Mornings With Barney Dick Wolfsie (best ebook reader for ubuntu .txt) 📖

Barney, by the way, was not particularly thrilled with the contest idea. Competition for food and attention didn’t sit well with him. Oh, he was a good sport about it, but he never warmed up to the winner, Stanley, who was really a younger and more svelte version of Barney. That’s show business. Lots of jealousy. And often a pissing contest.

Two look-alike contests were enough, I decided. Enough for both of us.

Barney and What’s-His-Name

Barney changed the way people looked at me. I don’t think there was ever any question about this. For my first ten years in Indy, I developed a following. Honestly, the reason people had to follow me was that I kept losing my job and going to another station. In 1982, I lost my initial hosting gig on WISH-TV, then in 1983 my talk show on the independent station WPDS (later Fox) was canceled. I was axed again in 1991 when my morning talk show went off the air. Then in 1994, radio station WIBC lowered the boom.

There are lots of ways to judge success and talent. Lots of ways to spin your situation. Here was mine: I was a survivor; I knew how to reinvent myself; I was multitalented. That all sounded very positive. Or there was this spin: I couldn’t keep a job; no one could work with me; the public has spoken. See what I mean?

Yes, I had always bounced back, but my career in Indy had been dangerously on the edge. You don’t want your name associated with shows that failed or programs with poor ratings. In addition, I still felt that I was perceived as an outsider. Hoosiers don’t like major changes. Our anchors in Indy had been staples for decades and any changes by management at the top of the newscast were done with great trepidation.

When longtime icons retired, there was a tinge of panic. Who could sit in that anchor chair and make people feel comfortable with the change?

Someone once told me that restaurants in Indiana resisted signs that proclaimed, UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT because Hoosiers preferred the devil they knew to an upstart, even if the food was vile at the old place.

This affinity for “their own” was true across the board. Your pharmacist went to Butler University and your kid’s teacher went to Ball State, two central Indiana colleges. Your veterinarian went to Purdue and your ob-gyn attended IU Med School. Then there was Notre Dame. Everyone said he had a brother who went there. You said it even if you were an only child. Indiana was very inbred—not in the same way jokes about Kentucky were intended to suggest, but inbred in the sense of loyalty to their birthplace. Most local celebrities and business successes were home-based. I never saw the stats, but you can’t help but feel it. Every time any TV or radio station hired new reporters, they boasted on air that they were Hoosiers, even if they had strayed for a few years and gone out of state. The fact they were returning to their roots went a long way with the public.

As a result, despite my visibility on TV, I felt for a long time like an outsider. Newscasters came to the table with an automatic credibility when they had been born in Indiana. If you hailed from New York, let’s say, it became painfully obvious when you had to pronounce cities like Lagoote or Russiaville, which required a deft tongue to say correctly. There was the city of Peru, which was pronounced like the country. But the city of Lebanon was not. The Indiana city of Carmel (pronounced like the candy), I always believed was used as a screening device to weed out those who had tried to slither over the border from Ohio or Illinois. Or came directly from California.

I was from New York. I had a definable attitude and accent. When my wife would listen to one of my interviews on TV, she’d gently suggest that some of my remarks or attempts at humor had a touch of an eastern flavor and might not be appreciated in the Midwest. I resisted that analysis, but I knew in my heart she was right. I once told a long-winded guest to “come back when you have less time.” The next day several viewers chided me for the remark. I think in New York I would have been judged with more approbation for the affront.

I was comfortable with my edgy role, and it did make me stand out, but the parade of different jobs may have been a subtle clue that I had not really “made it” in Indiana. The plan had never been to remain in the Midwest. After all, I had been a big star in New York (for six months). I had been sure they’d want me back. Yeah, right.

During the talk show days, it was harder to make conversation with people I’d meet casually. Meteorologists talk about the weather ad nauseam with the public, but it’s harder for reporters and talk show hosts because the subject matter they deal with is usually serious and does not lend itself to casual chatter. A friend at another station who covered only crime stories told me that “not too many people just come up and shoot the breeze with me.” This, by the way, was quite okay with him. I had many colleagues who preferred a certain anonymity in public. Not me. Not ever.

Once Barney became part of my shtick, the nature of my interaction with the public changed. I was now like the guy (or the gal) in the elevator with a Chihuahua or a Great Dane. Do you want to talk to me? Don’t be shy. Just ask about the animal first. Or converse directly with the animal. See how much easier that is?

And what made it even simpler was that he was always with me. Or if he wasn’t literally with me (like when