The Finale

The columnist Art Buchwald once introduced me at an awards ceremony like this: “The great thing about Larry King is that he doesn’t know he’s Larry King.” I always thought a good title for my autobiography would be What Am I Doing Here? because I can’t believe it all happened to me. The final night of my show was no exception.

Larry King Live was going down as the longest-running show with the same host at the same time on the same network in the history of television. But there was no time to sit around and get nostalgic about it. Family and friends had come in from all over the country for the party after the show. Plus, I was dealing with ten- and eleven-year-old boys.


You’re always a parent first. So I had to weigh in on whether Chance should wear his beret with the brim in front like a ballplayer or behind like an art critic at a French museum. And if I had taken a nostalgic moment and lapsed into a song from my youth, I certainly would have heard about it from Cannon. “Dad, why are you singing those oldies from the eighties?” I’m also married to a woman who is on time about as often as I’m late. If the boys and I had waited for Shawn to put on her makeup at home, the world might still be waiting for the final show. C’mon, you can put your makeup on in the car! One of the world’s great mysteries is how our driver, Daniel, always manages to get us where we’re going on time.

The ride over was surreal. Think about it: just to be a seventy-seven-year-old man whose kids are wondering what place they’ll have in the batting lineup for their Little League team. Then I looked up and I was passing the street that bears my name as we rolled into CNN’s parking lot. There must have been fifty cameramen outside the studio. I stopped for a few minutes to speak with reporters, but I really didn’t have any answers. Of course, I wasn’t exactly feeling great. I’d been doing the show for twenty-five years—almost a third of my life. There was nothing happy about leaving. For me, there’s never been any joy in the word goodbye.

As I entered the building, staffers broke into applause. That was hard. Even though I knew I’d be coming back to do specials, there was no escaping the fact that this was the last time I’d be seeing many of them. But my head was constantly turning to see what my kids were up to. Cannon’s in Greg’s office. Where’s Chance? Ninety-year-old parents have told me that the feeling doesn’t go away even when your kids are seventy. I was wearing the red suspenders that Jon Bon Jovi had given me for the occasion. People have paid thousands of dollars for my signed suspenders at auctions to benefit charities. Gorbachev and Lady Gaga have shown up in suspenders to meet me. The designer Donna Karan once proposed doing a Larry King line. But it all started as a simple suggestion from an ex-wife of mine after I lost weight following heart surgery:
“Ever wear braces?” Minutes after I wore them on the show, complimentary calls starting coming in. The rest is history . . .

I went to the set early to take pictures with everyone on the staff. The global backdrop has been called one of the ten most recognized images in the world. There were three back- drops: one in Washington, one in New York, and one in Los Angeles. One will be going to The Newseum. Another was cut up into chunks and given to every member of the staff as a memento. The last one stays on for my specials.

I looked at the microphone on my desk. It’s not a working mike. It’s a prop, but more than a prop. It’s a symbol of where I came from. I’ve always looked at television as radio with a camera. To me, that microphone is a symbol of connection. I was a creature of comfort to millions of people who were up at night during my coast-to-coast radio days. That’s the closest tie you can have as a broadcaster. If you were a student or a pilot at that time, you counted on me at night. I did my best to bring that same connection to television. Just being there, saying “Good evening,” night after night. After a while, it may not even matter who the guest is. Just that you’re there to say
“Let’s take a call,” or “I’ll be right back.”

I’ve always said, this ain’t brain surgery. But in one small way it is. You feel like you don’t ever want to let down the people who’ve come to see you. I remember Joe DiMaggio being asked why he hustled so much. He said, “The people who were there today may never see me again.” I know just what he meant. Whenever I look at that microphone, it reminds me: I owe them my best. There were many surprises planned for the final show; I went in without knowing who was coming. Well, I knew that Bill Maher and Ryan Seacrest would be with me for the evening. But that was all I knew. Many people thought I lobbied for Ryan as my replacement. That’s not true. I wasn’t involved in the process. But I’ve always said he’d have been a great choice. I don’t know if he has the background in politics, but he’s dynamic, smart, funny, and comfortable in the chair. On this one night, he had the blue cards in front of him that contained all the surprises and guided the show. So, in a way, he was in charge. And you’ve got to hand it to Bill Maher. Right at the top he said he didn’t want it to be a funeral—and his humor made sure it wasn’t. After Governor Schwarzenegger came on to declare it Larry King Day in California, Bill kicked in with, “The proclamation was stuck in the legislature for two years.” Then came a video clip from President Obama: “You say that all you do is ask questions, but for generations of Ameri- cans the answers to those questions have surprised us, they have informed us, and they have opened our eyes to the world beyond our living rooms. So thank you, Larry, and best of luck.” Maher followed that with, “John Boehner is calling and he disagrees completely. He’s calling Obama a socialist for those remarks.”

