After enduring 30 Chicago winters, I gifted myself my Hollywood dream of being an actor surrounded by palm trees and green juice rather than tundra and cheese.
When I landed my first TV audition, my agent recommended his favorite acting coach. Noah came to my Sherman Oaks apartment. While we worked, he rubbed my dog’s belly, and I thought, “He looks really good for 50. But this was a professional thing, right? Maybe he would be my cool, older mentor. …” That failed, and we eventually went on a date and another.
On our third date, Noah looked at me and said, “Hey. Do me a favor. Don’t Google me just yet.” Noah is a comic; he’d turn anything into a bit. But this time, he asked so sincerely, I knew it was important. Besides, Noah had thus far seemed pretty normal — well, for a person who didn’t want me to Google him “just yet.”
I resisted. I was very conscious of our 19-year age difference, so I sent my best childhood friend a picture of us. She said nothing about his age, but instead screamed, “Allie! He’s the ‘Top That’ guy!” She told me about the movie, “Teen Witch,” which used to rerun on the Disney Channel. (I was a Nickelodeon kid.) She sent me a very well-known, very ’80s rap scene, starring a much younger Noah. Clearly, this was why he didn’t want me to Google him.
A few weeks later, at our local taco place, we landed in a deeper conversation about family. Noah started talking about having to sell his house during the “craziness with his dad.” He looked at my confused face and took a breath.
“My Dad is Robert Blake.”
“OK,” I said. “That sounds familiar. But why?”
He responded. “Um. He was a famous actor. … His second wife was murdered. … He was arrested. There was a big trial. …”
Noah wasn’t just the “Top That” guy. He was also the son of an Emmy winner who was charged but not convicted in the death of his second wife.
That night, with his permission, I finally Googled him, but almost every link led to Robert or the death of Robert’s wife, Bonny Lee Bakley, who was shot in Studio City in 2001. Interviews, pictures, page after page of headlines. I saw little Mickey Gubitosi, a child actor, who was renamed Bobby Blake by MGM Studios. I watched Robert win an Emmy. Then I saw seemingly 20 different unhinged personalities on “The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson.”
In the months that followed, Noah shared more about growing up with his dad. Robert starred on “Baretta,” a hit TV show in the ’70s. Everyone in America knew who he was. When we watched TV together, Noah would pause to point out:
Sammy Davis Jr. tap danced in his family’s living room!
Natalie Wood swam in their pool!
But I felt for Noah. After an excruciating decade, from the murder to the end of the trial, he somehow landed soundly as one of the most resilient people I’d ever met. As I introduced him to more people in my life, I questioned whether I wanted them to Google him. Sharing his identity would disclose something that was at best salacious and at worst traumatic. Something about him that wasn’t really about him, that both didn’t matter and also mattered a lot.
When I did share, people had an almost reflexive reaction. I’d say “Robert Blake,” and they’d say, “I loved Baretta!” or “I grew up with ‘Our Gang.’” And then they’d get quiet. “Oh, and then his wife … do you think he did it?” they’d ask.
People loved to ask. As if I know, as if Noah knows, what happened that night. Like it’s at all appropriate. The questions kept coming. Would Robert pose a threat to us and were they still in touch? No. Was there an inheritance? Definitely no.
Noah told me about the last time he saw Robert. They had run into each other at Gelson’s on Van Nuys Boulevard. He said Robert was angry and confrontational. Noah used to tell me half-joking, “If you’re ever at Gelson’s, and you see someone who looks like Skeletor in a cowboy hat, that’s my dad.”
The truth is, Robert was rarely spotted. We only found out he’d remarried an old family friend, Pamela, when Harvey Levin from TMZ called Noah to ask if he had a comment. He did not.
Two years passed. Noah and I moved in together.
One hot summer day, we took our dog to the beach and stopped at Gelson’s on the way back. As soon as we pulled into the parking lot, Noah said, “And there’s my dad’s car. … And there he is walking in with Pamela.” I could just make out a cowboy hat as the sliding doors closed.
Noah looked at me and said, “Honey, I’m going to stay in the car. But if you ever want to meet him, now is probably your shot.”
“Wait. You’re not coming with me?”
Noah shook his head. “If I go in there and he sees me, it’s going to be a s— show. The only chance you have of talking to him is if you go by yourself.”
If this was my one chance, I had to meet him.
My heart was pounding as I walked into Gelson’s. I walked past the first aisle. Nothing. Second aisle. Nothing. Then, there they were. I was going to meet Robert Blake, my likely future father-in-law, in the frozen foods aisle of Gelson’s.
“Mr. Blake?” I said with a smile. “Hi. I’m Allie. I’m Noah’s girlfriend. I just wanted to come over and say hello.” I activated my Midwestern superpower: uber-diplomacy.
“Noah’s told me some nice things about growing up with you.”
Silence.
Thankfully, Pamela chimed in to introduce herself. I said we were happy to hear they got married.
She asked about Noah.
I said he was well.
Robert spoke. “I’m pleased.”
I blurted out: “Well, the dog is in the car, so I’ll get going now. But it was so nice to meet you.” And I walked my shaky, cold little legs swiftly back to the car.
Two words. The only two words Robert ever spoke to me.
I’ve been in Los Angeles over a decade, and I’m still navigating its oddities. Like this one: Hollywood is full of fame — the kind everyone wants, the kind nobody wants and all the meeting places in between. When you are even one degree away from fame, it ripples. I became part of a celebrity family. And after meeting Robert, I had my own celebrity story, but it felt borrowed. It didn’t feel glamorous, and as I continue my Hollywood journey I no longer see success and fame as synonymous.
Noah and I have a son now. He has the same nose and the same dimple that Robert and Noah share. He never met his grandfather, as Robert died in 2023. One day I’m sure our son will come home from school with a family tree assignment. We will tell him that his last name, Blake, was gifted to our family by his great-great-grandfather, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. We will ask him not to Google it just yet, and we will share with him the most gentle version of our family truth.
The author is a singer, actor, writer and founder of Good Company Events. She’s on Instagram: @look_its_allie. Editor’s note: A version of this story was performed via the Northwestern University Entertainment Alliance in 2024.
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