Louise Palanker

My Norman Lear story begins at Metromedia Square where I finally landed a much coveted job as a studio page. These jobs were said to be our gateway into show biz land and, gratefully, the legend proved true for me.

At Metro-Tape, (Sunset and Van Ness) I was a studio page for The John Davidson Talk Show, Gimme A Break, The Family Ties pilot, numerous telethons and all of that year’s Norman Lear sit-coms, including Diff'rent Strokes, The Facts of Life, One Day At A Time, and The Jeffersons, where a girl named Louise quickly and proudly earns the nickname, Weezy.

I was a page for one year during which the entertainment industry dreams of a kid from suburban Buffalo were realized every day I drove my silver Honda hatchback onto the studio lot.

I was responsible for seating the studio audiences, running errands (James Brown needed clear nail polish before he would sing on the Davidson Show. I found some,) and filling in where needed in offices around the lot.

At Christmas, I received a free turkey coupon from Metro-Tape, (Not a great gift fit for me and my toaster oven) and one state-of-the-art Dustbuster from Norman Lear. Yes, his Christmas list extended to include the studio pages. The dust-buster went to my cousin Trish as the maid’s room I inhabited offered only one electrical outlet. She reports that it can still bust the hell out of some dust.

Within a year, I was offered a job at PM Magazine which led to writing for Rick Dees and co-founding Premiere Radio. One of my many privileges at Premiere was interviewing celebrities, which led to one day, years later, a chance to speak with Mr. Lear about his new sit-com, The Powers That Be.

Despite the opportunity to properly thank him for my Dustbuster, It was not going well. I had run through any questions I may have prepared and was beginning to think that he really did not like me when he suddenly began interviewing me.

Where was I from? What did my job consist of? Did I hope to become an actor? I told him that I wanted to write sit-coms. He asked me to send him a script.

Wow. That turned quickly. A friend and I wrote a spec script for The Powers That Be. We were called in to meet the producers. It was there that Mr. Lear pulled me aside and said, “What have you written by yourself?” My spec scripts were stale so I went home and wrote a Seinfeld spec and sent it in. I then received a phone call from Norman Lear who said, “You don’t need to write with anyone else.” OH. MY. GOD!

I was called in to pitch story ideas for The Powers That Be. My memories of this are quite vivid. I’m sitting around a conference table with maybe 15 people. One of them keeps falling asleep. I’m boring him. I better rush. Norman Lear asks me why I’m talking so fast. I can’t point and say, “Because that guy is asleep,” so I slow down. Another fellow is listening to each of my story ideas, nodding and then offering, “We did that on Maude.” OH. MY. GOD! How did I arrive in this room with these people! Astonishing.

About a week later, The Powers That Be was cancelled by NBC with episodes yet to air. You should know that David Hyde Pierce and Joseph Gordon-Levitt were on this show. Two of our finest three named actors! Also, John Forsyth, and Holland Taylor! What the hell, NBC! Also, the show brilliantly skewered modern D.C. politics, featuring a Senator, his anorexic daughter and her suicidal congressman husband. So good.

This is one tiny window into how Norman Lear walked through life. He was consistently sharing his great gift and offering opportunities to the next generation.

Smoke Detector or Evil Sensory Assassin?

Monday night, I returned home to the ear piercing tones of a beeping sound, alerting me that a detector battery needed to be changed. I dug through drawers, located 9-Volts and began updating batteries in my smoke detectors. All to the piercing blast of the incessant BEEP.

Failure.

The beeping continued. I tried six different batteries, turning them every which way. The beeping taunted me still, now accompanied by the mournful refrain of my own screaming and sobbing.

I now begin a desperate attempt to pull the offending smoke detector from my wall. The beeping continues.

I'm up on a ladder, plaster crashing down on me. I'm twisting and clawing. The detector is hard wired into the wall, I cut through the wires, shocking myself, maniacally yanking the detector off the wall and hurling it across the hall.

The detector is silent. The beeping is coming from inside the wall.

It's now midnight and I am frantically calling 24 hour electricians... The incessant din has lowered my IQ to around 40.

But in a moment of rare clarity, I moved an ottoman to look down and find the carbon monoxide detector that was plugged into an outlet. This little bitch was the offender. I changed the backup battery in the plug-in detector and put an end, at long last, to the horror.

Hey You Detector Industry Giants! The beeping of these devices is so damn loud that we are unable to discern from where the sound is emanating. Instead, we are reduced to frantic fools, stumbling around in desperate exasperation with kleenex stuffed in our ears.

These devices are designed to keep us physically safe while destroying our mental health. How many smoke detector owners have died of self inflicted injuries while attempting to change a battery vs. lives saved due to fire or carbon monoxide?

Has detector technology not advanced to where you could more gently encourage me to change the battery? Can we at least get a battery change snooze button?

I posed this universally frustrating technological conundrum to our Media Path Podcast guest, Engineer/Comedian Don McMillan.

Watch or just listen to the full show here:

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The Partridge Family Learning Curve

I have a clear memory of sitting at our kitchen table in Williamsville, NY in maybe 1969 and reading a blurb in the entertainment section of the Courier Express which said that The Cowsills were getting their own sitcom! My Cowsills! On TV every week!! 

Patiently, I waited. Nothing. No further word. Until, at long last, The Partridge Family appeared, Friday nights at 8:30, following The Brady Bunch on ABC. To my eyes and heart they seemed a cheap Cowsills knockoff. In all of Hollywood they could not find child actors who could mime drums and Tamborine in time? Even dragged, kicking and screaming by the Miami Sound Machine, the rhythm was not going to get Chris and Tracy. (Although, Chris 2, Brian Forster was refreshingly beat savvy.)

I was appalled and chagrined but of course I watched. Shirley Jones? Delightful. You can’t look away. Danny Bonaduce is the finest child star, comic actor we have ever seen and David Cassidy is an actual musician. Clearly, he could play and sing. He did not make it to my bedroom wall. I was a Cowsills loyalist but there was enough goodness packed into the Partridge package for me to relax and enjoy the show.

