mogul

Before her death in 1993, Mabel McKay — one of the last living dreamers of the Pomo Indian people — shared a prophecy while driving through the Sonoma hills. One day, this paradise would burn.

“Everything is going to go dry. Everything will burn. That’s my latest vision,” she said, gesturing to the idyllic landscape.

Startled, writer Greg Sarris asked what could be done to stop it.

“You live the best way you know how,” McKay replied.

Since her passing, Sonoma County experienced the most destructive wildfires in California history in 2017, only for another, more destructive fire to surpass it a year later. “She always used to say, ‘Whether you believe it or not, it’s true,’” Sarris recalls.

McKay and her visions are the inspiration behind Sarris’ latest work. His first novel in 28 years, “The Last Human Bear,” is loosely based on the spiritual leader McKay, whose wisdom and companionship served as a refuge to Sarris during a tumultuous childhood in Sonoma County.

A reluctant casino mogul

On a Monday morning in California, Sarris sits in his sleek office at the Federated Indians of Graton Rancheria in Rohnert Park. Sarris, 74, has served as chairman of the Federated Indians of Graton Rancheria for more than 30 years. In his office, diplomas and academic certificates crowd the walls. A framed poster for the 2023 film “Joan Baez: I Am a Noise” hangs nearby — she’s a close friend. Behind him, an American flag ripples in the distance outside the window, blurred by the summer heat.

Just up the road sits a multibillion-dollar tribe-owned casino, Graton Resort & Casino — a project the writer oversees. “I had never been in a casino. I have a PhD in modern thought and literature from Stanford,” says Sarris.

How does an accomplished author find himself at the helm of a multibillion-dollar casino enterprise? It’s a question that still puzzles Sarris. “I told them if we can raise our people and become a platform for social justice and environmental stewardship to benefit Indian and non-Indian alike, I’ll do it.”

Before his stint as a reluctant casino mogul, Sarris was a prolific author and university professor at UCLA and Sonoma State. In 2023, he was appointed a regent of the University of California by Gavin Newsom. Over the course of his career, he published six books, and his novel “Grand Avenue” became an HBO original film in 1996.

California’s Native history: revisited

From early in his career, Sarris wanted to depict Indians as he knew them, rather than as Hollywood depicted them. “We’ve been erased by Hollywood, because the idea of Indians has always been Plains Indians or Southwest,” Sarris explains. “It’s easier for Americans to access Buffalo Bill.”

Greg Sarris’ new novel “The Last Human Bear.”

(Josh Edelson / For The Times)

“California Indians have always been left out of the picture,” says Sarris.

“The Last Human Bear” is Sarris’ latest attempt to revive the legacy of California’s Native history. The novel follows Mary Hatcher, a Pomo Indian in Sonoma County, from Prohibition through the 21st century. It’s told in the first person through Hatcher’s compelling voice as she narrates the horror and heartbreak of her lifetime over the course of a century, echoing William Faulkner’s literary style, which influenced Sarris.

“I’m curious why you want to know about me,” reads the first line. The novel unfolds like an oral storytelling tradition, driven by a voice that Sarris painstakingly crafted, evoking his conversation with McKay. “The voice comes. I have to call it, almost like a spirit,” says Sarris. “I wanted it to feel like an oral story.”

Hatcher — a Pomo shape-shifter who dodges prejudice by passing as Mexican in the novel — is a thorny protagonist, often cunning, scheming and unforgiving. “An American Indian woman is as richly complicated as anybody else. I wanted to show this rich and complicated character who’s negotiated a history that she’s showing you,” says Sarris.

Acclaimed Northern California writer and activist Rebecca Solnit, who has authored 17 books and is a friend of Sarris’, says that she was fascinated by his ability to evoke so many aspects of female life in “The Last Human Bear.” Solnit was especially moved by Sarris’ rendering of California’s tragic history. “It’s shocking, given how rich California’s Indigenous cultures were — 99 different language groups, mythologies, belief systems and linguistic traditions. Every North American Indigenous language family is represented in California. It’s weird how this history has been erased, and how horrific what happened was.”

Climate change and ongoing ecological disasters have made Indigenous perspectives more vital than ever, the author argues. “I think Indigenous people have been hugely influential in giving us a point of view in which we were never separate from nature,” she says. According to Solnit, Sarris’ novels are part of a broader resurgence of interest in Native culture.

