Merv (18 page)

What do I miss most about being on the air? Truthfully, the answer would have to be bringing out new talent. It became a hobby for me, and I just got very good at spotting people. Eventually you develop a kind of third eye. When I stop and look back at the list of people who got their start on my show over twenty-three years—Woody Allen, George Carlin, Richard Pryor and Lily Tomlin all the way up through Whitney Houston and Jerry Seinfeld—it’s pretty gratifying.

In the final season of
Seinfeld
, Jerry paid me the ultimate compliment by building an entire episode of his brilliant show around the hysterical premise that Kramer and Jerry had discovered the old set from my show in a neighborhood dumpster. Titled (appropriately enough) “The Merv Griffin Show,” the episode was later nominated for an Emmy.

When Jerry’s producer called to tell me what their plans were, I was delighted. That kind of tongue-in-cheek parody is an honor when it comes from someone whose work you truly respect. I talked to the
Seinfeld
writers about the various elements of my set and provided them with a tape of my show’s theme music. Since I wrote the theme, this was actually my only official connection to the episode (I’m still getting
Seinfeld
royalty checks).

As a treat for the writers, many of whom were too young to have seen Jerry when he was just starting out, I also sent along several videocassettes of his early appearances with me. I heard later that even Jerry got a kick out of watching them again.

I don’t smoke cigars. But what the hell, when you’re the number one show on television, I think you’re entitled to a little artistic license.

By the mid-eighties, I’d been doing my show for more than two decades. Although I still loved coming to work every day, I was beginning to feel a little like that Peggy Lee song, “Is That All There Is.” (Don’t even get me
started
on that song. Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller, who lived in the same Central Park West building that I did, offered me that song before they gave it to Peggy. Genius that I am, I turned it down. “It’s not quite
right
for me, fellas. It’s half-singing and half-talking.” Good move, Merv.)

Thus far in my career, I’d had my own radio show; I’d been a band singer with a number one hit record; I’d been under contract as an actor at a major studio and starred in a feature film; I’d MC’d a network game show; I was currently hosting the fourth major television talk show that bore my name; and I’d created the two most successful syndicated programs in broadcast history. Not a bad track record, to be sure. But after a lifetime spent reinventing myself, was I fresh out of ideas?

Not quite yet.

(© 1998 Harry Benson)

I
n the eighties, I became casual friends with the legendary (according to him) industrialist Armand Hammer and his third wife, Frances. The truth is that you never were just “friendly” with Armand. He had a remarkable way of using you socially without your being aware of it.

Armand and Frances were devoted fans of
Wheel of Fortune
(but not of
Jeopardy!
“Too tough,” he said). They watched it every night, without fail. Even when they were traveling abroad, as they often did, they had the
Wheel
taped. I’m absolutely certain that he took some of those tapes to the old Soviet Union during one of his many treks there, because the show popped up later on Moscow television without any deal having been negotiated for them to air it (Roger King was really ticked off). Subsequently, the Soviets announced that they had invented
.

Around this same time, Armand got me interested in Arabian horses from Poland, which were then considered top of the line. For several years, Armand would take me with him when he went to Scottsdale, Arizona, for the exciting Arabian auctions. I fell under the spell of these beautiful animals and found myself bidding too much for them.

Armand established the Armand Hammer Race (I wonder how he thought to call it that) at a Florida track with a $100,000 first prize, the largest purse in Arabian horse racing. At the same time, he formed Oxy Arabs as a division of his company, Occidental Petroleum, just to purchase horses for his own collection—shareholders be damned. Almost single-handedly, Armand created a public relations buzz that led to a skyrocketing market for Arabian horses.

It was a great time for everyone…until the bottom fell out.

In one night, the inflated prices that Armand had generated through his clever marketing campaign collapsed like Enron stock. The same horses that had been worth six figures the day before were suddenly valued at less than $3,000, and of course that included the ones I’d bought as well.

Such were the benefits of “friendship” with Armand Hammer.

It was with all of this in mind that I received a call from Armand in late 1985, informing me that he was coming to see me. He was eighty-seven years old and had become totally obsessed with his legacy. Recently, Armand had endowed the Armand Hammer United World College of the American West, in Las Vegas, New Mexico. Now he needed a way to maintain the funding for it after he was gone.

