Dear Mister Fantasy

Merv is mountainous. At eighty years old, and after more diets than he can count -- Atkins, Scarsdale, water, Jenny Craig -- he's given up worrying about his weight. He is seated in his office in Beverly Hills on a morning in late September, his untucked salmon polo shirt draping his girth like a tent.

''Life,'' he says, ''is too short for fat-free brownies.'' He speaks in an awed whisper, as if sharing a semiscandalous secret, his voice a velvety purr made famous over twenty-three years of hosting the legendary Merv Griffin Show, the only talk show ever to present a serious challenge to Johnny Carson's long reign over late night. Through the Sixties, Seventies and Eighties -- during the course of 5,500 shows and 25,000 interviews -- Merv's show was defined by his amazing voice, which remains essentially unchanged (it's still a sly invitation to titillating disclosure), but it now carries a phlegmy rumble, legacy of the pack of Marlboro Lights he smokes daily. ''I may stop any day,'' Merv insists. ''Just cold-turkey it.'' He's done it before -- many times. ''But, oooooh,'' he says. ''That first cigarette after you go back! It's like your first time at Disneyland!''

To a degree rarely if ever acknowledged (except by Merv himself), for the past forty years Merv has helped shape the American pop-cultural landscape. First, with his talk show, which, in its unabashed celebrity worship and cozy intime atmosphere, offered the illusion of entering a living-room salon where a slightly risque cocktail party was in progress. As host, Merv used a cunning combination of obsequious fawning and probing interrogation to elicit disclosures more revealing than the stars would offer anywhere else. For the viewers, Merv's nightly party offered a thrilling proximity to stardom -- a sophisticated, grown-up atmosphere that retro-loving hipsters, like film director Judd Apatow (The 40-Year-Old Virgin), still find intoxicating. ''I could not be more excited about the release of highlights from The Merv Griffin Show,'' Apatow said recently.

A man of manic energies, Merv is also creator of two of the longest-running game shows in history: Jeopardy! and Wheel of Fortune, both of them still ratings toppers and distinctly, even weirdly, American in their blend of hard-edged capitalist competition and shiny, Pepsodent-grinning entertainment -- a family-friendly, fun-lovin' superwholesome ethic that Merv would, later, bring even to the seedy, greedy world of gambling when, in the 1980s, he expanded his empire into Atlantic City casinos. Today, his Griffin Group conglomerate houses companies ranging from luxury real-estate development, investment banking, hotels, movie and TV production, horse racing and online gaming. The thread that links them all, Merv says, is that special brand of Merv magic, which he defines as ''everything for the audience.'' The other thing that links them is that peculiarly Merv-y quality of dazzling surface glitter that hides no depths at all, a distillation of fantasy and denial that is the living embodiment of the eternal sunniness that radiates from Merv the man.

Merv is as American as processed cheese. He sees no shadows, and he lives by the philosophy ''Turn the page.'' Asked if he ever has sleepless nights, he says, ''No, never,'' then spreads his arms and lifts his voice into smoothly crooned Cole Porter: ''The sleepless nights, the daily fights/The quick toboggan when you reach the heights/I miss the kisses and I miss the bites/I wish I were in love again!''

He disdains the braggadocio of fellow billionaire Donald Trump -- with whom he has famously clashed -- but Merv is second only to Trump in compulsively mentioning his firsts and biggests and bests, his ''discoveries,'' his ''one and only'' interviews, his one-of-a-kind innovations. Pat Sajak? ''He's my discovery.'' Ryan Seacrest? Ditto. (Merv hired him to host Click, a game show, when Seacrest was just twenty-two. What did Merv see in him? ''Energy. The look of him. Easy smile. He just could do it.'') Martin Luther King Jr? ''I don't think anyone else has a Martin Luther King interview.'' George Carlin? ''Made his first network TV appearance on my show.'' Likewise Jerry Seinfeld, Richard Pryor, Woody Allen, Arnold Schwarzenegger. The Wheel of Fortune casino slot machine? ''The most-played slot machine in the world.'' The theme song to Jeopardy!, which Merv wrote? ''The most famous short tune in America,'' he says, ''even compared to 'Happy Birthday,' which is three seconds longer.'' Merv has timed it.

All this might make you think that Merv is a little competitive. You and everyone who has ever met him. ''He's a fierce competitor,'' says his friend, actor Robert Loggia. ''Under that Irish-eyes-are-smiling is a killer instinct to win.'' Repeat this to Merv and he looks dumbstruck. ''I don't think there's a killer,'' he says, aghast. ''I just do my job -- and automatically kill.'' Merv pinches the tippy-most part of his tongue between his upper and lower teeth in an impish grin -- a signal that he's just kidding. Or is he?