In the early chapters of the “The Last Human Bear,” the protagonist gets a job on a ranch by posing as Mexican, since Indians were forbidden from working as housekeepers. What follows is a tale of tension, deception and a forbidden love that sours, reminiscent of Brontë novels.

Sarris hopes that the novel illuminates an uncomfortable history of Sonoma County that remains largely invisible, looming beneath the soil of wine country. The novel offers “a history of this county that a lot of people haven’t seen,” says Sarris.

“There were more Indian people right where we’re sitting per capita than anywhere else in the entire New World outside Mexico City, which was the Aztec capital,” says Sarris. “The genocide was so horrendous.”

Identity, revenge and a search for home are themes that arise throughout the novel — subjects Sarris knows well in his own life.

Greg Sarris feeds chickens at an organic farm across the street from Graton Resort & Casino, which he heads, in Rhonert Park.

(Josh Edelson / For The Times)

Uncovering a hidden Native heritage

In 1952, Sarris’ teenage mother gave him up for adoption, her family hoping to evade the embarrassment of their Jewish daughter becoming pregnant by a Native American Filipino man. Sarris grew up in a white family in Santa Rosa alongside three siblings. His adopted father, George Sarris, became abusive, causing Greg to flee the house with his adopted mother’s blessing. “God bless her. She let me go out and live on ranches and run with other people to get away from him.”

It was in these formative years that Greg became acquainted with Native American people in Santa Rosa, always feeling a mysterious pull toward them. It was these years that also shaped his sensibility as a writer. “I was a lost kid on the streets, so I was always paying attention to everyone, listening, and people would tell me stories.”

Native Americans lived on the fringe of town, often practicing healing ceremonies that were frowned upon by white Catholic families in the suburbs Sarris explains. “When I was 15, I met Mabel McKay, who I wrote the book about. I knew she did some of those strange things that I heard about, but I liked her,” he says. “I had no idea that I was related to these people. I thought I was a mixed-blood Mexican or Spanish.”

At age 30, Sarris uncovered the identities of his birth parents and learned of his Native heritage. He learned his birth mother was buried in a pauper’s grave at the Calvary Catholic Cemetery in Santa Rosa, with “nothing to mark her grave but an upside-down horseshoe that has her name in it.” In the opening pages of the novel, a dedication to her: Bunny Hartman.

Excitedly, Sarris presented proof of his Indian heritage to McKay, his trusted confidant. “I thought it was a big deal that I had Indian blood,” says Sarris. He showed McKay a photo of his father, which she met with indifference. Naturally, Sarris was disappointed. “She told me something later: ‘You’re never any more Indian than your experience.’”

A lifelong outsider

Questions surrounding the legitimacy of Sarris’ heritage haunted him for decades and ultimately informed the novel. Being adopted by a white family, only to be shunned by the Native community, perpetuated his lifelong feeling of being an outsider. “I keep thinking maybe I just got in with this group of people and my Indian relatives so that I would feel rejected again,” he says. “We gravitate towards what we know as home emotionally.”

“I didn’t grow up on a reservation. I’m fair-skinned,” he says. “Being adopted, it feeds into that feeling of not being good enough,” he says, adding: “Illegitimacy is a medicine in the end.”

In the Native American literary community, Sarris has often felt excluded from discourse. When in doubt, he reminds himself of his involvement with the tribe. “Who among them have done this much for their people?” he asks. “Who among them has given this much time and sacrificed a writing career for their people?”

Jane Fonda, the two-time Academy Award-winning actress and activist, struck up a friendship with Sarris through a shared cause. “We met during the campaign to secure health and safety setbacks that would finally prevent oil wells from being drilled within 3,200 feet of a community. Greg and the federated tribes helped us win that fight against Big Oil,” Fonda explained in an email.

“I can tell from his books and my time with him that he embodies indigenous wisdom and beliefs,” Fonda says. “I see Greg Sarris as a man who embodies the best of two worlds — the mercantile culture of Western civilization and the indigenous world that knows we are part of nature and interdependent with it. It’s a rare and valuable combination.”

