Sometimes when I feel ancient, I realize that Regis Philbin, who said goodbye today on his morning show, spent as many years on live air—twenty-eight—as it would take me to reach his current age. In other words, were I to live that long, I could do a twenty-eight year show and not be much older than Regis is now (he who, vaulting into his eighties, still plays tennis, and falls, acrobatically, off motorcycles).
Not that this should be relevant, but I don’t think Regis is someone who would have ever been my dating cup of tea. One of his best friends, after all, is Donald Trump (oh the wayward wind is a restless wind) (okay, how about hair today, gone tomorrow?), and he pooh-poohs certain things (that are close to my heart) in annoyed and dismissive ways that make me nervous.
But this morning, as Regis made his pre-show way toward the stage (stopping to pick up a weepy Kelly Ripa from her dressing room), I found myself tearing up, remembering the countless mornings I have clicked over to the show, often finding myself laughing off a long late-night bar shift; forgetting, momentarily, sleepy-eyed children who, during that hour, were coming to life in their classrooms, and for one fat hour ignoring the mountain of chores awaiting me.
I can’t help but wonder how much his departure will remind him of his mortality and the fact that none of us gets to live forever (as far as we know). I heard him say yesterday that he was growing tired of the program’s daily routine, but one wonders how hard some habits die. In fact, I spied a fleeting crease of fear as it shot across his stoic brow, and I thought...no wonder.
Still, I know I am projecting. Perhaps he is kicking up his heels and downing a glass of Dom Pérignon as I type, wiggling his argyle-socked toes in delight, relieved to be rid of that pre-noon blast of rollicking Ripa in his ear. (Sorry. I’m projecting again.) Who, but he, can say?
No matter who replaces him (God forbid Jerry Seinfeld), I doubt I will be watching the program again. Regis made his co-hosts palatable (at least to a manageable point); misogyny moderately tolerable, and New York City familiar. I will miss his shouting, his face-palming, his willingness to go anywhere and try anything, and his constancy. I will miss the way he made me feel young.
Farewell, Regis Philbin. May peace be with you.