Merv has always understood the need for maintaining some mystery, some secrets. His sexuality has long been an open question (''I'm a quatre-sexual,'' he quipped to The New York Times. ''I will do anything with anybody for a quarter.'') And for decades he kept private his personal politics. He's a conservative right-wing Republican and a fan of our current president. ''Oooooh, I love him, yes,'' says Merv. ''He's funny, bright, intelligent and loves to have a good time. I wish everybody could know him personally. I walk into the White House for a party for Camilla and Prince Charles, and he yells across the room: 'M-e-e-e-e-rv is here!' It just makes it comfortable for everybody.'' And the invasions and domestic spying and stuff? ''He's protecting the nation,'' says Merv, who also knows Donald Rumsfeld. ''I love that guy!'' Merv cries. ''I love Condoleezza; we have the best time together!'' Merv kept his politics to himself when he was on television. ''I felt it would hurt the interview. I never revealed it until my friend became the president of the United States.''

Merv means Ronald Reagan, whom he first met when both were young actors at Warner Bros. Nancy Reagan remains one of his best friends. They share a birthday (July 6th) and talk every day. Indeed, you're not long into a visit with Merv when his desk phone rings, he picks it up and coos, ''Naaaancy.'' He listens as she tells him of the death of a mutual friend. ''Oooooh, they want me at the service?'' Merv jots down the details, then says, ''Would you mind calling me with some happy news?'' He bites the tip of his tongue. They make plans for lunch at Chez Mimi on Saturday. He hangs up. ''Poor woman,'' he says. ''She was practically under house arrest for ten years when Ronnie was sick.'' Merv kept the first lady laughing in those dark days. She remains grateful. ''Merv's a real, real upper,'' says Nancy Reagan. ''He will not let himself be depressed or low. He cheers you right up.'' She recalls how Merv came to her aid after Reagan was shot. ''I was scared every time Ronnie left the White House,'' she says. ''So Merv said, 'I know this woman, why don't you call her? She might be able to help you, give you a little guidance.' '' The woman was Joan Quigley, a San Francisco psychic. Merv has always been drawn to the supernatural. Quigley became White House astrologer, a woman who advised the first lady on matters personal and political -- which caused a worldwide scandal when her influence emerged in Reagan's last term. Merv makes no apologies about Quigley. ''She was very good,'' he says.

Merv rises from his desk -- a five-inch-thick, twelve-foot-long single slab of polished California redwood polyurethaned to a mirror-bright sheen, an environmentalist's worst nightmare -- and walks with a ponderous gait, in white loafers, to an adjoining wood-paneled chamber. Seated around a large, square boardroom table are members of the Griffin Group, including Larry Cohen (president), Matt Gaven (vice president of TV development), Ronnie Ward (Merv's right-hand man for the past twenty-four years) and Merv's forty-seven-year-old son, Tony, sole offspring from Merv's marriage to Julann Wright of Michigan -- a marriage that ended in divorce in the mid-1970s. Merv never remarried.

Merv takes a seat. He asks about the status of the just-released DVD box set of The Merv Griffin Show.

''How's the retro thing?'' Merv asks, referring to a proposed VH1 show that pairs young stars with their older mentors. Merv is told that VH1 is dragging its feet. Merv scowls. ''Just tell VH1, 'The people on the retro show that we plan to have on are dying. It's a retro show!' '' Everyone laughs.

Talk turns to Merv's foray into online video games.

''As the creator of Jeopardy! and Wheel, Merv is the perfect guy to be associated with this,'' says Cohen. ''You promote it as 'The Ultimate Game for the Ultimate Gamer.' ''

''I hate it,'' Merv deadpans. Then he laughs. Everyone else does, too.

Merv's son, Tony, pitches a reality show about a man in the witness-protection program. Merv has always run his empire on snap judgments and gut instincts (he knows a Merv-y idea when he hears one: that winning combination of fun, fantasy and cutthroat competition), and he shoots this one down instantly. Tony, however, can't let it drop. ''Put this all on eBay,'' Merv growls, with a wave of his cigarette, ''and sell it.'' Tony, pouting, finally gives up.

Not that Merv is against reality TV. He just hasn't seen an idea he likes. For instance, a show along the lines of The Osbournes -- except about Merv. He's pitched it, but the networks won't bite. They kiss up to him because of his track record with Jeopardy! and Wheel. But then they don't listen to him because he might skew to an older demographic. Drives him crazy. ''All they want to know is 'How did that skew?' '' says Merv. He catches himself sounding bitter. ''When they say you skew too old, you just say, 'Skew you.' '' He throws back his leonine head and roars with laughter.

Merv is right to laugh. He doesn't skew old. Even at eighty. ''Most people become more conservative as they age,'' says Merv's discovery Pat Sajak. ''Not Merv. Spend time with him, and you realize that there is still a little boy in there, playing with marbles.''