It’s a balmy Saturday evening and gossip king Mike Walker zooms in Malibu in his very posh, very flashy BMW motorcycle. He makes stops along the way where he jumps the chance to bend the ear of everyone he meets be it janitor or judge. He parks in a spot that is reserved just for him. The joint is jumping because my best friend would soon be joining us at my ocean front abode.
Forget about RSVPs, no one was going to bail when Walker was in the building.
He was a one-man band who could easily keep a crowd of 40 or more entertained with his tantalizing tales.
In the funky world of television, keeping the original crew together isn’t always easy.
We worked together on National Enquirer TV.
Twenty years ago, I interviewed for one of the five producer positions and won a coveted spot. Mike won my heart. Not everyone was quick to take to Mike. Some said, “How can you stand it? Hearing those long [but entertaining and theatrically performed] stories over and over again?”
“Are you kidding?” I’d ask. “I could listen to him all day long.”
Every story became a delight. Besides, how many blokes from South Boston do you know who speak fluent Japanese? Going out for sushi with him was a kick. He’d explicitly tell the sushi chef how to make the perfect California roll just as he would teach the bartenders at Duke’s how to make the perfect old fashioned (properly muddled, please). In between, there was lore about how he introduced the hotdog to Japan and used to pick up a few extra bucks as “The Japanese Elvis.”
At the Enquirer, we all had to go to Mike Walker Bootcamp. One of the EPs had to go twice! Twice! I was jealous.
I was his producer, he was my mentor, best buddy and the father I never had. If your house was on fire, he’d be the first person to come to your rescue. Whether work- or relationship-related, he was the first responder.
Everyone knew I doted on Mike like a King Charles spaniel. When he arrived at the office, a couple of clowns would grab the PA and say, “Kimi, your daddy’s home.” Soon, everyone started calling him Daddy Man.
And they lined up to hear his take on everything from J.Lo to Prince Harry and 30 years of well-written and clever gossip—and we all became a close-knit family.
Of course, he was there 14 years ago to give away the bride (me). When I was single, he was my standing companion on Saturday nights at Guido’s in Malibu. I was so happy to be in his company than on a bad date. Through all those years we kept our clique: Meredith Ellis, Rick Joyce, Rube, Eddie, Terry Coyle, Howard Stern. In addition to the face of the National Enquirer with a readership of millions over the years, he also wrote best-selling books and went on more adventures than I can name here. Above all that, Mike was a storyteller. He viewed himself as a tribal chief sitting by the campfire handing down stories from one generation to the next.
Mike was always there for a helping hand, professional advice and a shoulder to lean on.
We love you, Daddy Man. Our hearts are broken; there is a lot less laughter in the world, fewer stories, but I am always and forever your girl. You thought you’d quietly slip into that darkest night but your friends, fans and readers wouldn’t let you. You will always be our shining light.