Read Online How I Got This Way by Regis Philbin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Regis Philbin
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in an old tap dance from his vaudeville days. He still had it down pat! This was an interview for the ages—and also, very much to my regret, one that’s been lost to the ages because it was broadcast live with no tape running.
And then, out of the blue, pandemonium broke loose: It must have been close to twelve thirty in the morning when the doors to our studio suddenly swung open—right in the middle of one of his fabulous stories, naturally—and into the broadcast area marched a procession of firemen, some of them carrying axes. I had never seen anything like it. But I had to interrupt Walter— which was not so easy to do —and throw to a commercial break so I could find out what was going on. The fire chief told me, “We have a report of a bomb planted in your studio.” Apparently, there’d been some call about an alleged explosive device hidden on our premises that was probably meant to harm Winchell—or at least interrupt him. The firemen began scouring the studio. The crowd was unsettled, but no one made for the exits; they stayed put, loving the Winchell exchange as much as I’d been enjoying it. In those far more innocent days, no one heard much about bombs going off in public places, especially in TV studios.
As the firemen carefully poked around the set, Winchell and I approached the audience. I explained the situation and told them that they were free to leave. Meanwhile, Winchell tried to calm everyone down, assuring them that it was most likely a phony tip from some crackpot trying to shut him up. So nobody panicked—except for one woman, who got up and walked down the stairs to the stage, ready to escape. Winchell immediately went to work on her: “What are you afraid of?” he roared. “You’ve got both the navy and the marines based right here in San Diego. You can’t let these Ratzies, these Nazis, scare you!” She nevertheless kept moving. Winchell pleaded, “Don’t leave!”
She looked him right in the eye. “Don’t go?” she said. “Walter, I love you, but I’m not going to hell with you!” And out she went into the night. The commercial break ended, but the firemen continued their hunt throughout the next segment of the show. And if you think about it, this had to be something of a historic moment for television, probably never to be repeated again— a bomb search going on while I continued a live TV interview . . . with Walter Winchell, no less, who, by the way, picked up his story right where he’d left off, as though nothing at all had happened in between. I was hanging in there, halfway distracted, with one eye on him and the other eye on the firemen. Thankfully, nothing at all suspicious turned up, and the search team had already filed out before we finished the show—at about one twenty in the morning! And keep in mind, we’d been on the air since 11:15 p.m. Quite the unbelievable night. Winchell declared the bomb scare a prank pulled by someone who likely disagreed with his politics and wanted to rattle him. Afterward, the crowd came down from their seats and surrounded him—mostly fans, some not fans, but he loved them just the same. All the commotion, all the excitement—things had gotten very, very New York, right there in serene little San Diego.
Finally, when the studio emptied, I thanked him and tried to say good night. Winchell would hear of no such thing. “Where are you going now?” he barked. “Home,” I told him. I mean, I was exhausted—to talk to him, to dance with him, to go through a bomb scare with him—I couldn’t take much more! But he wanted to go out for a late bite, and he fully expected me to join him. He was twice my age and still ready to go, whereas I was feeling older and older by the minute. It was nearly two in the morning—an hour when things were still hopping during his regular New York rounds. But here in San Diego I was hard-pressed to come up with a place to entertain him. He settled for a Chinese restaurant, where he
And then, out of the blue, pandemonium broke loose: It must have been close to twelve thirty in the morning when the doors to our studio suddenly swung open—right in the middle of one of his fabulous stories, naturally—and into the broadcast area marched a procession of firemen, some of them carrying axes. I had never seen anything like it. But I had to interrupt Walter— which was not so easy to do —and throw to a commercial break so I could find out what was going on. The fire chief told me, “We have a report of a bomb planted in your studio.” Apparently, there’d been some call about an alleged explosive device hidden on our premises that was probably meant to harm Winchell—or at least interrupt him. The firemen began scouring the studio. The crowd was unsettled, but no one made for the exits; they stayed put, loving the Winchell exchange as much as I’d been enjoying it. In those far more innocent days, no one heard much about bombs going off in public places, especially in TV studios.
As the firemen carefully poked around the set, Winchell and I approached the audience. I explained the situation and told them that they were free to leave. Meanwhile, Winchell tried to calm everyone down, assuring them that it was most likely a phony tip from some crackpot trying to shut him up. So nobody panicked—except for one woman, who got up and walked down the stairs to the stage, ready to escape. Winchell immediately went to work on her: “What are you afraid of?” he roared. “You’ve got both the navy and the marines based right here in San Diego. You can’t let these Ratzies, these Nazis, scare you!” She nevertheless kept moving. Winchell pleaded, “Don’t leave!”
She looked him right in the eye. “Don’t go?” she said. “Walter, I love you, but I’m not going to hell with you!” And out she went into the night. The commercial break ended, but the firemen continued their hunt throughout the next segment of the show. And if you think about it, this had to be something of a historic moment for television, probably never to be repeated again— a bomb search going on while I continued a live TV interview . . . with Walter Winchell, no less, who, by the way, picked up his story right where he’d left off, as though nothing at all had happened in between. I was hanging in there, halfway distracted, with one eye on him and the other eye on the firemen. Thankfully, nothing at all suspicious turned up, and the search team had already filed out before we finished the show—at about one twenty in the morning! And keep in mind, we’d been on the air since 11:15 p.m. Quite the unbelievable night. Winchell declared the bomb scare a prank pulled by someone who likely disagreed with his politics and wanted to rattle him. Afterward, the crowd came down from their seats and surrounded him—mostly fans, some not fans, but he loved them just the same. All the commotion, all the excitement—things had gotten very, very New York, right there in serene little San Diego.
Finally, when the studio emptied, I thanked him and tried to say good night. Winchell would hear of no such thing. “Where are you going now?” he barked. “Home,” I told him. I mean, I was exhausted—to talk to him, to dance with him, to go through a bomb scare with him—I couldn’t take much more! But he wanted to go out for a late bite, and he fully expected me to join him. He was twice my age and still ready to go, whereas I was feeling older and older by the minute. It was nearly two in the morning—an hour when things were still hopping during his regular New York rounds. But here in San Diego I was hard-pressed to come up with a place to entertain him. He settled for a Chinese restaurant, where he
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