Greg Sarris, who holds a PhD in literature from Stanford, inside the casino he works for to help fund his tribe’s future.

(Josh Edelson / For The Times)

Inside the polarizing casino kingdom

The Graton Resort & Casino, launched by Sarris over 12 years ago, now plays a vital role in supporting the Pomo Indian community. “I promised early on: roof over everyone’s head, an insurance policy in every pocket and a college degree paid for,” he says. “We give $2.5 million a year in perpetuity to the University of California, so that all California Indians can go to the University of California tuition-free.” The casino has funded theater programs, youth writing intensives and revenue sharing with neighboring tribes.

On the car ride to the casino, Sarris is riffing on his friendship with Grateful Dead member Mickey Hart, who bought Sarris a quarter horse as a gift. In the casino, Sarris eagerly greets his employees with a friendliness that betrays his repeated insistence that he’s a reclusive writer. He points out blown-glass flower sculptures, an embellishment he once saw at the Four Seasons in Paris. He walks past the baccarat room, where he hosts high rollers from Beijing, whom he boasts, “play $100,000 in a hand.”

Early on, news of the casino’s construction caused waves of controversy across Sonoma County — some of which resulted in death threats against Sarris’ life. Concerns that a casino would invite debauchery into the county circulated, which Sarris points out is ironic for a community predicated on wine: “Beyond whether gambling is right or wrong, what is implicit is their privilege and elitism,” says Sarris. “People were getting scared because these brown people, who were the poorest in Sonoma County, are suddenly going to have power.”

Admittedly, Sarris says their newfound wealth has not been without repercussions in the tribe. “People who have been traumatized with generational poverty are the most vulnerable to the lure of materialism,” he says.

When time catches up

In the final chapters of “The Human Bear,” the protagonist, at the end of her life, recalls: “Human Bears often like to even the score before they die.” Revenge is futile, she concludes. “If I was going to avenge our people, I would have to poison nearabout all of history.”

Sarris recalls a similar epiphany he had speaking with McKay. He explains Pomo Indians believed that each action had a consequence. “Ethnographers always said we’re a culture predicated on black magic and fear. No, we were cultures predicated on profound respect for the complexity of all life,” says Sarris.

Then, white men came and seemingly bent the laws of natural order. “The Kashaya Pomo word for white people was ‘miracles’, because they came in and killed everything and did all these things. Nothing could come back to them,” says Sarris.

He explained to McKay that he thought of the white man’s fate differently. “Look, there’s no water. There’s no air. Everything’s poison,” he says, gesturing around him to this vast, broken world. “It’s all come back. It just took time.”

Connors is a culture journalist from Sonoma County. She covers books, food, entertainment and offbeat Los Angeles. She’s currently at work on a book of essays about tourism in all its forms.

When CBS announced that it planned to outsource the hallowed “Late Show” slot occupied by Stephen Colbert and David Letterman before him to “Comics Unleashed,” the syndicated, low-budget talk show with stand-ups riffing on their routines, many saw politics at play.

But the show’s host and producer, comic-turned-mogul Byron Allen, saw the math. Once a cultural touchstone, late-night television has seen its prominence erode greatly over the years with viewers and advertising dollars shifting away from broadcast TV to streaming.

“I said, ‘Look guys, you’re spending a small fortune on late night,’” recalled Allen, who estimated that the programming was costing the network more than $200 million. He offered it a solution.

His company, the Los Angeles-based Allen Media Group, would pay $15 million for the airtime to run “Comics Unleashed,” which previously aired after “The Late Show,” while keeping most of the advertising time on the program to sell. It was the same time-buy model that propelled his fledgling media empire and made him wealthy many times over.

“Comics Unleashed” drew 1.1 million viewers in its debut in the new time slot last month, down substantially from the 2.7 million Colbert’s show averaged in its final season. Critics chimed in, with one outlet even calling it a “ratings disaster.”

But Allen, typically, was not fazed, saying his show bested the competition in key markets and was more comparable with the same time period last May before Colbert’s post-cancellation victory lap.

“CBS has won big-time because they have zero production costs and now they are saving $55 million a year,” he said in an interview.

Media mogul Byron Allen at his studio on the set of “Comics Unleashed” in Culver City.

