Mornings With Barney (15 page)

I stuck with the idea of a liquorless drink, surmising that it would lend itself to some funny names, which it did. The contest lasted two weeks. The winner received two free steak dinners and assorted prizes. Here were some of the entries. Take a look. Bottoms up!

So which name do you think won? First, here are the ingredients:

The winner: Barney's All Bark, No Bite

Here's to Barney!

Anything that featured Barney
started with a leg up, so to speak. Once we organized a morning train ride for the first three hundred viewers who called in to our switchboard. We took the AM die-hards on a short scenic ride through parts of picturesque Indiana, served them breakfast, and returned to the railroad station as the show ended three hours later.

The biggest difficulty on the train was controlling Barney, who now had at his beck and howl three hundred loyal fans who wanted to tell their neighbors they had fed a star. I did anticipate this, so I made an announcement over the train's PA system requesting that “if you must feed him, please just give him a little.” Yes, that is what I said. So over the next hour three hundred people gave Barney a piece of their bran muffin and a slice of bacon. Every person on the train felt that Barney was there just to greet him or her. As friendly as I tried to be as I walked the train greeting viewers, it was clear why they had taken the train ride. “Which car is he in now?” people would ask. “Is he coming this way?”

At one point, he lingered at the feet of a woman who was in a wheelchair. He was always drawn to people who were physically challenged. I think he sensed they needed a little extra attention and people in wheelchairs had a much better angle for scratching his ears.

Once he had eaten so much he could barely walk, he crawled up on a seat next to the window to enjoy the scenic view. When the ride finally ended, everyone expressed their gratitude. “Let's do that again soon,” many said. No, once was enough, I felt like saying. Based on the way Barney felt when he shuffled off the train, I think he had tired of the high-fiber part of his diet. But he was happy with the bacon.

During the train ride, I chatted with everyone. Opportunities like this provided me with important feedback about what people liked about our morning show. They loved our anchor team and approach to the news, which was much more laid back and informal than the other stations. People also loved to tell me about the dogs in their lives. It did seem that everyone had grown up with a beagle—a beagle, they said, that looked just like Barney.

Bingo. Another idea: A Barney-Look-Alike contest. It was another way to involve viewers in a segment and create a little chatter among people—still the very best way to boost ratings.

Two weeks later, I asked viewers to send me snapshots of their dogs. I would select the top thirty look-alikes and invite the pets and their owners to the studio for the final judging. Beagles are rather distinct, and with the photos I tried to find comparable colorings, weight, and height. I wanted a similar personality to Barney's, too, but that was difficult to discern from a photo.

Somehow I should have okayed this idea with my boss, because the morning of the final beagle-off was total chaos. Thirty howling, sniffing, marking (that's urinating) dogs were in an adjacent news studio. Even during the regular news breaks, viewers at home could hear the beagle convention next door. During the weather portion of the news, I walked on the set and handed meteorologist Randy Olis (who was standing in front of the weather map) six leashes, each connected to a Barney look-alike—and in many cases a Barney act-alike. Randy managed to get through the weather without it affecting his delivery. The rain he predicted for that day, however, never materialized. He later laughed and blamed it on the beagles. Meteorologists at the other stations also got it wrong that day, but they didn't have the fun of being tethered to six hounds.

When the show concluded, I swore I would never do anything quite so hare-brained again. I should have put a Post-It note on my forehead, because three years later it was the
second
Barney Look-Alike Contest.

At the time, I had signed a deal with a local pet store, featuring Barney as its spokesdog. Normally, I resisted mixing my business arrangements with show content, but with this retailer as a sponsor, I could offer some valuable prizes to the winner.

Not only did Pet Supplies Plus offer a $500 shopping spree for the champ, but they also handed out a nifty gift package (dog food, treats, shampoo, leashes) just for showing up at the store. I knew that would bring in the beagle owners and make the contest a success.

I arrived at Pet Supplies Plus at 5 that morning and was elated to see about forty beagles and their masters panting for me. The aroma of the pet store had a stimulating effect on the hounds, who were baying and spraying as only beagles can. The owner went through a lot of paper towels. He was already having an anxiety attack as many of the beagles got off their leashes and were circling the store, sampling different brands of dog treats and taste-testing various brands of food. I realized how similar all beagles were. When hungry—which they always were—they could rip through a bag of dog food in seconds. I admired this because when feeding Barney at home, it usually took me ten minutes to pry open a new pack of Iams.

During each segment of the show, we featured several of the dogs and shared beagle stories on the air. Beagle owners were thrilled that their dogs could meet Barney. Barney was a stray who had become a star. This was America. Live your dream. Anything is possible.

During the show, as I crouched to scratch a few beagle ears, the door of the pet shop opened and in walked a portly gentlemen and his dog—a bulldog. Who, by the way, looked just like his owner. I walked over and bid the man good morning, then broke the news.

“Sir, this is a Barney Look-Alike contest. And that is not a beagle. That is a bulldog.”

“Yeah, I know,” he grumbled. “So? I'll lose. Now where's my gift package?”

It was another classic Barney moment, not that Barney had delivered the punch line, but that still another viewer had been moved to not just watch the show, but to become part of the legend. This was another story I would repeat dozens of times and it was one of the funniest viewer ad-libs in my television experience. Funnier than most of mine.

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 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 I went into a grocery store), he was usually in the car (with the air conditioner or heater on). When I returned from my shopping there would be a crowd of people petting him through the half-open window. As I neared the car, no one ever asked, “Aren't you Dick Wolfsie?” It was always, “Is that Barney?” “It sure is,” I would say. Then I'd open the car door and let him come out to greet his fans. I don't think in the hundreds of situations like that I ever answered a single question about me or what I do. The attention was always on Barney.