The Receptionist

Over the weekend, the radio community lost another of its icons.  But I guarantee none of you reading this post ever had the opportunity to work or hang out with her. Loni Anderson, WKRP in Cincinnati‘s wily receptionist, passed away just a couple of days before her 80th birthday.

When former radio guy and WKRP creator, Hugh Wilson, put together this hit sitcom, he made sure the receptionist—Jennifer Marlowe—would be an integral cast member on this show. When I saw the news about Anderson, I immediately scrapped my original topic for today’s blog post to write a tribute about her and the role she played—literally and figuratively—on a sitcom and in radio stations all over the U.S.

Then last night, I received my friend, Scott Westerman’s newsletter and, in fact, it was a brilliantly written piece on Loni Anderson. And as I read it a second time, it was obvious to me I couldn’t come close to Scott’s tribute to the most famous receptionist in the history of radio. An email later, and you can read Scott’s touching observations for yourself.

I first encountered Scott Westerman when we were both at Michigan State. Since then, his love for radio and tech has been a lifelong affair. After a long corporate career, he and Steve Schram launched a tribute to Detroit’s WKNR, ultimately bringing the legendary station back to life online at Keener13.com and “on every device everywhere.” Scott is also an author of thriller fiction as “Terry Shepherd,” does post production audio for feature films, and will launch a weekly public radio program about the writing craft this fall.

And he’s a damn good writer, and like me, still a student of the radio game. I hope you enjoy his tribute to Loni Anderson, women in radio, and the power of receptionists. – FJ

“The Quiet Orbit of Loni Anderson”

by Scott Westerman

For those of us who grew up addicted to broadcast radio, with its open mics and closed-door politics, “WKRP in Cincinnati” offered both affection and satire. And in that sound booth of a sitcom, no one held the frequency quite like Loni Anderson, who left us this weekend at age 79.

As Jennifer Marlowe, the station’s receptionist, gatekeeper, and quiet oracle, Loni brought an impeccable poise to the role, turning what might have been just another dumb blonde into a strategic triumph, a lesson in misdirection, elegance, and the sly power of feminine competence.

Born in Saint Paul, Minnesota, in 1945, Loni Kaye Anderson’s rise was not meteoric but calculated, the result of careful self-shaping, and a determination to redefine the narrow lens through which American audiences viewed beauty. When “WKRP” debuted in 1978, it was Anderson’s turn not only to perform but to reimagine what it meant to be a woman in the workplace—on screen, yes, but also behind the scenes.

Jennifer Marlowe was a triumph of composure amid absurdity. In a workplace full of buffoons and blowhards, Anderson’s character was a fixed star—cool, efficient, unflappable. She didn’t chase the spotlight; it adjusted itself around her. She may have been written as set dressing, but she directed the room, calibrated the tone, and ran the station with the arch of an eyebrow. Her performance was a study in balance, glamour with wit, strength in stillness. It was a new archetype for a new age: the receptionist as CEO-in-waiting.

Her impact went beyond the laugh track. In 1980, Anderson renegotiated her salary, publicly and unapologetically, a quiet but seismic assertion of professional value. In an industry where women were often ornamental, she refused to be background.

Her off-screen life, of course, played out in full view of the tabloids, particularly her high-profile marriage to Burt Reynolds. Their romance was box-office gossip, punctuated by “Stroker Ace,” a cinematic misfire that could have tanked lesser stars. But Anderson emerged, as ever, with a sense of timing—comic and otherwise. When the marriage ended in 1994, she handled the divorce with a kind of practiced grace, turning personal upheaval into another moment of public poise.

Later in life, Anderson shifted focus. She embraced family and advocacy, trading scripts for causes. But her legacy was already inked into the cultural DNA. Jennifer Marlowe, with her icy-cool detachment and quiet command, had helped rewrite the sitcom woman, less sidekick, more anchor.

Loni Anderson made it look easy, which of course meant it wasn’t. She moved through the business with a rare blend of self-awareness and sparkle, a performer who understood the machinery of the image and knew how to quietly steer it. Her blonde hair became a Trojan horse for the kind of wisdom that doesn’t announce itself, but leaves a mark.

In an industry still prone to confusing sparkle for substance, Loni Anderson was a reminder that the two could, in the right hands, be the same thing. Her presence never needed to shout. It simply adjusted the orbit of the room.