When he arrived at my office, Armand came directly to the point. He said that he wanted to buy 50 percent of Merv Griffin Enterprises, primarily to acquire the rights to
Wheel of Fortune
and
Jeopardy!
His idea was that their revenues would fund his college in perpetuity.

It was a clever plan. The problem (for him) was that I hadn’t even thought about selling. But as you know by now, change is the one constant in my life. So I listened to his offer and I was floored. He was offering me $45 million—my profit after taxes would come out to around $36 million. Even that sum was an unheard of amount for a relatively small production company like mine.

But remember, this was
Armand
. Once my lawyers and financial team pulled back the curtain, there was only a tiny yapping dog. He didn’t intend to put up a single dime of his own money. His scheme was to get a signed agreement from me, then turn around and have a bank finance the entire deal.

For the next meeting, Armand brought in Louis Nizer, the famously bombastic civil rights attorney to conduct the “negotiations.” Not to be outdone, I flew in Bobby Schulman from London where he was attending the Wimbledon finals. Schulman was a brilliant tax attorney and a partner in Williams & Connolly, the powerful D.C. law firm headed by famed trial lawyer and Washington Redskins owner Edward Bennett Williams. He agreed to fly to Los Angeles for one day just to attend the meeting.

He didn’t stay long. Bobby Schulman took one look at the proposed deal and said, “Mr. Hammer is putting up zero capital. The IRS will never accept this arrangement.” Then he drove back to the airport, got on a plane, and returned to London. I almost went with him.

After that, the meeting deteriorated quickly into a shouting match, ending abruptly with Armand and Louis storming out.

Armand Hammer didn’t speak to me again for nearly a year. When I finally sold my company (not to him), the deal was reported in all the newspapers. He eventually swallowed his pride and called to congratulate me, no doubt expecting that I would now endow a “Merv Griffin Chair” at his college. I thanked him for his call, but kept my hand on my wallet the entire time we were on the phone.

After the Armand Hammer fiasco, I didn’t actively pursue another buyer for my company. Still, I had to admit that the dollar figures Armand was throwing around my office that day were hard to ignore.

One Saturday during the fall of 1985, Frank Biondi, the new president of Columbia Entertainment, which had just been acquired by the Coca-Cola Company, was playing tennis with my William Morris agent, Lou Weiss. In between sets, he told Lou that he would like to buy my production company and some of my real estate properties as well, including the block at Sunset and Vine where
The Merv Griffin Show
was taped.

Lou brought me the offer—which had no dollar figure attached to it yet—and I told him to tell Biondi that I was interested. Then I met with my top administrative team to weigh the pros and cons of going forward with a possible sale. Included in that group were the president of my company, Murray Schwartz, and Roy Blakeman, my longtime attorney in New York, and Bob Murphy, my producer and oldest friend.

It was to these three that I turned for advice with respect to the possible sale of my company. The real question was not
if
I should sell—I’d already crossed that Rubicon—or even how much I should ask for. The numbers being bandied about, even preliminarily, dwarfed what Armand had offered me less than a year before.

No, the question I had to answer for myself, at the age of sixty, was the same one that a new college graduate asks himself once the cap and gown come off: “What do I want to do with my life?” While I was trying to sort that out, I left for Rio de Janeiro on a long-planned vacation.

Some vacation. I spent much of the time on the phone to the United States monitoring the fast-breaking developments in our negotiations with Coca-Cola.

I love Brazilian jazz. Antonio Carlos Jobim—his nickname was Tom—was a great friend of mine. Sergio Mendes also had an apartment in Rio and the three of us had all-night musical parties. We’d sing and play music until the sun came up. Yet all the while the phone was constantly ringing with questions from my team about various points in the proposed deal.

My memories of that trip, of the surreal juxtaposition of pleasure and business, will always be accompanied by a Brazilian beat.

When I got back to the States, the contracts were ready for me to sign. I’d just sold my company for $200 million, with profit participation that would take it up to $250 million—and beyond. The deal also guaranteed that I would retain creative control of
Wheel of Fortune
and
Jeopardy!
, and it provided me with a seat on the creative board of directors of Columbia Entertainment under the leadership of Frank Biondi (who would later head Viacom and Universal) and Fay Vincent.