I heard the hit records on the radio. I Think I Love You. Doesn’t Somebody Want To Be Wanted. I’ll Meet You Halfway. Catchy. Fun. I watched the musical performances loaded into every episode. Nice but so many distractions. Is Danny strumming his base? I hear a drum fill, but this kid’s hands are on the ride cymbal. And Tracy’s fancy arm choreography does not distract from her rhythm oblivion. My indignation was serving as a musial muffler.

Most of the songs were heard once, through a TV speaker, by one generation of people. The Partridge Family catalogue is not widely celebrated or played on oldies stations. But it is wonderful. Rich melodies. Stacked harmonies. Textured arrangements. Sure, the vocalists do not sound like kids, which as a kid, bugged me. But now, it’s just fantastic music.

So, besides David Cassidy and Shirley Jones, who created these recordings? The songs were written by Tony Romeo (Who had written Indian Lake for The Cowsills), Wes Ferrell, (also a Cowsills producer) Gerry Goffin, Neil Sedaka, Barry Mann and Cynthia Weil, Carole Bayer Sager and the list of the period’s greatest songwriters continues. The backing tracks are by The Wrecking Crew.

Singers John and Tom Bahler, Ron Hicklin and Jackie Ward describe themselves as hired guns. The vocal equivalent of The Wrecking Crew. The music was arranged by Mike Melvoin and the sound they created was just outstanding. 

It’s all available to us now. You can do your own Partridge Family dive and find gems like my current obsession, I’m On My Way Back Home, which according to Spotify, is written by Lorenz Hart. Reading that credit on your iPad late at night will keep you up. Thought bubbles include: OK, so Lorenz Hart dies in 1943 and this does not remotely resemble his touch or tone so maybe it’s reimagined…? Relax. By dawn’s early light I discovered it’s written by Bobby Hart. 

OK, now that makes actual sense. The song is a mini-masterpiece of pounding joy and elegance. The bridge has a bridge! Honestly. It’s so good.

The Partridge Family catalogue of music is right here on the internet for all of us to re-experience and this is just the type of exploration that Fritz Coleman and I love to do on our podcast Media Path. In fact, if you know anyone who had anything to do with The Partridge Family music, we would love to feature them on our show. 

Joe Austin

I entered high school at the age of 13 due to a November birthday and no inclination at that time to give an immature little imp like me a cushy, extra year of pre-k. We called it nursery school back then and if you could flush a toilet you were on to Kindergarten.

So, barely out of my tweens, I remember exiting the bus, walking through the doors of Williamsville South High School and  bracing for verbal attack. The kids here were intimidating. I felt so very naive and unsophisticated. I was a chubby, pimply open target. But as I navigated my way towards homeroom, I quickly noticed that nobody noticed me. Middle school had been so stocked with nasty. But refreshingly, High School kids seemed too busy getting to where they were getting and doing what they were doing to side-eye a dorky, incoming Freshman.

And so the year proceeded. I had my Mill Middle School friends and I welcomed new ones. I joined chorus and theater and the newspaper staff and made my way through the year.It was immediately clear to any incoming member of the student body that the biggest name on campus was Joe Austin. He was quarterback of our football team, The Williamsville Billies. (We are a suburb of Buffalo, home of The Bills, and our town name is Williamsville. Our mascot is a billy goat. It’s adorable.) 

Anyway, when I told Media Path Podcast producer Dina Friedman that the star quarterback’s name was Joe Austin she said, “Oh, my God. It may as well have been Johnny Football.” But honestly, that was his name. Joe Austin. I was an obedient Freshman. I went to the obligatory compliment of games and pep rallies. “Go Billies!” I was in dutiful  awe of the team, led to victory by our own Joe Austin. We all understand high school football stardust. It's like having celebrities on your campus. If we passed Joe Austin in a hallway, we’d jab each other and jerk our chins in his direction. You didn’t want to stare but, come on. It was Joe Austin, walking right past us. Carrying books, like a person.

I was so insignificant a high school ripple that the yearbook misspelled my name in the homeroom photo. As you can see, I defiantly carved an “r” IN INK over the “z” in Palankez.The year progressed. The seasons changed. From football to baseball. Joe Austin played baseball because, of course he did. We had absolutely nothing to do with one another. I never spoke to him. I never even imagined speaking to him. 

That’s the year I enrolled in an acting class at The Studio Arena Theater and got to take the Main Street bus downtown and ride home with my Dad. That’s the year I skipped that acting class one day to watch The Cowsills on The Mike Douglas Show in the TV section of AM & A’s department store. That’s the year I become obsessed with the three part vocal harmony stylings of The Lettermen and began collecting their rich catalogue of records. That’s the year O.J. Simpson came over to our house for dinner! That’s the year our theater department put on Mame starring Bob Hinshaw, my actual senior crush. He could sing and dance and by the time he graduated, he had a beard. What a man. I had auditioned for the show with Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head and It turns out that Bacharach is very rangey. So, I was on the stage crew. 

There was a lot going on during my Freshman year of High School. Joe Austin and I were in very separate orbits. The school year came to an end and that summer I decided to learn golf. I believe I was searching for acceptance. My natural interests had met with a ton of interference in our household. I wanted to play the drums, join a little league team, have a paper route, wear baseball caps, hockey skates and high tops. None of the above was “for girls.” So, OK, let’s try golf.

Every golf course has a driving range and a putting green. That’s where you take lessons and practice and both are situated fairly closely to the first tee of the course where there is a tiny building called the starter’s hut or shed. The Starter is an employee who is responsible for the orderly and timely movement of tee times, controlling the pace of play and thus ensuring that golfers are less likely to get beaned by the foursome behind them. The starter was equipped with a clipboard, a watch and a list of names organized into threesomes and foursomes. The job requires comportment, multi-tasking and grace under pressure as country club personalities can often be described as "challenging."

That summer, the starter at our country club was Joe Austin.And that summer, Joe Austin and I became best buddies. Nothing romantic. Just great pals, roaming the Westwood Country Club together, sharpening our games and talking about whatever mattered to us as dusk settled on the golf course. He was a delight. Bright, funny, kind. There was nothing mystical or magical about our friendship. We just liked each other. 

