in a hotel room in Minneapolis, I recently happened upon this quote in the local paper's profile of Regis Philbin (as reprinted from A&E Monthly): "Philbin seems genuinely mystified by his success."

What? Warn the world! Philbin is mystified by his success! GENUINELY mystified!

I can relate, though. I even have a certain amount of empathy, sympathy and even, yes, pity for the Reege. After all, who isn't mystified by Regis Philbin's success? That the Successful Philbin is as clueless as the rest of us here in the Millennium, well, it's reassuring. It makes him more human somehow.

Not that I think Regis Philbin is some kind of life-destroying demon from another world. Far from it. As a matter of fact, I've been using the quotation as a kind of personal mantra: "The Philbin is mystified the Philbin is mystified the Philbin is mystified..." Puts me to sleep quicker than toasted milk.

And it's helped me in other more important areas. When I have a less than perfect understanding of a current event, I ask myself, "Is the Philbin truly mystified?" For example, I haven't found a clear answer anywhere in the media to this very simple question: Did Hillary have a guru or not? I don't know. I don't care. The Philbin is mystified. Sela.

Once one invokes one's personal Philbin mystification becomes part of the pleasure. Become one with your Philbin, and you can luxuriate in confusion like Kathie Lee in a sunken tub filled with a warm fluid of unknown origin. What is it? Who cares? It feels good, doesn't it? That's all that matters.

But often I'm as perplexed as Philbin when the TelePrompTer goes down. For example, I didn't even know that Lyndon LaRouche was out of stir. But then his free newspaper, The New Federalist, showed up on my doorstep in June. It was like greeting an old friend!

Well, okay, it wasn't. It was like seeing a weird uncle who won't shut up about the dangers of fluoridation when you're trying to eat your Thanksgiving dinner. It rattled my inner Regis, I admit it.

After all these years, I still don't know what LaRouche is on about. His newspaper seems obsessed with British spies, British lords, British cartels -- there's even a story that claims the alleged Unabomber was considered a cult hero by the "House of Windsor/Club of the Isles apparatus...in their continuing war against industrial civilization." I always thought LaRouche was just a libertarian from hell; I didn't know he was an Anglophobe to boot. Is he mystified by his success, I wonder? My Philbin sure is. But it's great!

My Philbin is often challenged. I notice that there's a new book by John Horgan, "The End of Science," which says that we've learned pretty much everything there is to know, science-wise. Oh, we'll send a neutrino intact through a black hole some day, but it'll just be moldy icing on the stale cupcake we call knowledge.

But you know what? Science hasn't even come close to explaining Regis Philbin's success, buster! When you've got that figured out, Mr. Mental Giant, come back and talk to me about the end of science! Not that it matters. As a matter of fact, it's GREAT! SUPER-GREAT!

What am I supposed to think about the Fox Television Network, Martha Stewart, Jet Skis and Cups, the Cafe Culture Magazine? These are all signs, sure. Signs and portents. But of what? What would Regis say? We'll be right back after this! Bye bye now! I didn't get that, but it's o-KAY!

Could it be the end of the world as we know it? I don't know. I haven't seen "Independence Day" yet. (I hear Kathie Lee loved it!) But here's the thing, the fly in the ointment of my potential perfect contentment. Every day I see pert women on the street bearing buttons that say, "Lose weight now. Ask me how." I'm supposed to get diet plans from strange enthusiastic women? Regis could, I know, but I just can't. It's not in my nature.

Somehow I must become my own Philbin. If I want to survive. In June, gay advice columnist Dan Savage may have accomplished this. (His very entertaining column is called "Savage Love," and may appear in the back pages of a weekly bohemian newspaper near you.) In response to a desperate letter from a heterosexual man who wants to give his wife "MORE oral sex," but she thinks the whole deal is icky, at least the way he does it, Savage wrote, "Get her to talk to some of her lady friends who like oral sex or something. And be sure to tell her it's really important to you, OK? Hey, is everybody as excited as I am about 'Independence Day' opening at theatres everywhere next week?"

Obviously, Mr. Savage has forsaken his primary goal as an advice columnist (i.e. to give advice), and has become mystified. He has succumbed to the fatal allure of Philbinism. Pointless enthusiasm has become its own reward. In America confusion, giddy eagerness and success go hand in hand. Even as I want it, I don't understand it. Don't get me wrong, though. I think it's great! Almost as great as the successful "Independence Day," which I'm very puzzled and genuinely excited about!