Less than a year earlier, I’d been dazed at the prospect of forty-five million dollars. Now this.

I was asked by the press to describe how it felt to be the beneficiary of one of the largest sales of all time.

“Well, my first job playing in public was at the Coconut Bar in Santa Cruz. Then I played the Cocoanut Grove with Freddy Martin. And I had a hit record with “I’ve Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts.” So when they offered me all that money, all I could think of was, ‘Gee, that’s a helluva lot of coconuts.’ ”

That’s how my mind works.

Sometimes when you look back at a pivotal time in your life there’s a small incident, which at the time seemed totally insignificant, but subsequently stands out in your mind with neon clarity.

The date was Monday, May 5, 1986. I’d signed the contract with Coca-Cola several months earlier. As is always the case with deals of this size, it takes time for the money to actually change hands. I’d been told to expect it any day now.

The small incident that sticks out so clearly in my memory took place that afternoon.
The Merv Griffin Show
was taping at the Celebrity Theater that I owned (but had just sold) at Sunset and Vine in Hollywood. Although I hadn’t decided it yet, this would prove to be the final year of my show’s twenty-three-year run.

Instead of prepping for my guests (Marsha Mason, Valerie Perrine, and Elizabeth Peña), I was crouched down on the floor of my office, sleeves rolled up, a pair of dice in my hand. My staff and I were playing a board game, something we often did when I was testing out ideas for a new game show.

I’d just thrown the dice. They rolled off the board under my desk and I was crawling on my hands and knees to retrieve them.

Even if my life depended on the correct answer, I couldn’t tell you the name of the board game we were playing that day. But I do remember that exact moment, as clearly as if I were looking at a photograph—that snapshot instant of being down on the floor, looking for…what?

Luck?

I looked up to see a man standing in the doorway of my office, clearing his throat.

“Uh, Merv?” It was Gary Lieberthal, then the boss of TV and syndication for Columbia Tri-Star Television. He wasn’t used to seeing me on the floor, let alone having to talk to me down there.

“Oh, hey, Gary.” I pretended that this was a perfectly normal way to carry on a conversation. “What’s up?”

“I just stopped by to say congratulations. Welcome to the family.”

He reached down and extended his hand. As we shook, I said, “Gee, thanks, Gary. Did you bring that case of Coke they promised me with the deal?”

Everybody laughed, except me. I could barely muster a smile.

As I got to my feet, I realized what Gary’s visit actually
meant
. The deal was now official. In a single day, my net worth had just increased tenfold.

Even though the people around me were excited and happy, the news made me strangely uncomfortable. I actually felt a little embarrassed by the amount.

I walked Gary to the door and thanked him for his kindness in coming by. Then I called my accountant in New York, Gloria Redlich. At that time, Gloria had been with me for more than twenty-five years (it’s now forty-two). She doesn’t suffer fools well. Or technology.

I asked her if it was really true.

“It’s too much money.” She might have been talking about an overfull piggy bank. “It broke the meshuganah system.”

“I don’t understand,” I said, waiting for her to continue. Long ago, I’d learned to be patient and let Gloria explain what she meant.

“The wire system at the bank broke down. They can’t find the money.”

“You mean they’ve
lost
a quarter of a billion dollars?”
Now
I was laughing. This was the most fun I’d had all day.

Gloria was unimpressed by my attempt at humor. She knew me too well. “It’s too much. We don’t even have adding machines that go that high. We’re going to need all new machines…”

“Gloria,” I said, soothingly. “You’re absolutely right. I’ll give the money
back
.”

An hour later she called to tell me the wire transfer had finally come through. The money was now in my account.

There’s a funny postscript to this story. A few days after the transfer went through, I flew down to Atlanta for the one hundredth anniversary celebration of the Coca-Cola Company, my new corporate parent. They’d rented out the huge new Omni Arena and it was filled to overflowing with more than twelve hundred members of the Coca-Cola “family” who had come in from all over the world for this spectacular gala.

Given the prominence of my deal, I was seated next to Fay Vincent, the chairman of Columbia Entertainment (and later commissioner of major league baseball).

The vice chairman and president of Coca-Cola, Don Keough, was at the microphone delivering a stemwinder of a speech.