(Jason Armond/Los Angeles Times)

A relentlessly driven, shrewd dealmaker and entrepreneur, Allen is used to defying skeptics and seeing opportunity in assets overlooked by others. He was one of the first entertainers to recognize that there was more money to be made in owning your content, rather than just performing it.

Over the last three decades, he has built a multibillion-dollar business, Allen Media Group, which now has 2,000 employees across various media properties.

In addition to creating a trove of accessible, family-friendly programs, he’s taken a number of big, bold swings, buying up distressed assets that now span broadcast, cable, streaming and film distribution.

At times, he appears like a minnow trying to swallow a whale. Although many deals have landed, others, such as his bids for ABC, BET, Paramount Global and Tegna, have not.

“He’s had misses, but that doesn’t stop him from going to bat,” said Lloyd Greif, president and chief executive of Greif & Co., a Los Angeles-based investment bank.

After a major restructuring that began two years ago during which the company laid off staffers and sold off properties, Allen is back with a slew of ambitious acquisitions. In addition to owning CBS’ late-night block, he also took over the 12:35 a.m. slot with his comic game show, “Funny You Should Ask.” He declined to reveal how much he paid for that airtime.

Allen recently snapped up controlling interest in the digital media company BuzzFeed (including HuffPost) for $120 million and bought a 10.7% stake in cable channel Starz for $25 million.

Although Allen’s programming has been dismissed as low-budget, apolitical comedy, and his finances have been questioned by some, he remains undaunted by doubters.

“I like to say I’m a 65-year-old overnight success.” And he remains focused on his mission, even proclaiming he is “building the world’s biggest media company.”

An entrepreneurial streak

Allen was born in Detroit, where his grandparents owned a roller rink where he worked as a floor guard. Being surrounded by a family of factory workers and the legacy of 20th century American industry set the stage for his entrepreneurship. “I didn’t play sports; I played office,” he said.

At age 7, after his parents’ divorce, Allen moved to Los Angeles with his mother, Carolyn Folks. It was the summer of 1968 and they planned a two-week vacation. But Detroit was in flames following the assassination of the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr., and they stayed.

Folks put herself through UCLA and eventually worked her way up at NBC from an intern to a publicist, a move Allen credits with changing the trajectory of their lives. His mother couldn’t afford child care, so Allen often accompanied her at the studio, where he soaked up tapings of “Sanford and Son” and “The Tonight Show.” After Johnny Carson finished filming and the studio was empty, Allen would sit at his desk, mimicking the legendary late-night host.

At 14, he convinced his mother to let him do stand-up at the Comedy Store on Sunset Boulevard.

“There were literally four people and 200 chairs. And I said, ‘I have to figure out how to make these chairs laugh.’”

A writer for Jimmie “J.J.” Walker, who was starring on the groundbreaking Norman Lear hit comedy “Good Times,” caught his act. He hired Allen to write jokes for Walker along with a pair of yet-to-be discovered comics: Jay Leno and David Letterman. Allen earned $25 a joke.

Howie Mandel met Byron Allen when they were both starting out at The Comedy Store.

(Allen Media Group)

“Most people in my business wait for other people to give you an opportunity,” said Howie Mandel, the actor and comic who met Allen when they were starting out at the Comedy Store during this period. “Byron and his mom constantly made their own opportunities.”

In 1979, when Allen was 18, he became the youngest comic to appear on “The Tonight Show.” Like a shot out of a cannon, the performance catapulted his career.

While various offers poured in, Allen chose the NBC prime-time series “Real People” as a host and correspondent. It was an embryonic version of reality TV. Allen traveled around the country showcasing quirky, heartwarming stories. The hit show brought Allen to every pocket of America. It also made him a star, delivering him to the country’s living rooms each week.

He continued to tour, doing stand-up and serving as the opening act for such musicians as Lionel Richie and Dolly Parton, and starred in TV movies.

Allen became a hero to young, Black entertainers who were just starting out. Among them was Eddie Murphy, who has called Allen “one of my first inspirations.”

“He just loves comedians,” said Whitney Cummings, co-creator and executive producer of the hit CBS sitcom “2 Broke Girls.” She recalled crucial career and financial advice Allen gave her after she first appeared as a young comic on “Comics Unleashed.” “It gave me like a true north. It changed my life.”

