For Alex Trebek

I love Alex Trebek. He is the sassy grandfather of highbrow trivia–a national treasure–an ageless gem. And he has cancer. Trebek. The unchanging, Godlike figure who was going to outlive us all, is sick. And I’m scared for him.

I’ve written a lot about Trebek; people know him–they can see him clearly in their minds with minimal effort. He is a constant Good in the collective American heart, and knowing that he is sick is an odd reality. This immortal man is suddenly frail. It’s confusing.

I’m scared for him, sad for his family, and angry that illness is stronger than will.

I want to share a monologue I wrote for a play writing class in which I profess my undying love for this man. I hope it can make you laugh, dear reader. Send him good vibes.

Secret in Jeopardy

All humans should be allowed the freedom to change their career at any time. I really do believe this. However, free will, as I understand it, does not apply to Mr. Alex Trebek.

He is beyond us all, and yet, he is doomed to his fate. He has to stand still as a bookcase for forty-five minutes every night, without fail. He must do this until he dies. How could I not fall for that kind of rock-n-roll tragedy.

 I watch Jeopardy. Every night at seven p.m. Eastern Standard Time, I tune in. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from this, other than the fact that I’m in love with the host, it’s that I know very little about anything.

I don’t know mid-century Russian literature, or the Greek word for tomato. I don’t know the name of the first taxi driver, or anything about 80’s television. But I figure I’m still better off than my Mr. Trebek; I can sit on my ass and laugh at the contestant’s when they stutter out  “what is whatever”. He has to play God. Poor thing.

Some like basketball, football, baseball–I never could. Give me three brainiacs and Trebek, or give me static.

I fell in love without realizing it. It’s funny really, how it happened. Every time someone answered a question of mine with, “I don’t know,” I couldn’t help but think of him. How he would know. How, dear God, how he would look standing in the front of the lecture hall. How he would look so dapper, so worldly.

I realize how I sound–I’m nuts. I know fifty years, several thousand miles, and millions of dollars separate the two of us. I know he’d never go for me. Who am I? Some girl. Some fan.

I know I have to kill the habit. I know I have to go cold turkey. But, God, I’ve tried. I tried Dancing With The Stars, The Walking Dead, I even tried reruns of some really bad 90s sitcoms. But I just couldn’t do it. At 7 PM Eastern Standard Time, every weeknight, I tune in. For him.

You see, some people watch for the contestants. They find them interesting and beautiful and full of hilarious quirks. But they bore me–they’re all so dull, so lifeless in comparison. They’re replaceable–disposable. He isn’t. The show needs him–I need him.

I know he doesn’t write the questions or know all the answers. But there’s something about the way he stands there–still and regal–that makes me feel like he isn’t reading from a prompter. That he knows everything somehow. I had to write the letters.

I have no idea how old he is. He could be sixty, seventy–I haven’t a clue. But I do know that I am too old for the boys my age. I am too old for frat basements and grubby bars. I am too old for someone who does not say, with complete conviction, exactly what is.

It’s all jokes. But I really do love him.

Goodnight dear reader.

I love you too