The Universe had presented me with a perfect leveling of compatible humans removed from societal sorting systems such as High School. That’s how it felt from my perspective. To me, Joe had seemed unknowable. It’s possible that to Joe, a country club kid like me was from a different world. It’s hard to know. But absent any organized hierarchy, caste or strata, we were pals.

My friendship with Joe Austin lasted only the course of that summer but the lessons it taught me are sustaining. I belong anywhere I aspire to go. I may have to work to earn entry and acceptance but I can get there and I can build meaningful friendships with kindred souls.

The summer ended. I moved on to three more years of high school. Joe headed off to college or somewhere outside my view. 

How Did You Two Meet?

My husband and I did not meet cute like in a carpool, in the rain, spilling orange juice and accidentally playing each other’s golf balls. We met crazy. Like in Speed where by the time the bus slows down you realize you’re in love.

But for us the bus was the Michael Jackson trial. My future husband was the prosecutor. I was a witness.

It’s, not even normal crazy. It’s next level crazy.

Is there a short version of this story? I don’t think so but let me give it a try. Jamie Masada, the owner of The Laugh Factory was running a comedy camp for low income kids who wish to learn standup. That’s where I met the Arvizo family. Wonderful kids. That Christmas, Fritz Coleman wanted to help his children better understand their privilege by bringing gifts to family in need. I suggested the Arivizos and off we went.

Not long after that visit, Gavin Arvizo, age 11 was stricken with a very serious and deadly cancer. For over a year, he fought hard for his life. During this time, everyone involved with The Laugh Factory pulled hard for him. He was visited and called by his favorite comedians. Jamie threw benefits to raise money. We had blood drives. Someone introduced Gavin to Michael Jackson. I should have been more concerned but I thought Gavin was going to die. Let him go to Neverland. Michael Jackson doesn’t molest the sick kids. They provide the smoke screen for the kid he’s dating that year.  

That was my flawed thinking because Gavin survived. And when Michael decided to make a documentary proving to the world, once and for all, how normal he is… he wanted to also showcase how he writes songs in trees, buys every appalling tchotchke in Vegas and cures kids of cancer. So the Arvizos were driven up to Neverland for the shoot.

At that point, Gavin was healthy. He was out of his wheelchair and his hair had grown in. The doc airs. It’s a shitstorm for Team Jackson. To keep them from the press, they herd the family into Neverland by telling them that there are “killers” who are after them. For weeks Gavin and his little brother are sleeping with Michael Jackson while his mom and sister are in a guest cottage. Of course I wasn’t there but I am going to believe this kid who I love over the grown man giving wine and vodka to a 12 year old cancer patient.

I’m cutting out many key points but now here comes the trial and a subpoena for me. I had given money to this family so that Gavin’s father could take time off work to be with him in the hospital. That money was squandered by the father, supporting the defense’s theory of the case that the family were shakedown artists. Yes, the dad was shady. That does not un-molest the kid. And furthermore, Michael Jackson doesn’t have access to kids from healthy families because I don’t think you would let your kids spend the night in his room, even on a 1% chance that he’s a child molester. Your kid is staying with you. Once again, he’s a grown man.

My sister Amy drove me to Santa Maria. The courthouse is a complete circus, swarming with press from around the world. We’re picked up at the hotel by a sheriff who drives us in serpentine fashion to a secret entrance and we are kept in a holding area with fellow witnesses awaiting our turns to testify. I spent that first day sitting next to a private jet flight attended who giggled to me about how Michael would spend hours on flights in the restroom with a child. Stunned, I said, “Are you going to say that on the stand?” “If they ask me,” was her reply. They did and she didn’t.

Near the end of the day I was ushered downstairs, through the metal detectors and into the courtroom, packed with keenly interested press, spectators, lawyers and the jury. They’ve been there together all day looking at each other. Now I’m the new thing to look at and they are staring. I stand in the witness box and promise to tell the truth. 

I do have a lot more to tell you about my testimony which spilled into the next day. It was entirely overwhelming with Jackson’s top lawyer Tom Mesereau belligerently attempting to trip me up and intimidate me for hours. During a break, the courtroom emptied. I was alone with the bailiff, Sneddon and Mesereau when we began to hear wild screams emanating from the lobby. (It turned out to be a fan feinting in the ladies room.)  I looked at Mesereau and said, “What did you do to her?” He didn’t crack a smile.

But, I know, I promised that today we’re talking about how I met my husband. When I walked into that courtroom, I did not know much about criminal law or even the difference between civil and criminal cases. So, assuming you are where I was then, a D.A. is not a Defense Attorney. I know, right!? A D.A. is a District Attorney and my future husband was a Deputy District Attorney. Or maybe a Senior Deputy District Attorney. Something like that but he was in the D.A.’s office which means he was a prosecutor. 

Most criminal cases are assigned one prosecutor. However with the world’s eyes on this case and with a big team of lawyers on the Jackson side, Santa Barbara County placed three prosecutors on the case, including the actual District Attorney, Tom Sneddon. On his team were Gordon Auchincloss and Ron Zonen.

Much of my experience feels like a blurry dream but I do remember that it was raining and following my testimony, Ron Zonen walked me back up to the waiting area and sat with me until crowds dispersed. He then walked me and my cousin Trish under his umbrella to the sheriff’s car. I was a bit of a mess but I did pick up on the gallantry.

The trial dragged on for months and Michael Jackson was ultimately found not guilty. Since then two courageous young men have come forward to tell their truths in the documentary Leaving Neverland. No, they were not ready to support Gavin during the trial. In fact, one of them lied on the stand. But victims reveal on their own timelines. Gavin is well and thriving and he keeps his private life very private. He has never sold or told his story and he endeavors only to live a healthy and productive life.

I stayed in touch with the handsome prosecutor who walked me to my car. It turned out he was single! Two years later we were dating. Three years later we were married. We danced at Gavin’s wedding. He danced at ours. After I testified and I was walking up the courtroom aisle, I turned to a sketch artist and said, “Make me pretty.” She did!

Following this chaotic experience In a fit of cathartic self expression I did my own courtroom sketch. And since I’m sure it’s difficult to differentiate them, mine is the first one, then Vicki's. 