Whitney Cummings says Allen helped her early in her career.

(Troy Conrad)

As Allen’s success swelled, he said, he realized the industry was what he calls “business show, not show business.”

“You need to know the business side and learn the business side and then you can do as many shows as you want. And I knew that I didn’t want to work for anybody,” he said.

While on “Real People,” he sat in on sales meetings and went to the National Assn. of Television Programming Executives, where he introduced himself to Al Masini, the syndication trailblazer who produced “Entertainment Tonight” and “Star Search.”

“I understand you’re the best. I’m here to learn from you,” Allen said.

In 1989 he began hosting the syndicated “The Byron Allen Show.” Two years later, he created BYCA Television Distribution to take over his talk show’s distribution and syndicate other shows.

But Allen and his new company were soon facing legal and financial issues. A group of former employees and an investor sued, claiming they had not been paid. The dispute forced the company into Chapter 7 bankruptcy.

Allen pressed on. He had absorbed another key lesson.

Learning from Richard Pryor

When he was still hanging out at the Comedy Store, he watched Richard Pryor trying out new material.

Iconic comedian Richard Pryor.

(Bettmann / Bettmann Archive)

“He would bomb night after night for almost three months,” Allen said. “I’ll never forget, he told me, ‘Byron, you’re only as good as you dare to be bad.’ I learned, OK, take risks. It’s about growing and taking chances.”

In 1993, Allen launched CF Entertainment on his dining room table in Los Angeles. The production company, later Entertainment Studios, became the foundation of his media empire. He focused on producing low-cost, syndicated programming, including interview series and court shows. Allen produced and often served as host.

His first show, “Entertainers With Byron Allen,” packaged the five-minute celebrity interviews during hotel press junkets, a conveyor belt of actors promoting their latest projects set up by the studios into an hourlong talk show.

Allen bartered the show for free to TV stations in exchange for a split of the revenues from selling commercials to advertisers. Success was not immediate. He said he received countless rejections at first.

“My house went in and out of foreclosure probably 14 times,” he said. At one point, he said, his telephone service was turned off, forcing him use a pay phone for calls.

But the format established the template for what became Allen’s highly successful business. Forbes has estimated his net worth in the billions. Allen declined to discuss his personal or business finances.

The mogul now owns multiple homes, including a $91.3-million mansion in Aspen, Colo., that was recently featured in the Wall Street Journal.

“A lot of people didn’t take him seriously and saw him as a comedian,” said Joan Robbins, Allen’s first employee, who has stayed on for 32 years as president of talent relations. “I don’t think anybody realized the extraordinary business sense he had.”

Byron Allen gets final touches at his studio on the set of “Comics Unleashed.”

(Jason Armond/Los Angeles Times)

As Allen’s media ambitions have expanded beyond comedy and syndicated talk shows, so has his company. It produces, distributes and sells advertising for 74 television programs (“Mathis Court With Judge Mathis” and “Career Day” among them) as well as owns 13 broadcast stations affiliated with the major networks in 11 markets and several dot-TV cable and digital networks including Cars.TV, Automotive.TV and Comedy.TV.

In 2016, he acquired the Black entertainment platform TheGrio and later purchased the assets of the Black News Channel out of bankruptcy for a reported $11 million, merging its TV assets and carriage deals into TheGrio’s network.

A year earlier, Allen made waves by filing the first of several multibillion-dollar racial discrimination lawsuits to tackle what he called the “trade deficit between Black America and white corporate America.” His case against Comcast for not carrying Allen-owned stations and networks reached the Supreme Court before being settled.

“I feel good about starting that conversation … because we were going in circles and we were definitely suffering from economic genocide,” he said.

In 2018, Allen’s company bought the Weather Channel and the streaming service Local Now for $300 million. His firm also announced it had raised $500 million in credit facilities organized by Deutsche Bank Securities, Jefferies Financial Group, Brightwood Capital Advisors and Comerica Bank to finance production and other acquisitions.

What unites these disparate assets? “We’re directed at where the viewers are,” he said. “That’s where we’ll be.”

But in his tireless push to expand his sprawling company, Allen has made several failed bids for high-profile assets.

