? I mean, he’s Jack, isn’t he? Then I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Peggy Siegel, the glamorous, bulldozing New York go-to girl Hollywood calls on to set up screenings and premieres and to get the New York media buzz churning.
She said, “I want you to meet Jack Nicholson.”
“Why?” I said. “Let’s leave him alone.”
“No, I think you’ll enjoy meeting him.”
“Peggy, he looks busy. I really don’t want to bother him.”
But Peggy Siegel is one of those indomitable women. So full of ideas and someone who never takes no for an answer. (She was the one who had also insisted that Steven Spielberg and I meet under similar crowded party–like circumstances.) Gelman and Joanna and everybody at the table were all for it. I said no again, but Peggy was unmoved by my protests. Finally, reluctantly, I said, “I give up, let’s go and get it over with.”
We walked over to a stairway where she took two steps up, putting her at eye level with Jack. Because those steps were so narrow, I had to stand behind her. I couldn’t see Jack and he couldn’t see me, but I could hear everything that followed. All my instincts told me we were doing the wrong thing: Don’t interrupt him now . . . he’s still talking to Schnabel . . . please leave him alone. But this woman is a force—she will not be deterred! I’m sure Jack knew her and knew she was looming right there in front of him. But when she said, “Jack, I—,” Jack simply said, “No.” Without even looking up! That’s all I had to hear. I tugged at her back, hoping she would take that for a “Please-let’s-just-go”—but no, she was determined to get this introduction made. Jack continued talking to Schnabel. I said to myself, “Please, God, make Peggy stop. Don’t interrupt him now! Regis doesn’t need Jack thinking of him as some nuisance. . . .”
But now she said even louder, “Jack, JACK, I want you—”
And Jack said gruffly and loudly: “Not now.”
He was really getting annoyed—and there I was caught behind this hurricane-force woman who I’m sure wasn’t going to budge and would only keep asking him over and over again. I had to make a move quickly—just to end this nightmare. God knows I didn’t plan this, but I pushed in beside her, got my face in full view of Jack, and told him how much I enjoyed the movie and thought he was great and good luck with it. Bang. Zoom. Over. And OUT!
I didn’t wait for an answer—because there was no question!—and I left as quickly as I could. I was angry that I’d let my group talk me into it, and I didn’t think it was especially funny when Gel
man said, “So, did you ask him to come on the show?”
But frankly, these are the kinds of train-wreck stories that always provide great material for our show—which it did the next morning. When I brought up Jack’s name, the audience leaned in—naturally. You don’t hear many firsthand stories about bumping into Jack. I told the story slowly and agonizingly, just as it had happened, and built to its sad but funny conclusion. Did Regis meet him? Did Jack recognize him? Did Jack get angry? Did Regis chicken out? (Answers, in order: Not exactly. Who knows? Seemed angry. And absolutely Regis chickened out!) Well, it was excruciating but entertaining—a good story. And the crowd seemed to feel every bit of my anguish. And laughed riotously—because it didn’t happen to them!
Next day, another show: Kelly and I take our seats, and suddenly Gelman is holding up a card: GO TO THE PHONES.
I ask, “Who is it, Gelman? Who would be calling us on the air right at the top of the show?”
Gelman gives me one of his inimitable know-everything Gelman looks and says, “It’s a surprise.”
I don’t normally like surprises, but the show is live and it’s too late to quibble with Gelman.
“Hello,” I say.
“Regis,” says the voice, huskily, definitively.
“Yes.”
“It’s Jack.”
Ohhhhhh God . . .
I mean, nobody else sounds like that. It has to be Jack Nicholson. I mean—how nice . . . but why is he calling us live on the air? Is he still upset about being interrupted the other night? It wasn’t my idea, I keep reminding myself.
I start in: “Jack, it’s two minutes after nine in the morning! You got up early to make this call?”
Jack said, “No, no, Regis, I just got home.”
Big laugh—Jack understands his high-living legend! Then he went on to apologize for our Sunday-night miscue. “I didn’t see you until you peeked out from behind that woman.”
Another big laugh. Jack is scoring!
I said, “Jack, I didn’t want to bother you but—”
He took over: “Look, if you’re ever here in L.A., let’s go to a Lakers game together. You’ll enjoy it.”
Of course I would. Who wouldn’t?
“Call me if you can make it sometime,” he said in that silky smooth voice, totally irresistible. “It’ll be just us—the Reege and me!” He couldn’t have been more pleasant. And more importantly, Jack had just laid on me his own personally coined nickname: That’s right! To Jack Nicholson, I was now THE REEGE!
I liked it. A lot.
Well, it didn’t take long to figure this one out. Next chance I had, I would fly to L.A. and go out on the town—or at least to a Lakers game—with Jack. The idea would even be to film some of it for the show—but not all of it! Because men like Jack and me (the Reege, remember?) need some private time to bond, maybe even talk about women and art collecting and why I’ve never been in one of his movies. You know, stuff like that.
My producers called Jack’s people to confirm the date, and suddenly, there I was arriving at Jack’s famous compound high up on twisting Mulholland Drive in the Hollywood Hills, right beside Marlon Brando’s property. Warren Beatty’s place was just a few doors down as well. It was Superstar Row! My driver let me out at the impressive gate that sealed Jack’s premises from the rest of the world, all of it behind a sprawling fence. I rang the bell and sent the driver away. The gate swung open and I walked down the driveway. Jack had lived up there for many years—even acquiring neighboring lots, including the Brando home, and it all felt very big and secluded. Next thing I knew, Jack came rushing out of the house to greet me—“It’s the Reege!” he announced loudly to the world. He was very gracious. We went inside his main home—one of a few he keeps on the property—and we shared a couple of Diet Cokes and some laughs. I peered down at the beautiful canyon that lay below his home—with Jack pointing out various geographical details. Also, everywhere in sight there was his art collection—or I should say one small part of it, lining the walls and looking beautiful, expensive, and intimidating. He is, it turns out, a very passionate collector. Who knew?