The Premiere News & World Report: 

A Radio, Records and Publishing Time Capsule 

Travel back with me to a time before the internet. Before computers. Before spellcheck. Journey with me to a land called Hollywood where a scrappy team of talented misfits cranked out programming and materials which were distributed around the globe via the U.S. mail to local radio stations.

That was Premiere Radio Networks in the late eighties and the nineties. Somehow, in addition to countdown shows, talk shows, weekly parody songs, funny commercials, interactive characters, celebrity interviews and monologue jokes we also published a weekly newsletter which we called the Premiere News & World Report (before receiving a cease and desist from the U.S. News & World Report)

These hand crafted rags offer worthy historical record of 90s radio, music and pop culture. They also provide me with a sort of journal, documenting the adventures enjoyed and bonds treasured during our early days together at Premiere Radio.

Much of the content you’ll find in these newsletters is cringe inducing by today’s standards. Should we look back at what we wrote years ago in awe, shame or wonder? Exhibit a) I am currently staring at a headline which reads:

BATTERED LESBIANS ON STEROIDS: A LOVE STORY

This is now, of course, several layers of wrong, but it serves as a healthy example of either how far we’ve come or how little we knew about each other back then.

I am including this edition here for you today, also because it features our truly darling annual Christmas card contest winners. Fun and funny for the following reasons.

1. We were desperately naive as to the eventual importance of Ashley Judd.

2. There really was a guy who called himself “Gay Boy Ric” who advertised his phone number in Billboard Magazine. He changed his outgoing message every day so it was like a personal, little radio show and you could leave messages and then the next day he would give you a shout out. It was so good!

3. Michael Damian and his doggie. I mean, enough said.

OK, so we published these newsletters every week! I physically cut and pasted elements from my typewriter, pictures I snipped out of magazines and photos I took or in the case of this example, actual Christmas cards. I brought my ingredients down to a print shop in the lobby of the Motown building and walked into the back where they allowed me to use a layout table, a glue stick, scissors and rulers to construct our creation. This was then handed to the in-house team for printing.

Oh, also the “clip art” you see is generated by actual novelty stamps that I bought at an actual stamp store in Century City Plaza where you could buy stamps and ink pads!

We grabbed our stack of newsletters, printed out lables and held a good, old fashioned folding party every week in our Premiere conference room. The newsletters went out to all of our affiliate radio stations, and our contact list which included PR firms, record labels and celebrities we had interviewed.

Exhibit b) features an account of a day I spent in NYC at SNL, interviewing Dana Carvey, Jon Lovitz, Kevin Nealon, etc. I added them all to our mailing list. A few months later, I received exhibit c) a fax from legendary SNL writer Herb Sargent! It simply read:

"Hey, Can I get on your News & World Report mailing list?"

This fax hung proudly in my office in righteous defiance of Rob Schneider’s fax requesting removal from our list, sighting ecological concerns about wasted paper.

At Premiere we enjoyed relationships with lables, PR firms and radio stations and we really loved including folks in our newsletter by posing silly questions and having them respond. Exhibit d), is both an example of this practice while also condoning violence with the headline:

WHO YOU’D SLUG REVEALS YOUR PERSONALITY

These hundreds of newsletters were carefully curated by Helen Ledesma Bartolotti and I posted many of them to this Flickr album for you to peruse and enjoy.

https://www.flickr.com/photos/louisepalanker/albums/72157719283903510/with/51192751001/

Ruth Palanker

Our sweet Mom, Ruth Palanker graced this planet for 92 years. She passed peacefully last week and we laid her to rest, next to our Dad, Marvin Palanker, in Buffalo, NY.

Our mother's many gifts, qualities and talents include her voluminous expressions as a writer. She wrote throughout her lifetime and a few months ago, she asked me to help her gather, and  curate her work in order to create a book that we can share with you, complete with photos which compliment her many stories. I am in the process of completing this rewarding work and I brought along something she wrote that I would like to read for you today.She calls this piece, Happy Birthday.

----

Today is your birthday and polka dots of memory swirl through my mind like fan blown confetti. One is of the Friday night we sat at dinner and you asked, “How come we’re having chicken but there is no chicken liver tonight?” “Oh,” I beamed. “I give the liver to the baby now. Amy just loves it.” Well, that beats everything,” was your response. “When I was a boy, the chicken liver was saved for my father. Now I am the father and the liver goes to my baby.” From then on, you referred to us and our contemporaries as the “chicken liver generation.

”Do you remember the time Joann ran up to you, threw her arms around your knees and wanted to know, “Daddy, are you 93 or 39? I can’t remember.”

Do you remember when I wanted to file for divorce but insisted on waiting until after the big dinner party we were giving on a Saturday night?

What about the time I crushed your cigars and sprinkled them in the top drawer all over your clean handkerchiefs? You laughed when you discovered them and I couldn’t remember why I was angry.

Once you totally forgot my birthday. We ate at that restaurant on Main near Utica that isn’t there anymore. You didn’t acknowledge the day and I was in a sulky snit. You asked, as you always did, “Is anything the matter?” And, as I always did, I answered, “No,” even though my bucket of petty gripes was pretty nearly filled. How did you ever put up with me? Moody, sulky, impatient - that pretty much describes me. In fact, if grudge-carrying had been an Olympic event, I surely would have won a medal.

When we vacationed in Sarasota, I would take long walks on the beach and return to find you waiting for me, puffing on your cigar, watching my approach with a loving smile. Back in Buffalo, I remember you watching me in our backyard garden as I planted and weeded and watered. You shared my joy when some things flourished and others, at least, failed to die. And you helped me shoo the rabbits away.

A special memory is of the day you were scheduled to fly from Sarasota to Fort Lauderdale. Amy, jetting in from Los Angeles, was to meet you there. You two would spend the day with your parents and then fly back to Sarasota that night. I had made the reservations myself and been assured that there was, “no problem,” for a passenger with a wheelchair. When we arrived to check in, however, Mohammad, who it turned out was the ticket agent, the baggage handler and the pilot for the single engine plane, informed us that if you could not maneuver the stairs by yourself, you could not fly with him. I raved, and would happily have strangled Mohammad. You, on the other hand, calmly looked Mohammad in the eye and said, “If I need to go up the stairs alone, I will.” And you did. On your bottom. One painful step at a time. 