In 2023, he offered Disney a reported $10 billion for ABC and some of its cable networks, and the following year bid $30 billion for Paramount Global. He also made plays for Tegna and BET.

None of his offers succeeded, prompting skepticism about his ability to finance such deals. Allen Media Group is wholly owned by the entrepreneur.

Allen dismissed such concerns. “I raised the money to buy the Weather Channel in one day,” he said. “There’s trillions of dollars looking for really good executives and really good deals. I have no problem raising capital.”

The Times viewed multiple letters from private equity firms and banks. Several indicated that Allen had financial backing on the deal to buy BET, and another showed he had $4 billion in funds to back the purchase of Paramount assets.

Over the years, former employees have criticized some of Allen’s employment practices. In 2012 he faced a class-action suit from performers and staffers on “Comics Unleashed” who alleged they were not paid residuals or reimbursed for travel and other expenses. The suit was settled in 2023.

Allen called the suits “frivolous,” saying, “I couldn’t be in business if I actually conducted myself that way.”

Last year, Allen came under fire after announcing sweeping cuts at about two dozen local affiliates that included laying off meteorologists, part of a reorganization to centralize forecasts at the Weather Channel in Atlanta. The move sparked viewer outrage and the plans were reversed.

The controversy came as Allen’s company was retrenching. He sold off about a third of the TV station portfolio for $171 million.

Allen said this was a case of “rightsizing,” paying down debt and investing more in digital. “I sold 10 of my ABC, NBC, CBS and Fox affiliates to Gray [Media] at a great price for us and a great price for them.”

Allen confirmed he is negotiating with lenders over substantial debt payments coming due in the next year, but said he is “highly confident they will get refinanced or extended.”

Shortly after he bought a stake in Starz, Allen announced his intentions to own the cable channel. Starz responded by adopting a poison pill.

“Good luck,” he said. “I still plan to take over Starz, and I will eventually get control of Starz.”

Digital entertainment company BuzzFeed Inc. is selling its majority stake to Los Angeles entertainment mogul Byron Allen for $120 million.

BuzzFeed announced the sale late Monday, saying Allen Family Digital had agreed to pay $3 a piece for 40 million shares, representing a 52% stake in the company.

Allen will pay $20 million in cash upfront with the remaining $100 million due in five years.

As part of the deal, Allen also will take over HuffPost, another internet pioneer, owned by BuzzFeed.

The sale is expected to close later this month. BuzzFeed founder and current chief Jonah Peretti will transition to a new role as president of BuzzFeed AI.

Allen will become chairman and chief executive.

“This investment in our business and Byron’s management roles will provide liquidity and operational focus to BuzzFeed,” Peretti said in a statement.

Once an internet darling valued at $1.5 billion, the 20-year-old site appealed to consumers with its lists, splashy news articles and quizzes, including “Which ‘Schitt’s Creek’ character are you?”

BuzzFeed has been on the ropes, financially, for a number of years. It bought HuffPost in 2021 to bolster its readership and offerings to advertisers. Three years ago, it pulled the plug on its once ubiquitous BuzzFeed News unit.

BuzzFeed reported a $15 million net loss in the first-quarter of the year. The company generated $31.6 million in revenue, a 12.4% decline compared to the year-ago period. Ad revenue fell nearly 20% year-over-year to $17.1 million. However, content revenue grew more than 50% to $7.5 million.

BuzzFeed soon will make another round of significant cost cuts prior to Allen’s takeover, Peretti said in the statement. He added that BuzzFeed Studios and Tasty will spin off to form a new independent entity.

The deal comes at a busy time for Allen, a former stand-up comedian who is taking over CBS’ late night block later this month, replacing “The Late Show with Stephen Colbert,” which is being canceled by CBS and its owner Paramount Skydance.

Earlier this month, Allen sold television stations in nearly a dozen markets owned by the Allen Media Group to Atlanta-based Gray Media Inc. for about $170 million.

Allen still owns 13 network-affiliate stations in nearly a dozen markets, including the Weather Channel‘s linear and digital outlets, including PETS.TV and COMEDY.TV.

“Our vision is to build on the iconic foundation of BuzzFeed and HuffPost by expanding into free-streaming video, audio and user-generated content,” Allen said. “BuzzFeed is officially chasing YouTube to become another premiere free video streaming service.”