Before long, he signaled to his personal driver that it was time to get us to the Staples Center. We climbed into the backseat of his black town car together. And now it was time to really talk to Jack—guy-to-guy, once and for all. We covered his early New Jersey years right on through to his landing in Hollywood and the famous low-budget director Roger Corman who helped give starts to so many future stars in those days. Then we touched on his Easy Rider breakthrough, The Last Detail, The Postman Always Rings Twice, The Shining—frankly, you can barely scratch the whole scope of his work in any single conversation. But it was fascinating.
And then, of course—well, you know how it is when two guys get finished talking about things like business and sports. To start out, I tried to make it delicate: “You know, Jack, you’ve starred with so many beautiful women in your films. Did you ever fall in love with any of them?” Jack gave me one of those trademark grinning looks of his and then said it all in just one word. With mock astonishment, he simply replied, “Regis.” And honest to God, the way he spoke my name told me everything. And then some! I mean, this was Jack—who could ever resist him?
We arrived at the Staples Center as the usual huge crowd was filing in. I wondered how Jack would maneuver his entrance. Well, he was like a stealth commando, undeterred, going in for the kill. We got through the turnstile and then slipped into a side door that nobody noticed. That took us down a long, vacant hallway to another door that more or less opened at a special entrance inside the arena—and just a few steps away were Jack’s seats. Of course, we’ve all seen him at televised Lakers games sitting in his front-row seats. He’s a fixture. People know he’s going to be there—they know exactly where to look for him. He’s had those seats for years—there in Section 102, right on the floor courtside. Naturally, he is a consummate fan: Loves the Lakers. Actually argues with the refs over bad calls. Takes it hard when a Laker misses a shot. Gets a little nuts when they lose. To put it mildly, he is totally involved with every aspect of every game.
But let me tell you: It’s a different feeling to walk into that place with Jack and then be planted right next to him all night. If a game gets a little dull for fans, there’s always Jack to stare at, and then check out whoever he’s with. Well, that night it was me! I would’ve felt more comfortable if I was with Gelman at Madison Square Garden. But not as important. I’m sure many of the fans wondered out loud, “What the hell is Jack doing with Regis?!” It was kind of intimidating. The next day I was told there were constant shots of us on TV during the game broadcast. People probably wondered how we were getting along. Once, I slapped Jack on his knee after a great shot, which gave the play-by-play guys in the booth a big laugh. Why don’t they mind their own business up in the booth and leave us alone, I thought. Jack and I are trying to enjoy the game!
Finally, the Lakers win. Or as they like to scream out there, “THE LAKERS WINNNNNN!” And thank God they won that night. I didn’t know how I’d handle Jack after a loss! Anyway, game over, we made our escape. Back down that empty hallway. Then out through the crowds for a moment. Which, by the way, was quite a moment: People are trying to give Jack their own movie scripts and to take his picture or shake his hand. He declines, but always graciously with no hard feelings in his wake. Meanwhile, the car is idling outside, waiting for us. Driver at the wheel. Off we go. Jack’s got it down cold. And he does it just like that for every home game.
Final stop: We went to dinner at Morton’s Steakhouse near Beverly Hills. It was a complete night. A tour of his home, the drive to Staples, the game, a dinner, and then back to my hotel where he dropped me off . . . while the doorman simply gaped at him. In that moment, my stock at the hotel went up 100 percent.
And to just think that if Jack at that New York party hadn’t said, “Not now!” none of this w
ould have ever happened. It was one of the greatest Guys’ Nights Out ever. Actually, it was even better than that. It was a great night out with Jack Nicholson.
Top that! How can I?
WHAT I TOOK AWAY FROM IT ALL
Once you’ve perfected a mystique for yourself you can have fun doing wildly unpredictable things (like get through to Regis on live television if you happen to be Jack Nicholson!).
A man who doles out nicknames is a man who pays more attention than you think. (It happens to be one of my own favorite things to do—I like noticing people and their quirks. . . .) And, believe it or not, they really like their nicknames. Makes them feel special.
Chapter Twenty-seven
HOWARD STERN
When I came back to New York in 1983, Howard Stern was at the top of his radio game, as he remains today. Because Howard is Howard, he’s regularly had field days blasting me and berating me, practically from the minute I started our local morning show and onward after we went national. Funny thing is, I never heard him. I was so busy every morning—waking up, showering, shaving, grabbing breakfast and taking the kids to school, and then getting over to our West Side studio to go on the air—that there was no time to get an earful of Howard’s show. But practically every other day, people would stop me in the street, in a restaurant, wherever, and give me a word-for-word account of what Howard had said about me earlier that morning. I must admit some of it was laugh-out-loud funny. And of course, I knew what he was up to. I was the new guy in town and fresh meat for him—another TV guy to pick on. I understood. I also knew that Howard’s occasional attacks were prompting people to tune in to watch our show for themselves, just to see what Howard was talking about. I held no grudges. It’s all part of this business.
How I Got This Way Page 25