At 10:30 that night, as I waited for you and Amy to return to Sarasota, my mind raced with murderous thoughts of Mohammad. The toy-like plane taxied to a halt near me. The door opened and Mohammad carried you down the stairs. As he set you into your wheelchair, you beamed at me and said, “Honey, have you met my new friend, Mo?”

That was your way. You always made a friend of an opponent. And you taught me so much. Never back anyone into a corner; always leave them an out. Don’t waste time assigning blame for an accident; work on trying to fix the problem. Listen and never judge.Patience is still not my strong suit. But if I am tolerant and open-minded, it is because of you. If I have a sense of self-worth, it is because of you. If our four children are lovable, good citizens, it is because of you. All of the good in our lives is because of you. You would have been eighty-five today. 

Happy Birthday, my love.

----

This is a stunning piece of writing but I do have a couple of notes. 

1) That’s a big “if” about all four of us being lovable, good citizens. It leaves so much open for breakout groups. And 

2) Assuming we accept the premise that we are all, in fact, lovable and good, Our Mom is not giving herself enough of the credit for that outcome.

I have been typing up her catalogue of memoirs and stories and it is illuminating, for me, her unique perspective as a young mother of four kids. Ages, 5, 3, 2 and 0, married to a man who can not walk. As instrumental as was our Dad's emotional, financial and wise support, our Mom was lugging and pushing and pulling strollers, buggies, babies, diaper bags and a wheelchair all on her own. Toddlers don’t stay where you put them. How did she do it all?

Yes, there were some cranky moments but our Mom was determined to have and raise four kids and she did it by determining to become and remain a lifelong learner. This is why she was so open to my Dad’s gentle wisdom. 

Mom’s heart and mind were always actively and urgently growing, learning and expanding to reach wide enough and far enough to understand us, accept us and continuously exemplify what it means to be good, decent, warm and loving in an ever evolving world.If there was a new concept to grasp, she listened. She asked questions. She offered insights and unique ways of looking at a situation or a development. 

Our Mom always remained our Mom, while also, gracefully evolving into that friend you can talk to who is more interested in your day than even you are. As children, she loved us fiercely, terrified of a time when we would grow up and move away. 

She pretended to joke about us kids one day, buying houses on Catherine Street and moving around the corner. She wasn’t joking. That was the dream. For sure and for certain. 

So, when we began moving to California, she moved to California and she bought a house around the corner. Veteran Avenue became our Catherine Street.

The big draw really though was her grandchild Jake. Our grandparents were Hannah and Joe Palanker. They were distant, a bit self absorbed and I’m not fully certain that they knew our individual names. In fact, I was without a clear concept of what a grandparent could be until I watched how my Mom did it.

Jake, Grandma knew your interests, your activities, the names of your friends. She did not care whether or not those friends were Jewish. Jake,Your grandma loved you without measure. If you were interested in a topic... and you are interested in many topics... Grandma avidly absorbed as much as she possibly could about it. She adored watching you grow and not just teaching you but learning from you how to better understand our world.

She thoroughly embraced your wife Rhody and the two of you so fully enriched her. It was a treasure to witness.

Hollywood, Radio and Diane Warren

In around 1985, our fledgling company, Premiere Radio Networks moved from the Motown Building in Hollywood, CA, over to the RCA building. It was half a block away. You could basically carry the boxes over. The building was smaller and shabbier but closer to the food court at Sunset and Vine and they had a Sbarro’s.

I missed the energy of Motown and KIIS FM and The People Tree but in our new headquarters we built our own studios, Dwight Yoakum moved in next door and I pretty quickly understood that newly ascending superstar songwriter Diane Warren occupied the office above mine. I could hear her composing. I’ve always been obsessed by songwriting but I didn’t dare speak to her. I once spotted Diane sitting on the steps of the building just chatting with Don Johnson! You don’t just approach such a person. 

If we got into the elevator together, I’d press 7. She’d press 8 and we would stand awkwardly until I got out at 7. One day, budding pop idol Michael Bolton arrived at Premiere for an interview. As we were winding down, Michael told me that his songwriting pal works on the 8th floor. He said. “You two should be friends. You’re both crazy.” Down came Diane Warren. We’ve been friends ever since. You learn young to obey the word of Bolton.  (How can we make love if we can’t make amends. Is he right or what?)

Both in our mid twenties and hyper-focussed on our careers, Diane and I got up to some Hollywood adventures. Her boyfriend Guy Roche had a recording studio around the corner where they would cut their demos. I found the process fascinating and I’d head over there every evening. I even got to play some tambourine with Eric Carmen. 

Diane, Guy, Eric and I would go out to dinner every night at fancy restaurants. Eric is sort of a dining snob. There had to be salmon on the menu. Diane had to loudly announce a delicate detail about a personal body part which would embarrass Guy. Those were the rules of engagement.

If you think you know Diane Warren through her romantic lyrics, you do not. Her sense of humor must have became very attached to the seventh grade because it has remained there. She’s got a wickedly filthy mouth.  It’s difficult to find a photo of her from this era that does not prominently feature her middle finger. 

Guy and I played racketball a few times a week at the health club across from his studio. Diane would lift her shirt and press her naked breasts against the back wall glass.The dichotomy between her creative output and her personality remains astounding to me.  

My co-workers learned that if they walked into my office and heard a song being banged out on a keyboard coming over my speaker phone. It was Diane, upstairs, playing me a taste of her next chart topping monster hit. 

This time period produced the masterpieces: Blame it on the Rain, Don’t Turn Around, I Get Weak, I Don’t Want To Live Without Your Love, If You Asked Me To, Look Away, Love Will Lead You Back, If I Could Turn Back Time, Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now, When I See You Smile, and yes, How Can We Be Lovers?Back then, Diane used to worry about what would happen if she lost her ability to write songs. I told her that it’s not possible because “music isn’t just something that you do. You do it because it’s who you are.” By now, I hope she knows that.