Then it was old friends time—though I never think of Regis Philbin as old. He’s evergreen to me. Donald Trump appeared, Suze Orman, Dr. Phil. I’d never thought of it before that night, but you don’t see too many bald guys on television. Dr. Phil is calm, compassionate, strong—and damn good at what he does. It doesn’t matter if you’re in real estate, finance, or psychology, you don’t stay around this long without being good. There’s a lot to be said for longevity. There was a wacky segment in which Fred Armisen of Saturday Night Live came on and impersonated me. Same glasses, same red polka-dotted tie and red suspenders. He was me interviewing me. I’m not sure how well it worked. But there were some laughs, and no show goes perfectly. Then came the four anchors: Barbara Walters, Brian Williams, Diane Sawyer, and Katie Couric. I had no idea that Katie has been writing poetry for years. She and my producer, Wendy, wrote one that was not only touching, but had some lines that stick with me. You made NAFTA exciting, and that’s hard to do. And you scored Paris Hilton’s post-jail interview. You went gaga for Gaga, Sharon Stone, Janet Jackson. Alas, it was Brando who gave you some action.

The next surprise was Bill Clinton via satellite from Arkansas. He looked like he’d totally rebounded after his heart surgery earlier in the year. And just the week before, he’d given a press briefing for Obama at the White House. So I said, “We’re both in the Zipper Club. By the way, you looked very good in the briefing room at the White House. Did that make you yearn to return?”

Bill said no. I began to move on. I didn’t realize that there were people who didn’t understand what I meant by the Zipper Club. Apparently, some people were wondering about another sort of zipper. So Greg, in the control room, came on in my earpiece, as he’s done so many times before, to set things straight. When I explained to viewers that I was referring to the zipper scar left by surgery, Bill smiled and said, “I’m glad you clarified that.” That’s the thing about Bill Clinton. He’s impossible to dislike. Take the person who hates Bill Clinton the most, put him in a room with him, and he’ll love him in fifteen seconds. A camera panned the control room. For seventeen years Wendy Walker has been with me—sometimes calling me more than ten times a day. Cannon was sitting on her lap. She’ll remain as close as family.

Then there was a heartfelt moment with Anderson Cooper. Anderson is a very different broadcaster from me. It’s amazing how he does it. Not only does he put his life on the line, but he puts his thoughts on the line—like how critical he was of officials during Hurricane Katrina. You always know where he stands. And his words came straight from the heart once again. He talked about a lunch we’d had recently—a lunch in which we’d spoken about our fathers. Anderson had also lost his father as a child, when he was ten. He pulled out a letter that his dad had written to him before he died and read from it as the clock ticked down on my final show. It said: “We must go rejoicing in the blessings of this world, chief of which is the mystery, the magic, the majesty, and the miracle that is life.” Anderson said I had done just that—and he imagined how proud my father would be.

It’s been sixty-eight years since my father died. But I think I know what he would have felt. Nachas, it’s called in Yiddish. A pride in the happiness that you’ve helped give someone you care about. I know this feeling. I know it because I felt it a few minutes later. I felt it when my young boys came on the set with Shawn. Chance, the serious one, said he’d be happy to have me at home more. I don’t think he knows how I steeled myself so that I didn’t cry after my father’s death, but he told me it was OK to cry on the show’s final night. And then there was Cannon, the comic, who did his impression of me. First the chin in the fist, then the glance at the watch. Then, the gravelly voice: “Where’s Shawn? Get in the car! I’m too old for this. I’ve done this for fifty years!” That was the highlight of the evening for me. And there was Shawn. It had not been an easy year for her. But there she was, made-up, beautiful, radiant—and looking forward to our future.

Tony Bennett came in right on time. From the middle of a concert, he sang “The Best Is Yet to Come.” Then Tony had his audience give me a standing ovation.

The final moments approached. I had no idea what I was going to say at the close, but then I never know what I’m going to say. The only thing I knew was I was not going to use the word goodbye. This is what came out:
“I don’t know what to say except to you, my audience, thank you. And instead of goodbye, how about so long?” Then I watched a spotlight shine on the microphone and the entire set fade to black.

We were in a rush to get to the party at Spago. Hundreds of people were waiting. I tried zipping up my jacket, but the zipper wouldn’t catch. Cannon said, “Here, Dad, let me do it.” And he zipped it up.

Then I was coming down the red carpet and into a swirl of people all wanting to tell me something good. It’s hard to explain how that makes you feel. There was my brother, who watched it all from the beginning, and his wife, who helped nurse me through heart surgery; my older kids, Andy, Chaia, and Larry Jr.; the gang from Nate ’n Al’s. I was even happy seeing the suits from CNN. Every time I turned, I’d see Kirk Kerkorian or Jane Fonda or Jimmy Kimmel. Jimmy wanted to know if Cannon could come on his show. I was hungry and grabbed a couple of slices of Wolfgang Puck’s pizza. It was a great evening, but I have to be honest: I’d much rather have been at a party honoring someone else. With all the toasts and speeches and hugs, you know what I was thinking? I’ve got to get the kids home. They’ve got school tomorrow.

The next morning I was up at 6:15 a.m.—just like always. As soon as my eyes opened, I shot out of bed, ready to go. It would take a while, but in time, I understood that the advice Colin Powell had given me about leaving was only half right. When the subway reaches the last stop and is getting ready to go back, it’s true that it’s time to get off that train. But as Shawn said, “That’s when it’s time to get on another train.”