Hanna Barbera changed my life

This is a story of how Hanna-Barbera changed my life.

When I was a kid, Hanna-Barbera cartoons were everything. I was up before television even started for the day, when television didn’t run 24/7. There was static until the day’s broadcasting began. First, the star-spangled banner played over footage of a farmer on a tractor cutting corn. Then, finally, the cartoons started, and my day began.

Unless I had the volume up too loud—then my dad would storm out of the bedroom in his white t-shirt and tidy-whities, switch off the television, and head back to bed, leaving me in dumbfounded silence. But that’s a story for another time. On this and every Saturday morning, I would sit, go through half a box of cereal, and load up on sugar.

At five years old, following a family meltdown, I began experiencing fifteen years of stuttering, which led to social anxiety and a deep fear of public speaking. While conversations with friends and family were manageable, reading aloud in class and, later, attending job interviews became vein-pumping n-n-nightmares. This struggle persisted through college, where I graduated after completing film school in Los Angeles.

After graduation, my father informed me that I was officially cut off from his checkbook and needed to get to work. So, I began taking low-level production jobs—driving a windowless van to pick up camera equipment and snacks for craft services—all for around $300 a week.

To make ends meet and start building connections, I also took on other work. I appeared as an extra in a Cagney & Lacey episode, wearing a sailor outfit on the Santa Monica Pier, which was supposed to pass as Coney Island. I also worked as a special effects artist on Spaceballs and played a waiter in a Ron Howard film, No Man’s Land, starring Charlie Sheen. Fun fact: A fellow extra playing a waiter was Brad Pitt. I heard he went on to do some other things.

Hey Booboo. I’m getting to Hanna Barbera, give me a minute.

I reached a point where I really wanted something more substantial; otherwise, I wasn’t going to keep doing these odd jobs. I was barely sleeping. I gave myself thirty days to find something great—or I was leaving L.A. I was certain I meant it, but the pressure seemed to work.

For 29 of those days, I had no luck. Then, with one resume in my car, this was 1987, after all, and that’s just what you did. I found myself driving past Hanna-Barbera in Studio City.

With no plan or appointment, I abruptly jerked my red Nissan Sentra, no AC, roll-down windows, into the parking lot. I told security I had a job interview. Then, I walked into the lobby and told the receptionist the same story. I confidently mentioned that Ed, the head of human resources, would be seeing me today. As I sat in the lobby, I thought, They are going to kick me out any minute. But then, to my utter surprise, Ed agreed to see me. What? Okay. Great.

Ed was a nice guy. I think he either believed he had forgotten about my “interview” or was just willing to play along with my lie. But he accepted my resume but told me he’d hold onto it in case anything came up. I had already heard that line about a thousand times before, so I went home, not expecting much. To my surprise, Ed had already left me a message. He mentioned an opportunity he had forgotten about: an animation producer needed a production assistant. He asked if I could come back on Monday.

The animation producer was Berny Wolf, an original Disney animator personally handpicked by Walt Disney himself. He had worked on classics like Snow White, Pinocchio, and Fantasia, among others. Even in his 70s, Berny had an impressive presence. He was a tall, fit man wearing a khaki, old-school director’s jacket—the kind with all the pockets as if he were about to go on a safari. For some reason, I wasn’t all that nervous when I met him, and he hired me on the spot—a full-time job with my own office and a door.

Working with Berny was great, but he was tough. He had a lot of work to get done, and he didn’t hold back. In the mornings, he’d say, “I’m going to kick your ass today, and you better keep up.” My tasks included maintaining editing notes, running paperwork around the office, and managing strips of 35mm film strung across the workspace.

Berny was verbally tough, and under all that pressure, he noticed I was stuttering. Over the course of six months, anytime I said something, he’d make me repeat it slower and slower. It was really annoying. But then, one day, I realized I wasn’t stuttering at all. After years of working with therapists and trying everything, it was Berny—the guy who animated Jiminy Cricket, who hammered the stuttering out of me. I don’t know how he knew what to do, but he did, and it worked.

As I continued working on animated movies like The Jetsons Meet the Flintstones, I really found a flow with Berny. Once a week, I was invited to lunch with him and his wife at The Smokehouse in Burbank, where they had sat at the same red leather booth for years, drinking vodka gimlets with those little onions.

Over time, Berny became like a Dutch uncle. He even introduced me to my then-wife, who worked in the office next to mine working on The Smurfs and later became the mother of my daughter. When Berny passed in the late 90s, I was devastated. It felt like losing a grandparent, and I still miss him. He never wanted to stop working, laughing, or creating. I think that kept him young. That was a long time ago, and my time at Hanna-Barbera was brief, but those memories remain vivid.

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