Here we are at her 13th Academy Award nomination for best song. Her first came in 1988 for Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now which has proven to be an entirely timeless song and I’m sure The Academy is thinking, “We should have just given it to her then!” But of course, it was in a movie about a talking mannequin so one can understand their reticence. 

Since then, Diane’s 13 nominated songs are Because You Loved Me, How Do I Live, I Don’t Want To Miss a Thing, Music of My Heart, There You’ll Be, Grateful, Til It Happens To You, Stand Up For Something, I’ll Fight, I’m Standing With You, io si (Seen), and now this year, Somehow You Do from Four Good Days. 

Come on, Academy! It's performed by Reba McIntyre! Let’s go! This is a gorgeous song. Diane has been very patient. She would like her Oscar. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r_sSxlIjDzE

Here’s Diane with Fritz and me last year on our podcast, Media Path:

Apple Podcastshttps://apple.co/2ZQY7uW

Spotify

https://spoti.fi/3dMez7L

Youtube

The Gift of a Gift

My childhood memories are peppered with moments where a grownup hands me an envelop on a special occasion, proudly beaming. 

Uncle Mort: “For you, we’re planting a tree in Israel!” 

My Thought Bubble: “Don’t I at least get a slinky?” 

By the time I reached 19 and made my way to Israel I was envisioning Sherwood Forrest with nameplates for every American Bar Mitzvah boy. The place is gorgeous and ancient but it’s still mostly desert. 

So, what have we learned? The gift of a donation is not a big hit with kids, but now that I’m thinking about it, Aunt Goldie would probably have loved a tree in Israel, which brings me to my next point.

Every Christmas season, Lawrence O’Donnell encourages us to buy desks for kids in Africa and every Christmas season I do exactly that. My step-father has gifted me with a KIND Fund donation in my name and my sisters have gifted me with goats bought for African families in my name and I really do love receiving these donations as presents. 

But this year, as Lawrence began his KIND Fund campaign I thought that, right now, it’s critically important that we take care of our own country and save our democracy. I decided that, in addition to desks and scholarships for kids in Malawi,  I would also make donations to political candidates for my family. At the KIND Fund, an email will notify your loved one of your gift. There is no such infrastructure for political causes and candidates. So I simply told my family about the political gifts. Do you think they took my word for it!?

Upon further reflection I thought that there should be a way for us to make a political donation in honor of a loved one who has enough sweaters and slippers. You know, like Aunt Goldie. (May her memory be a blessing.) 

Thus inspired, along with my sister Joann, my sister-in-law Myra and our friend Judy we created a website called Give The Gift of Democracy. Its mission is to link you directly to the merchandise pages of Candidates and causes that are committed to protecting our democracy. This way, when you purchase the gift of a donation for your loved one, they also get a tee shirt, a hat, a mug, an apron or if you visit the merch page of Katie Porter, a “white board with marker.”

Our site is in its formative days and we are tweaking and rearranging but we would love to hear your thoughts and suggestions. The first candidates who offers a commemorative slinky will get my money.

Leave it to Wally

In the midst of the turbulent sixties, boomer kids came home from school and watched idealized fifties families in sitcom form on afternoon reruns. It was a little confusing. David and Ricky had the same haircut as Ozzie. What was this crazy, black and white world where teenagers appreciated their parents and were not downtown blowing up buildings and burning bras? Here in Afternoon Rerun Land, teens are scrubbed and shiny and sharing a straw with a sweet someone at a sock hop or a soda shop. 

I longed for this black and white land of long ago. I mean not the haircuts so much as the respect. I was basically a conservative until I turned fourteen and my after school entertainment became the Watergate hearings.

There was no Fox News or Russian state sponsored programming to spin that story. And trust me, I would have been a prime target. No. You just came home from school and turned on the TV. It was on all three channels, unless you wanted to watch Hatha Yoga on PBS. I just took it in, believing in my president… until I finally nursed the sting of the truth with a bowl of Pizza Spins.  

I am no longer a conservative but I am a super square liberal. I mean I God honest love some crazy corny content like Perry Como and Steve & Edie and Barry Manilow. Throughout my teen years my favorite group was The Lettermen. I collected every album of vocal harmony goodness.

And I do still adore Leave it to Beaver. Don’t you just love it when something you worshipped as a child still holds up through your adult eyes? Well, Leave it to Beaver demands closer, grownup examination. It’s not just a sitcom from a child’s perspective. The dialogue is perfection and the show is a loving lesson in parenting.

With big brother Wally serving as both Beaver Whisperer and Parent Whisperer he operated as a double agent between childhood and parenthood, offering better understandings of the other’s perspectives. And Wally’s wisdom did not only help Ward and June figure out what was going on inside  Beaver’s head, it also gave voice to a child’s thoughts for the parents at home.

We saw how Larry Mondello talked Beaver into playing with Ward’s prized Babe Ruth autographed baseball. We watched as the ball got crushed under a truck tire and Ward flew off the handle, sending Beaver to his room for a week. And just as Ward was about to give in and retract his punishment, Wally gently warned him that Ward should stick to his word because “Beaver wouldn’t want kids thinking that his Dad’s a pushover.” Ward paraphrases for June, “We can’t expect to get our children’s love unless we first get their respect.”

This show just works from any angle. In 1997, Universal did a Leave it to Beaver reboot in movie form, starring Christopher McDonald and Janine Turner as Ward and June with Erik Von detten and Cameron Finley as Wally and Beaver. The press was invited to the Universal backlot where we screened the film and celebrated the careers of producers Bob Mosher and Joe Connelly. Heroes to me, as I watched their names scroll by in the credits throughout my childhood and wondered who they were and what inspired them to create such magical television. We reporters also got to walk down the Cleaver’s street, right past the scary house that would go on to become 1313 Mockingbird Lane on the Munsters. It was all such a treat.

The film featured cameos by Ken Osmond and Barbara Billingsley and for me, the highlight of the day came when I saw Miss Billingsley sitting alone for a moment. I approached her and told her how much I appreciated her work and then I asked her how she felt about the movie. She said, a little sadly, that it was fine but that no one could ever replace Hugh Beaumont. I quietly concurred. 

There is also no replacing Tony Dow who created in Wally Cleaver, the ideal brother and son, eaually awkward and confident, with a gentle genius at educating America’s parents.

Fritz Coleman and I were thrilled to welcome Tony Dow and his friend Bill Mumy to Media Path Podcast and you can can find that episode right here:

Apple Podcasts

https://apple.co/3k1Hcz2

Spotify

https://spoti.fi/2ZwUWZ4

 Youtube

The Gift of Mentoring 

The recipient is the mentor. I’ve been mentoring kids since I was a kid. I can remember being about 12 years old and a bunch of us were together at the house across the street. Tact being still aspirational, I asked an eight year old neighbor girl named Ruthie Ruslander why she kept staring at me. She responded, “You’re nice to me.” Her words came with responsibility and purpose. Kindness to kids matters. They notice. 

I was a babysitter and a camp counselor and I went on to get my teaching degree. I only substitute taught for half a year before moving to L.A. to seek my future in the field of entertainment. But the recipe of our purpose calls for many qualities and I hope that I have been a teacher, a guidance counselor or a lunch lady for most of the younger folks in my life.

When Jamie Masada began his summer comedy camp at the Laugh Factory it felt like a great fit for me because I could combine comedy with teaching and I welcomed the chance to help out. Yes, that led to my testifying at the Michael Jackson trial but then that led to my meeting my husband and another story. Life is not a predictable driver but the route is scenic!

The Laugh Factory comedy camp was a summer program which teaches the art of standup comedy to at risk youth. After learning how beneficial and therapeutic comedy can be for kids, I opened programs at two Boys & Girls Clubs. I taught with Fini Goodman and Laura Swisher and we had the opportunity to work with and learn from some unforgettable kids.

At the West Valley Boys and Girls Club, I met a little guy called Geoffrey Wurm. He was one of about thirty kids waiting for a chance to get on the mic. One day, Kelsy, the program director approached me and said, “Can Geoff go up first or second? He’s only here for about fifteen minutes before his grandmother takes him to Hebrew school.” I said, “Sure,” and handed Geoff the mic.

I don’t know how to describe what happened next other than to tell you that I believe in reincarnation. Geoff’s stance. His delivery. His baring. His timing. His phrasing. His presence. He’s a comedian.  With Fini helming the class, I went outside with Geoff to speak to his grandmother. I asked her if maybe Geoff could stay a little longer on Tuesdays because he is really good at this. In a firm, German accent she said, “But he has to be Bar Mitzvahed.” I looked at this tiny kid and I said, “OK, sure. But when?” Walking back inside with Geoff for a few more minutes, I asked him how old he was. He said he was nine. Geoff had enough time to learn Hebrew and comedy before becoming a man.

He didn’t have enough time with his Mom, Joanie. She was dying. The Comedy Club kids performed at a Boys & Girls Club benefit held at a big Hilton or Sheraton or Marriott in Woodland Hills. In advance I tried to prepare the kids for how fancy it would be. I described the tables and the balloons and the centerpieces and the buffet and the decorations but as we walked inside the ballroom, a kid named Jordan stood very still, looking around in awe and he said, “You didn’t say it would be like this!” 

They had no frame of reference. These kids had never been to a restaurant. I attempted to get everyone settled and ready to perform. It was tricky. They were  transfixed by the revolving door.  

The event began and Geoff watched the MC, Fritz Coleman step off of the stage riser and work the room. Geoff turned to me and whispered, “Is it OK if I do that?” I just stared at him for a moment and said, “Whatever you feel comfortable doing.” Geoff was the youngest and the smallest and he was headlining. His mother had rented him a tiny tuxedo. I can’t even… He was mesmerizing.

For Joanie, it must have been like realizing you’re the mother of Little Man Tate. Yes, of course she was proud but with fear in her eyes, she asked, “What do I do for him?” I said, “Nothing. You just let him continue growing up.”

He had to do that without her. Joanie died soon after that performance. Geoff moved in with his grandmother and began to spiral. A director at the Boys and Girls Club named Isis and I did what we could for him. I took him with me to open mics around town where he relentlessly outshined me. His comedy gift was phenomenal. His emotional health was a serious concern. Geoff needed a miracle and he received it when he was adopted by Dan and Shan Feldman.

Their journey with Geoff is its own story that you will need to hear from Dan, Shan and Geoff. I will simply say that Geoff remains a blessing to me. As does every young person I have had the honor of mentoring. Thank you, kids. You make me very proud.

Fritz Coleman tell more stories from our long friendship on Media Path Podcast:

Https://MediaPathPodcast.com

You will find Geoffrey Feldman right here on Instagram:

My Comedy Store-y

Somewhere in the early 2000s I was made a paid regular at The Comedy Store on Sunset. This is a highly coveted credit and it was mine for the price of my self esteem, my courage and my dignity. Bear in mind that much of my career was spent in radio which is as bro-ey as any industry gets and I was faring just fine. But the Comedy Store was its own disturbing den of dysfunction.

I began my journey there as an open miker. I’m not certain how it works now. But back in those days, one enjoyed the privilege by prowling around the Sunset Strip sidewalk in front of The Comedy Store for several hours waiting for the opportunity to pull a ticket out of a hat. That ticket could be blank or it could contain a number of 1-20. If you pulled a number then you came back the following night and you got to perform for three minutes. The hope was that if you were good, you would eventually be given a showcase. The dream with the showcase was that the club owner, Mitzi Shore would see you and promote you to the rarified position of paid regular.

I had been pulling numbers at The Comedy Store and hitting open mics around town for a few years. Jamie Masada gave me a hosting position at The Laugh Factory on Tuesday nights because we were friends and I cherished that honor but I was not truly ready for it. So I was working to get more stage time and improve.One night at The Comedy Store. I pulled number 19. Awesome. I returned the following night and did my three minutes. About a week later, I got a phone call from a staffer at The Comedy Store asking me why I had not come in to do my paperwork. 

“I’m sorry, what?” 

“Yeah, um, so it looks like you’re a paid regular now or whatever and  you need to do the paperwork.”

The person calling me was a comic and a friend of mine. He worked at the Comedy Store and was not yet a paid regular. This delayed and unprofessional phone call from a person I knew and liked exemplified the tone that would color the next year of my life.

Apparently, the night before, Mitzi had arrived early to watch the showcases. I was open miker number 19. She caught my act, liked it and made me a paid regular, ahead of many people who had been showcasing many times and many guys who worked at the club, both in the office and as waiters and doormen, (like the guy who eventually called me) in exchange for stage time.

I filled out my paperwork and began the routine required of paid regulars hoping for stage time. This involved arriving at the club on Sundays and Mondays at about 11am, waiting for the manager to show up around 3pm, signing my name to a list and then returning to the club at 8pm to wait until about 2am when I would finally get to perform my set to an empty room or to a couple of employee/comics yelling, “Show us your boobs!”

During these protracted waiting periods, I was the only female present and no one would speak to me unless I was being harassed. I know that sounds hyperbolic but that was the atmosphere and that was my experience. There were guys in these groups who I liked very much and who were warm and friendly to me at other clubs and coffee houses.

Let’s see. What should I highlight here to best impart the repertoire of harassment visited upon me: I was bent over desks and dry humped. I was shown horse on woman porn. My hand was shoved down (not my own) pants. Recent sexual exploits were graphically described to me. These often included a recreation. A “friend” of mine announced to me, in a room full of fellow men, “We don’t even know if you have a vagina!” The list of brutishly abusive behaviors is lengthy.

The only person I will name in this piece is Bret Ernst. That’s because he saw what was happening and pep talked with me for a couple of hours. I am grateful. Showing kindness in a sea of cruelty is courageous.

One night at The Laugh Factory, a friend and I decided to walk down the street and see who was performing at The Comedy Store. As I ran my finger down the posted list, I saw my own name and heard another comic growling, “Who the F*** is Louise Palanker?”

I did my set that night but I had never been called and told that I had a spot. How many other nights had I been marked down as a “no show?”It was Mitzi’s choice to have aspiring male comics run her club. That gave her power over them. It was not a great recipe for female comics but I was toughing it out because I thought that was what was required. I wasn’t improving. 

The toxic tone was impacting my confidence. So too was the club manager telling me one night that Mitzi had just seen my set and “she was not impressed.” Oh, really. Tell her that I just saw the way bullies run her club for her and I am not impressed.” Anyway, that was the thought bubble.

My final straw came on a night when I was sitting on the front steps of The Comedy Store landing. It’s a busy place, populated by an assortment of customers and comics but I was venting “privately” to fellow comic Erica Dohring about life on Lord of the Flies Comedy Club island when suddenly a fellow comedian, standing above us bellowed, “SHUT UP, PALANKER! NOBODY HERE WANTS TO F*** YOU!” That was it for me. I just got up and said, “I don’t need to be spoken to this way,” I made the instant decision that I was done with The Store and I walked down the steps as Erica called after me, “I’ll F*** you!” God love her.

I reserve the highest levels of respect for my female comedian friends who have thrived at The Store. Their nerves are steel and they persevere and shine and I adore them for it. I didn’t have that right stuff, but I am proud that I knew when I needed to walk away.

I hear that things are much different and better at The Store now. I would love to hear your stories of The Comedy Store, or of women in comedy or women pushing past adversity to share their voices.

Comedy great Judy Tenuta joins us on this week's episode of Media Path Podcast with her story.

Celebrity Interviews

I identify most as a host, writer, director, and producer. At the moment, I’m happily knee-deep in hosting, writing, and producing Media Path Podcast with Fritz Coleman, but I’ve always seen myself as a hybrid. 

When I began doing stand-up comedy in the late 90s, I questioned my goals and recognized that acting was not one of them. I wanted to one day host a show and inspire folks to laugh and cry, which placed my aspirational trajectory somewhere between Letterman and Oprah. 

While working with Rick Dees and at Premiere Radio, I had the opportunity to interview thousands of celebrities, from Bill Murray to Tina Turner.  Sure, maybe not as many as Oprah, and I certainly gave away fewer cars.

 I was able to salvage some of my favorites from Premiere’s deep storage to share on SoundCloud. 

Who were my favorites? The Bee Gees and Martin Sheen.

My goal is always to maybe help us think, feel, and better understand ourselves and each other. 

Field Trip

When I was growing up, my father owned and operated Joseph Palanker & Sons, a fur salon on Main Street just outside of Buffalo, NY. (Dad and Uncle Bernie comprised the “& Sons” portion of the title.)

My Grandfather came from Russia and specialized in fur hats. As one might imagine, both Russians and Buffalonians are prone to cold ears.

I was always entirely proud of my Dad while also possessing no natural interest in fashion and less inclination to wear fur. My friends were fascinated by his inventory and my Dad encouraged me to try things on.  

I would often say, “Dad, I don’t want to be the only kid at camp with a mink stole.” The salon used humane practices and my Dad would make the point that fur is natural, while the manufacture of synthetics pollutes the environment. He would also say that the fur trade is the world’s oldest profession. 

I would tell him, “Second oldest. First the prostitutes and then their pimps needed fur coats.” Still, for two reasons it wasn’t for me: 1) The animals and 2) Way too fancy.

During one especially frigid winter, I got into my Mom’s car coatless, slipped on a fur in the back seat, and thought, “OK, yeah. This thing is warm!”

For reasons which remain unclear to me, my fourth-grade class took a field trip to my Dad’s store. It must have been a big deal. The kid in the back is wearing a blazer! 

My Dad was a craftsman and he loved the intersection of art and commerce. He explained and demonstrated his process to the whole class. 

I was up front, sitting right next to my Mom and my teacher, thinking  about the original occupant of that fur while at once being thrilled to share my parents and my Uncle Bernie with my classmates.

Vaccinations

My Dad was stricken with polio as a young man, and he lost his ability to walk. 

When the polio vaccine first arrived, our pediatrician, Dr. Judelson, called my Mom and told her that he would be putting her kids at the top of the list to receive the shot.